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This was written for the fanfic100 challenge on Live Journal.
What You See is All You Get
by Riley Cannon
~What You See is All You Get~
All they want are the gruesome, titillating details they've heard about in sensational exposs, and he thinks if he throws them a bone or two they will let him be. Their lurid hunger needs more than impersonal stories about some nameless guy he knew, though, so he tells them about being made to dress in drag and sing in the talent show, and watches vague disappointment come into their expressions. That's ... not the done thing down at the country club, no, but somehow they expected something a slight more sordid.
For one moment Toby considers giving it to them. Every ass-fucking, dick-biting, face-shitting moment. It would be an interesting experiment, he thinks. How quickly would they pull away, find reasons they had to leave now? How many phone calls tomorrow, taking rain checks on plans to get together?
He holds his tongue, however, and keeps up appearances.
~*~
He watches as the booze goes by. Listens to the music of it being poured, amber comfort in a glass, ice cubes tinkling cheerfully, calling out to him -- Drink me, drink me. It would be so easy. Reach out, snag a glass, hold a mouthful on his tongue to savor the luxurious taste. No cheap and esophagus-burning moonshine here. Oh no, these were old and cherished friends of the very highest caliber, exciting pangs of poignant longing as they passed.
A tray hovers and he reaches, hand hovering there in air ... but no, he will refrain and wave it by, and sit there feeling smugly satisfied. See? he wants to say. See how he resists temptation left and right? Booze, booze everywhere and not a drop he wants to drink.
And just fuck the guy in the mirror who keeps looking like he doesn't believe any of it for a minute.
~*~
He stands at the window, watching the sun climb the sky. Chris would be awake by now, maybe rolling over to automatically reach for him before the reality of Oz kicks in and he remembers Toby's not there. He can picture him, those elegant fingers stroking the rough sheets like they had once caressed warm and willing flesh. He can see him sighing, that magnificent chest rising and falling with the weary exhalation, and he reaches out, wanting to touch, to soothe ... but his fingers only find cold, hard glass.
His own breath fogging the pane, he draws a pattern there and thinks: If wishes were horses... But they aren't and never will be, and he's done all that he can.
He turns at a sound and looks at the woman in the bed. She's kind and uncomplicated and doesn't make him feel anything that matters. She thinks she understands him and he doesn't have the heart to disillusion her.
She's only touched his body. She probably thinks she's touched his soul and knows him, but she never will. No one ever will again, and he looks back out the window, longing for deep blue eyes that saw everything and loved it all. Longing for kisses that aren't polite and careful, for a passion that left him scorched and wanting more.
He smiles to himself, wanting to linger in his dreams, but the woman calls his name and he has to put that all away, and only show her the face she expects to see.
He will be faithful, in his fashion.
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