A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers and fans of this little fantasy of mine. I was going to leave it as is but I figured I would tie a few loose ends. Thank you again for reading and I plan to make another but with less…aghast you may say. Until then, Enjoy my dark twisted fantasies.
"A Thousand Years"; "How can I love when I'm afraid?"
His latest letter was about a woman, named Margaret. She was the daughter of a wealthy business executive his father did business with. She was of was French and Cambodian decent if I recall correctly from Rene's poorly written letter and spoke five different languages fluently. That bitch. She and Rene have been dating for a few months as of recently and I was the first of many who would get the sudden news of a spring wedding in Île de la Cité in a Roman catholic chapel. It would be intimate; very private or only close relatives and friends. I would not be attending the wedding; even though it was expressed dearly that my presence would be the highlight of the evening. Weddings disgusted me and have proven to be unnecessary. Money wasted on a false union that would only be tarnished by the sins of adultery would shatter the very holiness of which it rested upon. I lit a cigarette and kept walking along the cobblestone pathway.
It was late winter and the snow was beginning to let up. The small nipping at my nose irritated me, the scarf around my neck wringing around like a collar. I blew a cloud of smoke into the gusty winds of Paris. It was close to midnight and I was alone near canal St. Martin. There were a few tourists passing by snapping pictures, giggling in delight in being in a foreign country. It sickened me to the core. Their happy faces. The smiles. The laughter as it swept through like an airborne virus into the lungs of small children. I resented their pitiful vacation in one of the coldest cities during the winter months. I pulled my leather coat closer, the warmth hugging my thin frame. I blew another cloud against the cool, desolate waters of St. Martin. I watched small flakes prance around similar to a ballet dancer's rendition of Swan Lake. It moved quickly with the wind. I blew another for good measure, small entertainment.
There was a small tap on my shoulder. Violet eyes. Small smile. Burberry. I extinguished the cigarette against the heel of my boot in silence, starting to walk to wherever he was taking me. There were very few cafes open at this time of night in Paris, no place for us to finally talk after the past few months of settling for pen and paper. I did not want traces of me dialing his cellular number in my records. He still looked the same, only happier. The wool hat that kissed his blonde hair. The wool jacket that skinned his slender, silhouette. That damn scarf I had sent him for Christmas. It all screamed happiness. It sickened me, making me want to tear them off his body and set him on fire. I remained quiet, keeping my mind astray from the obvious. There still were no words to be spoken. He lead me to a quiet, little house nearby next so a family-owned bakery shop. It was his and hers. She was sleeping over at her mother's as a tradition before the wedding. He removed his coat and hung it neatly on the rack next to the door. I followed. A cold, soft hand grabbed mine and led me around the house. It was quaint, but tasteful. It was small for my taste, but large enough for a newlywed couple. A fire was going in the den, reminding me of that night. He had offered me some tea and a few pastries but I refused. Another wave of silence. A small kiss.
His hands led me to the bedroom where a large bed rested amongst yet another fire. It was warmer in this room and felt a bit more personal. Rene shed himself of his cashmere sweater, I doing the same. Our tongues intertwined, lips touching, kissing. Hands roamed silk, grabbing onto belt buckles. His pants were now tossed in a nearby corner, mine becoming slinked off with teeth. There was soft nipping against the protruding bulge of my boxers, kissing. Soft. Wet. His blonde tresses became enveloped into my grasp, my head tilted back towards the painted ceiling cloaked in night. There were cherubs, clouds, Roman Gods in colored oils. Each one outdid the other, in symphony with his strokes. His tongue swirled around the head for a bit before he swallowed me whole. His warmth rivaled the veil from the fire. I returned the favor, wishing this would not be the last time. His toes curled. Eyes squeezed shut. Nails imprinted within fibers of Egyptian cotton. Fuck. I outdid myself, trails of saliva mixed with his semen coating my lips. A brisk kiss following.
His muffled cries were spoken into the feathered pillow. Sweat dripped off my brow as it fell onto the curve of his back. My strokes grew stronger. Faster. Deeper. My name was being called. Erotic nothings in French thrown into the early morning air. I pounded into Rene, again, and again, and again. His orgasm hit hard and soiled the bed sheets. I pulled out from inside of my beloved and commanded his attention. Streaks of white glazed across his face, a single pink tongue lapping the single trail conjoining the two of us. I collapsed. Slumber hit hard that night and the aroma of fresh ground coffee stirred me in the morning. Two hours of sleep was all I was able to get before I was forced to shower and dress. My flight was scheduled to leave in forty-five minutes. His eyes filled with sadness, a final kiss as he dressed to see me to the car that was patiently waiting to take me to the airport. I had morning coffee with him before I left, knowing it would be the last. I arrived at the terminal and prepared to board. I took out Rene's letter and gave it one last glance. Tamaki would be upset if I told him I came to Paris and did not drop by his villa to say hello. I could not bear the thought of seeing him after the evening I had with Rene, Rene Fontaine. He was a Frenchman I had met over Thanksgiving break during a business trip with my father. He resembled Tamaki to the point where I grabbed him by mistake in a fit of rage, having to release him in an honest mistake. I immediately dropped Hikaru and Renge and replaced them with Rene Fontaine, all my desires becoming wrapped into the only thing close enough to the actual figment of my infatuation; the real Rene. He was also engaged to be married.
I let a single tear drop as I tossed the letter in the trash bin on the way to board the plane back to Tokyo, Japan. I stopped replying to Tamaki's letters almost two months ago after he told me his engagement but he insisted on continuing to write; even without a response. The closure of his last letter was the three words left unspoken: I Love You. I whispered those same three words into the cool air of early morning Paris, leaving them and my insatiable desires behind.
I Love You.