Disclaimer: I do not own The Girl Who Leapt Through Time.
50 Ways to Love a Time Traveler
She finds herself crammed between two standard school desks, legs flailing upright in the air from the jolt of the jump—and she turns crimson in a second because he is staring, flabbergasted, down right at her panties.
Her bottom lip traces the edge of the glass, and when the chilled green tea rushes to meet her lips, she pretends—wishes—he's kissing her.
She's so short, he thinks humorously, as he peers down at her while they're riding the subway; he jerks himself to a halt when it strikes him that he's been leaning closer and closer to the beautiful dip in her neck, wondering what it would be like to press his lips against her pulse.
He's sketching alone in his room when he accidentally snaps his pencil in half because he is gaping bug-eyed into a math worksheet covered in profiles of a familiar choppy-haired girl.
He crumples the sheet and dumps it in the wastebasket; then his chair crashes to the ground and he's scrambling to retrieve the paper from its brief visitation to the garbage because he remembers that she sometimes likes to go through it.
Soft, energetic footsteps sound against his stairs—shit, did he leave the front door unlocked?—and he's frantically, helplessly looking for a niche in his room that will expunge this damning math worksheet; he jams it unceremoniously into his back pocket when the door swings open and she's holding up some mutilated apple pie that she proudly claims she's baked herself.
She was only eighteen when it all happened; it's not unusual to move on, but as she sits there, unsurprisingly lonely on her twenty-fifth birthday, she knows: he was the one.
She's screaming senselessly into the pitch black abyss of winter air over the river where he left for a thousand seconds, until he's left her mind, before she closes her hoarse, painful throat and feels empty.
If he were king, she'd be his queen—no, he bites his lip, that sounds utterly stupid and he racks his brain because there must be better, less absurd ways of asking her out; if she were king, he'd be her fool.
She is banging her head against the library's desk, gritting in agitation—this math makes no sense!—and he's about to offer his services when Kousuke calmly interjects, and he's left unexpectedly disappointed.
She launches herself into the deep end, shouting her delight, and is expecting a flood of blissfully cold chlorinated water to catch her, but she only hears a gurgled yell before she's completely confused as to why her limbs are tangled in his.
She stares unhappily at his empty desk; and she knows she'll have to learn to be patient.
The next time she sees him, he seems much taller, his shoulders much broader, and his lips much softer.
She gazes petulantly into the heat waves rolling off the pavement and mutters sullenly that she can't wait to get her hands on a popsicle; they pretend not to hear her, and she forgets ever asking for one, but the next day, they're both offering to treat her to ice cream.
He wants to hold her for an age and more, but Time is calling, so he lets her go, and regrets it.
"What?"—"Nothing," she snaps, glaring crossly at him, as she's been doing the entirety of the day; he splutters this account to Kousuke that evening and only gets it when Kousuke replies that she's heard from someone recently that 90% of the male population stashes porn somewhere in their room.
He spies a yukata in her wardrobe, muses that he'd like to see something that feminine on her, before he has to stop this dangerous train of thought to catch his breath.
When she's grinning that treacherously at him, he has wild delusions about—then she says something completely unrelated and curtails his fantasies.
He's poring over theology textbooks while she stares and stares and stares at the uncooperative math problem set; and he wants to know if he were to be reborn in another vessel in the next life, if he would still find her sitting next to him.
She really wants to burn this photograph of the three of them, but as she baits the flame with it, her fingers lose their resolve and she cannot.
She's flopping over in the sand like a sun-baked seal, and when he sees the ridiculous layer of sand taped to her backside, he has to clench his teeth to keep from laughing.
He can count the number of times she's been truly angry at him on one hand.
Her lips are pursed in thought, eyes fixed at the electric pole out her window, and she catches herself wondering how orange hair would look with brown eyes; she nearly gags.
He tries to keep his face decidedly neutral as his hand twitches and frets; now, he thinks, just grab her hand and—but she's already out of reach, running zealously up to Kousuke, who has been waiting for the both of them to arrive for nearly an hour.
He glances back, admiring the way her shadow seems to fit perfectly next to his.
He can't say it, so he mutters something stupid and irrevocable, and hopes with all his heart this isn't it.
She's blushing something furious, and he eagerly tries to coax it out of her, but she childishly turns away, asserting something like it's none of his damn business.
