One

[MessengerOfDreams]

Sigh.

This was a dark yet fitting story for me to post. Mostly I think of it longingly because it was the last story I wrote and completed before I got sick. The brain tumor I had is making it very hard to write as you probably saw this Halloween. I used to be a pretty great fiction writer, but now it is very hard to write.

I'm posting this story with no corrections and edits. It's naive, it's a little clunky, but it is written quite well.

~MoD

Sometimes all it takes is a good look to tire you out. You haven't changed from the afternoon before- staring at the ceiling as though that's where all the answers lie, battle armor ready for a fight to the death. It's as close to comfortable as you get anymore.

You hear the shower to your right, across from Samus' room, the only noise in the room. You let the water hum, and you hear your roommate only when she swears at the faucet. You remember her bile a week or two back when Samus saw she who shall not be named. Her first reaction at her latest grand romantic gesture was to stick her hand in her mouth and gag, eyes bulging. You found it silly at the time, but replaying it now you laugh. It does take you a few days to really get a joke at times, but this makes you laugh in a different way.

Of course, you try and hold onto that image and it falls away. It used to be so innocent, laughing at what you thought you loved- something she could do without. For someone willing to try anything once, someone not nearly as enclosed as you, somehow Samus called her as poison. Maybe it was the way you first saw her kiss, the way she seemed to devour the face off of her partner in a way that seems merciful, but you feel foolish for not heeding the jokes you now see as warnings.

Luckily, your thoughts aren't eternal- they're easily interrupted.

The faucet turns off but that only makes the swearing louder. You can't make out words outside of obscenities only familiar to you via your roommate's mouth. The curtain closes and the door opens. She walks out completely unclothed, mumbling about something or other- certainly nothing you piece words together for. You prop yourself up, shaken from your own thoughts, and sit on the bed cross-legged.

"Are you…" You can't find the word. Decent is too prudish, well is too concerned, clothed is too object-specific. They all feel of a foreign tongue. You try "prepared?"

She doesn't reply, or if she does it's barely out of a frustrated whisper.

Sighing, you reach into your third drawer and pull out a set of undergarments. You'd give her a whole set if she were that type- as practical as you are yours consist of not only underpants but a full, perhaps-too-armored chest and back suit to add to this. What you want and what she wants are different, however, so you pull the underpants alone- though you could stand to wear a full set and maybe a chastity belt to top it off.

When she stomps back to the bathroom, still unclothed, you toss the pair at her, not quite looking at her. She catches them and doesn't comment that they're long enough to be shorts, instead running to the bathroom. Your thoughts are stirred as you hear her dress herself, far too conspicuously to ignore. Out of nowhere, the noise stops, and you hear her swear louder than ever. You can't figure out why she's upset, but as the door opens you jump just a small bit.

"♥♥♥♥. Sorry about that."

Now you know why. It would have been fine before, like every time she forgets something, but now it's not. That's stupid. It's absolutely stupid. It should be entirely fine. You should not be scared of Samus.

You shouldn't be scared of anyone.

She shuts the door and finishes up before she walks out again, no longer mumbling, clothed enough. The air feels calmer around you and your thoughts settle, thankful that you could be of some assistance.

She walks out again, and even with the mood being more relaxed you're worried she's unprepared. She notices your alarm and laughs quietly, sitting on the edge of your bed by your feet. "Hey, thanks for that," she manages to say too quickly.

"I hope they're suitable enough for this," you reply, almost as forced.

She taps your shin, as that's the closest she can reach, or dare. "They're fine. I've just got…" She thinks of the situation visibly. "Laundry related business I need to take care of."

"Good luck with that," you reply. "I've got confusing matters of my own to handle."

She smirks. "Yeah, that." She looks away for a moment or two, but her hand rests on your leg. "Good luck with that, kid. Some of us take years to figure that out."

You manage a smile. "At least that shows it's possible."

Her smirk transitions to a smile, and she claps your leg softly once more.

"It's gonna be, hon," she whispers, almost as quiet as her mumbling. "I promise."

She lets you go. You can't decide if you miss her being close to you or if that's far too strange.

