What if I said I'd do it again?
What if I said that I didn't care?
What if I told them I had no remorse?
Would they finally tell me that it was my fault?
Would they finally blame me for what I did?
Would they finally give me what I think I deserve?
Sure, I made a mistake.
And they say mistakes don't get punished, they only get corrected.
But what about mistakes that get made every day, over and over? Thoughts that clutter my head every time I see him?
My friends tell me he's at fault. Maybe that's true. But when the knight raises his sword and shield, it's because the dragon flashed her wicked teeth and rained hellfire over the land.
Some say it's only the dragon's nature to roar and beat her wings when the arrows hit her scales. But the dragon should learn to control her own flames, lest she be consumed in the inferno.
The sight of armor makes the dragon's soul sing, her body tremble with anticipation instead of fear. She welcomes the danger with open arms, despite knowing that the touch in those hands is more likely to kill than heal.
Yes, I regret how I treated him. I wasn't very nice. But if I had to do it all again, just for a fraction of a chance that it might end differently...I would. Just for the smallest sliver of possibility that I could do something, say something neat enough to make him look at me with that soft little grin on his face, or even just that subtle squint to his eyes that means he found me amusing for half a second.
It's kinda sad, honestly. One of the few people who's been truly, altruistically kind to me, and all I want is to be able to make him laugh one more time. Not "get him to be my friend", not "make him fall in love with me" (pfft, as if), but just..."I want to make him laugh". As if my happiness continges on the happiness of one man who is trying his best to forget about me. Because no matter how hard I try not to, sometimes my friends ask me, "What're you smiling at?" and I have to pretend I read a funny meme or reacted to something they said. Otherwise they'd get very slightly perturbed with me; the truth is, I saw him across the room, smiling at something his buddies said (or smiling in general, that devil-may-care grin seems to be a default expression of his), and I couldn't help smiling in return. I'm a very empathetic person, much as I try not to show it. If someone I care about is happy, I'm probably going to be some version of happy too...unless it's him. I'll be grinning like a lovesick idiot for about two seconds before realizing I shouldn't be and launching into an intense round of self-flagellation. Lust is a sin, after all, that's what the pastor says.
But good God in heaven, sometimes I look at his hair and want to run my fingers through it, push it back from his face so I can better see his eyes. I look at those hands and wonder what they'd feel like cradling my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. I hug myself, pretending it's his arms I'm wrapped up in. I've said before I like taller guys because they could ostensibly rest their chin on top of my head when they hug me...makes me feel safe, like being wrapped in a blanket. He'd be so gentle with me, I know he would. Roughness doesn't seem to fit him.
I've had dreams where we're both on a bus trip (with the "misfortune" to be sat next to each other), and when I fall asleep with my head against the window, he pulls me against his side and puts my head on his shoulder. When I ask him about it, he just grunts something about not wanting me to hurt myself.
Other times, I dream he stops me outside of class, saying he really wants to ask me if I'm okay, but didn't want to be rude. I try to say I'm fine, but the tears he eventually catches and rubs away with his sleeve say otherwise. I cry into his shirt, feeling his hand on the back of my head as he shushes me, swaying me back and forth in his arms.
Another dream, a highly detailed one at that, has us both being on a film crew, and me injuring my leg pretty badly. We're miles away from civilization and the grip truck due to filming on a remote location, so the crew have to take turns lugging the gear and me, after my insisting I can walk myself proves to be little more than overconfident bluster. They're all very careful not to drop me, but he is always the gentlest of the bunch, constantly asking if I'm all right and making sure I drink water.
When we have to camp in the urban wilderness, my leg starts throbbing worse and worse due to some nasty cuts in it. Our director looks at it and determines the wound will have to be cauterized in order to avoid infection or exsanguination. I say someone might have to hold me down, as I don't trust my ability to hold still in the face of intense pain. My knight, gallant soul that he is, offers his belt for me to bite down on. While our leader heats up the knife, I sit down in front of my knight, my back to his chest and his arms around my torso, pinning my arms down. Two other members of the crew hold my legs, and my knight tells me to squeeze his hand when the pain gets really bad. I protest; I nearly broke my mother's fingers in a similar situation once, and I don't want to hurt him. He only smiles and says he can take it.
