Fanfiction: Honeydew Syndrome: February the 14th
Title: February the 14th
Fandom: Honeydew Syndrome
Pairings: Josh/Metis
Warnings: Slash! Sap. D: Not that bad, though.
Status: Completed, one-shot.
Notes: It's actually the 15th where I am, but the only reason why I've got time to write is 'cause I'm on sick leave from school. I really should be studying, but... ah well. Happy Valentine's/Friendship/Singles Awareness Day! ^_^
As a general rule, you hate the 14th of February. The day is really just any other day, and maybe it might have once meant something more than just candy and chocolate, but it’s since become an such over-commercialised, over-hyped-up event - and the worst thing is that it targets such a select group, and the worst, worst thing is, you’ve never been one of them.
This year should be no different, you tell yourself as you trudge your way up the stairs of your high school. Except that maybe it should be… You try to ignore the gaudy red and pink crepe streamers that someone's wrapped around the banisters, and grimly wish rain on them.
You almost hate Josh for making you so uncertain about yourself. You spent a couple of hours last night agonising over today - should you give him something? For a relationship that’s only just begun, isn’t that a particularly sappy thing to do? And if you do, what do you give? You’re not a girl, so he might laugh at you if you gave him chocolates - he’s not a girl, so he might not like it if you gave him flowers. Besides, flowers are so conspicuous - nothing better than for a boy to hold a bunch of red roses to start the questions going. In bed, you imagined the entire hallway turning to stare as he made his way to his locker, holding them in his hand, and in your mind you could hear the girls giggling and whispering, wondering who Josh is giving them to.
Even your imagination is cruel to you, you thought miserably.
Eventually you decided that you’ve got no money for any of these things, anyway, so you rolled over and went to sleep.
When you woke up today you decided that you’d just play it as it came. So you push the doors open and walk into the hallway, and - are greeted by the sight of a million girls crowded about Josh, trying to press their boxes of chocolates and other knick-knacks into his overflowing arms.
You feel something in the pit of your stomach as you see the charming smile on his face, blessing those who come to worship at his feet as he accepts their gifts one by one. You don’t know what that feeling is. You’re not sure that you want to put a name to it.
You walk by him, head down, and as you hoped, Josh doesn’t seem to see you.
You don’t notice his head turning back to watch you as you walk down the hall to your locker.
The rest of the day is just as grim. You’ve never been particularly popular, and you’ve only ever hung out with the weird kids - Charles, because you’re best friends, and only recently Jay, as an extension of Charles - so you sit at your desk and feel the buzz of excited anticipation all around you. Everybody seems higher than usual - the guys’ voices are up by half an octave as they try to be suave in front of their female counterparts, and the girls seem to be laughing and comparing much more and with far more excitement than usual.
You feel like the eye of a tornado - everywhere you go, you are the calm in the centre of madness.
You recall you have English next, and you decide to skip. You’re not sure if you can stand watching Josh’s million and one girlfriends achieve the physically impossible by sitting in their seats, metres away, and somehow still hanging off his arm.
You’re not sure if you can stand watching Josh in the midst of those girls.
It’s a miserable feeling. It's a miserable day. You decide to indulge in your misery.
You head to the courtyard. It’s a tiny courtyard - more of a yard than a courtyard, really - but the weather is terrible out there, so you’ve pretty sure that there isn’t going to be anybody out for a romantic venture around to bother you.
So when you get there you’re not quite sure why you see Josh sitting on one of the benches, hands in his jacket pockets, hunched over against the cold wind. He looks up as you walk out onto the courtyard and curse that bastard, gives you a sunny smile and a wave, beckoning for you to go over.
A pox on him and his family, you think, but the curse is only half-hearted as you walk to him, drawn irresistibly by his presence. That smile of his has, so far, been the only warm thing in your day.
“How’d you know I was here?” you say.
He shrugs. “Charles came up to me 10 minutes before bell and told me that it was highly likely that you’d be here right now,” he says. He stops and seems to think, and then adds with a wry smile on his face, “You need to get less creepy friends.”
That Charles. “My friends are not creepy,” you say aloud. “And even if he did do that, what made you come here anyway?”
You’re not sure if it’s a trick of the dim light making the shadows around more pronounced or whatever, but Josh’s face seems to flush red. You’re also not sure if you hear him mumble, “He so is creepy - I mean, he practically read my mind.”
“What?”
It’s definitely a blush. He takes a hand out of his pocket and dives it into his jacket, fishing around for something in his inner breast pocket. He produces something and presents it to you with the air of a valiant knight who’s been through hellfire to bring you back - a card?
