Comments and such: AH! I LIVE! Yes, I am back and with one of my favourite parts in this entire story! It's Christmas…and Christmas or winter in general means lot's of angsty filler stuff. Shh…you didn't hear or notice the dreaded "f-word" written in there. Anyways a millionx10 apologies about how late ahem six months-plus this chapter is. I have no excuse other than, groundings, lack of inspiration, and laziness. I'm an idiot, but please read anyways? Standard disclaimer applies.
Chapter 6: Part II
Rush headlong and hard at life
Or just sit home and wait.
All things good and all the wrong
Will come right to you: it's fate.
The Book of Counted Sorrows
She's not the kind of girl
Who likes to tell the world
About the way she feel's about herself
Funny thing was he knew she wasn't home. Knew as soon as he stepped onto her street and began to see the swollen gaps—mostly filled with the white, fluffy, wonders of the sky—in the cement, knew as he passed the first house and the second and the third houses knew that by the time he reached the seventh house on this street, which was her house, that he would not find Hitomi Kanzaki at home. So much for his bus ride. Knew as he walked up the steps to her porch and rang the doorbell, knew as heard the door swing open—one rusty hinge because of the frosty air he presumed—Christmas music pouring into the outside world, and had this women who looked like Hitomi only aged and more developed ask him politely what he wanted. Hitomi…only wanted to see Hitomi, and as the recognition dawned in her eyes—because he was the young man that had driven her daughter home (yes he has his license but he doesn't own a car, strange huh?)—he knew, just knew, without any bit of uncertainty what she'd say: "I'm sorry Hitomi's not here right now; she's just next door actually so try there. Oh, and thanks again hun." He hated it when he was right; you see he happened to know she was right next door too.
Don't ask him how he figured that out but it had been this ever pestering thought tunneling like the worm it was into his mind, thoroughly annoying him. Maybe it was because he had noticed something when he was lugging Hitomi to her house—she had nearly passed out while they were driving. Like some heroic prince in a desperate hurry to save the dying princess he had carried her up to her door, then stood her up (didn't want those parents of hers to make any assumptions) and when he knocked she practically crashed to the floor and that scared the shit out of him. He had detected something odd when he was carrying her too; she was barely weighed one hundred pounds, like had she eaten anything in the past year? Anyways the thing he had noticed was that there had been this person—a girl no less, their age probably—watching them the whole entire time, call him paranoid but it kind of gave him the creeps. Then again it could probably be that she looked sort of like a pretty clown, however she did appear worried, and despite the makeup she was probably friendly. To simply put it Hitomi who was nice (although somewhat distant) with everyone, befriended her and seeing her look like a limp doll made that girl somewhat anxious.
It still meant nor did it explain anything, but he'd just have to accept it as one of those odd things that sometimes ensued in his life, which is something he would not like to get into at this minute. He was just about to ring the doorbell, his finger was practically an inch away, it would have made it in five more seconds, then with an unsuspected whoosh the door flew open. "Hiya locker boy," and the wonderfully peachy Hitomi presented herself. Van was about ready to leave, he had had enough strange occurrences for the day, and he detested it when she did that, just spring out of no where—like a little Jack in the Box—when he expecting someone else, Clown Girl maybe… … …
Actually that would have been all very normal if had happened that way, but abnormality was afoot that day, odd things couldn't help but transpire. Number one was that Van decided not to go to her house at all, instead ignoring how foolish he would look if she indeed she wasn't there, he walked right up to Yukari's new residence, and like it was before—five seconds till the dawning of his finger on the bell—poof there she was, Hitomi in the Box. The second oddity was behind his back—Merle had put him up to this one. "Van darling, you know you should buy Hitomi a bouquet or something…"
He laughed, as if she (of all people it had to be Merle to suggest something like that) didn't know that he'd rather be shot dead then give Hitomi anything. But instead of leaving it at that like he should have, he asked a question—stupid, stupid man, "What do you mean?" he was still smiling as he inquired of her, even though he knew he wouldn't like the answer.
"Oh you silly boy, do you not now that when a woman is sick, and you are coincidentally her rescuer she expects a get-well present?" she exclaimed incredulously. He sincerely doubted that Hitomi expected or would accept anything from him. However there was a problem, because ever since that conversation with Merle his mind wouldn't leave it alone. Sometimes when he and Merle were at the grocery store, he'd give one wary glance at the little section of flowers they had displayed there and then quickly scuttle away from the thought before it ensnared him, one day, regretfully, he just didn't move fast enough. There was something in Hitomi that exuded yellow, you know, happiness, joy, peace, harmony, freedom, the whole bundle of words all wrapped up and shoved into 5"8. And that's why he bought the Spider Mum's, plus they smelt sweet, and he liked them more than he did roses.
That would have been it too, indubitably it, if he didn't go back to that store—the one with the old, non-creaking man, who let him into heaven (almost he still needed Hitomi)—and just accidentally glance at the one gift which he had to, he must give to her. It was a simple golden chain with a small extension at the hook that would fit snuggly between the shoulder blades that jutted, perhaps a bit rudely, out of her back. The thin silver chain that she had—when he had finally noticed the pendant he saw it—didn't exactly seem to fit with the rosy hue that hung around the hollow of her neck. And the one he had picked up was perfection in it's purest form, so that's what was in the envelope…along with a Christmas card.
He didn't even wait for her to say anything just handed her flowers and the card. She looked stunned, and she had every reason to be, I mean here was this kid who she was positive hated her and he just gave flowers and a card. Her brows furrowed and she blinked a couple of times…where did it all come from? "Are these flowers for me?"
Jeez, she couldn't just say "thank you" and not embarrass him anymore—he could already feel his cheeks start tingling, "Yes, they're for you…"
"Um…what are you sure?" was he sure? How stupid could she be, it didn't stop her from asking, or from feeling distinctly awkward.
"Jesus Hitomi, of course I'm sure, I definitely don't know anyone that lives here," why was she so incredibly difficult…on second thought he'd rather not answer that question.
