One-sided PruHun. Mentions of prostitution and sex. First person POV.
A/N: Just a not-so-sweet little blurb about a pairing I've come to love.
He always came smelling of cheap booze and regret, shoulders hunched beneath some burden that was eternally moments from breaking him completely. Holding a hand out to snatch up mine, he'd gaze wistfully at me with bloodshot eyes so disillusioned that I could feel the sharp edges on the shards of his abandoned dreams when I returned his gaze. He was shattered and propped half-heartedly upon the common crutch of hard liquor, his crooked smile mirroring his own crooked mind. He always came calling me by a name that wasn't my own.
As our legs tangled, and arms embraced, and hearts thundered, he would cry softly into my shoulder. His tear-salted lips would caress the bruised, smarting skin of my neck with the familiar form of her name, forever murmuring to the woman I wasn't – "Erzsébet" – because I was never certain that he could speak any word besides that. When he peaked, his eyes would only slip shut wearily, and he would withdraw to collapse like death beside me, the wet tracks still glinting on his hollow cheeks.
In the morning, I was always alone, the proper amount stacked upon the mattress like an offering. It almost felt wrong accepting it, accepting payment from a man who made love to Erzsébet, but found himself holding me.