Disclaimer: Olih: Thanks! Missingno is really fun to write about. Oh, and I lol'd at your comment about the plushie X D And oh…oh mai 0.0 Why are there no Steven Stone plushies? I would buy one! …And, yeah. Fail subtlety, I know ; w ; Mitsy: I've thought of the Barry X Bianca thing, too; I'll be sure to do it (eventually, since I have so many requests right now X D ) Yeah, when I hear the name what comes to mind is 'groping tropiuses' D X Arthur: You got an account! *hugs* That's awesome! I love Keith, too; but then again, how can you not? He's adorable! And thanks so much, I'm glad you enjoyed it : ) Fornara: Thanks for adding me to your faves : ) Silver: (I love them, too, I think they're so fun : 3) Oooh, I'll be looking forward to it! ; ) Crystal: Honestly, your comments, especially the one at the end there… that means a lot to me. If Fanfiction would let me make the heart symbol, I would : ) Horselover: Thanks for the fave and alert, and I'm very happy that you enjoy my writing : ) And sure, I'll do another Touko X N for you. Beastmode: It doesn't make sense to me, either, if that makes you feel any better ; ) and thank you.
Question: HEY, HEY, HEY EVERYBODY. I HAVE A NEW STORY OUT- VIOLET HILL: A PMD3 STORY. IT IS A DARKER RETELLING OF THE PMD3 STORYLINE. I WOULD LOVE YOU IF YOU CHECKED IT OUT.
My Answer: Please?
Characters: Your requests.
Summary: The last one is completely me, by the way. ; w ;
Eleven Moments
(Of love, angst, and other side-effects of teenageritis.)
"You know," says Gold to Crystal as snowflakes catch in their hair, "Whenever it snows, I always picture God scratching his flaky white head and all of the dandruff drifting down onto us."
Crystal blinks once, twice, and decides to let it pass.
"He needs some Head and Shoulders." Her boyfriend lets out a low whistle. "Because, wow, is that a shitload of dry skin."
"Gold."
"Yes, love of my life? Angel of my sky? Fire in my loins?"
The insult she had been readying dissipates with a sizzle on her tongue. "Did you really just say 'loins'?"
In response, he grins and resumes whistling.
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When Lyra is little, she has standards: her firstlast kiss is going to be under the old oak tree in her front yard, just as the clock strikes midnight; she is never, ever going to lose her virginity to a boy, because that would be pathetic and lowly and everything that she isn't; and she is going to find 'the one', her prince charming, her knight.
When she is fifteen, she has her first kiss given to her by a champion-boy with messy black hair and cloudy red eyes: the afternoon sun beats down on them, turning the snow around them starkly white, and her lips are numb and his tongue is too forceful and the beautiflies in her stomach were fluttering so violently that she feels almost queasy. But it's just a peck of gratefulness, a thanks of sorts, and when she goes around telling people they're dating he just shakes his head and tells her, with those cloudy red eyes, no.
So she realizes that she would rather have a million imperfect kisses than just one perfect firstlast one.
When she is sixteen, she gives her virginity to a gym leader with ruffled blonde hair and a bright smile: she wants to hide herself and maybe cry and imagine herself anyplace but here, but she opens her legs and closes her eyes and tries to relax and she's not ready for this, she's not ready, she's not ready and it hurts and she's sososo nervous and can we reverse this please? But it's already happening, and the bed is shaking underneath her and she hopes that he'll stop pressuring her now, stop looking at her in that disappointed way and acting like he's getting bored with her.
So she realizes that you can lower your pants and pull up your shirt, but you can't make them love you.
When she is seventeen, she meets a Johto champion with terracotta hair and sloping cheekbones: he's the one, he's the one, and butterfrees are fluttering out from her fingertips with the sheer knowledge of it. Everything is beautiful, and it's not good all the time, of course not, but he's prince charming and a knight and they are in love-
So she realizes that he's the one, he's the one, but he's not the one she's going to end up with.
And when Lyra is older, she still has standards.
But you know, she likes them better now than she did before.
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"You know, I've been thinking," Bianca begins worriedly. "Is Pa right? I'm wasting all my time out here, travelling, when I should be in school studying to get into college-"
Barry stretches his arms out as if to embrace the sky, and flops onto his back. The grass cushions his fall. "That's why I don't think," he tells her. "I just do. Thinking slows you down; you just have to run through life, arms stretched out in front of you, head lowered."
"You should slow down sometimes, though," she says, lowering herself daintily down to sit beside him.
He grins up at her. "But if I did that, then I wouldn't have crashed into you."
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Dear Soulmate,
I don't really know how to start this. 'Hey' sounds too casual, 'Hello' sounds shy, 'Salutations' is stiff and a little ridiculous, and 'Greetings' is out of the question.
So I'll guess I'll just settle with 'Hi', and tell you that I miss you.
We haven't talked yet- or maybe we have. If we have, then let me just say that we haven't talked nearly enough. Not if I still don't know who you are. Either way, I know it sounds needy of me to miss you already; but I do. Really, I do. I miss you, and I want to meet you. I want to know your name- I want to speak it, make its clunky letters sound smooth and angular in my mouth. I want to share laughter and tears together. I want those ridiculous fights and awkward apologies and all of your imperfectness.
So I'll be waiting. I'll be waiting for that second where our eyes meet, and we won't know that we're meant for each other then, but we will someday.