-MoD-

Perhaps it was envy that attracted you to she who shall not be named.

Some would give more obvious reasons. For many it was the white dress that kept her shielded more than clothed, the type you'd see on statues of goddesses you'd never met more than the living, breathing ones you have. It might be the knee-length long, infuriatingly organized radiant green hair that could stop air traffic. Some might see the amount of gold casually worn in many safe places on her, the amount of gold that should be obscene not sold or molded into a shield but instead looked like it belonged nowhere else. The eyes that gleam enough to outclass the value of such precious metal.

Maybe that'd all be true for some people, if they never talked to her.

If they talked to her, things would seem better for them, which is really worse.

You stand in the back of the tournament celebrations trying to remember the winner because it keeps you from looking at her. Your eyes are closed, trying to ignore what you used to see, what you still do. You know she's in the room, as if she could ever be there and not be known. You try and imagine anything but her talking to someone who thinks she's the sweetest person in the tournament, the kind of person where fiftieth place means nothing if she's the number one in people's' hearts. You think if you close your eyes hard enough you'll be the one person she doesn't talk to, in that way that used to strike you as sweet, charismatic, caring, and whatever you assigned to your attractions.

You don't want to hear her speak. You'd rather hear anything than her words. You don't want to hear her false words in that premeditated tone that mean nothing. You don't want to think about the truth. You don't want to admit that you're still attracted to her.

You hear that the tournament's winner is Sheik and your eyes pop open, your one distraction gone. Sheik isn't a name that resonates with you- not like the runner-up at least. You look at the stage and you see the first and third placers there, ready to receive their medals. The second placer is gone and you can't figure out where she left. As you're used to doing, a defense move that should have been left on the battlefield, you scan the room for Samus, trying to find her, trying to urge her to take her space up there, to not worry about you- worrying about yourself already makes you sick.

Your eyes miss Samus' and lock with hers instead.

She waves and you reach for a sword that isn't there. You don't recall leaving your battle outfit more than you count on one hand alone; sadly the sword is no part of that. Undeterred, she puts on a smile you can't bring yourself to trust and walks towards you.

"Hello, Lucy," she says, dangerously close with the name and the space that no one else dared use; her strongest weapon. You take a step away, and she takes one forward.

"Don't be like that," she pleads with enough molasses in her voice to make you sick. "It's the final night. We're here to celebrate."

"Go away," you demand as she inches closer.

She clicks her tongue, too patronizing, but begins to walk away. You're about to start breathing close to right again when she tells you "You mustn't be so distant, Lucy. It's a challenge. It's why no one cares for you."

"I know you didn't."

"Ciao!" As usual, she takes no responsibility.

You don't watch her leave, but if she knows an exit, you'd take it. Leave it to her to find a way to poison you from miles away.

You close your eyes again, willing to attack the next person who stands near you. Your sword isn't there but you imagine it is. Sure, some believe you- some people are even friendly enough to consider you their ally, not her. Some, however, is maybe five of fifty, and you rarely see them. As close as they are, for most of them, you'd still bristle if they stood near you. You couldn't. You know it. Maybe that is why only a few take your side. Maybe that's why only a few care.

You still can't help but think that she's right. Old habits die hard. You used to think everything about her was standout, unique, attractive… and as much as you can't stand the sight of her, the lovely sight of her far too many are drawn to… you still believe it to be true.

As much as you step away from the reality, the ideal still follows.

-MoD-

You watch Samus walk up, fashionably late as usual, passing you at the back of the room before she even sees you. There's no one else there, but you're not surprised that this is a time where no one else is there except for her. Even the well-dressed announcer in the center doesn't seem to register to her as she walks past his surprised presence. She takes a seat next to Sheik and Rosalina, legs crossed quickly, guarded as ever.

The other two barely register as humans, and the announcer as barely a voice, so you keep your eyes on Samus. Samus, the woman woefully underdressed- white slacks and tight blue shirt looking just out of a bar fight, none of them without stains and tears from battle practice. Samus, the woman who looks bored with the announcer as he rambles on with a voice you're too used to telling you "game" on your way to the pit. Samus, who's so preoccupied, so bored, so above it all, that she can't catch your eyes long enough to make eye contact with you, long enough to feel safe, to feel like her.

