Who Am I to Say I Love You?
Thyme

It isn't working.

I stare at him now, watching with a small warmth of secretly kept affection in my mind. I know the warmth doesn't quite reach my face; I'm well aware that I look more like a statue than anything else, despite the emotions nagging at the soldier inside me. I'm always painfully aware of the monotone of my voice, or the gruff edge I habitually use when I'm actually talking about something. I know about it all, but I also know I can't let it show. I can't let him know about the stuff I keep inside, but it's slowly showing in my actions. It isn't working.

I watch the way his chestnut hair falls around his body, loose only while he sleeps on the hard cot of the room we share at our current base, and study his face from the fine bone of his jawline all the way to the strain between his eyebrows that signifies he's having a nightmare.

Another one.

Without realizing it, I brush a fingertip across his forehead, smoothing the crease of discomfort there away. His breath hitches, and I quickly fall back into the computer chair by the desk -- pretty much the only furniture that can fit in our small room -- and feign interest in the text that has been sitting there for the past hour or two, untouched. Out of the corner of my eye I sneak glances at him, wondering if he knows I was watching him while he slept.

Again.

That's another bad habit I need to break. There's no room for that sort of thing in wars and fighting, so of course there's no room for it in me. I hold onto that single belief, and I suspect I always will, because it's the only thing keeping me from slipping entirely.

He makes a small sound of contentment, sleepily dragging the thin blanket of his bed up over his shoulders. I wait a few minutes for his breathing to return to the slow, even whispers of sleep, and then I rise from the chair again to watch him again. I frown at my own weakness, silently shaking my head in anger.

I can't even stay away from him for one night. One night, and I can't do it.

I clench my hands into fists, certain my knuckles are turning white even though I can't see them in the dim light of our small room. The only brightness in the room comes from the glowing monitor of the laptop, and that will eventually have to go off, too.

I step away from him, letting my fists clench and unclench then clench again, and move to the laptop. I shut it, too irritated and bothered by my thoughts to do any more work on it tonight. So instead, I sit on my bed, directly across from his, and watch the even rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps. My lips twitch slightly, the closest thing to a smile that I do these days, and I silently wonder what he would do if he ever knew that my greatest pleasure in life came from watching him sleep.

Eventually, I close my eyes and lean back on the cot, folding my arms behind my head as a makeshift pillow and not even bothering to pull up the blankets. No, I can't let him know that I watch him sleep, and I tell myself that I won't do it again, even though I know that I'll be back for more tomorrow night. This time I really do smirk, shaking my head to myself as I drift over the tempting world of sleep. I can't go just yet. I still need to think.

I'm not completely sure of what to do just yet. So far, I've been fine watching him sleep at night and ignoring him during the day, but lately I've been noticing something different about him. There's less sparkle in his violet eyes when I stay impassively silent rather than responding, opting for a grunt in place of Hello or how are you doing. I turn the idea of talking back to him over in my head for a while, but quickly turn it away. That would be bad -- that would be like walking up to him and saying, "Duo, I love you."

Something skips in my heart when I think about that.

"Duo, I love you," I think again, testing out the sound of it.

There's that skip again.

I almost laugh at my foolishness, shaking my head once more. No, that can't be it -- that's not at all what I feel. My shoulders shake with repressed laughter though it feels suspiciously like repressed sobs, and I smirk again and clench my fists a little more tightly.

No, that can't be it at all.

I turn onto my side, facing the wall with my hands still balled into tight fists. I finally let a chuckle slip, sounding more like a whimper than anything else, disturbing me for some reason I can't quite put my finger on. I finally decide that none of this can be good for me, and that I'll definitely have to stop watching him like this at night.

I laugh again -- another mangled wail.

After all, who am I to say I love you?