Deflower

Chapitre Vingt-Cinq

No one hated parties more than Vincent. And he had his reasons, too (unlike those people who stated solemnly that they had some sort of social anxiety or despised most people or simply had a terrific attitude to seem cool or interesting). One, he was disgusted by the awful drinks he was occasionally offered. Two, he hated the helplessly hormonal individuals who took up the space of the dance floor to simply force themselves behind other people to attempt to get some sort of action within their own erotic fervor. The worst of that endless list, however, would undeniably be reason three: the fact that countless people were not too subtle when it came to mocking and gossiping about him—and solely because his skin color differed from theirs and no shade of flesh seemed equivalent to the white.

Conclusion: there was lack of reason to blame Vincent for wanting to escort everyone (or himself) out of the crowded chamber, right? That was what he told himself whilst he sipped out of the cup (one that was filled with some cheap sort of liquor that burned the back of his throat) before him cautiously, anyways. But he couldn't do that, because Lo had asked him to come here, with her. (And he'd do anything for her.) Speaking of the devil (but angel was the word that truthfully ricocheted through his mind) Vincent couldn't help but think to himself when he felt a familiar arm around one of his broad shoulder. Vincent turned to her with a bright smile on his lips, brought one of his large hands to her waist, and pressed his plump lips to hers. He inhaled her scent heavily, shamelessly, and reveled in the way she reeked of freshly plucked strawberries and vanilla.

"Hey, baby," Vincent muttered, hands reinforcing his gentle grip to her side. Lo gazed up at him with glistening eyes in the vaguely illuminated chamber. Everything about him was synonymous to beautiful and pleasant; and she wondered how she'd become such a lucky girl. Though he'd been so gentle and loving to her, the way he looked at her, the way his large hands grazed over a flesh and his bottom lip was sucked between his plump lips, unlocked a heated fever within her that couldn't have been withheld. The beauty that sheltered in his eyes was an intangible reflection—the untimely proof— that everyone were manifestations of stardust, and he, in particular, the brightest and most beautiful of them all.

"Hi," Lourdes contentedly spoke and grinned undeniably, a gesture that Vincent found it hard not to return. And she attempted to make herself a bit taller by getting upon the tips of her toes, to kiss him again; it was as though his lips produced a precious elixir that she was slowly but certainly getting addicted to. It was a sweet euphoria that she'd sunk within and couldn't—but didn't want to—escape from. Like a child, she released a few giggles, and Vincent combed one of his hands through her hair.

Perhaps should she have pleaded for Vincent to stay away, for their initial infatuation had manifested into something much else—something that bordered adoration. Lourdes fancied herself to be in love with him, and for that, she'd have to trust him; but the thing was, she was unsure if she would ever be capable of trusting. Part of her trusted Vincent with her all, because she knew that he was worthy of it, he'd proven so much to her, but the other share of her morose self reminded her of it that the other time she had trusted someone—her mother—it had inflicted her pain that was indescribable; so heavily hurtful, as though shards of glass that splintered skin, cutting through flesh and stabbing through eyes and limbs. His eyes were dark and hypnotizing, they swallowed the heavens themselves, and would he have told her that God was dead, at that moment, she would've believed him; and she wouldn't have minded, for in her eyes, he was God.

And to Vincent, Lourdes belonged to him—not in the manner that he had say about what she did and where she went, but as in a peculiar fashion; in his eyes, Lo was his to hold and to cherish. That was what he wanted: forevermore. Nothing could be paralleled to what they felt for each other; Vincent had never felt so strangely attached towards anyone before, and Lourdes hadn't ever loved before. Desire for one-another was something that was inevitable, and a thing that existed in many varieties—and for Vincent, Lourdes felt them all, and vice versa. But at the same time, Lourdes feared them as much as she feared whichever supernatural power ruled up there; for desire could do less else but to cause destruction, harm, or pain for others. The truth remained, though, for Lourdes, Vincent was willing to risk it all (and vice versa).