sage: ¬_¬¿
Lawyers: *glare*
paint what you know not what you see
Try, try to forget,
what's in the past,
tomorrow is here.
Love, orange sky above
There's nothing to fear.
Birds singing a song,
old pain is peeling,
this is that fresh
that fresh feeling.
Words can't be that strong,
my heart is reeling,
this is that fresh,
that fresh feeling.
Eels ~ Fresh Feeling
This much was obvious. The sight of him was more than she could possibly hope to be prepared for. The signs were gradually adding up to this unavoidable conclusion: she'd go weak in the knees and melt into a pile of mush the instant she saw him. Sometimes she felt like such a wimp.
First there was the hesitant, gentle tug at her senses, tinkling somewhere behind her and to the left. She turned, a painful expectancy bursting at the bare glimpse of a messy golden brown head, exploding into a million tiny pieces at the image of honey eyes and a touching smile, warm like honeymilk, so small only she recognized it as such. People cleared as he neared her with slow steps with determinate ease.
That was the moment something inside her head chose to warn with painfully amusing alarm: Something's not right. Shock one: He's wearing jeans. As much as she tried, Sakura could not quite reconcile the thought of Syaoran and jeans. It didn't go. Simple as that. She was about to get more reconciling to do. Shock two: messenger bag slung across his shoulder, one- inch pins all over the strap. Shock three: There was no way in hell that was an At the Drive-In shirt.
Damn it. What now? Sure, she expected him to change. He was eighteen now, for Clow's sake. But... y'know, there were limits. And this was beyond them. Damn it to all hell. What now?
He walked closer and closer with a fluidity she thought him incapable of, slouching ever so slightly with every step. This was not right. Fear gripped her suddenly. All she could picture at the moment were images of herself writing letters to Seventeen. "Now that my long distance boyfriend has moved back home, he has changed so much that I don't think I know him anymore. How do I know if he still Loves me?"
While she angsted over the thought of becoming a teenage angst cliché, he reached her and simply stood (roughly a head above her height, he noted) and waited for her to react. He wondered what would happen now. A familiar tug at her senses, like an invisible tap on the shoulder, finally shook her out of her thoughts. She stayed as she was, unsure for an instant, her eyes bearing into him fully. He could hear vague memories of literature class. The confrontation between their souls, was it? D.H. Lawrence. Waking Life and a girl with red hair. Dreaming that you float. Love. Overwhelming images of green. Rain forests. Dampness. Tears. Blink. All better now.
A hurried traveler scurried between them, tugging frantically at a huge suitcase and struggling with too many carry-ons. The haze cleared. Now out of the heaviness of the previous instant, he didn't hesitate in walking towards her.
His arms wound around her in an uncharacteristically (or characteristically, who the fuck knew now?) tight hug. A pleasant smell of raw coffee and spice became inescapable. A sinewy shoulder under her cheek, wrapped in light cotton. Air. Breathing. Closeness and closed eyes. A hand on her back and darkness in her eyelids. Terse. Night. Bysshe Shelley. Letters, doodles on the margins. "Decorations". Plain stationery at the start of physics, phone calls before math semestrals. His voice explaining Euler integration over international call rates. Ease. Patience. Warmth.
Fuck looks. He felt the same.
Without a word spoken, he let go, offering his hand as compensation. They walked in a silence so easy they didn't notice it until they reached baggage claim.
"Did you ship everything ahead, or do you have more bags to get?"
"No. I shipped it all, the last of it should get here today. I hope you didn't have any trouble with anything. I didn't have anyone else I could ask to help me set things up."
"Well worth all the trouble," an honest comment, "Your landlord's an ass, by the way." She smiled, another comment popping into mind. "Kero had suggested I paint the walls peach pink and get you Provencal French furniture."
His face looked as if he had eaten something tart and smashed his toe against something. Well, to her, it did.
"I might tell you have nothing to worry about, but I really can guarantee that. Nakuru-the-design-major insisted to furnish your place with 'pieces by the world's most eminent industrial designers.' Try not to freak out if you see nothing but Barcelona chairs."
"As long as they aren't peach pink."
She smiled and he responded with a benign amused smirk. The intimacy it implied warmed her.
Their tread continued easily down long corridors, galleries and finally down to the parking access.
"I really wanted to pick out your furniture."
"It's alright."
"It's just that I spent the last two weeks arguing with your landlord. The people at the other buildings were nicer, I guess, but I just had to get that place."
His eyebrows frowned ever so slightly in question.
"You'll see." She walked ahead and led him towards the left. "This is me."
This is her. White sensible car. This is her. Short caramel hair, intelligent eyes behind glasses with plum-colored rims. Pink and white baseball tee, and random jeans. This was her, leaner, longer; all warm smiles and kindness. This was him, the grinning idiot.
Two teeny beeps cut through the moment and he caught himself in time to rush out to get the driver's door for her. It was instinctual.
"You are such a clown."
And he walked across to the passenger side. As soon as the seatbelt clicked satisfyingly, he deflated into a tired heap of humanity.
"Rough time getting here?"
"You've no idea."
"Relax now. You're home. All's good."
He smiled in thanks.
The car started moving. He caught a glimpse of her face, casually focused on the road, steering with ease before facing forward and closing his eyes with a sigh. The car smelled like her.
A red light quite a few blocks later allowed her to check up on her passenger, only to find him fast asleep, collapsed on his seat. Where had she read that men looked like boys when asleep? It didn't matter. It wasn't quite the case anyway. He didn't really look like he did as a child, as much as he looked… like she wished he had looked then, she guessed. Calm, worry-free. A twinge of guilt pulled at her heartstrings like a single guitar note from a Mazzy Star song. The Cards. The hell's mouth of this entire thing. But they'd also be its end. She'd make sure of it.
Metatext:
Meta-: more comprehe-- Nah, you read it on the Liminal.
Okay, chapter 01. Yes, it was silly to leave it at nothing but the scant words of the Liminal. I've said "Liminal" twice in two lines. I like that word.
Anyway. All this thing is where the ball starts rolling. If you
were wondering, the Liminal happens around chapter 03. Hang in there,
this will get somewhere, I promise. Hm. Maybe you should sit in there,
or your arms might tire...
*Ahem*. Review. Please? You'll get a liminal cookie.
Three times now. I really like that word.