Little shitty drabble 'cause I was bored of writing chapter two of Petit Ami? and the one-shot for sugarbubblegum333 just does not want to be written D: There aren't enough stories out there in second person...so enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing
How You Feel
A South Park Fanfiction by Raining Skittles
His spindly, white fingers are mere inches away from your eyes. Each perfect ivory joint, tipped with black lacquer that dances softly over your hair with practiced ease as he cuts it.
He knows exactly how you like your hair, black with stripes of red in the center of the scalp, and with bangs over your eye. He always, every single time he cuts your hair, speculates as to why you like having side bangs, though all you spend your time doing is flicking them out of your face, or letting him do it.
You always smile at this comment, but you never, ever, tell him it's because you like having him gently sweep the strands out of your face.
Because that would lead to saying you love him, and love is a totally conformist emotion.
Besides, Evan doesn't believe in love, as he always says, "Love didn't work out for my mom and dad, why should it work out for me?" though, secretly, you know he's wrong, love can work out, if you help it along the way.
"Okay, you got the razor?" He asks.
You hand it to him. The razor is simple, plastic- black, of course- and the blade is sharp, because you replaced it. This is the razor that is always used. Always.
He gently takes your bangs between his fingers, and drags the razor down, taking away stray hairs that have grown since the last time your hair was trimmed, and that you want rid of. Gently shaping your hair.
"Thanks for doing this all the time, Evan," you say quietly, lips curling up in a half-smile.
Evan stops what he's doing, obviously shocked. You never say that. You expect him to make a remark, but instead he just tugs on your bangs, lightly, in a teasing way.
"Someone's got to keep your hair in line, Dylan," he replies, winking.
Every touch, every smile, every time he says your name. All of these are special and each feeling is unique.
You look at the bat patterned clock on your bedroom wall, it's almost six, Henrietta and Georgie will be wondering where you are. Evan seems to be thinking the same thing, as he puts down the scissors in his hands and grabs your wrist, almost lifting you out of your place seated on your bed, in his haste.
You smile to yourself, as the two of you head out of the door. He may never know how you feel, but what does it matter?
Love is, after all, just a conformist emotion.