A Man's Guide to Dissolution and Ignorance
Hot breaths against his ear makes him stir, as his mind hovers in the blissful state of sleep and awake. Thing, graceful fingers dance against his naked back, and he smiles against his pillow.
"Wake up, love," a voice croons, the whisper of an angel, he thinks.
He doesn't respond, feigning slumber so as not to stop the fleeting, teasing brushes of lips against his temple, lowering down to his cheeks, and slight nibbles to his jaw. He finally turns, faces her, and opens his eyes to the one sight that makes his heart warm, his skin tingle, his eyes shine.
A soft kiss, lips against lips, a gentle caress, and a heartfelt, "I love you," and for him, the morning has already started.
He reaches a hand to rub a silky strand of brown hair between fingertips.
"If you dawdle, you'll be late," his angel admonishes gently but leans into his touch.
"I know," he sighs. "I just want to have you here for longer."
"I'll be here as long as you need me," she promises and brings his hand to her stomach. His heart swells even more, if that was possible and their smiles spoke of love, affection, gratitude.
"Both of us."
"I want you here by my side."
He sits up from bed, casting one longing glance on his lover lying serenely on the bed, watching him with the same doe eyes that have captivated him so long ago.
"Wait for me?"
"I always have, always will."
He is at the party, a glass of champagne in his hand, but he does not enjoy it, preferring to watch the crowd.
Two come over, one staring at him with purple limpet eyes—he silently asks that he never see those kind of eyes again—and the other with blue eyes of pity. No, both of them have that, pity in their eyes.
"How are you holding up?" one asks, his hand moving as if it wants to touch him but hesitates and lands limply at his side.
"As good as ever, I suppose," he answers, snidely, shortly.
"Amy's really happy you're here, and she loves the presents from her wonderful Uncle," the other pipes up.
"Good," he says. The discussion drops, it's awkward, the other two struggle of something to say, but he does not care. He stares at the girl playing at the centre of the room, all gold and lace and pinks and roses. She is beautiful, he thinks, but the most beautiful would always be his own.
"She's—she's not here," the purple-eyed man says, ever so quietly but not enough that he had to strain himself to hear. "She'll never be."
"What do you know?" he immediately spats.
He rushes off, the champagne flute crashing on the floor, soaking the carpet. The rich red turns into the same shade of blood, the same colour that seeped out of her.
He stumbles home, jams the key into the lock of his bedroom, and breathes hard, and she is there, still smiling, waiting for him.
He smiles back, love filling the slight fear that gripped his heart awhile ago.
Yes, what do they know? They know nothing. They never have; they never will. She really is here. For him, and him alone.
For what do they know of loss, of knowing that everything that was your world to be gone in an instant? What do they know of a lover that transcends all beauty and a child that will forever be five months in the womb? What do they know of him and her and their child?
Nothing, and he knows everything.
"I love you, wait for me."
"I always have."
"I miss you."
"I need you."
"I want you."
"I love you."
"Stay with me?"
And he reflects that it is the only answer that matters.
Disclaimer: I do not own Ouran High, its characters or any related indicia.