Alright, I FINALLY got another chapter up! It took me a month…or 4 weeks I believe…one more week than promised. However, I decided that I love this too much to give up! I'm going to keep on writing no matter what! I hope that's good news to you guys. For those of you who have read this before, I've changed it significantly in my opinion, but if you really can't stand to read it again, no need! (but seeing how my writing is so wonderful…^_^). And…for those of you who haven't read this yet…ENJOY!! ^_^
Disclaimer- I do not own Sailor Moon nor do I know who does, but whoever they are: good job.
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"Beauty, above all things, is the most misunderstood concept on the face of this planet." The voice of Darien Shields rang smoothly and deliberately through his palace of a home. He moved slowly, each step with meaning, tapping the railing of the wrought iron staircase each time the bars reached upwards to form a knot. It was built in an exceptional style and was extremely sought after by art connoisseurs and indulgent rich men. Not many people were even aware of its existence—the precise reason why he had had to have it. Darien Shields expected and accepted only the best.
He studied his smooth, white hands nonchalantly, turning it this way and that, making it appear as if there was nothing more fascinating that his very own extremities. They weren't perfect or unblemished. Even in his positions, he had experienced difficult physical labor and bodily injuries of the like. Anyone that knew him would say he was a rare breed of man. He held closet passion; passion unrevealed, for he approached everything with a heavy nonchalance. There wasn't a single thing out of his reach. At twenty-one, he was quickly climbing the A-list of Corporate America as one of the largest names in manufacturing. He was a powerful man, and he looked it. He walked with the overwhelming confidence of an Alpha male wolf, aloof yet cautious at the same time. Every movement of a muscle was deliberate.
"Wouldn't you agree Andrew?"
His blond counterpart nodded silently. His friend had a reputation as a notorious playboy. He had sampled all the beauty this side of New York, and his appetite was insatiable. "You know best," he said with a chuckle.
Darien stopped at the end of the corridor, pinching out the flame that cast dancing shadows across the wall. There were no signs of flinching as the heat ravaged his skin. He simply turned, tapping the frame that hung carefully above the candelabra. It was ugly. No other word could describe it; the colors blended and faded into an indiscernible mush, but it had been expensive. It was quite possibly more valuable than the car he drove, and that was all that mattered.
"I've collected Monet's, and I've collected Picassos. They're both masterpieces."
"Well, it depends on which…"
"I think they're all hideous," he interrupted, "Am I wrong?"
Andrew laughed, "Art is subjective."
"Art," Darien flicked a stray piece of wax onto the floor, "is beautiful."
"Not according to what you just said. What's with you today Darien?" Andrew watched his friend run a hand roughly through his hair, "You seem fazed by something."
"It's nothing."
"It's something." It was always something with him. For a man who had everything, he was constantly unhappy and constantly moping.
"Don't worry about it. I shouldn't have even brought it up." He dismissed.
"Brought what up Darien? Half the time, I can't even tell what you're saying you're so vague. Beauty? Art? Ugly art? What's really up?"
Darien turned grimly to Andrew, "What is it usually?"
The blond groaned, "Women." He was constantly surrounded by them. They liked the dark and brooding-ness of him. He thought they used him, but he never realized that the only one who actually did was the woman he loved—Rei.
"Close, but no cigar," he chuckled dryly, "You know who I'm talking about."
"Yeah. I do." His voice was bitter. For the past two years, he had seen his friend battered and beaten by this woman, and still, he hung on. They played with each other like dogs in heat. That was their relationship—not much more, but she was his only hope… "Again?"
"This time for good Andrew. She actually took her stuff."
"But what about the contract? You have to be married."
Darien heaved a sigh and leaned heavily on the railing, bringing his fist into contact with the adjoining wall. It was always about the contract—like a curse he couldn't escape. Why else had he held on to Rei for so long? She wasn't much in the way of a lover, more like a fuck-buddy, and a man couldn't live off of sex alone. They both knew that. "To hell with the contract!" he shouted, "I still have two years don't I? And god damn it, I don't want to marry her Andrew, and she sure as hell doesn't want to marry me. We can hardly stand each other for a minute much less for the rest of our lives!"
"Except when you're in bed," he muttered. Andrew looked at him darkly, "We've talked about this. Just wait two years, and you could get a divorce! You know we need this money. Married on your twenty-fourth birthday, it's not a lot to ask Darien! Especially for you, you have half of Manhattan at your feet. All you have to do is walk outside, and you've got twenty marriage proposals right there."
"Rei won't wait two more years. Every decent man in America will have had a taste of her by then. You know that better than I do," he shot him a warning glance. It wasn't even two months ago that he had found the two of them together—his best friend with his fiancé. He didn't condone it, but it hadn't boiled his blood as he had expected it to. He knew she slept around; he did the same. What kind of marriage would come of the two of them?
He lowered his voice dangerously, "I won't wait either, not just for a divorce, and I don't want some woman who throws herself at my feet. I want…"
"Love? Darien, we don't have time for love, and I didn't see you flaunting your ideals at the bar the other night. I saw the woman you went home with, and it wasn't Rei." Andrew laughed, sarcasm dripping from his voice, "Was she your Mary Sunshine, Darien? Are any of them? You're not going to find what you're looking for."
"I have two more years," he grumbled.
He sighed, noting the hopeful tone in his tone. Darien was blind to the world. He still saw only what he wanted to see, and he was still holding onto the notion that dreams could come true—the impossible. Dreams always came with a price. Why let his friend go on thinking that they didn't? "Just find someone—anyone, as long as she's legit."
Darien glared darkly at his friend, brushing off the sleeve of his jacket.
"Damn insensitive bastard," he thought. He never understood; he didn't even try. Andrew didn't understand the concept of love. It was beyond his world of dollar signs and numbers.
"Just have your people call my people," He growled angrily, and he stalked quickly away.