mezzo
disclaimer: eternal sonata is not mine.
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When he kisses her, it's only because of the shade of her hair, darkened pink stained in crimson. It's not love, or lust, or anything like that. It's disgust and loneliness and it's only because he misses Claves so much that this is happening.
She laughs and says she doesn't care, nails digging into his skin, blood ready to burst.
Where Claves is soft, she is rough. Where Claves is like the rose, she is like the thorn. Where Claves is kind, she is cruel.
She is everything Claves is not, and that's exactly why this he's doing this.
Her hips press into his, twirling and coaxing him; and Jazz's restraint is breaking faster than he expected, still lost in reminisce of a girl who was like pastel watercolour, each drop swallowed into his skin.
He wants to take it slow, but this girl has no patience for that, brittle fingers splayed in his hair, red mouth biting into his skin. Bruises are already forming, and Jazz finds he doesn't care, all long as it distracts him from heartache.
She's like fire, hot and ready to burn; and Claves is like a candle, forgotten in the dark recess of his memory, still there, lingering on.
But Rondo only twists her mouth into a feral smile, baring her teeth and shoving him into a wall, shutting him up once and for all.