The words rush forth in a tumble, spilling around his brain and searching for escape. But the gates are barred. They are not – they cannot be allowed to slip past his lips, to find purchase in the real world. They are abhorrent words, disgusting to the unfortunate ear to hear them.
(You look remarkable tonight, John.)
(Would you object if I kissed you?)
(May I have this dance?)
The sensation imagined, perfectly rendered. (Rough cheek under his lips, callused hand warm against the small of his back, anchoring weight. Body pressed flush to his, so close they could mould into one.)
Bitter words. Cruel words. They have no place in this world, and not just because they would shatter so many perceptions. They simply do not bear being spoken.
(Remarkable tonight . . . kissed you? . . . dance?)
It's not heroin. It's not cocaine. It's a heady rush but not injected and he can't breathe around it. His chest is too tight, constricted and it's not due to his suit. Lungs and heart scooped out, replaced with concrete. How do they bear it?
(John, I rather think I might be in lo- No. Not that one. Hide it away.)
He swallows back the words, barricade erected.
John has no need of a groom tonight, when he has a bride.
