He's a brilliant liar, but at the same time, he's rotten. I can see right through him. Maybe because I'm a liar myself. I know what to look for. It's in the way that he constantly moves his hands. He fidgets when he tells us that he has a plan. He never has a plan. There are only half-baked delusions of grandeur. I'm the one that comes up with the plans. Not being funny, but I don't know what he'd do without me.
The fact that he lies doesn't surprise me. Even though everyone always carries on about what a hero he is, he's only human. Humans lie. Some more than others. What surprises me is what he lies about. He lies about having plans. He lies about liking Much's cooking. He lies about love. As I've already said, he doesn't make plans. He's the pickiest eater I've ever seen. And he doesn't love Marian.
You shake your head in disbelief and ask me how I can say that. I can say that because when he talks about her, the smile never reaches his eyes. Never.
Maybe at one point it was true. Maybe before he went running to the Holy Lands he carried a torch for Marian. Now, though, the notion is a flat out lie.
I watch him from across the camp. Much frets over him like a mother hen. Poor Much. He's been "the friend" for years. He wants more. Robin knows it. He knows, but he'll never acknowledge. Tired of Much's constant attention, he stands and walks away from the camp. He pauses for the brief moment. In that moment, his blue-green eyes catch mine.
I give him a five minute head-start. Then, as casual as casual can be, I stand and stretch.
"I'm going to the tavern," I announce. They roll their eyes at me. I chuckle and saunter out of the camp.
I meet him at the river. He stands and stares across the water. I take his calloused hand in mine, and we stand together. As much as I enjoy talking, as much as I hate the sound of silence, I feel comfortable and say nothing. His hand tightens around mine.
"I love you, you know," he mutters. There is a smile on his lips. I am silent for another minute. This prompts him to speak again. "Do you love me?" I answer by pressing my lips to his.
He doesn't make plans, because I make them. He doesn't like Much's cooking, because we sneak off and have dinner every night. He doesn't love Marian, because he loves me.
You shake your head in disbelief and ask me how I can say that. I can say that because when I pull away, and he slowly opens his eyes, there is a smile in them.