You are my fire
I am, in essence, a robot. Going through the day, working, doing schoolwork, sleeping and eating mechanically. Actually, I'm not so much a robot as a computer. Processing information, then churning it out in school or at work... I only feel otherwise when I'm around you. I can't really explain, since I don't understand half of what I'm feeling myself. All I know is... is that the heat between us, when we argue...
It warms me. It's the only heat I can really feel. Oh, sure, there's Mokuba, but my love for him-- it's a glow. A nice glow, a warm glow, but a soft glow. A glow that merely touches upon the surface of my soul, warming the most superficial layer of my heart. But you. You're different.
You know how when you're really, bitterly, cold? Numb, in fact? And there's nothing you'd like more than fill the bath with boiling hot water, and soak in it? Just lay there, allowing the burning water to seep into your ice cold body. Feel the tingle of life slowly returning, the feeling of a million ants overrunning your feet. To feel, for an evanescent moment, like you'll never be cold again. But, no. You always stop yourself, don't you? You know the searing pain that will spark in your deadened nerves as soon as you touch the steamy water. You know, instinctively, that it'll be painful. A danger to your health to go from extreme to extreme.
You stop yourself.
But I can't. I know the danger, I feel the pain whenever I come into contact with you. And I can't stop myself. From jibing you. From inciting the heat of your anger. It hurts, you see. It hurts to make fun of you. It hurts to see your hazel eyes blaze at me in anger and hatred. But it's the good kind of hurt. Well, not good. But the kind of hurt that draws me back to you again and again.
The kind of hurt that lets me know I'm alive. The kind of pain I can't get enough of. Because-- because when I see that hate... when I see that anger, I wonder. I speculate. I imagine what it would be like if there was a different kind of heat in your gaze. A different reason for your flushed face, your balled fists. A different inflection in the low way you say my name. I imagine that. And I shiver.
This imagining has been going on for quite a while now, and it has worn thin. I have imagined countless situations and scenes of how it might be if we were ever to be... more than enemies. More than friends.
And so, since I am a sadist as well as a romantic at heart, I am writing this rambling, unnecessarily sappy letter. Is it a letter? It seems more appropriate to call it a declaration of... something. An interest. A crush. A spark.
Seto Kaiba