I scream against the belt when the knife touches my flesh, searing the wounds closed. My head thrashes about for a brief moment before my knight covers my eyes, which calms me enough for our director to finish cauterizing the wounds and bandage them as best he can. All the while my knight whispers soothing words into my ear, petting back my hair as he does. ~You're doing so well, little one, you're so brave, I'm so proud of you. Shh, it's almost done. I've got you. I won't let you go. There, see? It's over. You made it through, you did such a good job. Take a deep breath, have some water. The worst part is over.~ Him calling me "little one" is somewhat factually inaccurate; he's taller than me, while I'm likely older than him by a year or two, but it's comforting nonetheless. My parents never used that term when comforting me, anyway.
When it's time to bed down for the night, I get worried. My sleep apnea is nowhere near as severe as it once was, but I have to sleep on my side to avoid suffocating. Normally, I would use special pillows to achieve this, but we're in the wilderness, that's not gonna work here. So I sit by the campfire until the inevitability of my knight asking why I'm still awake. When I tell him, he laughs, but not at me. He says, "Oh, that's easy, just stay with me." I worry about making things awkward, but he ruffles my hair, assuring me he doesn't feel awkward about it at all. I end up finding out what it's like to be the little spoon...and no, before you ask, nothing explicit happens. The most intimacy that occurs is him meshing his fingers with mine when he thinks I've fallen asleep.
The next morning, there's some requisite ribbing from our crewmates before we pack up and move on. My leg hurts throughout the day, and although I insist on trying to walk, my knight shuts that down pretty quickly. The next night is much the same; we fall asleep next to each other, I wake up to him holding me, our crewmates tease us mercilessly, we keep moving.
One evening, we unpack and have dinner, only to get an unwelcome visitor in the form of a bear. Strangely enough, only my sleeping bag gets destroyed, leading to the Tall Man suggesting, eyebrows waggling, that Jay and I will have to share a sleeping bag now. Both of us tell him to shut up.
However, once night falls and everyone else goes to bed, Jay and I have to face the reality of the situation. Both of us hash out the fact that no shenanigans will occur and all clothes will remain on. We head to bed, me being fully embarrassed as hell, and he asks if I'm okay. I tell him I'm not, and when he asks why, I take a deep breath and admit I've managed to fall very deeply in love with him over the course of the journey.
He kinda hesitates for a moment, then smiles that lopsided little smile of his.
And then, in the softest voice ever, face turning a little red, he asks if he can kiss me.
I really do love that dream.
My other favorite is the one where I go to the Starbucks on campus, only for the barista to smirk at me and say "the young man at the corner table ordered your usual," while jerking her head in his direction. Sure enough, when I approach the table, he proffers a venti Mango Dragonfruit Refresher and a cinnamon roll. My favorite. I ask him how he knew what to order, and he says, "All I had to do was ask about a girl in black with bright red hair. They know your usual by now," with that signature grin and a light chuckle. I ask him why he's there and what he wants, and he says, "I just want to talk". "Talk" ends up meaning an hours-long conversation which lasts up to him walking me back to my dorm in the rapidly-fading light. I remark on the beauty of the sunset; he says he can think of something just as beautiful. I look up at him to ask what he means, already predicting the response, and I feel so happy when I see the warmth in his eyes, the fond smile on his lips. Rubbing the back of his neck and looking away for a moment, he asks if he can kiss me 'good night', even if it isn't night yet.
There's others besides that, more disjointed little moments than cohesive events.
There was the time we had a picnic at night under a tree in a meadow. The sky was Van Gogh's Starry Night.
There was the time (many times) where he's caught me crying (because of course) and instead of walking away like I half expect him to after what happened last time, he sits down beside me and pulls me close, draping an arm over my shoulders. C'mere, he murmurs in that deep voice of his, leaning his forehead into the side of my head. He says that a lot in my dreams, that one simple c'mere. I'm not sure why I like his voice so much, I just do. Sometimes I've imagined him getting jokingly exasperated with my little idiosyncrasies, enough to use my full name. He shakes his head at me with a sideways smile. Samantha, Samantha, Samantha, what am I going to do with you? Normally I hate it when people use my full name, makes me feel like I'm in trouble, but on him? When he says it through a smile and pairs it with a large hand smoothing back my hair? I could live with that.
