Cedric's smile was like the rest of him. Golden, kind, generous. It made Cho's heart race every time she saw him, smiling, waving, perfect. She had been happy for him when he was chosen for the Tournament, a little worried, but happy. He deserved the honor, the opportunity. So when he had smiled triumphantly at her after the Third Task and grabbed her hips and swung her about, their laughter mixed and rang throughout the halls. She was happy, he was happy, and they were perfect.

Now, a bitterness hides her eyes whenever she sees a messy black head in the classrooms. She tries to avoid those striking green eyes and hopes to never see them again. Everyone in Ravenclaw knows. They pick up on her reluctance and mercifully, do not mention either of their names within listening distance.

Cho wasn't sure why she agreed to go on a date with Harry Potter.

Harry had killed Cedric. He had been the cause. Why did Harry, the one Voldemort had been after, survive when innocent Cedric deserved so much better? Cho looked at those greengreen eyes and forgot to breathe. She saw the last glimpse of Cedric imprinted in Harry's face, the last words spoken by her beloved.

So Cho had said yes. But she found that Cedric was Cedric and Harry was Harry. Even in her mind, it was difficult to confuse the two when she tried. Eventually, they fell apart because Harry had bigger things in his life that would not tolerate her guilt and because her guilt would not tolerate Harry.

In the end, Cedric's smile was golden, kind, generous.






<< No one said anything about happily ever after >>

"Honestly, what's with the crowd?" The second grader's voice was scornful and grumpy, staring at the clot of people by the school gates balefully, as if by sheer force of will, she'd part the ocean of people. No such luck. It remained as tightly packed as before and small, tiny girl scowled - when she grew up and entered high school, it would be the feared Scowl of the Student President, but that would be getting ahead of ourselves. Presently, she was thoroughly annoyed at this obstacle; by no means did she want to be late, especially not on the first day of school. What were all these people staring at?

Worming her way past the crowd, she nearly tripped when she reached the end of what had seemed to be an infinite flow of people. Her jaw dropped.

Her lunch box dropped.

Her eyes were the size of saucers.

It was easy to see why they had an audience. So... beautiful. She didn't have the words for it; as if they shone with divine grace and some ethereal sparkle beyond the grasp of normal people. Till that point, she had read manga just like everyone else living in Japan had, but she had never believed that there were really bishoujo and bishounen in the world. The boy was tall and handsome, power sharpening his eyes and passive indifference to the world extremely off putting. And yet, the girl his hand was clasping so earnestly was his counter part. She was smaller than him by at least a head, delicate and shy, an adorable smile that sent her wide eyes shining.

She watched with fascination as he turned to the girl, as if he has sensed the gaze of his partner in crime. His eyes softened minutely around the edges and a small grin stole onto his lips.

Oh, she thought.

Oh.







<< Like a moth to a flame, their beauty called out to the world >>

He never realized how much he depended on her until that day.

Always, she had been his mirror, his touchstone; being her twin was so much a part of him that he could no more exist without it than he could without his heart, his soul. It was, upon reflection, a small change, but he had felt the ground shake beneath his feet, felt his mouth drop, involuntarily, open as she smiled at him, beaming, a creature of light and wind. He wanted to reach out and catch her before she flew away. It was completely and utterly stupid. All Nian had done was dye her hair. All she had done was go from blue to blonde. It was nothing.

It was everything.

“I didn't want to be mistaken for you anymore.” He drew away, hurt and confused – who was this stranger looking at him with his sister's face – his face – and saying these words in his sister's voice? Surely it could not be the same person. She didn't want to be a part of him anymore, she didn't want to be – Lian's head spun, whirling and oddly young in its feeling of puzzled loss.

Her reassuring smile was the same though and his heart restarted shakily. “Maybe you should dye your hair neon pink.” The comment seemed to amuse her and the way her mouth split open into a wide, open grin, the way her laughter rang loud and clear, reset his world. All was fine again. She was a stranger for a horrifying second, but that was only what his eyes had seen.

His heart knew better. His heart knew her as the only other heart that had shared a rhythm with him since the beginning.



