Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ Oblivious Signals ❯ Epilogue ( Epilogue )

* * *

I've hidden a note
It's pressed between pages
That you've marked to find your way back
It says, "Does he ever get the girl?"
But what if the pages stay pressed
The chapters unfinished
The stories too dull to unfold?
Does he ever get the girl?
( "This Ruined Puzzle." Dashboard Confessional. )

* * *

I'm almost there, Ken-chan.

* * *

The shampoo bottle's label proscribes I apply between a dime and a quarter sized amount of its contents to the palm of my hand, depending on the length of my hair. I usually transgress that system with awful disregard -- tonight is no exception -- and spit-polished amber jewels pool on my skin without proper supervision. The mercurial tendency of the star-speckled puddle gives me only one choice. I evenly spread it through my hair, careful to coat each tendril from root to tip and back again thrice, deft and precise, allowing no droplet to slip through my fingers and be lost in the drain. The label also speaks of a thorough lathering. I let set the shampoo's suds, feeling the thrum of a warm waterfall on my skin, while all but leaning against the tiled walls as I pause for a few moments. Then, gingerly, I submerge my head into the showerhead's rainstorm.

Darkness engulfs me, eyelids shut to fend off the stinging mixture of acrid soap and water. It all begins to dwindle away, hair already adhesive to my skin with the consequences of being swamped beforehand. I wonder if my hair, moderately long in my opinion, ever felt itself suffocating under the rich froth that smelled of Marigold Flowers, Angelica, and Thyme in Mountain Spring Water (according to the bottle's tag). Personally, its scent is rather fruity to me. Nonetheless, I like it. Does that say anything about me?

And then I wonder if I'm not the one suffocating under the oppressive perfume while it grows sticky in the humid climate of the bath. Me. Ichijouji Ken (ha-ha). I expect it will smother me like a blanket if I'm not cautious. Claustrophobia is beginning to set in, I think. Gathering my wits, I sweep long fingers through what foam remains in my hair, opening my eyes if only to peek at the brown rivers that wind over my shoulders, intensified by my white skin. The dye was very reliable; amazing how a name brand, twenty-four hour, store-bought dye could turn an inky sapphire into a close cousin of milk chocolate. I had debated over that and a wig, but ended up choosing the former. I guess I'm self-conscious about having something entirely cover my head.

My hand swims through the glittering spray of water droplets for another bottle by my feet, this one unmarked, but beige in hue. I already know it to be conditioner. I arrange all of the bottles in chronological order -- body wash, shampoo, conditioner, and hair-shine -- to prevent any mishaps. I'm meticulous like that. A downright perfectionist. I skip the hair-shine tonight. I don't feel very bright right now. The crystalline shower knobs are turned a full three-sixty degrees shortly after, and I'm allowed exit from the steaming jungle of tile tree trunks and monolithic plant-life.

Wormmon is waiting for me when I finally emerge from the bathroom, towel secure around my waist and hair eking an occasional driblet of water. He watches solemnly as I shuffle through the mundane ritual I proceed through almost every night: combing my hair, staring vacantly into a mirror, brushing my teeth . . . however, one detail slips away from the norm. Rather than my Tamachi uniform draped over my chair, awaiting a night in the laundry bin, there is a much more flamboyant costume. Tight jeans, salty shirt, plastered pinks, whites, and reds, jewelry resting nearby . . .

I suddenly feel much like I'm going to throw up, and I send a hand to steady myself on the closest object -- my desk. Wormmon, still attentive as ever, peers at me coolly with flawless obsidian ovals from his perch on my dresser.

"Ken-chan . . ." he begins with kind concern, and I just know he's going to say it. I just know it . . . so why's it taking him so long? Why is -- "How'd it go?"

I'm not sure how I must look right now, while somewhat hunched inward due to the spasms in my stomach, my hair wet and still mussed despite brushing it, and my make-up cleaned from my face (eyeliner I have always delved in; the gloss, blush, and other items I acquired from my mother, much to her confusion). I prompt an unstable smile to appear, making the muscles of my cheeks sting.

"He doesn't want Hikari."

"Oh?" Keen interest. Wormmon isn't suited to look predatory . . .

". . . he doesn't want me either, Wormmon."

