Disclaimer: Anything you can recognize belongs to Disney.
Notes: Wow….I haven't written anything in ages. I had to convince myself that I still could, so I sat down and wrote this. It isn't that great, in my opinion, but it turned out a lot better than I thought it would. The ending decided it didn't like what I was planning and wrote itself instead, but whatever. Enough rambling.
At first, everything had been so simple and you had been so naïve that you thought yourself in love. He loved you, you knew that. It was easy to see. He loved you because he didn't care about your disfigured eye. He loved you because he didn't care about the distance separating you and the little time you could spend together.
You made a perfect pair, the two of you, with your brown-gold hair and soulful blue eyes. You were bulkier, he was taller (remember those days?), you were stronger, he was cleverer. A perfect couple, matched and even and suited for each other like pieces of a jigsaw.
You could believe you loved him because you could believe that he loved you. You see now that there never was love between you. He wanted excitement, that was all. And you?
You just didn't want to be alone.
You made the right decision when you told him it was over, that's what you have to keep telling yourself. He wasn't good for you. He isn't good for anybody. As a leader, yes. As a friend, maybe. But not as a lover. You should have seen it sooner, would have seen it sooner if not for…
If not for something.
He wanted power, he needed control. Just like every other part of his life. That was why he hurt you. He hurt you more and more as the years went by, as his power grew, as your friendship diminished. You should have known that you couldn't be lovers if you couldn't be friends.
At first he was just rough with you. You could excuse that, you could attribute it to how few and far between your brief meetings were. You could even enjoy it. When rough turned to harsh turned to painful, painful every time, you knew it had to stop. You knew that something should be wrong with this.
Underneath it all, you had to be free. You had to be free because of something closer to home.
He was new to the lodging house that year. A new boy with a smile for everyone, a new boy with cream-colored skin and light brown curls that begged to be touched. He was young and naïve as you had once been, but more innocent than you had ever managed, even to pretend. He stared after you with a kind of unfailing admiration that was impossible not to notice.
You responded to him almost without thought. Looks became words became touches and soon the two of you were unofficially everything he had every dared dream of. He was shy, almost childlike, and touches were all he had imagined. You never even kissed. He offered calm and comfort, nothing more. You couldn't refuse.
You don't like to remember the day when Spot came to talk with Jack. It was the first time you'd seen him since…
It was the first time you'd seen him.
When he entered the room you were aware of you brown-haired boy tightening his arm around you, holding you close even as he smiled at your former lover.
You told yourself that it didn't make you uncomfortable.
And if on the night of one of his increasingly frequent visits you decided that you needed to talk things over with Spot, if you went upstairs only see firsthand what is business in Manhattan was, if Jack told you later that it, that they had been going on since two weeks after you left Brooklyn for what you swore would be the last time, then what will you make of it? You swear to yourself that it doesn't matter, catching Spot's eye as he leaves from the protection of the arms that encircle you. You have someone else now. Someone you are content with.
And if you find yourself unsatisfied with words and casual holding hands, if you find yourself wishing for the daring excitement, if you find yourself pretending your hands are Spot's again in the dark where secrets are clearest, what will you make of it? You tell yourself that it's only normal adolescence as you wash yourself clean of your own scent. It will pass.
And if you see your brown-haired boy's glance catching and holding on another boy, a new boy who speaks without an accent and goes home to a real family at night, if you see the other boy holding the gaze steadily, if you see their accidental touches in the shadows, what will you make of it? You make yourself believe that it was time to let him go, watching the two of them from your seat near the fire, the warmth that doesn't quite drive away the chill of separation.
And if you being to haunt the streets of Brooklyn, if you then haunt the steps of Brooklyn's leader, if you weaken enough to ask him to take you back, what will you make of it? You remind yourself that you belong together anyway as you finger the old scars that haven't quite faded.
And if he turns you away, what will you make of it?
For then, then you will truly be alone.