notes - yes, my rubysapphire muse is back and kicking, hooray

Dismantling of the Prince

She speaks again.

He smiles briefly and nods his head, turning away in a handsomely jaded fashion.

He forgets, explaining the lie so flawlessly.

She fends it off with three well-chosen words.

And so it becomes a draining cycle that they can't stop.

The forest air is mixed with the presence of summer and it smells like rain is approaching. The clouds overhead selectively filter the sun's beams so only the most radiant shine through. It's a nice and quiet day, the sort that would be synonymous to a lovely walk or a picnic. The serene kind of day they can't help but destroy with childish arguments and competitive squabbles; the kind that taunt her about what they are (what they aren't).

There is an itch on her nose, and she suddenly decides that this is not the way she wants to spend the rest of such a pretty today.

She casually comments with a trio of words that feel familiar on her tongue; her voice travelling effortlessly out of her mouth, as if she is referring to the excellent state of the weather. And she adds on that he's being a royal idiot about the whole thing – he's denied it so easily and gracefully before and before; yet he can never leave her alone for more than half a week.

Ruby chuckles in such a strained way, and shrugs his shoulders at her as they sit under the cooling shade of her tropius' wings. It takes her awhile, but she notices that he never directly replies to her statement, demonstrating the expertise of his annoying poise. She feels like he is whispering into her closed ear as slate grey blankets the sky.

(No, you don't like me. You only think you do.)

Ruby crafts for her dresses and hats and accessories, but he never makes her happy or contented. She tolerates it; she tolerates it because she cannot find the reason in herself to dislike it. It's the oddest relationship in the region. She knows, and no matter how much she tries to fix it, everything is still broken. He never yields, never smiles back at her with something more than friendship, he always looks away the second she thinks he is taking too long to measure her waist. She isn't an obedient doll, born to only be prepped and dressed up – she's a girl shy of fourteen, living and breathing and capable of emotional capacity that forces her to think twice, gets her to consider more than she ever should.

She challenges him in the exact likeness he does with her – with his every advance and every plea to wear a dress, she objects smoothly. She watches his face fall and his eyes dull and she wonders if Ruby feels the same way she does now, every time he says that one excruciating word.

One day she eventually concedes to his request because of unplaced whimsy, struggling into the clothing with hesitation on her hands. The skirt falls in waves over her stomach, and she feels the artifice bristle against her skin. She examines herself in the bathroom mirror, the blue dress stopping its descent just above her stiff knees and the chocolate white buttons all aligned neatly from her neck to her stomach. She impresses a hand into her hair to tousle it up, to spoil the sickening image of something that has been too well-trained.

She doesn't know if she looks pretty or feminine (doesn't care, she informs her emotions), only that this will make him satisfied.

She sulks as she walks out on cold bare feet and lets him fawn over her, gushing about the superb cutting and the intelligent design; how he had been right all along and how nicely it matches her bright eyes. She doesn't ease away when he approaches her because he is so close and his hands are running along the sleeve of the dress, admiring the material. His elbow is connecting to her arm in a way her body can't break contact from.

She mumbles three words, coolly and mechanically.

Ruby stops talking, stepping back with a confused face and telling her one in quiet, guilty response.

She hurls the frock off the edge of the cliff, and allows it to get carried off in the care of the autumn breeze. She screams and shouts and blatantly swears that she will never ever talk to him ever again because he is not worth her heart and her damn time. She roars passionately and shakes her fists in the air for the world to judge.

He knows how to deflect her so carefully and politely, it hurts all the more. It makes her want him all the more – she can't stand it, she can't keep up with him and his big city attitude.

But she doesn't mean a single word of it; she can only stall her feelings for that instant.

She sees no one is looking and leaps off after a minute or two to retrieve the dress.

This time she doesn't resort to words – in winter she is too cold and her teeth are chattering even though she tries not to show it – instead she reaches out to grab his hand and dig her naked fingers against his gloved knuckles. She tries to tell herself that saying anything won't work with Ruby – she has to be brave enough to show him how hot her hands can get and the weakness she experiences when she exposes her feelings to him. He is taken by surprise, eyes darting from her narrowed scrutiny to their joined hands – and he silently watches how she hugs his fingers with hers.

But he doesn't do anything as the snow continues to descend from God's grasp, refusing to move and just letting her have her way with him. He patiently observes with the questioning raise of an eyebrow. She catches the nonchalant glimmer in his eyes, and she stares intently at his face because she can tell that he understands even though he acts otherwise. She begins anticipating what she has been dreaming about for the last five years but the as snowflakes blanket the scene of the dead forest more and more, they consume and smother her hopes.

They wait and wait without talking until she gives up again and releases his hand and wades away in the field of white and black, mumbling curses and glaring at him from over her shoulder. She reassures herself of her credibility when she pretends to be angry and disgruntled, but a part of her thinks that Ruby probably sees through her transparent facade – like he always does.

So he knows that she's sad, but he never bothers to comfort her with words, and it makes her believe she is angry instead. (When, really, she is still simply just sad.)

The next morning, she finds a pair of blue mittens resting on the table of their secret base. And the sun is shining brightly outside the cavern in spite of the season, like someone had been requested to change the weather out of their trainer's pity or maybe (it is, she tells her girl side) affection.

Spring arrives again– it fuels her with a new tank of hope and ambition.

They watch their pokémon mingle in the society of the forest clearing, Ruby searching eagerly for his camera so he can capture the beautiful moments. He bends over his bag and rummages through its fancy contents, and she squats next to him wordlessly. She moves to grab his shoulder and locks her eyes with his, and he asks what's the matter – whether there is something on his face or that he has wrinkles because he is only sixteen and the thought would be utterly devastating. She pushes down the habitual urge to retort with biting sarcasm, and instead leans forward. She seals her lips to his in the middle of his prattle, teeth knocking fangs, hands clenching his black shirt to keep him from escaping again.

For a moment – a single centimetre of time – he kisses back without the restraint of twisted logic, his wary, sissy self too stunned to do much else. Her fingers loosen their hold on him because she realises she can't concentrate on anything other than the scent of disinfectant shampoo and the feeling of a boy so very close. From the corner of her eyes she imagines his hands abandoning the red camera case, motioning to touch her arms.

But too soon, he regains his control, breaking off to hurtle away with a hand over his pursed mouth. He produces a loud, unconvincing scream that becomes a hammer to the glassy atmosphere which had initially melted around them. It shatters her would-be happiness and it numbs the acceleration of her heart. She thinks she almost has him this time – she tells herself not to give up, to not be hurt by the way he stares at her now and the sound of his voice cracking when she stands too close.

Ruby quickly repeats that one word that hangs so faithfully over his clever mouth, seemingly disregarding the flushed colour of his face. But he doesn't mean it. (She knows him too well to believe otherwise.)

He dashes over to comb his mightyena adoringly, and she stares down on the ground, her cheeks as red as the plumes of the blaziken perched concernedly near her feet.

She hisses three words at the fresh daises and thriving grass, low and whispered enough for him to pretend not to hear. She clings to the knowledge that he is just being prissy, just being difficult like always – clasps dearly on to the intoxicating sensation of his natural softness against the rugged terrain of her skin.

She speaks again and again, desperately duelling against an army of tyrannical tears.

He replies once and twice, then doesn't bother any more when he sees soaked cheeks.

She says it for the first time.

He doesn't smile, doesn't nod his head – he only stares in an innocent and wide-eyed way.

("... I hate you."

"Sorry.")