Title: Blue and White
Summary: Childhood friends spend a day together. And speak without saying words. I suck at summaries, can you tell?
Notes: I don't own anything. I love comments more than I love love. Written for rentchallenge on livejournal of putting yourself in the story and asking a question.
Mark and I grew up together and apart. So I knew that he had a flair for attaching himself and not letting go. Ever. He would detach from something and attach to something else, trade the places out. This time though he traded the something for someone.
Her name was Maureen. She was an actress or so he told me. And he loved her. I could tell because he wasn't working that hard on the film he was trying to piece together.
We were alone in the loft, which struck us both as odd but we didn't go into it too much. Roger was bound to be somewhere. Neither of us wanted to find him. He hadn't been himself for a very long time now and I could tell that Mark was worried by the lines on his face. He adjusted his glasses more, something that was a tell of his.
I sat beside him, watching him, as he was oblivious to me. I wondered how he could be so blind to it all. He saw Roger's pain, what he wanted to film, and yet he couldn't see my— no, of course he couldn't. We were childhood companions, nothing more and nothing less – at least to him.
I fiddled with his scarf that he had draped around my shoulders when we first entered and I exclaimed that it was colder inside than outside. The same scarf that I had given to him so many years ago. I kidded that it was us in that scarf. He was the blue and I was the white. Glancing at him, I shrugged to myself, "Do you love her?"
He paused in what he had been doing and looked to me, confusion across his face, of course he did, his emotions read, what are you thinking?
Nodding, I looked back down to the scarf. The blue and white blocks of it, the way the blue just touched the white and never went farther. That was Mark and I. That was the way it always was, the way it would always be. But I couldn't handle anymore of that. This Maureen couldn't love him the way I did.
I blinked. Had I just accepted it? I knew I had. Looking back to Mark, who had stopped his work and kept his attentions on me, adjusted his glasses. He was worried about me.
And then it happened. I don't know who moved first but it happened. We were standing and the blue finally touched the white. His hand went to my hair, and my arms went around his frame. I didn't want the blue to just touch anymore; I wanted the blue and the white to mix.
He pulled away a minute later, and took a step back.
"Does she love you?"
A pause. A look of deeper confusion, doubt, and then a smile, "Seriousness was never your strong point, Angela. Stop playing around."
But we both knew the real answer: She doesn't, not like you, I love you too, and that was that. The blue and white would never do anything else but touch. He had the one that he called his white, and it wasn't me.