A/N: Just wanted to give justice to the antagonists in every story. In this case, it's Luna, who's almost always depicted in a negative light. I know that she really isn't Mikan and Natsume's age, but for the sake of "redeeming" her from the stereotypical slut image, I'm making her their age. This is AU, set in high school, just like most of the fics I've read that depict her as the blonde bimbo. Don't get me wrong – I'm not entirely against that stereotype – but I want to give her more personality. =) Warnings: possible OOCs, angst, and some sexual implications.
Happily Never After
I dare not ask a kiss,
I dare not beg a smile,
Lest having that, or this,
I might grow proud the while.
No, no, the utmost share
Of my desire shall be
Only to kiss the air
That lately kissed thee.
Robert Herrick, "To Electra"
It was two in the morning when he came to her.
Still she woke immediately when the guards roused her, and the intoxicating hope that surged in her kept her alert: In five minutes she had put on a touch of make-up, had combed the snarls out of her bed hair; in five seconds she had reached the bottom of the gilded marble staircase, which opened up to their white-walled sitting room; in less than a heartbeat she was beside him, barely able to contain her smile.
Natsume Hyuuga was inferior to her only by a few million dollars, but she never did mind that. She had never figured out why she was still so bewitched with him even after the many times he had ridiculed her before his friends and mocked her efforts to bed him—sometimes she thought that this scorn of his played a part in his appeal to her—but it didn't matter to her, not anymore, because he was here.
She noticed that he reeked of booze and cigarette smoke and the Tokyo city pollution. Where did he come from, she wondered, but the answer wasn't important; as long as it brought him here it wasn't important.
"Natsume," she whispered, stepping closer to him. She took in his red eyes, his well-defined jaw, his handsome figure; hoping to imprint his image on her mind lest he never come to her like this again. She lifted a hand to caress his face—as if to make sure he wasn't only a figment of her imagination, that his image before her now wasn't a product of her intense longing for him—but he quickly stopped it before the tips of her fingers could reach him. He held her hand in a vice-like grip (he was real, after all!) and she dared not struggle, because if she moved, he might disappear.
He placed two fingers under her chin and forced her to meet his eyes, burning with lust and anger and need and sadness.
"Did she hurt you?" she murmured. She knew it was a stupid question, because he wouldn't be here if he didn't have an explosive argument with Mikan Sakura. He was always with that woman nowadays, and sometimes they acted so much like a married couple that it made Luna sick to watch them together.
Her question was met with silence.
He knows that she knows the answer, and he doesn't want to talk about it.
She nodded, understanding. It was precisely because Natsume barely said anything to her that she learned to interpret the different meanings behind his silence, his inaudible grunts, and his subtle body language. It took a lot of perception and effort, but it was already established that she would go to any lengths to please him, to love him, to understand him. Learning his silent language was no exception.
"Come in," she said, and he loosened his grip on her hand. She took this as a form of gratitude. "My parents aren't home."
He nodded in response and swayed on his feet as he followed her from a distance. He doesn't want her help, she knew. He doesn't want her to do any more for him than what she's already agreed to do now.
Once she closed the door of her room behind her, his lips were immediately on her neck and his hands were tearing her gossamer nightgown off her body. She succumbed to his passion and returned it with equal—perhaps even more—fervour, because she doesn't know when he will touch her like this, when he will desire her like this, when he will need her like this, again. He may never even want to see her again after this night. He could just discard her, like he did so many times before, and she would let him.
Vaguely she was aware of his manipulation of her feelings to satisfy his carnal needs. Vaguely she was aware of his tendency to dislike and disrespect the women he slept with. Vaguely she was aware of her obsession with him, to the point that perhaps she didn't love him but rather only the idea of him. But she was only vaguely aware of it; these truths were as substantial as the ghost of a dream in her conscious mind, which was clouded now by lust and passion and desperation.
But then he never stayed. Staying would mean that he cared for her; staying would mean that she meant something more to him than just a one-night stand, when in reality, he didn't even consider her a one-night stand. In the morning he would always forget that she existed. Sometimes she felt as if he pretended that she didn't exist, because she was living proof of his sin and infidelity. She was living proof that he wasn't the perfect boyfriend Mikan Sakura thought him to be; she was living proof that he could probably never be the boyfriend Mikan Sakura expected him to be.
She reminded him of his weakness. She reminded him of his failure. Perhaps that was why he loathed her so much. But she didn't care anymore what his exact feelings for her were. As long as he needed her she would be there for him. She didn't know what exactly love was, but her willingness to give everything up for his sake—even her own body—must mean that she loved him. Her willingness to overlook his insults, his coldness, and his flaws, and the fact that it didn't matter to her if he loved her back or not, must mean that she truly, deeply, madly loved him.
That was love after all. Even if it was unrequited, it was still love.
Right?
The next day, sunbeams filtered through her curtains and flooded her room with light. She opened her eyes and, remembering what just took place hours before, she shot up from her position on the bed and glanced beside her.
It was empty.
Of course it was.
He left no trace of his presence here, either—not even a hair from his head was left on her tangled sheets or immaculate floor.
She forced back the tears and buried her face in the pillow beside her, inhaling, as if it were oxygen, lungfuls of his scent; even if it was the scent of beer and cigarette smoke and Tokyo pollution. It was the only thing she had left of him, because he was probably apologizing to and begging Mikan Sakura to take him back. In fact, he might probably be back with her already...
Luna hated that woman. She hated that woman for stealing Natsume from her; she hated the mere existence of that woman, whom Fate seemed to smile upon despite her clumsiness and plainness and poverty. That woman possessed no poise, no grace, no charm, no sense of style; she had no special qualities, no impressive credentials, and no extraordinary talents to boast of, and yet everything seemed to go her way. Everything seemed to end in a happily-ever-after for her.
And herself?
She let out a bitter laugh. She didn't even believe in fairytales anymore. She'd lost that part of herself long, long ago.
end
A/N: The image is not mine. It's from menoemeglio dot tumblr dot com.