"Well I was just making sure, you know you really are an asshole," he was, and no amount of beautiful smelling, and amazingly yellow (her favourite colour) flowers was ever going to change it.
"Thanks for the profound insight Hitomi, I think I'll leave now," irritation thickened his voice and he began to turn around.
In mid-turn she decided to stop him, "Wait a second, I didn't even get a chance to say thank you," he twisted back and looked at her—his eyes were somewhat covered again, but if you looked really close you could see just the barest hint of his nervousness. "Thank you Van, there really nice and my favourite colour too," she half chirped, half mumbled. There she went making him ever so conscience of everything once again, and it was a battle not to look down at his shoes.
"Your welcome, they seemed like you I guess."
"I don't have anything for though, I'm sorry…" she trailed looking sheepish, she wished she thought about him…but she didn't even know where he lived.
He gave his part-smirk then, "Don't worry about it I didn't even know I was buying them until I—" and it was at that moment that Hitomi had chosen to wrap him in greatest hug he had ever received. Instantly his olfactory system was bombarded by a million scents each and everyone softened into something that represented comfort because it was on Hitomi. How in great, big, freakin' world did she accomplish that, he swore even the nail polish she was wearing—he got a whiff of it while her hands were wrapping around his neck—smelt like it should be some sort of perfume, Eau de toilette Hitomi, or something equally French sounding and very expensive. Right now she was shortbread cookies, summer flowers, sharp Christmas nights, Snuggles fabric softener, and fuchsia lacquer. If she was the last thing he ever smelt in the world he'd be the happiest man alive. So his hands, he swore they were gifts from the devil, hugged her back…they should package her in bottles and sell her as air freshener.
He made another mistake, he looked down, she resembled a pixie again, something pretty and cute all at once. And the way she was smiling up at him, like she saw inside of him and she knew something he didn't…something he wanted utterly no one to ever figure out. So very mysterious, but extremely attractive—attractive? Christ, he had to get out of there now, as in now before he could catch the smell of her hair (again), and her deodorant, and the fruity stuff he saw spray herself with every once in a while at school. Now before she opened her eyes and he was hit with how richly green they were, now before his gaze fluttered anywhere further down than her nose, it was right underneath as of now. He needed to leave before his reddish-brown eyes got to those pretty pink lips, because if they got there first he had no idea what would take place afterwards.
Hitomi has impeccable timing, or maybe she felt the certain doom that was lurking in the corners of his mind as his eyes just kept tumbling downwards. She must have felt something because she broke the hug when he was on the tip of her upper lip (excuse the rhyme). Stepping back inside the doorway—for she had been so shocked at his gift that she forgot to invite him inside—her socks cold and wet she smiled. "Oh and thanks for sort of saving me earlier."
"Sort of?" he didn't mean to react the way he did to comment, but it was all that hug's doing, ridiculous hug, it also wasn't that he didn't appreciate her gratitude, but it was that hug. It made him feel so dirty you should have seen all the things that were running around, like the hormonal lunatics they were, in his mind. And the way she'd smelt, it nearly killed him, males were such filthy creatures that he disgusted himself sometimes.
By then she was filled to the brim—and overflowing—with her own sense of indignation, "I definitely didn't ask you to carry me to my door, I could have walked, I'm not a weakling Van."
"Well fine next time your sick and just about ready to pass out we'll see how well you do on your own," oh the sarcasm, it was all that because of that hug, he swore it.
"Fine! You can leave now!" she retorted, her cheeks reddening with anger— so attractive—foot itching maddeningly with the need to slam the door in his face.
Her magnetism was making him more and more pissed off, "Alright and thanks for that bloody hug…" he grumbled through his teeth making sure he added that seething abhorrence which always happened to come along at just the right time…if she had only kept her distance they wouldn't be having this childish fight. He spun around and marched down the cement steps which needed to be shoveled.
But before he was down the last step there was a cry from Hitomi, "I hope you have a merry Christmas you arrogant bastard!"
That made him stop, he turned half-way around and answered her back, "Same to you slutty little witch." It caught her right off guard, and slammed her into the wall behind her, BAM, it was the biggest and one of the most painful verbal slaps in the face she had ever received. He could see it and that hurt, it shook through his entire body, he suddenly felt like the biggest conceited ass he had ever met. He didn't stick around to apologize though, just swiveled and left her to think about what he said, he couldn't get her face out his mind, she looked like she was about to burst into tears. He hoped she didn't, not because of him, and most certainly not because of his hot-temper.
See what he meant buses never ever got him anywhere good.
Hitomi just shut the door quietly, "That didn't go very well," commented a voice from behind her, Yukari. She understood then that if she did not get out her friend's house very soon, very very soon she would simply have to cry right there, and humiliate herself. Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me. Grabbing her coat and not bothering to put on her shoes but piling them in her hands all the same, she dashed into the frigid air—funny it seemed colder now than before, but that was because it was getting dark, or so she told herself—and burst through her door. Sticks and stones can break my bones but names will never hurt me. Not caring that her feet were leaving tracks on the wood flooring, and the carpet, not caring that she almost fell down the stairs on her way up, she broke into bedroom. Sticks and stones can break my bones but names will never hurt me. The tears couldn't come, she was all cried out it seemed, but the trip of memories came along despite the lack of salty water. Dropping her coat and shoes on the floor she sat cross legged on her bed—wet socks soaking their imprints into her comforter and pants—grabbed her pillow from behind her and waited. Sticks and stones can break my bones but names will never hurt me. Ah, there they were, one tear, two tears, three tears, four. She had discovered the truth in that saying, no the names never hurt, hurt was much too easy of a word to describe it, the names burned, and seared, and destroyed, because one itsy-bitsy name could rape the entire soul.
