______________________________________forgiveness - by adire___

He couldn't remember ever having a name.

Not one that mattered, anyway.

He gave his customers whatever name that they wanted to hear, but thought of himself as Desire--a name taken from a character in a graphic novel that he had glanced at once, leafed through and then put back on the shelf because he lacked the money to purchase it. Sandman, it had been called, and while he had never been one for kids' comic books this one had caught his attention--especially the stylized, faded, almost wispy-looking creature upon the cover, neither male nor female, but beautiful in a way that transcended gender, at once innocent and yet purely sexual. Wanted, needed, lusted after, loved....and untouched, unless that slender god-child desired it. Beautiful and deadly, like a rose whose thorns are tipped in poison. Perfect.....and he had flicked through the pages, filled with a startling amount of text, for as long as he dared to linger beneath the glare of the suspicious shopkeeper until he had discovered all that he possibly could about that unreal creature.

Thus he met Desire.

Sometimes he felt like Desire, some strange, slender cross between the sexes--lovely, androgynous, mysterious.

But not tonight.

Tonight he screamed "cheap trick" from the soles of his thigh-high vinyl platform boots--but then again, that was the point.

From the thigh-highs rose tattered, tight-fitting fishnets that vanished into the tiny swatch of black leather slung across his hips that he dared to call a skirt and that barely served to conceal the fact that he was wearing no underpants beneath the stockings; his midriff was left bare, his exposed navel and lean stomach a temptation to the eye, but his chest was covered with the silver mesh of a miniscule tube top. A black vinyl half-trench longer than the skirt itself concealed, for the most part, that he had no breasts to fill out the minimal garment. Against the black of both the coat's collar and the strip of black velvet encircling his neck, his shaggy, unevenly trimmed hair stood out a stark, snowy white laced with silver.

His hair was one of the things that attracted attention to him; while rough-cut, it was soft, baby-fine and silken, shimmering like stardust.....and he liked to imagine that if he looked closer, he could see miniscule rainbows of iridescent hue beneath the silvered white, like the subtle sheen of a polished opal. He liked to tell those who asked that it happened to him when he was younger, that some experience too terrible to remember shocked his hair that shade of startling white--but in truth he could not remember when it had not been that color, and suspected that he had been born that way, but sometimes the customers paid more for stories like that.

Sometimes he pitied them.

Turning and twisting before the scratched and oh-so-slightly warped full-length mirror propped against the wall of his bedroom, Desire frowned before reaching for his make-up case; he looked like a gangly, coltish twelve-year-old girl trying on her mother's tackiest clothes. It was a look that he hated, but it was what brought in the most customers; it was what the johns wanted, the garish face of pretend-female trash beauty that lured them in with promises of quick, hot satisfaction in exchange for cold cash--and that was what it was about, right? Build a better mousetrap, catch more mice.

He suddenly tasted bitterness in the back of his throat and, in an attempt to ward it off, paused in the act of applying too-thick mascara around eyes a strange shade of mixed hazel and amber, the color of faint light filtered through aged scotch, and reached over to flick the switch on the ancient and sputtering radio. It didn't matter the station; the music was all that he needed.

Aerosmith's "Angel" drifted through his bedroom, and he nearly cried.

Tears, however, would ruin his carefully-applied make-up, and so he swallowed down hard on the pain, on the hurtful, choking tightening in his throat, focusing on carefully applying the bright silver of his eyeshadow and near-white powder to the already ghost-pale pallor of his skin, his small, full mouth slipping open to allow quiet whispers of notes to mingle with the music weaving through the air.

You're my angel, he breathed softly, and then closed his eyes for a moment, letting the gentle whisper rise into a melodious swell of fluid joy. Come and save me tonight..... This, here, was his secret, his passion, this rolling tide of musical ecstasy in which he allowed his voice to create a crystalline web of soft, dreamlike magic, spinning a protective cocoon of mist around him that somehow, for a few sweet moments, shielded him from the harshness of the world. Light, soft, sweeter than any seventeen-year-old boy's should be, his voice was his only true pride, and a treasure that he hoarded closely, singing only to the empty air rather than any mundane human audience--hard rock, soft melody, ringing operatic arias, he matched them all, and drowned his bitter, jaded soul in a few instants of blissful hope that withered as soon as the notes faded from the air.

The secret music was the only true pleasure that he could experience, and the deepest pain; Desire sometimes fancied that he was a fallen Muse cast from Olympus by a jealous host of gods, but that fantasy soon faded with the irony of a Muse living in a cheap state of near-squalor and selling his body for the money to pay for that lifestyle. You're my angel, he sang once more, opening his eyes again and ignoring the tear-bright glitter in them as he reached for the tube of dark red lipstick upon his bureau. Come and make it all right....

As he applied a thick layer of the, in his opinion, too-bright lipstick.....he wondered if anyone would ever come and save him.

Yeah....save me from myself. Like I wouldn't do something other than this if I could.

The bitterness came once more, and brought with it a sharp, humorless bark of low laughter, but this time he did not sink into the music to chase it away; the song was over, he was finished, and it was nine o'clock--time to go. It wouldn't be the first night that he ventured out hating himself.

He lifted a hand, fingernails lacquered in slick red polish, and ghosted soft fingertips over the tattered cut-out of the original Desire taped up next to the mirror, a tiny, now-faded picture scissored from one of the free advertisement circulars handed out by various comic shops, and silently asked his namesake for strength.

You're my angel, he thought wistfully, and then fled his seventh-floor sanctuary for the perils of the night.

The street outside of his midtown Chicago apartment was strangely quiet for a Saturday night, with only the occasional sounds of passing cars and the over-loud conversations of slower-moving pedestrians--but he had no doubt that his usual haunt, the corner of Clark and Fullerton, would be rife with the usual activity. He rarely worked any nights other than weekends, and then only around holidays; his usual take was a hundred and fifty a night, but even if he did attract more business than that he usually quit after three hundred. It was safer that way. If he started to draw too much attention, the pimps who indulged his presence near their turf might suddenly find that their tolerance had a much higher price--his money, what little of it there was, or perhaps even his life.

The cab down to the fourth block of Fullerton cost too much, but walking there dressed as he was could have cost him his life as well--and he would rather endure the strange, furtive glances of a single cabbie than the mocking, pitying stares of the people he would have had to walk by for miles, anyway.

That, and the heels of the thigh-highs hurt like a bitch after the first mile.

When he stepped out of the accident-battered vehicle and onto the relative safety of his corner, the other regulars of the block were already there; Carla, the girl in the pink feather boa who always stood outside of the convenience store, and the pretty, exotic black girl with the ostentatious weave who lined up her jobs through Pipo, the pimp who thought he was a Puerto Rican gangster just because his great-grandfather was from South America.

For some reason it bothered Desire that he did not know any names to attach to the familiar faces of the various homeless men sprawled upon the sidewalk.

The girls cast a hostile glance in his direction, no doubt already wondering if they would lose any customers to him that night and, as always, hating the fact that a mere stripling of a boy could take anyone from them. Theirs was not a friendly relationship, but one of professional distance and politeness; nonetheless, Desire tossed an only slightly taunting smile of greeting in their direction before lounging against the corner street sign that doubled as a light post, letting his slender, angular body stretch feline and blatantly sensual in its posture.

Half an hour passed, watching the cars cruise slowly by, watching them idle for a few moments before moving on in search of game more suitable to the tastes of the driver; Desire watched one man and one woman stop to talk to Carla, the former chased away by her high prices and the latter by her refusal to work for someone of the same sex. Then the black girl--he thought her name was Tonya; she hadn't been here as long as Carla and he hadn't had a chance to find out yet--climbed into a small, sleek blue Honda, the slits in her skirt flashing her tiny bikini briefs before the car door closed behind her and she left Carla and Desire to continue to wait.

Sighing, already bored, the boy lifted his arms over his head, tilting his head back, closing his eyes, and arching his back in a long, languid stretch--before abruptly dropping his arms as a slight breeze whiffed over his suddenly-exposed backside, his lips pressing together tightly as he drew his coat tight about his body.

He opened his eyes to a pair of beady, glazed blue eyes shadowed by sweat-beaded, overhanging brows and a greasy smile full of cigarette-yellowed teeth.

Time to get to work.

The man leaned out of the window of a mid-eighties steel-grey Buick nudged up against the curb, leering half-drunkenly at the boy, his eyes raking warmly over his slender figure; for a moment, as always, Desire wondered if the man was even sober enough to realize that he was a boy--but from the gleam in his eyes, the furtive, secretive look on his face, the slight hint of veiled shame in that hungry stare.....he knew. Oh, he knew.

The boy exhaled softly, squaring his shoulders almost as though in preparation for a blow--and then simply sprawled, his lean body taking on a posture of even further sensual indolence as he practically wrapped himself around the post, his soft-hued eyes glazed with false heat as he regarded his eagerly staring audience with a sultry gaze, his mouth settling into a full-lipped pout. "Hey there, " he murmured.

"Baby, what's your name?" the john asked with what he thought was just the right amount of suave, just like all the others, and suddenly Desire wished that he would just get it over with and open the car door; frankly the fishnets were making his balls itch and he just wanted to do his job, get his money, and then go somewhere where he could ease his discomfort, away from that greedy stare like short, grubby fingers grasping at his flesh.

"What do you want it to be, handsome?" The line came to him by rote, as did the syrupy thickness of the low falsetto voice that somehow always reminded him of the illness that came after eating too much candy--too sweet, too hot, slightly aching....but the johns never seemed to see this. That voice was the true sacrilege of his occupation; his body was sold cheaply, and he did not care, but to alter his voice so drastically, to change his most precious possession for the sake of a dollar, hurt him terribly every time that he opened his mouth.

No matter. Ten minutes later, twenty at the most, he would be standing on this corner once more after downing deep draughts of burning Jack Daniels to rinse the familiar bitter taste from his mouth and feeling the texture of wrinkled bills warming his skin from their place tucked within the lace of the strapless bra that he wore only for amusement, the paper still slightly damp from being crumpled within the job's clenched and sweaty palm. Silent, as always feeling as though he were praying somehow in these moments after, praying to some god long dead for forgetfulness, or at least for an ending to this apathy. Silent, and praying for forgiveness for a crime that he would commit again the next time that he was forced to speak. Silent, and waiting for the next car to cruise to a stop before him, its occupant eyeing him with the same greasy, calculating stare, trying to guess if the price of his lips matched the green in his pockets.

Praying for forgiveness.

Sighing, pasting an accommodating smile upon his lips, he slipped past the car door held open for him and oozed smoothly into the seat, casting the middle-aged, rather hairy man at his side a coy, inviting glance, trying not to grimace at the air of furtive, sweaty nervousness and lust that hovered over him.

The older man smiled an ingratiating smile, and pulled the car away from the curb.

This time, the job didn't even last ten minutes. Roughly eight minutes later he was sliding from the car and into the darkness of the alley less than twenty feet from his corner, not even bothering to wait for his satisfied customer to zip up his pants to conceal the marks of lipstick upon his limp and flaccid member. This time the ingratiating smile was upon his own lips, mocking and condescending, and he purred a low, "Thanks, sugar...." before closing the car door upon the suddenly embarrassed man's red and sweaty features and sauntered back towards the more well-lit area of the street.

The money felt just as he had known it would, itching slightly at the skin of his chest and warming one small, flat, pink nipple like a touch of lukewarm water.

He passed a cleansing hand along his mouth, and stepped into Junksie's.

The corner bar was dark and smoky, as bars in Chicago tended to be, tinted with a color of sour golden light that turned Desire's eyes into bottomless wells of honeyed liquid.

"Hey, kid." Dan raised a hand from behind the bar, beckoning to him, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders Desire made his way across the half-deserted room, the lazy, exaggerated sway vanishing from his walk to be replaced by a more business-liked stride. "Don't tell me you're already in for your first drink of the night, " he added, lofting a brow as the boy flung himself onto one of the pitted and splintery stools, only pausing to take a care for his fishnets.

"You know it, " he answered casually, relieved to speak in normal tones; his coolly apathetic eyes slid over one of the few people in this harsh city to ever show him the slightest hint of kindness, and wondered if Dan ever felt disgusted by him, as disgusted as he should have been with himself but couldn't quite bring himself to be. "Always have to have one after the first job."

"I don't blame you, " the burly, swarthy bartender muttered, his eyes rolling in exaggerated sympathy as he grimaced before he shrugged as well, reaching beneath the bar for a clean glass. "I don't know how you do that; you want the usual?"

