Infatuation
A Musing of a Love Not Returned
Author's Note: This a short musing out of the head of everyone's favorite Chicken-Wuss, Zell Dincht, about Seifer. Read, enjoy, review.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own them. But, oh, how I wish.
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I look into his eyes and see everything; those sharp grey stormcloud orbs never fail to show what he tries so hard to hide. However, as much as I can read my blonde God, there is one thing I never fail to see, and one thing that is never there; love. There is no love, or even a tolerant, begrudged respect -- only a wary distance, a smirking indifference, that kills me. He is suspicious of me; he's never liked me, but I live with the taunts and insults to hear his voice, his beautiful voice, and to see the fleeting smirk that so lights up his features. I would die to see his smile; he never smiles, only that dry smirk that I've come to be so used to.
Maybe I'm foolish for loving him, for trying every moment to be closer to him, to play the game he and I have perfected of trying to piss each other off more and more. But I do love him. I can never tell him, for fear of rejection? No. For fear of him feeling the same for me, perhaps. Him and I, me and him-- we'd never work out.
But I can't help but try.
So I content myself with looking into his eyes, pretending to get angry when he pushes me to the ground and laughs, laughs so coldly and mockingly, as I do and as he does every day, as I call him names and he only laughs harder. I love that laugh ...
He'll never love me, never love me back. So I'll keep up this charade, living in a game of Pretend.
Author's Note: This a short musing out of the head of everyone's favorite Chicken-Wuss, Zell Dincht, about Seifer. Read, enjoy, review.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own them. But, oh, how I wish.
-----------------
I look into his eyes and see everything; those sharp grey stormcloud orbs never fail to show what he tries so hard to hide. However, as much as I can read my blonde God, there is one thing I never fail to see, and one thing that is never there; love. There is no love, or even a tolerant, begrudged respect -- only a wary distance, a smirking indifference, that kills me. He is suspicious of me; he's never liked me, but I live with the taunts and insults to hear his voice, his beautiful voice, and to see the fleeting smirk that so lights up his features. I would die to see his smile; he never smiles, only that dry smirk that I've come to be so used to.
Maybe I'm foolish for loving him, for trying every moment to be closer to him, to play the game he and I have perfected of trying to piss each other off more and more. But I do love him. I can never tell him, for fear of rejection? No. For fear of him feeling the same for me, perhaps. Him and I, me and him-- we'd never work out.
But I can't help but try.
So I content myself with looking into his eyes, pretending to get angry when he pushes me to the ground and laughs, laughs so coldly and mockingly, as I do and as he does every day, as I call him names and he only laughs harder. I love that laugh ...
He'll never love me, never love me back. So I'll keep up this charade, living in a game of Pretend.