Neon Genesis Evangelion Fan Fiction ❯ Colorblind ❯ Colorblind ( One-Shot )

30 Kisses, 30 Ways: Shinji and Asuka

Themes: K#19 (Red), W#25 (Shut up and listen)

Title: Colorblind

A.N.: I shall use this space to cover my own ass: Not mine. I'm attempting to get out of this writers block, so I'm gonna take 2 challenges at once: 30 kisses and 30 ways in one story. Hope you like. I'll update with another one shot if I'm still blocked, if not, expect the other chapter of 10 things briefly.

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During instrumentality an infinite number of worlds were created; from the Edo period to the end of the millennium. All of them different, all of them unique.

But all those worlds have one unifying rule in common; in every single one we met, and invariably, we fall in love. And sometimes we hurt each other.

And we connect to each other deeply.

Worlds made with both you and me in the center.

That's the single, unifying rule. (Retake 04)

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Red.

It was all red, as far as he could see, as long as he could see, everything since the day he met her became red, his field of vision becoming color blinded by her.

 

It filled his senses, rising like a sweet perfume, emanating from roses redder than blood; so red they made him blind in his eyes, so blinding he could taste the essence in his mouth; a taste so rich he cold almost feel it with his hands, caressing his skin.

 

And the sounds, it felt like all the peaceful and fierce sounds one would expect, like the ocean, an ocean of red one minute coming towards with the force of a thousand storms, and the next going away, recoiling in terror at his touch.

 

Yeah, if he had to use a force of nature to describe her, it would be the ocean.

 

Oh, it would be very easy to use the most common terms and analogies; the red devil, the she-beast, the heinous, contemptuous bitch from hell. They all used the color that was her signature: the ever glowing, all encompassing red.

 

But Shinji knew better.

 

She was no explosion, no raging fire; deep down she was a scared girl who used bravado and fierceness in the same way he used detachment and music.

 

She was the ocean, stormy at night when the dreams became nightmares and she clutched her pillow and cried herself to sleep with those heart wrenching sobs that she forced herself to quiet down to mere whimpers in the night.

 

Ever since the day he had come inside trying to get himself dry from the ever pounding rain that had drenched him from head to toe.

 

He had always hated using the terms logical and irrelevant for they stirred up memories he preferred to be asleep, and they left a bitter-sweet after taste, like ashes covered in syrup, but that seemed like the only way to explain his next actions; ordering something to get warm had been the next logical step.

 

And then she had walked into the stage as quiet as a whisper, but when the light had been trailed up on her, his whole world had changed from a color infused melancholy always painted in blue, into a fiery red, matching her hair, her long tight fitting dress.

 

Her very way of being.

 

Just for the brief moment he had stayed there nursing his drink, his world had been colorblind.

 

Afterwards she had come to the bar, sitting close to him, but not to close, warding of the fans that came by either smiling coquettishly and then letting them go, or by calling them perverted dirty old men in a voice that promised that, if they behaved she would do any and all they imagined with her.

 

But she never left.

 

After minutes of staring into the glass in front of them and exchanging furtive glances he decided to leave.

 

As he left, he could've sworn he heard her voice softly saying she played the whole week from 9 till 2.

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He walked back to that place several more times, her voice and herself becoming like a drug, something he needed to soothe the pain he seemed to feel with every passing moment of the clock as it ticked the seconds away.

 

She was many things: a glow; a light that made the darkness go away.

 

Warmth. She was a warm blanket that made the harsh cold truths melt away.

 

And then, she became someone who sat quietly next to him after every set she sang, not saying anything, just sitting there in silence, each contemplating their own life, their own fears, their own screw-ups.

 

Their own sense of despair.

 

And after that, words became a formality; a “Hello, how are you” exchanged softly while waiting for the next set or the next drink. A polite inquiry about the weather, the brief chit chat over the endless droning of the other peoples' voices.

 

He learned her name was Asuka and she was from abroad. She disliked dolls, and had a very quick temper, just short of a cannon fuse. She liked her coffee black and only ate the white of the eggs.

 

She learned his name and that he was from Japan. He was uptight, shy and timid; he would stutter and shake, and whenever he was in a tight spot, his fists would clench and unclench, and his tongue would feel like taffy getting stuck to the rof of his mouth and he would get tongue tied.

 

And they shared drinks more often afterwards.

 

He often fantasized that he was the same she was to her, because there were instants, brief moments in time when she would allow herself to be open, and be viewed in her natural state by him, and he felt a connection, a kindred soul.

 

And other times, especially when they left for her or his apartment, she would cling to him as if he was a life line, as if her very existence had to be reaffirmed by the notion that someone acknowledged her, that some one needed her.

