Title: Stormy Wet Grass
Author: silver emerald eyes
Word count: 2,535
Genre: Drama? Slight, if so.
Rating: PG-13, because, OMG implied relationship!
Disclaimer: Although everything is implied, I wrote this thinking of two certain people from JK Rowling's Harry Potter, and thus all that belongs to me is the pitiful writing. Please don't sue me. I barely have enough money to buy a book.
Summary: Trust me: I know you, and this is how it will go.
Notes: Implied HP, Post-Hogwarts. Implied pairing people whatever too. Guess who:D
Also, the title makes no sense, because I'm far too sleepy to think at the moment. Haha.
Stormy Wet Grass
I can finally see my wardrobe; all your shirts are gone and I heard you move your belongings out last night. You were uncharacteristically noisy and extremely so for someone who is leaving with no prior word of civility regarding the matter.
Sit down and listen to me one last time before you walk out that door. Here's what I'll always remember about you and what I think will happen when we meet again, because trust me: the world isn't as big as it really is and we will.
I'll never forget that, due to some traumatic experience involving your father and a slide, you don't trust easily. That's what I'll never forget about you and everything else I may just remember once in a while.
You don't trust easily—or at all, if your word is taken—but you really do, which is why everything hurts so much. Look at me. I'm not going to explain to you again—I've already done so dozens of times and you never would listen properly. This will be the last time; my turn to prattle nonsensically.
The thing is you eventually do trust but you never say so, and you most certainly don't admit to having such delusions. Because that's what this is, isn't it? One big delusion. And don't you even try to tell me off for having a martyr complex, because I am well aware that you are just as much affected by this as I am.
Oh. You're probably right. You're more affected. I don't even know where you plan to go, once you walk out that door—you never did like that door, did you? You were never fond of plastic, and painted in such terrible faux-wood shades too. I don't know why we never had that changed—once you walk out that door, I haven't the slightest idea where you will head to, but I think you prefer it that way.
I know you. You would take it as a test of my character and loyalty to seek you out. Oh, shush. Don't argue with me. While you were busy going to and fro with work and this new life I was watching you in between my own. I know that you're flushed because you're angry that I'm right. Admit it, so we can get this over with and not have to fight over it. You always were the smarter one.
Come off it. Trusting has nothing to do with being smart. Oh it does, does it? Well then, you tell me how much your intellect can take you to understand just how much you have grown to trust me against your better wishes. Because this is what I'll always remember about you:
You love pistachio ice cream for reasons that escape my understanding. Why? Because for one, you've always had this thing against certain shades of green, and although I'm not too sure on that either, I can guess pretty well. You keep on saying that only a few shades look good, even on you, because the others are either too bright or too pale.
Also, I think we've both had more than our share of flashing green lights. Does that have something to do with your departure? Green? I notice how you flinch at night, when we both wake up from nightmares and you accidentally meet my eyes.
I won't press that issue. But I do know that you don't like nuts all that much either, or sugar too, I think. How you can eat a gallon of it in one sitting amuses me. I saw you, last June, when you thought I'd be away on your birthday.
I'll always remember your smile when I surprised you. It was bittersweet enough to call off my seminar entirely. No, I'm quite sure you wouldn't want to hear about how much like a child you looked with tearful eyes. You would be pleased to know that your smile still was still something to behold though.
I'm pretty certain it's one of the reasons why we're here now. Not why we're having this conversation, of course. But it is why everything hurts so much more. I'll miss your smile. It's one of the things I rarely have to share with the world. I know I'm being selfish; but then we've always known that.
You also love walking through the park when you want to think, and you feed the birds when you don't see anyone looking. You're just proud as I am. That's why we're here. Not because of your smile or because you don't trust enough. Neither is it because I'm lying or am disloyal—I've already told you: I did not do it. What more do you want from me, damn it?
H-had I planned something, this would have been a complete disaster. But I know you, and I know us. We don't do things according to the rules; that much has been apparent since we first met.
Don't bring that up.
That happened years ago. I'm surprised you remember it at all.
Stop it. You know that's not how it went. I beat you in a fair game. Well, you cheated, I cheated. Fair enough, right? And I still won. Shut up. You can't have everything—but you still got what you wanted, in the end. So just stop it and please don't let my last memory of you be this snobbish little prat who didn't know better!
See? This is why. We're much too proud for our own good. But never mind that. One last time, then it will be all over. And I am not crying!
As I was saying: I'll also remember what you don't like, because other than the fact that I don't think I am capable of forgetting them now, t-they're as much part of you as the things you love.
What you don't like is driving, because traffic scares you and you much prefer the open air—and even when we know that to be impossible, it would be nice—and coffee too, because you vehemently believe that caffeine is out for world domination, with Starbucks as the new leader of all evil.
I never laughed at you for that!
Well, there was that one time. But that was only once and only because you looked adorable, screaming at me like bloody murder for drinking coffee to stay awake.
You're adorable, don't argue.
The thing about you is that you laugh most when you're feeling particularly nervous, not when you're happy. When you're happy, you only smile when no one else is around because you're worried they'll think less of you, just because you might be human like the rest of us. See? I know you. And you trust me.
You might not know for what reasons I ought to be trusted right now, but that's perfectly understandable. I gave you reason to doubt, knowing full well what repercussions such actions might have received, and so it is just as much as my fault that we can't be happy like the people in movies.
I refuse to acknowledge all the fault as mine. We both knew what we were getting into. You can think for yourself, can't you?