"But --"

"I just know this, okay? It's probably someone like Miyako . . . at least Hikari had a slight fashion sense. I would not look at Miyako's clothes if I had to, much less wear them," I say, realizing I'm beginning to ramble uncontrollably. I don't quite care, and my world skews again, causing me to hold on tightly to the desk's edge.

". . . I told you to wear the leather pants, Ken-chan."

Even that doesn't illicit laughter from me. A shudder passes down my spine, causing my insides to clench once more. "Our date was rather nice, though. He didn't suspect a thing. It's the closest I'll ever get . . ."

"No regrets?"

"I guess not. Maybe. I'm sorry for pushing you out the window when Daisuke knocked, though . . . I panicked."

Wormmon smiles with his eyes. "That's all right. I landed in some soft bushes."

I warily reach out toward the pair of sparkling accessories that had accompanied me on my rendezvous. The barrettes are scarcely noticeable in the palm of my hand, their weight barely a few grams. The multifaceted diamonds on the surface flare when tilted just so, sending a wave of white fire up and down the length.

"Hikari will tell Daisuke eventually," Wormmon informs me, as if I didn't already know.

"Unless she already told him."

That, however, isn't my reply.

I'm still somehow mesmerized by the flashing jewels even as I turn around, strangely candid with the intrusion of a third party member. I feel the cold pit of fear in my stomach detachedly, as though I had been expecting this sudden confrontation from the start. I hadn't, assuredly; had I not felt so distant, I probably would have soiled myself, especially after looking into his eyes.

Daisuke is absolutely feral, one hand pressing against the doorframe -- he had been running the entire way here from the subway station. My mother must have let him in. I look down toward the hair adjuncts with unruffled interest, their scintillation also undisturbed, and his eyes follow mine for a moment. I suppose that is the last straw for him -- his anger is righteous, I tell myself -- as both barrettes are commandeered. The door slams shut, and I can hear my mother warning for the both of us to play nice from an adjacent room. With the lacking of the calming gems, I noticeably begin backing toward the wall opposite of Daisuke. Wormmon has fled, maybe; does he want us to work this out for ourselves, or some shit like that?

He looks up at me sharply, his hand leaving its support. I'm an ether-drenched butterfly ready for the pinning board. His eyes are intoxicating enough, and the way he wields those pointed jewelry pieces . . .

"Salutations, Daisuke-kun," I say with a plastered smile, my inflection ten times lighter than normal. "What brought you to visit me at this hour?"

I decide that probably wasn't the best approach after being shoved against the wall I was trying to blend into, his hands like hot vices over my wrists. The barrettes fall, neglected, to the carpeting below.

His voice is dangerously low. "You had better damn well know why I'm here, Ichijouji."

"You mean you aren't here to visit your best friend for fun?"

I really ought to keep my mouth shut. My heartbeat races, while the adrenaline induced into my system is somehow transforming me into a bona fide smart-ass. Daisuke never took a penchant towards those that flaunted the truth before his eyes like a bullfighter's banner, and I suppose in his state of mind I am no exception to aggravating him. I also suppose aggravating him in his state of mind is a bad thing, because he looks like he's ready to spontaneously combust on the spot.

"Best friend? BEST FRIEND?!"

I realize with exasperation I had meant to lay my head upon my pillow tonight with the bittersweet image of Daisuke kissing my -- "Hikari's" -- cheek, and fading into the pseudo-romantic night. Now I will have to remember how sienna eyes burn with unchecked rage that swells like a moon-guided tide, shadows of hurt and confusion lurking as only silhouettes behind the veil of towering flames. I'm not even sure if I will be given the benefit of slumber in later hours. Judging by how things have fared so far, I'll be lucky to emerge from this meeting unscathed.

I meant to catch a frozen star in my moonbeam net, not its imminent supernova. I only wanted that one chance to be in the shoes -- or heels, really -- of the lucky one he had fallen for, to relish in his presence without restraint, and to find myself submerged and nearly drowning in all that is Motomiya. No one appreciates him as much as I do. Of all people, Hikari never even came close. She only agreed to his inquiry for a date out of pity and an underlying principle of maliciousness that always came with her sugar-sweetened smile. I saw right through her little deception the afternoon Daisuke told all of us of his apparent good fortune . . .

"I had to protect you," I manage to choke out, trying not to meet his eyes.