There's another thing: my hair. I don't usually like people touching it, outside of my mother being affectionate or the hairdresser working her magic. (On very rare occasions, if it was a genuine and polite request born out of admiration and curiosity, I would allow a child to touch my hair.) In the last couple years I've expanded that circle somewhat, mainly to my best friend who developed a habit of petting the side of my head when he hugged me.
But in my dreams, when my knight reaches over and tucks a strand behind my ear, my stomach flutters. It's such a tender gesture, sometimes I cry. Which usually leads to another hug.
Ah, nicknames...obviously I call him 'my knight'. Because that's what he is, my knight, my hero. Once, on the set of that freshman film, he asked me to hold his helmet for him while he took a break for water, and I was eager to please...Now he'll think I'm useful to have around, I thought. I thought I made a good squire at that point.
So, yeah, I call him my knight. In my head, I suppose he's overheard me making parallels to old fairy tales, and how I've rarely cast myself as anything but the villain. So he rarely, if ever, calls me his princess or his lady or anything like that.
He calls me his dragon. It's meant to be a testament to my strength, whispered against my temple in a stressful moment or breathed through a fond smile, him resting his head on his hand as he watches me.
In another dream, more recent considering it's set after he left, I'm sitting with my friends and feeling a little down because, as has been stated, I miss him. As I'm trying to pay attention to what my friends are saying, I feel a hand on my shoulder for a brief moment. I look behind me, and he's there, hands in his pockets, a slight smile on his face. I call his name, almost unsure I'm seeing properly, even in my dreams. (I'm always aware I'm dreaming, which makes waking up from these all the more bitter.) He grins, nods, looks down at the ground then back up at me through his bangs. He's always wearing the same black CoryxKenshin hoodie in this dream, with the sleeves half-rolled up.
And then, because I'm far more bold in dreams than I am in real life, I hug him, nearly knocking him over as I bury my face in his chest. He chuckles, resting a hand on the back of my head, rocking me back and forth for a few moments.
--Awww, did you miss me?
Uh-huh.
There's a pause here; I just listen to his heartbeat and the sound of his breathing, clench my hands in the back of his hoodie as if I'm afraid he'll turn to dust if I let go.
I thought you left, I say, trying not to sound too accusatory. It's not his fault, after all. He hums softly, continuing to hold me.
--I know. He pauses, as if unsure what to say next. --But that other school was missing something, something this place has.
What's that? I ask, looking up at him. He grins, his eyes bright.
--You, he answers, cradling my cheek in his hand.
You came back just for me?
--Of course. Where would the knight be without his dragon? His eyes start doing that crinkly thing I always loved, and he brushes his thumb across my cheek. In spite of myself, I let out a little squeal, hugging him again. This one doesn't end with a kiss (after all, there's people around).
Other times, he's not so happy. His voice cracks when he calls my name, and when he hugs me, I can feel the strain in his shoulders as he's holding back tears.
--I'm sorry, he chokes out, his voice muffled in the shoulder of my jacket. I'm so sorry.
Shhh, I say, holding him. I'm tempted to stroke his hair, rub his back, something, but I don't want to overstep myself. So I just hold him. It's all right. I've got you.
--No it's not. Realizing people are starting to stare at us, I lead him back to the couch I was sitting on and beckon him to sit with me. --I shouldn't have left. I thought going someplace else would help, but it didn't. I didn't give you enough of a chance. My friends were talking crap and I paid too much attention to it.
Hey, hey now. Peer pressure is a hell of a drug, my guy. They were your friends, who else were you going to listen to? Against my better judgment, I reach up and wipe away a tear sliding down his cheek. He blinks, looking stunned.
--You don't...you don't hate me for it? he asks, voice barely above a whisper. I can't take it anymore, I hug him again, this time resting a hand on the back of his head.
Oh, you sweet boy, I say, resting my chin on his shoulder. I never blamed you for a second. None of what happened back then was your fault. We're both young, you and I. We're gonna make mistakes like that. Emotions are messy, we're not gonna react the best way to them every single time. I know I don't. So no, I don't hate you. Never have, never will.
~~~~~~~~~~
Last night, I had a new dream, a happy one. We were at this museum, sitting on a bench in front of a statue and trying to observe it for a paper we had to write. So we were bouncing observations back and forth, like what material it was made of, what style it was in, y'know, real snobby stuff like that. He says something to the effect of, --This guy kinda reminds me of having to read The Iliad in high school. He kinda looks like an Achilles.
