He was dying and she knew it.
His shoulders were tense now, arms dragging along his sides, no attempt at a pretend-smile on his face. Friends in tow, he was like a phantom, a shadow of the boy he once was, barely living. He needed her and she needed him and both were denied of their desires. Ultimately, they ended up clinging whenever possible, hanging on each polite, un-telling word.
It was an exquisite torture, bordering on hell, and she could stop it at any moment.
But she doesn't.
Brad was saying something and she wasn't feeling polite enough to incline herself to listen. She nodded absently, Brad's hand resting on her shoulder, a gesture bordering on insolent but she didn't say anything.
"So you'll go with the Bradster to the dance tomorrow night?"
Brad affirmed, overbearingly. "Sure," she agreed without much conviction. She warily watched Brad walk down the hallway, hands in pocket, before turning back to her locker.
She should have been happy that she was free of fighting herself, fighting Huntsgirl. She was free of pretend-slaying, or ducking into alleys and scurrying into corners. Free of hindering him, free of the fear that she was becoming his Achilles heel.
She is free, she tells herself adamantly.
Closing the door of her locker she spots him turning into another hallway, hands gripping tightly -- too tightly, his knuckles are white -- his books and she chokes back a sob, later excusing herself from class and into the nurse's office.
She is not free.
The next time she fights him he almost kills her.
"Give her back," He screams into the air, his words barely audible at the height of the building that she's perched on. Certain that she has been replaced, that this girl that has been treating him so callously couldn't possibly be her; he's persistent with his threats. Threats that soon become pleas.
It hurts her like jagged pieces of glass, intent of burrowing deep inside her heart and staying there. It hurts her to the extent that the pain becomes physical and she staggers backwards, over the precipice of the building. She's falling through the air, wondering if she should let herself fall and die and be rid of the entire mess she's buried herself into.
She doesn't die, only awakens in a bed not her own. She bites her lip and draws blood realizing that someone has saved her.
She wished they hadn't.
"You hate me, don't you?"
He says suddenly, without warning. It is late in the afternoon and they are coincidentally in the library, although she doesn't know if coincidentally is the right word to assert. Reflexively she is prepared to deny his accusations; of course not, don't be silly.
But she's made it this far and she will not concede the fight, not if it means saving him from her in the long run. Steeling herself, she braves for the impact of her words.
"Yes," she says and doesn't look at him.
He nods in a slow acceptance, the pain apparent in his own eyes and she almost falters but holds steady. He turns away from her, slow, dragging footsteps that resemble the beating of her heart.
"No," she whispers when he's gone to no one in particular.
No.
The next time she sees him he has not one, but two girls at his side, identical except in choice of clothing. He doesn't say anything to her, why should he and she returns the favor.
The separation is taking place, slowly but surely, and she doesn't know if she can hold on until the end. It is never communicated but they both know the truth.
They will die without each other.
"Don't you think it's time you told me the truth?"
He asks without preamble the next time they spar.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Don't do this."
"Do what?"
"You know what I mean."
"No I don't."
He knocks her weapon out of her hands, pinning her against the wall, eyes too intense for her to match.
"Don't do this," she mirrors his words.
"Do what," he does the same.
And then he kisses her and everything goes to pieces.
The dance comes and Brad tries to kiss her and she lets him because she knows that it won't be the same. It isn't, he isn't quite as good -- no one will ever be able to match him she reminds herself -- and she politely dismisses him before things get out of hand.
She is faced with the silence for only a moment and then she throws up.
Half disgusted by herself, half disgusted by the meaningless kiss she throws up and throws up until she swears she's thrown up her heart.
She might as well; she has no need for it.
Not without him.
She's sent to the hospital on account of lack of nutrition.
When the doctors ask her if she's starving herself she says; yes, when they ask why she says; you wouldn't understand. Later, she stands in front of a group of doctors and a psychiatrist and tells them that she apologizes for endangering herself and that she realizes that nothing is worth starving herself.
They nod to each other, convinced that she's telling the truth and more importantly, sane. One doctor steps forward, a woman, and repeats her words to her delicately; "Nothing is worth starving yourself, you hear me?"
She's obviously never met him.
The time passes and they live like marionettes, adjacent but never truly touching.
He's completely dead now, as is she and nothing matters anymore. Not love, not hate, not poisonous devotion, nothing. It's raining and they are fighting again, but she doesn't fight with much conviction anymore.
"I love you," he says and her eyes widen almost as if she is alive and his confession could change things. "And I don't care if you don't feel the same way but I'm not giving up on you."
She almost cries, for herself, for him, it's too late to tell. She reaches a resolution and settles for a smile, a broad, cracked, paper smile.
She won't give up either.
There's a quiet aggressiveness in the way he faces her, weapon in hand, grin on his face; "Let's fight."
Although she would have more than happy to carry on with the charade she shakes her head in a definite motion and a quite no escapes her lips.
"Why not," he says, sounding almost disappointed.
"I just want things to end, for us to go our separate ways," she admits, not really looking at him and is surprised to feel his fingers dancing on the rim of her face, drawing it up so that she can face him.
"You're too far in to get out now. We have to fight until one of us wins, understand?"
She smiles then, smug and prideful and murmurs; "But I have won."
With a sweep of his eyes, he catches her fingers dancing softly on his chest, catches their way they're placed, knows that if she pushes in with any of them she can stop his heart instantly.
He smiles almost viciously.
"That's not fair."
"No one said it was going to be fair."
"Cheater."
"Loser."
"Go to hell."
"You first."
"Are you going to kiss me?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
His fingers are threading through her golden hair, and her glass hands are clasped around his neck. They are so close they share the same breath, the same guilt.
"We shouldn't be here," her voice is a hiss as he nods a small smile at his lips.
"I couldn't stay away," he replies, and then sighs, dark eyes searching hers briefly.
"How long are we going to do this," she retorts softly, lips touching briefly upon his.
"As long as we need to," he half replies, meeting her halfway for another kiss.
There is darkness and the remainder of innocence as they smile to each other in vain.
They were doomed from the moment they met each other, blinded by destiny and fate and something else that they don't care for.
And they've never regretted it.