A/N: So, I've never been to Las Vegas; the closest I've come is CSI. :laughs nervously: So, no offense to anyone at all; it just seemed like a good place for Ryu to not like…He doesn't seem like a gambler, y'know? Also, he doesn't seem the type to drink alcohol, but it's Vegas, so why not try some watermelon margaritas? So, um… next chapter, I think should be in… Either New York or Atlanta, but I'm leaning towards Atlanta. Then we go on to Europe... But now I have an idea of what I want to do with this story, so it should be easier to write these. Sorry that this one took so long! So, read and review so I'll feel like getting my butt in gear! (Oh, and the purple-haired bartender is me writing in a friend of mine.)


Chapter Three: Heat

Words, bodies, and glances…their heat burns straight to the soul.

It's hot. Hot in a way that is unbearable. It burns through your clothes and into the skin, boring straight to the bone.

The air is smudgy. Smog and exhaust from the many cars that litter the town smudges out the air and turns the azure sky into a smeared blue-grey.

It is hard to breathe.

I close my eyes as a breeze graces the air, blowing it clear. I imagine the sound of the ocean from the fountain; the smell comes into my nostrils, the phantom lingering of a better, purer place.

I open my eyes and once more the air is littered with laughter, shouts, and the jingling of gambling. The air smells heavy of cigarettes, booze, disappointment, cars, and sex.

I am disgusted with this place in America.

It was far prettier in the pictures, Las Vegas…

I may have been happier if it wasn't for the heat. I may have been happier if it wasn't for that novelist. I may've, I may've, and I may've. The mantra repeats in my head like I am a spoilt child.

I sigh softly. I am hot; sweat drips down my skin, making me feel sticky and dirty, but I do not wish to go back inside.

I will endure this, because I cannot endure inside.

I walk to a nearby fountain, digging through my littered pockets for change. It is in Yen, but… A wish should be a wish…

I toss it in, closing my eyes, wishing for something I know will not happen.

I have been abandoned again. But I do not mind, because he is happy.

I sit, the superheated cement scorching through my jeans.

I want to curl up and cry, my tears evaporating in the sun so I will not be shamed. I want a hug more than anything, and with that thought, I realize that I have left something important at home.

I am becoming so forgetful… I am forgetting my heart from before, and I do not want this. I want to stay naïve and trusting forever. I do not like this heat burning away at my trust in this dirty, filthy world.

So I cry. Softly, gently, like my breaking heart.


(flashback)

We're sitting on the stage, chatting softly. He's grinning like always, cute and warmly. He says that he likes this place of lights and sounds, money and sex, but I don't have the heart to disagree. It has melted and flown away in ecstasy.

I feel that I have won him over, finally, finally…

And then, his phone rings.

For a long moment, he's staring at his phone bemusedly. Finally, he answers. He answers…

His eyes are lighting up like stars, more than the happy sheen he has when he was talking to me only seconds before.

A name escapes his lips. I hate that name. I loathe it. I am probably the only person in the world that dislikes that name.

He is rocking happily back and forth, energy exploding through his body, and talking faster than I have ever heard anyone talk, he hops up and walks away. Without a word of goodbye, or an 'excuse me'.

My heart breaks into storms of hate and jealousy. That man, how can he be better than I? He must be, for that is who was chosen for the star of my life.

I start comparing things in my head. Thousands of people call me a god, worship my body and my voice. But thousands of people worship his face and his words. There, we are evenly matched. I am sure that the same purple-haired bartender would have squealed over him like she me did this morning.

I am nicer, that is for sure.

In my mind, I am winning. In his… I have lost.

But the worst insult of all is that Shuichi never came back to our rehearsal.


I am greeted by a warm grin, washing over my hot face and heart like ice. Blood flushes my face, the toxicity of this town flowing in my veins.

Powered by the poison, I ignore him.

His smile falls off his face.

I act indifferent, falling heavily onto the sheets, plugging in my headphones.

"Sakuma-san," he whispers, sitting on the side of my bed.

I can hear him over the music. I haven't the heart to turn up the volume, so I tug out the earbuds. "Yes," I mumble, my voice heavy and slow.

I think he knows that I'm drunk now.

"I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head. "But I…"

I know what he is saying, but it doesn't process. "He's better than me, I understand," I murmur. Thank god that I am not drunk enough to not speak. I want to talk; I want to tell him… but most of all, I want to show him. So I do.

If I am to die by the lies and fake beauty of this world, I shall live by it as well, so I reach out and grab his face.

And I kiss him with the heat that seared my soul earlier today.