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She takes a little time
In making up her mind
She doesn't want to fight against the tide
It is a difficult thing, this world we live in and as such she was currently wondering about a phenomenal choice that she would have to eventually make in the next few hours of her life. But as any good choice is birthed, she wasn't even privy to the fact that her subconscious was calculating, averaging, and extracting all possibilities. No, no she was in any girl's simple dilemma (because those are the things that prove to be our biggest problems when the world is at its most hectic) what to wear. Blue for Chid, red for Van, yellow for herself, that was what her lovely hidden conscience was dwelling on, and poor Merle only thought she was thinking about what she'd like to accentuate: her hair, her eyes, or that golden skin.
She had been dwelling on it longer because tonight was the night of nights, the one's where the air vibrates, and when the stars seemed just a hint closer as if they weren't all exactly burned out, and there's a subtle anxious joy to your walk, like it secretly knows there's a crescendo of excitement patiently waiting for you to smash head first into it. I say smash because she just picked the yellow dress, and residing in the area indecisiveness, when there is a verdict dealing with the matters of the heart to come to, is my dear friends a horrible place to be. However it was her placement in the moment, and who can blame her? Her's was a difficult position to be in the unknown (she didn't even recognize it) the monumental affection she felt for her best friend, and the bordering abominable love that she felt for her adoptive brother, that she was more than ready to voice of course, but she didn't feel prepared. Or so she told herself, we all have come to realize though that she simply hadn't decided which it was going to be. Hence the pale yellow shoes that matched the sallow coloured dress, with the golden ribbon—silk preferably—that wrapped around that vibrant hair.
And out steps our Cinderella, through the large oak doors she goes—the ones with the brass handles, down the marble and with a sharp tick of her glass slippers which are actually yellow, she makes her entrance. Now I'd like to say that all the highly characterized participants of this party—which had not yet reached its hour minimum quota—stopped and stood awe-struck at such a beauty walking, but that would be lying, and you don't want me to lie to you do you? Why of course not, the truth: all of two people noticed our deemed fairytale heroine walk in. But two is sometimes more than enough, and that still indecisive conscience's job just got harder, because our Cinderella had two Prince Charming's, if only half of us could say we were that lucky.
Prince Charming number one decides that it's a phenomenal idea to go and scare the goddess that has hidden his best friend under an onslaught of make-up and expensive looking clothing, and quiet apprehension (she's waiting for one of her many relatives or family friends to compliment her). People have underestimated how much convenient speed Prince Charming number two possesses, he may look like a weakling, but dear me never think lightly upon how amazingly rapid he could react in a situation. Suddenly, without any time for the simple thought process, our darling Cinderella is whisked away to the dance floor, by what's this, a total stranger. Cinderella's journey becomes more complicated by the minute it seems.
Click, click, click and the unstable, rough, squishof the cement and carpet of her small basement which had been conveniently cleared out to make room for this momentous…ball. Yes, that's exactly it is, a ball, just like in the fairytales, and the cousin that was spinning her around and around was just one delightful friend, an appetizer before her two actual prospects came cutting in trying to steal her heart. Like they weren't successful at that already. Which was exactly the reason that when the dance was done and she was spun back into standing awkwardly in the crowd, the world around her to busy to notice our beloved princess, who looked more like the enchanting Belle instead of the charming Cinderella, she swept up with all the grace in the world by Prince Charming number one: the dark haired beauty. Pale and sweet, Prince Charming number two that is, was left behind to contemplate, and watch in horrific wonder as our demented little fairytale where the brother likes the sister, and that same sister forgets about the childhood friend and the way he looks at her when he thinks the brother won't notice, unfolds.
Goddammit, it was like the room radiated, and when had she gotten that dress? Much more was the question of when had her eyes been so exotically blue? When had her hair become that red, and why the hell did her skin seem more gorgeously, phenomenally, indescribably satiny? She seemed like the little glass figurines that posed liquidly on top of her unbearably boring dressers. Just the monotone brown, with the aging tree lines, and dust, and tiny nicks that were unimportant and repetitive. It's what everything was, the adults were the aging tree lines, the dust was the pesky males that fought for some pretty girl's attention and the tiny nicks, they were those "pretty" girls he spoke of earlier. If they were appealing he mused, drinking his non-alcoholic eggnog and sulking against the wall like the defeated Prince he was while some piece of dust or another was talking about how those nicks in ball gowns were really something, then he wished he knew what to call her. Yes "her", not HER, or even her, nope, not even a little a bit, there was something special about the way his mind formulated pronouns when it came to Merle, they had to glide, like the way she saturated, slid, in between his brain cells until there was no brain fluid, no oxygen, just her, Merle. He liked the way it looked (in his mind), liked the way it felt meshing between the molecules and atoms and anything he had floating around up there, liked the way it flowed. She some sweet coating on a blunt, dull word, the word vibrancy applied to no one else, and see what she did? All that mindless love drivel just had to be spewed itself out of the oppressive air whenever she was around.
He needed to tell her. Needed. Before he did something stupid, something primal, something that would have her despising him for longer than he could possibly handle. Needed. Before she was no longer dangling in his desirous reach, like some carrot in front of the horse's nose. Needed, I tell you, needed, because it was paining him to watch her waltz on top of the world with competition. Needed. There was a sort of lustful desperation which encircled that word whenever he thinking about her, it revolted his mind and churned his eggnog filled stomach, best-friend indeed. He should never need anything from her, he should give and expect not one morsel of it back…greedy bastard he was…which was precisely the reason why he wouldn't tell her. Why he would recoil and hide, like the complete coward he was because after all, it is what he did best. He would let her enjoy herself with her Prince Charming of choice, let her love him without worries of hurting little ol' friend-dearest. Taking the last sip of his drink he realized how much he didn't like it, it was murky, it hid whatever was in it under a false creamy taste. It was too much like him to be liked, and so down the spiraling drain it went, he still wouldn't tell her however. He never would, because no matter how much he needed, this misshapen feeling was never about him in the first place.
