Disclaimer: Not mine.
Jealousy is the tie that binds, and binds, and binds.
Helen Rowland
Colin Craven loved his cousin.
Mary had saved him, healed him. She'd ripped him out of his lonely, isolated world and refused to let him go back.
Not that he wanted to mind you. Not really.
But sometimes, just sometimes, when Mary and Dickon were acting especially affectionate, when the small, secret smiles and gentle, unobtrusive touches became too much he would retreat. He would go back to his dark room and shut himself away, refusing food and medicine and visitors until Mary came to drag him out again.
And Mary always, always came.
It was a perfectly ridiculous way to behave, of course. He was sixteen and far too old to be throwing tantrums but it made him feel better. As long as Mary kept coming things would be alright. He would know that she still loved him too. He would know that no matter how much she seemed to favor Dickon he was still wanted, that she would still choose him when it counted.
It had been two days and Mary had not come.
Perhaps he had gone too far this time, finally crossed the line that would cement him firmly into second place. He hadn't meant to, but it had been too much. There had been nothing gentle or discreet about that touch, nothing unobtrusive in the way Dickon had pressed Mary against the garden wall and kissed her.
Mary had kissed him back.
So Colin hit him.
It didn't matter that Dickon was his friend, had been his friend for years. It didn't matter that Mary would be angry or that it wouldn't change anything or that Dickon could beat him with one hand if he put his mind to it. In the instant that he threw the first punch Colin didn't care about any of that, didn't care about anything. Not about Mary's horrified screams or Dickon's wounded eyes. Not about the bruises on his knuckles or the stinging in his eyes. There was nothing in the world beyond horrible burning in his stomach, nothing past the angry fire crawling through his every nerve.
He. Didn't. Care.
He cared now though, waiting for a knock that wouldn't come.
Colin was no angel. He never claimed to be and Mary never granted him the title. He was selfish thing. Her selfish thing.
He would wait.
Mary would come eventually. She had to. If she didn't . . . Well, there was no After Mary. Not in his world.
Colin Craven loved his cousin.
A/N: I was in a Secret Garden mood so I wrote this little piece of random Colin angst in about thirty minutes. Because while Mary and Dickon are meant to be that's a sorry consolation to the odd man left out.
Reviews are both appreciated and adored. I have absolutely no fear of constructive criticism either so fire away.