humidity & heartbeats

Summary: Rich, confident, and worldly: only one of those words describe Arven and it's not the last two. Just when he thinks his luck has run out, he reads a strange ad with a phone number. And with that, his prayers seemingly have been answered. Or, Arven doesn't want to be responsible for a multi-million dollar company and falls in love with Juliana instead.

...

…

The bell rings. Her long, brown hair bounces as her body turns around from behind the counter. She smiles as she sees a regular patron come in, welcoming them. Somewhere, on one of the shelves of the lower counter, Pom lays curled into a ball. The day passes into obscurity. Stacking, sorting, a text from Coco here, a phone call from her mom there. She makes herself a nice warm drink, enjoys it in a free moment, and sees it is now 5 PM. Time to close up shop; her cardigan slips off her shoulder while she finagles into her bag searching for keys. 

Right before she closes the door, she looks around the shop to make sure nothing is amiss. Something feels off. She can’t put a finger on it, so she shrugs her shoulders and lets the door close behind her. She’ll figure it out tomorrow. Her fingers turn with the key in the lock and she drops the carabiner clip back into her bag with a clink. 

“Let’s head out Pom!” Mochi says to her familiar, happy and carefree. As she walks through the streets, the sun setting in the background paints the sky a blood orange. It’s a warm day in September, no sudden chills of autumn slipping by yet. When she walks through the front door of her home, her mother greets her from the kitchen. 

“Oh, hi honey, how was your day?” Tiramisu asks, drying a casserole dish with a cloth. 

“It was good! …I think,” Mochi responds, scratching the side of her neck and smiling sheepishly. Gently, she lets her bag slip off her shoulder and down her arm onto the couch. 

Her mother blinks, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “You think? That reply doesn’t inspire confidence, you know.” 

Suddenly, Mochi jerks upwards, her hands coming up and waving her mother off. “I really don’t mean to cause alarm or anything, I mean it. I just have been feeling strange today. Everything’s okay!” 

And with that, Tiramisu strides across the living room to her daughter, her hand reaching out to grab her daughter’s chin, and giving her a bottom-up inspection. Mochi’s cheeks flare up in heat, embarrassed by her mother’s overprotectiveness.

“Hmmm,” Tiramisu muses. “You seem fine to me. Maybe you’re just tired, go upstairs and rest. I need you to deliver something tomorrow across town for me.” 

“R-Really? Another delivery? Guess we’ve been doing pretty well lately, huh?” The brunette perks up, a little reassured her mother senses nothing off but also excited to make a delivery. 

“Yes, well, the M34TH hasn’t really been turning their noses up in the area for a while, so it makes for pretty good foot traffic for magic users around here. But remember, if you ever see that white uniform, try to discreetly walk away — or if they come up to you, act like you know nothing because—”

“Yes, yes, I know mom,” Mochi cuts in, pulling her cardigan tighter around her body to hug herself. “You’ve drilled it in that they aren’t company to keep for… witches like us.” 

“Right, good, I’m glad you remembered,” her mother nods, turning back to the kitchen. 

Mochi has yet to meet anyone from the M34TH, so in her mind, everyone from the M34TH is bad. She’s caught glimpses of their officers in the distance whenever she’s on the outskirts of town, but really, she’s never come anywhere close to them. The idea of coming in contact with anyone from the regiment… It frightens her. As she slogs up the stairs and into her bedroom, her body drops onto her bed. 

Pom has jumped up beside her, propped up and sitting. Her own mother says everything seems fine, but for some reason, she can’t shake the feeling. Again, just as she did at the bookstore, she looks about her bedroom. Everything is in its place, nothing out of turn. Something feels like it’s gone. Her phone buzzes. It’s Coco asking when they can hang out. An odd sensation sweeps over Mochi’s body, as she taps out of the conversation and sees her conversations with other contacts. ‘Mom,’ ‘Coco,’ ‘Oscar,’ and that is it… Of course, there were various numbers from old classmates and the like, but within her circle of immediate persons to talk to, that is it. She blinks, and then shoves her face in her pillow. 

She lifts her face from the pillow, sighing. She knows she should trust her mom, but this is a feeling she knows she cannot deny. Even if it is just her who can sense it, so be it. This must be a mission only she as the cat witch can handle. The world is out of balance, something isn’t right. Mochi doesn’t know what it is, but she can feel it. She looks at Pom, who tilts her head, sensing her uncertainty. Something — something is missing… but what? ‘Him!’ A voice flashes in her mind, and her body jolts up at the strange voice calling out to her. Someone is missing? But she doesn’t know who ‘him’ is…

Her eyes glance over at her alarm clock, it’s 6:30. Dinner should be ready. Mochi slowly tumbles out of bed, a headache growing behind her eyes. The frustration is beginning to burn with every blink, maybe she really is just tired? No, that isn’t it. And she knows it. 

The natural forces are affecting her; the essences and spirits are trying to let her know what is amiss. And her body is too immature to take it all in at once. She takes her seat at the table, her mother preparing dinner and setting it down. They spend the entirety of the meal talking about Tiramisu’s plans for both of them tomorrow; her mother will be headed to the inner capitol for a day or two due to restocking on certain ingredients, and Mochi will be traveling to the other side of town to make the delivery. 

Mochi quietly eats her portion of dinner, not a lot as her appetite wanes in the anxiety and uncertainty, and excuses herself to an early retirement for the night. She takes a bath in silence, her face gently bobbing above the waterline as she watches the steam rise to the ceiling. She dries herself, blow-dries her hair, lotions her body, and slips a big t-shirt on. She curls up into a ball into bed, Pom following suit after she turns the light off. 

“You know I can tell something weighs on your mind,” Pom says in the darkness, with Mochi’s back facing her. 

“Mhmm.. mmm… mmhpphm…!” Mochi mumbles into her pillow, deliberately groaning to herself in self-pity. 

“Hah?!” Pom yaps at her. 

At that moment, Mochi springs up, turning to look down at her cat familiar. “I said, do you think it’s possible to forget something, and not be able to know what it is?!” 

“Cannot say I do, is that not the whole point about forgetting? Being unable to recall it?”

The witch takes a breath, calming down. “Yeah, I would suppose you’re right. But I just can’t shake like I’m forgetting something really big, or like there’s something missing. Do you think I left something at the shop?” 

“No, I saw you look around anyhow. If you are that worried, just do one of the reminder spells, we can grab the stuff you need tomorrow.” 

Taking Pom’s suggestion to heart, Mochi relaxes. “Y-Yeah! You’re right, I don’t know why I’m getting so worked up! We’ll just get the ingredients tomorrow, and then I’ll have an answer for sure.” 

Laying back down, she stares at the ceiling. Tomorrow will be better. They have a delivery, when she drops the delivery off, she can pick up the ingredients she needs since they’re common items anyway. She loosens up a little more, closing her eyes. She likes when she has deliveries on the other side of town, more walking; it means she’ll have to take the route on the outskirts of town to get there. 

Tomorrow will be better. 

And boy, is she wrong about that. 

The next morning starts off nothing short of normal. Her mother has already up and left for the capitol, and Mochi eats breakfast with Pom. She grabs her bag off the couch where she put it yesterday, and retrieves the parcel Tiramisu prepared the night before for delivery. Slipping her shoes on, she’s ready to make her way through town to deliver this package. Pom follows at her heels as she locks the door behind her and begins making her way through the streets. It’s quite a long walk, approximately 1 hour to reach the destination, but she thinks she could use the exercise anyway. These are the moments she wishes her mother would allow her to use her broom, but it’s bright out. 

About fifteen minutes into it, she arrives at the outskirts of town to reach the route which will take her straight there. And right before she reaches it, as she walks down a narrow path through some buildings, white fabric flashes into her eyesight. Exactly what her mother told her the evening before to be aware of. An officer from the M34TH. Immediately, her heart starts racing, as this tall individual has caught sight of her as well. She barely has time to react and think before her body moves on its own, she turns and starts running away with Pom ahead of her. 

Tears well in the corners of her eyes as she runs away from him, she doesn’t dare turn back to look at him, but she can feel him on her heels. He’s close. Gasping for air, all she needs is to make it out of this narrow alleyway and she’ll be amongst other throngs of people. No way he can catch her then. Just feet before she hits a main road, she entertains the idea of turning her head back for a second. 

And she regrets this. 

Instantaneously, her eyes are met with green irises staring back into hers, she’s been overtaken already. He has grabbed her and gently forces her against the wall of the alley, it’s quiet as both of them pant. She finally takes a good look at the officer, his bright green eyes, as lush and colorful as the new spring leaves of a dogwood, piercing into her gaze, with short orange hair underneath his cap. Air catches in her throat, her mind doesn’t want to admit it, but her heart already has by the way it skips. He’s extremely handsome, a little too handsome to be on the wrong side. 

His large hands hold onto both sides of her arms, almost squeezing her together as his tall body bends over her, looking down. He isn’t looking at her with hostility, in fact, something about his stare is dripping with affection just like the sweat on his temple. And as if the sudden sprints and attack on her heart from physical charms haven’t been enough, the words that come out of his mouth almost send her spiraling. 

“Mochi, why would you run from me?” He breathes heavily, speaking all too familiarly with her. 

Her pink eyes go wide, her eyebrows rising in surprise and alert. He knows her name? Just how much information does the M34TH have on her already? Instantly, she goes into panic mode, terrified of the man before, no matter how gorgeous he is. Now she really wishes she had her broom. She turns her head slightly to the side, to see Pom looking at her cautiously. 

“Moch? Are you going to answer me?” The officer asks again, this time almost frantic undertones in his voice. 

The cat witch thinks carefully for a moment, about whether or not to answer him. Right now, she’s looking at him as if he has three heads, and is curious if a tail is about to sprout from his rear end in a moment from the way he’s addressing her so intimately. Her lips press into a thin line and air exhales from her nose. In a swift motion, she shakes his grip off her and he fumbles a little back. Huh, she thinks, he’s not that strong after all. 

Which is false. Truly, the officer hadn’t been holding her down against her will, or very tightly at all; it’s his last intention to harm her — unbeknownst to the witch, of course. He now stands a step or two from Mochi, his face contorted in frustration. 

“Are you joking around with me right now? Come on Moch, it’s me, Lime,” he says, the curve of his mouth turning downward. Something about his sudden burst of despondency feels genuine and tugs at her heart. 

“I-I don’t know anyone named Lime,” she finally answers him, turning her face towards the ground and stepping further away from him. 

With her moving away from him, he steps towards her, a hand reaching for hers, which she reflexively pulls away. “Mochi, we grew up together, we went to school together, we’re best friends, we… love each other,” Lime pleads with her, his words spilling out of his mouth like he’s trying to conjure up his own spell. 

“I’m sorry, I think you must have me mistaken for another Mochi,” the brunette asserts, her shoe dragging backwards, attempting to further the distance between them some more. 

“There’s no way you forgot me,” he turns his head up, regaining confidence and talking himself through it. “Yeah, some weird thing happened again, I don’t know how but I just woke up on the outskirts of town, and now that I’ve finally found you, I’m sure you must’ve just messed around with some magic a little too much and you’ve forgotten me somehow.” 

Forgot. 

Hearing his voice say the word ‘forgot’ is like lightning striking. For a second, she looks at him, clear as day. Her? Forget this man? Strange, her eyes observe him from the foot to the top of his head, but nothing about his visage sparks a memory. Strange, she continues to think, as his voice, his presence, something about him feels like a memory. Like she really has known him her whole life, and she could be forgetting—

“Don’t let him trick you, cat witch,” Pom breaks into her thoughts, sensing her student letting her walls down around this officer. “He may be beguiling you with some M34TH gadget we cannot see!” 

