Sour Cherries

I hate him. I hate the feeling that I always get when I think of him. I hate the taste of sour cherries and nutmeg that he always had. I hate the sparkle in his eyes when he found something amusing. I hate his mischievous grin. I hate his eyes and the way his nose was perfectly shaped, and the way that little lock of hair fell oh-so delicately over his forehead. I hate the way it made me want to sweep it back, to curl it behind his ear and let my touch linger there. I hate the smoothness of his skin. I hate the fact that he left me, without saying goodbye. I hate that he left me to cope with the world with only the faintest memory of his touch and his taste and the way he felt curled around me. I hate the pain and the confusion and the suffering and the anger and the hate that I feel when I remember him.

I hate how people assume that we were only friends. I hate how they missed the fleeting glances that we shared. I hate how they ignored the touches and the kisses and the way we felt when we were near each other. I hate the way that they cry when they think of him. I hate how they try and make everything better with a cup of tea and a kind word. I hate how they pretend that everything is alright; how he is better off where he is now because he is free to live his life without fear. I hate how they assume that I want him back in everyone's lives, now.

I hate that, without him, I am incomplete. I hate that half of me is missing. I hate that we were so different that we were perfect. I hate that he was allowed to show emotion and I can't. I hate that he never bottled his hate up inside. I hate that I was the one he always came to; the one he trusted. I hate that I would do anything for him. I hate that he had me wrapped around his little finger, controlled me. I hate that I let him laugh at me.

I hate how I miss his company. I hate that I'd rather be on my own than with others and without him. I hate how I miss the feeling of his lips on mine. I hate how I miss the feeling of his tongue driving deep into my mouth, exploring. I hate how I miss the feeling of his arms around mine.

I hate that I can still remember myself kissing him. I hate that I can still remember myself groping and biting and licking and sucking and fucking him. I hate that I can still remember myself collapsing on top of him, spent. I hate that I can still hear myself moan his name out in the dead of night. I hate that I can't remember him doing so back.

I hate that if I could have saved him, it would be different. I hate how I hurt. I hate the fact that I can't stop feeling this pain that I'm feeling. I hate the fact that the only real feeling I can feel is love.

And I hate that I can't tell anyone that the person I, Remus J. Lupin, loved more than anything else was the man who died to save the one he loved more than me.