A/N: This idea is purely Liebling
() 's. She
asked me to write it out for her, so here it is, in all it's fallacies, Lieb quotes and muted glory. Enjoy!
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He told me yesterday, while we were sitting on our old, comfortable green couch. Firelight was playing over his spun-sugar hair, with eyes that reflected passion, and a grasping at hope. I was reading my Witch Weekly magazine, and looked up to that expression. Before I knew it, he was kissing me, and it was over before I could do anything. He just looked into my eyes as if he understood the world, and I think he did. Sort of, in an okay fashion. And okay was good enough.
Slipping an arm around my shoulders, as he had in times past, he told me I was hot. That he had a "psychical and mental attraction" to me, as more than just friends. I'll be the first to say that I was pleased. It's adorable, and the way he said it was the most romantic thing I had ever heard. He's my best friend, and that's wonderful and as far as it will ever go. He said I was hot, and that was nice as well. But I don't just want to be hot; I want to be beautiful. The word hot is odd and unnatural, but the word beautiful is classy. Special in a way that hot can never be. Someone's who's hot is sexy, and fast - being called beautiful is something that lasts, something eternal. And I want that. I want my castle in the sky to be beautiful in an eternally beautiful way, not merely pretty according to the fashion of the times. That's what I want.
I didn't know what to say, so I stared into the flames with my amber eyes until he tilted up face towards him, and his eyes made my breath stop. Not because of the passion there, but because of the bleakness I saw, the lack of hope that he's trying to find, somewhere. And suddenly, I realized that he didn't know what he wanted, and I'm not sure if he likes me for me or because he needs someone and I'm there. He's lonely. and part of me thinks that he needs someone and that someone could be the mailman.
We're the best of friends, he and I. Our days were spent walking around with an ice cream cone we shared - his scoop was swirl, mine was vanilla with sprinkles. And I think about how much our scoops said about who we were as the cloaks we wore - his was an elegant black velvet, mine a scarlet, pumpkin-stained and threadbare security blanket, and that was okay. His swirl spoke of his confusion; my sprinkled vanilla was classic, plain, and delicious with a bit of a twist the sprinkles brought. He took to calling me 'Sprinkles' on those walks. We say "naughty" and "nasty" to each other in exaggerated Brit accents, and we're always meeting on our midnight couch and talking for hours about everything, anything and what lies between. We are friends, and that was always perfect for us, uncompromised. Until now.
My brother found out about us, once. We were separated for a month by my shame, his pride and my brother's meddling. Someone, whom he claims not to know, finally cast a Memory charm on that brother of mine, and we were together again. He told me that he missed me and he cared about me. I hugged him and believed him. Our friendship was our bond. Ever since, whenever we meet, he says he misses me, and I believe him.
I was lost in memories, in my own mind, and he called me out by saying, "Hey. I miss you. Come back to me, always." But somehow I just can't buy it, not anymore. He doesn't know what he wants, and is just reaching out to me for comfort, to not be alone in his own mind. And I can't be that to him.
We're friends. I adore him, and he misses my presence. We have nicknames for each other and I talk in a cute perky voice and he looks out for me. and that's all it can be. And it's all it'll ever be. He'll like me for a while and he'll get over me, just like he's gotten over loads of other girls he's only half liked. He'll forget about saying sweet things to me and calling me hot but he'll still care about me. He'll realize that I'm worth waiting for and realize that he's not willing to wait for when I can need him as he needs me. But more importantly he'll realize that my love and affection for him does not cross the 'friend' line.
He'll find some other girl. She'll probably be trashy, and they'll go out for a while. He'll probably call her hot but he won't be happy. I don't think so. Because he's alone in the biggest way. he's not missing me, or anyone else - he's missing himself, who he is and who he can never be. A girlfriend isn't what he needs - he needs a relationship with himself before he can give what he needs to for someone else, someone who will mean more than an absolution to him. Someone that he loves for their sake, and for themselves, not for the company they provide. Then what will happen? He'll probably be over me by then. I probably will have listened to him talk about whatever girl he's drawing off of, and I'll probably listen with a smile on my face. For that is my role - he searches for someone that will fill his void, and I listen, as a friend will. But there will always be that something about me that makes him go crazy, lovelorn. We'll probably be friends, but not best friends, for he will have tried to use me as he does other girls who he captures into his web, and I probably won't trust him like I used to, ever. We'll just be "okay" friends who talk every once in a while and speak to each other in exaggerated accents and miss each other, dearly. He'll probably still find me hot, too, but that's it.