"Yeah, sure, " Desire murmured, before offering the man a politely absent smile of gratitude, folding his hands upon the scratched bar with its lacquer-bubbled surface. "Double shot of Jack." He'd have to drink a lot more to get drunk enough not to taste it--but it was a start.

"No prob, kid." Dan never asked his name; if he asked his name, he might have to ask his age, something that he did not want to do--and something that Desire was grateful for. Questions were the last things that he needed.

He sighed, falling silent and staring down at his interlaced fingers as he listened to the soft sounds of liquid striking glass. Thinking distant thoughts of nothingness.

Praying.

One day I'll be like you, Desire. One day.

He lifted his gaze as Dan slid the tumbler full of deep golden-brown liquid the same color as Desire's eyes towards him, and tossed him another grateful smile as he closed his fingers about the cool glass, for a moment simply focusing on that sensation alone, the coldness of the slick, hard surface against his skin, isolating that simple feeling and closing his eyes as he tilted his head back and let that water-cool sensation spread up his arm, imagining it flowing through his veins.

His eyes opened to find Dan watching him with an odd, inscrutable expression on his face, and he lowered his gaze sheepishly, staring into his drink as his shoulders hunched. An apology hovered upon his lips, but he never voiced it, for the bartender only smiled and shrugged, in his own silent way saying "It's none of my business, kid, " before he moved away to answer a call from further down the bar.

Again, Desire was grateful.

The liquor stung his throat on the way down, but he drank it quickly anyway, tossing it down in only two swallows and a hurtfully amused thought about how much practice he had had at such things lingering in the back of his mind, only barely chased away by the swift rush of dizziness that followed the thunking of the glass upon the bar. He shook his head sharply, inhaling deeply; his throat felt prickly, as though the air he was breathing was colder than midwinter in Colorado; it was a good feeling, a clean feeling, one that taste of metal and something crisp rather than the bitterness of human salt.

The drink forgotten, his spirits refreshed, Desire tossed a parting wave to Dan and returned to the familiarity of his street.

It was busier now; traffic moved more swiftly, and less people slowed to cruise by the sex for hire standing on the sidewalk. Tonya was back already, propped against a newspaper machine and smoking a cigarette, while Carla was occupied leaning against the windowsill of a car, offering her promising smile of debauchery and sin to whoever lurked within.

Business as usual.

Desire would have killed for a cigarette at the moment, but from the look on Tonya's face when he caught her eye, asking would have earned him a severe tongue-lashing. He didn't smoke enough to waste the money to buy his own, so he would just have to suffer. And so, with a sigh, he settled into place against the light-post-cum-street-sign, resuming his posture of enticing indolence as though he had never left and wondering idly if he'd take in any more cash tonight. It wouldn't be the first night that he'd only turned one trick, and probably wouldn't be the last; as long as he pulled in an average of at least two hundred per weekend, he could still afford his tiny, two-room apartment and anything else that he needed to survive. While he had taken the night before off, which was unusual for him, he had no doubt that he could make it up the next night; contrary to popular belief, Sundays were the busiest nights in his trade. And even if he didn't come through this week, he could always make it up the next weekend...or the next. It was a never-ending cycle.

"How much?"

......................!!

He had not even realized that he had slipped into a sort of sleeping wakefulness, staring blankly and sightlessly out at the ever-moving street, and had no idea how long he had been that way--but the sound of a female voice, cold and serpent-hungry, slapped at him like a dash of cold water, snapping him back to reality and drawing his eyes downwards to glance into the open window of the bright red Chevrolet parked before his tiny square of territory.

Eyes of a pale, sickly green gazed back at him, hard and cold and as serpentine as the voice, rimmed in too much liner and mascara, even more cheaply done than his own. Eyeshadow the color of fresh bruises tried to bring some color to a face turning sallow from the ending of middle age, and failed--as did the caked-on liquid makeup and powder that only served to highlight the cavernous craters of overlarge pores rather than conceal them. Her stylized hair was dyed the garish shade of red that hinted at the beginnings of grey streaking the original brown beneath, and almost matched the bright, somehow sticky red that colored her too-wide, plasticine mouth. There was something about her that gave Desire a chill of sickness--something grasping and desperate, searching for the affirmation of fading beauty and willing to do anything to find it. She seemed like the kind of woman who could suck the very soul out of a man--at once so confident of her own allure that it sickened, and yet at the same time so insecure that it made her waspish and disgustingly saccharine, oozing with syrupy oversensuality.

Desire drew back, almost shrinking away, a grimace of distaste curling his lips before he smoothed them into a tight line of indifference; he eyed her coldly, tossing his head to clear his hair from his glittering eyes. "Too much for you, " he answered calmly, businesslike; there were some things that even he would not do, and she was one of them.

"Mm. So you're like that, hm?" she said nastily, and Yes, I'm like that; I don't like women, you filthy hag! almost spilled without shame past his lips, but he held his tongue. Suddenly a quick flash of green fluttered out the window of the car, and her bleeding gash of a mouth, too wet, too soft, curved into a cloying smile. "There's more where that came from."

"It had better be a lot more, " he hissed softly, eyes narrowing and hoping that his hostility, as well as his insistence on a higher price, would drive her away as it had with others. And if not....then he could always seek the safety of Junksie's, and Dan's dubious protection should the woman grow too persistent.

Rather than shrink away, or grow aggressive, however....her hand flashed out once more, and this time when Desire saw the two bills clutched between her spidery fingers his mouth went dry, his eyes widening marginally. "This enough?" she crooned silkily, her expression as well as her tone insufferably self-satisfied.

The boy hesitated, staring down at the pale green temptation of the proffered money in silence. Two hundred dollars....I wouldn't have to work until next week with that.... .He licked his lips swiftly, nervous eyes darting from the cash to her expectant face and back again; indecision swam upon the air, thick and tasting of smoke, and he felt himself choking. He didn't work for women; that was his rule--and this one, this clutching, darkly desperate, somehow hungry woman frightened him in some strange way....but two hundred dollars was more than anyone had ever offered him for a single job before.

"Well?" she snapped, filling the silence with her impatience, and the bills rustled dryly together, luring him an unconscious step closer to the vehicle, almost as though the soft sound had hypnotized him.

She seemed to take that involuntary movement as some form of assent, and leaned over to shove the passenger door open, her covetous smile turning smug. "Get in, " she purred. "I've got an apartment near here."

Moving as though in a daze, his eyes struggling to remain trained upon the money still held in her hand, Desire moved robotically around the vehicle and slipped into the seat; the coldness of the faux leather seat against the back of his thighs brought him back to awareness for a moment, and he watched in something akin to quiet horror as she slipped the folded bills into her blouse, tucking it into her bra.

"Don't worry, " she said, almost seeming to mock him as she noticed the panicked expression upon his face. "You'll get all of it, and more if you please me."

Desire blinked slowly, and then jerked his eyes away, training them out the window--and then he retreated into some safe place deep within once more, hiding within a cocoon of numbness and seeming to watch himself from a distance as he pulled the car door closed and fastened the seat belt across his angular hips.

He was barely aware as she started the Chevrolet once more, and only watched the street move by dazedly, folding his hands in his lap and focusing simply on the task of breathing, as though if he could remember how to do that evenly, correctly, he might be able to use that focus to force back the rising sense of panic that was roiling his insides. The woman at his side was silent, but it seemed as though he could hear her thoughts, as surely as though her sticky-painted lips spoke them. I'll show the little fairy, her silent lips said. I'll show him what a real woman is like.

Just show me your money, he answered, just as silently. And let me go home.

Before he even knew it, she was pulling into a tiny wedge of a parking spot along a street less than a mile away, and stepping from the car, tossing him a glance that was obviously meant to entice him to follow and only served to heighten his nervous revulsion. However, follow her he did, up the landing and into an apartment building not much better than his own, through the lobby and up three flights of stairs that made his platform heels click and echo ominously with his every step.

3-B. She stopped at 3-B, and then claw-like fingernails fished a jangling set of keys from a battered leather purse, and she allowed him into her witch's domain.

Or at least, that's how he thought of it. It was an ordinary enough apartment; poorly constructed bay windows, not-quite-clean furniture in faded beige, throw rugs scattered everywhere to brighten the slightly dismal place. The main room served as both living room and dining room, and through a cutaway he could see a small kitchen, its sink containing few dishes but the trash can overflowing with take-out cartons and wine cooler bottles. A single door led out of the room; Desire could only guess that it led into the bedroom and attached bath. All in all, it was like a marginally larger, slightly cleaner, better-furnished version of his own tiny shoebox apartment, not all that unwelcoming--but when her presence colored the room, it became a sticky spider's web of death, a trap woven in wet white strands, and he wanted nothing more than to escape from her clutches.

She closed the door behind him, and Desire swallowed down hard, keeping his eyes focused anywhere but on her--but her cold hand curled around his wrist, tugging him towards the other door, and he stumbled after her, taking a deep breath and steeling himself. Apparently she was eager to get down to business, and he was almost grateful; the sooner it began, the sooner it would end.

She practically dragged him into a bedroom draped with ridiculous amounts of cheap red imitation satin, making it look as gaudy as she--but he barely had time to take in his surroundings before she suddenly flung his whip-thin frame onto a queen-sized bed whose ancient springs squealed in protest against the impact. Her hands were instantly at his clothing, tugging and pulling voraciously, and with eyes widened by fresh panic he could only stare at her in shock as she hovered over him, a glazed expression of animalistic, frenzied hunger upon her exaggerated features. She had pushed his skirt up already--but when she started to tug his fishnets downwards, he finally found the coherence to protest.

"H-hey, lady, slow down!" he whimpered, pushing at her hands, but she swatted his fragile fingers aside like fluttering insects and offered him a nasty smile, her tongue slithering across her lips like some slimy pink slug.

"Just be a good boy and shut up, " she drawled with mock-sensuality, drawing away to unbutton her own blouse, no doubt thinking that by letting him watch her undress she was bestowing some special favor upon him. "I'm not paying you to talk."

"Right..." he whispered faintly, closing his eyes and falling limp against the mattress; he suddenly felt nauseous once more, nauseous and dizzy, the blackness behind his eyelids spinning as though he might pass out--and at the moment, he would have been grateful for the release.

"Boy, " she whispered softly, sick-sweetly, and he cracked his lids for a moment, peering at her warily as hands like talons fell to rest upon his hips once more--and then instantly shut them again at the sight before him, a body that had perhaps once been firm now sagging, speckled with the beginnings of liver spots and graced with hanging sacks of withered breasts dangling above a shriveled and barrenly dry woman's center.

Do not....do not...not....just.....be still, it'll be over soon..... he told himself over and over again as her fingers slid over his long, lean, boy-smooth thighs, struggling not to shudder in revulsion at her touch--and then he whimpered as her hand curled about his unresponsive sex, touching him, stroking him demandingly, making his stomach churn even as his body betrayed him, uncaring of who or what gave it pleasure as long as there was stimulation.

No....god....how could you do this to me....this isn't happening.....

He gripped tightly at the sheets, more out of an attempt to control the urge to rake savagely at her, clawing for freedom, rather than any passion-induced urge; he had to think of the money, the precious two hundred dollars that she had stowed away somewhere, that and possibly more. He was doing this for the money, more money than he had ever been paid at once in his life, and somehow that fact soothed him, and he lost himself in thoughts of what he might do with his free Sunday; perhaps he might spend it reading, or filling yet another notebook with his random, abstract thoughts in his slow, scrawling hand.....He might even try his hand at painting again, if he could afford to ruin a canvas or at least some kind of thick paper--anything but this.

He had almost succeeded in completely blocking out his surroundings, even as his body tossed and writhed upon the bed.....and then her mouth closed over him, the hot, wet sensation dragging him harshly back, and he tossed his head back, crying out in pleasure and disgust, hating her, hating himself, hating his body for responding to her touch--and then she was drawing him in hard, and it hurt, it hurt, and he felt his skin bruising, knew that he would ache for days after this.

This had to end...it had to end soon; he could not withstand this torture for much longer, and would either go mad or become violently ill. A blank gaze, hopeless and lost, stared up at the pitted ceiling, and the tiny dots textured on the surface stared back at him like pitiless eyes, mocking the bright tears welling in bourbon-golden depths. Let me die, he whimpered soundlessly, and then there was nothing that he could do but pray.

Help.....

Closing his eyes, and praying....

