(no subject)
It doesn't come as a grand revelation, there is no illuminating vision shedding light and clarity, nor does it hit one on the head from a great height. It's simply something one knows. There is no explanation for the thumping heart beat, the warmth from gut to head, the stupid and unsheddable grin. It's love. Reason doesn't enter into it.
It's a feeling he hasn't had for quite some time. Not - and he dares to admit it to himself only now - since Michael left the island. It's love. He's in love with the beauty of his face, the charm of his smile, the memory of his warm embrace. In love with what he can't have - such sad déjà vu.
In England people had always mocked him for being in love, here people have mocked him for not being love. It seems the state of his heart has always been a matter of talk and amusement, but the feeling in his gut is very clear to him regardless. He is in love - and he is devastated by the hopelessness of it.
Cole had once spoken of love for him, in song, in words. 'You do something to me', 'you'd be so easy to love'. And he foolishly had never done anything about it. Never replied to the sweet words, never made it clear that his own feelings, though less lyrical, were equally meant. Scared, perhaps, to voice his heart's content. To share love, to voice a feeling deeper than any other. Scared to get hurt, or perhaps, to hurt. And now he is too late. There is no longer love in those eyes for him. Cole's heart lies in the hands of someone else.
It's such pain to come to that realisation. An ache of the heart as he has never felt it before, and infinitely worse.
He remembers heart-ache. When the love of his Eton life stood on the cricket field, he watched along the side lines, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of that beautiful face and to melt in thought, seeing that firm grip, cupping the ball with an imaginative mixture of determination and gentle sportsmanship. It ached never to be able to be near him. When Julian toyed with his hat, a great rush overcame him, and when he toyed with much clearer intent with Anthony's scarf he felt forlorn. It ached - a love he knew he could never have. Oh yes, Guy remembers heart ache, wistful thinking, inane hope.
This isn't simple heart-ache. This is his heart's cold-blooded murder. What he feels now is his heart's death. To see Cole so in love with someone else, to see those handsome eyes drowning in the gaze of someone else, that chiselled face smile at the unfunny jokes of someone else. It's unbearable.
And not only does he feel that pain. He also feels intense and unrestrained hate for Patrick. Patrick and his annoying rows of white teeth. Never trust a man with too many white teeth; he smiles too often and only for his own gain. It's a picture of false perfection; white picket fences in a mandible. A fake American shark.
How Cole can possibly be in love with that, he will never understand. But he will bloody well hate it.
In his mind the all-American twat has died several deaths (one of them, rather ironically, involves the insertion of a multitude of piano keys into several bodily orifices). No fate is too cruel for that bastard. Nothing can be more cruel than what he feels now; this pain for a love unrequited.
Is this jealousy? He has never felt it before. It's heart-shattering. And yet it is how he knows, with absolute certainty, that he loves Cole. Why else would he feel so desolate, so pained?
He watches them from a distance, hoping his glare will do damage and knowing he can't be seen. They only laugh again. Would there be serious repercussions if he were to pull out those picket-fence teeth one by one?
It's a feeling he hasn't had for quite some time. Not - and he dares to admit it to himself only now - since Michael left the island. It's love. He's in love with the beauty of his face, the charm of his smile, the memory of his warm embrace. In love with what he can't have - such sad déjà vu.
In England people had always mocked him for being in love, here people have mocked him for not being love. It seems the state of his heart has always been a matter of talk and amusement, but the feeling in his gut is very clear to him regardless. He is in love - and he is devastated by the hopelessness of it.
Cole had once spoken of love for him, in song, in words. 'You do something to me', 'you'd be so easy to love'. And he foolishly had never done anything about it. Never replied to the sweet words, never made it clear that his own feelings, though less lyrical, were equally meant. Scared, perhaps, to voice his heart's content. To share love, to voice a feeling deeper than any other. Scared to get hurt, or perhaps, to hurt. And now he is too late. There is no longer love in those eyes for him. Cole's heart lies in the hands of someone else.
It's such pain to come to that realisation. An ache of the heart as he has never felt it before, and infinitely worse.
He remembers heart-ache. When the love of his Eton life stood on the cricket field, he watched along the side lines, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of that beautiful face and to melt in thought, seeing that firm grip, cupping the ball with an imaginative mixture of determination and gentle sportsmanship. It ached never to be able to be near him. When Julian toyed with his hat, a great rush overcame him, and when he toyed with much clearer intent with Anthony's scarf he felt forlorn. It ached - a love he knew he could never have. Oh yes, Guy remembers heart ache, wistful thinking, inane hope.
This isn't simple heart-ache. This is his heart's cold-blooded murder. What he feels now is his heart's death. To see Cole so in love with someone else, to see those handsome eyes drowning in the gaze of someone else, that chiselled face smile at the unfunny jokes of someone else. It's unbearable.
And not only does he feel that pain. He also feels intense and unrestrained hate for Patrick. Patrick and his annoying rows of white teeth. Never trust a man with too many white teeth; he smiles too often and only for his own gain. It's a picture of false perfection; white picket fences in a mandible. A fake American shark.
How Cole can possibly be in love with that, he will never understand. But he will bloody well hate it.
In his mind the all-American twat has died several deaths (one of them, rather ironically, involves the insertion of a multitude of piano keys into several bodily orifices). No fate is too cruel for that bastard. Nothing can be more cruel than what he feels now; this pain for a love unrequited.
Is this jealousy? He has never felt it before. It's heart-shattering. And yet it is how he knows, with absolute certainty, that he loves Cole. Why else would he feel so desolate, so pained?
He watches them from a distance, hoping his glare will do damage and knowing he can't be seen. They only laugh again. Would there be serious repercussions if he were to pull out those picket-fence teeth one by one?