The Meaning of Nothing
The Meaning of Nothing
Kiri
to those who will never know

He's cold, to be sure, but not in that unapproachable sense, that distant disdain, but instead cold in an almost frightened way. It's not unapproachable – it's simply unattainable. If I reach out as far as I can, I can still never touch him. It's like he's in a gilded ice cage of his own volition and crafting.

I can never tell him. If I did, I could not bear the looks his eyes would give me.

That betrayed look. That disgusted look. That slight sneer that would curve his lips in place of a smile.

No. I won't tell him.

It's nice to dream sometimes though, to just close my eyes, lean back on his bed, and just pretend that he might sit beside me and stroke my hair, or even brush my lips with his, just the slightest touch.

But no. I don't touch him and he doesn't touch me. It's safer that way.

I'm on his bed right now and faint tendrils of his scent are curling around me, pale ghosts of his embrace that will never be. Tears come to my eyes and die stillborn. No reason to cry. Reality is not something I can just reject.

I can imagine how it would be. I would just open my mouth and tell him. He would pause a moment to see if I were joking. I would see his eyes, and he would know my serious heart, and straining for some measure of control, I would be hit with the same rejection that I wish to give to reality. And quickly, my mouth always ahead of my thoughts, I would joke it off.

Because he'll never say yes. Never.

He doesn't even know that I could be interested in him. Of course, why should he? I'm a boy. I've gone out with girls. I'm normal, boring, and straight.

Damn him.

I've already done my raging, the screaming and crying, the hitting things, and all those other symptoms of one denied. He has never seen me cry. If he did, I wonder if he would hug me or just turn away.

Where did I cross the line? I didn't mean to. I didn't meet him and decide that he was cute and that I wanted him. Even if he were hideous, I would still-

No.

I sit up slowly, stretching my stiff neck and back. Too long in one place. He would be back soon.

It's funny. I've had sex dreams before, but the other never had a face until I discovered my feelings for him. And now it's his lips that trace my cheekbones, his hands that embrace me, his eyes that pierce my night. He would laugh, I think, if I told him.

Which, of course, I never will.

I have to stop thinking like this. I take a deep breath and stand, my body having already made an imprint on his perfectly made bed. Absently, I smooth it, brushing away all traces of me.

He's beautiful. I don't think he knows that. I want to tell him every time I see him. Inside, outside… he's just completely beautiful and perfect and lovely.

And that shall eventually belong to someone else, someone deserving, in the future. That's all right with me.

Who am I trying to fool?

I'm not stupid. I know that whoever he falls in love with I will judge harshly and mercilessly, but will assuredly have to admit that she has no equal anywhere. She will certainly be better than me and I'm sure she also won't be a coward.

But I don't think it's that I'm afraid. I think, if I knew that he could feel the same way for me, I would bridge that gap and part my lips and tell him. Even if he refused me then, he would not have that disgust in his eyes.

It's just that I'm sure he could never feel that way for another guy.

He's caught me watching him before, his quick gaze seizing my helpless focus, and I always give him a hesitant smile. I feel foolish and ashamed, and I want to apologize, but I also want it to blow over. So I say nothing.

But his eyes, those damn green eyes, always seeking, always needing, pleading with me silently, unknowingly.

I hate his eyes.

No, that's not true, and I know it.

That's just me being bitter and foolish and jealous and petty.

I do love his eyes. They're dark, like emerald and onyx melted together into vibrant, living water.

I grab a book off my desk, mathematics, and squirrel up to my bed, curling up around it. My bed is, of course, unmade. It's hard to reach to the top bunk just to fold blankets everyday. Much easier just to shut the curtain. I make a little hole for myself in the covers and crack open the book.

Just in time.

I hear a hand on the door, a few parting words, and I try to engross myself in my math textbook.

In vain, of course, but it's nice to pretend I have a little self-control.

The door cracks open, and I can see the back of his head. He's still speaking to someone and I feel a twinge of irrational jealousy as I hear him chuckle quietly and bid farewell. Resentfully I delve deeper into my equations.

"Hello, Mitsuru," he says in that calm tone, the way he speaks everything.

"Hello," I reply and don't even look up.

He does not take note of this and just sits as his desk.

I shut my eyes, aware that he can't see me, and struggle to regain control. He's so beautiful. I just want to touch his hair. His skin is so pale. It looks so soft and I'm sure it feels that way too. Oh, god, I just want to crush him in my arms so that he becomes a part of me or I become a part of him, so closely unified that one cannot breathe without the chest of the other rising as well.

I want our souls to become one so I know everything about him, every feeling, every thought, so that I can tell him how much I-

I cut my thoughts off abruptly, a low growl escaping from my lips. "Calculus getting the better of you, Mitsuru?" he asks, in the same gentle, unfeeling way he has.

"It's fine," I reply, rather annoyed at myself for the slip, flipping a page.

"If you need help, you can just ask, you know." He turns and looks up at me, those melted eyes piercing me through the throat. I swallow thickly a few times.

Mutely, I shake my head.

Safe behind his impenetrable wall of the ever-assuming straight male, he stands and walks over to me, resting his folded arms on the edge of my bed, watching me. "What part of it are you studying?"

I'm going to drown. I can feel myself gasping for air inside, and I'm shaking; I'm shaking; can't he see I'm shaking?

"Non-linear equations," I force out between numbed lips, immobile teeth. He's too close. I can feel his breath light on my arm, warm, gentle. Every little hair that moves as he breathes in and out I can feel electrify my heart, which has started to beat much faster. I wonder if he can hear it; he's perfect at everything else. Why shouldn't he have super-human hearing too?

I think I actually shiver as I move my hand away.

His eyes flicker, the onyx overshadowing the emerald a moment. I see this, but ignore it. "You sure you don't want help?"

Hell, of course I want help. Just not the kind he can provide me with. Or rather, not the kind he would be willing to provide.

"That's okay," I reply, my voice almost back to my congenial nature. "I'm sure I can do it. Thanks though."

He shrugs, small shoulders looking thin beneath his sweater, turns, and sits back down in his chair.

God, I can still smell him.

I can't think about equations right now. I can't even breathe. Every breath takes in something of him, something that if he knew what I felt, he wouldn't give freely.

I raise my eyes to his seat at the desk and notice he has turned so that with a single glance he can look up at me. This does not faze me. I can see his profile like this. I trace his face with my mind, arguing with myself again about the merits of truth versus privacy. Perhaps if I just told him… but no. I know this. There are some things that no amount of hope, fear, or hatred can change.

One of which is that I love him.

"Mitsuru?" he asks curiously when he noticed me watching him. His eyes seem splayed by a curious flash of gold, reflection from the dim light onto their surface. Funny, I never thought that that light was capable of producing such a beautiful reflection.

I'm quiet a long time. "Nothing," I reply finally. "Nothing at all."