Help me, Desire....

Crying out loud, and praying......

Make it stop......

Simply crying, and praying....just praying.

Desire....please.

As though in answer to his plea, or perhaps sadistic mockery of it, his body spasmed for one last time, bursting with a gross, sticky wetness that his tormenter lapped at eagerly, drinking greedily of him and paying no mind to the streams dribbling down her chin--and he scrambled away from her, scooting across the bed like a threatened wild animal, his eyes fierce and feral and terrified.....But she made no move to follow, and now he saw what her hands had been doing while her mouth had been busy with him; he watched in horror as her eyes closed, a low, hissing moan rolling from her throat as her hag's body shuddered once, twice, and again, her mouth hanging slack and her head tilting back.

Choking on his own bile, Desire pushed himself swiftly off of the bed, adjusting his clothing as though it might somehow protect him from her before pressing himself against the wall, watching as the woman fell limply onto the bed, her skinny chest heaving with every gasping breath. The door beckoned him, and he glanced wildly from it to her and back again--before, to his relief, she flopped an arm over the edge of the bed, her hand fumbling about in the pile of clothing on the floor before retrieving a wad of bills and flinging it carelessly in his direction.

Almost against his own will, the boy crept forward warily....before suddenly scrambling to collect the green slips, clutching them close to his chest as though afraid that she might snatch them away until he had performed some other service. The thought brought a fresh wave of vomit welling suddenly in his throat, and he spun on his heel so quickly that he nearly fell, desperate to remove her from his sight--fleeing from the room, the apartment, the building, his steps clattering loudly as he ran, leaving behind the aging sack of flesh and cellulite....but never, ever the memory of her touch.

Never before had he so desperately wished for forgiveness.

Desire ran down the street, crumpled bills still clutched between his fingers, unmindful of where his steps might take him and sobbing blindly, drawing stares as he rushed past pedestrians and lurking beggars but completely uncaring. Violated....he felt beyond violated, and yet suddenly he felt an uprising of bitterly painful humor as, for some reason, an image flashed in his mind of Julia Roberts--Vivian, the hooker in Pretty Woman.

"I am not your property to be passed around! I say who, I say when....I say...I say...who...."

He could suddenly understand her hysteria at that moment. Yeah, well, at least Richard Gere gave you that choice, sister.

Sniffling softly, slightly calmer, the boy slowed, lifting one hand to swipe the back of it across his eyes as he settled into a rapid walk, stuffing his hard-earned money into the pocket of his coat without even counting it before drawing the garment tight about his body, as though it might shield him from the world. He would never, ever take up an offer like that again, no matter how much money was in it; the game was about survival, and although this particular trick had been necessary for that survival....so was avoiding ever doing it again.

He only hoped the woman wouldn't ever seek him out on his corner again.

A shudder racked his frame, fresh revulsion, new waves of sickly disgust, and he clutched a hand over his stomach as he felt the stale pop-tart that he had eaten earlier that evening struggling to come back up. Don't think about it....do not think about it or you'll go fucking crazy, Desire..... If it even came to that he could always seek out new territory--but he had worked hard to carve out his niche, his space in front of Junksie's, and he wasn't so eager to give it up willingly.

It wouldn't come to that--it couldn't. She knew how much she disgusted him, and couldn't possibly be cruel enough to inflict that upon him again.

Please. She probably gets off on it.

Sighing, Desire brushed his hair from his eyes and stopped at the corner of the street, glancing up to check the street sign overhead--and was surprised to see that he was only a few blocks from home. Well, he thought wryly. At least I saved money on a cab ride home.

He traversed the last few blocks as quickly as he could without running, focusing the entirety of his being on the simple task of walking....as though, should he be given time to think, the last fragile thread holding his composure in one piece might very well snap. Upon reaching his apartment building, he passed the landlady, standing in her doorway and conversing with one of the other tenants; she raised a hand to him in a polite wave, but he rushed past without even seeing her and practically fled into the elevator.

Four locks snapped open, and then were twisted almost viciously closed as he took refuge in the safety of his living room; breathing heavily, Desire slumped against the door, glancing slowly about the junk-littered room as though it were his first time seeing it, his glittering eyes darting over the ancient desk and tottering bookshelf with its collection of ten-cent paperbacks and rows upon rows of notebooks arranged in chronological order, every last one of them filled with his own writing, some times his deepest, most personal thoughts and at others simply whatever struck his fancy. Newspapers and thousands of random odds and ends occupied nearly every free space, from the three-legged coffee table held up on a cinder block to every last inch of the couch save for the tiny niche that he preferred to curl up in when watching the static-hissing, foil-antennaed television; the wrapper from the earlier pop-tart was still on the table, along with the empty styrofoam cup from his breakfast of instant ramen.

It wasn't luxury, but it was safe, familiar....home.

And here, it was safe to truly cry.

Like a dying flower, he wilted to the floor, crumpling in a boneless heap of shuddering flesh and curling about himself in a position of fetal protection as he burst into broken, racking sobs, his J.D.-stinking fingers scrubbing harshly, painfully through his hair as though he might tear the silken locks out. Dirty....filthy....tainted.....never had he felt more like a whore, more like a cheap, worthless piece of tawdry flesh, unfit to even breathe. Her scent still clung to him, thick and musky, and suddenly he could stand his contaminated clothing no longer and tore at it viciously, his sobs choking harshly in his throat before escaping as brittle coughs. Coat, skirt, top, bra, all were flung to the threadbare carpet, before he kicked off his boots and writhed out of his fishnets to lie there, naked as a virginal babe, weeping his heartbreak into the ratty floor.

And yet the smell still lingered.....and, desperate, almost hysterical, he scrabbled across the floor, pushing himself shakily to his feet and fleeing into the bathroom; he could not get into the shower quickly enough, and was almost grateful for the harsh sensation of the scalding water stinging at his pale and fragile flesh. Make me clean again, he prayed to the picture on the wall of his bedroom, just barely visible through the open bathroom door. Please....make me clean.

Rough terrycloth abraded his skin, wiped away smeared mascara, scrubbed at gaudy makeup; he sobbed once more as he touched tender, stinging flesh, struggled to wipe away the shame of her sticky red marks upon his body. He could still smell her heavy perfume....it was in his nostrils, soaked into his pores, and it would never go away, no matter how much off-brand imitation Irish Spring he washed over his body.

Calm down, Desire, he chided shakily, and imagined that the picture on the wall echoed the words in soothing tones, reaching out to offer him a comfort that he felt he didn't deserve.

"I'll be fine, " he whispered softly to himself as he bent to shut the water off, his fingers trembling only slightly as he stared at them through the sodden shag of his hair. "Just fine."

He could almost believe it as he stepped from the stall and onto the slick tile, reaching for a tattered Goodwill-purchased towel to wrap about his waist before padding into the bedroom. He dressed quickly, slipping into a pair of oversized military-issue cargo pants that just barely caught upon his narrow, bird-wing hipbones, colored that muted dirt-green that never quite seemed to come clean. Over the rough canvas of the pants he slipped a sleeveless girls' crop-top that clung close to his narrow chest and ribs and exposed his long, flat stomach, its weave of some strange combination of cotton and spandex only slightly dulled from the original black that it had been when it first caught his eye at the K-Mart Super Sale. Silver winked bright against that dark field, a simply wrought cross upon its delicate-linked chain and an ironic symbol of faithlessness.

He stared blankly at his reflection in the mirror, and then sighed softly. Familiar clothing....familiar comfort. He almost felt normal again.

Only then did he remember to count his take for the night; he hadn't even bothered in his earlier hysteria, because it hadn't seemed to matter. He was still wondering if it even did.

Shaking his damp hair from his eyes, he shoved his hands into his pockets and padded back into the living room, making his way towards the corner where he had flung the slick black heap of his coat; wrinkling his nose, he bent over it, plucking distastefully at it until he managed to slip a hand into its pocket, trying to avoid more than the necessary contact with the soiled garment. He withdrew the crumpled wad of bills, straightening as he smoothed them out in his palm and meandered lazily towards the couch. Fifty....hundred....hundred fifty....two....two and fifty.....holy shit.

Eyes wide, almost in shock, Desire collapsed onto the couch, his entire body limp save for the tight clutch of his fingers about the cold, crisp bills. "Jesus christ, " he whispered raspily; he was holding not three, not four, but five hundred and fifty fucking dollars in his hand--almost three weeks' income in one night, from only two tricks. He wouldn't have to work for weeks with this--and might even be able to afford to splurge a little and eat something other than ramen and off-brand government foods.

"Jesus christ, " he repeated.....and then, "Shit!" before he suddenly threw his head back with a wild laugh laced with just an edge of insanity, almost but not quite joyful. "Ha, " he muttered to the empty air. "Gave me just enough to pay for a therapy session when she's the fucking reason I need it." His laughter rang cold over the small apartment, somehow as much of a desperate release as his earlier tears had been--mad, hysterical, flowing out of him like floodwaters released from a dam and bringing with it a strangely cool sense of blessed relief.

I'm going to be all right, he thought again, clutching the wadded bills close to his chest and pulling his knees up, toes curling about the edge of the couch cushion. I'm going to be all right...and now it's time to celebrate.

As if there was anything to truly celebrate.

Slowly, shakily, he tottered to his feet, stuffing a fifty-dollar-bill into his pocket before secreting the rest within one of the books on the shelf--and then shoved his feet into a pair of worn combat boots that sometimes felt so heavy that they were almost too much trouble to lift from the ground, but were now as light as a feather, as light as he felt, as though he might float away on the merest breeze blowing in from the great lake.

Spirits lifted, almost cheerful, he disdained the elevator for the stairs, thudding down them carelessly, almost recklessly, and bursting into the lobby with the sort of exuberance that he supposed was appropriate for boys his age. The landlady was still there, propped in her doorway, and this time he offered her a bright salute of a wave, earning him a strange, puzzled look followed by a smile reminiscent of Dan's unquestioning acceptance. Desire flashed her an answering grin, and then slipped out the door and into the night once more.

The lights seemed brighter somehow, making the thick blanket of velvet night somehow darker, warmer, and he hummed softly to himself as he paced down the street towards the all-night Chinese take-out restaurant two blocks down, his hands pushed into his pockets and their weight slinging the pants further down on his hips, his body slouched into a curve of lazy, careless aestheticism.

It had been a long time since he had been to Fu Wong's, but even after all this time it still amused him that a supposedly authentic Chinese restaurant was owned and operated by Indians--but he supposed that, in a city like Chicago, everything was as authentic as you wanted to make it. He didn't quite know what to order--but anything involving noodles was most definitely out of the question, after months of those sickening Cup o' Ramen meals. Desire stepped up to the counter, idly fingering the bill in his pocket, eyes narrowing slightly at the backlit overhead fast-food-style menu, before ordering a cashew chicken combo with egg rolls and rice, as well as an order of steamed pork dumplings that he might save for breakfast in the morning.

The dark-skinned man behind the counter eyed him strangely, almost as though he didn't quite understand him--before nodding and ringing up his order, taking the cash and returning his change before turning to yell something through the partition into the back, shouting something garbled that Desire had no hope of grasping. Like I care, he thought wryly, propping himself against the wall to wait. As long as I get my food, it doesn't matter. He was surprisingly hungry, especially after his previous overwhelming nausea, and the scents within the small enclosure were driving him nearly mad, making his stomach growl and rumble with impatience.

Ten minutes later he was sauntering jauntily down the street, the standard-issue carry-out case of paper-thin cardboard propped between his hip and elbow, fingernails drumming idly at the side of it as he pondered stopping at the corner store for a pint of ice cream--before he drew up short at a strange prickling on the back of his neck, eyes narrowing slightly as he slowed to glance surreptitiously over his shoulder.

It was nearly midnight, and the street was empty--save for a single black Camaro, sleek and likely less than a year old, that was cruising slowly along the pavement.....and that idled to a stop as he slowed, and then eased gradually into motion once more as he began to walk more quickly. Fuck. I think it's following me.

He hoped it was only some high school kid in Daddy's car that had decided to screw with random people on the street--but he was afraid that it might be someone else, a pimp with a score to settle with the independent kid or, even worse, an obsessive customer that had been following him in secret for god only knew how long. It had happened to others before; that's how some of the tricks ended up dead.

Just walk faster....you're almost home. Steps quickening, Desire hugged his dinner close, shoulders hunching and head bowing as he tried to look casual about hurrying home as quickly as he could. The last thing he needed tonight was this shit.

