Something to Talk About

A Deep Slow Panic

Varen Nethers has always claimed not to care. He wears long sleeves,  lines his wrist with bracelets. He's pushed the thought so far from his mind that he forgets the words are there sometimes. While kids his age fantasize about the fateful day, he fears it. Of course, he'd never admit that out loud. The story he sells to anyone willing to listen is that he does not care. He doesn't believe in soulmates, he doesn't believe in love, and he'll be damned if he ever lets anyone hold any power over him. The promise of hypothetical happiness is not worth the certainty of tangible pain.

He no longer feels nervous when teachers announce a group project. Only a couple of years ago, such an event would fill his gut with an ice cold darkness that made his toes go numb. Now though, he knows seventeen is way too young to meet his match. Seventeen year olds who've found their match are practically unheard of. So he simply rolls his eyes and braces himself for whatever he'll be dealing with in the next couple of weeks. Though it is easy to stay calm, his hand goes to his wrist. He bites the inside of his cheek as he tries to ignore the slightly faster beat of his heart.

His name is called and he can't be sure, but he thinks he might've heard Mr. Swanson name Isobel Lanley, cheerleader extraordinaire, as his partner. His first thought, of course, consists merely of the word fuck. His second and third thoughts are far more interesting, but he shoves them away as he steals a glance at her, sitting all the way accross the room. She looks as stunned as he feels, her pink-painted mouth hangs slightly open, her eyes wide. Before she can turn her head in his direction he glances back at the sketchbook that sits on his desk. The drawing he was working on seems about ten times more interesting now, as long as it gives him something to look at, something to focus on.

Five deep breaths later and she is standing next to him. He catches a soft whiff of something sweet and fruity that makes his breath catch in his lungs. Something deep in him is alive with anticipation, some primal part of him knows something he hasn't yet figured out, but can feel all the same. His hand grips his sketchbook like it is the only lifeline keeping him grounded, like maybe if he holds on to this one thing everything will be okay and none of his fears will come alive again.

It seems a whole minute has passed before she speaks, and when she finally does he wonders if maybe the silence was better.

"Look, I'm not doing the work all by myself."

He pictured this exact moment a thousand different ways, with a thousand different people. There's a strange liberation that comes with finding yourself tied down to whatever destiny's meant for you. Hearing those words dropped a weight on him, then lifted another. He's torn in half. Relief and anger both take a hold of his head. Not his heart though, he's made sure it stays numb to any outside influence.

He remembers all the times he's looked down at those words. First with hope, excitement for happiness to come. Then longing, the need for her to be there for him when he needed her most. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, with hatred. Hatred and fear that one day someone would have the power to break him again, even after he'd worked so hard to put himself back together.

He didn't want  a soulmate. And yet, here she was. Far too young to find her match, far too naive to know the dangers, far too bright to be thrust into darkness. Fuck. He's known it was her for barely two minutes and he already feels in his mind the urge to compare her to the sun.

Well, isn't he lucky? A cheerleader. The exact type of person who would never willingly spend time near someone like him. The type of person who made themselves better by making everyone who was different feel bad about themselves. The type of girl who lived life thinking the world revolved around her because she was so much better than anyone else. The type of girl that made Varen's stomach turn. This had to be one of the many ways the universe has of screwing with him.

He takes one deep breath, against all rational thought he mantains hope that it could be one big missunderstandment. That this girl simply said a common combination of words that could and would be said by someone else later in his life, someone he actually matched with.

"Did I say that?" He keeps his voice low, calm, determined not to give away what he knows. If she turns around and walks away. If she requests another partner. No one has to know, no lives have to be altered, no hearts have to be entwined.

But she doesn't walk away. She stands there with a hand pressed against her mouth, which is most likely hanging wide open. He only glances at her briefly, but he could swear there are tears in her eyes. Though the classroom is filled with people exchanging ideas for the project, it seems the whole world has gone dead silent. If there'd been any hope in him that they might work it out, her reaction slammed a foot on it, crushing it.

"No." She practically breathes out the word as she takes the seat next to him. "Th-that can't be right. It can't be you." He can hear the panic in her voice, the disgust. He can see it now, she'll run straight to her cereal box boyfriend to tell him the creepy goth kid cheated her to get her as a match. Brendon --or whatever his name is-- will then proceed to beat the living shit out of him. The words knock some sense back into him, no matter her delicate status quo; if anyone is better off without the other in this relationship, it's him. He's the one who doesn't want her as a match. He's the one who's better off alone.

Anger replaces every other feeling in his mind, he feels his hands grip tighter as he starts to shake. What, he wants to ask, am I not good enough for you? He doesn't, though. Because he knows the answer, because he knows that no matter how much he claims not to care, he does. Because he's cracked at the edges and he can still break.

"You can request another partner, if it's such an inconvenience to you." He rolls his eyes, deciding right then and there she will never know a thing about him. Let her believe the rumors, let her judge him on the fact that he wears eyeliner, let him think he is the dangerous one. She could be right.

Pretending he doesn't know seems the easiest way to go, the safest. Maybe if he plays dumb she'll take a hint and walk away.

But he doesn't know a thing about her.

She shakes her head, daring to lean in closer to him. He can see the way she's trembling, he can see in the way her eyebrows knit together, he can practically hear it in the beat of her heart. She's scared. Of him.

She lifts the sleeve of the blue sweater she's wearing. There, in the same place as his and written in his best handwriting, are the words did I say that? sealed into her skin in purple ink. He stares at them, suppressing the urge to reach for her hand, to run his ringer over the tattoo. To touch her.

"What does yours say?" Her voice is small, but it resonates loud and clear in his head. He looks into her eyes, expecting to see disgust there. But he only sees blue. Blue azure. She has the blues eyes he's ever seen, warm and alight with so much life it pains him. How could someone with so much light be destined for someone with nothing but pain and darkness inside him? He shakes his head, pulling himself back. She doesn't belong to him, she never will.

"I don't have one." Saying it out loud makes him almost believe it's true. The fact that he already feels like he has lost something very important only reassures him that them being together would be nothing but disaster. Her mouth drops. It would seem her fear of ending up alone might be bigger than her fear of being stuck with him. That's one thing they have in common.

He does his best to ignore the tears welling in her eyes as he stands. The clock above the door tells him there's still five minutes to go before lunch, but he doesn't care. There is no way he could stay in the room five more seconds. He gathers his things in his satchel, Isobel doesn't move or speak, she simply stares at him. Mascara-stained tears run down her cheeks now, but she does nothing to wipe them away.

"Varen!" It isn't until he's nearly out the door that he hears her call his name, but he doesn't turn back. Instead he walks faster away from her. He feels something in his chest crack. No matter how much he wants to look back, he forces himself to keep going as he always has. The promise of hypothetical happiness is not enough to let go of the numbness he's built his home from.