And I say, Huh, that's funny. I was thinking he reminded me of this guy I kinda like.
Cue a raised eyebrow. --Oh? Someone from school?
Mhm. He chuckles, shaking his head at me.
--I knew you had a heart in there somewhere, he teases, nudging my shoulder. I rub the back of my neck, before I can feel my face flushing as he leans over and asks, --So, is he cute?
Jay!
--I'm just wondering! I pause, unable to stifle a grin.
Oh, he's so cute, I say, keeping my eyes on the statue for now. In fact, dare I say it, he's pretty.
--Pretty what? he asks, wrinkling his nose.
Just pretty, I say, smiling. The prettiest boy in the world. See, to my thinking, "pretty", "cute" and "hot" aren't on a spectrum, they're part of a Venn diagram. Sensing he's getting confused, I pull out my notebook and start drawing a diagram. Let's use my guy as an example. Another thing I've noticed is that "pretty" and "cute" are more things you are, while "hot" applies more to things you do. That make sense?
--So far, he says, leaning over to look at the paper, his fringe falling across his eyes for a moment before he brushes it back again.
Okay, good. So, one thing we could put in the pretty category is the fact that he has beautiful eyes. Y'know, he's got those magical hazel eyes that never seem to be the same color every time. Sometimes they're blue, sometimes they're brown, sometimes they're green. And when they catch the sunlight? Hoo boy. They light up like nobody's business. That bridges over to something that goes in the cute circle, which is the crinkly thing his eyes do when he smiles.
--Like laugh lines? Crow's feet? he asks.
Huh-uh, more like his eyes scrunch up into little crescent moon shapes when he's happy or finds something funny. He has this little shoulder shake thing he does when he laughs, which is...oh, Lord, it's sweet. It's so sweet. Makes me wanna squeal every time I see it.
--What about the hot circle?
Ah, now there's where we get more into things he does as opposed to things that are just inherent to him, I say, scribbling furiously. Mainly, it's the way he wears hoodies, with the sleeves rolled up so his forearms are showing. He's got nice muscular forearms. Not super bulgy, like the Rock, but just lean muscle. Oh, and his hands. He's got big hands, strong hands. Hands that could probably snap me in half.
--He sounds kinda scary, not gonna lie, he says, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
See, but that's the beauty of him. He could snap me in half if he wanted to, but I know for a fact he wouldn't. He's too good.
--Too good, huh? He tilts his head, giving me that affectionate side-eye I've always loved. And what makes him so good?
He's kind, I say. So unbelievably kind. I can remember multiple occasions where he's gone out of his way to look after me. I mean, he's made sure I was all right after I injured myself, he's checked on me when he saw me sitting on the floor crying... A flicker of recognition crosses his face for a split second. He's just...a good man. A very good man. He'll make some girl very happy one day.
--Some girl...but not you? He looks sympathetic.
Oh, goodness, no, I think he's a little too far out of my league, I say, laughing. A little too good, if you know what I'm saying. He frowns, resting a hand on my shoulder.
--You deserve someone good, he says, looking me deep in the eyes. --Someone who will sweep you off your feet and make you feel like you're the most beautiful girl in the world. Every girl deserves that.
See, this is why I say you're out of my league, Jay, I say, shaking my head with a sad smile. He pauses, blinking a couple times.
--...wait, what? He sits up a little straighter, eyes suddenly widening. --Oh. Oh, my God. He hesitates for a moment before pointing to himself and saying in the smallest voice, --Me? You love...me? I nod.
For a very long time. I'm caught off guard as he hugs me, resting his head against mine.
--And my friends said you could never feel that way about me, he says, and I can hear the disbelieving grin in his voice.
Jay, we've established this, your friends don't know shit. He laughs, pulling back from the hug, eyes shining as he looks at me. All of a sudden, his cheeks dust a deep pink, and he looks to the side, mumbling something I can't quite make out. What did you say?
--I um...would it be okay if...can I kiss you? he blurts out, making eye contact again. He looks a little apprehensive, as if he's worried I'm going to say no. I smile, leaning in and kissing his cheek.
Of course you can, sweet boy.