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There is something about the way the petals are shaped, the way they caress her face when she bends down to smell them, the way the glance up at her appreciatively, appraisingly. And she's beautiful you know? He's not afraid to admit it in his mind anymore, not afraid to confess that there are times when he's kissing Marlene that he doesn't wish it was Millerna—his dirty little goddess. The one who he noticed took home some new guy every night, gone in the morning. Sometimes she would come home a panting, sweating, mess of cold cheeks and distant eyes that had him entranced by knowing exactly where she had been. And sometimes—just sometimes—when Marlene had fallen asleep, he'd imagine what it was him being one of those men with their fingers through sallow silk, hands over satin, lips on illicit items he know he could never taste. Never touch. Never ever smell like the way she smelt those flowers.
He smiles when she tells him thank you, takes them and glides away, done for now with her enchantment over him. He wants her so mind-numbingly bad in that one moment, watching her hips swing away from him, the tiny drips of warming snow leaving tiny unnoticeable trails of water behind her feet. He can hear them beckon which each tiny drip to follow her into the kitchen, because 'never' is only for God, besides no one has to know. This simple little thought curls it's way into his mind, and as he leans back in the plush cream chair eyes intent upon the television—he has absolutely no idea what he is watching though—the words hit him with so much it's almost hard to breathe. No one has to know. Oh God, it sounded so good, so incredibly delicious, so delightfully plausible that he had to clench his fists to the arm rests to gain the least bit of self-control. And it was true nobody had to know. Marlene and her father were out running errands, and the maids had all disappeared to their respective places—even that precious butler of theirs—it was oh so perfect.
His opportunity was passing by. But he told the voice that lusted after her, practically loved her to shut-up. Practically, nearly there, almost love wasn't love itself, and that's what he knew he felt for Marlene. He thinks so anyways…and that's all it ever takes. What it takes for doubt to settle in, a sloshing puddle of maybe-not and uncertainty, all it takes for the droplets of water to start beckoning, calling him into the kitchen, to her. So when his legs—of their own accord I assure you—lift his lust plagued body off the couch and towards the room with its looming refrigerator, he knew that this was a bad idea. Bad idea's meant trouble, but that's the thing about enchanting dirty goddesses, you always want to know how dirty they can get.
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It is just something about him right now—that's what he tells himself anyways. This smile that he's smiling isn't his, because it happens to be too luminescent, too joyous to be his. That growling sour pain has melted into something calmer something more pleasing, a mental anti-acid coating his entire being. He was serene, and this dance, this goddamned dance was going on forever. Not that he was complaining, no, no, whining wouldn't have suited this occasion. Even as the dance stopped and they drew apart—she had been so close—there was still this feeling of propelling, of unconstrained motion, and he new that if that stopped he would be…He didn't know what he'd be but pleased sure as hell wouldn't be it. You see there was something about the atmosphere she exuded that had him trapped. Terrifyingly wonderful this feeling.
Grinning, beaming, gleaming she starts clapping with the crowd that has deftly filled up her basement, "Thanks for the dance," it's just a breathy whisper, murmur of something more than seduction against his ear running thick through his body. She's transformed into this mesmerizing being, so vivid, so real, that he doesn't understand the gratitude he's too busy halting, staggering, waiting until his mind can process information. In arrives that smile again, and what is this? Was that a blush, well it's too late for her to find out—which is all the better—because he sped off to find something for them to drink. While doing so, he found it peculiar, that Chid, great dancer (or so he heard from Merle) best friend Chid, had simply melted into the crowd and through the door without mutter of "hello" or mumble of "goodbye". It seemed sort of unfair, but perhaps—and this is why he walked directly into brooding body ahead of him, his head too full of that disease called infatuation (or was it something more?) was mulling over ways to make her happier, because dammit that smile…That brooding body being Chid, of course, and in any other fairytale land there would have been a fight to the death, or a bargain. But Chid was to play the part of the platonic best friend, while the man of misfortune got to become prince charming and gain all the rights, unbeknownst to him of course.
Isn't this a charming twist now, because Prince Charming number one has demoted himself because of his own need, but Prince Charming number two caught up in the dazzling swirl of Cinderella hasn't clued in—and probably never will, he has a hard time understanding anything that threatens him—asks why Chid hasn't gone to ask Merle to dance. But when he dragged his eyes—a three part mixture of self-righteous anger, of hazy emotion that was perhaps too embedded in hormones, and something else that he had tried to tuck away since the day had begun—up to Chid's glassy azure there was something there that he understood. Yearning. It was such a bothersome feeling that attached itself, becoming some infectious appendage, just one more weight that you had to drag through the rest of the day. You're begging the rest of the world to see it, pleading, you'll wash their feet with you're tears, dry them with you're hair, perfume them as long as they promise to dismember it. But can you amputate something as intangible as a feeling?
So even though he understands, that's all he can offer, despite the fact he knows that understanding itself isn't what the used-to-be-prince was asking for. This meeting of the eyes has him oh-so bewildered, and he wonders for a fraction of a second if he should scuttle away like a defeated knight, and let Chid have her. It would be the noble thing to do, and even though he wasn't much for nobility or chivalry from time to time—just ask Hitomi, and jeez she sprung up at the oddest of times—it was just this wistful feeling which he had, that things were supposed to end up that way. Life would be frightfully boring, don't you think, if things always ended up the way they should? It was at that exact moment, that Cinderella chose to laugh, one of her great belly laughs that made just about everyone around her laugh as well.
And he couldn't decide if he hated it or loved it, because his mind kept tugging at Chid, at what he knew, there was this curdling feeling at the pit of his stomach that wanted to sacrifice what the night had become, what the night was blooming into. Wanted to wrap it in a box and present it neatly for Chid to have, because he did happen to like Chid, thought he was a great guy in all respects. But where would that leave him; this was his fault you see. He was tired of thinking of others, tired of doing anything that would help someone else in the end, all that got him was a father that was too busy being six feet under to give him any wisdom, and a mother that would rather spend her time decomposing than tell him what he should do. And that was the third little part his eyes, and his mind hid from the world—too bad he can't hide it from himself. Merle laughed again, and he swallowed his problems up, tucked back into the filing cabinet.