Immediately Mochi puts her guard back up, hesitantly furrowing her eyebrows back at him. Pom isn’t wrong, that could totally be the case; but something inside her just wants to believe him. 

“Oh, for the love of—!” he groans to himself. “Pom, I know you don’t like me, but you know I would never hurt Mochi!” 

Pom circles around him, her tail wiggling as she sizes him up and her snout crinkling at his scent. After a solid moment, she returns to Mochi’s feet, standing in between them. “I do not know any M34TH officers acquainted with my student, but you are quite a strange human… You smell different.” 

“Different, Pom?” Mochi asks, crouching down to her. The black cat nods her head, and then scratches the back of her ear with her hind leg. 

“Yes, almost like he is not from here.” 

Lime sighs in exasperation, his shoulders weeping. “I grew up here, I know this place like the back of my hand, just like the way I know you, Mochi.” 

For some reason, his assertion picks at her, and she finds herself frustrated, standing up to face him at eye level. “And just what does someone like you know about me? I would have never tangled myself up with the likes of the M34TH!” 

“I know you struggled with school, you hated it because it was hard to balance with becoming a witch at sixteen, I know where you live because I lived across the street from you, I know you lost your powers at one point in high school due to your nasty aunt, I know you overthink things and worry too much, I know you’ll only drink coffee with a shit ton of sugar in it, just like I know a million other little things about you,” he says in one breath, panting and smirking like he’s just proved a point. 

However, it has the opposite effect. Mochi begins recoiling, hugging herself and evidently creeped out by the amount of information this man has on her. But at the same time, he continues to speak about her and to her as if they really have known each other all this time… what if, just maybe…? 

“Compose yourselves,” Pom speaks, raising a paw. “I wasn’t done talking. I did not mean you were not from this town, but rather, this world. It could be very likely you belong to another dimension, and some forces of magic have to do with it—” 

“That’s not possible,” Lime cuts in. “I have incredibly high magic resistance, the highest in the regiment. You would need to be ridiculously powerful to have an effect on me.” 

Pom then looks at Mochi, who turns her head down. “If what you say is true, then look no further. The witch right here is more than capable of sending you back to your original world. Although I find it hard to believe my student in another realm would befriend the likes of you.” 

The cat witch stands there, looking at Pom, and then the officer. It truly sounds as if Pom also believes he isn’t from here, and the way he speaks really makes it sound as if they were friends. Another thought strikes her. Didn’t he previously say ‘love’? He and this other Mochi were lovers?! Heat rushes to her face, daring to entertain the idea. In her 21 years of life, she has never fallen in love with anyone. And this man, no less an officer from the M34TH, is apparently her beloved in another realm?

“Well, no use in trying to think about it more,” Pom continues talking. “Cat witch, take out your notebook and pen, we should write down the direct coordinates where he fell into the plane of existence. You — do you remember exactly where you awoke?” 

Mochi allows a strap from her bag to fall off her shoulder, scrambling to grab her book and pen. She shuffles over to Lime, her hands moving all about to open the book to a blank page, where she suddenly grasps onto her pen a little too tight and presses the tip into the paper a little too deeply, breaking the pen and squirting ink. 

All over Lime. 

The tall officer in white abruptly jumps, looking down at himself in disarray. A brief “oh no,” releases from Mochi’s lips as she gawks at his mess of an outfit. Pom looks away and shakes her head at the scene. And that is how the odd trio ended up returning to Mochi’s home, to allow him to clean up himself. It’s fine, the witch thinks to herself as she places her bag back onto the couch, the delivery isn’t anticipated until later in the afternoon at the latest, and this gives her and Pom some time to write up a game plan. 

A very, very strange quest has unfolded right before her, and she feels a responsibility to this ‘Lime’ knowing that another Mochi once dearly loved him. If it is true that another her loved him, she trusts herself… kind of. She tilts her head, her thoughts stopping her in her tracks. Such an odd conversation she continues to ponder, imagining another universe out there with another her. And somehow, she fell in love with an officer from the M34TH. As she works through this conceptual situation in her mind, she hands a towel to Lime, asking him to leave his top outside the door while he showers. 

There’s a quick potion she has handy in a cabinet that will take the stains right out and fix his clothes right up. After she removes the stains, she notices it is noon and feels a grumble in her stomach. So she heads to the kitchen to whip up lunch. She silently goes into her zone as she chops an onion on the cutting board, not realizing that Lime has finished up and… exited the bathroom shirtless. 

He stands there, his arm reaching for the top of the doorway, his temple touching the wood as he smirks in Mochi’s direction with beads of water trailing down his body. “Hmmm,” he hums, catching her attention. 

When her pink eyes notice him, pecs and all, her face immediately blushes a crimson hue, having never eyed a man’s body so closely and intimately before. She does not say anything as he stalks towards her, his shirt dragging in one of his hands. Mochi turns back to the cutting board on the counter, reciting in her head ‘focus Mochi, focus,’ as she chops up the onion. This, she instantly regrets, as Lime comes up from behind her, placing a hand beside hers on the counter. 

“Oooh, food — smells good like always,” he says gently to her, his breath hot in her ear. She carries on with the knife, trying with everything in her body to not cut herself in a fluster. 

“I-If you don’t mind,” she finally retorts. “Could you please back away? I’m trying to prepare lunch.” 

She hears a husky chuckle release from Lime’s mouth, where he responds instantly. “How about no? How about Mochi harassment hour!” 

At which he grabs at the choker on her neck, that he knows is sensitive, and laughs wholeheartedly. However, this does not amuse Mochi, who instead feels somewhat violated by this stranger, but at the same time self-conscious regarding all the insinuations. So, she pushes him away in a huff. 

“I don’t know anything called Mochi harassment hour! I’m not your Mochi, do you understand? So please just put a shirt on, and we can eat lunch and I can gather what I need to send you back!” She exclaims in one breath, her shoulders bobbing up and down in agitation. 

In the next moment, she realizes what she has done. That isn’t like her at all. Her eyebrows immediately release in remorse, her opalescent eyes turning to the side. Quietly, she turns back around, returning to the task she has at hand. Lime, on the other hand, is equally frustrated and dejected. But, what he has to say surprises her. 

“In the event you’re unable to send me back, I swear I’ll make you fall in love with me again, Moch,” he states, his voice low and serious. 

A second passes, and she hears him silently slip out of the home and out the door. She assumes he’s going out for some air, he seems like the type to need that after a confrontation like that. After she hears the door close all the way, she drops the knife from her hand and covers her cheeks with her palms. What on earth was that? She thinks to herself, her face burning a bright red, her heart pounding at the proximity they shared. No man has ever touched her neck before, no man has ever been so close to her skin before… 

Make her fall in love with him… again?! And he sounds so confident, it’s almost disgustingly… charming. He’s so charming, and something about his presence does something to her. She cannot explain it, but she is naturally drawn to him, wanting to stick around him. And she just met him this morning. Yet, everything inside her is betraying her heritage as a witch. She’s been stuck on this question: how on earth did other Mochi fall in love with an officer from the M34TH? 

She clenches a fist in front of the stove, finally understanding how. Because it seems, even in other dimensions, they are inexplicably drawn to one another. 

In all her life, no one has ever inspired such feelings in her. And all of a sudden, her self-proclaimed lover from another world has spun her out of her wits. She now also begins to doubt herself again, what if she isn’t able to send him back? What if she isn’t as strong as she and Pom think she is, and he really is too resistant to magic? What if, in the most ridiculous possible thought to entertain, she is okay with him being stuck here? 

Minutes pass as she sets the table with dinnerware and Lime serendipitously returns into the home, sitting at the table as if he’s done it a million times before. They eat their meal in silence, until the very end, where Lime breaks the quietude by acting normal and teasing her, as if nothing happened 20 minutes ago.  After lunch, Pom and Mochi re-set out for the delivery, their party of two now a party of an unexpected three. 

They make their way through town without hazard, and as they trek closer and closer to their destination, Lime complains like a child dragging his feet. 

“It’s not that big of a deal, I’m sure there’s some spell that will reverse everything and you’ll remember me again,” he says, waving an arm up in the air. 

“That’s kind of hard to do, if you never existed in the first place,” Pom answers, to which Lime narrows his eyes indignantly. 

“I’m sure if I were to remember you, I probably would have by now,” Mochi mumbles to herself, thinking a little deeper about the situation. Truly, could she have ever forgotten someone like him if they really had met in this world? She thinks not. 

“Besides,” Mochi brightens up her voice, smiling at Lime. “The person we’re delivering to will be able to give us some good advice! They’re quite knowledgeable about the magic world.” 

An eyebrow of Lime’s raises in curiosity as they walk deeper into the streets, coming to a part of town that is eerily familiar to him. Immediately, they overhear an older woman admonishing someone, a whizzing sound through the air as her long, oaken staff comes into view while she swings it. 

“No, no, not like that you heathen!” The small, short, yet absurdly agile, old woman chastises her apprentice, who shrugs his shoulders with a care-free grin. 

The young M34TH officer’s expression immediately perks up on sight of the apprentice, rushing over to him with a smile. This startles Mochi and Pom, who stand idly by to watch the moment unfold. 

“Well what do you know, it’s Oscar!” Lime rushes over to him, ready to put an arm around him for a noogie. Just like earlier when he reached for Mochi’s hand, Oscar reflexively moves away, unsettled by a M34TH officer suddenly acting like he knows him. As Oscar moves away, his cape swishes to the side, revealing both of his arms. “Woah, you’ve still got both your arms, too!” 

“What — What the heck Mochi, who the hell is this guy?” Oscar asks nonplussed, his hands grabbing onto their opposing arms and holding them against his body. As if reliving this morning, but replacing Mochi with Oscar, the brunette steps further away from Lime, eyeing him in suspicion. 

“H-Hold up there, Oscar,” Mochi steps in, putting herself between them. “This is… Lime. Pom thinks he’s from another universe, one where he and I grew up together, and I guess, apparently you too by the way he’s talking to you.” 

For a minute, Oscar looks Lime up and down and then brings his gaze back to Mochi, his head tilting to the side in disbelief. “Are you sure?” the brunette muses, his voice slightly lower in volume as he speaks to the cat witch. 

“Oh, he’s certainly not your average, crusty, old officer! That’s guaranteed,” the elderly woman cuts in, waving her staff. “Quite a strange thing happened to you, huh?” 

She stops herself in front of Lime, her circular glasses flashing as she looks up at him from the height of his knees. Her staff stands right next to her, its golden bauble dangling from the top which Lime can see his own reflection. 

“You’re tellin’ me, lady,” Lime agrees with her, his expression blank and his lips pressed into a line. 

“You can tell, too, Madam Springs?” Mochi asks her, a little relief resounding in her tone. 

Madam Springs then turns to Mochi, looking up at her face in consternation. “You can sniff him out already? My, the power of the cat is utterly terrifying all right.” 

“Oh no, Pom was the one who noticed it! I had no clue at all,” she renounces the woman’s statement, shaking her head. 

“Ah, I see,” Madam Springs replies, growing quiet. “Well! Good luck with that.” 

And she starts waddling away. 

“W-Wait! Madam Springs, I was hoping to ask for your expertise on the matter!” Mochi moves to stand in front of her, her expressions pleading with the woman. “And besides, we have your order! Don’t you need this?” 

With that, Mochi pulls a small parcel from her bag, handing it over to Madam Springs. The short lady glances at it, takes it from her hand, and then throws it over her shoulder in Oscar’s direction. Oscar, acting as if this is nothing new, immediately rushes forward to catch the package in time. 

