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Jonathan pinned Childermass down, claimed Childermass body and Childermass didn't care about anything else, couldn't care about anything else not even that Jonathan was Emma and she didn't care for Childermass either; didn't care for him more than his willingness to have his hair pulled and his skin licked and the name Arabella whispered fervorously in his ear.
Childermass kept the name Jonathan to himself, close to his bleeding heart, bit his lips until it hurt so he wouldn't let out anything by accident, so he wouldn't compromise himself or exist at all.
There was just Jonathan and Arabella, they were all that mattered; and in this evening when they shared their desolation and offered their bodies to the other to do as they pleased, he was Emma's woman and she was Childermass' man, and they weren't themselves but an imitation of someone else, someone better, and they didn't make love but desperately fucked out their feelings and their frustrations and the emptiness on their hearts. And maybe next morning the sorrow would not just return but also double, and they would be helpless in the face of the grief of what could have never been, but for a moment, there was no tomorrow.
All that existed was this moment right now, with their skin burning as their bodies melted together in impossible configurations, and the ghost of their own desire that would never be fulfilled except in this frenzied manner.
No one better than them at feeding off hopelessness and distorted illusions, after all.