...
Of course they'd say hello like that.
Of course he'd have to see it.
Because it just wouldn't be right for him to maybe, just possibly be finally getting that one bloody thing he wanted.
Because he couldn't have sliced open his heart, spilled out all the blood and openly, proudly, shown her the wound without her throwing a fistful of salt in there.
And yes, it does hurt. Of course it bloody hurts. He's not made of stone anymore.
He can't brush it off with a feigned air of nonchalance and go fuck away the burn on the first slut that comes stumbling out of the Bronze.
No, he's gone and got himself a buggering soul now hasn't he? Wouldn't be right to use a girl like that. Wouldn't be moral. Not now he's replaced the last chip with one that can't be removed with scalpels and tweezers.
And for what? So he can stand and seethe while she tongue fucks the poof.
But no. It's not like that. What they used to do together, her and himself- yeah, that was fucking. That was blunt, harsh, sweaty, messy, fucking-till-your-raw.
But no. This? What he's watching now? That's as far away from fucking as his imagination can stretch. And it's pretty damn flexible.
This is love.
This is regret.
This is that burning, swallowing, crushing love that gets poured out in breath and saliva.
This is everything he wants her to feel about him.
But she won't. She can't. Won't.
So of course its him.
Because its still him.
Because it will always be him.
Fuck.