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Any other day, and you wouldn't have been able to ignore everything wrong with the world. Any other day, and you would've fixated on the small little details that kept this place from feeling real. The way your hand wasn’t sweaty despite holding hers and running all the way to her apartment. That both your strides matched, even though you had three inches on her, or the way her skin was impossibly smooth and warm as you slid your hands up her arm, pressed your lips to the back of her neck as she fumbled for her keys.
You still saw the problems; the kisses you pressed between her shoulders didn’t leave behind any wet. There were no stray hairs or marks. Her skin didn’t taste of sweat or smell from the exertion clearing the fields. No dust clinging to skin from the frantic run, no imperfections at all.
Some things, though, were real. The way she laughed and flailed at you as she stepped through the door, leaving it wide open as if making these moments private was your problem. The delight you felt as you hip-checked the door closed and chased after her, hopping on one foot to tear your shoes from your feet just as she had. The way her heart raced under your hands as you caught her again and spun her into your arms. The sheer happiness and love in her eyes as she pushed up on her toes to press her lips to yours, the kiss only broken as she twisted and ducked out of her shirt leaving you clutching two handfuls of fabric.
Mischief twinkled in her eyes as she darted from the room, disappearing deeper into her home and challenging you to catch her once more.
(Tables, chairs, curtains, the way shadows and light fell in the room, the way you could see everything clearly despite the late hour- everything screamed that this was a fabricated space, a non-real simulation. A beautiful and yet utterly fake facade.)
Her apartment blurred as you gave chase, mind catching on everything you see and discarding it just as quickly.
You lost that chase when she crept up behind you and tugged your shirt over your head, spinning past you with a delicate brush of her hand across your ribs. You know, had she one ounce more daring, you’d have felt her tongue in your belly button- if your avatars had one.
Instead, by the time you can wrestle your jacket and shirt off of your head she’s gone again, giggling in the shadows of her apartment. You take one step and sputter as your pants fall down, the button undone by clever fingers you’d admired many times across the planning table or spinning a knife.
With no choice but to admit defeat, you leave them behind as you rush after her, brazenness and daring making you reckless. You’re not quite as careful giving chase now, leaping over her furniture and grabbing walls to torque around. You almost can erase the part of our mind that insists that you’re going to break something or damage the furniture. You know it won’t break unless actually attacked, but your life before VR screams otherwise. Your confidence is reinforced when the couch doesn't so much as shudder when you throw your weight into it, the chairs and table not sliding as you skate past them, the doorframe holding shape and not even digging into your fingers.
You tackle her, rolling along the floor and thudding against the wall. Immediately she fights, trying to squirm out of your grasp and slip away- the chase proving to be too much fun for it to be over. You do your best to hold her, but she doesn’t fight fair, her wandering hands just distracting enough to leave an opening that she can exploit. You don't come away empty handed though, rolling to snag the ankle of her pants. She jumps and kicks them, pushing with a hand and leaving you once more with an empty piece of clothing. (It should be warm from her body, but it isn’t. It’s just as cold as if you picked it off a shelf. NONE OF THIS IS REAL, your mind screams.)
She’s quick and wily, plus she has the home field advantage, but you have a secret weapon: she wants what comes at the end of this chase just as much as you. With neither of you afraid to get hurt running around, and wide open windows providing just as much privacy as a wall, the chasing evolves to something more.
She has you pinned to the floor by the front door, barely keeping all your limbs down as she peppers your face with kisses. You press her against the window in the living room, oblivious people walking past just meters away down the sidewalk. Your lips are on her neck, and you’ve never been more grateful that sound doesn’t carry through objects unless someone is actively listening for it because of the sounds she’s making. When she manages to pull away from your grip, namely by pulling your hand to somewhere you hadn’t expected and giggling at your shell shocked expression, she darts for her bedroom. After a moment to compose yourself, you follow.
She’s sitting on her bed, half facing away from you, one hand to her chest. She looks back, meets your eyes and takes her hand away. Her bra goes with it. Your eyes widen and you step forward, freezing as she tosses her hair over her shoulder and turns to face you. She’s gorgeous. You’d called her cute a dozen times, admitted she was lovely to her face, used pretty and beautiful as a wall, but truly she is radiant. Stupefied, she has to beckon you with a finger, before you move again. Her face is striped red but her eyes are happy. You’re gentle as you settle in on the bed, crawling forward on your hands to meet her.
She kisses you firmly, a hand coming to rest on your cheek as she pulls you in by her lips. Lovestruck, you follow. She coaxes you down and crawls atop you, knees on either side of your thighs and hair washing over your face. (It should tickle your cheeks but it doesn’t because this is NOT REAL!) She dips down to press her lips to yours firmly, insistently, parting them just enough to hint at wanting more. Absently, you stretch a hand to trace her side and graze her ribs.
“I-” you try to conjure words, but she places a finger over your lips and shakes her head. She lays down atop you, tucking her face into your neck so she can nibble on the skin there. She’s warm and soft, but despite the weight there’s no discomfort. No bones jabbing into soft tissues, no hair caught and pulling. With so many signs, you can’t believe this is anything more than a facsimile. All of this is fake, a lie. The cruel truth is that you both are miles and miles apart each fed into a network of cables and lines that convinced your brains that you’re here, in this quiet apartment when really you’re on separate cold beds, miles apart. You close your eyes and turn away.
“Hey, love, what’s wrong?” she asks gently.
“None of this is real.” you mumble, hating yourself for ruining the mood.
“No matter what our brains are being told, we are quite far apart, aren’t we?” she smiles softly, then kisses your nose. “But never cheapen what we have with a lie like that. These bodies, this world might all be a lie made of ghosts and echoes, but our relationship-” she kisses your combined hands- “this is real. I love you, and I never want you to question that. No matter if we’re trapped in a death game, lying so far apart the gods themselves divide us or together, curled up in one set of sheets with nothing between us but skin and bone, I love you. Everything around us might be false, but we are true. Okay?”
“Okay.” you softly echo. “Love you too.”
“Right. Now, am I getting the strap out or are you going to be on top tonight?”