#local aromantic writes romance again; is not sorry

[peppered-moths]

all roads lead back to you (even the ones i took to forget)

"Can you keep a secret?" Scott asks.

He's standing in front of the Secret Keeper, a monolith of stone and silence, eyes glowing with reflected starlight. His lips curl in a soft smile, simultaneously distant and inviting and just a little bit teasing. He looks like a memory long forgotten.

Jimmy doesn't think he can breathe. The aching familiarity presses behind his eyes, digs between his bones, where he'd thought he'd buried it. If he squeezes his eyes shut, he thinks, he could imagine that the loam beneath his feet is blooming. He can feel petals in his hair.

"Yeah," he manages, finally, trying to ignore the way his voice rasps, raw desperation scraping his throat. Tell me anything. Anything at all, as long as it's us. Scott smiles wider, one hand reaching up to adjust the poppy crown atop his head. Jimmy remembers weaving the stems together, fingers clumsy and uncoordinated as the winter chill bit at him (Dogwarts had always been a good place to find poppies, funnily enough), and the crown had ended up lopsided. He remembers the warmth of embarrassment in his cheeks as he presented it to Scott, expecting kindly mocking laughter, only to blink at his sudden grin. He doesn't think Scott had taken it off since.

"I think I'm still in love with you." If he had thought he was breathless before, it's nothing compared to now, as a little, crushed sound punches its way out of his chest. It's too much and not enough, all at once. He's not sure how he's denied himself this for so long, especially since it's been right at his fingertips the whole time. He's choking on the words, saccharine, honey-sweet.

"Say it back." Scott's smile turns sharp. Jimmy opens his mouth. He wants to, feels the words in the way his ribs curl over his chest, caging his rebelling heart. I know, he wants to say, I know I want this, and I know I'm not supposed to. I know I've denied this for so long. I know I've hurt you, I've had your blood in my mouth and I liked the taste, but I don't want to anymore. I know I shouldn't feel this and I know I feel it anyways.

I know that I'm in love with you too.

The words stick in his throat. The words stick in his throat, and he bites his tongue, hard enough to draw blood. He's struck mute, caged in by an invisible force pressing down on his chest. And all the while, Scott stands there, eyes bright and knowing, with fingers like claws as he curls them around Jimmy's chin to tilt his head upwards. When did he get so close?

"You can't say it, can you?" Scott practically sneers, an edge to his voice that borders on vindictive. "Because you're a coward, isn't that right? Or maybe," and his voice drops, low enough that he has to strain to hear it, "maybe you never even loved me at all. Maybe it was all a means to an end to you, watching me trail after you, helpless, hopeless."

No, he wants to argue, no, that's not it, I just- but he wouldn't know what to say even if he could say it. Maybe that's the worst part; the not knowing. Why does anybody love anybody? Why does anybody leave anybody?

Scott has a crown of poppies and eyes full of stars, and he is an unattainable wish just out of Jimmy's reach, because he's too scared to reach out and get burned-

Wait.

Something isn't right. This isn't right.

Scott doesn't wear poppies anymore. Hasn't, since Third Life. The sky is too bright, the air too thin. He can't feel Scott's hands on his face.

The man tilts his head, a lock of blue hair falling into his face. "I'm the closest you'll ever get to the real thing, darling."

Jimmy sits bolt upright, hands clutching at the sheets of his bed. A dream. How cliché. It doesn't make it feel any less real, though. It doesn't stop the crushing weight in his chest. It doesn't stop him mouthing the words he couldn't say. I love you, I love you, iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou-

It doesn't stop them leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, from causing him to curl in on himself and think, maybe I'm not cut out for this.

A flash of red catches his eye, and he nearly gives himself whiplash with how quickly he turns to look.

It's... a poppy. Because of course it is. Jimmy vaguely remembers picking it up when he was wandering aimlessly, nearly second nature. Now it's lying on top of one of his chests, inadvertently making his heart beat faster. Jimmy swallows. Because you're a coward, isn't that right?

Love you! Scott- the real Scott- had called, waving a cheery goodbye. Jimmy had stopped dead, waiting. Waiting for the hunger, the burning, barely-disguised desperation of Limited Life. He had been waiting for Scott to beg.

And then, he hadn't. He'd just smiled- casual, not soft or deadly, not anything at all. He'd smiled, and he'd left, leaving Jimmy in a half-daze, with nothing to say back, not even the poor excuse of thirty minutes.

He wonders, if he dreamt for long enough, if he'd find the right words to say to him. A mix between I love you and I'm sorry and everything but silence. Anything but damning silence.

He's not sure he wants to know, he realizes, as he bends down to examine the flower. It's just beginning to wilt, the edges of the petals wrinkling. One dislodges itself and floats on the slight breeze. Jimmy follows it with his eyes, far too fond for something as simple as this.

He doesn't want to just dream it.

He picks up the poppy, gently, as another petal drifts to the floor. "It's a start," he says quietly, feeling the wry smile quirking at his lips. For old times' sake, he imagines he'll claim, and maybe Scott will smile, bright green eyes accented by the smudged blue eyeliner he's taken to wearing. Thank you, he might say, too raw, too earnest, or I thought I was the sentimental one? And Jimmy will laugh, and Scott will grab his wrist and tell him to stick around a little longer, just to catch up.

And maybe, just maybe, it'll be forgiveness.