Summary: A glance. A glare. A sneer. A snarl. And every day since then, he heard those words, even if she never did say them again.
Characters featured: Brick, Blossom
He didn't know what was wrong with him. He should have hated her, despised her wholly and unconditionally - but he didn't. He didn't, and he hated that too. He hated her - but once every now and then, when he would watch those thick, impenetrable walls she'd built up crack and crumble, and, just for a moment, he'd see something other than arrogance, or a stoic face. He would see a brief glitter of tears, or a flash of a bright smile, and his heart would start thumping in his chest. He wouldn't be able to think straight, and suddenly, all he would picture was being pressed up against her, whispering sweet nothings into her ear and assuring her that just as she was his, he was hers, nothing would ever change that, and she would give him that wonderful, wonderful smile -
And the walls would come up, and his heart would pang as her eyes closed and she breathed, then carried on like she'd never let go of the facade. He would feel sad - no, not sad, he felt regretful, guilty (both emotions he despised so), and filled with the knowledge that he'd helped push her to that point, that he was the one who told her that he hated her, who glared at her every passing moment, who told her that everything was her fault, and who had told her so intently that killing her would be his greatest achievement. And she had easily returned his hate-filled look (and oh, how he wished that those eyes were soft with affection or blank with death) as she replied that no, it wouldn't be, because he would never kill her, because she would end him first. For so long they traded these looks and these words and their intense loathing of each other that it became second nature. They were such perfect enemies that they hardly needed the words - just one glance communicated a lifetime of torment, no matter how brief. What words they shared were clipped and barbed, designed to stealthily - or not - hurt the other in the way that only words could.
But neither of them had ever, ever, uttered the words 'I hate you.' Not with real meaning anyway. There was always something defiant, or defeated, or (and this may have just been him, or his wishful thinking) reluctant about those words - they were never spoken in whole, incomprehensible truth. But now? Now, as he looked at her standing before him, looking beautiful and graceful as she always did, still though she was, his eyes wide and the words he'd been longing to say for so, so long burning on his tongue, she turned a dead-eyed glare on him and whispered, so softly it was almost unheard.
"I hate you."
He wondered if the pain in his chest was his heart breaking or soaring.