Yes, I'm back!!! And I'm still alive!!! So be happy!!!

And yes, I am aware that I haven't updated this fic in—gods, in almost half a year. Over 5 months, to be exact. Eeep. And I'm always complaining about authors who write really good stories but don't update them for centuries. Ok, maybe not complaining, but still—you know what I mean.

Disclaimer's Note: See first chappie from now on for that.

* * * * * Taking Action—Chapter 5—Musings* * * * *

Enrique's POV

        Damn you, Oliver.

        You have no idea how much I love you.

        That much is obvious.

        You're always insulting me, shoving me away without any respect for my feelings. God, in all the years I've known you, you've never been this self-centered before. So why are you starting now?

        I'm seriously regretting ever falling in love with you. I love you not only for your good, albeit feminine, looks, but for your personality as well. Unlike the random girls I used to pick up off the street just 'cuz they were hot, I actually care about you. I didn't care a cent about them.

        Funny Thought of the Moment: If I didn't care a cent them, then why did I spend over $100 on them at times?

        I'm seriously messed. That's the only explanation I have for why I threw away hundred of bucks on them, and for why I still love you, even though you do nothing but hurt me, throwing away my feelings as if they're nothing more to you then those green leafy carrot-tops you cut off and throw out when you're cooking.

        It would be nice if you actually gave a damn about me.

        I know you do. But you think of me as a best friend, not as anything more. Maybe that's why you're abusing me. You're treating me the way you would a friend, just light-heartedly bashing them. You aren't realizing how much I care for you.

        I've tried every way I could think of to get you to care for me. I've attempted to help you cook. I've bought you loads of nice things, like whole magazines filled with pictures of that Kuriko gal from that anime you really like—I think it's called Mabuharo. I've even gone so far as to wear my heart on my sleeve. I am now literally throwing myself at you.

        And you still brush me off. Why just the other day, you yelled at me, calling me an idiot when I was going to ask you a question. Hell, I wasn't going to ask you if you'd go out on a date with me. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to come with me to get some ice cream. Sort of like a date, but not quite.

        There are times when you let me get close to you, though. And it's times like that that I treasure. For example, last week, when I came in while you were getting ready. You were fully dressed—you just had to finish brushing your hair so you could put on your beret. I took your hairbrush from your hand and started brushing your hair, just trying to help, so that maybe, at the very least, you'd finally stop hurting me. By the time I was finished, we were both seated, I on your bedroom floor, and you in my lap. You were leaning against me. You looked so calm and peaceful. Just seeing your beautiful face, looking so placid and content, made me so happy.  

        You think I love you only because you look rather feminine. I don't, actually. It's more then that. As I've said earlier, I love you for who you are.

        I remember a conversation I had with you once. You were so brutally hard on yourself, bringing up every single fault you thought you had. Some faults were mere figments of your imagination; other faults I didn't even consider to be faults—I merely considered them to be part of your charm. Like your naivety. The way you were going on and on about it, you made it sound as if it were utterly inexcusable. It's cute, Oliver. Trust me—your naivety is cute.

        You were especially hard when it came to your physical attributes. According to you, you look exactly like a female. The spitting image, minus the breasts and plus the bushy eyebrows that all guys have. Actually, you have no idea how masculine you can look when you try. And you brought up the fact that you aren't the most athletic person on the planet. You did neglect to mention, however, that you're a mean quarterback when it comes to football. Again, clearly a more masculine quality of yours, although a good deal of the gals also have this ability.

        I sigh. Maybe someday you'll finally love me, Oliver.

        Maybe someday, I'll catch your attention.

        I only wish it was a Christmas party you were brainstorming, and not the "Robert's-Happy-and-Healthy-after-Committing-Suicide!!!" party. Not that I have anything wrong with celebrating Robert's getting out of the hospital. It's just that I wanna catch you under mistletoe.