“Expertise? What would I know about some kid who jumped through dimensions or whatever?” Her oaken staff waves in the air again, trying to pass off the witch. 

“I mean, you have lived a long time, there’s gotta be something you know,” Oscar slips in, shrugging his shoulders. 

Her head instantaneously whips around, glaring at him. “Why you—!” 

And while the old woman swings her stick with all her might in Oscar’s direction, with Mochi attempting to deescalate the situation, Lime stands off to the side, watching. As if he’s not even present, everyone argues about him, his circumstances, and all he can feel is… loneliness. It’s as if Mochi has disappeared all over again — although she’s right in front of him — and he can’t contribute anything to help. 

His gloved hand grips at the fabric forming a fist, a squeak sounding from the material rubbing so hard. But it’s like a drop in the ocean, again, with no one to notice. Not even Mochi. He senses himself growing frustrated, because being helpless is the last thing he ever wants to feel. This world isn’t his? These people in front of him aren’t his? No one remembers or knows him? He never thought he would see the day when Lime Goldwood became… irrelevant and unknown. And that’s not to say with an arrogant air — it’s just that he’s always been… someone. 

And now he is no one. 

His green eyes flash over the cat witch again. What if he’s unable to go back? He would have to start all over again with Mochi. How could he make her love him again? Make her? No, he shakes his head in disgust of himself. Mochi isn’t someone to be won or made to do something. She comes to her own decisions, has her own preferences, is her own person — that’s the reason why he fell for her in the first place. 

While he’s thinking to himself, the rest have calmed down and begun discussing the situation at hand. Madam Springs contemplates on the problem aloud, humming to herself intently. 

“I’ll say you have your work cut out for you,” the woman says to Mochi. “He’s a tough one, a black canvas. You’ll be needing a lot of stamina to send him back.” 

“But it is doable?” the witch asks. 

“Well sure, but like I said, lots of stamina.” 

Mochi looks at Lime, and then at Pom. But Pom stares back, her expression unnerving and straight. Mochi knows exactly what that means, and it means Pom’s leaving the decision up to her. She makes the choice about sending Lime back, and that’s if she can. He’s a black canvas, she’s never tried magic on someone like that before. 

Her eyes return to Lime, who’s gazing back somberly. She doesn’t know why, but she senses a great deal of uncertainty in him; and she doesn’t blame him one bit. The idea has been hard for her to grasp — well, not so much really, since she is a witch — but more difficult to come to terms with this man being someone she loves in another timeline. If she herself had been thrown through a dimension, into a world just like the one she grew up in, only to find no one she cares for remembers her, much less the person she’s in love with, well… 

Safe to say, she breaks her own heart thinking about it. 

And she admires him for a long second, because he has the mind and strength to deal with it far more confidently than her. In the soft silence, with murmurs of passersbys and distant car noises, she nods at both Pom and Lime. It’s the right thing to send him back; it’s her duty as the cat witch to restore balance. 

They say their farewells to Oscar and Madam Springs — who wish them good luck on their endeavors to send Lime back — and tread their way back to her home. As they walk back, Pom advises Mochi to rest for the night, so that tomorrow morning her strength will be optimal to cast the spell. Approaching the house, dusk has already begun to scatter across the sky in hues of lilacs and roses from the setting sun. It has been a long day, indeed. 

Mochi’s heart feels worn out, as she watches Pom head inside. Lime lingers behind her, he’s been eerily quiet the entire route home, and she’s not too sure if it’s because he’s hungry or what. Perhaps she should start dinner soon—

“Moch,” he starts earnestly, breaking into her thoughts. “Will you be okay tomorrow? I don’t… I don’t want you to send me back, if you’re at risk for being hurt.” 

His concern startles her, and then she eases into it quickly, as she done with all the feelings he’s flung at her today, as if they’ve been doing it for years. Of course he’s worried about the person he most fervently loves. 

And that’s her. 

But not her at the same time. She has to remind herself. 

Gently, she shakes her head, her hair bouncing in the movement and a small smile of reassurance across her lips. “I wouldn’t have agreed if I couldn’t do it, besides you—” she stops herself for a moment, unsure if she should finish. She’s not trying to hurt feelings, whether or not they’re his or hers; at this point she doesn’t know whose she's hurting. “You don’t belong here, Lime. This isn’t the world you were born in, this isn’t your world.” 

“Any world with you in it is my world,” he replies, steadfast and sincere. 

She feels a hiccup in her heart, a flutter in her chest, an unspeakable response to the waxing poetic he spouts at her like it’s nothing. She’s left speechless as the sun finally rolls down, leaving them in the glimmer of the streetlamp overhead. A faint gust brushes by their ankles, her face beating red, his green eyes unwavering. 

“No matter the time, dimension, world, or realm—”

He steps closer, the streetlight shining over his face. There’s something in the air, some kind of chill, making the hair on the back of her neck stand. And it’s like there’s a hand over her heart, gripping it intensely, deftly, as he confesses to her how much he loves her. 

“I’ve always been yours, Moch.” 

Goosebumps fleck across her body. Her heart beats rapidly and her cheeks burn. Summer’s supposed to end this month, the heat’s to blame. It’s confusing her, how it’s cold in the morning and hot in the afternoons. It’s not… him. It’s not. To do right by her role, to do right by her birth, she must send him back. 

“I have to do it,” she breathes out, her eyes growing red. 

His gaze softens on her, stepping closer and bending down. His fingers gingerly and tenderly tilt her chin up at him, and he does exactly what she has feared the most to experience. 

They kiss. 

It’s affectionate, delicate, and bittersweet. It's warm and impossible to take in. It's rough but kind. It's slow, but not slow enough. It’s everything she’s wished for and wanted, yet not at the same time. He slowly pulls away, giving her a loving and emotional smile. 

“I know,” is all he says in a low cadence. He walks inside the home, leaving her at the front of the house. Night has fully fallen by now, and she is alone with the stars and space. He’s shaken her resolve, he’s shaken her whole world. Her eyes flicker up to the sky, asking the universe for an answer she knows she won’t receive. 

Tonight is a full moon. The perfect night for a witch to rest. 

Somehow, Mochi is able to lull herself to sleep that evening. Perhaps it is the heavy weight of responsibility on her shoulders, or the slim chance she messes up the spell; but she knows how paramount it is for her to receive her rest. It is a still night. 

When dawn breaks, she awakes with a serious expression, looking out her window at the pale orange sky and seeing the sun in the horizon. It is time. She leaves her bed and readies herself for the day, meeting Pom and Lime at the bottom of the stairs. He’s quiet, Pom’s quiet. They head down to the basement to prepare for the spell. Since it’s a type of transportive spell, she needs to draw a circle with Lime standing in the middle. She uses her white chalk sparingly, the scratch noises screeching as she etches into the ground. 

After writing the last sigil, she wipes her nose with the back of her hand and stands back to read her work. She has to make sure all the proper markings are there. Afterwards, she takes a deep breath. Mochi turns to Lime. 

“It’s ready, can you stand in the middle?” she asks him, almost hesitantly. 

He nods his head and struts over to the middle of the circle. She initiates muttering the incantations, and suddenly gales begin to rise and twist around them; the sigils on the ground start to glow and shine brighter as she continues speaking. Mochi can feel the magic begin to drain from her body — it’s not something so simple as time travel — time travel is against the witches’ laws. This spell is about sending someone to another dimension. Something almost unfathomable to Mochi. This is an entirely too powerful spell to cast. 

But she has to. For both of their sakes. 

Lime can see the distress surfacing in her face; his brows knit in worry and his lips are pressed into a line in heartache. He clenches his fist, he holds down his tongue until he can’t anymore. 

“Mochi, please, remember, you don’t have to do this if it hurts you,” he entreats her, a pained smile across his mouth. He’s trying to reassure her, it simply doesn’t matter to him. They could be apart in universes, galaxies, dimensions — but he would always find her. Even if she didn’t remember him. And Mochi realizes this. And his words cut like a knife on her heart, because more than anything, she’s come to terms with their undeniable connection. 

She almost takes everything back in that very instant; but in a swift second she knows. She knows it’s time. He’s not her Lime, and she’s not his Mochi. She smiles to herself with her eyelids welling up, the winds and forces sweeping up around her and Lime — almost becoming a violent tornado with the two of them at the center — his green iridescent eyes staring back into her fiery pink gaze. That’s a lie. No matter where, no matter when, just as he said last night, he’d always be hers and she would always be his. 

For once, she’s jealous of herself. 

“Goodbye, Lime.” 

It all fades to black. 

…

…

…

The bell rings. Her long, brown hair bounces as her body turns around from behind the counter. She smiles as she sees him standing in the doorframe, an all too commonplace smirk spread across his mouth. 

“Come on, Moch,” he tilts his head with a husky plea. “It’s almost dinnertime and I’m starving.” 

“All right, all right, let me grab my things,” she answers, quickly grabbing her bag and Pom following at her heels. As she heads to meet him at the door, she turns around, looking about the store. A moment passes, she breathes out. 

“What’s up?” Lime asks, an eyebrow raising in curiosity. 

She turns back to him, her cheeks tint rose-colored. “Nothing,” she starts, heading out the door and naturally taking the tall officer’s hand into hers. “There’s nothing wrong at all.” 

Almost every day, without fail, he comes in at the same time for the same drink. He’s typically in a rush, he’s frustrated or angry about something. The red-haired barista thinks to himself, he’s never once seen him in a good mood. 8:00 AM is the typical morning rush for the café as everyone is preparing to head to their 9-5’s so of course it would be crowded with a long line. But he always placed a mobile order, and that way, he could cut the line and just pick up his order. Sylvain smirked peeping up at the clock, it was 7:58 and he would pop in through that door any minute and walk up to the counter for his drink. 

The ticket for his drink had arrived a few minutes earlier, and as per usual, Sylvain was in charge of that end of the counter. A large black americano with an extra shot of espresso. It smelled heavenly when put together, but the barista knew more than that. The extra shot of espresso made it taste like black tar in his humble opinion – but what did he know? Funnily enough, in his occupation, he didn’t care much for coffee. He was much more of a tea kind of guy. 

However, for some reason, this morning was more packed than normal. They found themselves rushed, switching out grinds and foaming milk with more pace. In the literal heat and steam of the moment, Sylvain hadn’t realized his unacknowledged favorite regular had already popped in and was waiting at the counter. His cheeks flushed as he watched the businessman in front of him frown, his brows knotted in irritation. Whenever he came in, he always looked pissed, but today it was an exceptionally sharp expression. 

Sylvain’s hands felt buttery as he fumbled to make his drink in a flash, sloppily pressing the lid to the cup. His fingertips reached for a sleeve which he pressed open to slip the drink into. He appeared unusually self-conscious, perhaps due to the fact he could feel this customer’s piercing gaze scrutinizing his every move. His poor heart began to pound as he stepped closer and closer to the counter to set down his drink. And of course, this was all done with a bit of urgency in his step. 

So, as he approached the regular, he foolishly took his sight off the product and up to the customer, with whom he briefly locked eyes. Surprised by the sudden eye contact, Sylvain tripped over himself. And the cup? 

It went flying. 

All over the dark-haired young man, who – incidentally – happened to be wearing a lighter gray pantsuit. Thankfully, he didn’t seem burnt by the liquid, and by the shade of Sylvain’s face, one would have thought the barista was the one burned. The only words that could come out of his mouth at the moment – 

“I am so sorry,” he profusely gasped. 