…Once upon a time, Cinderella became Prince Charming's sick new obsession.
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Can't bear to face the truth
So sick you cannot move
And when it hurts
He takes it out on you
She prefers it out here, so please don't worry about her. Out here, rather than in there where her sanctuary with the broken lock on the door—she'd rather strip that film of memory naked, but isn't it too bad that it plays anyways—and the refuge it provides is as feeble as the crystals that melt on he nose. It's too cold for the Dragon to tumble out the door, and demand that she, like an obedient bird, put on a show. Besides, have you ever considered she enjoys it when she's lying there in the caressing white, so that when she creeps through the house—she would never dare walk—so that if he catches her, and he always catches her, she won't be bothered so much when his scaly skin slides against hers, won't mind too terribly much when he clips her wings just one more time. And time itself seems so lost when you're glancing at the sky not bothering to wish you were somewhere else, because if the world worked on wishes then the six billion plus people that wandered around wouldn't be here, herself included. Isn't that a reason to be thankful? She supposes, but thankfulness never assists her when he's burning down her door, so following in the pattern of wishes, thankfulness can dance up there with moon, dead stars, and the bruised-black sky. Birds with clipped wings can't fly anyways.
Lights aren't glowing anymore, as she shifts from her position, while using barely-there fingers to remove the light dusting she has accumulated on her clothes. With one last glance at the inky midnight-blue, she trudges in while the floorboards creak underneath her weight, because they know it doesn't trouble her as he growls, and then barks her name—and what unusual sounds for a dragon to make—doesn't care when, one claw, and then four more, molest rundown feathers, and command her not to tweet. Mother is up in her nest trying to see if dreaming will discard all the demons and ticks in her head, after all, we don't want to wake mother now do we?
Bourbon dragon breath—and she guesses a prayer or two would have been order, but he's so far along dipping her into adultery (or is it fornication?) to ever become Little Miss Virgin—slithers down the side of her neck. Suddenly, unexpected by her and the creature that has its hand up her shirt—dragon, or dog she can't decide—he's bleeding all over her clothes, and she's holding the remaining neck of an amber coloured bottle. Dammit, she's pleading that it wasn't her, pleading that if any good fortune was about to stagger onto her pathway during the Christmas season, she wouldn't be the one holding the bottle and he wouldn't be the one whose mind was muddled in something deeper than drunken vehemence, while tiny glass splinters and those quiet whispering voices waltzed their way into his skin.
This bird would like to sing the song to you where this—while he was shocked, and she was begging for time to rewind—was when she used his stupor to her advantage. When she fought the dragon with the broken bottle neck in hand, roused Mother then they were out the door as fast as their birdie feet could whisk them away. When the day came in which the door was open to them, even if all they could do was hop around the sullied earth, and scrape for things they never had. This bird would like to sing you song about conquering dragons, and overcoming demons, love to sing you a song about freedom. But that's not the way this world works, because fear is such a peculiar thing. He's seething so very frightfully as she squats down in the shards that are doing nothing but laughing at her from the floor. She wants to tell them to shut-up because they're making him angrier, but they don't listen, just swallow up the vermillion syrup draining from his hand. She wants to hear the satisfying crunch, as they feel ever pound of trepidation she's gained, but he's still staring at her, and she still cowering.
She doesn't know when his belt became undone, or how she got to the point of kneeling in the fragments, but then he poured his gentle acid promise in her ear and left it there to burn as she ran upstairs. She grabs the tweezers, the rubbing alcohol, and the gauze, removes her pants carefully then eradicates every sliver—and god why are they still giggling? The alcohol never burns very much in the end, lucky her that nearly got frostbite in her legs and no one will see the strips because she was never one to show off her knees. Tired, however, is what has become; listening as the Dragon plays a record, where some melodic voice croons about peace on Earth, and sparkling snow, but pathetic her can only whistle the tune he put in her mind, "I'll find you in the morning", while she curls up into ball of cold skin and blankets on the floor, in front of that broken-lock door.
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He'd like to say that yes, they had crossed his mind more than once or twice during the year. He'd like to say that indeed that they had pestered, and bothered, and dug deeper than they had ought to—because he was gone now and there was really nothing that they could possibly do—thus causing at least him to occasionally grow wistful, maybe even wonder how they were. In all honesty he would like to say that yes they had done precisely such things, and he was about to venture out to search for them—even though he had small fragmented doubts to their moving on, shuffling themselves to a different town, because after all he knew his father wasn't one for change. But he hadn't. It was a rarity, scarce occurrences when he'd be reminded of what he had left behind. Sacrifice or not—or perhaps, and this was the thought that had festered and taken their place, he had simply runaway, however thoughts like that held no dignity and that was something he held onto for reasons he'd rather not discuss—he had slowly began to forget about them. Not exactly their existence, because one could never forget being apart of something (despite how insignificant it seemed now in the world that shifted so frequently), he quite simply forgot what it was like to merely be in their presence. That laugh, a gruff voice, an admiring smile, one more scolding, he had forgotten what all of that felt like, how much it encompassed who he was.
He was afraid he was forgetting himself you see. It's a terrible thing to be unsure about one self, about who you are as a person, people spend there whole lives looking for it, while it was just about the hardest thing to ever find. This…being, who he was, was unfortunately slipping farther behind him, 'Oh, good God you sound like such a priss…make that a whiney priss.' But it was true wasn't it? He hated to admit it, 'You hate to admit a lot of things,' but the past just couldn't help but influence the present, and it always had to factor into the future like some stupid disease he couldn't get rid of.
