Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I hate disclaimers.

A/N: Another teeny tiny paragraph, basically. Am working on starting a novel-length fic, something I haven't tried since...oh, it's been forever. That said, I hope you like this --- please review. Personally, I think it kind of sucks, but I'm trying. Meant to be slash, but I don't think it comes off that way.

Deception (I hate titles, too)

A seedy motel, stained sheets and dirty walls. Just like us, really.

A thousand cliches to fill our days.

A thousand empty promises, and shattered terms of affection.

Fake illusions, fake webs, spun around us like lies; smooth, slippery.

Deception.

There is no love, there is only this.

I think I read that in a book somewehre.

Despite our daily fabrications, neither of us believes anything anything more than what our silences say. That this is nothing, that we feel nothing.

Or at least, I don't

His eyes, his amazing eyes, please with me, beg me to see what I already know.

I tell him that I love him, and then I make him bleed.

It's not until I hit the floor, hard, that I believe what I already know. He feels nothing for me, nothing but the touch of my skin and my hair splayed out across his chest.

And it's over, and we turn away, we walk away; and all that we leave behind is a new spot on the mattress, a new smudge on the wall.

We fill each other with lies, we counter the emptiness that we leave in each other.

And the sun kisses me for him as we step out into the street, and a lingering hand on his arm betrays us both, and we know that no matter what we say, there will be another time.

Always, we will see each other again.