A spur-of-the-moment, written-at-midnight oneshot. Which automatically equals to weirdness, if you like.

Don't like slash? Don't read, then. Honest critique is much appreciated, though.

Disclaimer at profile.

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You walk on the streets like they belong to you, always chin up and chest out. There, you are more at home than anywhere else, because they are there, the girls and boys of a generation, the loves and losses of an eternity.

You do not care much for the views as much as the materials. When there is nobody around, you always walk up to those waiting and smile; and they melt under that golden sun that seems to rise every morning without fail. Your fluid moves touch them, and you then bring them home, those trophies. Always the winner, that's what you are… or so you think.

Sometimes I see you sitting in the café, your clear blue eyes tense and fatigued from a long night's work. You always hide into the bathroom, though, before anyone else can come along and see the human side of you. I'm starting to wonder if this is all a hallucination, if I am the one that was blind all along. Because, as long as I'm still here, my mind seems to conceive that you are the most wonderful thing that is breathing on this planet. I could be wrong, but there is nobody to tell me so. There is nobody I could talk to, even.

Deep down, I sometimes think that you might have an interest in me. It is impossible, though; you've probably hated me on sight. You never talk to me, and I can never convey my emotions and words well enough to express what I really want. I've been Just Another Boy, Someone Else You Can Bully, for about a thousand plus one years, and never in that time have I ever resolved to say what could be never said. Because in spite of the nothing I've got, it is something that could not be exposed in the light of the day, the rays of your sunshine.

Maybe I do not love you after all. Maybe this is just some sick fantasy that I've been cooking up all through the years to keep myself preoccupied from the bland life I've been leading. Maybe when I see you in pain and hiding away, all I am feeling is compassion and pity, nothing more. There are too many Maybes to comprehend.

Maybe I should stop pretending I don't.

Today I heard that you'd laid another girl, and that was no surprise. I can see you from here, strutting along without a care in the world. That's what other people see, in their narrowed perspectives and uncaring visions. I see someone that's had one too many sorrows kept away, one like me who has not yet had the first taste of genuine caring and love. I also see someone who, despite the scrutiny, daringly takes the lead in a career much underrated. Because after all, the most that happens in human life is the life that undertakes great scorn because of its willingness to comply.

Your eyes are on me now, curious to know what eyes would dare look back. There is a sort of frankness there, sincerity that would most definitely surpass the most convincing looks of anyone much more credited. Such is the stare of someone who has already given his all for his living, someone who has nothing to lose. I do not know whether to avert my eyes, because only now I realize I know next to nothing about you.

You smile, uncertainly at first, and in the next moment I daresay I can see your life shining through the rays of the sunlight.