If Only... 
By JA Chapman 
  

DISCLAIMER:  It belongs to me, weak plot, sappy sentiment, and all. Paramount 
has absolutely no claim on anything in it, except the disclaimer. Imagine 
whomever you will, it'll work. Call it slash, call it smut, call it PWP, I 
call it, "Listening to Spanish guitars at three in the morning". Romantic 
music with a melancholy edge does this to me. To the romantic in us all, long 
may we remain fools and poets. Amen. 

~~~~~ 

     Love comes softly into focus, not like passion. Passion is quick and 
fiery, but passion doesn't always last. It is a fleeting thing that comes and 
goes. Love is gentle and almost imperceptible, it is a gradual thing. Who ever 
knows when love begins? 

      How do I know I love him? I just do. It's like there is a golden cord 
which connects us, stronger than steel or angry words. I know longer have to 
see him to know he is there. I sense him. 

     I know his walk, his stance. I know his scent. He smells of soap and 
spice, and of clean sweat after a long day. I know his eyes, how they darken 
with emotion, how they conceal the truth and often reveal his lies. I know his 
breath, his heartbeat, his thoughts. I know this man better than I know myself 
at times, and yet he is still a stranger to me. 

     I stare into nothingness and see him, I dream of him-of us. I paint 
ridiculous fantasies in my mind of how we would live and love. I am pitiful, 
and yet I dream. What does his mouth taste like? I long to touch him, his 
arms, his hands, his chest. When his tenses, I see the fine rippling of 
muscles beneath his flesh, and I want to go to him. Is this obsession, I 
wonder? 

     Strange thoughts run through my maddened mind. I wonder what it would be 
like to bite and nibble at his throat, to lick and suck gently, lovingly at 
the flesh, to kiss away the years of silent longing. I am a fool. 

     My room is so lonely, the sheets are cold and I cannot sleep there. Oh, 
blessed spirits, give me peace! In my dreams I seek him. I bound from this 
prison of the heart and I go to him. I go and he welcomes me into his heart. I 
dream of a completion, of a joyous union, of peace. I dream of ridiculous 
things and stupid hopes and false promises. And I don't care. I want him. 

     Look at me! I'm writing this...this drivel which would make him laugh 
till tears ran down his cheeks. His smooth, handsome cheeks. Despair is the 
flipside of love, not hate. With hate at least there is a passion of a sort, a 
recognition of emotion. Despair is the absence of emotion, it is an ignorance 
of all things good and holy. I press my fingers to my lips and pretend he is 
there, sometimes. I kiss a phantom and in my mind he smiles. He smiles then he 
disappears, leaving me alone. Sometimes the ghost in my mind smiles mockingly, 
he knows I am lost. 

     If I went to him, would he accept me? Doubtlessly, he would appear 
worried for my sanity, but he would not accept me. I am not his lover, I am 
his friend. Damn friendship. I would rather he hated me, for hate is something 
that can be set aside or overcome. He loves me, but he will never feel love 
for me. I am his friend, and the burden that carries is almost to great at 
times. 

     What if, my mind races, what if we could be...what if I could hold him, 
stroke his hair, comfort him? What if I had the right to stand at his side and 
call him mine? I would be faithful, I would be strong and loyal. I would love 
him throughout all time. I would be happy. 

     Would he? 

     Could he? 

     I hate him. I hate him because he can't see how I feel. I hate him 
because he makes me feel these things. I hate him! He should know this! I 
should tell him, I can't tell him, I will never tell him. I can see his face 
now: at first he'd smile, thinking I was joking and then he'd appear confused. 
He wouldn't be angry, I don't think. One of his most annoying traits is the 
ability to feel unexpected compassion, damn him. He'd give me a sad stare, and 
tell me how sorry he was. I'd rather face a thousand deaths than feel his pity 
weighing upon me. Oh, but if I could love him.... 

     I know his body. I've seen it so many times in my mind that I now know 
how he looks, how he tastes. First I would kiss his mouth and nibble at his 
lips. I would trace his jawline with my tongue and settle my mouth on his 
throat. I would feel the thrum of his voice as he whispered my name. My name. 
I long to bite at his collarbone, to test the delicate form of bone, muscle, 
and skin. I would taste the salt on his body and breath in the spice of our 
lovemaking. I would pleasure him in exotic, erotic ways. 

     His hands are very sensual. I watch them as he talks. He emphasizes his 
speech with those marvelous hands. Long fingers and delicate veins, I like to 
watch the way the bones shift subtly and how his knuckles curl and tense when 
he grows agitated. What torture is this? 

     I must stop this, and I must leave him alone. My sanity has been 
jeopardized long enough by this infatuation, this sick fascination. He does 
not love me! He cannot love me! Stop hurting yourself. 

     Just once--just ONCE, I would want to kiss him. I would die happily, I 
would betray everything I believe in, I would defy the conventions of my 
people and the traditions that have been mapped out for us. I would die if I 
could only just live for that one, brief moment in his arms. Madness is a 
seductive woman, who taunts men into her parlour. This is madness. 

     If only...