<< the heart is the looking glass >>

Today, he thinks, is not going to be a good day. It is, vaguely, a very bad day for him – a day that heralds half dreamt glimpses of blood and death and pain. He is under no illusions that today will be anything but full of dancing shadows. It was, then, entirely foolish of him to let himself be talked into a something, anything, by Logan. The youth had more than enough sparkling imagination for the both of them (for the whole world, actually); Reiji should have known better.

But since when had he been strong enough to say no?

Always. Just never towards a certain boy with soft chocolate eyes and yielding, pink lips. He tries not to think that he is obsessed.

“Come on, Reiji! We're going to be late – do you know how long I had to flirt to get us this reservation? Oh, but they have the absolute cutest parfaits.” The water wielding lover on his arm babbles happily, fueled by some energy source that seemed infinite; he almost envies him. Logan pauses, the river of excitement dimmed for but a worried moment, as if he can see precisely what the lazy curl of shadows in Reiji's hazel eyes spell out.

His touch is light against Reiji's skin, so brief the confident man thinks he has to stop going to bed at 4 A.M. in the morning, but it happens again, ghosting across the bare skin of his arm, reassuring and warm. A slender hand settles in his, small and lost against his much larger and rougher grasp.

There is a question lurking in Logan's face and Reiji feels his strength trickling away as his will buckles underneath the love in those bright, amber eyes.

In a way, Reiji regrets everything that happened that day.

In a way, he is glad, because it brought him to where he is now.



<< everything until your hand in mine >>

• *smiles tenderly and giggles abit*
  
  thankyou so much Sekilove <3
  
  *chus then saves that words on notepad <3*

“G-good morning...” The girl is shy and stutters, even though she's been practicing this for days, trying to say his name at the end of it, but it stays stuck to the roof of her mouth stubborn. She is cursing herself for being clumsy and running into him, and watched in horror as her soft serve ice cream drips from his shirt. He is wincing, looking around to reorient himself after the fall, and the first brush of unbelievable glory upon his face renders her mind blank for several moments. He looks as amazing as always. Her face is unknown to him, nameless – another fan. But Adam takes a deep breath for patience and is too tired to beat off his worshipers with a stick today.

“Hey.”

She nearly faints from her self induced high, the ecstasy written on her flaming face as she stands immovable while her mouth continues on. “M-my i-ice cream – it's on your sh-shirt – I shouldn't have -” he cuts her off, annoyed, but offers coldly to buy her another one. He doesn't want to. The sun is high, the air sticky with moisture, and the wind abandoned for more fortunate places. The school fair around them is noisy and crowded, too many people yelling and moving around him. When they arrive at the ice cream stand, she places her order after stumbling over her words three times and they sit on benches as they wait.

The waitress shows up in seconds, a beaming, exquisite smile on her heart shaped face, bright eyes so cheerful and genuinely glad, he feels light headed.

“Here's your or – Adam! What are you doing here?” Ave is puzzled and looks so cute in the maid uniform he wants to scream, wants to take her in his arms and never let go, wants to lock her up somewhere so no one will see this brilliance. Her hands, free from the ice cream now, are cold against his skin, such a welcome reprieve he wants to grab them and splay the cool fingers across his forehead.

Her soft eyes grow wide and she turns to the girl abruptly, who is so stricken by her spark that when she comes to her self again, she flees the scene with a mumble about seeing a friend somewhere over there?

And all of a sudden, like she had read his mind, her cold hands are on his forehead, smoothing creases he didn't know had formed, rubbing at his temples – her skin against his. Her frown worries him, but he closes his eyes against the sun and tries to lose himself in her touch. “Adam,” she starts, voice low.

“I think you're sick.”

Of courses she notices. Of course she sees. A touch, and she knows him, inside, outside, without a doubt or pause. It is uncanny, but she sees everything in his head, in his heart. She knows instantly when something is afoot.

He smiles and his body goes limp, head leaning against her torso. Relief floods his body and melts his bones. He buckles against her, uncaring.







<< you are my touch stone, my haven >>

Seriphe hesitates at the door, fingers shaking and uncertain.

