Something Fragile
There's something strange about the way his eyes, as crystalline and blue as they are, seem to hold a wisdom so deep and wretched and so filled with hatred and anger, that has the ability to flare to life as he whirls around, hands clutching at strands of blond, growls of pain escaping his throat.
And he doesn't know it, but her heart breaks every time he does this.
There's something sorrowful about the way he falls to his knees when he remembers the past; when all and nothing seem to weave in and out of his mind like poisonous snakes feeding off his memories and repeating every image, every scene, every voice and feeling – everything is lived through twice and twice again.
And he doesn't understand why she still holds his hands to her heart when he reaches for the kitchen knife ready to cut anything on his already scarred skin.
There's something frightening about the way he looks at her through the corner of his eye, as if he's debating with himself on whether to say something that she sees in his eyes, and yet can't because he's afraid of the words or worse; he's afraid of her.
And he doesn't know it, but she wishes he would speak, because the room is too quiet when he doesn't…and he can make up for the silence she can only answer him with, and maybe then he'll forget the reason she can't speak and maybe, just maybe, he won't think that leaving is what's best for her.
There's a softness in his voice when he talks her to sleep, whispering memorised poems and speaking songs instead of singing them, stroking her brown hair as he lays on his side, behind her dozing form.
And he wonders why she never faces him…and the reason is that she doesn't want him to see the tears in her eyes from all the hurt she can hear in his voice.
There's a childishness about him when he cooks up dinner, focusing so hard on the stirring that he forgets to smell, and the soup turns a dark, burnt colour before he realises, and a few seconds later the kitchen is wrought with loud and colourful expletives that she can only blush and smile at.
And he doesn't like looking at her afterwards and instead pouts and stares out the window, knowing she'll just whip something up quickly and silently, because he hates being embarrassed in front of her, because he knows in his mind that he has to settle for second place…yet again.
There's something painfully numb – in the oxymoron that is him – about the way he sits by the window during the late hours of the night and stares at a couple of old, bent pictures in his hand, thumb occasionally brushing across a face she can't see, a smile she doesn't notice and a person – boy or girl – she doesn't know but wishes she did because maybe then, she'll be able to take some of the burden off him.
And he doesn't realise that it is at times like these when jealousy takes over and she wishes that those pictures would burn, because right then, she just wants to be selfish and wants him and only him…because without him, she has nothing of her past to cling on to and she may as well be a wraith with no name, no voice and nothing to give.
There's a contrast about him – everything about him – when she analyses the way he interacts with her and then with everyone else when they're at the supermarket or when they're at the post office or anywhere really; it amazes her and takes her breath away when he turns to her the minute they walk through the door and he smiles one of his rare smile and brushes the snow off her hat, gently taking the bags from her hands and walking to the kitchen.
And he doesn't know the way her heart beats every time he looks at her like that, because no one has before and she doubts that anyone else has the guts to because…no one would be like that for a troubled girl…no one but him, because he knows…and she knows he wishes he didn't.
There's something beautiful about the way he holds her at night; when he thinks she's asleep and vice versa, and she doesn't know if he's whispering the song in a half-doze or if it's an actual dream, and the way he clings to her, as if she's the rope to his dangling form – although she knows he's holding another – and he'll whisper 'I love you' in a tone so true and so pure that she finds it hard to believe he's the same person who kidnapped her years ago, let her go, and then found her again; broken and lifeless.
And she cant help but cry and turn to him, clinging desperately to his chest, and although he thinks he knows why she weeps, he has no idea…and it's better that way because she doesn't want to let him know how much she wants him to need her as much as she needs him…even when she knows the chances of that happening are nonexistent.
There's something delicate about the way they lie in bed together, neither looking at each other despite their bodies positioned directly opposite and facing each other; she doesn't look up because he's only wearing boxers and she's only in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts and neither wants to ruin the moment because his hands have just moved to hold hers in a way he's done before but she can't help but wish he does it more, and all she knows is that this is how things ought to be…even if it's only for an hour before one of them decides to make breakfast.
And he knows, and she knows that he knows, and he knows that she knows, that it's all a mess and she should hate him and he should despise her, but they can't because they're one in the same in some twisted, sick way, and by chance, they were thrown at each other to suffer together, neither receiving what they really want and both hating themselves for wanting and needing and wishing that this would end but never stop and...and…and…this is fragile and they know this and it can end when they say so.
But for now it'll be like this. Whatever this is. And neither will change it because neither wants to be alone. And in the end…
They're just clinging to a shred of the past, a shred of each other.
A/N: You can brick me now XD I think I've spammed this place WAY too much...but, uh, yeah XP Reviews are like chocolate; you can never get enough XD
Peace out!
Rex