You grip the handle of the door, and in the dead quiet save for the announcer's scripted words, the sound of the handle creaking can be heard by all. It'd be so, so easy to leave this room, but even though the eyes of several are on you, you remain petrified, holding onto something in a new way, something stronger than romance, something more visceral.

She notices, even as the announcer remains undeterred, and you think you catch her eyes for a moment, even as others turn away. You try and force a smile, but you realize she isn't looking at you. Her eyes are focused on someone else in the crowd. She's trying to look indifferent, the distance she successfully keeps others at, but you see the fire in her eyes, more honest than she. You don't want to trace her eyes; you wish they could communicate the anger, the aversion to others that she mastered so well.

As she's called upon second to grab her medal, she never looks at the announcer. Her eyes gradually shift away from their focus, but even as she takes her silver, her eyes find their way to yours. You catch her gaze and you don't let go, and she doesn't look away. She can't smile, she can't look away, because she is honest. All you can do is watch her, number two to everyone except for you, only now moving up a spot when it's too late. Your hands cup your mouth as you hold onto her gaze like a liferaft. You try and keep the tears away but you are more fearful than ever. Fearful and, despite this, incredibly proud.

You hope she smiles that evening, but you don't expect it yet.

-MoD-

Eventually Samus takes a seat at the front end of a large, mostly empty round table with you at it. Samus isn't eating, and your appetite hasn't shown yet. You try and keep your eyes buoyed on your company but how you keep them open you barely know.

"Second place," you offer.

"It's no first," she replies, legs kicked back on the next chair.

"It's no third, either," you help. Before you can stop it, you sweeten the deal. "It's no forty-seventh, either."

She smirks, but there's no mirth in her eyes. "You're going to have to quit that ♥♥♥♥." You should argue that, but what has gone unsaid about learning her is louder than ever. You want to ask her how she dealt with placing last the first tournament, and how it felt getting better, ending up here, where second is so far away from where she started, so far away from you.

Instead, you focus on keeping your eyes on her. It should be uncomfortable, but she doesn't take it in such a way. Maybe she's the only one that doesn't find it odd. Silence seems to be her second home, in a way this house of more than fifty people cannot.

Still, you apologize before she finds it unsettling. She doesn't say anything, beyond questions. Instead your eyes trace around the room, trying to find one of your other friends. One of your few friends, Diddy, has disappeared into the crowd, and wherever the crown prince may be is outside of your concern; he is royalty, after all, and as the days go by your unwitting mentor seems less of consequence.

The only thing with any familiarity in this room is the one you want to avoid, and you close your eyes before that happens. You want to reach for your nonexistent sword again, but you don't. You try not to imagine holding it with more force than the side of your bed, than anyone's hand, than the punch cup, to your own ideals. You try not to imagine the way the slick bounce of metal, the slide of smooth silver, turns into something too disturbing for words when it hits the surface of someone else's flesh.

You try not to imagine doing that to her.

You try because it is disgusting, and you fail because it'd be far too easy to never worry about her again.

You hear a kick against the table and swing around, too terrified to think what's on your mind. You look at her with too much attention to be a casual friend of hers. How she entered this void with you, you can't say, only regret. She doesn't look at you with the casual surprise she used to, and you miss that at the same time you never want her to be that far away again.

She looks at you with the exhaustion you feel.

"Ya know," she starts, trying to talk to you like she used to. "I got last in my first tournament."

You nod, fully aware, and you manage a small smile. It's a temporary conversation. You know it will end. It might end how you think. You don't care, though; it's a problem to solve, a mild distraction, something different.

She knows that.

You wish she didn't.

-MoD-

The conversation ends too quickly, but by then you're able to use trouble hearing as an excuse to sit next to her. By then, if she notices that your breath has grown normal, she hasn't said anything. You're okay with that; returns to what used to be normal are best enjoyed unaddressed.

