Fake. Another one-shot that probably doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but I'm just trying various structures and seeing whether they work with my style of writing.

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You have to tell him, let him know.

(He has to know, it's only fair.)

But it's not fair, not now, not with you on your knees down in the dirt, him up there, so freaking big and mighty. On his own, with his life and his house and his dogs and his freedom.

(You, of course, have Chester, but this isn’t the same.)

You miss him more than you should, more than should be possible. A stronger-willed person may move on, ignore the brooding pain, find something worthwhile to fill their time with. Though you deny yourself any type of joy; cage yourself in with bitterness.

(At night, with Chester's hips and tongue and hot, hot kisses against your throat. You, with your eyes shut.)

You want Chester, want to be with him but all you see is him, he with his arrogant bravado and smile that used to press so keenly against your own.

(Sex with him, it had always been hot and hard and tight, tight nothingness that left you craving more, long after your bed had lost whatever heat he'd supplied it with.)

"This isn't fair on me," Chester says, voice hitching, face reddening with frustration. "I let you into my house, into my bed. Get over him or tell me about him, but fucking grow a pair of balls so I can at least…" he breaks off, looking over your shoulder, his frown setting in even more.

You look, and then feel in equal measures, anger and humiliation when he does his 'c'mon Mike, just chill,' face, Chester bristles because that's just what he does. Then though, when you refuse to look at Chester, and stare at him, noting the way his face seems to glow when he sees the pathetic hangdog look on your face, well then Chester walks away with barely a backwards look in your direction.

+

"He doesn't…he's gone." Chester starts, little hands squeezed up into tight fists, he keeps them at his sides, shaking ever so slightly. You know it's now or never, you should touch your hand to Chester's face, brush your fingers against his cheek, supply him with the affection he so obviously deserves from you.

You don't though, of course you don't and then he leaves. Chester's gone the same way he went, but you don't feel anything like what you should.

(Your head it tells you to call after Chester. Kiss him, touch him, love him. You want to, but you don't.)

You shut your eyes against the world, but in your mind you see him, smiling and naked in your bed, his fingers curling and beckoning you forwards, towards the bed.

You go.

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Picture "him" as whoever you want. I personally saw Brad, but it doesn't really matter.