She yelps in stupefaction, flapping her lottery ticket in victory; and then, she hugs him.
He slides painfully on his belly, dirt coughing up into an orange-brown haze around him; he hears her yell—safe!—and he knows he is.
The first time he sees her sick, he screams; she's so pale he's really afraid he might have to leap in order to see her okay again.
When she wakes up, the textbook's title is imprinted on her cheek, and drool is leaking from the side of her mouth, but what disconcerts her most is the way he's looking at her with that odd smile.
She has never seen a shade of green quite like the green of his eyes; she knows she's the one staring and all, but she can't help but want to wipe that silly grin off his face.
"I'm not wearing it," she upholds, but is unprepared for the look he gives her; she gulps, her cheeks color, and she considers maybe donning on the yukata that she's always thought looked so unsuitable on her.
He is certainly no singer, and neither is she; but when they duet, he is having so much fun that he doesn't care that Kousuke is giving them both looks that clearly indicate that he is in pain.
She smashes her lips onto his, her tongue running teasingly along his bruised bottom lip; and he's so stunned that he has to ask if she's sober; his answer is her hand guiding his to the buttons on her blouse.
His bicycle squeaks and whines to a halt less than a meter from the railroad crossing; the train passes like a bullet in front of him, and though he knows he can leap, he's grateful for the brakes.
She is just short of having a panic attack as the deadline for the paper crawls up with the rising sun, and Kousuke is surely sleeping, so she grabs her phone and practically begs this other idiot to help her finish this damn project; he's groggy—she's already apologizing, but he assures her he's been up all night, anyway—and he yawns some ideas into the phone, and she doesn't even have to try to hear the smile in his voice.
She really enjoys quality bath time—it's the only time she ever gets to feel like a girl—so she's a bit put-off when she hears obstreperous, rapid footsteps and "Shit, I can't hold it! Open the door! Open the—" before it's cut off by the door sliding open to a vision of a hastily wrapped towel around the key points on her wet, naked body; the aggravated expression falls off her face when she realizes he's staring at her and no longer feels any urgency to pee.
He sees it first, the rip in the back of her skirt; he tries to tell her in the most delicate manner he can, but it comes out really wrong, and she socks him and accuses him of being the hugest pervert she's ever known.
History really bores her, and she ends up sleeping through those lectures without fail; but, she learns later, it's the only subject he stays awake for.
She abhors trying to find shoes that flatter her big feet, and why does she suddenly even care about wearing anything other than sneakers?—so she heaves a sigh of frustration and turns off the computer, feeling dismal and not very pretty.
"Cut it out, you meat-heads!" slices stringently through the tense, barbaric schoolyard, and he glances up through a bruised, half-shut eye to find his savior is a tomboy in a skirt.
She's actually much shorter than him, but—when he's squatting sourly against the wall after being socked in the face several times—she towers over him, and offers him her hand.
"It's going to get infected if you don't get it treated," she tells him matter-of-factly, examining the discolorations on his skin from an uncomfortably close angle; he does not forget to note that this is the closest a girl has gotten to him, in this era—if she even counts as a girl.
She is suddenly very sorry that she did not knock before coming in.
She coaxes him to indulge in one more drink with her, but he feebly shakes his head, no; she presses her hand against his chest, and another glass into his hand, eyelashes tickling his chin—and he can no longer say no.
She espies roughhousing, rolls her eyes—bunch of delinquents! she gripes; somehow ends up heading over anyway, with a baseball bat propped over her shoulder like a hooligan.
She is unaware of the way her body presses against the glass pane separating her from a gorgeous diamond necklace; bites her lip, and for once, wishes there was someone special enough to buy it for her.
He's taken aback by this carnal impetus to crush fervent kisses along her neckline, to rip apart her clothes, and claim her as his.
She has never believed in standing still, so it does not surprise her to see him again.
A/N: Cheesy title and questionable grammatical structures? You bet! I was feeling capricious last night, and decided to take on the 1sentence challenge from livejournal. This so happens to be Theme Set Epsilon. I really enjoyed this challenge of trying to squeeze a whole scene into a single (not-so-conventional) sentence.
Some sentences I definitely like better than others. Let me know if you have a favorite! I'd love to hear it. Thank you for reading!