So there he was sitting on the balcony with the Plexiglas door shut to keep the warm air of the party inside, half of him wishing he could forget, the other half not wanting to—and that's the way it went, the inevitable loopty-loop that life had decided to be—out here in the friggin' frigid air, getting all nostalgic, bloody homesick for a home he hadn't seen in about two or three years, while his ass was pleading with him to go back and sit on the warm couch. Please…pretty please? It sang, offered him a cheery and all, actually he offered himself ice cream ('What with how cold it is? Never,') with a complimentary cherry, chocolate sauce, and those almonds that he loved dearly, to remove himself from his stationary leg-numbing post on the ground just to get inside. He politely declined, just kept watching the midnight-blue and its innocent glittering luminescence contest with the brusque city lights, and shiny glowing Christmas-y bulbs. Cold air biting at his face while he thought of what it was like, way back, when the air smelled like Spanish cuisine and oil. Simpler times, when that pretty piano made more graceful music than he thought it was capable of. A funny little smile hopped along his face just then, it looked like an old secret joke that never once lost any of its humor, and it was all he could ever do to keep from beaming or bursting out it in a giddy laughter that would cause heads to turn and strange looks to follow soon after. He always did like to hear what that piano could actually do…while of course he got to play that abandoned video game. He always did like…and jeez, wasn't he Mr. Sentimental today? That beloved little padre of his would have the time of his life if he knew what he had been thinking. Him of all the lovely people that decorated this tiny…uh…outfit (if that's what you really wanted to call it), logical, calculating, practically unfeeling him, was getting all mushy about those days that were so far behind that he was beginning to forget what they even felt like.
And that was a problem, the very mind-boggling bastard of a problem; he didn't want to forget, better yet he wanted to replenish. Dive right back in a have the biggest family revival-get-together, that had ever been heard of, and what the heck invite the grandparents as well. He wanted to get all comfortable living the cozy life once again, or at least taste it once more. If that's all he could ever do.
So maybe it was the Christmas season, 'Tis the season to be jolly, why not just hop on the bandwagon with all the other fools out there?', or perhaps it was the fact that like a said fool he had been flailing around looking for one decent New Year's resolution. You know one he could accomplish this time around, "non-business" related…if you get what I mean. He wanted something personal, something closer to home. That was the resolution, that little phrase just signed his name that would fortunately and unfortunately—it can never be one or the other, it's all about cause and affect—change one too many lives to count (never without all the fundamental pieces that Fate), he was going home.
He would first have to find a way to resurrect himself from the dead.
So although his body was screaming for him to at least have some pity and shift just a teensy bit, his mind was too busy planning (we like to call it scheming, but a rose by any other name still smells as sweet or as putrid) to follow the commands of a simple body.
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She knows the human heart,
And how to read the stars
But everything's about to fall apart
Odd that's what it is, if you understand what I mean of course; odd and comfortable, and honestly is shouldn't really be that way. But it is and she snuggles a tad, sniffles just a little and drinks her hot chocolate while trying not to think. Just watch the show and don't think. Small, intricate puffs of pure white housing bacteria and deadly compounds, but it doesn't matter it still looks gorgeous. She wished that was the only thing that mattered. Rather she wished she didn't get that phone call.
People have a way of tip-toeing next to you like that, unexpected and unaware, they don't bother to pounce, simply knock, you let them in willingly (but she can't say that at least half of herself never submitted a warning to the other half) and when they're out, you're equilibrium is tilted and you're left feeling nothing but: odd and comfortable. Comfortable however, is only existing because the smooth cocoa drink that you keep drizzling down your throat every so often. Just like you're trying to drizzle—slowly now, never wanting to get burned, because being in a daze is so much better than having two feet firmly planted in this colourful reality, where things are more than pure, bitter white— every word in, gulping it down never allows her to properly analyze the situation. Or the words, especially the words. Her hands are beginning to dig deep in her pockets, Christmas candy, is what she would like to call what lays in her palms, but they look more like tiny Easter eggs. 'Different name, but every holiday just ends up being the same regardless,' is what she tells herself, and so now she sitting there being odd and comfortable and contemplative, to consume or not to is the question of the day, and boy-oh-boy she would rather not answer it. She would honestly rather do.
That's the problem, there is something about this new house that she's living in that prevents her from doing, she only crosses her legs and mulls over, only rests her palm in her cheek and muses. Lukewarm hands start to heat up, sooner or later the colour is going to vanish from the mini-wannabe Easter egg nesting in her hand and it will just be its ugly virgin bland self, just like the snow outside when it begins to melt. All this thinking is of course attempting to have her ignore the phone call, simply make her dismiss the fact that he said he missed her, and now dammit—and isn't this just one more pathetic replay of circular events?—her hopes are high, and her head is filled with garbage—slap a label on it and you'll see that you've written something that looks like maybes—and the voice. Voice that hung low, and still—asking herself how long has it been anyways before the dramatic shift of personalities, the shuffle of opinions that were swept out of the door—made her want to poor alcohol down her ear just for a tiny cleansing, yet made her crave for just one more time…
Well that little piece of perverted heaven is diving down the tunnel like esophagus now so there is no use trying to think, just wait—put down the cup, Marie wouldn't have liked her to spill any on the newly cleaned rug, and she didn't want to re-clean it—while it settles in somewhere it hasn't for quite sometime, but was always in her pocket, patient because after all it knows, there was no need rush. Faster she commands until her breathing is heavy, so that will be the only thing she hears, that and the soft patting of the snowflakes on the window. Faster, but never fast enough, because there still the tickle at the back of her mind she wants to cast away, numb it, so when feather soft promises on greasy fingertips pass over there shall be no reaction. No nothing, just a polite response, then the phone is in its cradle so she won't hear mother sing it the monotonous dial-tone lullaby.
Swipes her hand underneath eyeliner, then lays back and lets it happen, like the good ol' days, she always did like those. That scream she was feeling, right at the base of her throat, threatening—and the pill was the ransom so that it wouldn't tattle on her frustration (silly teenage angst and the like) and tell Marie—plucking at the vocal chords and unhinging the jaw to a lax state, is receding…That's right world wonder which is burning, swimming amidst something that will transform it into a liquid, take her where there is no up or down, just the simple pleasantries of seemingly enhanced stimulation.