"Excuse me."

He stiffened, eyes widening, as a soft, low voice, as rich as deep burgundy wine and dark as softly crushed black velvet, sounded only a few feet away, underscored by the low growling of an idling engine. That voice didn't belong to a psychopath, not any kind of psychopath that he had heard of; that voice belonged to a wealthy man, or at least an educated man, clear and quietly crisp and oh-so-slightly accented with the tone of foreign culture.

It was that voice that compelled him to look.

He paused briefly, tensely, his eyes sliding to the side; the window of the Camaro was rolled down, and through it he caught a glimpse of pale, pale skin, like a wisp of transparent white silk; hair as black as the night around them was raked into aesthetic disarray, a few short strands falling to sweep across the almost silvered surfaces of reflective sunglasses that should have seemed out of place in the midnight darkness but somehow did not. Below those glasses was a small, narrow nose, softly peaked and delicate and blending into a mouth that smiled frostily, somehow promising and darkly inviting and yet warding one away with its icy distance....untouchable. Soft lips, the upper thin, but not too much so, and the lower the perfect touch of fullness--and silver. Silver, not red. He imagined that the man would be beautiful, young and beautiful, without the sunglasses.

Blinking slowly, confused, Desire took a step backwards, his gaze focused on that Mouth as though it were the only living thing upon the otherwise shielded and immobile face. "Something I can help you with?" he muttered finally, after a long moment of speechlessness.

"I saw you over on Fullerton." The Mouth spoke quietly, casually, and yet the words seemed too informal, as though that voice were accustomed to speaking in some higher tongue. "And I thought that I would stop and speak."

Great. A freak--probably one of those weird stalker types. "I'm not on call, buddy, " he answered perfunctorily, shifting the takeout carton uncomfortably upon his hip before beginning to step forward once more. "I quit for the night. Go find yourself someone else."

"No one else has captured my interest."

This made him draw up short in surprise, freezing once more as he darted an incredulous glance towards the Mouth--the man--and his black Camaro, his quietly ostentatious vehicle that spoke of comfortable living and a life that Desire would never know--and he suddenly felt snappish, jealous, hateful.

"Well that's too bad, isn't it?" The boy turned away, lips curving downwards; why did all of the weirdos insist on seeking him out tonight? "I told you....I'm not working right now."

"I can see that. But I will pay for your time. More than she did." Desire nearly gasped, and then squeezed his eyes shut to block the sudden upsurgence of memory; how had this hateful creature known about her? Even if he had been watching him for that long......

But the Mouth was still speaking, softly, smoothly, his voice a strange reassurance that soothed away the sickness that the boy felt, touched the hot chancres of memory's sores with a caress that could not heal, but brought cool, momentary relief from pain. "And.....I would like to talk to you. Just talk....nothing more, unless you are agreeable."

"I don't have anything to say......" Desire murmured, swaying on his feet unsteadily; he felt faint once more, but this time it was almost as though he were close to swooning, as though that voice had somehow sapped his strength, leaving him weak and pliant and biddable.

"Everyone has something to say; the difference is whether or not they are willing to say it." A low chuckle rolled upon the air, and for some reason the boy thought of the wind from a rocking sea, although the closest that he had ever been to anything resembling a sea was the lake. "Your name, for instance?" the slit of soft, rose-tinted, silver-glossed paleness asked, and Desire lofted a brow in mild surprise, awareness emerging from the fog once more, at the detached distance in the tone, not quite cold but lacking in the sickening, forced confidence and machismo that he was so accustomed to.

He would not, however, give this freaked-out stalker the chance to catch him off-guard, nor the sacred syllables of what he thought of as his true name. "What do you want it to be?" The practiced line slid smoothly from his lips, and suddenly he hated it.

He hated it even more when the Mouth smiled a cold, hurtful smile. "Please, " it said, and the cultured richness of that voice stabbed him smoothly. "Do not insult me."

"I....I don't have a name, " he answered haltingly, faltering as though the knife of that voice had truly wounded him and taken his capability of speech--and then suddenly anger overtook him; how dare this stranger, too proud and haughty to even let him see his eyes, demand this of him, make him hurt this way? "I don't need one, " he stated proudly, straightening his artfully slouched posture, but to him what his voice truly said was, You're no better than I am. I don't care what you do for your money or what kind of car you drive; I'm just as good as you are. We are the same--the same, so fuck you.

The Mouth quirked slightly, as though it knew exactly what he was thinking, and there was a moment of slow, tense, expectant silence before those pale lips parted once more. "Surely there must be something that you call yourself?"

How dare he--how dare he?! The boy's fists curled slowly, tightly, pressing against his long, lean thighs, his jaw tightening as he stared coolly at the polished, mirrored surfaces of the stranger's sunglasses, his anger darkening to the color of silent fury. "Desire, " he stated quietly, disdainfully. "My name is Desire."

"Do you truly think that you deserve that name?"

Desire was fully prepared to snap off a cold, biting answer.....and then dark glasses slid downwards to reveal darker eyes, fathomless orbs chiseled from glittering black diamonds, and he found himself staring, mesmerized, confused, drifting in a lost world of mist and lightlessness where somehow the only brightness came from those black pits of beautiful nothingness.

"I....I....." he stammered, fingernails gouging into his clenched fists as widened amber-hazel eyes continued to stare, utterly transfixed. "I....don't know...." he finally whispered slowly, his voice small and lost.

Hypnotically dark eyes blinked slowly, languidly, and then a hand as pale as beach stones beneath the moonlight seemed to float across the empty space to the opposite side of the car.

The mechanical click-chack of the door latch releasing seemed out of place, too loud, too harsh for this strange midnight dream encounter--for, indeed, the world had taken on the unreality of dreaming and certainly this stranger was some figment of his tormented imagination.

The car door swung slowly open with a low, muted squeal, and then silence fell, like the hush that follows the flutterings of multitudinous ravens' wings. Those black, black eyes regarded him steadily, measuring, judging, inviting, offering, and then.....

"Get in, " the stranger said softly, commanded, and yet somehow gently, sweetly requested.

Desire balked, clutching his take-out carton close to his hip as though for protection, his wide eyes staring at the darkly-dressed man as though uncomprehending....and then he shook his head slightly, taking another step backwards as if by placing more distance between them he might break the encroaching spell of bewitchment that the other seemed to radiate unconsciously. "I....I can't....." he whispered brokenly, his lower lip trembling and his throat tightening--from what grief, he did not know, but his words brought a pain deeper than any that he had ever felt, stabbing at him like a white-hot blade fresh from the smithy's iron and cleaving his flesh. In his mind's eye he saw blood, his own blood, night-dark and yet glowing hot and bright as it spiraled out from him in coursing ribbons like wet satin......his death blow, in those simple words.

Why...why do I....I am....broken...... came the dull, distant thought, and "....broken....." he repeated aloud, unconsciously, now more than his lips trembling as he stared blankly at those bottomless black eyes, for a moment wishing nothing more than that he might fall into the soothing coolness of those liquid ebon wells and drown himself in their oblivion. Broken....and I can't even....even heal myself.....

Let me heal you, those eyes said. Mend what has only so recently been torn. Please....let me ease your pain.

A soft sound echoed in the empty tunnel of Desire's throat, and his eyes flew wide as a sensation like a tender, whispered kiss brushed his lips, fingers of stroking wind tasting his skin, the carton nearly falling from his suddenly numb fingers--and throughout this the stranger watched, silent, like cold, ancient stone in his quiet patience.

"I can't...." Desire repeated once more, nearly whimpering....and then his tensed shoulders slumped, and he swayed slowly forwards like the felling of a willow, his slender body seeking support against the car's hood as his muscles quivered and became as insubstantial as water. Pain....so much pain, the anguish of an entire lifetime of denial and wishful need, and had he not been so captured by the struggle to fend off fresh tears he might have felt humiliated for his lack of control, that there might be any witness to his final breaking.

But dark eyes sang to him, sang his strength, sang his salvation, and the blood in his mind's eye turned pale, like milk, like water, like liquefied crystal, and wrapped him in a cocoon that dulled the hot spark of agony into a slow, pulsing ache, and "Yes...." he whispered, staggering towards the opened car door before he even knew that he was moving.....and although the stranger never moved from his seat, it seemed as though those pale hands were braced beneath his arms, lifting him much as invisible wings might, supporting him, helping him to collapse limply into the seat--and in a moment of clarity, the boy spared an ironic thought for the fact that somehow he had managed to keep the Chinese take-out carton upright and even now held it neatly across his lap.

I am....I am losing my mind, he thought blankly, staring at nothing and yet for some reason focusing intently upon the iridescent-white strands of hair wisping across his eyes.

"Your seatbelt, " the stranger reminded gently, watching him with inscrutable eyes that could belong to a killer or a saint, and Desire complied obediently before settling comfortably into the leather of the black-surfaced seats.

I'm losing my mind, and don't even seem to care. But at least....at least....I'm making a living....

....making a living, if not truly living....

....not truly living.....

....what if I died....

....died....

.....dead.

Am I dead?

He was not dead. He was sitting in a black Camaro, sitting next to a pale, beautiful stranger in a car that pulled away from the curb as sleekly as the panther that its driver suddenly reminded him of. He was staring out the window of that car, watching the street roll smoothly by, and thinking thoughts of fierce nothingness. Not truly living....but making a living.

And money was money, even if he had quit for the night. And at least this one was male.

Maybe if he did this, what was so normal, so common to him....it might help him forget.

"What did you order?"

Desire jerked from his sightless staring with a shock that was almost sexual as the stranger's low, softly cultured voice melted over the drone of the Camaro's engine, and he blinked dumbly, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. Those devastating eyes were trained calmly ahead, just barely visible from that angle from behind the shield of the replaced sunglasses.

"Huh?" he asked stupidly, and then shrank inwardly in shame at how ungraceful and idiotic the sound had tumbled past his lips, especially when his fogged mind suddenly brought to mind the sensation of warmth pressed against his thighs, warmth associated with the rough texture of cardboard pressed against his fingertips. You idiot.

The stranger, however, did not mock him for his lack of perception, and only smiled slightly, his head turning oh-so-marginally to follow the path of a vehicle changing lanes in front of them. "The box in your lap, " he said quietly, his accent for a moment becoming more pronounced before melting into subtle near-nothingness once more. "From its scent, I would assume that it contains your dinner, no?"

"No--um, yes, I mean yes, " Desire stammered, shoulders hunching as the hot red wash of a blush colored his cheeks, humiliation at his own idiocy turning him into a human turtle as his collarbones tried to swallow his head. "Fu Wong's Chinese take-out, " he mumbled shyly, lowering his eyes to the box in his lap and for some reason suddenly hating that, as well.

"Ah; Orient gourmet. That does seem to be a preference among the denizens of this city." While Desire would never have called Fu Wong's any kind of gourmet, he only nodded with a silent shrug of noncommittal agreement, unwilling to open his mouth and possibly embarrass himself further. Silence ensued for several long moments, in which the Camaro purred and vibrated around them like the stomach of a large kitten....and then the stranger spoke once more, filling the almost peaceful quietude. "I am sure that you must despise me for diverting you from your feast; surely such extravagance was an expensive excess."

"It's no big deal, " the boy answered quietly, in answer to both remarks, but in actuality paid little attention to them; his thoughts were focused on their sound itself, and not the actual meaning behind them, upon the slight lilt, the smoothness--sometimes too smooth in certain places--the strange, barely-noticeable habit of almost swallowing certain sounds and liquefying others that should have been hard-edged and crisped. What was that accent--Chinese? No....Italian, perhaps....never. He had heard a multitude of accents in a multicultural city such as his own....but the stranger's matched none of them, and yet seemed to blend them all into a single tonality that, on one hand, unified them, and yet on the other blanked them out into cool nothingness and dispassion.

".....do not suppose that you eat such things regularly, " the stranger was saying, as soft and even as ever. "You are....so thin, Desire. I should hope that you are not starving."

"No, I...I'm not starving, " he answered swiftly, surprised at how suddenly he wanted this stranger cut from cool, dark silk to think well of him, and surprised that the other should even care. "I eat regularly....I'm just naturally thin." He attempted a half-hearted smile, as half-hearted at his mild stab at humor. "Either that, or I have a very happy tapeworm."

The man at his side, however, did not laugh or smile and, reddening once more, Desire hunched further and drew his cardboard box closer, letting it warm his suddenly-cold stomach as they fell into silence.

