Title: Hearts on Fire
Author: Raine
Rating: M (for sexual content)
Summary: Sometimes, it just feels like your heart's on fire.
Author's Note: Mr. Fishy's beautiful fics One Art, unfinished Sailboats, Paper Cuts, and especally Mind Funk (which is similar in theme, but I took a slightly different approach) inspired this one-shot with her beautiful imagery. I can only hope to achieve an iota of what she has.

The words feel large and clunky in my mouth. I'm not even sure how they got there, but they don't fit. They roll off my tongue harsh and unsexy, but it catches his attention nonetheless.

This club is crowded. Many faces -- some familiar, famous; some anonymous. All of them a painted on farce. Somewhere between the wannabes, the stars, the has-beens, and the never-weres, is me. I'm a salmon swimming upstream, trying to do anything but get swept away. But the alcohol stopped my desperate attempt to press on. The green-eyed monster this way came, and even bought me a shot or two.

I watched them dance. I watched him press his hands all over her sweat-slicked skin. The skin I have touched -- platonically, of course -- with that lightning bolt of desire shooting through me, from my throat to my libido. I stared at her through hooded lids, feeling the weight of my eyeliner and mascara pressing down on me. My cherry-painted lips firmly grasping the thin red straw of some drink I can't even name.

She thrives on attention, but I live for hers. Every day I step into that spotlight, and feel its heat on me, somewhat relishing the screams thrown my way, but my eyes know only one thing. My heart beats only one rhythm. Lilly. I can sing a song, stomp a beat, dance a move, but I can only love one thing. Her. She is my touchstone, my forever, the only thing I can dream about.

And she's dancing...with him. He's anonymous, some dancer I'm sure hasn't paid his rent. His Hollywood grin, smooth, unrelenting hips, and offending hands have won her over. My eyes are burning that I'm almost positive she should be able to feel the heat on her by now.

But she doesn't. She feels his heat, and her body wants it. I've never seen her like this before, and despite my apparent jealousy, I'm aroused. Confidence oozes from her pores as thick as sweat, adding to her already addictive glow. But I'm too prideful to break them up, to show her my weakness. So I grab the nearest stud and dance him to death. And finally, when I can't take it anymore, I allow those clunky, unsexy words to fall from my lips, "Do you want to get out of here?"

He agrees -- they always do -- and I take him outside. The club may be full of VIPs, but the exterior is as rotten as the souls of those inside. His lips find mine, and my lipstick smears. The taste of bitter make-up and one too many shots mixes on my tongue and makes me grimace. His hands try to find their way to my skirt, but they vacate briefly so he can unzip his fly.

He's inside me, thrusting as if his life depended on it. My legs, on some accord of their own, wrap around his waist and encourage him. My back is pressed up against the brick wall, scratching at the brick as I move up and down. I don't want this. I don't want to feel him intruding upon me. But I push him on. He's now the salmon upstream, and I'm just on for the ride.

He's not done, but my eyes open. I see her. Alone. She dropped her Romeo and came out to look for me. Her face is twisted into some expression I can't really discern. Somewhere between the sands of disgust, intrigue, and arousal, she stands. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and she seems content to wait for him to finish. My mind flashes back to the scene of her dancing. Her hips swaying to the music, her hands roaming over her own body. I screw my eyes shut and focus on that image. I want her to feel what I felt. That boiling jealousy that fills your senses and overcomes you. I throw my head back and moan, loudly, to imitate the reaction to pleasure I do not feel. But I want to feel release. I imagine her. I imagine what her lips would feel like on my neck, her hands inside of me, her body against mine. He grunts his release, staying inside me and pinning me against the wall. I shake and quietly climax as well.

I've fixed my hair, straightened my skirt, and dismissed my paramour, and there she stands, still. I'm still in a heightened state of arousal, slightly drunk, and she is still the most attractive thing I have ever seen. I know my eyes must be burning with desire, but she knows that that I burn for her.

Finally, she speaks. "Do you even know him?"

I laugh. It comes out harsher than I intended. "Does it matter?" Those words feel clunky as well. Large and unfit to be spoken towards her. I want her to love me. I want her to want me. But right now, she despises me.

Shaking her head, she silently heads toward our limo. I follow her, climbing onto the leather. She slides over, giving enough space for a football team to sit between us. I feel dirty. I want her to cleanse me. To get rid of this feeling.

She's quiet. The ride is longer than I remember, and it is dreadfully wrought with silence. Softly, she whispers, "It matters."

I catch it. I don't want to let this moment go. "Why, Lilly?" I want to know how she feels. Does she burn like I burn? Does her heart leap into her throat when I'm near, and drop to her toes when I'm gone? Is she on fire when we touch?

Her eyes drag sadly from the carpet to mine. I've never seen such pain. "Because I care about you. And those...those," she's searching for a word. C'mon, Lilly, say it. "Those wretched boys," she emphasizes, "shouldn't be touching you."

Oh God, I have never wanted her to love me more than I do now. I want her to say it to me. I want to hear it. I want to be validated. I want those words to wash over me and scrub out the parts of me I regret. I must look desperate. But I can't form a response.

So I kiss her. In a split second, I have crossed the invisible barrier she put between us, and placed my lips ever so gently on hers. She tastes like summer turning to autumn. She pulls away from me, a look of puzzlement and desire playing beautifully across her features.

"Why?" she asks, placing her hand on my cheek. "Why do you let them do that to you?"

I feel small. I feel two inches tall, and vulnerable. My eyes drop to the seat, my voice cracking. I don't know how long there's silence before I say, "Because I want to feel something. Something other than this fucking insatiable desire for someone I can't have." Suddenly, my floodgates open. "When I'm around you, I feel like I'm thirsty, waist-deep in crystal waters. I'm angry, and jealous, and bitter because you don't feel this, too. You don't want like I want, need like I need, love like I love." I pause. "When you're around, I feel like my heart is on fire."

I expect her to battle back. I expect some sort of reaction. But she stares at me, emotionless, and I can see the flurry of emotions flashing through her eyes like symbols on a slot machine. Confusion, elation, sadness, anger...all of them are rushing through her. I need a shower. I need time. I need her to say something, anything. "Miley, I..."

I can tell she's searching again. For the right words to say to convey how she feels. Lilly's always been great with words. But I can tell they're failing her. "I don't know."

My heart stops beating, I'm sure it does. If she doesn't know about the intensity, she must not feel it. I withdraw. I slide back over to my side, my kingdom in which I reign over my emotions. I can feel the tension settling in between us. I have bared my soul for her, and three little, meaningless minutia have decimated it.

"But I love you." Four words. Four insurmountable, beautiful words came from her mouth, spin in the air between us, and fall into my ears. And they are the sweetest thing I think I've ever heard. I don't know how she has the power to reduce me to shreds and fill me with such joy within a few moments, but I will find out.

"I love you, too," I reply. Those words are perfect. Smooth as silk. They feel right, and just one glance into her blue depths, and I know they're right.