AN: random inspiration from my life, plus insomnia, again/
Disclaimer: I don't own it
It's a good thing she sleeps so soundly.
He watches her, curled up, and clutching at her sheets. Her red hair spreads out across the pillows, glowing even though there doesn't seem to be any light. She talks in her sleep, but never anything that makes sense. Once she babbled in what sounded remarkably like Indian. She says his name once or twice; whenever she does, mumbling it or shouting it, it sends a jolt of pain and hope through his chest. Pain, because it means she could maybe, just maybe, care for him, and hope because, well, she might care for him.
If she doesn't talk at all, and he knows she's completely out, he slips under the covers, cradling her. It makes him feel as though everything was right, that she wants him consciously as well. She curls around the sheets, and he curls around her.
Whenever he sees her with other people around, the gypsies or her own classmates, he avoids her, and expects she does the same. He wishes he could say he thinks of her every minute, but there are far too many distractions. Although, ever since that kiss, he's been spending more and more time alone, appreciating the solitude of no one but himself around and the memories.
Whenever he does see her, little glimpses, she always appears to be laughing loudly, or very angry. He's not conceited enough to believe both the laughter and the anger are for him; maybe they are her default moods now a day.
But at night, his thoughts run free. He thinks of touching her, or her touching him. Doesn't matter, either way. His dreams are his escape, where he can feel like they belong together. He hates waking up, hates the better half of his days fading. He thinks about giving up dreaming, to rid himself of at least a little bit of the pain, but it's his drug supply. With so few hits, he'll take it whenever he can.
It always causes him the most pain when he sneaks out and watches her sleep. But he'd keep doing it till the end of time.
He holds still, cradling her, breathing as silently as possible, feeling the heat from her body. Watching, waiting. For what, he doesn't know. Even if she does care, they still could never be together. He is Indian, poor, and she is a rich English lady, who's liable to be married of to Simon Middleton or worse any second. They could steal kisses for a few years, meet in secret once a week, but in the end, the bill for the pain she unknowingly gives him would just be a little higher.
She holds her pillow, wishing it was him. He holds her, wishing that she knew.
He finally escapes out her window as dawn begins to break, right along with his heart,