Everyone Loves the Mayor
blueMinuet and WingSongHalo xX_The_Mayors_Gurl_Xx
Chapter 1: I can see the way you look at me
"Love lifts you up where you belong. All you need is love."--Troll Zooey Deschanel
You stare down at the metropolis of Can Town, at the intricate streets, drawn so carefully in chalk, and the vaulted architecture of the cardboard buildings, and the upstanding, patriotic citizens, as loyal to their city as they are stoically inanimate. Can Town mesmerizes you almost as much as the man who made it.
The Mayor is an intriguing and inscrutable sort, the kind who asks no questions and tells no lies. You are not even sure if he is actually called "Mayor," because you certainly haven't heard of anyone called that before. But then again, you had never heard of anyone called "Terezi" or "Gamzee" or "Aradia" until recently, either, so you suppose you shouldn't rule it out. "Mayor" suits him, anyway: that air of authority and righteousness, and yet carrying with it an air of geniality and amiability. Regardless of what his true name might be, the Mayor is a quiet yet enthralling presence on this meteor. He is always willing to spend time with anyone, no matter who they are; he doesn't talk much--if he even CAN talk, you muse--and he tends to go with the flow around here. Everyone adores him, of course. It is without a doubt that everyone loves the Mayor. But the question that has begun to plague you, creep into your thoughts when you let your guard down, slip into the back of your mind, is this: Who does the Mayor love back?
You approach the Mayor, trying to convince your fingers to quit their incessant squirming. You pull yourself to your full height--quite tall when dog ears are taken into account--and try to appear confident.
"Hi, Mayor," you say, beaming down at the delightfully imposing pint-sized powerhouse of a Carapacian. "How are you today?"
He looks back up at you with smoldering eyes, the tiniest of playful smiles pulling up the corners of his lips. They look like licorice. You wonder if they taste like it, too. You shake yourself, your ears flapping slightly. This is not a very appropriate line of thought for the moment. You are supposed to be making small talk.
The Mayor does not answer. You did not expect him to, really. Instead he grins at you, revealing a set of pearly-white, blunt teeth, and carefully takes a green piece of chalk out of his box of Crayolas. He then eats it.
He is a very mysterious person.
It is his air of mystery that calls you to him, like the sirens of legend pulling sailors to their watery graves. You ponder the motives of the Mayor, what makes his mind tick, but you know it could never be something so insidious. Regardless of his intentions, you fear you have long since begun to drown.
Having eaten both shades of green in the box, your dashing, diminutive Dersite resumes his work. At least, he seems to treat it as work. It sort of looks like a giant coloring book to other people, but to you it is a masterpiece, a masterpiece as fascinating and breathtaking as its creator. His dark, segmented hand moves quickly, tracing lines here and there on the floor and walls; he ends every stroke with a delicate flick of the wrist. You think it is like watching a master violinist, the way he brings forth the shapes and makes them sing. Each color is a note in his symphony, and you close your eyes, wanting to let it surround you. All you hear is the harsh scrape of the chalk over the floor, though. You wince a little. That is considerably less like a violin.
For a while you let yourself get lost in watching him, but after a few minutes you yearn for him to look at you and delight in your presence the way you delight in his. So you extend a trembling, shy hand to grasp a piece of chalk. It is dark blue. You roll it between your fingers, and soon your fingers are covered in a fine blue powder, a frost of color on your rosy skin. You crouch down next to the Mayor, and glance up at him through your eyelashes. Your hair hangs in shining ebony curtains around your face.
"Can I help?" you whisper, huskily. You suppose that with ears like yours, a lot of the things you say are husky.
His answer is to smile at you with the kind of warmth he reserves for only those he truly cares for. Which is to say, most everyone. Some of his teeth are still green, but you think you detect a bit of affection in his eyes. You return his smile and sit down on the floor, careful not to obscure any of Can Town from view. You would not want to get chalk dust on your God Tier clothes, nor would you want to smudge any of your Carapacian Casanova's fine work. You set to work, side by side. You draw a street that curves at a lazy angle away from the Main Street that the Mayor has drawn, then a few trees (they are blue, because you have no green). Sometimes your arms intersect, and your hands brush, and you wonder if he feels the scintillating spark at the light contact that you do. Of course, you remind yourself, your outfit does tend to gather ridiculous amounts of static electricity, so perhaps it is just that. But you think you feel a little spark within, too. It glows within your heart, like the gentle amber glow of--
Before you can finish your thought, an unwelcome presence intrudes upon the two of you. Your tender smile melts into something like a grimace when you see her: Serenity, the Mayor's closest friend and confidante. If there is anybody who knows the Mayor's secrets, it is her, and you feel your stomach clench with jealousy at the thought. She drifts in, nonchalant as you please, and settles upon the Mayor's shoulder. (The familiarity sickens you; she acts as if he is hers and hers alone.) He spares her a delighted grin, full of love, before returning to work. If only he would look at you in the same way, you think, and your heartbeat seems to slow with your sadness.
As you gaze dejectedly at the happy pair, you think back on the day it all began...
