He loves her.
At first, it is a flutter, a whisper caught on the wind, buried in so deep it is as if it is barely there at all. Easily dismissed, gone in an instant. Love is a big word to give to a stranger..
He loves her.
The thought annoys him, tugging on the edges of his mind as every hard earned twitch of lips tugs on his heart. He can still dismiss it, it's ludicrous, but it sticks, like hot honey on chapped lips, the taste not quite gone.
He loves her.
An accusation. A jibe from a friend that hits a little too close to home. Denial streaks off his tongue venomously enough to give him pause. He considers the easy company that's is way to difficult to source. The kind of person that can just listen whilst he drunkenly rattles off his various tragic life episodes. Mostly, closely, he considers the skip skip skip of his heart. The lurch of his stomach, the pounding of blood in his ears. In the end, he casts the idea aside. He is the player, the love-em-and-leave-em never settler. Women are his distraction, but never a weakness.
He loves her.
He can see it in the eyes of others, they judge the things he does, like they always have. They wonder the motive of his having her coffee (three and a half sugars and no milk) ready on her arrival, the opened doors and secret jokes. They wonder at the nights out, the lunches and shopping trips he could almost, almost call dates. And always suspicion. Because she is so innocent. Not mentally, no. Mentally she is stronger by far then anyone he has ever known, hiding hardship and suffering behind a smile that has been broken more then once. But she is untouched in the soul, purer even then anyone could ever fathom. Far too precious to be besmirched by the like of him.
He loves her.
And at last, at last, he will admit it. He catches himself watching sooty lashes and the slope of cheeks, memorising the curvature of her jaw. He wants to remember everything she says, every insult designed to tease and every compliment formed to lash. He wants to hear her say his name in her soft, velvet voice, tumbling from her lips on a breath. He wants to be able to look into her velvet eyes and tell her she is the closest thing to a friend- to acceptance- he has ever had, and he loves her for it.
He loves her.
And often, he wonders how they appear to others. Insults and barbs bandied back and forth so quickly they've time for little else, and yet they spend every day together. When he asks, her every tomorrow is busy, but every yesterday she has spent only with him. Until at last, in a drink induced frenzy, a night being tortured with her trashy country and romantic movies. The words are blurted out before he can stop them. He sees fear in her eyes and understands her. He is afraid too. Goose bumps prickle across his skin and she smiles, ever so slightly.
He loves her.
And by now the world knows that she loves him too. She has never said it. He doesn't mind, he has only said it once. Their relationship has changed very little. Playful days followed by sleepless, playful nights. Like teenagers whirling around on opposite sides of a carousel. He can see her spinning out of his reach and sometime soon, he knows she will have to grow up. He will have to catch her.
He loves her.
But he hates her jealousy. He hates the mistrust and the total disbelief at his reassurances. He hates that she feels inadequate. He hates the hot temper and. Burned out lows. But by now the words are branded across his soul, she has been threaded through him. So he consoles her, let's the rage calm and just skates over the cracks.
He loves her...
He tells her whilst the tears roll down the cheeks he admired not so long ago. It is not quite a lie. Not yet. She accuses him of being bored of her. He tells her he will never be, but can feel his interest in her slipping by the second. She thinks he has cheated, he can feel it, he cannot bring himself to answer that. Cannot tell her beautiful face that more then once he has been oh-so tempted...
He loves her.
It still is not a lie. But it isn't quite the truth either. They are not teenagers anymore. And he resents the years by her side as those of his youth. If only she had come later, much later, when he would have wanted to settle down. He loves her. But doesn't want her. He doesn't need her as he did. The carousel is spinning still, grinding to a halt, but she is no longer dancing. The insults have lost their playful edge. There is no more coffee. No more dates. The smiles he once did so much to earn are gone. The thread of her in his soul are fraying. She too, is sick of what they have become. He sees in her eyes that she is waiting for the day he will not be in her bed in the morning. She doesn't have to wait long.
He loves her.
Still, he can say it without bitterness, though only alone and in the dark. Tension is palpable between them, soon he finds himself not seeing her for hours, days, eventually months. He wonders where she is, if there is anyone new. He wonders if she misses their banter, or his smell the way he misses hers. He wonders if she think of him at all. Then there is only one thing to think about.
He loves her.
It hits him the first time he sees her after so, so long. Time and war have aged her, she is dirty and brusque. Short and snappy, the sarcastic little scrap he knew hardened to a heavy blade. A woman, in every way. He watches her from afar, admiring the new fall of her hair, the punk rock style of her clothes. All rebel, even among the rebels. Her troupe are the elite, and he wrangles a place amongst them. He tells himself it is only natural to want to protect her. After all, he did love her.
He loves her.
The words are whispered to him as he watched them talk together. The resistance leader, almost three times her age, watching her with intent gray-blue eyes. The silver haired man is memorising lashes and cheeks. With a pang he Realises that she is watching him too. The heavy sinking of his heart contradicts the raging denial. He remembers the shock and joy on her face as she surprised her. Relief he was alive twisted with other emotions he couldn't bear to name. Emotions only he could see on her stony face.
He loves her.
The ferocity of his emotions stir within him as he gazes down at her still form, terrified by the life blood seeping from her wound. He's in danger, such danger, but can't bring himself to care.
He loves her. He loves her. He loves her. He loves her. He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.
He loves her.
He tells her again and again. Tears on his cheeks and a hole inside him. A heavy hand grips his shoulder and he finds himself on a cold stone floor in a crowded corridor full of the wounded. He pulls her too him and whispers in her ear. He burrows his face in her neck and mumbles his sorrys and his mistakes. Breathing in that sweet smell, feeling the thread of her inside him tightening, burning his soul so hot he is surprised the others can't smell it.
He loves her.
And she lift her head and gives him a weak twitch of her lips. A hard won smile she barely has strength for. She smiles and tells him the words he has been waiting to hear since he was a teenager catching a glimpse of an enemy across a battlefield. People are fussing around her pulling her weakened, limp body from him and wheeling it away on a trolley, letting him chase he like he always has. The sky has darkened outside. Another battle lost, another step toward destruction, but it didn't matter.
She loves him.