It’s a homemade one, half a piece of pink paper folded again into half. You note the red marker-pen heart on the cover and the tackiness makes you look up, eyebrow quirked in amused askance. Josh’s cheeks are practically flaming.
“I stole my kid sisters’ paper,” Josh tries to explain, and it’s endearing, really, the way he’s stumbling over his words and trying to gesticulate nervously with both hands still stuck deep in his pockets. “I’ve never had any experience in giving cards. I mean, elementary school doesn’t count, right, because the teachers make you do it for art class and everything and that’s really kind of lame because you exchange whatever you made for somebody else’s crooked handwriting and crayon drawings and you realise you liked your own a lot better even though your own handwriting’s crooked too and you can’t colour within the lines either…”
He trails off as you take the card and open it, and he subsides into silence.
Metis, (it reads, though it’s hard to actually read because of his clumsy handwriting)
You know I suck I’m no good with words. I’m also no good with asking people boys out. I mean. Not that I’ve ever had tried. But. With girls its plenty easy cuz they don’t expect much.
I’ve never had a valentine, though. I mean I got plenty of them, but I don’t think any of them were yknow real ones. I don’t think they meant as mu
I should shut up now, yeah? Except that I still haven’t asked so:
Will you be my Valentine?
Josh
The English is so awkward that you’re itching to have a red pen in your hands… but you resist the temptation and take the card as it is.
Take Josh as he is.
Because he took the time to write this, didn’t he? Even with all the untidy strikethroughs, even with the cumbersome phrasing, even with the horrible punctuation, he still took the time to write it, which is… well, more than you can say for yourself.
You sit in contemplative silence, and you can tell that Josh is watching you, trying to gauge your reaction, trying to decide what to say.
Before he can open his mouth to speak, you’ve opened the card again, but then you’ve begun folding and pressing, smoothing out the creases the card had suffered from being in Josh’s pocket all day, making new clean lines of your own.
When you’re done, you present the origami heart to Josh.
“Not the best one I’ve made, I’m afraid,” you hear yourself say, “But it’s mine anyway.”
Josh takes it hesitantly, but as he does, a smile blossoms across his face. You can’t believe you’ve become such a total sap, but at that moment you decide that’s it one of the most beautiful things you’ve seen.
He tucks the heart away in his breast pocket, and as he pats it softly you can’t help but think about the appropriateness of where your heart now lies.
You still hate February the 14th. But you think that, well, maybe you could learn to tolerate it.
Fandom: Honeydew Syndrome
Pairings: Josh/Metis
Warnings: Slash! Sap. D: Not that bad, though.
Status: Completed, one-shot.
Notes: It's actually the 15th where I am, but the only reason why I've got time to write is 'cause I'm on sick leave from school. I really should be studying, but... ah well. Happy Valentine's/Friendship/Singles Awareness Day! ^_^
As a general rule, you hate the 14th of February. The day is really just any other day, and maybe it might have once meant something more than just candy and chocolate, but it’s since become an such over-commercialised, over-hyped-up event - and the worst thing is that it targets such a select group, and the worst, worst thing is, you’ve never been one of them.
This year should be no different, you tell yourself as you trudge your way up the stairs of your high school. Except that maybe it should be… You try to ignore the gaudy red and pink crepe streamers that someone's wrapped around the banisters, and grimly wish rain on them.
You almost hate Josh for making you so uncertain about yourself. You spent a couple of hours last night agonising over today - should you give him something? For a relationship that’s only just begun, isn’t that a particularly sappy thing to do? And if you do, what do you give? You’re not a girl, so he might laugh at you if you gave him chocolates - he’s not a girl, so he might not like it if you gave him flowers. Besides, flowers are so conspicuous - nothing better than for a boy to hold a bunch of red roses to start the questions going. In bed, you imagined the entire hallway turning to stare as he made his way to his locker, holding them in his hand, and in your mind you could hear the girls giggling and whispering, wondering who Josh is giving them to.
Even your imagination is cruel to you, you thought miserably.
Eventually you decided that you’ve got no money for any of these things, anyway, so you rolled over and went to sleep.
When you woke up today you decided that you’d just play it as it came. So you push the doors open and walk into the hallway, and - are greeted by the sight of a million girls crowded about Josh, trying to press their boxes of chocolates and other knick-knacks into his overflowing arms.
You feel something in the pit of your stomach as you see the charming smile on his face, blessing those who come to worship at his feet as he accepts their gifts one by one. You don’t know what that feeling is. You’re not sure that you want to put a name to it.
You walk by him, head down, and as you hoped, Josh doesn’t seem to see you.
You don’t notice his head turning back to watch you as you walk down the hall to your locker.