The city blurred by in hazy ovals of fading golden streetlights against the blackness of shadowed concrete, and Desire sighed. He felt inadequate, suddenly....inadequate, and so terribly young and lost. What was he doing here, in this strange man's car? He had no hope of being able to please him; his usual customers were rough men, uncouth slobs and truckers and lower-level businessmen and bean-counters. He was as crude as they, and therefore suited to giving them what they needed--but this man, this man who somehow seemed too young to be called a man but whose eyes and voice were too old for his smooth boy's face.....somehow it seemed strange that a man like that would even need to buy anyone, let alone someone as pathetic as Desire. He had a feeling that if he wanted, the stranger could have anyone that he desired, willingly....perhaps even eagerly.

But he had chosen Desire.

Rather than feeling in any way special, however....the boy only felt shame, shame for a failure that he had not yet accomplished but would no doubt commit before morning came, before the stranger ejected him from whatever place that they were approaching in disgust, flinging bills after him more out of pity than for payment of services rendered.

"We're here."

He felt something sliding over his skin, some lukewarm liquid the texture of honey, but smoother than that, without the stickiness, and colored a soft, translucently pale blue, like the color of the lake in winter beneath the fullness of the moon. Like that pretty blue liquid soap in the commercial, he thought distantly, and then nearly laughed as he realized that it was only the stranger's voice, nearly laughed that in a moment of such near-transcendent sensation and imagination....he had thought of soap.

I will fail you, he thought as he lifted his gaze, looking out the windshield at the dark street that the stranger was turning on to, somewhere near the borders of Chinatown. I'm sorry. Please forgive me.....

Then he was unfastening his seatbelt as the car slowed, rolling smoothly into a cement-paved driveway before gliding quietly to a halt--and then blinking in surprise as he took in his surroundings.

He didn't really know where he had expected the stranger to live; perhaps in the old, rich neighborhood behind Lincoln Park, or in one of the modern stucco places near the Loop, or perhaps in the penthouse apartment in the upper level of one of the city's ostentatious towers....but it certainly wasn't here.

The building itself was not what first caught his attention; rather, it was the overgrown tangle of vines surrounding it in almost a perfect circle with opening only for the driveway. Overgrown....or perhaps not, for despite their rampant spread they seemed well-tended, almost obedient as they climbed the low, intricate wrought-iron fence bordering the street's sidewalk and coiled across the grass, climbing so high along the trunks of the neat row of trees that enclosed the property that the houses on either side were nearly obscured. Roses bloomed on some of the vines, young and tender, most still tightly-wrapped buds but some beginning to unfurl their fragile petals of white colored in fading hues that made him think of a pale watercolor sunset. Throughout the roses wove summer honeysuckle, scenting the air with their ephemeral fragrance and tiny sprays of blossoms that seemed to kiss the round, soft faces of violet morning glories that could only minutes ago have opened their delicate trumpets to the cool late night air. Desire breathed in slowly, eyes drifting slowly over the garden--but he could not bring himself to call it such, because there was something of wildness to this well-loved riot of blossoms with their tendrils and leaves of nesting green, something that made him think of fairy tales and castles nestled within the dark, secretively warm shadows of arbors just such as this.

But what rested at the center of the dark-grassed circle of clear lawn was not a castle, nor even a small palace. Large, dark windows stared at him, as did the gaping mouths of not one, but three doors; the house was oddly symmetrical, as though it had been split into three parts--only the central of which seemed to be accessible; the stairs leading to the first and third door had been knocked out, and both were nailed tightly shut, although in the second story of the left wing of the wood-and-stone construction a single light flickered dully behind a layer of damask curtain. The stones that provided its foundation seemed as though they had crashed from the face of the moon itself in their pale roughness, contrasted sharply by the dark panels of smooth wood accent and glittering black shingles that sloped down from a peaked and gabled roof centered by a small cupola. In several places the panels of wood had obviously been replaced by newer planks, polished to a bright gleam like shards of onyx--but despite what seemed like recent renovations, the large three-story house still seemed old...older than the city itself, and ancient....and somehow, strangely, ungainly artistic. Aesthetic in its oddness.

"It was a townhouse building; I do apologize for its state at the moment." The stranger's voice at his shoulder startled him from his wide-eyed staring, made his heart jump into his throat and caused him to whirl about to face him, nearly panting, like an animal winded by its terror and preparing for flight.

The man, however, was looking not at him, but at the building, and Desire could almost imagine those dark eyes moving over the peaks of its outline, although he could not see them behind the shield of sunglasses that must have made the dark night even more impenetrable. "I have only recently come to this city, you see, " he continued softly, his voice somehow pensive as his graceful hands pushed aside the sleek blackness of his trenchcoat to find their way into the pockets of neatly pressed slacks. "The owner had not been able to rent any of the partitions for quite some time, and so was quite willing to sell the entire building to me. I am afraid that I am still in the process of renovating, however, and so only two of the apartments have been unified. The third, I fear, is quite unlivable at the moment."

".....oh......" was Desire's only lost, intimidated reply as he stared up at those pale features, clutching his dinner close to his chest and shifting nervously from foot to foot. God, but he was beautiful.....like a dove dressed in a raven's feathers, and so strange and distant....so silent, and still.....and once more Desire thought of cold, ancient, unmoving stone, a single pillar of white shining beneath a gibbous moon as it tried to spear the sky, still seeming somehow alive by the slight trace of warmth left behind by the vanished sun.

That perfect stillness was broken by the bowing of the stranger's head, and his quiet, brief chuckle. "But I do digress, " he murmured, and then swept a single hand in a graceful, courtly gesture that could almost have been a bow as he nodded to Desire, dark eyes warming him even through the shields of mirrored plastic. "After you, if you please."

Shy, uncertain, Desire bowed his head, shoulders hunching further as he took a single step forward--and then froze, transfixed by a single point of shining color.

Blood....a droplet of blood dangled from the man's left earlobe--no, not blood. Some dark, faceted crystal, diamondine in its structure, perhaps a garnet or a ruby of the deepest clarity....it seemed to be the only true color that touched the strange one, from the pallor of his skin and silver of his lips to the deep darkness of his hair, eyes, clothing; even the blouse that he wore beneath the coat was of a muted, darkly steely grey, only a blend of the shades of starkness.

And yet a single ruby crystal dangled from his lobe like a blood tear, catching the light and reflecting it in a winking, glittering glow like the dying of a flame, the dying of magic.

Transfixed, he stared breathlessly.....and for a moment, he tasted its slick, cool surface upon his tongue, tasted its sharp edge slicing into soft flesh, tasted his own blood seeping from the wound.....and then he jerked back, eyes wide and shame once more painting its familiar color upon his skin as he realized that he had been gaping. Blushing, utterly humiliated, he turned and walked swiftly up the drive; he could feel the other's amused smile pressing against his shoulder blade like a round silver coin.

He kept his head bowed as he scurried up the steps and then shifted aside to allow the stranger to unlock the door, staring in feigned fascination at what he could see of his boot-clad toes past the take-out box that he only continued to hold because he did not know what else to do with it. Then he heard the creak of the door sliding open, and the soft sounds of the man's shoes striking the hardwood floor, and without raising his eyes he stepped into the triangle of muted orange light spilling onto the obviously new porch and into the house.

The darkness was lit only by a single mock-kerosene lamp, which explained the odd color of the light but did little to illuminate the hallway that he had entered. Still, his wide eyes slid over all that he could see, over the smooth polish of the floor and intricately wood-paneled walls decorated by nothing save for sheer draperies in shades of different wines that parted only to admit the smoke-dark mouths of several doors--understated, simple, and tasteful. Despite its slightly dilapidated outward appearance, even the entry's hallway screamed "class"....and again, Desire felt inadequate, out of place.

The stranger seemed to take no notice of this, however, and only stepped smoothly down the hall, shoulders only slightly broader than Desire's own shifting subtly, rhythmically with every step. The darkness at the end of the hallway resolved itself into a flight of stairs, and as the man mounted the first he paused, glancing back, and Desire hastily pushed himself forward to catch up, trailing behind him like a lost puppy as they ventured upwards to the second floor.

Darkness blazed into light, and he nearly staggered.

White....everything was white, from the rich carpet to the furniture to the walls--white, or glass, and accented subtly with touches of black and those same shades of rich wine. The room was enormous, taking up the entire floor with a snowy crystal wonderland of rich textures and softly gleaming ivory; the back end of it was an open kitchen, even that tiled and paneled in white, touched here and there with the black of the stovetop range and the lacquer of the counter top. From there it melted into thick, lush ivory carpet of the main room, one side of which served as living room and the other dining; the long, soft-cushioned white couch seemed to be the only dividing factor that partitioned one section from the other. The dining room table was a single plane of glass resting upon a fluted ivory pillar with tendrils of carved white curling out to support the table's full weight like delicate stone vines; four chairs were set around that glass square, constructed simply of dark, near-black wood and cushioned in white. On the table rested a clear crystalline vase which cradled a single, pristine lily, the twin of which rested in an identical vase in the center of the long, low coffee table stretched before the couch, whose construction matched the design of the dinner table. Softly upholstered easy chairs, obviously the mates of the round-edged sofa, floated like clouds on either side of the couch, angled outward almost as though to expand the space that they occupied, forming the walls of a trapezoid whose broad base was comprised of a white-marble wall broken only by the grey-veined stone of the large fireplace with its marbled mantle. Here and there small glass tables upon twisted pedestals of wrought iron held the occasional sculpture of fragile crystal or delicately twisted black iron, or another small arrangement of white and rose flowers; in each corner as well as flanking the couch soft white light poured gently from elegantly crafted brazier lamps, simple frosted glass basins upon gracefully tall, slender black stems.

Breathless, thrilled, Desire turned in a slow half-circle, his mind spinning with wonder as his eyes darted over the room, trailing over the crystals of the chandelier suspended from the very center, following the intricate loopings and lacings of skeins of gauzy white damask and gossamer, nearly as transparent as mist, draped artistically across every wall--and it was with some surprise that he noticed that the right wall, which was actually part of the back of the house, was comprised entirely of panes of frosted glass in gleaming silver-white settings, almost completely veiled by the fabric swathing it. Such opulence, elegance.....still so subtle, simple, and yet it was the very simplicity that created the impact, awing and lovely.....like a misty white dream laced with the merest trace of the ephemeral scent of summer honeysuckle.

"It's beautiful, " he breathed, tilting his head back to stare up at the high arch of the ceiling--and then nearly jumped out of his skin once more as the other spoke just at his shoulder, almost in his ear; he had almost forgotten that he was there.

"You are the first to see it since I began renovations, " the strange one murmured. "It is almost....comforting to know that it meets with at least someone's approval."

Lowering his eyes, Desire moved sheepishly from the doorway, almost afraid to step upon the carpet, as though he might taint the pristine beauty of the room with the filth of his presence. "I....I think it's lovely, " he murmured shyly, and then glanced up as the stranger stepped past him, his eyes drawn towards the only other doorway in the room, its dark opening nearly hidden as it was tucked away next to the kitchen area and shrouded by a thick curtain of heavy burgundy velvet overlaid by a few more wisps of that white gossamer, like threads of spider's silk. Curiously, he eyed that doorway, shifting nervously from foot to foot as he hunched over his near-cold carton.

"That is my bedroom, " the stranger said, following his gaze even as he shrugged out of his coat in a single fluid, graceful movement and laid it neatly over the back of one of the easy chairs. "I am afraid that it is the only other room that I have had time to furnish so far."

The bedroom....of course. Wryly, he shook his head, the chamber's magic spell suddenly broken as he remembered what he was there for, the liquid-dream softness vanishing from his eyes and leaving behind hard, glazed surfaces of fossilized amber. His mouth set tightly, he stepped forward, moving gingerly past the living room area and pausing to set his dinner upon the square glass table. "I suppose we should get down to business, " he said quietly, reluctantly, watching as the stranger moved into the kitchen.

It seemed, though, as if his words were ignored, and he watched in puzzled silence as the man withdrew a tall, slim box from a drawer next to the modern-deco white box of the refrigerator before retrieving two equally long, slim crystalline goblets from a cabinet above the polished-steel sink. Dark liquid poured like blood into those goblets, making soft, musical sounds against the fine crystal and its rich color blending perfectly with the room's surroundings, its scent of crushed and ancient fruit drifting across the space to tease at Desire's nostrils. "Slow down, " the stranger almost whispered as he delicately lifted a glass of wine in either hand, his voice suddenly becoming only another part of the chamber, white smoke and incense. "There is no hurry; have a drink, eat your dinner. I'm sure it is getting cold."

