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I was in love with him. I don't know when I fell in love but I know when I realized it. He was laughing, making some joke that I didn't understand. He was laughing. God it was beautiful.
I was in love with him when we were happy. Every time we laughed or joked or smiled, my heart would swell. I was so in love with him. It's amazing I didn't realize earlier.
I remember this one time, we were in the bunker, and he was trying to cook something, I don't remember what it was. I was arguing with him a little, over something stupid, and he spun around real fast and lost his balance. I think he slipped on something, but it doesn't matter. He had a bowl of flour or something, I think it was pancake mix but it was still powdery. Anyways, it went flying and covered him in powder. Both of us just kind of froze for a minute, blinking at each other before I started laughing. At first he was angry but he couldn't stay that way. He laughed and threw some flour at me. I had nearly squealed and dove away but he'd gotten up from the floor and chased me. Tackling me and covering me in powder. We laughed so much. Oh God we were such a mess.
I wish I had kissed him that day.
I was in love with him when we weren't happy. Every time we lost someone else to the darkness, to the pain, he wouldn't show that it had affected him, not at first. Not until later. Not that others could see. Oh sure, he'd be angry at first and that'd be obvious, but the grief wouldn't show until later.
We lost so many people. Every time I'd find him later, hiding, sobbing. He asked me once why we kept doing this. How could we stand to keep doing this? So many people, he'd whisper. I never had an answer for him. None that were good enough to answer out loud. None that would provide comfort. It took a while for me to hug him. To get the courage to hold him while he sobbed. He fought me at first. But it always turned to him clinging to me.
I loved him for years, for ages, long before he noticed. I loved him the first moment I met him. His soul was so bright and so, well not pure, but beautiful. His soul had been marked, I knew. Parts darkened by the world around him, by the choices it had forced him to make. I wanted to brush them away, brush away the dark spots. Instead I marked him. Marked him as mine, although I didn't realize it yet. He was just a mission, an order, but seeing him, his soul, so bright in such a dark place, he meant more to me. I loved him then.
I will love him for years, for ages, long after he can notice. I know this will most likely end with his death. That's how wars usually end. I am cursed with near immortality and it scares me.
What's the point in living for so long if it's alone?
I loved his eyes, warm and green. They were so bright. Reminded me of my Father's creations, when they first began. The greenest leaves, right after a rain shower. So beautiful and clear.
They were cold at first. He didn't trust me. He learned to. His eyes became warmer when they saw me. Warmer until warmth was all I saw.
I loved his smile, angry and sardonic. His smile was happier when I met him. Happy and full of hope. But now he knows. Now he's lost so much and he knows he won't make it out alive. It shows in his smile. It hurts a bit when I see that happy smile turned angry, but I wouldn't have him any other way. I know that he has flaws but I love them as well.
I loved his hair, perfectly kept. It amuses me that even though the world is so dark and we have no time for care, he always has his hair fixed just right. It has that little point in his, just off centered. His hair, that brown blonde. His perfection in his hair makes me smile.
I loved his clothes, rumpled and unkempt. His old leather jacket and scuffed jeans. His band tshirts and scuffed boots. A sharp contrast to his perfect hair. A careless look. I know he does it to be cool but it's still so careless. It's warm too. It reminds me that he's human and seeing him like that makes me feel home.
I loved his freckles, his sun kissed skin. Freckles always reminded me of sunshine and we could use a little sunshine in our world. I loved to kiss them. It took me so long to get there but once I did, I was joyous. He'd laughed when I peppered kisses over them, a joyous laugh.
I loved his scars, pale and pained. I kissed them too, trying to kiss away the pain they had left. He didn't deserve the pain. He had less scars than he'd started out with because of me, but there were some he'd gained, some he'd kept. I used to make him squirm over them, when I'd kiss and lick at them. I tried to make them happier, connect happy memories to them. Make them less painful.
I loved him so much it hurt. I sobbed every time I thought I'd lost him. I hurt every time I think I let him down or every time he hurts. It hurts to see him angry, sad, disappointed. The disappointments the worst. It hurts throughout my being, like nothing can be happy again.
I loved him so much pain stopped. So many things I hurt over before. So many people we lost, so many strangers I would obsess over before, crying for the lost moments, and now all I feel is relief. Relief it isn't him, that he's ok. That he'll make it to another day, maybe a bit darker, soul a bit more stained, but he would be there. He even made losing my wings hurt less.
I love all the stains in his soul. All the dark spots that shaped him, made him who he is. As much as I wish they weren't there, that he could be happy, I love them. They gave me him.
I love how he makes all my stains go away. Each kiss from him makes me brighter, less marked. Each time I see him, all those moments, those dark moments, go away. They matter less. Because he is all that matters.
Most of all, I love the way he loves me. He didn't say it for so long but I knew. I knew with each kiss, and each touch. Each time he would look for me in a crowded room, noticing no one other than me. I know every time his voice caresses my name, every time his eyes soften when he sees me. I know when we make love, the way he worships my body as I worship his, the way he memorizes me all over again with his lips, his fingers. He can't help but smile, a softer more tender smile, when he makes me gasp or moan. When he makes me let go even as I clutch him closer. His kisses always turn softer, gently and searching. Caressing.