        Then an idea comes to me. The party…yeah. I can talk to you at the party. I uncovered your plans for the party. I noticed that you want to get Johnny and Robert a separate room—cute—and that you think I'm going to try something while they're in their room, making out or getting it on under the covers or whatever they decide to do. (A/N: There is a reason why this story is rated PG13). It hurts to think that you think I'm going to try to rape you or something while they're in their room.

        Then again, all you've really been doing lately is hurting me.

        That does it. I'm going to talk to you at the party. I'm not going to hold back anything. I'll tell you everything; even the pain you cause me when you tell me stuff like "Get lost, idiot!!!"

        Maybe you'll finally be able to see how much I care about you.

* * * * * Oliver's POV * * * * *

        Enrique. God, how I love saying your name. Awn-rrri-kay. It sounds so cool.

        Enrique.

        I'm so sorry, Enrique.

        Sorry for all the times I brushed you off as though you were nothing. Sorry for causing you so much pain.

        You're right. I did treat you more as a best friend then I did as someone who was genuinely interested in me. Best friends tease each other. Best friends insult each other regularly; although they never mean what they say. Or at least, I never meant anything whenever I made a cutting remark. But love leaves you vulnerable. I failed to remember that. And now you've been reduced to such a pitiful state. You're literally throwing yourself at my feet.

        You have Johnny to thank for opening my eyes to what has happened to you. He heard me call you a baka, and after he had finished beating you up for taking pictures of him snuggling with Robert, he came to find me, telling me how I should go a hell of a lot easier on you. He brought up all the things you did for me, like chopping onions for me (considering onions are evil, vile plants that make everybody cry, including me and you), and how you were now literally reducing yourself to begging me to notice you. You were practically down on your knees pleading (A/N: Not like that, pervs!!!), and I still brushed you off like a strand of my lime hair clinging to my shirt.

        And then I remembered how happy and peaceful I felt when you brushed my hair. I felt warm and fuzzy and loved.

        And now I realize…you got me, Enrique.

        You got me good, too.

        I love you, Enrique.

        I love you, and I'm truly, genuinely, sorry.

        But how will I ever make it up to you?

        Normally, considering my rather forward nature towards the more delicate things (like love), I'd just march right in to Enrique's room, announce I was going to give him a late Christmas gift or something like that, then kiss him smack on the lips, and let the apologies come afterwards. But I don't even know if he still loves me anymore.

        It's highly doubtful that he does, considering all the crap I've put him through. I know I wouldn't love anybody who gave me as much shit as I've given Enrique.

        I'm scared, I admit. Not scared of Enrique and how he feels towards me; Paris is for lovers, and as a Parisian, I will freely admit to being very forward when it comes to love. Hell, I've seen couples frenching in the park ever since I was little. Sometimes, I've even seen worse then that. Trust me, love itself does not scare me. I'm scared because I'm worried: what if I've discovered my love for Enrique too late? What if he hates me now?

        Well, there's only one way to find out. I grab a mint as I get off my bed and head towards my door. Sucking on the mint, I can only hope and pray that Enrique has good breath.

        I've made up my mind. There's only one way to know if Enrique still love me.

        I'm going to barge into his room, uninvited. And I'm going to pin him up against the wall or to his bed, depending on which one he's closest to.

        And I'm going to kiss him.

        Hopefully, he doesn't hate me for treating his heart so lightly. I've given him so many reasons to, that'd be a miracle.

        Then again, maybe he'll forgive me, and give me a second chance.

        Please, Enrique…

        I love you.

* * * * *

        Originally, I was worried that I'd made Enrique and Oliver sound a bit too proper. Then I read this through and discovered that no, I had not. Or at least, I don't think I did. I did notice one thing, though. At the end of Oliver's POV, I accidentally sorta switched the POV with which he was speaking about Enrique in.  Oliver went from sounding as if he was talking to Enrique to sounding as if he was talking about Enrique (but not necessarily to him), and then back to talking to Enrique. Again, sorry about that, although I do believe that that's a relatively minor mistake. Getting back on topic (with the story and all)…Whaddya think?