a/n; -cheesy, mush smile- I think you're gonna hate me a little bit. For Cait (ninja . butterfliie) with love. Happy early Birthday. mirror, mirror:
songography; Give It Up . Midtown — Se Ei Mee Pois . Laura Narhi — Golden . Fall Out Boy
Today is your day. So it's not really fair. Today you finally put your foot down. Today you finally smiled for real. Today you finally turned 18 and it's definitely not fair because for 18 years—you've…
Your hand shakes as you wipe your mouth.
It's not fair, because from day 1—you've done nothing but wait.
In retrospect, it makes you sick.
-
You saw his red hair and you saw his green eyes and you looked down at your little, purple, buckle-up shoes and you waited. Waited for something to happen. You waited for him to come and say Hi and smile at you bashfully and scratch the fuzzy red hairs at the nape of his neck.
You waited.
And he came. And he said Hi and he smirked and he accidentally got dirt on your new shoes.
But you didn't mind so much. Well, okay—looking back, you suppose that you really did, (and he had the scars to prove it). But the point is that you waited. And the point is that he came. And that it was the last time for a long time.
-
You watch this unfold in front of you on your day. While it's so unfair that you have to clench your teeth to keep from spilling your dinner all over the cold cement.
You watch as someone else kisses him. You watch as someone else let's their right hand snake under his brown, bomber jacket and their left run through his hair. You watch as he laughs into someone else's mouth. And watch as someone else mumbles something deflating back.
He's in love with someone else. And just because it's on your day you almost scream into the nighttime.
The bottom of your stomach is shivering from clenching so hard.
Because you remember…
From year 3, grade 2, day 1—you waited.
-
It was second grade and you already knew more kids in his class than in yours.
Your hair was not-quite-red and not-quite-brown and it was last summer that the two of you decided to read the dictionary over a couple of popsicles and found the word 'auburn.' It was not-quite-short and not-quite-long and he once told you with a grin that he sort of liked the in-betweens.
His hair was red, red, red and too definite and long.
It was second grade and you were waiting for him after school.
Your eyes (not-quite-purple & not-quite-blue & you wish there was a word for that too) were locked on the back entrance. And this was the first time you told yourself you didn't care.
You muttered it in your high-pitched second grader voice an hour later, as you walked home by yourself.
That's when you found him playing in his front yard.
"Hey, stupid-face!" you yelled, as insulting as most seven-year-olds get, "I waited for you for, like, ever!"
And the little boy dropped his ball with a laugh that made your shoulders relax just a bit.
He shrugged and mumbled, "Who goes out the back anyway, dummy?" and slung an arm casually around your neck and led you into his house for a rousing game of Axel-saurus-rex in Prehistoric Kairiland.
-
It was three weeks later that Axel triumphantly held up a crayon the color of your eyes and announced, "Indigo," with his eyes too-green and too-joyful and too-not-all-the-way-there.
It was an hour later that your heart finally stopped pounding.
-
You feel like maybe you should cover your eyes or something. Like you're standing in the corner of their bedroom.
It's so… just, like… close.
You quietly remind yourself that you should be inside that bar sitting between Sora and Riku and being violently giddy as they exchange manly quips about one or the other being a "sissy" or "pansy" or something of the kind. You should be poking Naminé in the arm until she treats you with that especially rare death glare that she saves only for special occasions such as today. You should be drinking this memory away.
But somewhere—past indigo and auburn—you know you can't.
-
There are too many memories filtering past your eyes and you can't forget suddenly and this is why you wanted Roxas so much in the first place.
Because it was nice to have someone that would always be waiting with a smile and a "How was your day?" when you'd sit down at the lunch table. It was nice to actually know where you stood with someone for once. To know that it wouldn't be kissing one day and talking about his newest 'squeeze' the next.
It was nice to know that you didn't have to hate rounding corners because of the fear you'd find him making out with some cheerleader /slut/nerd/prep/girl against the next row of lockers.
Because he was funny and innocent and stubborn and so damn cute. And if it weren't for his strange habits of pouting whenever Canada was mention and smiling at every (girl) person he walked by in the hallway—he might have been perfect.
-
You watch Axel pull that hand out of his hair and push it back against the wall they leaned against. You watch their mouths move like poetry.
Reality pokes you in the eye. It says to you—"Hello? Kairi? You're watching two people making out next to a dumpster behind a bar."
You wish, not for the first time, that you could poke reality back.
