Hopeless Chapter 12: too sweet, a harvest moon fanfic

Chapter 12

Too Sweet

He almost lost his grip on the mug perched between his knees as his sweaty hands trembled and his heart hammered under her eyes' scrutiny. The air between them, filled with the fragrance of coffee and the flickering orange of the oil lamp, was saturated with sheer tension and, in his opinion, awkwardness. He wanted to glance at her face just to see her expression, but he couldn't even summon the courage to lift his eyes to her shoulders, so he simply kept staring into his mug and pretended she wasn't there and that he hadn't said anything.

She was going to reject him, and he was sure of it.

He knew he had been stupid. After this, they would certainly go back to the way they were before—mere strangers who knew each other's names; he, the lover who blushed and stuttered whenever he saw her, and she, the beloved who smiled and laughed and lived happily without the knowledge of his existence. He didn't want to, of course, but he honestly couldn't see how he could walk out of her house today and still be friends with her the next morning. He had been stupid and now he had to suffer the consequences.

"What did you say?" she asked, almost whispering the words.

"I…" He wanted so badly to turn back the time and prevent any of this from ever happening, but if the very worst was to happen, at least he had been friends with her, even if it ended too soon. "I said…I said the coffee was a bit too sweet, b-but it tastes nice," he said quickly, biting his tongue for saying something stupid he wasn't even planning to say.

"Mark, that doesn't even rhyme." He saw her shake her head in his peripheral vision as she chuckled lamely.

"I-it's true, though," he continued, unthinkingly spewing out words that may somehow—somehow—magically repair every single mistake he'd said, "the coffee tastes—"

"Stop it," she said, cutting him off. He finally found the courage to look at her face, and to his surprise, she didn't look angry. She wasn't even looking at him; her eyes were intently watching a wayward moth dancing around the lamp, unaware of its fate should it touch the deceptively beautiful flames. She looked tired and sleepy and confused and—and—and beautiful, with the dim, ethereal glow illuminating her face. Beautiful, as always.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking back down into his mug, willing himself to get lost in the swirling darkness of the coffee. There must be some way they could still be friends, and he was going to look for one. As for his feelings…well, they weren't important anymore. It didn't matter anymore whether he'd still have a chance to be with Chelsea or not; the only thing in his mind right now was to repair whatever damage his mouth had caused and still be able to talk to her and laugh with her and spend time with her as friends…as if he'd never walked into her farm at two in the morning and blurted out his feelings over steaming mugs of overly-sweet coffee.

"Why me?" The words were spoken softly, as if she almost didn't want him to hear. "There are other girls on the island—other girls who are prettier and nicer and smarter and…and generally better than me."

Mark almost laughed aloud at her question. Why her? Was she even serious?

"Why you?" he said, smiling slightly, his eyes focused on his drink, gliding a finger smoothly around the rim. "Where do I even start? You're beautiful. You're kind. You're friendly, hardworking, adventurous, stubborn, cheerful, strong-willed, and hard-headed. I could go on and on, but it might take a while."

"Mark—"

"You're always smiling, you know that?" For some reason, he couldn't stop talking. He knew he had to stop soon and he knew he might stutter badly, but he simply couldn't stop—hell, this woman had no idea how wonderful she was, and he had to let her know. "Even when you're tired, you're still smiling. And even when you're covered in mud or dirt or horse dung—" she giggled a little "—you're still smiling."

"But—" she tried to say, but he was on a roll. He was now staring straight into her eyes, meaning every single thing he said, not even consciously thinking up the words.

"Your hair's usually tangled and dry and your clothes soiled and rumpled but dammit, Chelsea, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. You know when to handle things yourself and you know when to ask for help. You know when to be nice and you know when to be firm. You're…you're…" He gestured with his free hand, stumped for the exact word to summarize her. And then it hit him. "You're perfect."

