He likes a lot of things, but the things he never talks about are the things he likes the most. :Implied Frerard:
He likes winter, but he doesn’t like snow and he doesn’t like cold. He just likes winter. And it’s te same with almost every other thing he holds close. With this sort of mentality, it becomes obvious why he felt so strongly about this person. Because he liked this person. No…even the word like doesn’t seem right, it seems too…not cliché, but just not right. If he tried to explain it to you he’d probably have to satiate himself with the thought that you probably just understand what he means. But, anyway, he likes this person. Maybe even loves him but it’s a bit too early to tell. You can’t rush these things. And he knows that he likes this person because he is overwhelmed with things he doesn’t like about them. He doesn’t like their piercings or attitude and he thinks that their hair is just a little bit gross. But he likes that he doesn’t like these things because if he only had feelings for this person because of that shell well, he might just end up disappointed.
He likes art but he hates drawing, likes holding the pencil in his hand and likes those first few streaks of graphite but he hates that time in between when it’s begun and when it’s finished. He hates those blanks spaces, the potential mistakes, those shredded pieces of eraser. But he loves the product because he’s worked through all that hate to get to something he loves. He hates the way this person looks at him. Hates the way that they get close- closer/- and they might even /touch him, before they leave. He hates this so much that sometimes he breaks down and rips out bits of his hair so it sticks between his closed fingers.
And he likes- no, no he loves/- music. /His music. The music he writes and sings because it came straight from his insides, was torn from its safe place within him and is brought to life from his vocal chords, his throat. There is nothing he hates or even mildly dislikes about this because…well, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that it’s perfect.
And that’s why he likes this person. Because, if he thinks about it real hard, they are perfect. They are what he wants, what he needs. He doesn’t tell anyone because he’s afraid it might ruin how perfect he thinks they are. And he likes them. Likes them without the hate.
And he doesn’t know if he’s ever really doubted it.