You notice something on the side of her face- faded from so many scrubs. You find your hand tracing the contours of the cheek. You're waiting for her to slap you away, though she never has. Still, you feel something on the side of your face- probably a few too many shocked glares as you make sense of her. You notice the outline of a set of lips on the side of her face and let go, barely keeping your composure.

She notices. "Nothing quite misses you, does it?"

You shake your head. "I don't mean to come across as taking offense, certainly."

"Glad to hear it," she replies, laughing dryly, still not quite smiling. "People are more amazed that someone didn't get around to it yet, not… that it exists at all."

You stop for a moment, facing the table again. Maybe your friend is the least suited one for this. Maybe she understands you least. What was so mundane to you has a second meaning now. She explains all of these things clinically. The positives, like the people she's with- with in ways you feel like a child for barely comprehending- or the things you've dealt with. The word "trauma" appears a lot lately. The word "love" has never escaped her lips.

"I just want…" You gulp, not sure what you want, but your hand finds the face once kissed again. "I just want you to be careful."

She nods. "I gotcha, hon. No one's getting past me."

You don't look up, and you want to bury yourself more, because someone got past you.

-MoD-

A few minutes is all it takes to piece together everyone in the room. You realize that you recognize more than your friends now; you can piece together the name of each person you see if you focus for a moment or two. Even before you they seem fuzzier than those who matter, background characters in your story. Still, you can label them, and you imagine they know you. You try to think of how you entered the game, how they saw you then (a formidable, standout swordfighter- similar to Marth, but in ways no one anticipated) and how they see you now (a scared youngling trying things she's unaccustomed to). You see too many people who don't know you.

"Samus, am I too distant?"

Her words escape your mouth like they're all she's taken over. You can't believe they escaped you uncontrolled. You can stop these things. That's how you sorted out those worth it and the many, many who are not. You can feel her eyes on you, softer than anyone else's, and you can't look up.

You might miss it.

"Lucina," she mumbles, entirely unsure of how to answer.

"Just say it," you demand bitterly. "Please, just say it."

You feel an elbow hit the table, imagining her face in her hand, and you wonder who's learning the foreign language of each other quickest- you, or the one person who, fatefully, does know you.

You still don't look up. Maybe if no one sees you at all, it'll be the perfect neutral you should have kept with you.

-MoD-

"You ought to consider eating something."

You barely realized she was gone. Your immediate reaction is to shoot up in surprise, but you manage to place a hand on wherever the banana held out for you is. You awkwardly meet her eyes, pretending this was how you meant it to be. Not because she'll buy it, because she'll at least leave you be. She lets you take the banana and grabs her own plate with two hands, sitting next to you and settling down.

"I apologize," you mumble. She shakes her head, eating her first bite a little eagerly. You decide it's best to try and reciprocate. You peel the edges of the banana off, eating the first bite before that's about enough for you. You set it down as though you mean to get back to it.

"It's really good," she says, mouth full of her own food.

"I'll eat it," you lie.

She swallows. "Meant this food," she explains, hand on her own plate. "Delicious as all hell."

"Of course."

She stops eating and you feel her eyes on you while you stare the banana down, daring it to move. You hear her say "You're just fine, hon. Eat when you're hungry." You take the reassurance as skin deep- it's comforting to hear it from a hundred percent of the people here that you trust, all one of them. When you replay it, you notice she sounds uncertain, like she just remembered to say something, like she's trying to learn too.

You can't look up, focusing on this one object until your brain shuts down.

-MoD-

You try not to think of home when your eyes are closed. You should, it's comforting. It's the one safe place you remember, even with the fights, the danger, and the ever-present changing of fate. It's part of your past, and it will be your future, but there's something alluring about it. Even when people are closer than you were ever comfortable with, even when people glanced at you in a way you weren't quite comfortable with, even when people asked you blunt questions you had no answer for, they were careful, they were cordial, and they stepped back when they needed to, and why does no one seem to get that it matters-

No. No. You open your eyes and glare at the banana as though it challenged you to a fight. You won't let this do that to you. You want to be okay for when you get back, you want to be as they remembered. But you're not. You're not going to be as great as you were when you left. You won't be as easy to understand. You're going to have to let people know when you can't explain it to yourself. You're not sure if they'll laugh it off, if they'll believe you, or if you're carrying this alone, all you know is the past will never erase this and the future will never escape it.