And when it's done, and she's level with the ground, nothing but human again—she was hoping for a minute longer, yet one more minute is never enough—no more superior hearing, just plain Yukari sprawled on a couch teary-eyed and trembling, she glances at the phone. One hand with ruby nails untangling untangled hair of almost the same colour, so damp now—she wants to know when the temperature changed—and the other hand trailed by those eyes asking him to call again, because this time she's ready.
If only things happened simply one more time.
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I won't be the one to let you down,
Maybe you'll get what you want
This time around
Beginning to become that sweaty mess that he wanted them to be, or at least they're about to get to it. He simply swept up beside her and told her that no one had to know, she's almost finished being coy and telling him that he has Marlene. Fucking hell, he always had Marlene, never once was she out of his possession—he hates thinking about her as some thing that he owned—but he never had her. But he never had her, and the weight of his words take their time spinning in the world that she reigned over, then placed itself as an offering to her. It was the only sacrifice he knew how to make, knew that was worthy to make. Everything else that he could have possibly given up was pointless and unfruitful—bring your first fruits it's all that I ask—and in the end this would be what mattered, this tiny affair. He knew it, and it was exactly that that made his mind quiver, because he was rebelling against dignity and fidelity and everything that was good to in turn replace it with what he wanted.
She knows this. This offer isn't serving her alone, and so she analyzes, and weighs, and calculates, but in the end he wins—or maybe she does, because do remember that this is what the mind that almost ended up in being leaving entrails of vermillion and watery fluid on the walls, wanted. So she turns and glances up, pretty violet acting all coy, debating yes or no. 'Yes or no?' does she want to put his relationship, but perhaps more importantly the one made of egg shells and broken glass she had with her father, in far more trouble? 'Yes or no doll face, hurry up and pick because you new devotee won't stay forever—it doesn't exist, remember?' Looking at him now, she had thought she had him—Purities Lover—all figured out. Had him squared, and analyzed, and fit to perfection, but now where was all that transparency? All she had left to do however was say yes, and watch his offering burn, and normally she would have been quick to answer, at the head of the marathon they were suddenly running with that three letter word. Yet somehow she left out herself. Let her mind runaway with the process of his seduction then forgot to add her own wants, her own bloody needs, and the way he treated her sister is what she griping for. Not sex, it was never about sex—yet she was just one more standard, another statistic in some guys head, with no name just the way she felt when they mixed—and she was so close to clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, taste buds, saliva, and air making the traditional tut-tut, waggle a manicured index finger and send him to his bitch where he belonged.
Then he inquired—gentleman to the end this one—just a simple question, but one she had never heard offered, "If you want to think about it…" there was disappointment there, lingered and slid off the tails of Y's and bounced about all the dots the hung like the star's over the I's. There was no time to think. Not with what he just asked, and there was surging air pressure—which bore such a striking resemblance to need—no more time to ponder, simply do.
…And what started out as the gentle pressing of lips turned into a mesh of human meat—what more can you be if you're looking for the reason in someone else?—in that plush bed of goose down. Lucky her though the wind wasn't whistling, but now, even when their sharing an offering, the world will continue to unknowingly be nothing but empty.
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So he sits up, even when he should be getting sleep, it's alright though the people which have scuttled off to bed—to tired to argue with him, for he should be asleep what with his condition—are to busy stumbling into fragments and snapshots of what they'll most likely forget in the morning, to check on him. His mind is to occupied with being busy however for him to follow suit, but that's what he'd rather do—at least he would if his thought's hadn't drifted to father-dearest. Normally, he would be his giddy self and wouldn't complain, but the people that keep knocking—just one more sign that the tell-tale merchant reign is quickly speeding to it's ending, just one more intoxicated driver about to try to date a telephone pole—and the telephone's that never seem to know when to stop all speak to him about how the man in some faraway country—he wasn't privileged enough to know where he was going this time, but wherever he was they could keep him by all means—owed them money. Precious little green bills, that just happened to fill his father's pocket— enchanted the clam long enough so that it could open it's mouth and out pop's that pearl, because that clam is nothing but one other flitting conquest on the list of many—seemed to be needed back, with interest of course (he had it for so long). Yet since good ol' dad had departed with his favourite pin-striped suit he expected that there was no way he could reach him until he suddenly sprung above the wintry weather and rested his hat in what he usually calls "home".
So he did what he could: smiled as pleasantly as possible, then turned them away with a promise of spring blooming fresh flowers, and hopefully the man in the vertically candy-striped—and was he the only one who got hungry when he saw outfits like that?—suit that his father favoured so much. He would have continued as well, until he had one of his "fits" as he had labeled them, and by then his body had gotten so weak he had quite literally toppled onto one of the few upset investor's that had made the pilgrimage to his humble house lying near the end of neighbourhood with the sickeningly-green lawns painted white. He was dragged into the house by one of the house maids and then taken up to bed. Fortunately, he wasn't there to see the dazed, still mildly infuriated pilgrim, swivel on his heel make the journey back to his own equally quaint village. He did, albeit with his fainting spell and all, manage to remember what he had said to the man before he collapsed on him—idiotic, reminiscing thoughts that seemed to lasso the absentminded comment and drag it back to where it may or may not have belong (but perhaps it was a bit of both) at the forefront of his mind.
"I'll see you in the spring―" the rest didn't matter it was this tiny proclamation and the events that occurred following that assertive, promising statement that reminded him of his frailty—the pathetic spindly heap his body was developing into—because if he ever wanted to be truthful to himself (he would have nothing but the truth and that needle in his arm by the time all of this was over) he would have to realize there was this considerable chance he wouldn't be seeing anyone in the spring. He would have to come to accept the knowledge and the fact that when his father waved that burlesque hand before stepping into that semi-expensive car, it may have very well been the last time he would ever see his father. Even for a boy of optimistic seventeen, that was an overwhelming statement.
So instead he cleared his mind, drew up knees that seemed to be growing bone instead of fat and flesh, just breathing that air he had the privilege to, feeling grateful. Just felt grateful while letting Mr. Grim devour his hallowed body bit by bit.