Although amidst madness and rush, even his manager witnessed the assault. She rushed over to inquire after the customer’s condition, but he wouldn’t say a word. Instead, he looked at Sylvain, extremely displeased, grabbed a napkin to wipe what he could, and walked out of the café. His manager had continued to call after him, “sir! Sir!” but they received no answer as he made his exit. She returned to behind the counter, immediately resuming work but admonishing and questioning her employee. 

“Just what on earth happened with you? I didn’t hire you to have butterfingers!” She exclaimed, obviously exasperated. “I wasn’t even able to file an incident report since he wouldn’t answer me. We’re screwed if he decides to sue!” 

Sylvain remained quiet, incredibly embarrassed and internally cursing himself. He wiped up the remaining mess with a wet towel and continued his shift for the rest of the day with no more accidents. When he went home that day, he realized that it had been his first bad day at work. For the first time, since he had started over six months ago.  

“Guess there’s a first for everything,” he muttered to himself in pity. 

—

The next day, when Sylvain arrived at work, he made sure prior to clocking in that all his ducks were in a row – meaning, sleeves were rolled up tightly, shoelaces were all tied and tucked, and his apron was properly fastened. There would be no mishaps today and he would deliver the usual to the usual customer at the usual time. 

But, something strange happened, instead. 

His heart pounded as 7:55 came around and he didn’t hear the machine printing off the mobile order. He kept glancing at the clock, as each minute passed, the ticket wasn’t printing. Eventually, the clock struck 7:59 and from behind, he suddenly heard the printer. His head whipped around and he immediately reached for the order. To his dismay, it read “Md Van. OatMlk Ltt”. 

8:00 passed and there was no sign of that dark hair, some well-trimmed suit, or glossy dress shoes. There was no piercing gaze or expression of annoyance, no low “tch” that usually escaped from those lips when the regular scrolled his email on his phone. His presence was missing from behind the counter… and Sylvain noticed it. 

He hadn’t been entirely sure when he began noticing that customer, anyway. He had assumed he’d always been a patron of the café, but then he remembered he only started seeing him about four or so months ago. He was always here, on the dot, every day ordering the same drink, walking in the same way and standing there, waiting, with an existence Sylvain just couldn’t ignore. Perhaps he admired him, they seemed close in age yet here they were – Sylavin was just some twenty-something barista during the week and his regular? Well, his regular came in everyday, sleek suits, polished loafers, and a shiny wristwatch. He looked like the whole package, the whole shimmering, sparkling package. 

And that sparkly looking gentleman decidedly did not come today. The day after the red-headed barista spilled coffee all over him. If his actions had alone been responsible for losing that young man’s patronage, he couldn’t be mad at anyone except himself. As the end of his shift came around, he walked to the break room to wash his hands and remove his apron. 

The manager approached him, her long brown hair bouncing behind her. “Sylvain, you didn’t have any issues today, but I haven’t forgotten about yesterday, you know?” 

“I honestly don’t know what was up with me, besides that guy didn’t come back, so it should be all good right?” 

She sighed, stretching her arms out. “Not sure, it’s only been one day. That suit he was wearing looked awfully expensive to me.” 

Sylvain’s lips pressed into a line before responding. “You’ve always had an eye for those kinda’ things, though. My shift is over, do you need anything else from me before I go?” 

He watched as she shook her head and walked back out to be behind the counter with the other employees on shift. Lazily, he opened his locker to retrieve his other aprons. Throughout the week, at the end of his shift, he would store his dirty aprons in his locker. When Friday came around, he’d gather them all up to wash them over the weekend. For some reason, as he closed the locker, that customer popped into his mind again. 

He swore he’d never thought of another human being as much as he thought about this damned businessman. As he walked out the door of the café and continued down the block, he pulled his phone from his back pocket to check his texts and notifications in general. Nothing of much importance, he saw. It wasn’t as if he had some kind of company email that was always pinging… unlike, someone else—

“Hey.” 

A slightly husky voice he had never heard before broke into his thoughts. He turned his head up from his phone screen and looked to his right. Leaning their back against the brick wall of the nearest building, it was the very man that had been stuck on his mind all day. Sylvain stood there, a little dumbfounded and blinking unsure as to what to say. 

“I said ‘hey’,” his voice asserted once more, evidently vexed. But what the redhead couldn’t believe is what he had been seeing – that irritated, well-dressed guy that showed up everyday for a couple months, he was speaking to him! In all those times he served him coffee, he hadn’t so much as heard one word other than an exasperated sigh or click of the tongue. He was surprised, taking in what his voice really sounded like. And he liked that sound, in fact. 

“Oh, sorry,” Sylvain finally answered, a little slow to react. “Is this about yesterday?” 

“You could say that,” the dark-haired man answered. He stood there with his back leaning against the brick, a little dressed down than usual. Instead of the usual full-on suit, he just had some dress pants with a dress shirt on, no tie, top two buttons undone. His sleeves were a quarter of the way rolled up, and for some reason, Sylvain found himself eyeing his partially bare arms. 

“Are you looking for financial compensation?” Sylvain asked blatantly, clearly aware that he wouldn’t be here unless he was looking for some kind of compensation for what he did. However, in response, the man standing across from him just blinked. 

“I am fairly certain you couldn’t pay me back monetarily,” he responded back, a small scoff behind his words. “I was just wondering what kind of person you had to be in order to screw up like that, and just what you would do if I wanted to see you squirm.” 

“Why on earth would you be wondering about some barista?” 

At that moment, he stood up from leaning against the wall and walked towards Sylvain. As he came closer, Sylvain became more conscious about how he smelled of sweat and how putrid his old and dirty aprons in his arm must reek. Why was he walking up to him? Why come any closer? He suddenly stopped in front of him, only about a foot between them. 

“I’ve always been curious about you, Sylvain.” 

He knew his name? The redhead stepped back and felt blood rushing to his face. “How did you know my name?” 

The seemingly aloof gentleman in front of him rolled his eyes and pulled a business card out from his back pocket. Using the corner of the card to point to Sylvain’s chest, he locked eyes with him as he answered. 

“Your nametag, you fool.” Afterwards, he pressed the business card flat onto Sylvain’s chest, his fingers grazing his pectoral. Sylvain quickly brought his hand up to catch the card before it fell. The dark-haired man tucked his hands into his front pockets and began to walk away. Sylvain looked down at the small piece of cardstock in his hand, bewildered. 

“Felix,” he continued, introducing himself a few steps away. “Fraldarius. When you get curious, give me a call. And next week, don’t spill a shitty cup of coffee all over me.” 

Before Sylvain could answer him again, he had already walked quite a bit from him. He watched as this ‘Felix’ disappeared into the throngs of people in the streets. But somehow, he knew if he continued to watch, he would be able to spot his dark hair if he wanted to. 

Felix, huh. 

He now knew his name, something he hadn’t been expecting to learn… ever. Six months ago he was just a rookie barista, two months into it he started noticing this Felix guy coming in everyday, and yesterday he flung an americano all over him. And today, he had a business card with his number, email, and name on it. Not only did it say that personal information, it had his company and his company’s address. Sylvain felt like they were more than just strangers now, more than just strangers with one conversation shared between them. 

Then, a thought struck him. Felix had mentioned he couldn’t pay him back monetarily, did he have something else in mind?! His heart began to race again and he swallowed. Now he had another thing to worry about. It didn’t sound as if he was going to raise an issue with the café after all, but what could he – a simple barista – do for this hard-to-please suit? 

He rubbed the back of his head in grief and confusion. What was he to do…? With himself, these thoughts, and this… Felix guy? Who knew a cup of coffee could cause such anguish? 

homemade soulsilvershipping - 1000 words a/n: i am v happy to oblige... *cracks knuckles*

There was something special about the girl next door. It was cliché, really, he thought. What a trope, a stereotype, – stupid. Before she dropped in around here, like some kind of silent bomb, he was the standard, the prodigy, the golden goose. He was the chase, the destination, the top of the pedestal. And somewhere along the way, it switched. Like a blanket swept up from underneath him, he fell flat on his face. 

Cursing under his breath, it was unlike him. All of it, it was unlike him. To chase, to reach, to be beneath another. To be… underneath her. Underneath her… under her? Quite randomly, and strangely, an odd thought popped into his mind. Her… on top of him? He shook his head. Furrowed brows and eyelids fluttering in confusion, he shrugged his shoulders. 

But sometimes, out of nowhere, like the winds from Mt. Silver passing by in a flash, a chill would travel down his spine. And that sometimes only ever happened when he spotted her out randomly. In moments and places where he least expected to find her, but somehow it seemed as if she was everywhere, too. He couldn’t make much of it, or understand it, how she aggravated him so. 

The mere existence of this one girl – no, woman – turned his world upside down. His sister would often tease him about her and his grandfather would make the continual comparisons. It seemed as if this nobody girl had charmed… everybody. Even the other gym leaders had come to rely on her, asking her for assistance with errands and odd jobs. Her name was on everyone’s lips. 

“Leaf.” 

Everyone’s except his. Anytime they met, he could only cast aspersions, as if when opening his mouth he released only the most foul thoughts and disparaging words. Somehow, nobody girl had become his biggest enemy… but was he hers? Just what was he… to her? Just what was anyone to her? 

The more he thought of her, the more he became confused. She was almost expressionless at all times outside of battling. The drive, ambition, achievements – they didn’t just come from nowhere! The puny girl who lived next door became the biggest figure in Kanto, the girl who’s skirt he’d kick dirt onto, the girl who used to come crying to him. But what changed? He swore, it was as if one day a switch flipped, and they had become worst enemies. 

Was there a certain word he said that went too far one time? Back then, he realized he was only at the top… because she made him feel that way. The way she used to wait outside his front door in the early summer mornings, for them to explore Viridian forest together. The way she lit up hearing about Viridian’s annual spring festivals, and how she couldn’t wait until they were old enough to go together… Speaking of which, they never did end up going together once they grew up. 

As he strolled by the water in Vermillion, he kicked a pebble into the ocean. Hearing wingulls squawk and the waves crashing, it wasn’t enough noise to distract him. What was all of this grief and frustration he felt? Where did it come from? The countless times he had lost to her? The relationship they used to have that he didn’t realize he mourned? 

And strangely, in that moment, as if fate and Mt. Silver’s gale brushing against his back again, she popped into his eye’s view from across the pier. He could see her, walking side by side with the Vermillion gym leader. Green huffed to himself in distaste, “Everyone knows he’s only about brawn.” 

Just then, as he said that, what he saw was unmistakable. A small smile appeared on her mouth, with a slight opening for a chuckle to escape. 

She laughed?!

For some reason, this odd sensation boiled up inside him and he ran throughout the pier to make it to the other side. It did not matter whatever it was they spoke of, he had to be in between them – er, it – he had to be in between it and be a part of it. As he ran up to her and the gym leader, they stopped in surprise at his arrival and his state of somewhat disarray. 

“Why, Green!” Lt. Surge thunderously laughed. “What brought you about here?” 

The young man from Pallet Town cleared his throat before answering. “I was… just around! …” He glanced from side to side looking for an excuse to pull Leaf away. “I needed to ask Leaf to take care of something.” 

“Ask? Me?” She suddenly piped in, her voice low. “You never have asked me for anything other than a battle.” 

He batted his eyes, baffled and stumped for an answer. She made a great point there, quite often enough they were at odds with each other and he would be the last person alive in Kanto to ask something of her. He clenched his jaw, feeling heat on the back of his neck. Without saying another word, he used his head to gesture to her to walk away with him. Tilting his head to the right and looking everywhere but at her, she blinked when she caught on. 

She quickly thanked Vermillion’s gym leader for his time and walked away in whatever direction Green had wanted. Now that he finally had her, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. For starters, he hadn’t planned to pull her away, or even be with her at all – when he came to Vermillion it had been to shake her from his mind… and now here she was. 