He'll fall for another girl, who he tricks himself into liking. Thinking that she'll make him feel better about himself, that she'll fill the void in him that he can't explain, or even accept. And she won't. Because she can't. You can't constantly reassure people. They have to reassure themselves in the end, and who said vanity was a bad thing, if it helps you feel better about who you are.
I finally looked him in the eye, and shook my head.
We never met on our couch again. Or in any of our other private, special places. No one ever knew about our friendship, and that was okay, because it was changed, now. Talking about anything and everything is something in our past, not our present. Sometimes we pass each other in the halls, or catch each other's eyes in the Great Hall, and there's a spark of what we once had, our best friendship and memories. Our mutual sharing. But that's all it is - a spark. There's no more best friendship between us. He dates fast, shallow girls and serious ones. He calls them hot and takes them up to the Astronomy Tower, trying to use them to fill the void of himself, and the space I left.
But, sometimes, I look into his eyes and see something that makes me wonder if he ever got over me. I see something indescribable that makes me think that, as he once said, "there's just something about me." That he'll never get over his best friend, me.
The twisted part is that if he really liked me forever, I'd be happy and contented knowing that. There's a void in me too, that I'm trying to fill, and that would help me fill it. His never getting over me would be love, true love, and it makes me feel special. It makes me feel needed, and fulfils a very small and very necessary castle in my soul-sky. I like that feeling. That the whole idea of "forever" is a happy one and if his whole life he never liked anyone as much as he liked ME would be something special, something mine in a way that can never be broken or tarnished. And it's rare. And I think that's what love is. I'd be better than Ms. Trashy so he wouldn't ever want to settle for anything less than me. He'd watch me from afar and call me 'Sprinkles.' Always.
asked me to write it out for her, so here it is, in all it's fallacies, Lieb quotes and muted glory. Enjoy!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He told me yesterday, while we were sitting on our old, comfortable green couch. Firelight was playing over his spun-sugar hair, with eyes that reflected passion, and a grasping at hope. I was reading my Witch Weekly magazine, and looked up to that expression. Before I knew it, he was kissing me, and it was over before I could do anything. He just looked into my eyes as if he understood the world, and I think he did. Sort of, in an okay fashion. And okay was good enough.
Slipping an arm around my shoulders, as he had in times past, he told me I was hot. That he had a "psychical and mental attraction" to me, as more than just friends. I'll be the first to say that I was pleased. It's adorable, and the way he said it was the most romantic thing I had ever heard. He's my best friend, and that's wonderful and as far as it will ever go. He said I was hot, and that was nice as well. But I don't just want to be hot; I want to be beautiful. The word hot is odd and unnatural, but the word beautiful is classy. Special in a way that hot can never be. Someone's who's hot is sexy, and fast - being called beautiful is something that lasts, something eternal. And I want that. I want my castle in the sky to be beautiful in an eternally beautiful way, not merely pretty according to the fashion of the times. That's what I want.
I didn't know what to say, so I stared into the flames with my amber eyes until he tilted up face towards him, and his eyes made my breath stop. Not because of the passion there, but because of the bleakness I saw, the lack of hope that he's trying to find, somewhere. And suddenly, I realized that he didn't know what he wanted, and I'm not sure if he likes me for me or because he needs someone and I'm there. He's lonely. and part of me thinks that he needs someone and that someone could be the mailman.
We're the best of friends, he and I. Our days were spent walking around with an ice cream cone we shared - his scoop was swirl, mine was vanilla with sprinkles. And I think about how much our scoops said about who we were as the cloaks we wore - his was an elegant black velvet, mine a scarlet, pumpkin-stained and threadbare security blanket, and that was okay. His swirl spoke of his confusion; my sprinkled vanilla was classic, plain, and delicious with a bit of a twist the sprinkles brought. He took to calling me 'Sprinkles' on those walks. We say "naughty" and "nasty" to each other in exaggerated Brit accents, and we're always meeting on our midnight couch and talking for hours about everything, anything and what lies between. We are friends, and that was always perfect for us, uncompromised. Until now.