You're here, you're now, and you have to face this.

When the seat creaks next to you, you've already gotten wet eyes begging for tears. You mumble a hello to Diddy, because it can't be as regal as Marth, Samus is already here, and no one else here is close to you the way-

Your eyes meet Samus', full of hate as they look past you. You turn towards the sight to see it. The hair that made men stop in their tracks, the dress that had women staring longingly, the gold that made the poor greedy, the eyes that made the rich desperate. All of it is next to you, and you can't make out why that is- why you matter at all.

"Hey, Lucy!"

She's too cordial for someone like her, and as close as she sits to you, you can smell her breath as she rattles every word off like someone who had hers taken- if only she could read your mind. Her leg presses against yours, and you want to shake her away, but there's something normal, something real, something comforting about her being right there, all of her beauty and the charms you're not able to resist yet, beauty and charm that has never melted away- not for a moment. The scary thing about her is that she might mean it, even though she doesn't.

"What do you want?" you hiss.

Samus sets a sandwich down, silver medal swinging with every word, making her statement. "You've got until dinner is done before I ♥♥♥♥ you up," she threatens, eyes on her.

You want to say something to dissuade her, but the remark dies on your tongue.

"You needn't worry, hunter," she responds, eyes dimming and the room growing dark with it. She sits with legs crossed, dress leaking onto your legs. Samus bites her sandwich again, her hateful eyes not moving.

Instead, her arm rests on you, fully aware that she knows how to claim something as hers. She gives you a quizzical look, and asks "You seem like something the cat dragged in, babe."

"I haven't taken the time to imagine why," you utter, an attempt at sarcasm.

"Time's your worst enemy, mortal," she reminds you. "I wouldn't count your seconds. Pretty soon we're all going to be going our separate ways."

You look around at everyone. You knew they'd be gone. They're already gone. They've made up their minds and left you alone. You want to look into their eyes, though. Show them what's really on your mind. See if they can still leave you two alone with that sort of trust in your anger.

"Not a moment too soon," you say.

"They'll miss you!" she insists, resting on you. "I will. You've been the most interesting person I've seen this entire time. Once you're gone, all that's left are these… normal humans."

"Normal," you utter. Not a question, a statement. Normal, she says. Normal in that they're intoxicated with her in the ways that are okay with her. They're easy to understand, easier to consume.

"Not like you," she says merrily. "You're a challenge."

One word is all it takes to remind you of many things, but the word "challenge" is enough to remind you about who she really is. Something so beautiful, so alluring, so despicable. You move away from her so sharply her garments and arm become her own, and the chair grinds on the floor as it's shooed away.

"A challenge?" you seethe. From the corner of your eye, you see Samus take another bite of her food.

"Something like that," she says, inching closer to you, chair squeaking and all. "I wouldn't take that harshly, though. The fun of a challenge is getting it to bend your way, Lucy. Wouldn't you say?"

As though you can think of any mere puzzle! As though you can think at all of anything aside from her. The smell of her you felt was too much, too rehearsed. The taste of her you never asked for. The way she looked with your eyes closed. The way she took what little space was yours, the only thing she had, and pushed her way in, and now all you can imagine is succeeding at getting her out of your way for more than just a moment- through sword, through your hands, anything to remove that worthless smile from her. You still think of her as beautiful, but only with your hands around her neck, wringing everything she thought was so amusing out of her, something so disgusting and hateful that you just can't think of it, because she'd find it so easy to be you, when you can't stand the idea of turning into her.

"You gonna finish that banana?" she asks, absently reaching for it.

"That is my banana," you seethe back, reaching for the fruit. "You horrible-"

That's when you feel a set of hands hit the ground. There's a plate next to you with nothing on it. You want to say something, but then you feel something far more powerful on the table.

It takes the banana falling to know the table's gone.

It takes her screams for you to realize that things are too late for everyone.

