A/N: Squidward's views on love are essentially mine, at this point. And yes, I wrote a Spongebob Squarepants fic, so bloody sue me. I may add more to this, I don't know.
Except for rushes, when he was so busy making food that he couldn't think about anything but his grill and his spatula, Spongebob secretly peeped out through his window and looked at his coworker. He saw Squidward every day - but somehow, even that wasn't enough; he had to keep looking at the other man, to fill his eyes with him as the octopus ran his tentacles over the register to ring up another customer, or leaned against the wall, reading a magazine, or went outside to smoke, unaware that the sponge's bright blue eyes followed his every move.
When he came back in, Spongebob was always delighted by the sharp, earthy scent of cloves that swirled in with him. In fact, he'd bought a clove-scented water freshener for his bedroom just because it reminded him of Squidward. At night, he went to bed dreaming of what could be, and in the morning, he woke up hoping. Even as young as he was, he knew that hope wasn't realistic, but he couldn't help himself.
He wasn't the most self-aware person, sure, but he knew what a crush was - he knew what love was.
So he watched, and he waited, and he hoped for a day when Squidward would look at him, and see something more than his obnoxious neighbor, or his chipper coworker.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooo
Squidward wasn't sure when the feelings had started, but he knew he hated them. He knew what love was - he'd been in love a few times before, and he hated that too. It never ended well for him.
He had taken up smoking again. He knew it wasn't good for him, but at this point in his life, he didn't care; it was the only thing that helped him make it through the day anymore. It was a sweet torture to have to work with his neighbor, to endure the child's enthusiastic and upbeat conversation, his eternally cheerful laughter.
The octopus wanted so desperately to put himself out there. To tell the sponge exactly how he felt. But the fear of rejection paralyzed him; he'd been rejected, had his heart broken, so many times, that he knew what would happen if he made himself vulnerable again. So he kept it inside, put on a cynical, rude facade, and tried his best to convince himself that love was for chumps, that it was for the weak, that it was a strictly biological phenomenon intended to make certain that the next generation came into being.
Somehow, though, he was never quite able to convince himself. He was, in short, a frustrated romantic, bitter before his time, and wary of anything involving his feelings.
Every night, when he was through with work, he left as quickly as he could, leaving a clove-scented trail of smoke behind him. Ostensibly, it was because he hated his job and couldn't wait to get home and start creating; in actuality, he was afraid that he'd blurt out his feelings and get his heart broken yet again. So he rushed home and spent his nights burying himself in his work, desperate to forget.
It was a delicate balance, his mind versus his feelings, and it was destined to crumple eventually.