{One to one, two to dance, we all get our sweet romance; Though sour grapes will turn to wine its all vinegar with time}

There was a time they had pulled their punches and hesitated when offered the opportunity to carry out the final blow, just enough for the other to spin away to continue their dangerous dance, their ballet of violence. Their insults held no actual malice; they sounded stiff and routine, like a written script. Their beating hearts, fast like a humming bird, was more than exhilaration and adrenaline and their heavy breathing was reminiscent of times not spent on rooftops in the midst of battle.

There was a time where light blows exchanged in combat gave way to lighter touches in the dark of a room, illuminated only by a soft blue glow that followed wherever they went - a mild annoyance in the moment but a grim reminder underneath the surface of their nights of intimacy and closeness, nights where they allowed themselves to forget the divide between their organizations and tore down the walls that were meant to keep them apart.

There was always the bitter aftertaste of guilt come morning, when the grey light of breaking dawn washed over haphazardly strewn clothing and rumpled sheets. But it was quickly chased down with the sweeter taste of each other when they both awoke entangled in a mess of limbs, laughter ringing out as they unraveled themselves - too loud for the early morning, too loud for the secret they were keeping. But they threw caution to the wind because one had no concept of time and its consequences and the other was well too aware of the cruelty Father Time was capable of.

There were also times when things were quiet on both their ends and as a result they were lulled into a false sense of safety and security. They would become relaxed - too relaxed - in their mangled relationship (not quite enemies, not quite lovers, and never in the middle either). Domesticity was never their thing - it was an impossibility by all logical standards - yet many a time they found themselves curled on a worn down couch, wrapped in a throw blanket and mindlessly watching some rented movie, only half their attention on the screen while the other half wandered aimlessly, keeping at bay thoughts of unhappy endings and painful futures. It was never about the movies; it was always the closeness they craved, as one might crave something that they knew they were to part with soon.

There were times where they would share whispers - foolish whispers - promising forevers and always, the lies painfully obvious as soon as they were spoken, but both too afraid of when and how take them back. It was naive, to ignore the inevitable and paint impossible happy endings, but it was frightening to dwell, so they didn't.

Eventually, that was their downfall. The worry and guilt, the fear and depression, it was all a weight too great for the both of them to bear when neither was willing to acknowledge the strain both of them felt. Their failure to address the issue is what killed them and soon enough they found themselves drifting apart. The whispers quieted to tense silences, the movies became static, the nights of touches and caresses became heated and violent and always ended in tears - grasping desperately at something long gone.

And so now they meet on the battlefield, right back where they started, yet changed drastically. Familiar strangers. Not quite enemies. Not quite lovers.

But never in the middle.