Setting: Pre-COBP.

Author's Note: Reviews are loved!

Remember When It Rained

I hate William Turner.

I hate him because he takes me for granted, assuming that any time he sees fit to call, I'll be ready at a moment's notice to attend him. I hate him because no matter how hard I try to be cross with him, when it comes down to the moment and I'm face-to-face with him, and he asks me, 'Lizzy, what is it that I've done?' and he meets my eyes, and I can read genuine confusion behind his own because he truly doesn't realize that these things cause me a great deal of pain, and when I get the words right in my head, and while I'm fully intending to shout at him and finally have it out, the most I can manage is a pitiful 'Nothing of consequence.'

I hate him because he doesn't understand that he holds some inane power over my heart, that when he looks in my direction, or smiles, or laughs, or heaven forbid when he touches me, I lose all coherent thought save for 'I love you.' A mantra that repeats itself in the back of my mind although I would never dare to speak it aloud.

I hate him because, as of late, when he does see fit to call on me, it is because I've sent him a dozen little notes by my father's footman asking it of him. I don't want him to come because I summoned him; I want him to want to call. I realize how selfish I truly am, but I want him to think of me as often as I dwell on him; every waking minute of the day, and still more in dreaming. I want to see his eyes alight with happiness when he sees me, as I know for a fact mine do when I meet him; I've caught my reflection in the mirror in the foyer at least twice, when finding him unexpectedly conversing with my father.

I hate him because he knows of my affection for him, yet he stubbornly and repeatedly denies his knowledge, and feigns ignorance. I hate him because he proceeds with this farce even though he's very much aware of how his apparent indifference pains my heart and spirit.

I hate William Turner because he's a hypocrite. He claims it isn't proper for us to be together alone, yet I find him in the shops with her. And he's buying her hair ribbons of all things. Why in God's name can he do with her what he can't do with me? Aren't I the better choice? She's only an apprentice seamstress, after all. Yes, Will does these things purposefully. I hate him because I waited by the smithy for a quarter-hour, in the rain, and he walked by with his coat over her head. I hate him because he caught my eye and looked away.

I hate him because he always let me win when we would play pirates. He would never teach me proper sword techniques, but preferred to give me what he knew would make me happiest at the moment; victory. I hate him because now, I don't know how to fight.

I hate William Turner because, once, he seemed to care. I hate him because I have a memory of falling from the docks, and of him leaping in after to save me. I also have a memory of us together, laughing, because we were only waist-deep in water.

I hate Will because he isn't the scrawny boy we pulled from the ocean anymore. He has broad shoulders and muscles, and the deepest, softest voice, and every woman half my rank is after him. I hate him because he's let the attention go to his head.

I hate him because he can meet my eyes for an instant and read a lifetime of emotions behind them. I hate him because he's capable of shielding his own emotions from me entirely.

Yes, I hate Will Turner. I realize as well that every time I claim to hate him, what I really mean to confess is that I love him.

Fin