Author's Notes: I own nothing; no copyright infringement is intended. Also, if anything in this story is even remotely in-character or factually accurate, please excuse me--it was completely unintentional, I swear. ;)

I'd be lying grotesquely if I said that I'd never suspected that something was going on between those two. I'm not thick--there're only so many long, soppy looks and cryptic (flirtatious?) remarks that a bloke can take before he starts to realize that something is definitely up.

But that didn't make me any less surprised when Susan--Responsible, Reasonable, Sensible Susan--practically jumped Caspian in front of a crowd of mingled Narnians, Telmarines, supernatural Lions, and siblings who would really rather not witness their sister . . . you know. Had she no respect for my sensitive nerves and my tender stomach? I was already nauseous enough at the thought of leaving Narnia, and she just had to go and make me want to puke even more.

And it didn't help that the fellow in question was Prince--excuse me, King--sodding Caspian. To put it mildly, we' never got on much, and though we'd managed to put aside our differences for the present (the fact that we'd never see each other again was a great help to civility, and a very bracing thought besides), this was all a bit too much. Had he no shame? First my kingdom, then my crown, then my sword, and now my sister. What would he take next? My . . . my . . . well, that's exactly my point. There's nothing left to take!

I've honestly no idea what expression exactly was on my face as I watched Susan and Caspian shamelessly declare their (ew) affection to the world. My eyes felt as though they were being slowly clawed out and there was a burning sensation behind my eyelids, so it's probable that I was squinting. I do know that my mouth was tightly shut--to keep in the bile--and I might have been trying to smile benignly, to keep up appearances, you know. It wouldn't exactly have been appropriate for me to explode into a volcano of brotherly protectiveness and rage in front of my--cough, his--people. Or so I told myself. The expression on my face, then, was probably more closely related to a grimace than a grin.

I'm not going to rationalize my animosity towards dear Caspian for you right now. It'd take too long. But let me guide you through a little exercise that might help: first, picture the one person who's always bugged you to no end. The one who just rubs you the wrong way. Mix that with an overdose of arrogance (he calls it pride), an annoying pseudo-Spanish accent, and an unfairly (disgustingly) handsome face, and there you have it. Prince Caspian.

Can you understand, even a little bit, why I'd prefer even the bloke who keeps calling Susan "Phyllis" (I'm writing this on the train) for her? At least he isn't a usurping, attacking Telmarine with terrible manners and a personal vendetta against moi.

Wait a minute. What if he is? He doesn't look it--the acne is hardly threatening, but still . . .

I'd better keep a close eye on Phyllis-bloke (Phyl? Phil?) from now on. But regardless--I just don't understand why Susan and Caspian were attracted to each other in the first place. I mean, they're only both slightly attractive and young and straight and . . . you know what? Never mind. I get it. It's like in my Science class. Hormones, the root of all evil, the reason my sister just had to act like a--oh, check out the redhead at three o'clock . . . wow . . . what was I saying? Ah, yes. Hormones. Sinister agents of darkness--oh, no.

Susan wants to know what I'm "scribbling" about. Oh, SNAP. Susan, I didn't--ouch--I can explain--