You happened to be sitting in the kitchen when it happened. You were both seated at the counter, enjoying a late lunch--the two of you seemed to operate on a different schedule than the others when it came to food. He had chosen a veggie sandwich with plenty of greens, being the virtuous, virile vegan that he is. You had chosen roast beef for your sandwich, on a whole wheat bun, with just a slight drizzle of mayo and mustard. You topped that with just the slightest amount of lettuce, showing at least a small overlap in the tastes of you and your lunchtime companion. You really like roast beef, and mayo. You wondered if he also liked mayo, since the label on his Mayoral Sash appeared to be from a mayonnaise can.
You chewed your sandwich slowly, at a loss for what to say to your mealmate. The two of you didn't know each other very well, as you had only recently arrived on the meteor, and you felt somewhat awkward as you racked your brains for a conversational topic. The Mayor seemed like a pretty quiet guy, though approachable enough. You gave it a shot, looking up from your roast beef.
You stopped short.
He was looking at you, his gaze burning into you intensely, and you felt your breath catch in your throat, your casual small talk freeze in your lungs, like an early winter frosting over the fertile lands of your breast. All thought ceased, or perhaps it was time itself--all that existed in the world was the Mayor and you. And your sandwiches.
Your attention was held captive by his smoldering stare, and you find yourself unable to move. With a mental start you realized that he was drawing nearer, and with every incremental movement you took in more details that you had never been close enough to observe before: the halogen lights made his carapace gleam with bright white highlights; his eyes were not a flat white, as you had initially thought, but were actually a beautiful silver, interspersed with fine lines of gold, like the sun and moon were battling for dominance in his gaze; he smelled of a perplexing yet enticing combination of fresh linen and something harder to identify--chalk, perhaps?
Faster than you realized, though each moment could be a day, his face was an inch away from yours. He raised one small, dark hand to the side of your face. Your lips parted, but any protests you were about to utter clung fast to the tip of your tongue, and you remained silent, still, entranced. Your mouth trembled as he pulled your glasses off. He was the only thing that mattered to you in that moment.
Slowly, seductively, he extended his dark tongue.
He then almost licked your eye.
You flailed backwards, tumbling off of your stool, and stared at him, your breath returning at last, time deciding to move forward once again. Your eyes were wide, and you could feel the color that had risen in your cheeks. One hand flew to your racing heart, and your chest heaved with each breath, as if trying to make up for all the breaths you had missed.
"Wh--what was that?!" you asked him, and your voice was about an octave higher than usual.
He blinked at you mysteriously, still holding your glasses carefully. Perhaps you imagined it, but you thought he looked a little disappointed that the moment was over.
Ever since then, you'd relived this moment over and over. It played like a filmstrip in your mind, always coming unbidden. You thought about it when you were supposed to be watching movies with your ectobiological brother. You thought about it when you were tasked with being the first to listen to Dave's newest, illest beats. You thought about it during Rose's intervention. (You wonder if you have attention problems, actually; that was rather important and you should have been paying attention.) You thought about it when you laid awake in your bed, easily ignoring Rose's sleep-mumblings and surprisingly snuffly snores, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide even though they could not absorb any light in this unnatural darkness, until you wrenched them shut and buried your face in your pillow.
When the thoughts wouldn't leave your head even after a week, two weeks, three, had passed, you finally had to face the truth: You had developed an odd and unprecedented crush on the Mayor, and there was no going back.
The sound of a can tipping over brings you back to the present with an unpleasant jolt. Your ears twitch and swivel in the direction from whence the offending noise has issued, and the Mayor looks at you sheepishly for a moment before pointing an accusing finger at Serenity, who shouts some things in Morse that are just as polite as they are audible; which is to say, not at all. You figure it was actually the Mayor who has tipped the can: Serenity is too stupid and small to knock over one of the Mayor's beautiful, faithful citizens--even though she might like to topple the world he and Jade could build together with her feminine firefly wiles. Carefully, sweetly, you stand the can of baked beans upright again. You smile reassuringly at your pitch-black paramour, and he gives you an indulgent smile in return. His annoying lightning bug companion flits about in a desperate attempt to bring his attention back to herself, and as usual, it works: he extends a finger (you catch a glimpse of the strange pattern on his wrist, which you have always been too embarrassed to ask him about), and the insect lands delicately on it, rearranging her wings fussily.
She flashes her lewd, luminous ass a few times, and you scowl as the Mayor's face lights up. Sometimes you just know she is purposely doing it faster than you can translate. Even when you are right here, the two of them have a secret world, a secret language all their own. Your heart aches as you watch them together. Someday, you think determinedly, you will be so fluent in Morse that she will not be able to shut you out anymore.
The pounding bass thrums in your ears, like the heartbeat of a massive beast. If you listen closely enough, it is almost enough to drown out your melancholy thoughts.
You let loose a very morose sigh, drawing the attention of your good friend Dave, whose turntable is the source of the beats that vibrate in your sensitive ears. Despite the volume of his music, Dave raises one golden eyebrow in your direction, where you are sitting on a beanbag chair in a corner of the room.
“What’s wrong, Jade? Are my beats not unhealthy enough for those dog ears of yours?”
