Author's Note: It's really random…
When I wake up, the dream isn't done
I wanna see your face and know I made it home
If nothing is true, what more can I do?
I am still painting flowers for you
-Painting Flowers, All Time Low
Flowers
Sometimes she wants to hurl a dish at the wall.
Hoping that all the frustration will go away if she hears all those tiny pieces clatter to the floor.
And sometimes she wants to grab his hand and give it a little squeeze; to let him know that she's here, with no plan of leaving.
But mostly, she just remains neutral about the whole subject.
What's going on between them?
She doesn't know.
It just sort of happened.
She knows how she feels; and she thinks she knows how he feels. For certain she knows that he knows how she feels, but neither of them want to admit it.
Neither of them can admit it.
Because they're both too damn scared.
Of what?
She doesn't make an effort to find out.
She likes how they are right now.
Not friends- a bit more than that-, but not lovers- never. And the way they can comfortably hold hands- kiss, hug- without having any sort of responsibility for each other- besides him trying to keep her alive, 'cause she's troublesome like that.
So she just keeps all this to herself; because she's too scared. Too scared to confront him about it.
'Just what are we exactly?' she'd ask in this demanding tone she knows annoys him, 'Why do I follow you everywhere? Why can't I let go of your hand? Why does every damn thing remind me of you?'
'Why do you let everything remind me of you?'
But she can't ask him that.
Because if she does, she's sure he won't answer; because she knows if he knew she was worrying about this, they wouldn't be able to hold hands anymore- kiss, hug.
And that's the last thing she wants.
And that's the last thing he wants.
Truthfully, he likes it.
He likes how she worries about it (because he found out about this inner turmoil of hers long ago; really, it's almost surreal how easily he can read her).
It means she thinks about him 24/7.
Sometimes when she's having a particularly weird nightmare, (like her Pokemon are actually, sincerely getting abducted by Team Rocket- like that'll ever happen) the only thing she can call out is his name.
He doesn't smile; in fact, his face is unresponsive (like always), but he does lean in closer; just because he wants to hear it as clearly as possible.
He likes how she says his name.
Everyone else says it as though it's something distasteful, or something to be revered, or a bit too sweetly for his taste.
She manages to make it sound… natural.
He's grown attached to how she says it; how the 'P' isn't accented and how the 'L' makes her tongue roll ever so slightly.
But of course, she can't know that.
Because sooner or later, he's going to leave to become a world champion, and she's going to have to stay here, home, where it's safe; where she doesn't have to live in an uncomfortable lifestyle of sleeping in the woods and fearing for her safety.
He knows she'll fight.
Oh, she'll throw tantrums and scream until her voice is hoarse and she can't speak his name anymore and threaten to pull out all the delicate strands of blue that he likes to run his fingers through oh so much.
But he knows he'll leave her when the day comes.
Whenever that is.
He keeps postponing that day.
'I still have things to do here' he says, trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
'That's right,' she thinks to herself, 'he needs me around.'
Who's going to stop him from overexerting himself when he trains?
Who's going to dress the cuts and bruises he gets from going through an especially rough day of traveling?
Who's going to sew all the rips in his clothing and take care of him when he's gotten into another stupid fight for acting like a little kid and… and…
And she's crying while she tells this to herself, because once she's gone, he won't have to overexert him from training, because he's training his Pokemon to protect her.
And he gets those cuts and bruises because he's helping her travel, and he's getting into all those fights because some random pervert made some kind of move towards her.
So she can't bring herself to fight when he reminds her one sunny, cloudless day that he's going to be a champion someday.
'I know.' She says, looking at him with those piercing sapphire eyes.
He feels rooted to the spot.
He'd prepared himself for something.
Usually, he's right about her.
No, not usually.
Always.
But he doesn't say anything.
They just head towards their next destination.
And when they arrive back to her house; that familiar house that'd always welcome her back with metaphoric, opening arms, she can't bring herself to look back, because she's afraid she'll start fighting.
And she doesn't want that.
And he doesn't want that.
So he leaves.
Just like that.
And years later, when she's moved out of her small town and into a big city, (the city that he used to live in) she's holding a handful of flowers.
No one gave them to her, (though a few have tried) she bought them herself.
The scent of roses and violets and orchids intermingle.
She just felt that that day of all days was a good day to buy some flowers.
A gut feeling.
And she always goes by gut feeling. It's been her thing. Something he never understood about her.
But he's glad she does it now, because as she feels someone grab her wrist in the busy streets of the stone city, she whips her head around and feels herself being caught in those cold, hard eyes that used to be familiar; in a long ago memory.
And she's goes back to the beginning.
That feeling of wanting to throw a dish at a wall.
Or maybe it's that feeling of wanting to hold his hand?
Something in between.
All she can do is tighten her grasp on her flowers.
She feels the thorns digging into the palms of her hands and the leaves scratching gently against her wrist, but the only thing she's thinking about as she pushes those flowers towards his face, is how much he's changed.
How scared she is of not being able to go back to the beginning.
Where holding hands was okay- kissing, hugging.
And her worries are swept away.
When in the middle of the street.
Where no one has time to stare at them.
He pulls them into a kiss.