Deluded Play

Sum: everyone should know that he is exactly what he looks like – but people are always destined to make him something he's not. It are meaningless questions which make you come back for more – and now just this. When will he get sick of this play? When will he move on to the next?

It has to be said that he's not mysteriously handsome, as everybody thinks him to be. To you he is beautiful, but his beauty isn't hidden beneath layers of clothes and masks—he hides his beauty in open sight, where no one will notice but you. He is not deceivingly tender either, everyone seems to think he hides a sweet guy underneath it all, but he's raw and hard, always. Nevertheless his touches are so soft, it's just that no one seems to feel.

There is nothing capturing or secretive about his eye. You want people to know that, so stop talking about it, because it's not as cool and brave as they all think it is. It's tired and it scares you. Sometimes it's black as night and sometimes it's red as blood, but it's never good enough, because both colours scare you. It scares you witless, so no, it's not sexy and no, you don't think it's incredibly hot.

The red means he's just finished doing something that is unimaginably terrible.

The black means he's using you as a means as to not to think about whatever terrible thing it is he's done.

His lips are not plump or full, and you have no idea what makes people think they are. They're thin and pale with small scars, because people think they know him but they don't. You know he drank from a splintered glass when he was a kid and the wounds left those petite white marks—almost invisible but you can feel them every time you slide your fingertips across his lips; by accident or purpose, you try not to wonder. Sometimes they're pulled back, taut and thin. Sometimes they're darkened and it looks as if rice crumbs are stuck to his mouth. When they're thin he's furious, hurt, or worse—they're also thin when you're fighting. They darken after minutes without breath and lips being attached to one-an-other. Everyone thinks it's loving and hot, but it's angry and cold, even if you don't separate for hours.

Sometimes it makes you feel like crying.

Sometimes you feel nothing at all.

When you lie in bed together afterwards you don't talk, you don't cuddle. Secretly everyone believes him to be a man of a million romantic words, and somehow they think he often sings you songs or whisper sweets nothings. But no, he's not romantic either. He doesn't bring you breakfast to bed in the morning—actually, he's rarely even there in the morning. It'll happen that you won't see him for days, and you'll tell yourself you're not worrying and you don't care, but deep inside, you do.

They all whisper behind your back when they think you can't hear them. They wonder aloud about just how amazing he must be, if you're stay with him.

You don't know why you keep on coming back.

You think it's because you once saw him playing the piano, and ever since you wanted to know if he can play bodies like that as well. Does he possess the ability to make a body sing beautiful and delicate like that? Can he treat you like you're made of precious porcelain and polished wood? Like you need to be handled with care? Can he finish you, like he does the piece, gorgeous and longing for more?

Now at least you know he does. The only real question remaining now is: when will he get sick of this play? When will he move on to the next?

AN: a bit dark KakaIru. Well, it's a first one, so yeah... it might be weird. Your honest thoughts please^^