Disclaimer: I do not own Vocaloid.

~Beautiful Façade~

He knows she's no nun.

It's all part of the public image, really - a false façade of a quintessential sixteen-year-old pop star who does quintessentially environmentally-friendly and productive things and religiously restricts herself to a quintessentially healthy diet and is quintessentially perfect in every single way. Every flaw is eradicated with a blasé flick of a finger, and every taint that dares to tarnish her exquisite exoskeleton is immediately covered up with layer after layer of makeup to mould her into the perfect diva.

He knows she's not the flawless angel the media makes her out to be, complete with a gilded halo and sapphire eyes that shimmer too ethereally to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. He knows she's only human, and all humans make mistakes.

Still, incriminating hints are splashed across the cover page of celebrity magazines, in which she stands out from the others

(that pale in comparison, glittering smiles incinerated in the scintillating inferno)

like an extraterrestrial seraph. Her fingers linger far too long on coworker Len's arm, alabaster white and creme ecru merging together on an oil canvas where colours aren't supposed to mix, and her lid lowered demurely enough to conceal a far too suggestive wink.

Off the red carpet, she paints a tapestry of interwoven knots and scars on his skin that hasn't been unblemished for two years, reminiscent of the countless times they've caught themselves in between sheets; of their intermingling beads of sweat as she stains his skin with cherry kisses and her nails engrave her name into his back. He remembers the sweet nothings she whispered ever so tantalisingly into his ear and wonders bitterly how much of it was true.

He would ignore the signs if he could, but he can't. He can't just ignore the umpteen times she calls to murmur apologetically that she'll be working late tonight, and no, she can't tell him what she's working on because it's highly confidential, and could he be a darling and shoo away the persistent paparazzi? He can't just ignore all the times she kisses him and he tastes another man on her ever-so-innocent lips.

He can't just ignore that one time he confronted her - or an attempted what turned out to be a failed ghost of a confrontation, at least. A stylish curve-accentuating outfit he'd never seen before clung desperately to her skin, rainwater pooled from her boots, and she ran her hand loftily through her cascading teal tresses to shower minuscule droplets everywhere they could reach. He hovered by her side, lips stretched into a thin line.

"Sorry for coming back late again, Kaito." The diva pursed her lips, carelessly discarding her glossy handbag onto the carpet. He didn't recognise this one either, he noted dully. Neither the shimmery champagne eyeshadow rimming her eyelids nor the iridescent butterfly clip in her hair struck a chord within him.

"It's okay."

She must've detected the slightest hint of strained disdain in his tone, because in two steps her dainty arms were locked around his neck and she was tracing light circles on his back and his resolve was faltering. "I'm sorry, Kai." She tilted her head ever so delicately until soft lips were brushing the line of his jawbone, trailing butterfly touches down while he unconsciously gritted his teeth. She knew that was his sensitive spot, especially the way his pet name rolled off her tongue with smooth eloquence, and now the sly minx was manipulating him like a marionette on a string.

"I love you."

She must've seen the pained incredulity in his eyes, heard the heavy breaths that failed to help him attain control of his tumultuous emotions, and she silenced the unsaid words on his lips by capturing them with her own.

As the world faded away in a haze of impassioned lust, the unfamiliar scent of masculine cologne, saccharine and pungent, enshrouded her body like a second skin.

(He pretended not to notice.)

She steps out into the spotlight. Cameras are flashing, crowds are screaming, and she can feel the music thrumming in her veins in tandem with her adrenalin. This is the derived high she knows all too well; the roller-coaster swirl of addiction and attention that disappears all too soon and leaves an insatiable hunger for more.

Someone takes her arm with the grace of a true gentleman.

(So maybe she imagines his blond hair cerulean, and his glassy turquoise orbs an intelligent navy. So maybe a suspicious, but mainly hurt expression of her childhood friend/lover flashes across her mind with a startling redolence.)

When the verisimilar illusion fades away and she's met with clicking cameras and Kagamine Len, Hatsune Miku does something she hasn't done in a long while.

She hesitates.

((Published 27 September 2013))

A/N: First Vocaloid fic. A weird little thing too long to be a drabble and too short to be a one-shot that I wrote in between lessons (because when your other fics are on the laptop you can't access because exams urgh, there's not much you can do on mobile). Also written using the prompt "nun" from the A-Maze-Ing Race Challenge on the Anime and Manga Fanfiction Challenges forum.

Don't hesitate to leave a review and tell me what you thought of it :)

Thanks for reading!

~TLoC