stl: robert pattinson, 'never think'
His fingers moved along the smooth wires, bringing out the painful melody of a song he was all too familiar with. The song fit with the weather. The weather suited his mood just fine; a dark grey sky that threatened to break loose with all of Heaven's tears at any moment. Inside his chest, he could feel the tightening. In his eyes were tiny pin-pricks of a foreign emotion, one that he thought he had left behind when his heart stopped its clamoring for life. His mind warred with his heart-- he had no reason to mourn and yet, here he was like a simpering child, pouting as she departed. Again.
Yes, this day was tailor-made for him it seemed.
He plucked the strings aimlessly as he closed his eyes and tilted back his head. Her face, full of terror, full of determination, greeted him. He would gladly give up eternity to wake next to her sleeping form, to see the lines of worry erased by dream's smooth hand. He longed to feel connected to her, to be the gravitational pull of her world. It wasn't that he loved her. Love, as the situation sat now, was the one emotion he didn't feel toward her. No, what he felt was an overwhelming need. A need to protect her. A need to love her.
Because he could, and would, have loved her into existence.
He would have given her every bit he had to offer and steal what he didn't. Her request would be his demand in the face of the world; if she had wanted sunny skies, he would have scaled the mountains and pushed the clouds aside. She would have fallen asleep in his arms, murmured promises lulling her to sleep. Promises he would keep, forever and ever so help him God. He would never have left her side, never left her doubting his motives, his devotion. He never would have left her so thoroughly alone, left her to believe, to think for a minute, that she was unloved by him.
It was an idle fantasy; an impossible fantasy.
He had led himself down this path so many, many times before now. Despite the code he pledged, the coat of arms he swore to, he would find instances of something close to love, if not love itself. They were warm, alive, so vital that his head would spin as those many pairs soft lips ate what was left of his resolve. He would give in, time and time again, praying that just one of them could understand, that one of them was willing to. Reality would creep into the corners of their blue, green, hazel, brown eyes and he would know-- his luck had run out. Some of them died at their own hands, some by his. And now, he was still alone, possibly more alone now than he had ever been before.
She knew, though, didn't she?
And she wasn't afraid.
The song drifted to a haunting close as a smile danced across his lips.
She wasn't afraid.