-
You were in sixth grade the first time he kissed you.
It happened in a flash—he pushed you against the shelves in-between a mop and a vacuum—and afterwards you had to squeeze a hand over your mouth to make yourself believe it really happened.
There was a broom closet and you remembered him asking if you remembered your purple shoes.
And then it was over and you were staring at a row of Windex bottles and on-fire all over.
Who knows? Maybe he felt guilty.
-
Roxas first kissed you outside your front door.
It was sweet and slow.
Afterwards he cocked his head to left and looked in your eyes and while he kissed you again, he dropped his car keys onto the porch with a deafening clang. The lights in the house turned on and his thumb flicked across your cheekbone before he grinned. "Busted!" he whispered in a sort of sugar-high voice.
You waved to each other as he scampered off and you felt so wonderfully sixteen as your dad appeared and tugged you inside the house that you actually laughed when he asked, "Have you got anyway what time it is?"
-
You were fifteen and Axel was crying.
And you were waiting for him.
And she was running her fingers across his cheeks over and over.
In retrospect, it makes you sick.
-
You were seventeen and still called Roxas's girl and still a mathlete and still had auburn hair and indigo eyes. And Axel tried to get you to sleep with him. Friends with benefits, right?
And then finally, finally you got sick of waiting. You saw his red hair and his green eyes and you looked down at your Docs and rumpled purple socks and you gave up. You just gave up.
It was okay. You were okay.
It wasn't that you walked away. Because you didn't.
You stopped pushing yourself away from everyone else. You let him in so you could keep him out. (They met again so they'd stay apart.) It wasn't hard. You and him weren't ever going to be like that. You told yourself so it would happen. This whole reverse psychology thing was making your eyes hurt.
You cried so you'd be happy.
(And you cried because it hurt.)
You loved Roxas so you'd forget Axel. Oh, and look how that turned out.
He was the reason you found Roxas in the first place. He was the exact reason that you forgot about him. He caused his own fade into nothing. You've forgotten about him. And really, as you think of all the reasons you never think of him, you almost believe it.
This irony is almost too much to take.
-
You fumble through your purse and try to remind yourself why you came out here in the first place. Oh right. Because Roxas had headed off to the little boys room and you were pretending you didn't want to find out why a certain pyromaniac hadn't arrived yet. To your birthday party. (Oh right, wasn't this your day?) Well, on the bright side, you know where he was now.
Where are your car keys? Where are they? Where are they? Where—your compact mirror falls out of the bag and shatters on the pavement. And you look down at it coldly.
Busted.
They sort of unfold from each other and stare at you, stricken.
Axel looks guilty. Roxas looks sorry.
You stare at your feet shoved into high-heels. And you wait.
-
You were seventeen and you didn't expect the pain.
You didn't expect him to hesitate.
You didn't expect him to be gentle or experienced or kind.
You didn't expect the heat.
And afterwards you told yourself that you weren't disappointed because it wasn't like you ever expected him to say your name anyways.
-
You're eighteen and—
You finally look up.
"Axel—" you say shortly. And then you point at that person (who isn't you and won't ever be you) behind him. They steal a worried glance at each other. Hands are still under jackets. Legs are still awkwardly intertwined. And they just look so damn comfortable against that wall, next to that dumpster, behind the fuck-n-run bar, with Axel's hand against the cement, and his eyes looking at you. So you add on, "That's my boyfriend," just for good measure.
"Look, Kid—"
"Kairi—"
They both stutter at the once.
You don't wait for them to explain. Because you just know that there's this perfect explanation and you have a feeling you don't want to stick around to hear it. They stumble over each other offer some consolation. ("Really Kai, this isn't what it looks like.") Your mouth opens. Your eyes close.
"Hey, don't cry, Ri."
So that's when you turn around. And you start walking.
And you walk so long. And you walk so beautiful. And you don't stop until hours later when your eyes finally clear and this blaring green of a highway sign blares into your eyes with places you don't recognize.
You don't stop until you realize that you let go of the wrong things. (That you stopped caring if you were hurt, but you didn't stop caring.)
You don't stop until you're sure that you're too tired to dream. (Because you're sure you'd dream of that last moment. When Roxas finally pulled his hand out from under the leather and Axel spared a moment to glance at him reproachfully.)
You don't stop until you trust yourself enough to know you won't go back.
You don't stop until you forget.
You don't stop—
-
and your mirror is still in pieces on the pavement.