They continued to walk alongside the pier’s edge for a while, in silence. Neither said anything, not that he expected her to, she was not exactly the chatty chatot. But after a while, without a noise from either of them but the water and the wind, she had to say something.

“Green?” 

That was it. It was all she said. That was all she had to say? Just his crummy old name? Nothing else? Nothing like, I miss you? Nothing like, what happened to us? He bit his lip, and in that moment, she saw him make a face she had never seen before. Eyes full of forlorn and longing, eyes full of hunger – but a hunger she was unfamiliar with. 

“Why are we like this?” He finally asked, the sun slowly starting to set on the water’s horizon. 

Leaf’s eyebrows only furrowed in confusion, unable to understand what he meant. 

“Why…” He continued, “Why does it seem like… I resent you and you could care less for me? When did we become like this? When did we stop being us?” 

The young champion standing in front of him swallowed and looked to the side. “We wanted the same thing… It’s that simple. We couldn’t both become the champion.” 

“So you’re saying I lost you because of something so childish?” 

His sentence caught her off guard. Wasn’t becoming champion everything to him? Everything to both of them? It’s why she trained so hard, why he could only call her ridiculous things, why… they weren’t friends anymore. 

“You’re right,” he carried on, almost as if speaking to the ocean. “I wanted to be champion, but I also wanted more than that, I wanted things to stay the same between us, and it seemed like… only I was the only one who wanted that.” 

At that moment, she turned towards the water and bent down to hug her knees. She watched the horizon, the sun painting everything in sight a bright and deep orange. “What could be done about it? When one of us got what the other wanted, of course we would never be the same again.” 

“Who said that?” Again, his words surprised her. “Was it me? And my pride? Or was it you and that mute way you can’t express yourself? Who told us to leave the other behind?” 

She could not answer him. Somewhere, along the way, the training, the pressure to excel – the rivalry; they succumbed to the negativity and the bitterness. A relationship that they both held so close and dearly, they held it too tightly, and when one holds too tightly… it is said one kills it. 

“Are you trying to say something? You wish to be friends again?” 

He felt like screaming at the ocean again. How could she be so oblivious to his feelings? Of course that was what he wanted. To be close, to explore together, to finally go to that damn spring festival in Viridian. In that very second, he felt like storming off and leaving her without resolving anything. And he started to. He took a couple steps off, leaving her sitting there staring at the water. He also knew, if he did, she would not think anything of it. And that was another thing he hated so deeply, how she would just leave things as is. 

Green stopped in his tracks, his back to her, and turned around to walk back. As he stopped beside her, looking down at her and her looking up at him, she finally said something. 

“I thought you were leaving?” She said blankly. 

“I forgot something,” he said, the back of his neck burning up. 

“What?” Leaf questioned. 

He extended his hand out to her, and unconsciously, as if they were children again running amongst the leaves in Viridian forest, she grabbed his arm to help her up. 

His heart wouldn’t stop racing. His hands were sweating, and every time he caught them sweaty, he’d wipe them on his pants. He’d think to himself ‘that’s gross,’ he wouldn’t dare touch her with hands like that. 

But he was going to. 

They had planned it for this evening. And this evening started to come sooner, and sooner. The agreed upon time seemed to travel quickly, it would be here any minute. He kept fidgeting, shaking, nervous. All of it felt wrong to him – the way it was going to transpire, but every time they kissed in the past, he could feel himself wanting more. And finally, with his voice shaking and his cheeks the same color of her name, he told her. 

“R-Rosa,” he panted and swallowed. He wiped his hands again. They just wouldn’t stop being wet. Wet.

She smiled back at him, as she pulled away from his face after their kiss. The girl knew exactly what he had been thinking about; he was the most transparent person she’d ever met. He never thought much about performing in front of thousands, nor did he feel an ounce of anxiety whenever he conducted interviews. 

But when it was just the two of them, he melted. 

Curtis would become absolutely malleable, and he wanted to mold himself to her. The Unova champion was flattered, and although she had also changed the fate of her region, even she, too, would become nervous around him. After all, they would both be each other’s firsts. In the funniest, strangest, loveliest sensations they’ve stirred in the other, she wanted to experience it all with him. 

Softly, she dragged her hand over to his, picking it up. “W-What’s up… Rosa?” He continued to ask, somewhat flustered. 

“Shh,” she gently responded, with a sugary smile. She batted her eyes at him, bringing his hand to her chest. He gulped, his hands and arms still shaking. He had never, absolutely never, touched a girl in such a way… but he wanted to grasp. Rosa arched his hand along with hers over her breast, as she brought herself closer to him. 

Without having to cue him, he began to tenderly kiss her… and then kiss her deeply. As their tongues slipped into each other’s mouths, Curtis summoned a little more courage and brought his other free hand to her hip. Slowly, carefully, he snuck his fingertips underneath the hem of her shirt. 

As his hand traveled to her bare waist, she released her hand atop his on her chest and used her hands to fumble against his buttons on his pants. They kissed more deeply, more passionately, colliding into the other. He felt the nervousness disappear and the desire grow. At that moment, he removed her hands from his pants and undid the buttons and zipper himself. 

He said, “We’re no longer kids, Moch.” 

He said this, after breaking the news. Like a crystal ball dropped to the ground, shattering into a million pieces – those pieces being the words laid across the floor – sharp, deadly to the touch, drawing a line between them. She wasn’t quite too sure what to say in reply and as she struggled to find the words, her voice faltered and his expression remained the same. 

The tip of his sneaker toed the ground as his head hung down. He was waiting for a response. And a response, he didn’t receive. After a couple minutes painstakingly passed, he rubbed the back of his neck in frustration and sighed. His frustration was not with her, no – he could never find fault with her. His anger and discontent lay solely with the situation as it was not his ideal. It was not his ideal… but it was his answer. 

She watched as he turned his back to her and walked away. The moment he left her line of sight, he wouldn’t be the same person she knew. The same person she loved. In the worst way, he was off to become someone she could not trust, quite possibly her enemy. In the easiest way, as she told herself to ease her aching heart, he would return to her. It was fine, anyway, because she had decided her own path as well – without telling him in the first place. 

But when she turned her back to his, her heart began to ache. When would they see each other again? The young witch had been sure, very sure, when she returned, he would be there waiting. Time had progressed for her on her own journey, a metamorphosis through magic and growth. And when she returned, he wasn’t there waiting, like she had thought. As she wandered with her eyes glancing around for a glimpse of his orange hair, she found no such thing. 

Perhaps, he could really change too, after all. 

Days began to pass. She worked harder on her spells and her beloved familiar purred with praise and pride. Days turned into months and her mother said she could have more responsibility with the cafe. She spent more time learning about something called ‘FIFO’ for the stock in the back. Months turned into what felt like an eternity and her hair had grown a bit longer, sometimes more puffy depending on the weather. 

And finally, he had come back. 

In truth, really not much time had passed, it was all relative. But to Mochi, without him around, it could have been years and she wouldn’t have known it. A day without seeing him felt like forever. And for Lime, the feeling was quite the same – although, she didn’t know that. For all these years they had known each other, there had always been this thin wall between them. Faint hints and unsure mumblings about the other which barely passed them by – with a singular, clear message: 

I love you.

But with this decision, the wall between them had become stronger, wider and something she was unsure to touch. If she hadn’t been certain of whether to cross that boundary before he left, she had a more conclusive idea now. Lime had always been his own person to her, but looking at him in that getup was more than she could take. It was if they lived in separate worlds–

Funny. Funny how she felt what he had felt for so long. This… untouchability, this uncrossable bridge, of difference in ability and personhood. And in the midst of the difference, they shared the same heart. 

He walked around town with that girl for weeks, running around waving new weapons, and living his life without needing her. She wasn’t sure how to approach him, only he could really do that, so he did just that. And somehow, he found himself standing before her, in the privacy of her home, with no one else around. 

Her eyes looked him up and down, conflicting feelings of desire and heartache boiling inside all at once. And they stood apart, staring at the other not as children, high school friends, or classmates, but as a man and a woman. Yet, yet, yet, flashed in her mind; but, but, but! He’d been initiated as a member of the very organization that stands against her kind. How could she ever dare love this specific mortal? If it hadn’t felt like taboo before, it sank like a pit in her stomach now. 

Now, his eyelids slowly blinked as his gaze soaked every inch of her in. They both had changed so much, but in his belief, she stayed the same Mochi. Beautiful, kind, and a storm of emotion and pondering behind her eyes. But this time, she was hesitating, he could see it. It must be the clothes, he thought, they say they make the man, after all.

And made him they did. 

All this time, he had been running after her. He had been trying to close this gap but somehow instead took one step forward and three steps back. He wasn’t compensating anymore, he knew this, confidently. So, he would now step forward without the distance continuing to grow. When he stepped forward, she tried to step away and he reached out to stop her. For the first time. And he could reach her. 

“Mochi, please stop,” he began, his voice low and earnest. 

The seriousness in his words finally caused her to meet his gaze. Her eyes had been avoiding his face ever since the moment she noticed how handsome he had become. She could barely hear him over the sound of her beating heart. 

“W-What?” She finally managed to reply, a crack in her voice followed by uneasiness. 

He didn’t like this. He liked when Mochi was herself around him, when she was comfortable, laughing, and smiling. But then he thought to himself, how long had it been since he last saw that version of her? How long had it been since they had… been themselves together? He didn’t train this hard for her to push him away again. He loved her more than she could understand, more than the stars could explain, and more than whatever cosmic force might try to keep them apart. He would tear any opposing forces apart and down and inside out to have her. 

Gently, he grasped a few strands of her hair. He felt the ends of it on his thumb, lovingly peering down at the locks. And then, his gaze trailed up to her blushing and adamant face. His eyes ever so steadfast and sincere, he finally responded to her. 

“I’m not running on some baseball field anymore and you’re… you’re not struggling with 3rd period physics anymore. I’m not running anymore, but you – you are… Stop running away from me, stop… hesitating.” 

She swallowed, the resolution in his voice caught her off guard, and somehow, hurt her feelings. Her? Running away? She wasn’t sure if she was ready to face the music, hadn’t that been the case? She was running away? No, she needed to stay strong, feign ignorance. 

“What does some soldier from the M34TH want with me, some witch?” She answered, turning her face away from his. 

He stepped closer, their bodies barely an inch apart. He lowered his face closer to hers, his gaze piercing with sincerity and a fire she had known before behind his eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m not just some soldier and you’re not just some witch, but if you’re stressing that beautiful head of yours out about it, allow me to clarify.” 

His large, calloused hand swiftly found its way to her waist, while the other gently cradled her jaw tilting upwards. Within seconds he closed the distance between their lips and pressed their bodies together. How long had he been waiting for his moment, to claim what he felt was unclaimable? When he pulled away, he brushed his thumb across her lips, which she quickly pushed away and hid her face within his chest. 

What had he just done? He broke the wall, he crossed the line – he had done what she kept herself from doing for so long. He stopped hesitating. Her fingers gripped the sides of his coat and she pushed her face harder into his chest. She felt too many things, too many conflicting thoughts swirling, but above it all it told her this may change everything. 

And, in true Lime fashion, “this won’t change anything,” he said. As if reading her mind, he responded with the words she needed to hear. “But let me have this today, where you’re not some witch and I’m not some officer.”

She pulled back and looked up at him, her cheeks flushed. “And what about tomorrow, when I decide to hesitate again? What about tomorrow, when I have to be who I really am, a witch, and you have to put that uniform on?” 

