He'd said that she was his favorite because her hair reminded him of the flames of passion. She'd always noticed that it wasn't her body he looked at, but instead those fiery red locks, watching them as they swayed and danced while she performed; sometimes before him, sometimes on him. When the latter occurred, he always requested that she turned away from him. When she did face him, he demanded that the lights be turned off, the pale light of the moon eagerly stretching itself across the silhouettes of their sensually undulating bodies.
Sometimes she would lean back against his chest as she ground her hips back against him, whispering into his ear to tell him that he was there was no one else; that he was the only one. It had been a strange request, and she knew that some part of him saw through the lie, but this was his time. She said and did exactly what he wanted.
What he wanted wasn't always just sex, either. Sometimes he asked her to lay with him. Sometimes, he asked her to sing softly into his ear while he closed his eyes and remembered what it was like to be loved. She had warned him that the price would remain the same. After all, time was money. He didn't seem to care. Somehow, he always managed to come back with more coin.
Despite the pleasures that she lavished unto him, he always left in the same manner. He never stayed too long, preferring the time to himself rather than allowing her to rest in his arms after their act. Some of her other clients liked that, especially those that longed for a lover as he had. He seemed indifferent to anything other than the act, and often preferred to leave her the required gil and go about his business without so much as looking at her with those dull, dead silver eyes.
Once, she made the mistake of asking him what had happened and why he had such specific preferences. He became angry, lashing at whatever he could; the lamp, the desk, her. That was the only time he had ever looked her in the eyes, a mixture of fear and sorrow plastered on his features before he tore himself from the room. A few days later he returned at his usual time, offering more than triple the usual amount in a silent apology. She never bothered to ask him again, just as he never bothered to offer her more than the occasional grunt or nod in approval or denial.
By now, enough time had passed for Vallois to build up a system. Every night after he left her, he would skulk through the alleys heedless of any vagabonds or thieves that lurked in the dark. He met the same, shady individual at the same spot and traded a bag of coin for another much smaller bag, then retired to his room in the Goblet. It was nothing special, the cold brick walls bereft of any amenities while the room itself sported only the most required necessities. Beyond the bed and couch, Vallois had also put in a request for a fireplace to be installed.
It was only in this moment that he realized how truly alone he was and what he had lost. He hated being home. He hated being alone. He hated how the room didn't smell like her. He hated how his bed didn't come with the warmth of her presence. He hated how he couldn't come home to her smiling face, or how she wouldn't be there to greet him and sit in his lap and tell him how her day had been, and be so eager to listen to him tell her his own.
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Somewhere in it all, he knew that he should have found solace knowing that she was out there, smiling and happy and in the arms of the man she loved. ..But he wasn't, and maybe that made him hate himself that much more. He was selfish. He wasn't the person that she had fallen in love with; wasn't the person that someone as sweet and kind as her deserved to be with. Maybe that was why she left him? Maybe that was why she had chosen to be in the arms of another. Maybe he just wasn't good enough, and such realizations often drove him to fits of rage. There was a reason why he only kept the necessities in his room. Not only did it fit his otherwise bland personality, but it also kept damage to a minimum.
When his rage had subsided, he would settle down on the couch and stare into the flames. Fire had never had a special place in his heart until he met her. He never knew why her hair captivated him so; it just did. When he was often away from her, it was his way to remind himself that she was there, patiently waiting for him to return so that she could be in his arms. Now, it served little more than a sad reminder of what once had been. He would lean forward and bask in its warmth. If he closed his eyes, it almost felt like she was laying next to him or settled in his lap, arms slipped around his shoulders and laughing. Sometimes, he swore he could hear her ring of laughter in the air or smell her perfume.
That would eventually bring him to retrieve the pouch that he'd purchased earlier that night. He'd dump the powder along his nightstand or in his hand and lean close enough to breathe it in. It wouldn't take long to take affect. It always started with the world swirling around him. Then, he really could hear her laughter. He could smell her scent in the room. The otherwise dull room around him transformed into something more like her own. The ground became soft and grass-like, with stuffed animals and pillows and carbuncles and moogles and the like popping up all over.Â
Then she would appear. Sometimes it happened faster than others, but it never failed. If he stared at the fireplace long enough, she would crawl from the flames and come to settle in his lap. She would wrap her arms around him, hold him, and allow him to do the same to her. They whispered sweet nothings into each other's ears and he could once again become lost in those enchanting, mismatched eyes.
Eventually, his body would grow tired and he would pass out amongst the blur of colors and sounds. When he awoke the next morning, the room would suddenly be as it was. Gone was the soft grass beneath his feet. Gone was all the color of her various toys and collectibles. Gone was the warmth of the fire, long since having smoldered out in the night. The only thing that ever lingered was the haunting image of her smile in his mind, the chime of her laughter in his ears, and her scent which hung in the air. It would forever serve as a bittersweet reminder of what he once had and the heart-wrenching pain of having lost it.