"I charge by the hour, you know, " the boy stated crisply, and then blinked in surprise as the man gently settled one of the goblets on the table before him, regarding him steadily, the sunglasses that Desire had not noticed him discarding now tucked neatly into the breast pocket of his blouse and those dark eyes threatening to shake his world once more.

"I know." That slender back turned to him as the man made his way casually across the room, before falling effortlessly into the chair that served as a resting place for his coat; for a moment Desire was worried that the wine might spill upon the fine upholstery, but his graceful descent jarred not a drop, and as he crossed his legs smoothly the man leaned back, his slender body curved into an arc of graceful indolence and aestheticism, turned not quite towards Desire and not quite away.....although those dark eyes never left him, fathomless and mysterious. "I will pay. Relax."

Desire had no idea what to say to that, but if the man wanted to waste his money then he was not averse to it. He had never actually had a job where he had had a chance to charge by the hour, but he figured that one hundred an hour was a good going rate--and, since it didn't matter as long as he got his money, he might as well make good use of the time. He was still hungry--savagely so--and although he had been distracted from his appetite earlier, the by-now-faint scent of his chilled food was beginning to drive him to madness once more.

Carefully, he drew the chair nearest him from the table, handling it cautiously as though afraid that he might break it--but despite its delicate appearance, it was quite sturdy, and handled his slight weight easily as he settled gingerly upon its cushion, reaching for the take-out carton. Even the cardboard box was plucked open delicately, his every movement performed with almost fearful care and precision, as though the stranger's eyes upon him were judging--or as though, should he move a fraction of an inch in the wrong direction, he might break one of the many fragile constructions in the chamber simply by his very presence.

So much for relaxing.

A swift peek into the styrofoam container holding the dumplings proved that the cold dough had already turned gummy, but he actually preferred them that way--but those he would save for later; the cashew chicken was what was calling him now, and even as he withdrew the standard-issue styrofoam carton from the larger brown box he remembered idly that he never had answered the stranger's question about what he had ordered. And he never would; the man had eyes enough to see, and could check for his damned self if he was that interested.

That was uncalled for, Desire, he chided himself mentally, but somehow he could not help it; that dark, enigmatic stare was making him uncomfortable, as defensive as if he had committed some crime, and even as he picked up the plastic fork and tore ferociously into the first bite of chicken, his shoulders hunched as though to protect him from that final judgement.

"So. Desire." That cool voice interrupted him, and he glanced furtively to the side, swallowing quickly, embarrassed, even as he reached for another bite. A lofted brow mocked him, and almost unconsciously he tilted his chin up slightly, letting his fork pause to hover in midair, meeting that cool stare with his own forced apathy. "You do not seem like the type who has to do this for a living."

Frowning, the sharp white dashes of his brows drawing fiercely together, Desire stuffed another bite of chicken into his mouth and took his sweet time about answering, suddenly irritated; what gave this pompous, rich pretty boy the right to tell him what type he was? "Oh?" he spit out tartly. "And what "type" do I "seem" like?"

"Hm. Defensive." Those eyes laughed, wild and fey, but somehow didn't seem to be laughing at him--and as the stranger lifted his goblet with graceful hands to take a lingering, delicate sip, the boy could have sworn that he saw stars in their depths. "Almost as though you are proud of what you do, " he continued languidly, his gaze regarding Desire over the rim of the crystalline vessel.

"It's a living, " he muttered sulkily, glowering at his dinner, picking at the different pieces as though choosing the correct one were of the utmost importance.

"One that you do not enjoy, " came the quiet rejoinder, almost like a challenge as those mocking eyes narrowed slightly, piercing, searching, and Desire slammed the tines of the cheap plastic fork into the mound of meat and thick, greasy sauce so fiercely that they nearly snapped as they imbedded in the thin styrofoam.

"What does it matter to you? It's not like asking all these damned questions is going to change that," he snarled like a wounded beast, irritation rising to dark fury; he hated him in that moment, hated his cool calmness that made the boy feel so utterly and totally worthless. "Can I just do my job and go?" he finished coldly, curling his hands around the edge of the table in preparation to pushing himself upright.

"No." Such a simple reply, and yet Desire found himself sinking more firmly into the chair, unwilling to move even as his anger continued to seethe and simmer. A slow, feline smile graced the man's lips, and he lowered his eyes, focusing on the glass held almost absently between two beautiful fingers. " One would think that you would almost prefer being paid to talk rather than....other things."

"Money's money, " he muttered sullenly, glaring at his food but for some reason unwilling to touch it.

"Yes...and I suppose that is all that matters to you."

Sadness....such sadness colored that statement, sadness and distance intertwined inexplicably, inextricably with an odd, ageless diffidence, and Desire's teeth gritted, brows drawing together further as he clasped his hands tightly about each other in his lap, still sullen, like a sulking child. "Like you care."

Rich wine swirled slowly against crystal, and the fine clearness of it sang in the softness, like the distant man's sigh. "Perhaps I do."

"Don't give me that bullshit." He did not know where the harsh words came from, but he could not stop them any more than he could stop the familiar swell of bitterness; he hated this, hated when people tried to identify with him, first with the homeless, nameless five-year-old that even an orphanage wouldn't take, and throughout the years as he grew into what he was....a hooker, nothing more than a cheap whore, lips and body and love for sale, pride ground beneath the heel of the almighty dollar. If he had to be proud of that, then he would; it was all that he had, and at least he was supporting himself. At least he wasn't sleeping in a fucking cardboard box in some back alley somewhere. "All you care about is what I'll do and how much it costs, " he choked out, and was horrified to realize that tears were struggling to force themselves from his eyes. He could not stand to look at him anymore, and jerked his eyes down to his trembling hands; he hurt, he screamed inside, and wished desperately for the peaceful oblivion that the other's eyes had promised before.

Instead he was given....coolness, a slight hint of...something, something that hinted that he had somehow insulted the man and that he should feel....feel....something, perhaps guilt. And it hurt. "Are you so sure of that?"

"Look, I don't need this!" Desire erupted from his chair before he even knew what he was doing, hands curling into clenched fists as the wood-inlay furniture thudded to the carpet. Moisture glittered hot in his eyes as he glared at the man, making them bubble and spark like amber held before a flickering candle flame, accusing, pained, and his chest heaved as he found that it hurt to breathe. "You can keep your damned money, " he forced out. "I'm leaving."

Dark ink-slashes of brows lofted, surprised, and Desire was shaken to see a sudden flash of mirroring pain, so shaken that he nearly fell to his knees, that this coldly, cruelly divine creature could hurt. "No.....Desire....please." His low voice was softer....almost contrite, or as close to it as such a proud creature could come. He leaned forward slowly, and for some reason Desire had a thought, an impossibly vivid thought, vision, image, sensation....of the man rising, coming to him, taking him into his arms to hold him against his warmth and soothe him....but he only set the goblet upon the coffee table, dark lashes lowering as he bowed his head as though in sorrow. "...sit....please..." he continued quietly. "I apologize if I offended you."

Slowly, still breathing harshly, struggling not to cry, Desire uncurled his fists, flattening his palms against his voluminous pants as if he could smooth their permanent wrinkles; his shoulders hunched defensively, as though he bore some painful weight upon his back--and in truth, he felt as though he did, as though the pain of seventeen years as the dregs of human society, unwanted, unloved, was resting upon his slim body in an attempt to crush it.

"I....I....." I'm not what you want me to be, he wanted to say, but the words choked on the knot in his throat, and he could only bend slowly, mechanically, righting his chair before collapsing listlessly into it, the puppet's strings severed.

Silence reigned, so harsh, so lonely, and two separate entities existed, staring at each other through the walls that isolated them, only the lost hopelessness of their lives reaching through to bind them--one struggling, tortured youth, eyes like the aged light of memory wide with longing and terrible pain, breaking, breaking all over again......the other calm age, icy distance, eyes as ancient and bottomlessly black as the darkest depths of the sea, made even darker by what seemed like an eternity of solitude, secret hurting, hiding.

Silver-glossed lips parted in a soft, almost inaudible gasp, and then dark eyes jerked away, almost as though the stranger was afraid of what Desire might see, might have already seen.....but what had he seen? The boy wondered....wondered if he would ever know, if he would ever understand what stared back at him through those eyes, momentarily vulnerable and somehow even younger than he himself....and that hid once more, behind an icy shield of glazed composure.

"You haven't asked me my name, " the stranger said softly, almost whispered, delicate touch seeking the goblet once more, and "I never do, " Desire answered just as softly, his eyes lowering, finding his hands once more as they laced together, dangling in the air as he leaned forward heavily to rest his elbows upon his knees.

The man seemed....almost reluctant to speak, and he exhaled softly as he stared into his wine, swirling it about rhythmically within its crystalline prison. "Ah; I see, " he murmured finally. "Professional anonymity."

Desire himself felt rather recalcitrant, almost sullen, his anger unwilling to dissolve so quickly despite the sudden shock that had released whatever rein he held upon it. "Yeah. Something like that."

"We are not so different, you and I. I never knew my name, either.....or perhaps it has been so long that I have merely forgotten it." Not so different.....no, not so different after all. There was something terribly wrong with the both of them....but that still didn't mean that the strange man could ever hope to understand Desire, or his life, or the hell that he endured every day, that he staved off only with the music....the beautiful music. This....this man would never understand the music. No mere mortal ever could.

"You may call me Dusk."

......!

His mouth gaped for a moment, but the stranger--Dusk--was still speaking, still staring oh-so-thoughtfully into his wine, as though he might never taste of it again. "That is more than most derive from me."

"I feel so special." Again he did not mean to speak so harshly, and yet once more he could not help himself, his persistent resentment lashing out with his own voice.

"Mm." His biting sarcasm was met with nothing more than that single noncommittal, almost dismissive sound, and he felt suddenly uncomfortable--and rather stupid, as though his lingering anger were unfounded, childish.

"So....um....what made you pick that name?" Fidgeting, nervous, ashamed, shy.....he knotted his fingers more tightly, staring down at them, wanting to apologize but unable to bring himself to. Dusk....such a strange name, perhaps even as strange as Desire....and he wondered at the story behind it, wondered if perhaps there was more depth to this shallow creature of rich tastes than he might have thought.

A wraithly hand waved diffidently, bored elegance embodied in five simple digits. "I'm not sure. I don't even know if I could explain it, or if you would understand." Dusk glanced towards him, perhaps expecting him to speak, but Desire only lifted his gaze to meet the other's, his wide, darkly fringed eyes curious, burning, questioning, and he felt almost as though he were reaching out from himself, as though the fingers of his curiosity were stretching to grasp the desired information....and Dusk sighed, lowering his gaze yet again. "Very well, then. Have you ever watched a sunset, Desire?" he questioned oh-so-quietly, and for some reason the boy felt a soft thrill when his name was spoken, though he refused to show it.

"Once or twice." Desire shrugged, watching him curiously. "This city isn't exactly the best place for it."

"Yes....I am aware of that." Hypnotic motions, and Dusk rose, the steel-mesh fabric of his blouse slinking over his shoulders like a caress, one hand finding its way into the pocket of his slacks once more as the other held the wine goblet so delicately, so carefully. "But somewhere else...." he murmured, his languid, graceful steps taking him to the wall of windows, to a single square of darkness that allowed him to peer through the framing of damask and into the inky night. "Perhaps on the coast of England, on the cold stone of a cliff with a roaring sea beating at its base as though it might bring the monument of rock crashing down....dusk is a feeling there, and something solid and dark and mist-cool. It is all of the cool colors that make you think of sleep and dreams, magic and wildness, with just a hint of life's red blood, hot and as salty as the sea spray blowing into your mouth. It's beautiful....not of this world."

He spoke, and his words were that hot flavor, that blood-liquid taste warm upon Desire's tongue, thrilling him as he followed the man down the path of his thoughts, somewhere distant where his piercing eyes stared, where none other had been before...and he wondered what he saw as he stared out that window, wondered what memories replayed before those dark, inhuman eyes. "Sometimes I feel like that, " Dusk whispered, sad regret and a child's wistfulness making Desire ache. "Or I would like to think that I do." Now that regret deepened, and Desire's heart spasmed as the man lowered his oh-so-slightly slanted, lovely eyes to the rich, dark wine, staring into it as though it might divine his future, a future without the melancholy that vibrated in his husky whisper of a voice. "It's been so long since I have seen a sunset.......that I am not even sure if I know anymore. Far.....far too long."