Sit down and put that away. I apologize. This won't go on for much longer, promise. You never did like promises either, did you? I'm not at all surprised. What did surprise me, though, was that you were always so keen on keeping your own faithfully.
But again that's beside the point. Look at me and listen. Listen, because this is how it will go:
We will meet again one day. It will be sunny and cool—a perfect day for a walk in the park. I will see you eating pistachio ice cream on a sugar cone and you will see me sitting on the grass and leaning against a tree.
Someone will come up to you and try to make you laugh, because you will obviously be miserable over something. Oh no, not me, surely. You will be worried because work hasn't been going well, or something equally important.
Either way, we will look away hurriedly, because if we don't acknowledge seeing each other, then it might have been just an illusion. Even after 3 years, it will hurt like being slammed against a rough wall; it will hurt badly, like a blunt knife in and through our flesh, making us bleed.
You know how that feels. We both do. Such an unnecessary pain, isn't it?
And so you'll get up, throw your unfinished ice cream and walk away, leaving your companion in a puzzled solitude. And I will get up, brush the specks of wood and dirt and walk away. Before this whole delusion began invisible specks were the last of my worries. But your habits are contagious and your remarks are rather hard to ignore.
I'm sure you'll glad that I will dress more appropriately for formal events now. You're not? Huh. That's Funny. Me neither.
Err. Right. We will meet again one day, after that. It will be stormy and wet—a day for staying home and not driving fast around the city. – No, wait, listen. – I won't be looking at where I'm going because I'll be far too tired to, and you won't be looking at where you're going because you'll be looking for a song to listen to that did not, in anyway at all, remind you of the better things in life.
I'm not that certain on what would be considered better at that point, but it'll hardly make any difference. Because I'm telling the story here, and I've been with you long enough to be able to tell. Listen, just listen.
By then I will be completely immersed in my work that I'll have scarcely enough time to catch up with my friends while you will be well over the culture shock and be into your way of going through all the great bands there ever were, even though they did remind you of the better things in life, may it be due to such things being the topic of the lyrics or, as the case may be, not at all.
That's how different we will be, see? No, I didn't think we could still be anymore different than we already are, but that just proves how little we know. I hardly think 3 months in what began as forced companionship is enough to get to know someone completely.
We will step out of our heavily dented cars and still refuse to meet each other's gaze, like stupid adolescents. Even after 5 years, it will hurt like banging your head on a thick glass; it will hurt badly, like alcohol on our open wounds, making us shudder and hiss.
Also, it would hurt that your new and undoubtedly expensive vehicle has so easily been ruined and so we will both remember the dreams of flying above all this mess. The air has always been much wider and spacious than this inhabited terrain.
After we are quite sure that we still can't be allowed to fly and that our cars can easily be repaired, you will look at the mess, bring out your snazzy mobile to cancel all your meetings, and hail a cab home—wherever home may be. I will shrug at where you were, procure an umbrella, stand under the rain to stare at the damage, and eventually hail a cab home myself.
Yes, we will leave the cars there. No, they won't be stolen. Because that's how it will go, and it hardly will be of any importance as to why. Shush. You're delaying.
As I was saying: I will be sorely tempted to follow your cab to see where you might be staying and how the place is, because I know how finicky you are. But. But such things will then be far too childish to dwell on and I could just walk up to your flat and knock as if nothing had ever happened between us.
I could reintroduce myself with the excuse that I had gotten lost and thus needed a place to stay for the night. Why laugh? You would welcome me in, you know. And we would talk about my misfortune and the damage done to our cars with the practiced ease of ignoring the occurrence of the accident in question being between us.
It could be all so simple, by then. It could be, but given our history, it probably won't be.
We will meet again one day. It will be dark and cold and water will be everywhere—a day for calling in sick. I will turn of the television to see who's at the door at such an ungodly hour and you will enter the threshold, drip all over the rug and ask for coffee, with the air of an expected guest. You probably will be.
Yes, coffee. You will, years from now. Don't splutter; it's unbecoming.
I'll ask you what sort of coffee you would like and for a moment forget how much you hated the stuff. You will tell me—don't deny that you will—you will say, with a sense of utmost urgency on the brink of losing propriety, that you will take anything, as long as, oh dear Merlin, you get some coffee now.
Despite your state, or perhaps because of it, I will take my time and give you the best brewed coffee I have (bought only the previous week from Starbucks, no less), a bit of cream, and two spoonfuls of sugar. I know that you would prefer that, because.
We will sit on the couch and watch television (an old black and white comedy) and sip steaming coffee side by side. After 8 years, it won't hurt as much anymore. It will hurt like a paper-cut; it will sting and ebb and be forgotten, leaving the slightest of scars perceptible only to those who look for it.
You will sip your coffee and watch the television. I will do the exact same thing, unconsciously leaning towards you with faint pressure, not noticing you doing the same. Because by then it wouldn't matter how things worked.
Eight years is a long time, long enough to make you forget and to have dwelled in dreams far beyond any hope of rescue until there is only that sliver of light to get through and you know that you must reach it before it runs black.
We will keep quiet for most of the time and laugh only when we need to, not any more, nor any less. Laughter will be an old thrill, after all that time with pretences and failed demands from one's own self and from others. Don't look at me like that. It will be. Trust me.
Listen. I know how it will go and no matter what you say, no matter how much you glare at me, that will be it—we will meet again one day.
We will meet again—and it really isn't worth all that trouble, because we will only end up as we are now.
end.
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