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It's becoming a nine letter word that was far from what it was created to be. But if you will, allow me to start at the beginning, which inevitably brought this nine-letter-word act to a nearly subdued close. Nearly, nothing is ever absolute.
Intoxication is what it started off to be, nothing more, and he doubted it could be called anything less, because if you questioned him about this day he would have admitted that her smile could have drawn him to his knees and he would have agreed to anything. One more dance, one more chance to talk to her, one more chance for contact—for contact all on its own can place you at the doorstep of intimacy, the threshold was never one for keeping anyone out either—is all he asked for. Just one more; maybe then he could forget that small entity which took up much wanted space inside his head—wipe the despicably dirty thing clean, and goddammit please let him forget, because all he's asking for is freedom—because the day seemed so pleasant when the area that surrounded the splinter was numb, virtually gone.
Progressed to desire so nonchalantly that he didn't even recognize it when it walked into the door, sat on the couch, while he bustled for tea and cookies to keep it jovial and full. They're hugging, she's batting eyes, he's looking cheery; they're playing that silly game of tag, where it's a gentle brush of hands, then an arm around the waist. He would have never known it was so enjoyable, but possibly that was all part of this hormonal induced high. With a dip, a giggle, and the shuffling of feet, this is where they ended up in the hallway—and isn't that romantic?—with her smiling up at him as they were completing the task of trying to catch their breath, the room, hell the entire world seemed slightly too warm. Part truth, marginal lie, and an insipid excuse.
Waltzing into something that smelled, felt, tasted like trouble, but now that logic had been put away, they were demoted to just a couple of kids who laughed at the word, after all who has time to glance at the future when today was all they seemed to have? Pretending to dance just a little more with the music, the crowd, all that this reality seemed to be formulated from behind them, just down the hall. A spin—carousel of feelings whether they were real of fragmented for the time being, for this moment, where it was Fate with her cruel sense of humor tugging at puppet strings, or just a series of coincidental misfortunate happenings, well he'd decide later—a twist, and a pull in is what brings the end result. (Now that he was thinking of it he wondered why he hadn't noticed it before. That of course didn't matter now however, because it was then and how to erase it that would ever hold any relevance now.) She's pointing up, a more subtle version of beam tugging at the creases lip glossed skin that made up her skin, and his eyes follow her command—and if he knew then he would have never looked, just pushed her away and let Them be.
It's rushing forward now, without a casual glance back, or in any other direction, the unstoppable force that would never know an unmovable object. Its nothing but feeling that's filling him—although that feeling was never the right one—because would you know they had somehow found themselves underneath the mistletoe, leafy green, cherry red practically coaxing them, and they weren't moving. He would try to say something, but that air passage has been flooded with something else, something frightening, unrecognizable, something thrilling. Thus he does the only thing that's left on the list of option's—too bad there was only two at the time—just draws her close, breathes a halting, staggering, breath in (will there ever be a girl that smells as good as that green eyed one which he was sure he made cry—and jeez, what was she doing in his head at a time like that?) eyes flit for one tiny moment into brilliant cobalt and now there is nothing left but her lips.
In this nine-letter-world, there are only halves because when Fate is concerned, things never come in full. So instead there were half the heart-stopping fireworks, but they were heart-stopping nonetheless; they were left only half breathless, but perhaps since breathing seemed so hard already this one had filled its quota; half the heat, half the pressure, half the wonderfully sinking feeling, which made them shift closer because they could never just settle for half and be satisfied. They had induced it themselves, the rest of the dosage that they needed to feel, with the smell of eggnog on each others lips, the taste of the opposite's mouth, silky caressing arms around his neck, and those hands just threading through hair. While she was content with almost fitting perfectly into his arms even as he just held her slightly trembling body, she was smiling with her head rested against his shoulder, curled red strands of hair lying along with her. He nearly told her then—nearly, but if he did was it lying or just giving the final verdict—now though, he was thankful that he refrained. Even as he was busy laying his chin on her head, he happened to turn his eyes towards the doorway.
This is where the act ends and Fate gets to have a sardonic little chuckle—more like a sadistic chortle, if you asked him, but of course you won't and he would probably ignore you if you asked anyways—because there stood Prince Charming number one. Staring at them, at him, and good Lord the fact that he wasn't breathing, just made him look like some haunting after image emerging from the brighter lights of the flooded room. It was so bothersome, because Van could simply see it; he was practically drenched in a need so deep that he almost hurt to look at. He had a look so convicting on his face, that Van felt that he should have been thrown away, with the key swallowed or melted in the heat—unbearable, judgmental heat, what he and Merle felt together could have never compared—that was rising (and this is what it should have felt like but there is no time for that now). He wanted to take it back, wanted to erase the kiss, remove the flirtatious gestures, bring that dance that he wanted to last forever to that thing labeled as extinction. If it never happened then he would have no need to ever feel this guilty (besides he already had enough guilt to satisfy an entire lifetime), because he knew. Knew this whole time that Chid wanted, what Chid desired, what Chid needed, he knew it better than anyone else, because he—Van needed something just as badly. Chid however, before Merle could turn around and feel mortified then culpable, left with Van having nothing but regret and this person who he had now so desperately wanted to give the one that had walked away.
Nine-letter-worlds and nine-letter-words cannot form the word "retribution", however they could be rearranged to make such a word as "tale". A tale is simply a grandiose term for fable, and a fable is only an elaborate word, for three quaint letters: l-i-(and regrettably)e. For what more is fairytale than an enchanted lie? All that was left to do now that his cistern mind allowed acid rain and sewage that compunction loved to masquerade as, was to breathe and tying to dispel everything that nine-letters had changed into.
The trick is to keep breathing…
A/N: Gomen once more!...I have found I don't particularly like this chapter, except for the beginning and the, but after this things start picking up. Which is good, because I have realized how much more I have left to go. Thankies all new/not new: reviewers, readers, and anyone else who has given this story a chance, I greatly appreciate your kindness and support, I just hope this chapter was fulfilling for you. Until next time…