I like this story a lot more than the last one, even though it was a lot harder to write. Italics are amazing, by the way, they're the best addition to human communication except for the invention of the alphabet, and commas. Hope you enjoy reading this.

Window

Have you ever broken a window? Maybe kicked a ball the wrong way, or thrown a rock and missed, and shattered that glass pane? Have you ever seen the small shards sticking out, sharp and deadly, in their tens and tens of thousands?

It's a chaotic sight, a sight that lightens the wallet in your pocket and adds to the crunch beneath your shoes, a sight that makes you want to rewind time and stop yourself from doing whatever it was you were doing.

But if you look carefully, if you look past the sharpness and the deadliness, and if the conditions are just right, then the breath catches in your throat, and your eyes begin to shimmer, because the beauty of it is overwhelming. The sprinkle of water drops from the lightly falling rain, the arcing rays of sunlight in their seven-coloured splendour, the wink of the glass as it catches even the most infinitesimal of sunbeams. Its a sight that holds you, turns your head in the gentlest of manners so that you can't help but stare, until your eyes, your heart, your very soul is filled to bursting with its beauty.

And then you cut your finger on it, and you're pulled back to the surface.

X

She was the window, and he was the observer. He hovered there, on pink fairy wings, looking at the glass, at its smooth hard exterior.

Of course he didn't just look, he tested it frequently, knocked on it with curled knuckles, threw paint bombs and water balloons at her. He laughed whenever he did it, smiled widely as he focused hour after painstaking hour meticulously planning what he would do to her.

She was the object of his attention, although whether it was positive or negative attention depended on who you asked, whether it was the girl drenched in goo, or her chuckling uncle nearby.

But he was always careful about what he did, despite his adamant protests that he did whatever he wanted, never daring to do anything that would actually hurt her, anything that would actually cause a crack in the glass.

Because he was her protector, after all. He was her protector, and he was here to stay.

...

He was the observer, and she was the window. She was the window of tinted glass, cool and black, a one-way mirror of a person.

She repelled conversation, repelled friendly ties, she was a person who harboured a lot of secrets, a lot of independence. She took care of herself, not the other way round, and it was very rare that someone managed to slip under her defenses. But there were people who could, her sister, her grandmother, her family, and a certain blonde fairy. A certain stupid, annoying, reckless fairy.

He pestered her constantly, used her as a target for his latest trick, but she trusted him, and he trusted her. He was one of the only people who could relate to what she went through, aside from her sister of course, the only one who could understand her problems with family ties and trust.

And he loved her, though he would never admit it, loved her so much that if something happened to her he would cry, if something cut her he would bleed too. He would hide it as well as he could, nurse the wound himself, but it was so blindingly obvious that his attempts seemed more half-hearted and pitiful than convincing.

So when that tragic horrendous news was delivered, the red ball speeding towards her, the news that made her crack, made her break, they could see him recoil too. Through the watery haze of their own tears they could see him wipe his eyes, brush the splinters of glass out of his hair, and stand up, limping over to clean up the mess in front of him.

...

A terrible accident, it was described, a horrific magical calamity. The death was instantaneous, they wouldn't have felt a thing.

But that didn't calm her, and when Daphne and Jake didn't come home that night there was a loud cry, the ball completed its journey, and she shattered. She was strong, she knew that, she wasn't supposed to break down and cry like this.

But Daphne was her only sister, someone she had come to depend on, she was her motivation and her drive. So when she died Sabrina lost her will, and she slumped dejectedly to the ground.

Puck, though, he was different. He had already dealt with tragedy before, the death of his father had seen to that, and while Jake had been like a parent to him, he had already learned how to deal with loss. When you live for over 4000 years you lose a lot of people, and though it still hurts and the cut still runs as deep as ever, you find yourself becoming desensitised to it, numbing yourself in a way, finding not a way to ignore the pain but a way to cope with it.

It made it easier for him, by just the tiniest fraction imaginable, and so when he saw her crying there his protective instincts surged, and he clambered up, wincing, to see what he could do.

...

When he saw her for the first time, he couldn't help but flinch. Here she is, surrounded by pain, small shards of glass strewn on the floor, and she's sobbing into her sleeve. It was like a complete inverse of Sabrina, some sick twisted perversion of the girl he loved, and he was afraid that if he touched her something bad would happen.

She was in such a delicate state that everything he did would be a risk, everything he did could lead to him getting hurt, the blood welling up from the cut on his hand, or her breaking down further, the tinkle of glass as more continues to fall out of the frame through his clumsy fingers, or perhaps even both happening at the same time.

But still he knelt by her, pulled her into a hug, picked up the largest pieces he could find first, and let her tears soak into his jacket. She clung onto him desperately, inhaling and exhaling, the sunlight glinting off its remains so brightly almost as if the window pieces wants to be found, drawing deep shuddering breaths as she tried so hard to compose herself, to stop the tears from falling.

...

She had said some nasty things, things she never would have said before, insult after insult after cutting insult ricocheting off the walls. He hissed as the sharp edge broke his skin. But still he continued, simply shook his head with almost sagely wisdom, because he knew that she was just lashing out at him, she didn't really mean it. He simply sucked the blood off and continued.

Or so he hoped. But this time he was more wary, and he angled his body away a little from the shards.

She was sorry, she hadn't meant to say it like that. It just felt so good to let it out, throw all her emotions out on someone who listens, someone who appears to care, and sometimes a lie comes out in the tumble of words, and by the time she's noticed its too late. So she apologises, claps her hands over her mouth, and he simply smiles and moves closer. The pieces rustle on the ground almost apologetically, and the clear high melody is almost like music to him.

Day after day he worked, balancing his normal life with his life with her, and sometimes the strain gets too him, the role of being an outlet is exhausting, and some days he just wants to sit down and rest. Sweat trickles down his cheek as the hot sun beats overhead, and for just a second his step falters and his arms drop.

But always, somehow, she pulls him back. She'll smile for the first time in weeks, or make a snarky comment which borders on friendly instead of hurtful, and he continues forward because he knows he's almost done. He catches sight of the nearly-fixed window, winking enticingly in that same hot sun, and energy returns to his body and he moves closer.

...

Finally, he's finished, and she's back to her normal self, or as normal as she'll ever be. Her jokes are less frequent, her fire more diminished, but the creativity within them remain pronounced, and her body still radiates that same hot spark of power. The window is fixed now, shining bright as ever, and though the cracks are still there they are hairline, thin as paper.

She's a little weaker than before, though her strength remains, she's still strong, and she lifts her head boldly to face all the obstacles in her life. Raindrops spatter against the pane of glass, and though one small droplet trickles through, they are mostly deterred, and the inside remains dry.

And finally he embraces her, pulls her body into his, embraces not just her strength but her weaknesses, the parts still broken and the parts which are fixed. As he touches the cool surface of the glass he chuckles, running his fingers lovingly over all the cracks, all the fissures, and all the smooth unblemished parts in between.

I feel like I was a little too ambitious in this story though. Like I tried too hard to keep the metaphor and the real events mixed up that it got too confusing. There are some writers who are very good at doing that (and they don't even need to use italics, its really clear even without them) though, like ember53608. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this (even if it might have been a little difficult to understand). Thanks for reading, and please review.