She hadn’t been home in a while. It was supposed to be a special occasion – and special he would make it. He had gone out of his way to consult friends, something he didn’t usually do, in order to curate the perfect menu. He, fortunately, was a savant in the kitchen, unlike her, although he did not put too much time into the craft. It was rare anyways that he would be cooking, since the moments they shared at home were sparse and oftentimes quick as well. 

He wasn’t too sure when the abrupt moment would inevitably turn up where one of them were to be needed elsewhere. So, he picked a meal that would be swift to prepare. With his cape draped over the back of the sofa, he tucked a dish cloth into the waistband of his dark pants, rolled up his sleeves and headed for the pantry. After acquiring the necessary ingredients he had bought a few days prior, a thought struck him as he set them down on the counter. 

The slippers on his feet rushed along with him into the living room, where he slowly began to light the many candles about the room. They were a comfort to her, the soft hue in a darker room was her type of ambience, something he enjoyed about her. He had hoped that when she eventually arrived home, the robust scent of dinner and dimly lit living space would lighten her spirits. 

With a push and flick of his wrist – a pop, pop, pop –  he turned the gas to the stove on. Within time, water began to boil in the pot beside him and sauce slowly came together in the pan on the front burner. He unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt as the temperature of the kitchen rapidly rose while he cooked. His sturdy hand whisked away in the saucepan, the veins protruding as he tightened his grip. After some time was spent and steam abundantly grazed his face, he removed the pot of boiling noodles from the stove to strain them and allowed the entreé and sauce to simmer. 

Dinner would be ready soon. His eyes quickly darted to the clock hanging in the living room, she should have been home ten minutes ago. A sigh released from his mouth which he then pressed into a line. He walked over to the table and sat down, bending over the ledge and resting his bare elbows. His jaw clenched as he watched more time pass, no sign of her. After a solid hour had gotten away from him, he stood up from his chair – the wood making a short creak – and turned the stove off completely. 

He watched as the food he lovingly made gradually lost its warmth and soon began to worry about her. She hadn’t always been the perfect time, no one was, but she would have never forgotten or stood him up – he was sure of it. …Was he? 

It had been almost a month since they last shared a bed together. It had been two weeks since they were last in each other’s presence. And each time he called her, the length of their conversations waned. Had she been subtly dropping hints that it was time to finish this long feast they indulged in without consequence? 

He rubbed his jawline and chin in thought. The ticking of the clock seemed to echo in his ears with each passing tock, a metronomic rhythm that eased him into madness and uncertainty. He hadn’t got much sleep in the past few days, he’d been strapped for work as well. Exhaustion gripped at his conscience, they couldn’t possibly be done. The red-haired champion knew her all too well, and she for him as well. She wouldn’t end this – whatever this was – without a conversation in person–

Shink, click. His head whipped to look at the front door, the lock in the doorknob turned with a key on the other side. The white oak door slowly opened with a squeak, chilly autumn air flowing in with the keyholder. 

All worry dissipated from his mind when he saw her face. Her hair had been a mess in some places, but golden tresses still flowed down her shoulders and back. Her cheeks flushed against her porcelain skin from the cooler weather and the scent of earth followed her inside. A tired, albeit grateful, smile crossed over her mouth when she spotted him sitting at the kitchen table. 

“Thank goodness you’re still here,” she let out in a relieved breath. “I’m so sorry I’m quite late, I really shouldn’t have kept you waiting like this – with myself looking like this.” She motioned to her messy hair and somewhat scuffed attire. “I was needed at Mt. Coronet for something and you know how dirty some quick cave-dwelling can make a woman.” 

She walked over to the table, setting her bag down. He still hadn’t answered her, his face serious and soaking in every word she said. She noticed his rather atypical behavior and raised a brow in curiosity. 

“Lance? Is something wrong?” 

At that moment, hearing her say his name had set something off inside him. Of course she had been called to some emergency, she would have never done this to him. He had over thought for nothing, absolutely nothing. 

“Absolutely nothing,” his thoughts repeated aloud in response as he stood up from his seat. The dimly lit home made his movements look more domineering as he closed the distance between them and slipped his arms around her waist. “Aren’t you hungry?” 

She looked at him, eyes slightly squinted in playful suspicion. Her lips quickly closed the gap between them, kissing him tenderly and swift. “Will you be upset if I say no? I had a large lunch earlier and you know I don’t eat much. How about you? I’m sure you are if you’ve been waiting for me all this time.”

His head leaned down into her ear. “I am absolutely famished,” he whispered. 

He was absolutely famished, in another way. Quite soon, he found one of his hands holding firmly onto her hip and the other trailing downwards. A soft chuckle released from her mouth as she wedged a hand between their chests and softly pushed him away. 

“Hold on there, I haven’t showered for the evening,” she told him, her head cocked to the side in reluctance. “My clothes are covered in filth and underneath is dried sweat.” 

“That’s perfect,” he began with a smirk. “I thought dinner needed a little more salt anyway.” 

The woman exhaled a loud sigh and shot back another smile. “You know, I won’t stop you.” 

Bingo. Clearance was all that he had needed. At that moment, he lunged at her, tightly embracing her body and taking in her scent at the neck. She gasped as he sucked at her nape and felt his hands force themselves underneath her blouse. Their bodies fell back a few steps, her back bending against the counter. 

She set to work herself, the tips of her fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt as fast as possible. As she slipped the sleeves off his arms, she exposed his bare torso. She marveled at the great, blank canvas she was going to wreak havoc on, nail scores and hickeys galore. Her eyes looked up at him and she met his deep gaze as he stopped feeling her. 

“It’s been too long, Cynthia,” he told her, panting like a dog in heat. 

She brought her soft mouth to one of his pectorals, first sucking gently and then fervently. He swallowed in struggle to contain himself as he slipped a hand into her pants. He grasped her from behind until she finally released her bite. 

“I know,” she answered, wiping her mouth from the saliva. “It’s been too long, there’s hardly any trace of me from last time.” Her hand glided over his body and he stared down at her. 

He wanted to ravage her. So he did. 

Picking her up, he sat her atop the counter in a frenzy. Her body knocked over several bottles of seasoning from earlier, with fennel seeds falling to the floor and scattering like broken glass. Her legs wrapped around his abdomen and back, pulling him closer. However, with the veins popping in his arms, he pulled them off, confusing her. 

“I won’t have these on any longer,” he stated, his voice low and demanding. In a rough, abrupt motion, he grabbed the waistline of her pants to pull them off. With that, she sat before him in only a black blouse. The anticipation to see the rest of her body ate away at him, he was weak. Before he could move himself to take it off, she smirked at him in seduction. 

Crossing her arms over the other and tugging at the hemline of her blouse, she slowly dragged the cloth off her torso, revealing her breasts. His eyes glazed over her in thirst, feeling unsure once again – after feeling unsure many times before – if he could really have her body. 

“You explored a cave with no bra?” He questioned as one of his fingertips circled around a nipple. 

“Maybe I lied about being hungry, maybe I was hoping for a different kind of meal when I came home.” 

With her last word, he moved his face closer to hers. Just before their lips met, he responded. “I believe I can satisfy you.” 

Indulgently, they kissed each other. His tongue pushed against hers as he drank her in and her hands moved towards the zipper on his crotch. She flimsily pulled down his pants to reveal his boxer briefs, and the bulge that they hid. However, she could not find the time to admire the glaring sign of his attraction to her, as he quickly threw her smooth and creamy legs around him. 

Her clit began to rub against his hard-on with her breasts pressed against him as he nibbled on her ear. Her sexual frustration grew as he continued to tease her, as well as the moisture between her legs. 

“Lance, stop playing around,” she breathed. “You know what I want.” 

The man laughed as he moved his mouth away from her ear. With her legs still straddled around him, he hoisted her over to the kitchen table where he gently let her back onto her feet. Cupping her jaw with his hand, he kissed her and then turned her around. He leaned her over the table, the candlelight illuminated their faint shadows moving in the wood. 

He admired the view, her sleek back in front of him and her long blonde hair laying across the oak grain. In one swift movement, his phallus was free of the boxer briefs which now laid around his ankles and he held it, slowly rubbing it in between her cheeks. A grunt escaped from his mouth as he tried to control himself – he wanted to make her suffer a little longer for making him wait. In this feast, he would eat first. 

With her body bent over, he used the tip of his penis to search for the opening. He chuckled to himself as it wasn’t too hard to find, she was soaked. He heard her gasp under her breath as he slowly began to enter her. Once he had been sure of the angle, he thrust himself fully inside. She had made it all too easy as he leaned over her, his crotch repeatedly colliding with her back end. He pushed his body closer to her, the friction stimulating sweat between them. 

He had one hand gripping onto the table edge and used the other to trail up her body, where it eventually found one of her breasts. He fully grasped it, fondling and pinching the nipple while he pounded into her. The weight and force began to rock the table, causing the seeds on the ground to shake against the flooring. She moaned as he increased the speed with which he thrust. 

After some time, he brought her to the ground and her legs wrapped against him once more. They embraced each other and she scratched his back in ecstasy. He sucked on her ear while rocking into her and she begged “faster” to him. With that, it was almost on command, he felt himself close to climaxing. In that moment, he pushed himself into her as deep and as fast as he possibly could, her cries becoming louder and his pants greater. Her legs tightened around him as he finished inside her, as if she was trying to clamp him to her. 

His back burned from her fingernails and her vulva pulsated from the rough friction. He steadily rose from the top of her, her hair splayed on the ground with the fennel seeds. Her white cheeks turned red from the intimacy, but her eyes said he had delivered pleasure. With a grunt, he helped her sit up, their bare bottoms sitting on the kitchen floor. 

“Would you like dinner now?” He asked, casually. 

She smiled. 

ahshshs i love u babe<3

2. i like present tense the best but i find past the easiest //

3. third is best, but i can like first if the narrator is not written like a pick-me lmao

Summary:  The Ginkgo Guild merchant had aspirations no one could understand. Some girl fell from the sky and now what? It all went to hell.

The wind chimes tingle as they crash into one another, jingling in symphonic rhythm with the leaves scraping across the concrete sidewalk. She stares at the sky, standing from the open doorway of her modest home. It is the first time in months warm weather has come, but of course it must wash away the harshness of winter first with a shower. The warmth begins to slowly fly away with the breeze, a breeze beckoning danger and thunder with dark clouds creeping into the sky from the east. Goosebumps travel up her legs to the rest of her body as she feels the temperature change. It happens to be her day to reshelve books at the library. With a slight shrug of her left shoulder, she shakes her head in quiet surrender. 

“Must be my lucky day,” she says to herself, stepping back inside to slip her red rain boots on. “It’s going to downpour.” Her slender and soft fingers reach for the keys on the hook and she heads out her door. A quick lock to her entrance, she begins speed-walking to her local library. She does not have a rain jacket, never found the time to buy one. She does not have an umbrella, never received it after letting someone borrow it. 

However, that last part would be her fault, entirely. Last year, around this time, she handed her umbrella off to a stranger. She spent the day with her mother who drove her home in the weather, took notice of the unfortunate soul soaked in the storm, and demanded her mother pull over. She rushed out to hand the umbrella away and then ran back to her mother. She wiped the rain from her face and hair as they continued on with their drive. 

“I should really buy a new one!” She exclaimed to herself in admonition. Then, with another shrug of her right shoulder, she smiles. She had helped someone. Although her umbrella was a little rough around the edges, with yellow tape supporting the bottom handle, she could have made that person’s day. Will she see that umbrella again? Perhaps not, but a kindness had been paid that day. 