-MoD-

You're clear outside, standing as far away from the boarding house as the city adjacent allows while staying on a straight line so Samus can find you. You can barely remember the kerfuffle inside, only that she barely fought and Samus didn't hold up. Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe it never goddamned happened like that, you can't remember. It's all you can think about but all you can do is try and put together details of the incident as its number one witness- as the object of the fight altogether.

You aren't angry that it happened. You do not feel sorry for her, and that terrifies you. You would feel pity for anyone you fought. You'd never hurt anyone too badly for them to recover; even a noble death was too twisted for you. If you fought, you know before it'd have ended with a hand up and a cordial thanks. That's how you ended every Smash fight- the few you were in.

It's how you met Samus. The woman who once found you so odd, who joked about finding you attractive until she saw you didn't quite get the jovial nature, the woman who heard your inane ramblings about this mystery woman that she could get under control in half a kiss, this woman who'd seen so much that wore her down but, despite her callous behavior and uttered swears, fought with the same sort of honor you found so appealing- a fight was a fight and it would end.

Here you are, so terrified about losing that remorse that you wanted to find again, so eager to show someone that a cornered mouse will destroy the machine, so happy to take your blasted banana back, but you can only feel pity, anger, frustration, because that shouldn't have been her. She shouldn't have to go as low as you wished you would. She didn't have to enter the fray. She doesn't deserve to willingly feel anything close to you.

Footsteps run through the city streets and you hear people swerve and zip out of the way as your eyes are reawakened to the waterfront you found so comforting at first. You see the city before you, as strange as the day you entered it, and you feel the right person sit next to you. You feel her keep her hands to herself but it's her that needs comforting. Your peripherals catch blood on the surface of her skin and you can't determine whose it is. You don't know if she's alive or dead. You hate that she's left with that on her own. You hate that you couldn't have done it.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

A few more people walk by, watching for split seconds this casual looking woman trying to be formal and her too formal friend trying to become casual to all that she feared. Then they're gone, as temporary as the people who you saw in the tournament, as odd as they all see you as- and now, her.

Her silver medal rests against her chest and she breathes heavy. She's so destroyed trying to protect you, as weak as you were around people, and she has the audacity to check on you.

"Are you okay?" she asks again.

You want to tell her that she'll never be okay again.

You give the answer she wants to hear.

"I hope she fears you," you breathe, fists clenched, "as long as she may live."

Even though that's true as well, she doesn't seem to believe you.

-MoD-

You don't have to leave your own bed to hear that Palutena has left the premises. You hear it through her radio alarm clock- that's all that can be heard. It's more quiet than usual and that's all you can take in until Samus shuts it off before it can get to the fight. Then, it hits a box, and the radio is gone.

A couple of other light boxes stand near your door, one near the bathroom. You suppose you should pack too but all you want to do is rest. You like the moments where nothing happened more than any of them, as though any of this will be a distant memory. Whatever boxes you pack will be carried with you for as long as you can predict.

For a few moments, you lean up as you hear footsteps. You see her walk in, mumbling again, dressed in the undergarments you loaned her and a T-Shirt. She doesn't look too happy, though you imagine she'll claim it as frustration that she's being removed. You know it's a mercy that she was even given a morning to pack, and you could have used that morning to be done with everything and that afternoon to be happily heading home, whatever evil sorcery you were capable of to expunge the poison utilized.

Instead, you look at each other. The blood has dried, and she still looks haggard. You're still so angry at her but you've never needed a friend more, and she's about to leave these doors. However she might leave, however childish it may look, you need her.

She starts to walk towards you, but you put a hand up. You instead shove the blankets off of yourself, feeling freer by the moment. You stand up unsteadily and reach her, placing a hand on her face. She shivers for just a moment, but lets you, because it's a sign of trust, and you will never let someone believe you are weak again.

The two of you stand there and take each other in for what you hope against hope isn't the final time. She forces a smile, and you stand there, hand on her face, hoping she's too distracted to leave for as long as you live, because someone has to protect her from ever hurting someone on your behalf again. Even then, she looks at you with sorrow that betrays her smile, like she's broken something she found too beautiful to touch.

You're wearing the same fighter getup you did on your first day, because it's your fight now.