Title: Swash and Backwash Fandom: Final Fantasy X This may sound hilarious coming from me, but what I miss the most about you is talking to you. I imagine running into you at the town square in Luca, even though I don't go there often, greeting you like an old friend because I had utmost confidence you would come back. We could talk for a while standing up, I suppose. Then we'd decide to have some lunch at the café and talk over a cup of coffee and I'd still remember how many sugars you preferred to take in yours. On the boat back to Besaid, we could talk on the upper deck and you could show me your new blitzball moves. We could talk behind that mast where nobody could see or hear us, because I hate eavesdroppers. We'd talk for hours and hours, even after the boat shuttles back and forth umpteen times, after the moon is as high in the sky as possible and the captain has to kick us off the boat. I really want to talk to you, but I don't have the slightest idea what either of us would have to say. . She bullets through the black waters of the sea with powerful movements, dividing the water cleanly in half. Kick, pull, kick, pull, Yuna tells herself, breaking a lazy rhythm so that she strikes the water with unnecessary force, using up what's left of the Haste magic. Yuna never told him, but the reason why she took up swimming in the first place was because she wanted to play blitzball with him one day. She never really understood the sport; few women did. Wakka would have been a suitable teacher, but there is not much to do in twenty laps of the coast except think and the last thing she wanted to do was to get involved in some emotional conversation about him. She didn't really need that. Luckily for her, Vilucha lived in the hut just next to hers, so it was relatively easy to find another teacher. As soon as the magic wears off, Yuna stops swimming and floats on her back, panting heavily. Her hair is matted with seawater as she takes a deep, oxygenating breath of air, letting the saline air fill her lungs. She stares up at the star-filled sky as she surrenders herself to the current, allowing the undulating waves to slowly wash her up to shore, and she waits. . I remember that night we had by the lake at Macalania. After we got out of the water, I just sat down in the grass staring at the surface of the lake, rippling deep and ringing with the sound of crickets. I imagined myself walking slowly into the water once again, but this time I would easily go in deeper, my feet scraping against the silt on the riverbed until the water was over my head. Then, I would maybe look up at the occasional bright flash of pyreflies glimmering over the water, probably the last thing I'd want to see. As though you had read my mind, you suddenly asked, "What are you thinking about right now?" Oh well, no point trying to play it off, I thought. "Drowning," I said softly. "It would be so quiet and peaceful." You're surprised, I can tell, as you speak. "It probably wouldn't be, you know," you started. "Once you're in there, instincts take over. You'd start thrashing and flailing and stuff." "You would," I replied. "Because you're a star blitzball player. A swimmer." A fissure forms between us as my words fall between us, cracking like rocks on the ground. I could imagine carefully, deliberately blowing a steady stream of bubbles out my nose, feeling myself sink inch by excruciating inch. "I would just let go." . The rain had stopped a few minutes before Yuna reached the beach so it was perfectly fine for her to swim, but what she hates is that all the sand is damp and crumbly. She spreads her coat across her usual spot and sits down. The beach is a quiet place, so quiet that thoughts and tears alike flow freely, components of a two-part geyser with the unusual power of healing. It is her favourite place to be, not because of the silence or tranquillity or scenery, but because it reminds her that the pain of losing someone is like the watching the tide change – sometimes it looks like nothing has changed and the emotion cuts just as deep, then suddenly you can look down and observe how much pain has been eroded. Yuna shuts her eyes tightly and pinches the bridge of her nose, wondering what made her run all the way down to the beach in the first place. Certainly it wasn't just for a midnight swim. When she opens her eyes, everything is a blur; is it because she's tearing? And suddenly, with great clarity, she can see herself standing beside him overlooking Luca. He's holding the edges of his lips wide apart in a grotesque grin like a clown, making her laugh. He looks over the edge of the railing and laughs first, a madman's laugh. It's almost comical, but then she follows so they laugh in unison, because underneath the surface of their fronts they're the same type of people: the kind that has to use their emotions to the fullest so they don't drown in them. As she sits on the beach, she can feel guilt pressing her in the chest, a stone over her heart which squeezes a small giggle past her lips. Curious at what she just did, she tries again, willingly letting the guilt sink comfortably between her lungs to produce an actual laugh, but it's hollow and empty, a cause for alarm. Yuna either doesn't notice or care as she yields to the weight of her own contrition, breaking out into peals of mirthless laughter. She listens to her insane laughter and wonders, if by sunrise, if it will still be an act. * Well, it's my first shot at writing a fic, but it had to be done. I can honestly feel my language skills slowly atrophying; this is probably an example of that. Anyway, I can guarantee you that it is impossible to write a valediction that is completely devoid of truisms, because that is pretty much the ground substance. What can you honestly say that people already don't know? Things like 'study hard, don't play too much' is way too parental and overused while 'set targets for what you want to accomplish' just falls on deaf ears. Oh well.