He smiled at her for three seconds but immediately averted his gaze when he realized that everything he just said was enough to cause him embarrassment for the rest of his life. He'd told her she was beautiful—twice. He'd used all these textbook adjectives to describe her—the ones grade-schoolers would use to describe their teacher. Hell, he'd as good as told her she looked good covered in horse dung!

But at least he wasn't complimenting her—no, he was just describing her. And he had been accurate, as far as he was concerned.

He glanced at her once more, mainly to forget about his own embarrassment. She was covering her mouth with one hand, but even in the lamplight, he knew she was blushing hard. And her eyes…oh Goddess, was she crying? Goddess, no, please, don't let her cry, for the love of humanity and all things bright and beautiful. Maybe she just yawned. Maybe the lamp was too dim and it irritated her eyes. Or maybe she finally realized that the coffee was just too sweet.

"Hey, wait, don't cry," he said worriedly, setting his mug down on the table. "I'm—I'm sorry if I somehow offended you or something…"

Maybe she was offended by the generic adjectives he'd used. Goodness, he was starting to consider the odds of him having a better life had he been born without a tongue.

"Do you—" she started, but was interrupted by a hiccup. "Do you really mean that?"

"I do. I swear to Goddess, Chelsea, I meant every single word I said," he replied, his hands awkwardly hovering above her shoulders, unsure whether he should comfort her or if that would be considered inappropriate—well, she was in her chicken-print pajamas, for one thing. But more importantly, he had to make her stop crying somehow. But even more importantly, why was she crying?

"I'm sorry," she said, laughing weakly. "I don't meant to cry. It's just that…" She roughly wiped her tears with the back of her hand, sniffing loudly. "It's just that you're the very first person who's ever said that to me, and I really appreciate it, that's all." Mark wished he'd brought a box of tissues or at least a handkerchief with him so he could tenderly offer it to her like the manly guys in those cheesy chick flicks where the leading ladies cry perfect tears without ruining their makeup. Not that he's ever watched one.

"Well, it's all true," he said, finally settling on just patting her shoulder, "and you deserve to hear just how perfect you are."

"No one's perfect, Mark," she said, grinning at him with watery eyes, "but you almost are."

Maybe the sleepiness was kicking in, or maybe it was the coffee, but he had to stop for a while and process what she just told him. Did she really say he's almost perfect?

"Oh, I—I—well, I really, um…" He looked down in an odd combination of awkwardness and pleasure, a part of him wanting to run away, a greater part of him happily basking in her praise. He wasn't used to being complimented, but that one coming from Chelsea made his heart race madly and his hands sweat more profusely—even worse, the stupid, stupid lopsided grin began to materialize on his reddening face. How he hated that goofy grin and its semi-permanence and its tendency to show up at the worst of times—who on earth looks down on their knees and smiles?

"No need to be embarrassed, you know," she said. He was still smiling stupidly at his knees and trying unsuccessfully to lessen it by thinking of certain things, like Gannon in a banana suit or Vaughn in bright pink boxers (mentally scarring himself in the process), so he had no idea if she was smiling or frowning at him. "It's all true and you deserve to hear it."

Okay, now he was sure—she was teasing him. If her usage of his earlier words wasn't enough of a hint, then the smile audible in her voice was: he could hear it clearly, and he could almost see it tugging at the corners of her mouth without even looking at her. The worst thing was that his grin only widened and became even goofier despite his best efforts to wipe it off his face.

"Thanks, I guess," he said, briefly glancing at her to see if she was still crying. She was smiling slightly; her eyes were still watery and vaguely bloodshot, but at least there weren't any more tears. The lack of open hostility from her plus the earlier compliment gave him a tiny ray of hope, so he gulped audibly and dared to ask the question that begged to be asked. "So…does this mean I'm…um, rejected?"

He was about to cross his fingers and whisper, "Please say no, please say no" right in front of her but fortunately, he managed to stop himself from doing so and just settled with crossing his fingers in his head and silently praying to the Goddess and Mayor Hamilton.