He goggles at me, and it isn't too long before I feel his grip tighten considerably, causing a rubying of my skin around his bronze fingers, displaying where the blood is being coerced to. It is not painful, although the entire situation still disturbs me greatly, as the wildness in his eyes only joins forcers with dark mania.

"PROTECT ME?!"

It doesn't help that he's screaming right at me, either. I try to sound as soothing as possible, my voice falling a few notches in the process: "Daisuke-kun, listen . . . she was just laughing at you -- Hikari was. She didn't actually care enough about you to really want to go on that date."

"Don't you think I already know that, Ken?"

That surprises me. The pain in his eyes seems magnified all of the sudden, and I can easily feel it as his hands begin to lose their hold on me. My own guise is querying enough for Daisuke, because moments later his voice is rolling forth again, broken by holes in which he has to take a gasp; most surprisingly of all is when his arms suddenly draw around me, almost begging for comfort from me.

"I -- I realized that in the middle of the date, that I didn't mean anything real to her. There was always someone else that was there for me, and -- and I never really loved her . . . she was just around, and eligible, and made reason for a decent chase to keep my mind strayed from who I really wanted . . ."

A rather vibrant coloring of my cheeks is beginning to form by this time, as Daisuke sniffles and snuffles against my bare shoulder (and I'm suddenly very glad my towel is tightly wrapped around my waist). I detect a shudder passing through him as I bring my hand to the back of his neck, carefully massaging from there on downward as I attempt comforting murmurs in his closest ear.

"But you see, Daisuke? I was so hoping that perhaps you would discover someone else while on that date, somehow who genuinely cared for you . . ."

He cants his head; his eyes focus on mine despite the awkward angle, and there is a resilience of gold in the murky brown that I always delight in picking out.

"So why did you do it, Ken? Why did you take Hikari's place?"

I repeat myself from earlier. "To protect you."

Confusion knits his brows together. "No, don't give me that shit. I would have still realized, maybe a little later than sooner, that there was someone else for me. Why did you take Hikari's place?"

I don't say anything at first. How can I explain to him that while I felt myself righteous to be playing stand-in for a fiendish Yagamii, I was also privately enjoying the one and only chance I had at ever being able to be intimate with him? Given, as soon as things turned rather precarious in the theater, my conscience finally came around and gave me a perfectly rational dose of sanity, in which I almost admitted to the deception right then and there.

"Who do you truly love?" I whisper, my eyes never faltering in light of his.

"You."

I start nodding out of complete comprehension, as if the answer makes perfect sense to me given all of the strange occurrences the night had brought. I'm in a haze, and there is only Daisuke as a beacon; that beautiful star I thought would be struggling against my net is now contentedly remaining where he is.

My head dips down -- I need to express so much to him, to let him know -- after I finally regain control of my central nervous system (taken from me by shock), and there is then only a rainbow of electricity behind my closed eyes as my lips touch his. Sparks, fireworks, mayhem of the heart. And it only intensifies with Daisuke's desperation entering the picture; he misses not a beat before responding; urgency I never knew he possessed about anything. He's insistent, but gentle, and I know I'm being dipped into a capricious dream that threatens to tear me in two as my lungs are so deliciously deprived of oxygen.

And then, suddenly, we disengage -- a mutual conclusion: his heart is pounding in sync to mine and I can feel it -- right then and there. The tension in our legs drains away to leave them filled with jelly, allowing us to collapse unceremoniously in a heap against the wall. It all seems caught in slow motion for a little while, both of us trying to fill ourselves with much needed air, unblinking russet peels and violet petals sprinkled into the swirling lucent reality as it comes crashing down upon us in droves like the downpour from a cascade. Everything reaches its pith and there is no challenge to the fact that this is the right answer to our equation, and we both know it.

"Next time we go on a date, Ken," Daisuke drawls almost proudly after a time, a smile edging onto his lips for the punch-line, "you should wear leather pants."

I laugh: "You know, I've been sending signals to you about my feelings for a long time, Daisuke."

"I guess I was just oblivious."

"That sounds interesting: obvious signals oblivious to you; oblivious signals?"

"You talk too much, Ken."

"What would you rather me do?"

Daisuke only grins.

. . . and I wish I was wearing more than just a towel.