He kisses her like it's a performance.
Practised movements with his hand under her jaw, leaning into her.
Holding her.
She's frozen still, underneath his touch.
Likely shocked he's initiated this, that he's confirming that he wants this.
That he's done just dismissing it.
He's pulling her in towards him, uncertain.
Wanting to impress her.
They're so similar, living for other people.
Performing for other people.
Doing favours not out of their will for other people.
And yet everytime he looks at her, she manages to get him breathless.
Without even trying, without saying a word.
He feels his face heat up, involuntarily.
Looking at her.
At the artist, the brunette invading his dreams.
Sleeping in their shared killing game's participants kitchen.
Vulnerable, and irreplacable.
Intricate.
Every single color of the world, and yet translucent and brilliant.
Shining, silhouette like a ghost.
She's drop dead gorgeous.... Fuck.....
How is it that she's been created so full of everything beautiful, the definition of talent in life?
creation, and it's evercompasing love.
He's merely cardboard, prettied up and painted over.
Something basic and solid, and vast like the void placated into an image that doesn't resemble him.
A black hole contained, presenting himself as the universe, while all he's ever known how to do was to devour it's light into his everpresent darkness.
He stands, in the shadows of his mask.
Something marble, that resembled him.
Not the real him, the made up him.
Someone he was, he supposed.
A skin he adorned, and individually sculpted at the request of his superiors.
His managers, people from his public relationship unit----
That analyse the way he interacts with his fans.
Slips of paper, and lies.
And etiquette.
What to say here--- here's a pamphlet.
Memorise it word for word.
The world can be navigated in points.
In syllables.
In people's eyes and their smile.
It's little rules, and expectations.
In the rhytm of keeping the politeness up--
Everyone is interconnected with each other, society is about relying on one another.
About connection.
Yarn threads tying you and your coworkers up.
All the world's a stage, with the omnipotent creator.
The script, and the way that it's supposed to work.
He's just like everyone in here.
Grimly looking at the realism of it all-----
At the ugliness, deep inside of him that he keeps buried.
The way light works is that it's artificial.
He's the producer of his own movies, his own persona.
He holds the headlights.
Decides when they turn on, where they're situated---- he works behind the scenes to create works of art he hates.
His ceramic skin is porcelain, his cheeks rosy pink.
His eyes sparkle when the light hits them, like it's the expression of experience.
Like people are staring into his soul, pastel and shining and reflecting that light.
And he's so fake.
But he looks so angelic, so innocent.
Rose reaches out her hand, slowly, tentatively slotting it into his.
They're brushing, held lightly by them both.
She kisses back.
....oh
it's his turn to be shocked now, he guesses.
could he have expected this?
warmth fills up his entire body, as his mind comes to a halt.
her lips are warm.
she tastes soft, like sponge cake.
as she moves tilting her head to better kiss him, he catches her pelargonium aroma.
rosey, aromatic and filling.
It wraps itself around his head, centering his attention on this moment.
one more thing to memorise, along with her placing her left hand on his waist.
his heart beating out of his chest.
how weak he feels, in the hands of his goddess.
she shifts closer, wrapping her arm around him.
she tugs his hand upwards, and interlocks their fingers.
he abandons his grip on her jaw in favour of bringing it to the nape of her neck. hand brushing against curly hair. feeling the soft strands out.
he runs his hands through her hair, and she gasps ever so quietly.
she's lovely.
he propells her head better into him smudging their noses, he's sure she feels his mascara flutter on her cheeks. tiny lashes butterflies, dark like him. light enough like his eyeshadow.
They press against themselves before they part their lips, still holding each other
"I wasn't aware you liked me"
"Why did you kiss me then?" Rose asks, in a hushed whisper
"Does it matter? You like me back..." David responds, happy and quiet and breathless
"I do" she smiles, warmly.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/59488357
