A Time to Kill
He has loved him for ages. Loved him from the moment their eyes first met, and loved him even when black shards of stone lodged in their hearts and made them as cold and hard as ice.
He was walking slowly, eyes wary in the darkness but not truly afraid of what lay in their depths. His footsteps clacking on the stone floor, resounding audibly in the empty space surrounding him. The sun has yet to rise, bringing with it the warm glow that signals the beginning of a new day. He sits down to await the awakening and arrival of his companions, people he may share recent events worth getting excited over with. They come one by one, and he is comforted by the easy camaraderie.
Time always rushed by, as if the sand in an hourglass would go through a void so large everything fell at the same time, instead of passing steadily through a small hole. But when he appeared, all that sand just stopped flowing and clogged up that void. All visibility, all consciousness, swam into tunnel vision and focused on one piece of brief eternity, a single gaze locked, sweet and oh-so-bittersweet.
His friends arrive, ubiquitous entities he cherished always, but, deep in his heart, was just a little bit weary of, for every passing day with them just seemed a little more repetitive than the last. He felt guilty for that because they loved him, and he, of course, returned their affection. But he couldn't help thinking of a world where every moment was a rush, a new experience waiting to be remembered at any given time. And these moments were easily put away and kept, because of the knowledge that more would be there, and endless string of wonder, waiting. Two pale, masculine yet slender arms would surround him, green eyes glowing, and smile with him, knowing that such joy would never end. And he would shake his head because of his foolishness. Then he sees that someone walking down the hallway towards where they are standing, and it just makes the fantasy more real. But it is all the more painful because it is just another hopeful delusion, and his anger kills him. Then their eyes meet.
He would never know what spurred such hatred in eyes so deep and so strong, what caused such scorn that turned an otherwise passionate face into an otherwise impassive mask. Time ran and space shifted, seconds and minutes flying past swiftly, leaving only a confused soul, never cowering yet shivering from the cold façade coating the beauty that attracted, yet somehow repelled him. He told himself never to cross that oh-so-very-fine, dangerous line between hatred and desire, because, by some dint of fate, all those who do stumble into a black whirlpool some call love, yet some call their death.
He looks, only to see him bow his head quickly, breaking contact, and turns the corner, not looking back. He recalls a strangely surreal dialogue, one of his more foolish endeavors. He offered his friendship, his companionship, himself. He was rejected with frosty and restrained ease. But a subtle yet strong feeling remained. It spoke of matters that needed sorting and explanation, and maybe things yet to be explored.
They never became friends, instead enemies. The reasons only known by time and bitter envy and deep-seated and hidden, grudging admiration. But a connection was always there, despised by both, and almost, maybe, considered by one. And comically felt by all.
He knew that if he touched him it would feel like grasping heaven, even for just one achingly glorious instant. But he never ventured near because somehow, he also knew that it would hurt, the bright searing pain that he felt draining his life slowly everyday totally eclipsing the magnificence of that singular moment he did get to see God.