Luckily, she arrives at the library before the rain. The white, fluorescent ceiling lamps hurt her eyes a little, she could never really become accustomed to them. They are truly an awful choice, considering people are to read here, would not a softer light be better for eyes? The library has a low budget, though. Her mouth crinkles into a small frown as she acknowledges that the institution itself has become forgotten, as they seem to have fewer readers every month. Setting her bag down in a cubby behind the circulation desk, she says her quick hellos to the other girls at the circulation desk, writes her name down on the volunteer chart, and clips her nametag to the front of her blouse. 

“Jasmine, are these the ones that need to be reshelved?” She asks, in a low voice to another volunteer. She places her hand on the loading cart by the desk. 

“Yes, I sorted through them a little bit ago,” Jasmine answers, raising a travel mug to her mouth and taking a quick sip. “They belong over in Nonfiction.” 

“All right, well, I’ll take them over!” She responds cordially, dragging the cart over with her in her steps. 

An hour into reshelving, the rain begins. At the same time, the air conditioning in the library turns on. Much more to her luck, she now has the coldness of the air conditioning and the gray, dark skies outside to keep her company. She hopes the weather lets up soon, as volunteering will end in another two hours for her. As she brings her empty cart back to circulation, Jasmine looks at her with an apologetic smile. The young girl’s eyes glance to the left and land on another cart full of books. 

“I’m so sorry, Lyra!” Her fellow volunteer falters with shame, “We had a lot of books come back yesterday.” 

“I’ve totally got it under control, don’t worry about it,” she reassures Jasmine. 

With yet another quick shrug of a shoulder, she turns the cart with her and walks back to Nonfiction. She tries to bide her time now, glancing over at the windows regularly. The rain still has not stopped. In fact, it looks as if its drops weigh heavier onto the earth. What she would do for an umbrella. She snaps out of her trance as she hears the rustle of water and plastic nearby. Her hand squeezes between two books to fit another.  Lucky that person, they’re folding up their umbrella,  she thinks to herself. 

Reaching the end of the shelf lines, she stops in the reading cubbies for a moment. Her eyes pause as she notices… her umbrella? Her body swiftly rushes towards it, to examine closer. It is indeed her umbrella, yellow tape on the bottom of the handle, wrapped up next to this person’s backpack. She picks it up in excitement and cannot believe somehow it ended up back in her possession, in some form or other. From all the water on her umbrella, she can tell they just arrived. She wonders for a moment, would it be bad to steal back her own umbrella?  I mean, is it stealing if it’s owned by you?  The thought strikes her. 

In deliberation, she wonders what kind of legal issues it would put her in; and would it put her in any if she took it without the person knowing? No one saw her take it, it is rightfully hers, too. But then, what if it is still raining when they need to leave? She would be stranding this stranger in the rain after she saved them a year ago. Surely, this would be —

“Hey, what are you doing-!” A voice harshly whispers from behind her. “That’s my umbrella!” 

She releases a small  eep!  in surprise to have been caught as she turns around to face the stranger. This time, she catches a good and long look at his whole person. Hair red like autumn leaves, eyes gray like fine granite, with a few water droplets speckled across his cheeks and the top of his head. His cheeks flare pink, as though he is tired. And yet, his eyebrows furrow in exasperation, probably with her, some stranger holding onto what seems to be his umbrella now. She realizes how bad this must look now. 

“Oh! I’m sorry,” she blubbers bashfully, “I think there is a mistake.” 

“A mistake?” He responds sharply, without a second to lose, “How? You’re standing over my things and holding my umbrella.” 

Air catches in her throat at his hostility. She becomes unsure how to proceed, their meeting last year was without a doubt brief, and she did not manage a good look of him then, so he definitely does not know who she is. His glare pierces her as she stands wordless in his path, growing more irritated by the second. 

“I—Uhm—” she stumbles over her words. “This umbrella—” 

“What of it? Did you want it because it’s raining outside? Were you trying to steal it?” He further interrogates her. Her face heats over accusations, which are not false. 

“Yes—well, no—” she continues to dig her own grave. “I actually own this umbrella—”

“No, you don’t, it’s mine—technically it belongs to someone else, but I have yet to give it back to them,” he corrects her, “I don’t know where they are, I don’t even know who the person was, but I would like to personally return it. I don’t believe they’re the kind of person to just go and steal it back from someone, though.” 

“That’s just it!” She exclaims, causing others in the library to turn to her. She winces at the thought she was loud, and loudly whispers back, “Sorry!” 

“Please, just listen to me,” the young girl continues to explain. “Someone gave you this umbrella about a year ago, when it was raining really hard, right? They didn’t even say anything to you, they just shoved the umbrella in your hands and ran to hop in a car, right?” 

He stares back at her, stunned. Slowly, the red in his cheeks deepens to match that of his hair, he must have realized by now. His savior in the rain that day… is this girl standing before him. He scratches the back of his neck and clears his throat, “...It was you?” 

“Yeah, it was me.” 

Silence ensues while she looks at him intently. He has resorted to bashfully looking at all other directions than hers, he does not know how to address her. After a minute more in the awkward space they share, he abruptly walks back over to his things and sits down in one of the reading chairs. She still stares. 

“Well?!” He snaps chagrined. “Are you just going to stand there?” 

“Oh!” She realizes he has sat down by now and must be here to privately read or study. “No,” she answers as she scurries back to her book cart. “I have some books I need to shelf for the library.” 

Unbeknownst to her, his eyes follow her as she hurries down the book aisles a little ways from him. For the next hour, she toddles around the library with her books, reshelving, taking peeks at the mysterious stranger she gifted her umbrella. And, with each peek, she catches him staring back at her. He swings his head back down to his laptop, a seemingly abashed grimace adorning his face. With each encounter, she feels a little better, even gaining enough confidence to smile back at him. Somehow, her route of book shelving lands her in the aisle closest to him and she feels compelled to speak to him, although she hasn’t the slightest clue what to talk about. 

She steps up onto a footstool to reach the highest canopy. Maybe she could ask for his name? No, that would be far too odd, it makes it seem as if she wants to be his friend. Well, does she want to be his friend? She’s now unsure — and with her furrowed brow, she steps her foot behind herself to go down the footstool. Unfortunately, lost in thought, she misplaces her foot spacing and misses the step. She makes a small fall backwards and her hip hits the book cart. A few books from the cart clatter to the carpet floor. 

Without a moment’s notice, he stands in front of her, crouching down to grab the fallen books. She reaches to help, but his free hand quickly catches hers. 

“It’s fine,” he rebuffs her, “I’ll get them…” Her heart immediately palpitates in response to his holding her hand. 

He stands back up to face her, releasing his grip and handing the books over. “Thank you,” she says softly. “...And I’m sorry I made you think I was taking your umbrella earlier.”

His face contorts into exasperation for a second but quickly reverts back with eyebrows still knotted. “Really, I had no clue, so I should be apologizing to you… It’s your umbrella anyway.” 

“No! I gave it to you! It’s rightfully yours, I promise.” 

He gazes back, a little stunned she’s willing to give her umbrella away. He steals a glance at the window, the rain still has not let up. “How will you get home if the rain continues?”

“I’m not sure… I’ll figure it out, though!” She reassures him with a smile. She turns away and starts reshelving the books and he begins walking back to his seat. A few steps from her, he turns back. She notices this and looks over. “Everything all right?”

His body slowly begins to face her… and she sees his expression. An almost… pained expression on his face, along with an awfully red complexion. She notices a clenched fist quiver as he tries to speak. 

“W-Would you… maybe,” he slightly stammers, “I could walk you home… if you wanted.” 

Air catches in her chest as her heart pounds at the suggestion. She cannot contain her joy — she has found a way home to stay dry and she may learn more about this boy! A delightful smile arches up her face, “That sounds like a fantastic idea!” 

“O-Okay,” he gruffly clears his throat. “When do you need to leave?” 

She steps out of the book aisle and looks for a wall clock. To her surprise, her volunteer time ends in a couple minutes. Her head turns back to him and whispers loudly down the aisle, “Can you do five minutes? I just need to put this cart back and grab my things.” 

He gives a slight nod with his rouge cheeks and heads over to collect his things. As she travels back to the circulation desk, she gives her goodbye to Jasmine, signs her name off the volunteer list, and picks up her bag from the cubby. She heads to the door to see him already waiting for her, tapping his foot.  He’s an impatient one,  she thinks. 

“Sorry if I kept you waiting,” she apologizes, feeling a little guilty as he seemed a bit annoyed. 

“It’s fine,” he rebuffs her again. The pair step outside the building and he opens up the umbrella. For a moment, they stand there, in some awkward silence. “Well? Aren’t you going to start walking to your house?” 

“Oh!” She realizes again, her brain must have stopped working momentarily. “That’s right, you don’t know where I live,” she laughs squeamishly. 

They start off, this time, walking in awkward silence. She thinks to herself it was smart of her to wear her rain boots, if not her pants would have been soaked. Her eyes wander down to the stranger’s pants beside her. No rain boots, in fact, he has to have been wearing the dirtiest pair of sneakers she has ever seen. His jeans also seem ill-fitting. She then notices his shoulder has been peeking out the side of the umbrella the whole time, to give her more space under the shelter. 

“Woah, hey,” she starts all of a sudden, “You can come closer under the umbrella, I don’t want you to get more wet!” 

Her hand tugs at his sleeve to pull him closer, to which she also takes notice of his backpack. Incredibly worn, there are several holes at the front and in his straps. Is this the only backpack he has ever owned? Breaking out of her assuming thoughts, she decides to try and make light conversation. 

“Well, um, thank you for taking such good care of my umbrella all this time!” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

An attempt was made. 

Swallowing, she feels a heavy air around him. Why so much tension? 

“It’s kind of funny that awful weather made us meet, huh?” 

What is she even saying anymore? 

“I guess..?” He answers her, slightly off-put by her strange words. 

“I’m just around this corner here…” she guides as they reach a four-way intersection in the neighborhood. Maybe she could invite him in for a cup of tea? Or maybe he does not want to make friends with her? 

Walking up the street, a large bus begins to drive against their direction. A deep pothole lies before them, which he sees. However, in a way to cope with the gauche situation, she walks ahead. 

“Wait-!” He calls out to her, and in a swift motion he abandons the umbrella and rushes to grab her arm to pull her back. But it becomes too late, the bus passes at the same time and the water in the pothole splashes them both. The umbrella falls a couple feet away. He holds her waist and her arm close to his body, their faces only inches apart. Completely soaked to the bone, their eyes peer into one another’s. 

Thunder claps. The clouds darken. The rain comes down harder. It’s a little cold, but it feels warm between them, their hearts pounding. He gently lets her go from his grasp and turns to pick up the umbrella. They begin to walk again. 

“Sorry,” he starts quietly, “I wasn’t fast enough.” 

“No, please don’t be sorry!” She cries out dolefully, “I should have heard you and listened! But I guess it doesn’t matter now, we’re both soaked.” 

He doesn’t reply. Almost to her home, she tries once more to make light of the conversation to hopefully make this experience one not so full of regret for him. 

“You know, why were you out in the rain that day? Without an umbrella or anything?” She asks innocently, brimming with curiosity. 

“Because my dad is a deadbeat.” 

She purses her lips.  An attempt was made.  

She thinks to herself, that makes sense. He comes from a less fortunate home, with a father who doesn’t seem to love him. Yet somehow, under his rough exterior, she could find a kind person when she looked into his eyes. Would he come and visit her again if she asked? 

“Oh, this is my place right here,” she motions to the small townhouse to the left of the street. He walks her to her door, where she stops and turns back to him. “Thank you for walking me all the way here, even though you ended up getting wet.” 

“It’s fine,” he rebuffs her once more. 

