Faux
A/N: This somewhat short angst-y piece was inspired by the urge to write something other than Kaijou. Originally a lot shorter (having been written in about 25 min.), but now much improved thanks to my (first) beta DeepSense Remix. So read, enjoy and leave a review.
The ambiance was dark; more inside than out, but still with that last bit of sunset poking the barrel of its gun at the blind-folded eyes of the windows. The house was still, but for this one room. And even though there was movement, the motions were somehow forced... as if they wished to be still, but could not.
Soft, painted lips met the corner of an unresponsive mouth. The skin around it tasted of sweat, cigarettes and the glass of Beringer they'd shared.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Gentle, gloved hands rubbed semi-circles against tense, rigid muscles. Those shoulders were encased in a swanky Italian silk creation...but the wearer could afford it.
"This... I can't do this anymore." The Italian suit-clad shoulders shrugged the hands away, and he reached for a slim, silver lighter in his pocket.
"And why the hell not?" Dark, irritated eyes glared at his own amber ones.
"You're not her." He flipped the lighter open and lit a slim cigarette, puffs of smoke surfacing from that perfect slit of a mouth. That mouth he'd kissed so many times...
The blonde sighed. "When will you realize that she's gone? And won't be coming back? Ever."
"When will you realize that it doesn't matter to me? I love her all the same."
The blonde was momentarily speechless.
"Besides, this is wrong and perverse."
"Right... because you're just the epitome of morality, y'know, bedding people half your age and all."
"You're still not her." He made a motion to leave, but a hand stopped him at the door.
"Let me try."
He shook his head; the long, silver locks swayed slightly. He was an odd one, but beautiful – that was why he was being begged to stay. However, he was also stubborn – another way they were alike. He would never forsake her memory, and he bluntly told the blonde this.
"You might have her hair now, but it's faux – just like the rest of you." He smeared the deep wine coloring off the smooth, painted lips and roughly kissed them. The blonde had done so much to make him stay – dressing like this, even wearing makeup and growing his hair long. But it wasn't the same. Never would be... never could be.
He then gestured to the blonde with his cigarette, causing some ash to fall along the way. "See, this can't ever be real. We can't be real. Not in the way she was – pure, untouched. You—you're tainted in every sense of the word."
The blonde opened the door, and a gust of wind swept it out of his trembling grasp. The gloves on his hands were silken, and slender... "Just leave then."
The Italian suit took one long, last drag from his cigarette and put it out on a nearby coffee table. With one final glance at the blonde, he walked away.
The door closed behind him. The blonde sank into an overstuffed armchair, the edges of his dress whispering around fishnet-clad ankles, and clinging to the toes of strappy heels. Mascara-caked eyes blinked over and again, and one hand in the intimate embrace of a glove picked the cigarette up from the table.
He was gone, chasing a memory. All that remained was the smudged lipstick on a now tear-streaked face and wisps of leftover cigarette smoke.