My brother found out about us, once. We were separated for a month by my shame, his pride and my brother's meddling. Someone, whom he claims not to know, finally cast a Memory charm on that brother of mine, and we were together again. He told me that he missed me and he cared about me. I hugged him and believed him. Our friendship was our bond. Ever since, whenever we meet, he says he misses me, and I believe him.
I was lost in memories, in my own mind, and he called me out by saying, "Hey. I miss you. Come back to me, always." But somehow I just can't buy it, not anymore. He doesn't know what he wants, and is just reaching out to me for comfort, to not be alone in his own mind. And I can't be that to him.
We're friends. I adore him, and he misses my presence. We have nicknames for each other and I talk in a cute perky voice and he looks out for me. and that's all it can be. And it's all it'll ever be. He'll like me for a while and he'll get over me, just like he's gotten over loads of other girls he's only half liked. He'll forget about saying sweet things to me and calling me hot but he'll still care about me. He'll realize that I'm worth waiting for and realize that he's not willing to wait for when I can need him as he needs me. But more importantly he'll realize that my love and affection for him does not cross the 'friend' line.
He'll find some other girl. She'll probably be trashy, and they'll go out for a while. He'll probably call her hot but he won't be happy. I don't think so. Because he's alone in the biggest way. he's not missing me, or anyone else - he's missing himself, who he is and who he can never be. A girlfriend isn't what he needs - he needs a relationship with himself before he can give what he needs to for someone else, someone who will mean more than an absolution to him. Someone that he loves for their sake, and for themselves, not for the company they provide. Then what will happen? He'll probably be over me by then. I probably will have listened to him talk about whatever girl he's drawing off of, and I'll probably listen with a smile on my face. For that is my role - he searches for someone that will fill his void, and I listen, as a friend will. But there will always be that something about me that makes him go crazy, lovelorn. We'll probably be friends, but not best friends, for he will have tried to use me as he does other girls who he captures into his web, and I probably won't trust him like I used to, ever. We'll just be "okay" friends who talk every once in a while and speak to each other in exaggerated accents and miss each other, dearly. He'll probably still find me hot, too, but that's it.
He'll fall for another girl, who he tricks himself into liking. Thinking that she'll make him feel better about himself, that she'll fill the void in him that he can't explain, or even accept. And she won't. Because she can't. You can't constantly reassure people. They have to reassure themselves in the end, and who said vanity was a bad thing, if it helps you feel better about who you are.
I finally looked him in the eye, and shook my head.
We never met on our couch again. Or in any of our other private, special places. No one ever knew about our friendship, and that was okay, because it was changed, now. Talking about anything and everything is something in our past, not our present. Sometimes we pass each other in the halls, or catch each other's eyes in the Great Hall, and there's a spark of what we once had, our best friendship and memories. Our mutual sharing. But that's all it is - a spark. There's no more best friendship between us. He dates fast, shallow girls and serious ones. He calls them hot and takes them up to the Astronomy Tower, trying to use them to fill the void of himself, and the space I left.
But, sometimes, I look into his eyes and see something that makes me wonder if he ever got over me. I see something indescribable that makes me think that, as he once said, "there's just something about me." That he'll never get over his best friend, me.
The twisted part is that if he really liked me forever, I'd be happy and contented knowing that. There's a void in me too, that I'm trying to fill, and that would help me fill it. His never getting over me would be love, true love, and it makes me feel special. It makes me feel needed, and fulfils a very small and very necessary castle in my soul-sky. I like that feeling. That the whole idea of "forever" is a happy one and if his whole life he never liked anyone as much as he liked ME would be something special, something mine in a way that can never be broken or tarnished. And it's rare. And I think that's what love is. I'd be better than Ms. Trashy so he wouldn't ever want to settle for anything less than me. He'd watch me from afar and call me 'Sprinkles.' Always.