"I.....I....." The trembling would not stop, and Desire grieved for him, grieved for a loss that he did not even understand, grieved for something that he felt that he should be able to give the man but felt that he could not. Dusk.....such a name, a name that was the ending of day, the ending of light, the ending of all things in a great, dying consumption of fire....

.....somehow it was fitting.

I want to be.....so much for you..... he thought despairingly, staring at him in pained wonder, transfixed.....and then those eyes found him, calm once more, as though that simple speech had purged Dusk of whatever anguish had colored his tones.

"Mm. Somehow, I think you do understand....don't you, Desire?" The boy could not answer, feared what might slip past his lips should he open his mouth--and only averted his eyes, pressing his cheek against the smooth curve of a bare shoulder and fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut; he felt more than saw Dusk turn to face him fully, regarding him enigmatically from across a room that was suddenly far too small. "May I ask you something?"

Ask me something.... .Johns never asked him anything , save for how much he cost, if he had a condom, if he was clean. "What?" he practically snapped, already expecting one of those questions, already hating him for daring to break what felt like a moment of sacred glass with such crassness, and drag Desire back to the hateful reality of doing business.

"Why don't you ever.....kiss people?"

"Wha....?" Wide-eyed, falling into the now-familiar realm of deepest shock once more, Desire jerked his head up to stare at him, swallowing down hard upon a rising darkness in his heart and struggling to stop its nervous, almost anticipatory hammering as he regarded him in amazement, staring into eyes as calm and unfazed as ever. "How did you know that?"

"I know many things, Desire. But I am still ever-curious." A single brow lofted, punctuating the earlier question, enticing him to answer that piercing, compelling gaze.

How can I tell him.....how can I tell him this? He knew no words for it--and yet, even as he lowered his eyes, blushing as demurely as any innocent, the words came, dragging themselves reluctantly past his lips to spill hesitant tones on the air.....tones that, somehow, felt like music to him, music that he had never quite voiced before.....music of his heart, his deepest secrets, his inner soul--a place where none dared to tread, for he would not allow them access....a place where this stranger did not deserve to belong, but still probed his way into. "I....I.....just...it doesn't feel right. I don't want....I....I'm cheap. Everything about me is cheap....but I....don't want that to be. I want kisses to still be special."

"You are not cheap." Dusk spoke simply, sincerely, and for a moment the boy almost believed him. "I have a favor to ask of you."

What ever it was, no matter what he asked, no matter how much he wanted to comply.....he must say no. He must not fall into this ever-deepening spell, must not allow this man to hurt him, must not allow him any privileges that he would not allow any customer....he must not....must not.....what?

He must not allow him close enough.

"It's your money, " he said, and forced a diffident shrug that he somehow knew Dusk would not believe as he turned to stare into his as-yet-untouched wine.

"I think that it would be to egotistical to believe that if I asked, you would allow me to kiss you." Silence, in which Desire's heart thudded so loudly in his chest that he thought it would rattle the glass from the wall, and he looked anywhere but at Dusk, anywhere but at those liquidly hypnotic eyes, at that tall, slim frame that took a single step in his direction, at that mouth that curved into a soft bow of a smile, at once mocking and reassuring. "So...sing for me."

Confusion. A whirlwind of plummeting emotion, bewildering, mind-numbing, shocking.....had.....had he just asked Desire to.....? No...no, never....no amount of money could....no......

"No....." he whispered, curling in on himself and wishing that he could shrink into the chair, anything to escape. "Never....." Better he die than sing for this stranger, for anyone, no matter how compelling, no matter how much the other might have understood......He would not give him his soul. He couldn't.

"Never?" Dusk repeated softly, his smile fading, melting into a parting of lips that spoke of silent, forlorn sorrow. "I...I see....." he murmured, turning away, and for a moment Desire saw that vulnerable, lonely creature once more, searching, searching, and again he grieved in terrible agony that he could never be what the stranger wanted. "It is that important to you, then?"

Gentle....the question was so gentle, rather than laced with the incredulous mockery that he would have expected, almost as though this strange man with sunset's name placed as much importance upon his secret as he did, and forgave him for withholding it.

Forgave him..... forgiveness.

"Yes, " he whispered......and wept.

He would have stopped the tears if he could have, but they clawed their way viciously from his eyes, hurting him with their ferocity, scoring his eyes and tearing out his lashes and burning harsh, hot trails down his face like acid ripping away his skin. These were not the previous tears of terror, or relief.....this was purest loss, purest agony, terrible self-hatred as, with that simple, soft touch of accepting forgiveness, the last thread of his control and reserve snapped. Who was he....who was he to deserve this exalted creature's acceptance, to deserve his understanding smile, or even his presence? He was nothing....nothing. He always had been, always would be....a wretch, a terrible wretch who could not even find the strength to die. Pathetic.....terrible....nothing more than the faceless embodiment of lust for hire. He deserved to die....he deserved to suffer, he deserved this terrible agony that twisted within him, crushing his heart within an iron fist, knotting his insides so terribly that he doubled over, clutching at his stomach and burying his face in his knees. Why couldn't he die.....he couldn't live; he had no future, for he couldn't turn tricks forever. He had never thought about it.

I have no dreams, he thought in dazed, bitter shock, and the last remains of strength melted from his bones, draining his body of solidity and sending him slumping from the chair to the floor. I have...nothing.....I am.....nothing......please kill me.....let me die. Who he prayed to, he did not know; he tried to conjure a vision of the first Desire, his namesake, his only true dream, to comfort him as it always had--but it abandoned him, would not come, and in the place of his only exalted savior was the face of the stranger, the distant eyes of the man called Dusk.

Even his savior had deserted him.....and he lay sobbing, broken upon the stranger's floor, silently pleading with him for release.....for the true absolution of death.

A hand on his shoulder made him cringe, and he hunched away from the soft, smooth warmth of it, burying his face in the lush carpet and curling tightly about himself.

"Please, " Dusk whispered to his trembling form, and in his voice sang the pain of ages, as deep and bitter as Desire's own. "Let me ease your pain."

"You can't...." The words choked him, and he shrank away, fearing that he might taint the beautiful one's presence through any contact. "Y-you can't change this....." he sobbed. "You can't....take away my scars....or......or change what I am...."

"No....I cannot." Such deep regret, and the tears came faster, harder, pouring from him in a flood like God's great and deadly cleansing. "But I can soothe the wounds that caused them." Gentle, so gentle....how could he have ever thought this man cold.....how could he have ever hated him, or even considered him a stranger? Such compassion.....such inhuman tenderness in every touch, as that hand slid slowly across his shoulders until a long, graceful arm was curled almost protectively about his prone body. "It is....my nature to heal, Desire....and yet I must deny that nature every day, every night, to ensure my own survival." That arm drew him upwards with a gentle strength, and he did not resist, allowed Dusk to draw him against his kneeling body, buried his face in the man's shoulder and soaked his blouse with his tears as soft lips pressed against his hair, stirring the snowy tresses with his pained whispers. "I have hurt so many....please.....let me help you."

And so Desire continued to weep....clinging to the soft strength of the stranger's warmth, hiding his face within the smooth, gently pulsing column of his neck and inhaling the warm honeysuckle of his scent with every struggling, gasping breath. Comfort.....quiet comfort, that none had ever offered him.....unfamiliar, unsettling, but bringing such sweet, sweet relief, a surcease to the horrible anguish that had plagued his existence for as long as he could remember. None had ever held him this way, with gentle arms wound about his waist, nor allowed him to cling so close as he draped his arms about the other's neck. So strong, and in between the rhythm of his sobs he could hear the beating of a sorrowing heart, with each slow, deep throb seeming to draw out his own pain with its soothing sound, draw it into this creature who seemed to be a vessel for such things.

A low voice murmured something unintelligible, calming, into his ear, and then whispered his name....and Desire sniffled softly, raising his head slowly and staring at the blood tear dangling upon its tiny chain of black wire, directly before his eyes. Renewed....he felt renewed, and yet still somehow grieving, mourning a loss that he did not know a name for.

It is not your pain, the soft touch of Dusk's palms against his spine whispered. Do not suffer for it.

But I must.... .he thought. For I....I.....

.......yes? those gently, rhythmically caressing hands questioned, but he could not answer.

Hold me forever, he thought, but could not say.

Instead....."I....you.....what are you?" he whispered, shifting further so that coppery gold might meet eyes of the cosmos, black as the void and yet littered with its glittering pinpoints of stars....for surely this man was not a man indeed, but something else.....something beyond man, something beyond mortal, that he could know such things.

"One of God's creatures, as are you." Dusk's mouth curved into a soft, sad smile, and then he closed his eyes, bowing his head to let his chin rest upon Desire's shoulder--and they held each other as one, cheek to cheek, warmth to warmth, slender bodies entwined as the ebon-haired man continued to whisper. "We are brothers, in a sense, children of the same cruel deity....but I was born much differently from you, in a far different time."

A pale hand slid down over crisp, dark-steel fabric, palm gliding to rest against the beating of an ancient heart, and Desire imagined that he could feel him, feel everything that he was, everything that he had been, through the soft pulsations throbbing against his hand. "Tell me....tell me what you are, what you have done.....to make this pain inside of you...."

Silence, full and sorrowful, and Desire drew away once more, regarding him in wistful question, pleading wordlessly with him. Please, he begged without a sound. Let me take some of you into myself....let me take some of your pain, as you have taken mine.

It would kill you, those dark eyes answered, and yet he would not waver....and so, with a low, resigned sigh, Dusk's lips parted as he glanced away, as though suddenly shamed by meeting Desire's gaze, saddened by the liquid golden light of them. And yet it was those eyes that he sought as he began to speak, as if seeking understanding in their depths, comprehension of the soft, painfully dispassionate words that slipped past his lips.

"I....I took pity....upon a creature that He felt did not deserve such kindness, " he said, and Desire trembled in newfound memory. "He was....dying.....burning slowly in my Light, for such as he can not stand the brilliance of the sun or those who bear it.....I had slain him, but I could not leave him to suffer, nor bear his screams, and I...." Do not look upon me, his eyes said, for I have sinned and am unworthy. But Desire could not tear his gaze away, could not break from this being of haunted, beautiful sorrow, and only listened, his own pain melding with the other's until, as he spoke, it felt to Desire as though he spoke with him. "I....killed him in the only other way that such can be killed, removing his head with a single stroke of my blade."

Tragedy and misery flowed between them on the current of memory, coursing along the river of time to wrap choking fingers about them once more--but Desire strained at that clutching hand, broke from its grip to lean closer to Dusk, winding his arms more tightly about him as if, by holding him more fiercely, he might shield him from this remembrance forever, even as he questioned softly, "What...what was he?"

"Mm." The listless shrugging of aesthetic shoulders, a sound of bitter amusement, taking place of the hurtful laughter that would not come. "Mankind has had many names for them through out the centuries..... dracul, vardoulacha, vampyre....those among the Heavenly host called them the Fallen Ones, for they chose a path opposite our own." Dusk's hands withdrew, and Desire nearly cried out in the pain of that loss as Dusk drew away as Desire once had, as though fearful of the sickness of his own touch, fearful of Desire's reaction. "Heaven's children can be so cruel.....as can their maker. I was....cast out for showing the kindness that He advocates so hypocritically....condemned to join the Fallen Ones."

"You....you're......an angel?" the boy whispered incredulously, fighting his own urge to jerk away from him, fighting his own fear, his own disbelief--for there was no disbelief, not in truth; somehow it seemed fitting, right, and he could not even bring himself to any sense of awe. Only....pain, terrible pain, the same as always and yet oh-so-different.....for now, he hurt for him.

And now you see my disgrace, those eyes said, before turning away in shame. "I was, I suppose....though we had no names for ourselves, no such label....not even names that we called ourselves." Pensive eyes, cool, apathetic voice, as though speaking these words was sapping the life from him, and Desire reached out swiftly, frightened, covering the other's hands with his own as though to imbue him with his own living, human warmth. "So I chose a name for myself....from the precious beauty that He cruelly denied me." And now the laughter came, a soft, heart-rendingly bitter laugh like the crackling of flame, self-mocking, and Desire hunched in on himself, almost flinching. "Our maker is a spiteful God, Desire.....but from the way that you wear that cross, I think that....you already knew that, yes?"

