To avoid lying, you refuse to even think about it. You ignore it the best you can: imagery of his naked skin, of his elegant fingers – things he could do with them, when he is not reaching for guns.
It's getting late, and the world is not just soft around the edges anymore – it's spinning in this semi-darkness and he is sitting there and you think go home.
(Go home, you with your red eyes made of things that give the rest of us nightmares, go home, you with your unmarred skin, even though I saw you getting shot so many times the walls behind you collapsed.)
You are not sure what do you mean by home, but it doesn't matter; stray dogs like him, like you, don't really have a place to go.
Instead of speaking, you grasp the bottle, and wonder what is going on. It's getting late, and he's still sitting, like an ivory statue, all cold and white and not moving, not even to take his drink. Maybe he's had too much, you guess, but the look in his eyes tells you he is perfectly sober. Bloody bastard.
Go home, go home, go home go homego homegohomegohomegohomegohome, before you do something so utterly stupid you'll regret it for the rest of your life, go home, before you lay your heart down before this ice prince, this morbid fantasy, grotesque excuse for a human being, and he breaks it with his unfazed gaze, or disgusted curl of mouth, or. Or something.
You observe him through greasy locks of hair and…and nothing. You're here, he's there, and the world is spinning on its axis.
(You'd trust him with your life, but not with your heart.)
Won't you go home makes it past your dry lips, through the layer of smoke that clouds the air, through the reek of cheap alcohol drinks, and he looks at you, and you think you see a surprise there on his pretty face.
(You think about undressing, and taking his hand, and taking him to a bed, and-)
You think way too much, you think, and look back at him and what could I possibly have that you'd ever want and – you stop.
You try hard not to care. It's way too late, and you hear people waking up for their morning jobs, and you are intoxicated, and your self-control was not all that great to begin with. You are tired, and he is still here, saying Home? and looking a bit lost.
You want him. You want him so hard you let out a frustrated growl and bite your too dry, too thin lips, and bang your head on the table. And again. And again. It doesn't bode well with all the liquor you've had and you fight the urge to vomit. You hear the chair creaking, and light footsteps, and you lift your head just enough to see him leaving.
Good, you think, and it's bitter. Good.
He glances back, and you think he might ask. He doesn't, and closes the doors quietly.
The first rays of sunlight spill over your hair.