A/N: Alas, I have discovered how to thwart you all! I have devised the clever plan to put my note in the beginning, as opposed to the end, of my stories; you will now have to pass through my babble in order to get to the drabble. Oho.

So, yeah, I haven't completely disappeared. Only almost. This . . . is not a poem. Nor was it, when I began it a few weeks ago, intended for Sweeney Todd. Read the first and third paragraphs and see if you can't figure out what pairing this piece was originally meant to suit . . .

Anywho, I hope you enjoy this. No beta, we'll see if that ends badly. Have fun :)


Secrets make you what you are, he knows. The closer he keeps his secrets the more entirely whole he can allow himself to be. If they share their secrets, he wonders, does that make them into one person or nobody at all?

They smile cordially at her as they walk into the shop, condoling for her as though a loved one has died, and she's not entirely sure why. The way that she laughs around him, they think, the way that she smiles, is a clear-cut opposition to the way she is otherwise.

You can't see her smile, they say, without knowing that they're lovers.

She's never hoped so desperately for a notorious London rumor to be true.

She wishes he would just tell her something, give her something to go on, anything at all to show some life.

He wishes that she would tell him less. Her secrets are so sparse for him now, he can very nearly see her melting away before his eyes.

As though her very composition is wavering under the strain of their unbalanced knowledge.

Every word she says, he knows, she is simply begging for something in return. It is why they can never love, that lack of balance, that complete nonexistence of anything even remotely resembling a give-and-take relationship.

He hears their words as though they are his own thoughts, and scowls at their stupidity. Their refusal to see anything that might cause them dismay.

Because how could they not see the disgust in his eyes whenever she smiles at him liked that?

How could they create such feelings from his own refusal to display them?

They must think of it, he supposes, as his secret.

Perhaps it is.