Sometimes she would lean back against his chest as she ground her hips back against him, whispering into his ear to tell him that he was there was no one else; that he was the only one. It had been a strange request, and she knew that some part of him saw through the lie, but this was his time. She said and did exactly what he wanted.
What he wanted wasn't always just sex, either. Sometimes he asked her to lay with him. Sometimes, he asked her to sing softly into his ear while he closed his eyes and remembered what it was like to be loved. She had warned him that the price would remain the same. After all, time was money. He didn't seem to care. Somehow, he always managed to come back with more coin.
Despite the pleasures that she lavished unto him, he always left in the same manner. He never stayed too long, preferring the time to himself rather than allowing her to rest in his arms after their act. Some of her other clients liked that, especially those that longed for a lover as he had. He seemed indifferent to anything other than the act, and often preferred to leave her the required gil and go about his business without so much as looking at her with those dull, dead silver eyes.
Once, she made the mistake of asking him what had happened and why he had such specific preferences. He became angry, lashing at whatever he could; the lamp, the desk, her. That was the only time he had ever looked her in the eyes, a mixture of fear and sorrow plastered on his features before he tore himself from the room. A few days later he returned at his usual time, offering more than triple the usual amount in a silent apology. She never bothered to ask him again, just as he never bothered to offer her more than the occasional grunt or nod in approval or denial.
By now, enough time had passed for Vallois to build up a system. Every night after he left her, he would skulk through the alleys heedless of any vagabonds or thieves that lurked in the dark. He met the same, shady individual at the same spot and traded a bag of coin for another much smaller bag, then retired to his room in the Goblet. It was nothing special, the cold brick walls bereft of any amenities while the room itself sported only the most required necessities. Beyond the bed and couch, Vallois had also put in a request for a fireplace to be installed.
It was only in this moment that he realized how truly alone he was and what he had lost. He hated being home. He hated being alone. He hated how the room didn't smell like her. He hated how his bed didn't come with the warmth of her presence. He hated how he couldn't come home to her smiling face, or how she wouldn't be there to greet him and sit in his lap and tell him how her day had been, and be so eager to listen to him tell her his own.
Â
Somewhere in it all, he knew that he should have found solace knowing that she was out there, smiling and happy and in the arms of the man she loved. ..But he wasn't, and maybe that made him hate himself that much more. He was selfish. He wasn't the person that she had fallen in love with; wasn't the person that someone as sweet and kind as her deserved to be with. Maybe that was why she left him? Maybe that was why she had chosen to be in the arms of another. Maybe he just wasn't good enough, and such realizations often drove him to fits of rage. There was a reason why he only kept the necessities in his room. Not only did it fit his otherwise bland personality, but it also kept damage to a minimum.
When his rage had subsided, he would settle down on the couch and stare into the flames. Fire had never had a special place in his heart until he met her. He never knew why her hair captivated him so; it just did. When he was often away from her, it was his way to remind himself that she was there, patiently waiting for him to return so that she could be in his arms. Now, it served little more than a sad reminder of what once had been. He would lean forward and bask in its warmth. If he closed his eyes, it almost felt like she was laying next to him or settled in his lap, arms slipped around his shoulders and laughing. Sometimes, he swore he could hear her ring of laughter in the air or smell her perfume.
That would eventually bring him to retrieve the pouch that he'd purchased earlier that night. He'd dump the powder along his nightstand or in his hand and lean close enough to breathe it in. It wouldn't take long to take affect. It always started with the world swirling around him. Then, he really could hear her laughter. He could smell her scent in the room. The otherwise dull room around him transformed into something more like her own. The ground became soft and grass-like, with stuffed animals and pillows and carbuncles and moogles and the like popping up all over.Â
Then she would appear. Sometimes it happened faster than others, but it never failed. If he stared at the fireplace long enough, she would crawl from the flames and come to settle in his lap. She would wrap her arms around him, hold him, and allow him to do the same to her. They whispered sweet nothings into each other's ears and he could once again become lost in those enchanting, mismatched eyes.
Eventually, his body would grow tired and he would pass out amongst the blur of colors and sounds. When he awoke the next morning, the room would suddenly be as it was. Gone was the soft grass beneath his feet. Gone was all the color of her various toys and collectibles. Gone was the warmth of the fire, long since having smoldered out in the night. The only thing that ever lingered was the haunting image of her smile in his mind, the chime of her laughter in his ears, and her scent which hung in the air. It would forever serve as a bittersweet reminder of what he once had and the heart-wrenching pain of having lost it.
![[Image: ValForumSignature.png~original]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v443/Kendei/ValForumSignature.png~original)