Much love,
Lucas.
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When Touko passes Touya in the hallway, there's this split second where their eyes meet and everything pauses for a heartbeat: his mouth opens, as if he's about to say something- what, though, neither are sure- and she thinks that hers does, too.
But the moment passes, and they're in motion again; she ducks her head, too shy to care if it seems like she doesn't like him, and hustles past him with her bulky backpack jiggling between her shoulder blades.
And throughout the rest of the day, she curses herself and wishes that she could have at least mustered up a 'Hi'.
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It's just one of those days when Dawn can't make herself beautiful.
Sometimes she thinks she looks alright: she can stand to face herself in the mirror, the lights that are meant to be flattering beaming down at her and outlining every flaw. But there are days, days like this, where she can twist and turn and apply makeup all she likes, but she can't make herself beautiful.
They bring her down, too. All those gorgeous girls, with the ironed-flat hair and strips of stomach that their short shirts lay bare; and those not-so-gorgeous boys, their eyes looking through her or sneering at her and thinking, Nobody will choose you when there's everyone else to consider.
But there's this deepest secret that nobody knows: there's this most truthful of truths and most secretive of secrets and the meaning of the poem that should have been written; and it will grow higher than curves can block out and blemishes can spoil.
And this is the wonder that's breaking your heart apart:
You are perfect just the way you are.
(And if you don't believe it now, I swear, my friend, you will someday.)
Because you know, it's just one of those days when she can't make herself beautiful.
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"I don't get this," Touko says, near tears. She grips her failed math test in both hands, and yearns to rip it apart; to rip and tear and throw it into the hearth, where all of the stupid numbers and formulas and why the fuck do we have to learn this shit anyway will catch aflame.
N reads her face, and removes the paper from her hands. Bending down to kiss her fingertips, he moves to sit beside her at the table, and examines the test.
She holds her breath, waiting for the inevitable laughing. He'll think she's stupid, obviously; he's such a genius at this stuff, he'll think she's a retard-
But he just smiles softly, and lays it down on the tabletop. "I know shortcuts to these sorts of things," he says, "if you'll let me help you."
And just like that her frustration melts to the ground, and she leans into him. "How can I show this to my mom?" she whispers, tears bloating her face. "I have a tutor; I said I was doing better…"
He leans his cheek into her hair. "The only thing you can do is prove that you are."
She nods. Scrubbing away her tears, she picks up her pencil and calculator, and prepares to do battle.
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After May turns the shower off, she likes to use her towel as a blanket and press her back up against the cold tiles of the wall. She likes to feel poetic by sliding down to sit on her heels, droplets beading her skin and her hair hanging like a tangled curtain of seaweed down around her face.
She wonders if Brendan does anything similar: whether he fiddles with his hair a specific way whenever he thinks of her, or if he thinks of her at all.
And then she thinks, What's the point in feeling poetic when there's no one there to appreciate it?
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"If you took me to a wide open field and told me to scream it all out, I couldn't," Touya tells her.
Skyla smiles. "I know."
"And even though I walk alone to school every day, despite the fact that no one's there to stop me, I don't run away. I can't."
"I know."
"Christmas air used to have a charged quality to it, too. It doesn't anymore. It's just as stale as it is at any other time of the year."
"I know."
Irritation wins over. "How?"
"Because," she says, squeezing his hand, "it's like that for everyone, Tou."
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You came back once; I know you'll do it again.
Leaf sits in her room with her music at full blast, peering out her window to look at the falling leaves. Red will be back, she knows; he phones her every day, sends her e-mails, and mails her more postcards than her walls can handle. Red will be back. He'll be back.
You came back once; why haven't you done it again?
Leaf sits in her room with a book in hand, pulling back the blinds to watch the snow fall. Red will be back, she thinks; the postcards have stopped coming (thank Arceus for that), he phones once every week, and sends her the occasional e-mail. R-Red will be back. He'll be b-back.
You came back once; I hope you can do it again.
Leaf sits in her room with her journal in her lap, the windows open to allow her to see the spring rainfall pelt down. Red will be back, she hopes; she prays to get one of those annoying postcards again, and those monthly phone calls. Red…will be back. He'll… he'll be back…
You came back once; you said you'd be able to come back again.
Leaf sits in her room, and she doesn't need to glance out the window to know that the summer sun is shining down with all of its artificial happiness. Red will be back? she wonders, purely out of habit; he's stopped phoning, stop e-mailing, stopped all connections to her. Red. Red will be…
You will be gone, because you never liked this place anyway and it's not as if I gave you a reason to stay.
Because no matter what you said, everybody knows that the pride of Kanto is never coming home.
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It's a sad day when you realize that the fictional character you love wouldn't love you back.
Kris tells Ethan this, and he chokes on his pop. "Yeah, they're fictional," he answers. "Of course they can't love you back; they're not real."
"No, no. It's a sad day when you realize that the fictional character you love wouldn't love you back," she clarifies. "As in, if they were real, then they wouldn't."
He stares at her. "Kris, that's crazy. You're overthinking things."
She heaves a sigh. "Still, it's sad; especially after you've imagined meeting them, incorporating yourself into the story, and so on."
"Let's just focus on reality," he says.
"But the guys in unreality are hotter," she grumbles, but allows him to pat her hand.