Fiction
Inspired by: Stolen, by Dashboard Confessional, and Don't Wait, by the same. Or, at least, that's what I keep listening to.
The young man approached the door apprehensively. This wasn't going to be easy. Four words came to him, attempting to assuage his anxiousness: Don't think, just move. With those four words firmly in his mind, he raised his fist to the door and knocked lightly. He waited for a bit, and when nothing happened, he let out a breath he'd only vaguely realized he'd been holding in. Well, that was that, it seemed. He wasn't here. Nothing would happen tonight, and the young man could go back to his room and be his normal, reclusive self once again.
Don't think, just move.
The words came back to him and he returned to the door. He steeled himself, secretly hoping that no one was home, preparing to raise his fist to the wooden frame once more.
This was how it had started. He'd gotten an idea in his head that he would talk to this person. His friend. And so he stood up, emerged from the reclusive, home-feeling space of his room and gone down the hall. A meager trip, but to him it had seemed a great ordeal, and now that he was here, he was quite ready to simply backtrack and end the whole thing. The voice, however, in his mind continued to tell him to keep moving. Not to think too deeply about this. Deep thought was required in other situations, but the young man tended to think too deeply into simple actions, 'planning' their catastrophic endings before they ever even had a chance to form.
So... here he was. Poised at the precipice of possibility. Either he could knock again and attempt the pursuit once more, or he could give up and go back to the safe, boring monotony of his normal life. The words in his head urged him to stop thinking so hard and just do what he was going to do, and so, once again, his fist fell to the door. Once. Twice. Three times.
Almost instantly regretting the action, the young man had no choice but to wait for an answer. This had always been the most agonizing time for him: the waiting. You could decide to take a course of action, and before you could see its outcome you had to do this terrible, agonizing, horrible waiting.
At least, until the door opened. There, before him, stood his friend. They hadn't really been friends for long, or, rather, they had only recently gotten to know one another better, but there was a familiar feeling pulling at the young man's heartstrings. Emotions rushed into him. Joy, at seeing his friend. Anxiousness, at seeing whether or not his plan would work. Fear, of rejection, or having interrupted something. Embarrassment, at having ever had such a silly idea in the first place.
His friend spoke, but the young man's thoughts had been whirling, and so, instead, he stood stock still, wrapped up in his coat, and stared. It had been a strange feeling, the attraction, but now that he knew it was there, it was a familiar, warming feeling. He tried to follow the advice the mantra in his head gave him: that he should think less and simply act. Emotions flew about in his brain, and all he could think about was just how nice his friend looked tonight. How the way he smiled warmed the young man, and how those gorgeous, brilliant eyes drew him in. Here he was, this young man's friend, intelligent, attractive, and completely and utterly unavailable. The young man almost began to despair, until his friend spoke again, inquiring into the young man's well being. His friends words finally reached the young man, and so he smiled and stated that he was fine.
Now came the more difficult part. The young man had made a decision some weeks before that now, this time of freedom, being away from home at last, would be the perfect time to unravel all of the lies and secrets of his life. To live as himself, and not as others wanted him to be. He would change himself, but only in the ways he wished. He would keep fewer secrets.
And the first secret that had to end was the one kept between himself and his mind's image of his friend. The voice in his mind changed its tune, and rather than telling him to stop thinking so hard, it told him something more cryptic, but something which the young man understood quite easily: Lay your armor down.
So the young man did just that. He smiled again and asked his friend whether or not he was busy. His friend contemplated for a moment and replied in the negative, and then the lump in the young man's throat appeared once again. Damning it to the deepest layer of hell, he cleared his throat and finally asked the question he wanted to ask.
"Do you want to take a walk with me?"
And so, the young man and his friend left the building, the young man's friend buttoning his coat against the harsh winter cold and the young man humming quietly to himself a song he'd heard before. A song that represented exactly how he felt for his friend, though his friend had yet to find out, and the songs words ran through the young man's head: You have stolen my heart. And tonight, his friend would know.
