[ white noise in my mind ]
ficathon: crushcrushcrush
fandom: prosa II prose: here's to us
characters: izzy x ezra
tw: unhealthy relationships II prompt von fortassis
as it can be said:
love and a cough
cannot be concealed
even a small cough.
even a small love.
You don't realize you're falling in love with him. At least not until it's far to late, and even then, you don't call it love. Because when you think about it, love isn't the fitting term - it's high school romance, it's fooling around, it's slightly wrong and far too complicated for it's own good. You never meant to like him in the first place - your parents raised you well enough to cope for your lack of human understanding, and you get that falling in love, no, liking someone while technically having a boyfriend is wrong.
At this point, you get other people better than you understand yourself.
It's the year everything goes to shit, and you are certainly not innocent in the way things pan out, but you realize it after it's too late. Suddenly, no one talks about road-trips anymore, about future plans, about running away from this town - Nate's eyes are more gray than blue by now and Aki bursted into tears in class the other day, and even if she let you comfort her, she didn't said a word about her sadness. You hate the silence more than you hate the fact that she's sad again, you hate the way he looks at you more than you hate the fact that he hasn't smiled in what feels like ages. We're falling apart.
We're falling apart and you're falling in love. And you feel so guilty about it, it makes you want to carve your heart out of your chest and feed it to the wolves - even if that means feeding it to Nate again when you just clawed it out of his hands.
You've gotten so used to the hollow feeling in your chest where your heart used to be, now it feels like someone placed a grenade in the hole and sewed it shut. And you're just a shell, waiting for it to explode.
You except it to rip you apart when it explodes, but nothing happens, honestly. It just cracks, and there's light behind your eyes for a bare second, light that reflects within his dark eyes, and you think oh. You've been good with words or literature, you can read them, copy them, but not make them up. If you were to compare people to anything, it would be music anyway, but you stopped composing since - yeah, since when? Since Nate gave you back ¾ of your heart and kept the rest? Since you don't look at them like you used to, since there are no more symphonies in Nate's blue eyes?
You look at him, and think oh, there's a whole opera beneath your skin. He probably looks back at you and thinks nothing, because people tend to. He opens his mouth and says “Hi”, and maybe you explode - a little. Just a tiny bit, a tiny part of you that has been sealed away for years, the part that still believes in love, explodes into a song and there's music humming through your veins, and you missed that feeling more than you miss anything else in the world.
“Have we, by any chance, met before?”, his smile is wide and amused, as if he can see right through your skin and see the way your blood hums - or hear it, rather. You tone it down, or at least you hope so, and shrug. Of course he doesn't remember you.
“We go to the same school”, keep your cool, Izzy, keep your cool, you're good at that, right?, “you're one grade above me, though. But you're in the council, so I've seen you a couple of times. And the basketball team”, you add, and you're glad he doesn't know you at all, because otherwise he probably would've wondered about the amount of words coming out of your mouth. It happens, sometimes, when you're nervous or uncomfortable or speaking to a very handsome young man, who also happens to be talented in almost any regard. You cling to the slight hope that maybe music is one of these regards.
He tilts his head slightly, light-blonde, almost silver-ish curls falling into his forehead, where he brushes them away absently. You notice just as absently that he has the hands of an artist - long, slender fingers without scars or even moles, unlike Nate's scarred knuckles of his right hand, unlike the three soft moles next to Aki's right thumb. Your hands are just as plain and boring as you are. His are beautiful.
“Do you hang out with the orange-haired girl? And this troublemaker-kid?”
“He's not a troublemaker, and not a kid.” You don't even remember opening your mouth, but the words are there anyway. It's reflex, but you mean it. And no matter how charming or handsome he might me, you won't let anyone talk badly about them without even knowing them. (It's a lie, because Nate is a troublemaker after all, but not how them mean it.)
“Sorry”, he shrugs, “I didn't mean it. But I take that as a yes?”
You nod. “They are my best friends.”
“That's nice”, he smiles, and it's honest, as far as you can judge. Your “Yes” leaves a bitter taste in your mouth - the things unsaid, the things he can't see and can't judge, how amazing your friendship looks from the outside. Except it's not friendship anymore. It's been something else, something darker and more powerful for a while now, and all of you shy away from it.
For a moment, both of you stay silent. The humming in your veins has tuned down completely by now, killed by the things he said and the things his words make you think about. The part of you that's still five years old wants to cry when he scratches his head and says “I made things awkward, huh?” and you almost smile. “A little.” “Want to try again?” “Would love to.” It's so unusual for you, all of this, but it's mostly unusual for who you pretend to be - you can excuse this, because this time, it feels a lot easier to change - you aren't the quiet, mediocre talented guy, not the weird gay dude dating his childhood friend, not the loner, the wolf, the wolf who hides his bruises under layers of skin, surrounding himself with the same company over and over, until the layers bury you.
Maybe there's a heart that's not broken beneath all those skins.
(Or maybe not a heart at all, but instead an empty space carved into your chest, filled with paper cranes folded out of all the things you did wrong and all the people you hurt. It's a lot for fitting for someone like you.)
He extends his hand, and you hesitate a second too long, and instead settle for an apologetic smile. You want to explain that you're not really fond of this psychical contact thing, but the part of you that's scared swallows it instead. If you think, that's weird, you haven't seen the best of me, you think to yourself, in the best cynical voice your thoughts can have.
He clears his throat, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans - this weird, expensive brand your mother told you about the other day. “So, hi, I'm Ezra. My life's pretty insignificant. I'll study law after school, like my father. People claim I have too many talents for my own good, but I don't really believe that. I would rather just have one. And just to mention it, no girlfriend.” He grins.
You hope you don't blush, but you can't help but to feel flustered - it's your turn to ask about boyfriends, and both of you know that, but you can't bring yourself to do it. You have Nate, you remind yourself, repeat it like a mantra within your head, but each time it gets more shallow. “What about you?”, Ezra asks, and you want to say 'Are you really interested or do you just want to sleep with me?', and the lump in your throat makes breathing hard.
“I'm Izzy”, your voice sounds horribly weak, but you try, “if you think your life is insignificant, I don't know what you would say about me. I like school - shocking, I know”, you add as you see his face, and he laughs, “and I like my friends. They are the most interesting part of me.” You don't say a word about the music, because you can't crack yourself open for this boy you barely know, even if he makes the pain bearable, but you don't trust him just because a couple of butterflies in your stomach. Not all butterflies are good. And some people just cut your stomach open to place them in there, just to make you believe you feel something.
You know better than to believe in your feelings.
“I bet you're pretty interesting yourself.”
You roll your eyes. “I'm not.”
“Give me a chance to find out?” This time, you blush, and mumble something that maybe sounds like a “don't say I didn't warn you”. He just smiles, and you wonder if he ever does anything else, if he's ever angry, how he treats people he hate, if he has a pet, what his favourite colour is. With Nate, you could answer all those questions in a second.
On your way home, you regret everything - the way you looked at him, the way you felt about him, the mere second it took you to agree to coffee tomorrow afternoon, even when fifty percent of your thoughts start with Nate, end with Nate, contain Nate - and it's only a matter of time until Nate will look into your eyes and figure out all of the things you said and did, carve the symphony out of your bones, and maybe Ezra would do the same if he could read the guilt in your eyes.
It's a small love, but it's the road to ruin.