Memory.
To put it simply, you had become a child demanding attention. The thought simultaneously repulses and confuses you, and you are quite sure you’re going mad.
It was one thing to taunt the boy, to mock and tease and frighten him in the dead of night. It was quite another to strut about in broad daylight, trying to catch blue eyes. Really, that's what you are-- a damned peacock, ruffling its feathers and craning its neck. A sort of terror has taken root in the pit of your stomach, creeping up your gut until your lungs are tight and desperate for air.
Ha. Desperate was the word for it.
For one so used to going unseen, it was particularly odd to be longing for attention.
A single glance would do it, really. A frown. So much as a single breath in your direction would satisfy the bone deep need that stuck in your throat and trapped down the words that needed saying.
"I can't help it." "I'm sorry." "I miss you."
Of course, none of it would help. None of it would help, and you was stuck running the same maze, over and over and over again.
See him on the field, don't smile. See him in the halls, don't speak. See him bathed in moonlight, back straight and eyes too terribly learned for one so young: don't act.
Be the dog with its tail between its legs, begging for a bone and knowing it will never come.
Leave him little gifts: gold edged parchment with little birds, binoculars studded with sapphires, tomes that detailed cultures and people of different lands. Soft leather gloves lined with fur. A flower of baby blue. But never a word.
Learn his haunts: make them your own, until your foot prints mix in the sand and dust in an awkward dance.
Katarina is a saint-- she takes you in on the cold wet nights when sleep fails to come, and all you hear is breathy golden laughter ringing in the space between your sheets. Her green cat eyes ask the questions you cannot answer, but she holds her tongue all the same. She does not ask why the want in your eyes is not for her.
Cassiopeia is a dream-- she laughs at you, all the while stroking your hair with loving hands and pity in her jeweled green gaze. A quiet place, that’s what she makes. You pillow your head in her lap, and she reads you stories of death and love and sweet summer winds, just as you had for her all those years ago.
Sleep around. It doesn't help, especially not when they all have sky eyes and flaxen hair, but the touch is wrong.
Just sleep-- and sleep and sleep and sleep, until it's hard to tell what's waking, and you can fetch back the good times and live in what was and should be, not is.
Drink until the world goes dead.
Never forget the taste of leather and sunlight, the feel of soft hair angular limbs. The sound of rough words in his ear. Give and take.
Never forget.
