"Unrequited Embrace"
Written By: anti-nostalgic kuma (siriusly delusional)
Disclaimer: I don't own Gravitation. I don't own the Greek god Apollo. And I don't own the Golden Girls, which I am currently watching. Thank you.
Author's Notes: I wrote this...wow...a looooong time ago. Basically, this is the story; I was inspired to write this after romping around the Carnegie Museums of Art and Natural History in, what I like to call, 'the big statue room'. They have this old cast of an ancient Greek statue of Apollo. For some reason, it reminded me of Eiri. Yeah, I'm not sure how I made that connection, either. But who am I to ignore a muse? ' I think it had something to do with how handsome the face of Apollo was, but how cold and distant the expression was on his face... Anyways, this is the result! A dual POV poetic type of piece, in which, there is sadly no snogging, but in which manly hugs (hopefully) make up for it! Also, it's very short, like a drabble. So, enjoy!
I.
He never puts his arms around me. I mean, really puts his arms around me. When we make love, his hands roam my back, and, sometimes, grudgingly, he'll hold me with stiff arms, but the feeling of his arms wrapped tightly around me, gentle and yielding, is completely alien to me.
I don't really mind. Not really. It's not his style; it goes against his nature, and, I think, he's just a little bit afraid of what would happen to him if he gave into me.
I don't complain about it. I don't even mention it. I allow him that barrier for now.
...Maybe, I'm a little afraid, too.
When I throw my arms around him and hold him tightly, I don't complain that his hands are shoved into his pockets and his eyes are diverted. I don't complain because he's never tense when I do this. When I do this, he's as close to relaxed as I've ever seen him.
So, I allow him to stand there stoically, every bit like a stone statue of the Greek god Apollo, just as beautiful and unreachable...for now.
II.
I never put my arms around him.
I know that, if I did, there would be no turning back.
There would be no more convincing myself that I really don't care; no more letting him believe that he means no more to me than a sex object; no more blocking him out.
If I put my arms around him, it would undo me completely.
And I can't have that. Not again.
Maybe I'm a coward. I'm not afraid of the media or what my fans would think, it goes deeper than that. So much deeper.
It goes down to New York. The last time I let someone get close to me, the last time someone had this much control over me, it ruined me. I became cruel and cold; a mockery of the free-spirited child I once was.
I'm not sure what it is I'm afraid of. Is it that he will end up hurting me, or that I will end up hurting him the way I was hurt; destroying him like I was destroyed? Maybe it's both. I'm not sure.
But he never complains about it.
Maybe he's too scared of displeasing me to bring it up. Perhaps he's more perceptive than I give him credit for. Whichever it is, I'm glad of it. Glad that he understands I can't let him in; not yet.
So, when his arms are around me, my hands delve into my pockets, resisting the urge to hold him so tight to me that he can barely breathe.
I stand stoically, every bit the Greek god Apollo he sees me as. A cold and ruined statue.
-End-