what it says in the title...
includes:
- smut
- fluff
- angst
- will add more, not sure what else i should warn you guys about.
feel free to drop requests, i might do them.
wrote this a few months ago, based off that one john mayer song... corny, i know. but i wanted to write something angsty. and vic gets to wear a dress. enjoy.
- ant
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"We're completely fucked, you know that?"
The door is jammed and the fire's closed in.
"Yeah," Vic replies, "but it doesn't bother me anymore. Not like it used to. And I think I'm okay with that."
Despite the flames licking at edges of Vic's long dress, I find beauty in the way that the fabric ripples, fixating on the way the white gauze is flicking and crumpling under the heat. Vic's skinny ankles have been swallowed up by the flames, and I look down to realize my feet have been swallowed up as well. Of all the times I̶'v̶e̶ m̶a̶d̶e̶ h̶i̶m̶ c̶r̶y̶ he's ever cried, I thought this would be the most appropriate moment.
But he doesn't.
He doesn't even cry, or wince, or even give away any sort of feeling.
"I wish I loved you better," I tell him. I feel the regret slowly filling my chest, beginning as a twinge and blooming outwards 'til my smoke-filled lungs feel weak.
"I don't even care anymore," he says earnestly, and even though he has to look up at me, his gaze is still defiant. It's the end of the world in his eyes. He's the end of the world.
Fuck. I'm gonna go out knowing he never forgave me. Christ.
Why does that hurt more? That he doesn't even care anymore?
At least I'll see him in hell.
"One last dance?"
I've gone batshit crazy.
"I didn't put this on for no reason," he replies simply, swishing his long elegant dress. It's beautiful, really. Beautiful and peculiar. Peculiar because he's in a dress. B̶e̶a̶u̶t̶i̶f̶u̶l̶ b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ i̶t̶'s̶ h̶i̶m̶.
What a shame.
And so I take his hand in mine, small in my palm, the other hand settling on his waist, and we sway and step, the flames crawling up our legs. He even smiles for me, his eyes crinkling, his pretty face the most radiant thing in the room, and I really, truly, regret not loving him as much as I could have.
Despite the burning all around us, I find beauty in the smooth tan skin of his cheek, richer now in the hazy orange light, the steady gaze of his calm round eyes, his delicate gold chain of necklace reflecting the flickering blaze all around us, laying on his bird-bone collarbones.
Was he always this pretty?
Why does he always look a thousand times more beautiful, right before I'm about to lose him?
What a fucking waste.
I think I look quite smart as well, my dark slacks ironed to perfection, my silk necktie smoothed out, the nice collar of my shirt soaking up the prickling sweat on my neck. The heat is unbearable now, my vision beginning to swim.
The irony of being dressed our best when we've only shown each other our worst.
"Anthony."
"Yeah?"
"You're the worst thing that's ever happened to me," he says softly, his lovely dark eyes glistening with wistfulness.
With that, he lunges for me, leaning up on his tiptoes, holding either side of my face gently with his hands, and presses his soft warm lips against mine, pulling me down into the flames.
