A/N: As most people who have read my Phantasy Star fics have probably noticed, I use the names for the planets that were used in the original game where the particular fanfic happens to be set (well, except for Phantasy Star I, where I treat "Dezoris" as a Palman-language corruption of "Dezolis," so which I use depends on which culture I'm writing from the perspective of). Thus, in this PSIV story, I use "Parma" and "Parmanian," assuming that 1000 years of linguistic drift have managed to change one letter. None of which has anything to do with this plot, but hey, I've got to fill these Author's Notes with something, right? ^_-
~X X X~
"I really hate this time of year," Alys Brangwin complained as she found a seat at the bar in the Hunter's Guild tavern. I'm whining, she realized, catching the traces of self-pity in her voice. I'm actually whining! I'm glad Galf isn't here to see me reduced to this.
"Upset because everyone around you is all lovey-dovey and you don't have a boyfriend?" her friend Fenris asked from the next barstool.
It was the holiday season of love and romance on Motavia, when couples celebrated with gifts, sweets, and flowers; when betrothals were traditionally entered into; and when the sugary sweetness that seemed to fill the atmosphere often drove the unattached to distraction.
"Eh? Oh, no, that isn't it."
She was about to say more, but Garn, owner and bartender of the establishment, set a steaming hot mug in front of her. She picked it up and drank gratefully, savoring the taste and the strongly-scented fumes.
"I figure that love is important, so people have a right to be happy about it. Sure, I wish that I had a guy, but the way I figure it, if I had met the right one, I'd be dating him already. An occasional fling can stand up with a couple of common interests, but if you want something above the waistline it's important to get it right. A relationship with the wrong guy just for the sake of having one is a heck of a lot worse than being single."
Alys had just taken another drink from the mug when a perfect example of the point she was making walked through the door. Joss Howland might have been big, handsome, and devoted, but until he got enough brainpower to understand that he just wasn't to Alys's taste, he'd always be the wrong guy. The very wrong guy.
"Alys, babe!"
He was carrying a sheaf of sapphire lilies, a pale blue flower whose petals deepened to a pink core at the center. Parmanian tradition had been to give red roses to one's beloved, but roses didn't grow on Motavia and when Parma was destroyed a thousand years ago it became necessary to find a local substitute. Sapphire lilies were not only thematically appropriate due to their "blushing" heart, but their life cycle had them flower abundantly for ten days or so prior to the holiday.
"Please accept these flowers as a token of my adoration for you," Joss announced, thrusting the bouquet towards Alys. Since eloquence—if only for a sentence—was well outside his usual modus operandi, she figured he'd scripted it in advance. Unfortunately, he destroyed any impression of polished charm by nearly jamming the flowers in Alys's face in his enthusiasm.
"Achoo!"
A shower of lily petals sprayed over Joss, clinging to his shoulders and hair. While Alys desperately backed away, fumbling for a handkerchief and still sneezing, Fenris clucked her tongue at the dumbstruck suitor.
"Joss, I don't think anyone ever won the heart of a woman by giving her an allergy attack."