"I....I....try not to think of it much." Their touch burned him in the strange way that too-cold ice did, but he would not flinch, and only drew Dusk's hands closer, cradling their limp, almost lifeless elegance against his chest as he bowed over them, speaking soft words that he believed unquestioningly, calmly, as accepting as though he had been expecting this since he met the stranger....indeed, for his entire life. "You...are a vampyre now?" he whispered, lowering his eyes to those hands and their black-painted nails, resisting the urge to kiss those slender fingers. "Sunlight kills you?"

"No....not quite. My punishment was not that merciful." Now the pain flowed into Desire through that touch, and he cried out softly at the unbearable heartbreak of it; Dusk struggled to pull away, to spare him, but Desire would not release him....would not allow him to suffer alone.

Please. He spoke silently once more, not with his mouth but with his eyes of honey and fire. Please....tell me....I need to know....I need you.

Desperate, anguished, Dusk's trembling stare burned into him, and he felt as though he were burning beneath the judgement of God, condemned to eternal torment. Tears of a near-physical agony welled in his eyes, but he set his mouth grimly, suddenly feeling as though his life, his soul depended upon holding that gaze, upon taking those inky wells of darkness into himself....until, with a low, broken sound, Dusk slumped, his head bowing in melancholy acceptance as those eyes of the night slipped closed.

"Very well, then....Desire." His head lifted, and he glanced to the side....and once more, Desire wondered just what he saw in that far-off place that his gaze traveled to, wondered what impossible things he remembered. "Do you remember what I told you about the feeling of sunset, Desire? Yes....that feeling was my greatest joy before I Fell; there is music in such moments, music and magic like none any mortal ear has ever beheld. For centuries, sunset would find me upon the rocky cliffs of what is now called England, wings spread to let the crashing sea spray dampen their feathers....."

Exhaling softly, the boy closed his eyes, pressing his cheek to the captured hands within his grasp....and as willowy fingers tightened around his own, for a moment he saw, he saw......A man, but more than a man, a creature of greater Light than even that of the sun falling past the horizon before him.....Beautiful, inhumanly so, with the expression of transcendent ecstasy upon his now-familiar features, with his pale skin turned to honey by the fading light and the liquid flow of cascading tresses of deepest raven black whipping in the wind to slide silkenly over the broad expanses of delicate wings feathered in softest translucent ivory kissed in edgings of gleaming, fluid gold. Dusk....as he had once been, in all his Heavenly glory.....and as Desire saw him now, when he opened his eyes to find those deep, soulful black orbs watching him with such wistful longing that the last fragments of his heart nearly broke anew.

"It hurts you to remember?" he breathed, and "Yes...." came the near-inaudible reply before those delicate features bowed as though in prayer once more, and Desire bent to inhale the soft scent of his hair, yet again falling into attentive silence.

"You see....serving among the Heavenly host is a grim task, without the lovely choirs and peals of joy that those of mankind's Church have led you to believe. We are warriors, killers, messengers of God's wrath.....and can spare little time for such simple pleasures, nor for gentleness." The truth in his words struck somewhere deep within the boy's core, shook him, made him want to weep once more, as did the faint hint of remembered peace so long forgotten and mourned. "But I....I alone found my joy in that music of fading light.....and so He took it away from me, condemned me to both night and day walking the path of the vampyre......and to stand as nothing more than a man of stone during the symphonies of both sunrise and sunset--a blind, deaf, unfeeling statue." He lifted his pale visage to allow his forehead to rest gently against Desire's, and the boy closed his eyes, leaning against him as he breathed in the man's soft, almost deathlike exhalation of, "A gargoyle....a gargoyle with a living heart of blood and broken flesh."

"Cruel.....so cruel.....how could He?"

"As I have said, He is merciless." This was said without passion, and Desire breathed in those words as well, taking them into himself and turning them into something darker, hotter, that flowed past his lips to wash the other's skin in warmth.

"I hate Him."

So listless, so broken with memories, and Desire wanted to kill who, what had done this to him. "Why? Surely not for my sake."

"Yes, for your sake!" He was furious, he was standing, clenching his fists, closing his eyes against fresh tears when he had thought that there were no tears left to cry. "That was....that was wrong.....I'd....I wish I could make Him sorry for doing that to you....it's just...it's terrible!"

"Yes...I suppose that you are correct." Desire turned away as Dusk rose as well, and his quiet tones spoke to his back, gentle, almost reprimanding but not quite. "But one cannot hate one's Father."

"I...." Pale, almost spidery hands sought refuge in his pockets, and he paced towards the wall of windows, like a veiled collection of portals into other worlds. "I never knew my father," he murmured, staring out into the night, and for the first time felt a sense of regret at that knowledge.

"Sometimes I wish that I had never known mine. Perhaps then....I could hate Him for abandoning me." That voice was at his shoulder again, and he fought the urge to lean back towards it.

That's all right, Dusk. I hate Him enough for both of us.

He stared out the window, wondering if he saw in the darkness what Dusk had seen when he gazed out the very same portal--if Dusk had thought the same thoughts that he thought now, with a surprisingly calm, accepting realization. "So you've brought me here to kill me. To feed....." he said softly, and though the thought should have pained him it did not. He would rather die to ease the pain of this impossible creature than continue life as this worthless thing that he was. "That is.....what vampyres do, isn't it?"

"Kill you?" The shock in that tone was too genuine to be faked, as was the horror, and Desire turned swiftly, a low cry of apology choking in his throat, sorrow that he had caused him further pain. "Desire, I.....no. Not you. Never you."

Confusion, elation, grief--what did Dusk think that he was that he could never be, what did he see when he stared into the jaded eyes of youth that gazed back at him? "I don't....understand. I'm nothing......nothing at all....."

"You are the sunset that gives me life, Desire, " he whispered, and once again his words were so sincere that Desire believed him, trusted him, allowed him to step closer, to lift a hand to trace his knuckles along the line of his jaw, a gentle caress that caused him to lower his eyes demurely, lashes like snow laced with flutters of ash nearly resting upon his cheeks. "When I passed you standing on the street corner, I heard you singing without a sound, the same music that I have been denied for so many centuries as I walk among the world of man.....and.....I.....I....."

"You....what?" Please....please say it......I can't.....

"It is nothing." That touch trembled, withdrew, and fathomless eyes sought the carpet. "A thing that I will not speak of, not now. But you sang such beauty, and such pain.....I had to speak to you, or I would have died."

.......died.

The world froze.

"Died? You....don't mean that....."

"Sometimes grief can be deadly, young one. And I have been grieving for far longer than you will ever know."

Once more silence found them.....and then, suddenly, Desire flung his arms around him, pressing close to that tall, slim body and hiding his face within his chest, hiding himself from the outside world and from the cruel forces of Fate that had cast both of them to the winds of anguish and terror. "I....I'm sorry, " he murmured, his words muffled by the press of his lips against the very same fabric that he wound his fingers tightly into, clinging close.....and then comfort found him once more in the other's embrace, holding him close when he had fully expected to be pushed away.

"Shush, " Dusk whispered, and blessed his hair with a kiss. "It is not your pain."

Hold me....hold me and don't ever let me go....make me...make me worth something.....

The soft rustle of fabric, the merest hint of motion....and he felt soft lips upon his skin, gentle warmth, and he breathed out a low, almost pained sound as that single light kiss brushed to his temple soothed away the ache of an abused soul, melting pain away into quiet, almost subtle relief, like the gentle rocking of the sea at night. You are worth something, that kiss said. To me.

"Stay with me, " the fallen angel whispered, and drew Desire closer. "Please....."

"I can't, " was Desire's answer, and promised himself that he would not cry, not this time, not again, no matter how deeply the pain of a loss that had not yet taken place stabbed through him, ripping his heart from his body and crushing it anew. "It's not right....I'm just....just a whore...."

"No....." Quiet protest, and gentle tightening of an embrace so warm that it could have been love. "You are the most beautiful child of Heaven that I have ever seen, " he whispered, and lifted a hand to brush the boy's wild hair from his eyes. "You, Desire, with your eyes like the setting sun and hair as white and soft as my wings once were, and your soul of painful music....I would be honored if you would stay with me."

"But I......"

"......ssshhh. It's all right; I understand." Those hands, so soft, so strong, and yet so gentle, slid over the bare skin of his back, and he whimpered in response. "Sunrise is approaching.....perhaps it would indeed be best if you left."

Yes....here it was, the rejection, and Desire pushed away from him, wrapping his arms tightly around himself and struggling with the bitterness and resentment that quelled the dreamlike communion that they had shared, making him cold and hateful once more. Of course....of course he could not stay, could not do as the other had asked, could not be what he wanted....but to eject him so soon, so quickly.....

"Desire, no." Sharp words, and then a sense of palpable regret, silent apology for unintended harshness, desperation, and slim fingers touched lightly, tentatively upon his shoulder. "Please....I only.....sunrise brings the change, and I did not want to subject you to that. I would not ask you to stay and then force you to leave, no matter your reply."

Embarrassment, shame....longing, and sorrow, and Desire turned to face him once more, keeping his head bowed, his eyes lowered out of contrition for his overreaction. "I'm sorry, " he murmured. "I just....I'm so used to.....and.....I want to, but.....you're a....and I'm human, and.....I.....I'm scared to die....." Like a child he felt once more, a child who had committed some terrible wrong and could not even find the articulateness to apologize for that unnamed crime.

"Oh, Desire....." This time he did not shrink away from that embrace, and leaned into it, his guilt-ridden thoughts lingering on the warmth of it, the rightness, as though this was somewhere that he belonged--the only place that he belonged, within this stranger's arms. "I would never let you die, " Dusk whispered, and Desire believed him.

"Dusk, " he breathed, speaking the name aloud for the first time and tasting it upon his tongue; it tasted of a dim memory, one from a life that he had hardly known, a brief moment of happy childhood spent plucking honeysuckles from their vines and tasting the delicate drops of sweet nectar that formed upon their stamens. "I.....I......"

I love you, he prayed for the courage to say, but did not.

Then sunrise touched the horizon, and he screamed.

Dusk stiffened in his arms, and for a moment he thought it was tension, thought that the fallen one was preparing to draw away, or even worse, push him away--and then he felt, he felt the warmth of the sun touching his back, something so faint that he should not have been able to sense it and yet that burned him like hottest fire, a single misty hint of light upon the grey that barely reflected in the glass of the windows at his back.....and he drew back, staring in helpless horror as his love, his destiny, hunched in terrible pain, soft sounds of animalistic agony choking in his throat as his hands clawed at empty air, clawed at the fading shards of Desire's tinny scream.

"Dusk!" he cried once more, and then was on his knees next to him as the other fell, as gracefully as a drifting petal and nearly as white and lifeless.....struggling, his eyes squeezing tightly shut as he whimpered Desire's name over and over again, begging for release, pleading for an ending to the pain.....and Desire could only weep as he pressed close to him, holding him, raining kisses upon his eyes and chin and cheeks and lips, kisses that he had saved his entire life for this moment, hoarded and guarded preciously so that they might be spent on bringing some measure of comfort during that horrifying pain. "Oh, Dusk...." he sobbed once more....and then the other jerked away from him, his body tensing, head thrown back......and Dusk choked on a scream, transfixed in an arched posture of terrible pain as something tore at his clothing, at his skin, something dark and thick and bone-laced pushing at his blouse before bursting through, clawing free from his back and ripping through his shoulder blades with a sound like a dying soul.

Wings......Desire caught the merest glimpse of wings, massive, beautiful in their expanses of raven feathers like darkest, softest night, midnight velvet that swept through the air like scythes in their unfurling......

.....and then there was only stone.

Stone, draped in human flesh, for Desire clung to the statue that his newfound savior had become, his body pressed against unyielding musculature swathed in tattered cloth and his cheek pressed to a hard, cold white shoulder. Loss....such terrible loss, and although once the music of sunrise ended he would be able to touch a creature of flesh and blood once more.....he had failed, failed in giving Dusk something, anything of warmth and human longing to hold to during whatever Hell he experienced in that dark time of miserable, frozen blindness.

He had wanted......he had wanted to sing for him.

I'll wait for you, he thought, touching fingertips already wet from his own tears to the single droplet of crystalline moisture trickling down a pale stone cheek so smooth that only its coldness belied its life and softness. Minutes, hours, days.....until the end of sunrise, or the end of dusk....I'll wait, and sing the sunset for you.

I'll wait....and sing your forgiveness.

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