You glance over. Our eyes meet and you smile at me, the corners of your lips lifting upwards ever so slightly. Then you look away and listen again to those monotonous words we're supposed to obey. But I know you're still thinking of me.
Something brushes my hair and whispers against my skin - your touch, even though I can see you still sitting several metres away on that couch. It's not really you. Which one is the illusion and which one is real? I still can't tell.
The others begin to leave. I remain where I am, leaning against the tabletop, arms crossed, expression neutral (at least, I think it is...). You stand with the rest but linger behind, waiting for the door to shut behind the others before you approach me.
Your fingers on my cheek are real this time, aren't they? The soft leather caressing my jaw is not an illusion? Even though I stand, you still tower above me. I hate it when you laugh every time I try to make up the difference between us. I hate the fact that you know I feel inadequate.
I'm scowling now. I just can't stay calm when you're around. Everything about you infuriates me. Stop grinning! It's like you're reading my thoughts. How can you know me so well and yet I know so little about you? I see nothing when I stare into those mismatched eyes. Nothing. As you stare back I can see your expression change, yet your eyes remain the same.
It's too late to say, 'Don't touch me.' I've already let you in too close. You wrap your arms around me, pull me to you and rest your cheek upon my hair. I want to push you away - throw you away - as far as I can. I know I'm bristling. I know I'm tense. You continue to hold me anyway and laugh softly in my ear, and just like that I relent.
Are you inside my mind again? It's not fair that you can control my body like that against my will. As if you had heard me speak, you hold me out and look at me with eyebrow raised. Bastard. You are in my mind. You laugh once more.
I won't let you have your way with me. I grab that ridiculous tie of yours (a serious breach of discipline) and pull you lower so I can stare you properly in the eye. You look amused - why? Damn it, stay out of my head. Your lips are so close. But those eyes of yours are offputting. Are you so cold and merciless that you've forgotten how to smile properly?
Do I look like that?
You make the first move: your lips press on mine, your emotionless eyes hidden from sight. I close mine too. It doesn't feel strange - we've done this before. Even so, I have to ask myself why I'm kissing you.
I push you away, a hand on your chest, and gaze at you. I suppose some might call you handsome, beautiful even. But that's not why I feel attracted to you. What is it about you that makes me want to grab you and let myself go? It's not just the urge to fight you, to beat you until you're bleeding and no longer smirking. As much as I want that, I want you.
You interlace my hand's fingers with your own and raise them to your lips, kissing them softly. What happened to the you who broke those same fingers so easily? Every time I remember that instance my knees threaten to buckle, even without those hated flowers. You sense my trembling and run a comforting hand down my back. Without thinking, I press myself closer to you and let you hold me again. You have a nice scent, I notice (not for the first time). Nothing in particular: just the smell of clean clothes and something fresh.
Suddenly I'm disgusted with myself. I thrust you away and scowl. How can I be so weak? I'm not some frightened herbivore that needs calming!
Still you catch my wrist and pull me back towards you. Why do I let you do this to me? You tighten your grip on my wrist when I try to wrestle away. I try to summon my anger, summon those strange flames. Something is stopping me. Your quiet words: I can't help listening to them.
I'm not a skylark, you say. I have too much pride for that. A bird of prey, maybe. Like a falcon.
Idiot. Does that make you the falconer?
That chuckle is answer enough.