The rest of the day is just as grim. You’ve never been particularly popular, and you’ve only ever hung out with the weird kids - Charles, because you’re best friends, and only recently Jay, as an extension of Charles - so you sit at your desk and feel the buzz of excited anticipation all around you. Everybody seems higher than usual - the guys’ voices are up by half an octave as they try to be suave in front of their female counterparts, and the girls seem to be laughing and comparing much more and with far more excitement than usual.
You feel like the eye of a tornado - everywhere you go, you are the calm in the centre of madness.
You recall you have English next, and you decide to skip. You’re not sure if you can stand watching Josh’s million and one girlfriends achieve the physically impossible by sitting in their seats, metres away, and somehow still hanging off his arm.
You’re not sure if you can stand watching Josh in the midst of those girls.
It’s a miserable feeling. It's a miserable day. You decide to indulge in your misery.
You head to the courtyard. It’s a tiny courtyard - more of a yard than a courtyard, really - but the weather is terrible out there, so you’ve pretty sure that there isn’t going to be anybody out for a romantic venture around to bother you.
So when you get there you’re not quite sure why you see Josh sitting on one of the benches, hands in his jacket pockets, hunched over against the cold wind. He looks up as you walk out onto the courtyard and curse that bastard, gives you a sunny smile and a wave, beckoning for you to go over.
A pox on him and his family, you think, but the curse is only half-hearted as you walk to him, drawn irresistibly by his presence. That smile of his has, so far, been the only warm thing in your day.
“How’d you know I was here?” you say.
He shrugs. “Charles came up to me 10 minutes before bell and told me that it was highly likely that you’d be here right now,” he says. He stops and seems to think, and then adds with a wry smile on his face, “You need to get less creepy friends.”
That Charles. “My friends are not creepy,” you say aloud. “And even if he did do that, what made you come here anyway?”
You’re not sure if it’s a trick of the dim light making the shadows around more pronounced or whatever, but Josh’s face seems to flush red. You’re also not sure if you hear him mumble, “He so is creepy - I mean, he practically read my mind.”
“What?”
It’s definitely a blush. He takes a hand out of his pocket and dives it into his jacket, fishing around for something in his inner breast pocket. He produces something and presents it to you with the air of a valiant knight who’s been through hellfire to bring you back - a card?
It’s a homemade one, half a piece of pink paper folded again into half. You note the red marker-pen heart on the cover and the tackiness makes you look up, eyebrow quirked in amused askance. Josh’s cheeks are practically flaming.
“I stole my kid sisters’ paper,” Josh tries to explain, and it’s endearing, really, the way he’s stumbling over his words and trying to gesticulate nervously with both hands still stuck deep in his pockets. “I’ve never had any experience in giving cards. I mean, elementary school doesn’t count, right, because the teachers make you do it for art class and everything and that’s really kind of lame because you exchange whatever you made for somebody else’s crooked handwriting and crayon drawings and you realise you liked your own a lot better even though your own handwriting’s crooked too and you can’t colour within the lines either…”
He trails off as you take the card and open it, and he subsides into silence.
Metis, (it reads, though it’s hard to actually read because of his clumsy handwriting)
You know I suck I’m no good with words. I’m also no good with asking people boys out. I mean. Not that I’ve ever had tried. But. With girls its plenty easy cuz they don’t expect much.
I’ve never had a valentine, though. I mean I got plenty of them, but I don’t think any of them were yknow real ones. I don’t think they meant as mu
I should shut up now, yeah? Except that I still haven’t asked so:
Will you be my Valentine?
Josh
The English is so awkward that you’re itching to have a red pen in your hands… but you resist the temptation and take the card as it is.
Take Josh as he is.
Because he took the time to write this, didn’t he? Even with all the untidy strikethroughs, even with the cumbersome phrasing, even with the horrible punctuation, he still took the time to write it, which is… well, more than you can say for yourself.
You sit in contemplative silence, and you can tell that Josh is watching you, trying to gauge your reaction, trying to decide what to say.
Before he can open his mouth to speak, you’ve opened the card again, but then you’ve begun folding and pressing, smoothing out the creases the card had suffered from being in Josh’s pocket all day, making new clean lines of your own.
When you’re done, you present the origami heart to Josh.
“Not the best one I’ve made, I’m afraid,” you hear yourself say, “But it’s mine anyway.”
Josh takes it hesitantly, but as he does, a smile blossoms across his face. You can’t believe you’ve become such a total sap, but at that moment you decide that’s it one of the most beautiful things you’ve seen.
He tucks the heart away in his breast pocket, and as he pats it softly you can’t help but think about the appropriateness of where your heart now lies.
You still hate February the 14th. But you think that, well, maybe you could learn to tolerate it.