“You really love that phrase, huh?” She quips at him, his attitude was beginning to rub her the wrong way and she would let him know in her own friendly fashion. 

However, he does not respond. Instead, he collapses the umbrella and begins to wrap it up. She realizes he means to give it back to her and walk home in the rain. Her hand quickly reaches for his own and she softly places hers over his grip. 

“It’s okay, you can borrow it one more time,” she smiles. “It just means you’ll have to bring it back another day.” 

“You don’t even know my name, why are you being so kind?” He plainly responds, although she could see her words made him feel special. 

“Then, tell me your name, that way I can consider you a friend.” 

“Silver.” 

She takes the umbrella from his hands, unties it from the velcro, and props it open. She holds it over them, extending the handle to him. 

“Silver, I’m Lyra, so take this umbrella, won’t you?” 

The tenderness in her voice makes his knees weak and he cannot help himself from grabbing the umbrella from her hand. He nods, unable to find words, and starts to leave. She watches him with a smile walk away, after a few steps she opens her mouth. 

Heat. Pounding heat. Warmth beating into his cheeks like the summer sun, except it was her instead. He can’t get it to work, he just can’t. The paints keep meshing and clumping; it’s like his sweat is mixing with the acrylics. And it’s all her fault, because she won’t get off his mind. The idea of her sits atop his head, weighing him down — it’s like he can’t breathe. The air, it’s thinning, he’s panting, the taste of her skin is flashing back into his mind — he’s panting, remembering the feeling of her panting back onto him. His mind races, his heart races, time seems like it’s elapsing faster than the speed of light —

He breaks out of his trance. The drops of sweat trickle down his scrawny biceps and a wet stain darkens the front of his dirty, yellow and faded wife-beater. He’s alone. It’s just him as he glances around his disgusting, cluttered studio. Musty, dusty, he peers at the ivory, canvas curtains by the window, and watches the specks of dirt and grime waft through the air in the beams of light peeking through the cracks. He sits in silence, redirecting his eyes to his easel once more. Trash, he thinks at first, looking at the mess of paints and lines, how there’s no depth and no character. The brown he chose doesn’t match… it’s not the right shade. Absolute trash.

Blinking, he thinks again. He does not know what day it is, or month even. Now that he no longer works in that dingy office, contact with the rest of the world has vanished. He makes his way out of the studio, trudges down the hallway and walks right past the master bedroom. The master bedroom that has been tightly shut for more than a year. All the blinds, everywhere, in every window, they are closed. Ready to-microwave meal boxes pile in the trash bin and even fleck across his kitchen floor and countertops. Not a dish in sight, except for used scotch glasses with empty bottles not too far behind. His bed, the couch, has multiple blankets sprawled across it and a coffee table in front full of trash. His eyes focus on the trash, or more specifically, the crumpled up balls of his sketch pad paper. The balls of paper could be found as far as the corners of the kitchen floor, behind the counter and by the fridge.

He has quite the arm, although he appears thin. His strength multiplies with his frustration and anger. He sits himself in a rather indented spot on the couch, less cushioned than the rest of the sofa from months of his weight pressed in this one area. His hand reaches for the remote and turns on the television, afterwards he fixes himself a glass of scotch in a used glass nearby and his fingers shimmy their way into his back pocket. From within, his index and middle fingers pull out a cigarette box. He shoves a smoke between his dry lips and lights it. Between the alcohol and the nicotine, it’s just enough.

Just enough to get the taste of her out of his mouth. For now.

He sits back as he watches the afternoon news. He stares at the journalist’s lips, sees how they curve into coy smiles as she laughs at the corny jokes the daily anchorman voices over into her ear. Just another normal girl, reporting normal things, in her normal life, he observes. Disgusting, he reflects, a normal life is disgusting.

He huffs the cigarette smoke towards the living room ceiling, shutting his eyes. Reminiscing the day he first moved into the home, how bright, clean, and airy it felt then. It’s almost as if everything else in the house is a shell of its former self… including him. A couple envelopes shoot through the golden lips of his front door — today’s mail has arrived — he thinks about the stacks of mail piling by his front door. He makes a faint guess she has not changed her mailing address on some things yet, which gives him false hope on good days or this burning misery that perhaps she has moved on in more ways than one. Changed her name? Married? Then again, she never came back for any of her other belongings. Maybe she already had a back up plan set in motion.

But the truth is, he never saw it coming. Perhaps that is what makes the stinging pain after all this time feel so fresh. What was that, she said a long time ago? That she loved him? He sniggers at himself, at his stupidity, at his unfulfilling life that he tirelessly plays out everyday. At the end of his frumpy sofa, his cellphone rings. Or, at least, he feels the vibrations.

In foolish—hopeless—optimism, he shoves his fist into the edge of the couch digging around for the device. Frantically, he drudges it up from the crevice, along with stray hairs and crumbs, and his eyes yearningly glance over the caller ID. His heart falls beneath the pits of his stomach. It’s just his PR agent. Disappointed, he declines the call and tosses his phone onto the coffee table. He stares at it, somewhat in disbelief and somewhat dismayed with himself for even hoping for it. For her.

By the moment the sun sets, he fiddles with his phone, his finger hovering over the dial button on her number… Of course, he does not call her. He shoves the device into his back pocket. Of course, by the moment the sun sets, he has finished another bottle and another pack. And he has passed out on the living room sofa, again. In a drunken stupor, he awakens, angry, and storms the hallway to his studio. Throwing a blank canvas to the easel, he begins his work once again until dawn. And in this instance, he allows the idea of her to drown him, flood his lungs like the oils and acrylics starting to spatter his body, until all he breathes is the image of her. An exposé of his love, his hatred, his loneliness. They have banned nudity everywhere except the museums.

Wasn’t that their first date? A museum? He stops mid-stroke and clutches his brush a little tighter. He tries to remember, when was the last time he was in a museum?

…Just like the day before, the sun begins to peak through his blinds, but this time, the work before him satisfies. His paint covered fingers nestle their way into his pocket, he presses the dial key and lifts the phone to his ear. The recipient of his call picks up.

The voice on the other end starts, “Hey, dude, I’ve been trying to reach you—”

“I’ve got something good,” the artists interrupts.

“Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?! I’ll be over later to check it out.”

----

“And, that’s all the time we have for today, love,” her producer tells her from the side as the cameraman lowers the device from his shoulder.

She sighs, scratches the back of her ear, and smiles in unison with a nod. A small drop of sweat trickles from her temple, why does she have to be the on-scene reporter today? She saunters to the news channel’s van and with its open side door, she scoops a cold water bottle from the mini cooler. The sun continues to beat down on her rose-tinted cheeks. The buzzing of cicadas whiz through her ears and into her thoughts… some guy from work had asked her out for drinks later tonight, but suddenly she’s feeling a raincheck about to be typed on her phone.

She’s not ready yet. How can she be? Her right hand absentmindedly finds its way to her other hand, brushing over her now naked ring finger. A shame, really, that it didn’t work out. She really wishes it would have.

“You can head home now, of course,” her producer begins. “Do you need a ride home?”

“No, thank you,” she respectfully declines. “I think I’ll walk home.”

The staff executive eyes her in confusion, as she clearly does not enjoy the summer heat. He shrugs his shoulders in defeat, “Whatever floats your boat, honey.”

The young brunette collects her bag from the van and stuffs her hand into it, rummaging for make-up remover wipes. She takes out her compact and begins cleansing her face. If she plans to walk home, she would rather not be recognized. However unfortunate people may see it, her occupation does come with some less than desired fans. To top off her “disguise,” she removes the hair clip, lets her hair down and places a pair of sunglasses over her eyes.

On her way home, she stops by a local café for refreshment and a boost of energy. Sitting for a moment in the air conditioned shop, she takes frequent sips of her hazelnut iced coffee.

“Have you seen the new exhibition at the museum yet?” She overhears two young students chat with each other. “It’s honestly incredible.”

“Really? I guess I’ll have to check it out later today. Who’s it by?” The other voice asks.

She finally takes the last sip through the straw, and the liquid slurps from the leftover ice.

“Oh, uh… I forget his name… He was really popular a few years ago, though,” the first voice falters.

The young reporter stands up, slugs her bag strap over her shoulder, and heads for the door.

“Uh, Silver, something?” The first voice remembers. “He’s actually supposed to be at the exhibition today, doing an expository with some press over his inspiration and meaning.”

As the bell rings with her opening the door, she throws her empty cup into the trash followed by an exuberant “thank you for coming!” from the barista behind the counter.

She did not hear the last part from the student in the café.

In her trek home, she stops in front of the museum. In the pit of her stomach, she feels bubbling. Her intestines become upset from anxiety and emotions she wished to never feel again flash back into her senses. That feeling, of dread somehow turned into addictive ecstasy, floods into her veins, and her feet compel her to enter against her better judgment.

As she passes through all the marble walls, the scent of the canvases and oil paintings make her heart race and palms sweat. She anticipates something bad will happen, as something bad always happened when they were together.

All his rough yelling, all their petty disagreements over the things she wanted and the things he did not want, all the noise of hatred bred from what she promised to be forever with him. Stopping to admire a piece, she realizes that has become far from reality. Forever with him… part of her wishes she could go back and part of her desires ever so strongly to never see him again.

In the depth of these paint strokes, she observes and ruminates. What if she were to return and to feel his cracked, warm lips against hers? The sweat of his red hairs behind his neck as they pressed their bodies together, hearing his grunts.

She swallows. She’s warm at the thought of someone she hasn’t touched in almost three years. Being his wife isn’t the worst thing she has done when she thinks about the things they have done together in bed… Her tongue wets the bottom lip and she bites down. This is wrong, she thinks to herself, she left him for a reason. A good reason.

All the miserable nights, the crying, the loneliness. She cannot see him again. If she sees him again, it might sway her. She may want him back. She cannot see him again.

She wants him back.

—--

Here he stands, a month after the original piece he produced in a drunk, inspired stupor, with a brand new exhibition. His agent clinks a glass of champagne to the drink in his own hand, a smile plastered all over his consultant’s face. Of course there is a smile all over his face, the work he has promoted to the city has doubled the money in his pockets. Although the actual artist himself could care less for the revenue. He glances around the section of the gallery that has been sectioned off for exclusively his exhibition and the expository conference.

In his mind, the worst part of this event has ended. The few cameras and interviewers have left and now only art dealers, consultants, and critics remain. The moment he realizes he can slip away to breathe on his own, without being bombarded by awful, intrusive questions he can’t be bothered to answer, he does so. The other areas of the museum are far quieter and the company of the crowd makes his scotch taste bad. As he takes small, frequent sips with each step, he would much rather be drunk at home away from all these people.

He has finally done something he promised himself he wouldn’t ever do again: create art inspired by her. That alone makes him want to become blackout wasted. Or so he thought. He stops in his tracks as he downs the last drop of his drink. I should have just grabbed the damn bottle.

Standing a couple feet from him, peering into a painting, the nightmare from hell that dragged him down under and left him there. Dropping the glass in his hand, he doesn’t think much before his body moves towards her—all the anger manifested inside of him—she quickly becomes aware of his on-coming presence, surprised by the sound of broken glass and his person, and he grabs her by the shoulders.

Forcing her against the wall, she still stares wide-eyed in shock and he does not to hesitate to press his mouth against hers with ferocity. Her eyes still agape, he slips his tongue in quickly and gruffly releases her from his grip. He stares down into her eyes with disdain and she stares back with confusion.

“Silver, I—“ she begins, her voice somewhat hoarse from surprise.

But his expression silences her. He brutishly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and turns away from her. He starts walking away.

In that swift instance, he realizes.

@silverbuttercups