Stupidity (Patience) and Denial.

It was her odd way of laughing. Most of the time it was this little closed-mouth chuckle, lips curved up as vocal chords vibrated, and the room seemed lighter, in some weird metaphorical way. Well, metaphorical if he ever had to explain it, completely and utterly, crushingly real if he was only thinking it.

It was almost the sad cliché of forbidden want and restricted access, but it couldn't be. Couldn't. Wouldn't. The universe could not be that lame. There were feelings involved, for god sake.
Don't fuck with the goddamned feelings.
(It was.)

She was there.
Left and right and centre and up and down and… he hit his head against the door. This was stupid.
No. This was past stupid, far, far, far past it. Dust in the wind by now. But he had to watch, to see her, make sure she was coping, comfortable enough here in the strange new house.
Yes.
At ease with the twisted, secretive people who walked the corridors and slept in the rooms around hers.
An ironic smile and one raised eyebrow. Yes.
Okay?
No.

So he watched, and he waited (he knew exactly what for, not that he had any hope for it) and tried to be nice – the decent, upstanding moral kind of nice. Which was, strangely enough, the essence of what he used to be, and which was exactly what had vanished the night he met her. Coat and jacket colliding, the bodies inside following along. A short conversation which eventually saved her life, and a laugh from her, a small one, mouth closed, lips curved up while the hall brightened. Then they'd turned in opposite directions and continued walking, never to meet again if they'd ever had the label 'normal'.
(They never did.)

Twelve minutes later and he was sitting on the ground in a remarkably large pool of his own blood while she ran for help.

Now he was attempting to be exactly was he used to be, failing miserably, and falling faster and faster into a pattern he didn't want to like.
(Shouldn't.)
He watched, and talked, and laughed along with her and all the other twisted secretive people, but still he was invisible. just empty air unless you knew how to look. Pity she did.
(She pretended not to.)

That hurt the most, but she pretended not to see him like that, and he let her. So in the end it was both of their faults, but he blamed himself. How on earth could she know? Yes, his façade was that good, and it wasn't as if she was a mind-reader, and so the universe continued on in it's gleeful, soul-crushing way.

They'd stay the same, unless he started talking. It was going to happen on his part, and she was in far too precarious a position than to risk her safety. Don't rock the boat.
(They really, really wanted to.)
Can't. Won't.
(There's such a big difference he almost wants to scream it at her.)

Instead, he hits his head against the door, hands on the frame. Not near the doorknob. Never again near the doorknob if he could help it. He can't, because all of a sudden the door is open and how stupid does he look? Like slamming his head against a door isn't going to attract attention. Then she's taking it in – processing and, realising what he's doing – she laughs, briefly, before the smile falls from her mouth and her eyes catch his.
Does he mind if she joins him?
(No. He really, really doesn't.)