You sigh again, letting the warm air rush over your supple lips. “No, Dave, your beats are totally unhealthy enough. I’m just...thinking,” you say forlornly.
He frowns at you through his ridiculously awesome shades. “What are you thinking about?” he presses. “We’re best friends, Jade. You can tell me. Unless it is fire hydrants you are thinking about. Then you can keep your thoughts to yourself, dawg.” (A/N: See it is funny because she is a dog!! :D lol)
You shoot him a baleful glare. “I do not think about fire hydrants!” you bark. “...Much,” you add quietly.
“Okay, so if you’re not thinking about places to whiz, what are you thinking about, J-dawg?” your friend asks again. You wish he wasn’t so good at reading you, but you guess that is just what best friends are like.
“Well,” you begin, suppressing another sigh, and then you pause. Your apple-green eyes meet his crimson ones, though his are behind his devastatingly cool shades and yours are behind your large, round, raven’s wing black-framed glasses. He is looking at you patiently, and you reluctantly give in. For your best friend.
“What do you think about the Mayor?” you blurt, and turn as red as an autumn apple.
Dave freezes in place, fingers going still over his turntable. “...The Mayor?” he chokes out after a tense pause. Those eyes that glisten like rubies, when he is not wearing his sunglasses, look down at his pale, ivory hands instead of at you, and you wonder why the subject seems to affect him so.
Why did she have to mention the Mayor?
He is your motivation, your inspiration. The Mayor is everything you wish you could be, if you had the courage. You adore his childlike innocence and youthful interests, but you sense in him a deep and impenetrable sadness that you long to reach, learning every inch of his heart. Your own heart sinks in your chest as you contemplate how to answer your best friend’s query. You have to be as impassive as possible, like the coolkid you are, and not give away anything.
“He’s great,” you say noncommittally, and you even throw in a convincingly casual shrug before returning to your soundboard, pushing up one of the controls with practiced hands. You hope Jade will not see through your deception. She is usually very good at it.
Sure enough, Jade regards you austerely through her large glasses. “You don’t fool me, Dave,” she says suspiciously. You wince. “Now it’s my turn to ask you what’s wrong.”
You sigh and lean back in your chair. “Nothing,” you try. She glares at you, her ears twitching as if they can hear everything you aren’t saying. You officially give up. “All right,” you concede. “I think the Mayor’s amazing, okay? He’s kind, and friendly, and wise, and he doesn’t care what kind of person you are. As long as you like drawing things on the walls, and let him honk the horn in the car sometimes, he’s happy. And when he’s happy...” you pause, looking up at your friend, who is staring at you with rapt attention. “...I’m happy,” you finish, and you feel the heat in your cheeks.
Jade looks at you in wonder. “Dave...do you love the Mayor too?” she breathes.
Too? That one little word seizes your attention, and your mind begins spinning as rapidly as the records you love so much. If Jade loves the Mayor, surely you can’t tell her about your own yearning for the handsome little Dersite. It would only complicate things. Jade is a much better match for him anyway: she is sweet, and pretty, and lively and bright and so full of emotion, and she also has dog ears. You mean, you can’t beat having dog ears, yo. Someone as dog-ear-less, emotionally distant, and damaged as you would only end up hurting the dear, sweet Mayor.
You set your mouth in a determined line as your mind is made up. “Of course not,” you say, putting every bit of false nonchalance you can manage into those three heartbreaking little words.
Jade surveys you shrewdly. “Hmmm...” she says dubiously, narrowing her bright peridot green eyes. But after a moment in which you hold her gaze, refusing to let any of your hidden feelings sneak into your expression, she seems satisfied with your lie. “Okay, I believe you,” she says, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “But Dave,” she says, and her voice has taken on a pleading tone. “I do love the Mayor. What do I do?” she whines. Her expression is pained, and her ears have flattened down nervously.
“Just be yourself, Jade,” you advise her stoically. “You’re great, and the Mayor is great. If something’s meant to happen, it will, yo. Being a Hero of Time has taught me that.”
She ponders that bit of wisdom for a moment before smiling at you and nodding. “Yeah!” she yips enthusiastically, and you think if she had a tail it would be wagging. “You’re right, Dave! I’ll just be myself!” Your best friend then stands up abruptly, leaving a Jade-shaped indent in your old pink beanbag chair (the color is ironic, okay?). She scurries up to you and gives you a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Dave. You always know what to do.” She grins at you, and then bustles out of the room, a woman on a mission.
You stare after her as her last words ring in your ears like your music does when it’s too loud. It isn’t true, you think. I never know what to do when it comes to myself, yo.
You grab your shades off your face just in time before the tear escapes your garnet-colored eye and rolls down your face. Its progress is halted at your quivering mouth, and the salt, to you, tastes like loneliness.
❀♚ ❀ ♛ ❀♜ ❀♝ ❀♞ ❀♟❀♚❀ ♛❀ ♜❀ ♝❀ ♞❀ ♟❀
(A/N: Hope you like the chess-themed linebreak (the symbols are black because WV’s a Dersite, and the white flowers represent Jade’s purity!!!!111 ;) Anyone who doesn’t get that needs to get out lol!).