 

That some one loved her.

 

It became an unspoken agreement, he would drop by any day of the week, or maybe not appear for the whole month; maybe he could see her next Tuesday after this Sunday.

 

He would walk and he would sit and he would shut up and listen to her sing.

 

And he would feel all of his problems slowly fade away with her voice.

 

She would sing lounge songs, she would make old rock songs into lounge songs, she would twist and turn the lyrics to suit her needs.

 

And then hours later, in the intimacy of their room, she would do the same to him.

But the unspoken agreement was there; this was something not described, something that shouldn't be classified.

 

He would leave for a month or two, doing whatever it was that he did on those times, but she would sometimes leave too; not for months but for days.

 

The agreement was never to ask what the other had done; they had never vocalized it, but it was explicit for them both.

 

Then suddenly she left, without saying a word, and Shinji became lost ever since.

A part of Shinji had been missing Asuka all along. But it wasn't really an active feeling. And it wasn't really missing.

 

It was more like being incomplete, like walking around not wearing your watch or your glasses.

 

There was a bit of him that was never quite right since they had parted ways, a change in his very nature that was small and subtle, barely noticeable, but still there. He didn't have to be thinking about her to miss her. He was just different when she wasn't around.

 

But tonight…tonight he missed her. He missed her, in ordinary, less abstract ways.

 

He missed her laugh and he missed the way she would get mad. He missed her ego and he missed the way she would cut of the yolk of her eggs and give it to him in his toast, and how she would pick at his fries while attempting not to, and how he would let her have them, pretending he didn't noticed.

 

He missed her voice and her striking blue eyes and he missed her soft velvety red hair, her creamy alabaster skin, and her soft pink lips.

 

That was what he missed the most; he missed kissing her. He never considered himself a playboy, a Casanova of any sorts; because to be one you had to be cool and smooth and calm and basically everything he was not.

 

But for some reason, everything went smoothly when he was with her. He couldn't make an awkward move if he wanted to. And when he did make one, she would just smile, call him an idiot and keep on walking. They just fit like pieces in a puzzle, like the letters in a game of scrabble.

 

They belonged.

 

And damnit, he missed belonging.

 

It was really the first time in ages that he had a physical need to be near her, that his whole body ached with longing and helplessness. He hated it. He really hated it. He didn't need this now. He just didn't need it.

 

But oddly…he wanted it.

 

He shuddered a bit as a gust of wind managed to swoop in through his coat and he hugged the cloth lamely around his body. He looked up and found he had wandered in front of the bar, his bar.

 

Their bar.

 

There was some music drifting softly out of it; “The Midnight Mass” she would call it because every night at midnight, the barman would give his towel to the mauve haired woman that was always rejecting his advances but would get red in the face if he went and lighted that blonde's cigarette. He would go to the piano and begin playing a soft, haunting tune and Asuka would unconsciously start to sing softly to it.

The music had a ghostly quality he found appropriate to his mood. He sighed and sunk down on the steps. He was suddenly feeling very weak and very tired and just generally spent. He wasn't sure how long he was sitting on the steps of the bar before someone called his name.

 

“Shinji…”

 

He looked up and saw Asuka standing there.

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A.N:

Wow.

This is awkward; it feels redundant and done and clichéd and everything in between both inside and outside.

It feels like “The Hustle” all over again, but I just spent my birthday just like this; in a bar, feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in self pity and then the feelings became a fire in my stomach (no, it wasn't nausea, but it felt pretty damn close), and then the fire became words, and the words became this sharp tingling sensation that you feel in the tip of your fingers that is very much like when you feel the answer to a question and have in your brain, but it's just running around and you're unable to catch it.

And I just had to get up at 4.30 in the morning to get this piece done.

And just as I was putting the finishing period, my cellphone went off and she was calling me and I had to go to her.

I ask for the forgiveness of all the close people who have graciously accepted to review the pieces of guano filled in custard that I spew around pretending to be a literary accomplishment (you can tell I still haven't gotten over the wallowing in self pity part -_-'), but this piece feels so personal and so…well, me (for lacks of a better word) that I just had to edit it myself and post it, because it all happened as it was written (except for the ending, of course), and because sometimes, just sometimes I like drama more than comedy, and I know that Missouri is a state that loves company (dork!)

Keep it real, and keep it cool, and for God's sake all you out there keep the hope.

I did, and it paid off; it's not the lottery, but it works for me.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it

Cheers.

01.13.07 Revised and further proofread, because it is after all a half assed attempt at writing. Thanks to all that reviewed, and thanks to all for the words.