{A/N: This fic is in response to a challenge a friend gave me. You had to use the words amnesia, silver, cake, ribbon, green, and sketch. This one's for Liz who trusted me when she had no reason to and loved me when I didn't. You're the best thing to happen to parochial school since the invention of the uniform, baby. Oh and if you ever read this, pretend you didn't because I'll be really embarrassed if you bring it up. I'm too much of a coward to say all this to your face.}
They'd brought him a cake. A get-well cake. You thought, how inappropriate and secretly wondered why you'd never bothered to find out how much he liked it. You'd never bothered to find out a lot of things and it wasn't just cake. No, it was a lot of things.
You'd never even bothered to find out the stupid little things, like how much shampoo he used. You'd showered with him countless times. You should know that. Did he apply liberally or sparingly? You strained to remember but you couldn't even come up with what brand he used.
That was unfair. That was so unfair because there were so many sketches of you. He'd memorized every line. He knew your every curve. He could map out your whole existence with his eyes closed and you didn't even know that he liked cake.
Now you would show him the same consideration. You would engrave his very being into you until you could trace every part of him without looking. And goddamnit, you would find out how he liked to apply shampoo.
It would only be fair and you needed a little fairness right now because the universe had taken this golden god from you. This golden god that did nothing but make the mistake of falling for you. This golden god that just wanted to dance at his prom. And it was almost laughable because the golden god with silver hair always tasted more like bronze to you. A fucking medal. That's what he was. To you and Chris Hobbs.
Really, you owed it to him. He deserved to be sketched too. Because he always sketched you. And even though amnesia had wiped the slate clean, he'd sketch you again and again until he didn't need you to act as a model. You knew he'd relearn you so you needed to learn him too.
All that was left was to start. So you looked at him. You watched as he stroked his sister's hair, running his finger along the green ribbon she'd tied into it. You knew he was trying desperately to remember. You knew he was searching through every memory left inside his troubled mind to find a little green ribbon and a little red head girl to go along with it. And when the spark of recognition came into his eyes at last, you knew it was all a charade. You knew he was pretending because everyone was supposed to know who their own sister was.
Then you left the room. You turned and fled because you knew that eventually he'd turn his gaze on you. You knew that you'd have that same expectant look as everybody else and he'd just pretend. And you'd let yourself believe him. You'd let yourself think that somehow you meant enough to him to transcend physical disabilities. But that was bullshit and you weren't going to indulge in bullshit. Not even if it would've made you deliriously happy.
So you drove. You drove and drove for miles on end until every stretch of highway melted into every other. Until every road sign blurred into his name. Until you temples throbbed and you whispered, "Paul Mitchell. Sparingly."