A/N: Angsty one-shot, in which the characters aren't ever really named. But I hope you like it anyway.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not yours. Move on to the actual fic.
~*~ Indefinite ~*~
He was everything that she wasn't.
She looked, almost with trepidation despite her general self-assurance, at the stiff, broad back that was turned to her. Wide, bright eyes, somewhat troubled, stared at the back of his head. She knew that he noticed her presence.
She knew that he was aware of her look.
He was temperamental, downright MEAN at times, with a venomous temper and rough, callused fingers, tanned and powerful.
Ther first time that she'd lain her own fingers upon his was when they were both looking through the same book, and he'd been impatient. The book didn't interest him, and he was about to flip the page with a snarl and a roll of his brooding, hard-glinting eyes.
And she'd lain her fingers atop his to prevent him from turning the page that she was avidly reading.
His fingers were warm, though.
She didn't expect that. Warm, almost hot despite their roughness, despite the short nails and…
Her hands were smaller than his, with slim fingers and smooth nails and soft skin. But her fingers had been cold, because the room had been drafty. He'd rubbed her fingers, almost chafing her skin with his roughness, and curtly told her to get some damned gloves, or at least a bloody Warming Charm.
Why was she remembering?
Why was she HERE?
"What do you want?"
His voice was almost always a snap, not particularly welcoming. His voice wasn't as warm as his hands.
Perhaps it wasn't like that with the others… with the ones more like him. With the ones who weren't like her. With…
They were supposed to despise each other, really.
Well. Okay. Perhaps she wasn't THAT immature, but still…
She opened her mouth to speak, not sure of what she would say, and uttered his name in a soft voice. Her voice was almost never a snap, sweet and melodious. She was ladylike.
A young princess who should by all rights go for a prince, a knife in shining armour by the definitions of her world, and by no means this… this rough, temperamental, moody lad with the narrowed eyes that didn't let much in or out.
He felt more than they knew.
How did she know that, though?
Perhaps she was stupid to seek him out. Perhaps she was far less sensible than those like her (the opposite of those like him).
Or perhaps she was actually wiser.
They would never know, and it wasn't something that they discussed in detail. Such discussions bored him to… well, not tears.
She'd never seen him cry, really.
He'd seen HER cry. He'd made her cry before.
But cool lips and hot hands and opposites and sparks were other things altogether, and his hard and her soft and his diamond to her satin…
And it was okay, in a disjointed, odd, indefinite sort of meld.
She wasn't supposed to.
They weren't supposed to.
Why couldn't they seem to remember these inexorably insignificant rules?