She has never left the house without her glasses before and, whimsically, she tucks a stray strand of hair behind the shell of her ear. It is nerve wracking, but she does her best. She has never wanted to try before ( she has never had the strength to try before ), but her heart is quivering in its cage of bone and flesh, beating out a butterfly’s fluttering rhythm and she knows she wants this. Shy, hesitant Seriphe wants this more than anything in the world, because her heart has finally wakened and its insistent wish has filled her to the brim.

Her hair is undone from its usual braids, falling around her heart shaped face in a fall of soft curls, teasing her sensitive skin. It feels…odd. Like she is not herself, in these new clothes that are actually her size, in this top with sleeves that do not drape over her fingers. Seriphe isn’t sure who this girl is, with her nervous smile and hopeful, bright eyes, but she thinks she can come to like her ( she thinks she can come to be her ).

The door swings open and when she steps out into the sun, all she can think about are his laughing purple eyes and warm hand at the small of her back. When she feels the first pang of loss and despair at the sight of the moving company’s truck outside, she hears his voice curling in her ear.

He is calling her.



« and for once, for him, she will not fail »

She is putting her hair up when she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Almost unwillingly, a familiar pang of shock ripples through her; she doesn’t recognize this graceful girl with soulful eyes and barely styled hair. Who is this girl? The polished glass is cold beneath her fingertips, smooth and warming under her skin. Where are her childish glasses? The backless drop of her dress, a breath of peal pink silk, startles her. There are no sleeves or high collars to hide behind.

There is no boy with eyes the color of amethysts, shining with faith and love.

A wound in her heart rips open and she wrenches her hand away from the mirror, waving it as if to banish the memory. But she knows better - she knows that the memory of his hand on her small shoulders will haunt her, the stubborn set of his chin and easy curl of his lips flashing to the forefront of her mind at the oddest times. It will be during the quiet moments, when she is twirling the stem of a flower or signing her name on a card, that he comes to her. When he does, all the years fall away and she is little Seriphe again, simple and shy - and he is the boy she has always remembered and always loved.

Sometimes, she wonders if she is a coward. She likes to think that with all the time that has passed, she has grown stronger. She likes to think that she has moved beyond her old fears. And yet, Seriphe knows - and in knowing, she refuses to lie, even if the lie is to herself. It was cowardice that pushed her broken and scared to her new house and left her alone in the dark shadows of night. If she had, but gathered her strength and called him, or wrote him, or even texted him - but the idea of his hatred an disgust scared her too much and she thought perhaps it would be easier never risking those feared words.

Instead, she reflects as she fastens a faerie light necklace of whimsical pink and lavender crystals to her neck, she has made it worse. She can’t bring herself to go back - not now, when time has surely cooled his affections and concentrated his hurt. So the frail girl tries not to think about, tries to make amends and farewells to her past. She tries and tries and tries. In this one case, no matter how she tries, nothing really changes. It is impossible for her to say good bye to him even in her heart, because a traitorous part of it hopes, eternally, that it will be reunited with that missing piece.

Seriphe chokes back a quiet sob when her fingers brush against the tiny bracelet against her wrist. She has gotten very good at this, at sitting perfectly still when tears gather in her eyes like stars and pain curls a tight hand around her ribs; she doesn’t move at all, waiting between deep breaths for it to pass. For now, at least, she needs it to pass, because there is a man waiting downstairs for her and she knows he has good intentions, she knows he cares for her, and because she knows she will never love him in the same way, she wants to do her best not to hurt him any more than she has to.

He is the one who sweeps into her room when she still hasn’t descended the stairs after half an hour. He is the one who wraps gentle, kind arms around her waist and leans his head on hers. It is his voice that rumbles through her and carries her through this storm.

But she knows when night falls and she has been escorted back home, when she is curled miserably against her bedroom wall, it will not matter.

Because his hair is flaxen blonde and eyes a bright shade of dreamy hazel.

Because his smile is always gentle and his eyes always kind.

Because he will never haunt her the way the boy of her dreams does.




« and she would give a thousand kind smiles for one flash of violet »