The young man approached the door apprehensively. This wasn't going to be easy. Four words came to him, attempting to assuage his anxiousness: Don't think, just move. With those four words firmly in his mind, he raised his fist to the door and knocked lightly. He waited for a bit, and when nothing happened, he let out a breath he'd only vaguely realized he'd been holding in. Well, that was that, it seemed. He wasn't here. Nothing would happen tonight, and the young man could go back to his room and be his normal, reclusive self once again.
Don't think, just move.
The words came back to him and he returned to the door. He steeled himself, secretly hoping that no one was home, preparing to raise his fist to the wooden frame once more.
This was how it had started. He'd gotten an idea in his head that he would talk to this person. His friend. And so he stood up, emerged from the reclusive, home-feeling space of his room and gone down the hall. A meager trip, but to him it had seemed a great ordeal, and now that he was here, he was quite ready to simply backtrack and end the whole thing. The voice, however, in his mind continued to tell him to keep moving. Not to think too deeply about this. Deep thought was required in other situations, but the young man tended to think too deeply into simple actions, 'planning' their catastrophic endings before they ever even had a chance to form.
So... here he was. Poised at the precipice of possibility. Either he could knock again and attempt the pursuit once more, or he could give up and go back to the safe, boring monotony of his normal life. The words in his head urged him to stop thinking so hard and just do what he was going to do, and so, once again, his fist fell to the door. Once. Twice. Three times.
Almost instantly regretting the action, the young man had no choice but to wait for an answer. This had always been the most agonizing time for him: the waiting. You could decide to take a course of action, and before you could see its outcome you had to do this terrible, agonizing, horrible waiting.
At least, until the door opened. There, before him, stood his friend. They hadn't really been friends for long, or, rather, they had only recently gotten to know one another better, but there was a familiar feeling pulling at the young man's heartstrings. Emotions rushed into him. Joy, at seeing his friend. Anxiousness, at seeing whether or not his plan would work. Fear, of rejection, or having interrupted something. Embarrassment, at having ever had such a silly idea in the first place.
His friend spoke, but the young man's thoughts had been whirling, and so, instead, he stood stock still, wrapped up in his coat, and stared. It had been a strange feeling, the attraction, but now that he knew it was there, it was a familiar, warming feeling. He tried to follow the advice the mantra in his head gave him: that he should think less and simply act. Emotions flew about in his brain, and all he could think about was just how nice his friend looked tonight. How the way he smiled warmed the young man, and how those gorgeous, brilliant eyes drew him in. Here he was, this young man's friend, intelligent, attractive, and completely and utterly unavailable. The young man almost began to despair, until his friend spoke again, inquiring into the young man's well being. His friends words finally reached the young man, and so he smiled and stated that he was fine.
Now came the more difficult part. The young man had made a decision some weeks before that now, this time of freedom, being away from home at last, would be the perfect time to unravel all of the lies and secrets of his life. To live as himself, and not as others wanted him to be. He would change himself, but only in the ways he wished. He would keep fewer secrets.
And the first secret that had to end was the one kept between himself and his mind's image of his friend. The voice in his mind changed its tune, and rather than telling him to stop thinking so hard, it told him something more cryptic, but something which the young man understood quite easily: Lay your armor down.
So the young man did just that. He smiled again and asked his friend whether or not he was busy. His friend contemplated for a moment and replied in the negative, and then the lump in the young man's throat appeared once again. Damning it to the deepest layer of hell, he cleared his throat and finally asked the question he wanted to ask.
"Do you want to take a walk with me?"
And so, the young man and his friend left the building, the young man's friend buttoning his coat against the harsh winter cold and the young man humming quietly to himself a song he'd heard before. A song that represented exactly how he felt for his friend, though his friend had yet to find out, and the songs words ran through the young man's head: You have stolen my heart. And tonight, his friend would know.