"What makes you say that?" She set her cup down on the table and tucked wayward strands of hair behind her right ear, her blue eyes boring into his. Goddess, those eyes were enough to make him physically tremble without that teasing smirk that pulled a corner of her mouth upwards. He just hoped he wouldn't stutter anymore, because if his stupid grin and spleen-rupturing blushing and malfunctioning brain weren't going to ruin his chances, his stuttering would.

He shrugged weakly and cleared his throat before speaking. "Just assuming. Not that I want to. To be rejected, I mean. If I'm not, that is. Because it'd be great if I still have a chance. Not to be rejected, of course…" He paused for a while. "Can I start over?"

"No, I get it," she said, grinning widely, as if she was trying not to laugh. "You know, you're a great guy, Mark. I don't really know how to describe you. I mean…you're unique—one in a million, I daresay."

He wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not, since being "unique" to him sometimes directly translates to being "a wacko who wears his hat backwards," so he simply made an ambiguous grunting noise in his throat that might have meant either "thanks" or "I'm just imitating Jack."

"The thing is," she continued, "I've always sort of wanted someone to just listen to my ramblings, to hold me when I'm sad, to laugh with me when I'm happy, and whisper sweet nothings in my ear—things like that, you know?"

Interesting. A thought came to him, but he wasn't sure whether he should act on it or simply ignore it.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I know it sounds cheesy and clichéd, but what the heck. I'm girl."

Mark then decided to throw caution to the wind and act on it. He smiled and motioned for her to lean closer. She raised an eyebrow but obeyed; he brought his lips so close to her ear that he could inhale the sweet floral scent of her hair and gently whispered, "Sweet nothings."

She covered her mouth with a hand and chuckled loudly as she pulled away, mumbling incoherently, but he could have sworn he'd felt her shiver—he wasn't sure if it was a good sign or not. He comforted himself with the fact that he'd made sure to brush his teeth before he went to disturb Vaughn earlier, so he confidently slashed "bad breath" from his mental Things to Worry About list.

"Silly," she said laughingly, punching him in the arm—which actually hurt a bit.

He shrugged and smiled. "So, um…am I…?"

"Hm. We still don't know each other that well, so if I had a white violet right now, I'd give it to you."

His brows furrowed in thought. He wasn't an expert on flowers, but he knew what a white violet was and what it looked like. What he didn't know was what it meant. What do white violets mean, anyway? Rejection? Anger? "I'm sorry"? "Your toothpaste isn't very effective"? He felt his heart sink to somewhere around his ankles—there was a huge chance that the meaning of a white violet was something that was synonymous to rejection. He was afraid to ask, but he had to.

"What does a white violet mean?"

She looked at him seriously, her eyes twinkling. He swallowed nervously. "It means, 'let's take a chance.' "

Let's take…a chance?

A wide smile slowly made its way into his face as well as hers, and Goddess, it took all of his willpower plus a couple of silent prayers not to jump up and start dancing and singing in rapture. She was giving him a chance! His smile got even wider and he giggled—yes, giggled, like Will—out of giddiness. It was embarrassing, but what the heck. She was giving him a chance!

"T-thanks," he said, accidentally biting his tongue. "And yeah, the coffee was too sweet."

She chuckled and punched his arm.

"Touché."

…

a/n:

I for the life of me could not write romance. I just can't. It just comes out way too cheesy. I would greatly appreciate tips, suggestions, constructive criticisms, and the like—anything that would help me improve. Pretty please with a steaming mug of overly-sweet coffee on...ah, never mind. Please?

To pwnapple: Just in case you're reading this, I'm sorry! I'm really, really sorry. I forgot to type the links up in the last chapter, so if you're still interested, here it is.

www(dot)fogu(dot)com/hm/scans/manga/

FF won't allow me to post the link properly, so...yeah.

Thanks for reading, guys!