She feels his hot breath on the back of her neck, her nostrils filled with the stink of whisky. His burning skin is pressed against the length of her, and she can feel him taut and trembling, like an overwound watch spring about to break.
“Oh, fuck…” he groans, “oh, fuck, fuck, fuck…” and she screws her eyes shut, pretending that this was what she had wanted; that this was what she had always wanted.
It had ended like all the best parties do, with just the two of them and a bottle of whisky, and by the time the bottle was half empty they were laughing together over some stupid thing Marluxia had tried to do to Zexion and she was starting to think that this time… maybe… this time… But by the time the whisky was two-thirds gone he was staring silently into the middle distance and gripping the edge of the window frame so tightly that the seams on his gloves had started to split. And before she could stop herself she’d said
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, give it up already! He’s not coming back!”
And just because he was drunk, and only because he wanted her to shut the fuck up and be quiet, he had grabbed the back of her head and kissed her savagely. And just because this time she didn’t want him to be able to change his mind and back away and run, she bit his bottom lip, hard, and stuck her hands under his coat, feeling the little muscles of his midriff tense as he flinched under her fingers.
She can feel him like electricity; like a storm about to break. She can feel his scalding tears wetting her shoulders and she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care that the name he’s about to say isn’t hers, and will never be hers. She feels like a sheet of paper laid across embers, twisted and charred and about to burst into flames at any second. And she doesn’t care.
Like she doesn’t care that to him all she is is just another way of forgetting.
[or not forgetting]