Testosterone Boys and Harlequin Girls - 12
Title - Testosterone Boys and Harlequin Girls
Author - consistant
Rating - NC17
Pairing - Frank/Mikey eventually (and other random pairings throughout)
Status - Chapter 12
Summary - A twisted Moulin Rouge, a Glitterati crowd and a whore on a swing.
POV - 3rd person
Disclaimer - Don't own, don't know, don't sue. This is completely and totality fictional.
Author's Note - This doesn't get updated often, so i don't expect any of my old readers to come back, but it's written now so for whoever reads this - ENJOY.
Chapters:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
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Testosterone Boys and Harlequin Girls - Twelve
Gerard doesn't care what the rest of the staff are going to say when they realise Bert has been taken to his room and not to his own tiny apartment in the basement. They don't know, or so he thinks, that this is the room the two often share. The very bed is sacred, like that of a married couple. Though, he's never truly perceived it that way before, not until tonight. Seeing Bet now makes him wonder why he's only just coming to realise the boy's significance in his life. The spilt blood was somehow the key unlocking the feelings inside him, the feelings he perhaps always knew were there even if he never shared them. Fickle thing really, rape and attempted murder.
“Will he live?”
Did he really just say that? He didn't feel his mouth moving. He could pin it all down on tiredness and drinking to excess, but in his head the truth blares like a fog horn. He's too fixated on the body tucked beneath the sheets to care what the hell his body does. Let it catch fire and burn down to ashes and bone, as long as he doesn't look away from Bert's face throughout the entire ordeal. No matter the extremity of the pain, it'd be worth every agonising second. He's got so much to make up for anyway, might as well do it in style.
Gerard is listening to the doctor explaining about concussion, trying to make sense of it but failing miserably, too interested in the heavily stained bandage now wrapped around Bert's forehead. The material is soaking, the dark, earthiness of the blood turning brown as it dries through the gauze. It looks terribly human and makes his stomach churn and turn over on itself. Bert shouldn't be human. He isn't a person. He's a lover and companion, a friend but never a human. Humans can die. He doesn't want Bert to die, it would destroy him utterly. He understands that with such clarity now, it scares him. Why does it scare him. What does this mean? Why did this happen? Why? It's all so unanswerable and maddening to a person who is always in complete control. Who never slips up.
Well he's slipped up now all right.
“Make sure you keep the wound as clean as possible, and change the dressings a few times a day, to keep the stitches in good order. We don't want that gash corrupting, no, no infection, you understand? Wash him, change his clothes, get rid of grime and dirt, anything that could spread germs to the wound. Be gentle, his head will be very sore and the flesh tender for days, maybe even weeks. I've got drugs here, painkillers, see that he takes them. You do realise, Mr Way, that without taking this boy to the hospital we're leaving things very much up to fate....”
And so on... And so on...
Gerard hears the words reverberate around the room, like shouting under water echoing into the depths, into the deep. They could be saying anything really, he can't know for sure. They could be insulting his mother, calling her a whore, a tramp, a wannabe baby-banger. They could be stripping him down fault by fault, degrading his body inch by inch, peeling him bare flake of skin by flake of skin. They could be asking for a quick fuck, the only true form of payment he recognises. It doesn't matter. He simply will not comprehend it. He's in error, does not compute land right now playing with the devil and the space monkey cross-breeds of insanity-ward legends.
Strands of curled, clotted hair rest against the pillowcase, surrounding Bert's face like a coppery halo, sticky and knotted from sweat and blood. The doctor had to shear hunks of Bert's shaggy mane away just to get to the gash on his crown, to stitch it and clean it and bandage it up all good as new. The lifeless hair looks horrible, disgusting even. Gerard wrinkles his nose and feels bile rise a little in his throat. He swallows it back down, breathing deeply.
“I'll come back to see him again tonight. Today will be crucial. If he pulls through it, we'll be okay. If it looks like he's flagging when I return, well... It's either hospital or death. You decide.”
With that blunt rejoinder, the seedy doctor begins to gather up his equipment, shoving everything into a large leather carry case with silver buckles. He leaves bottles of pills and heaps of bandages and gauze on the night stand, explaining as he does so what dosage to give Bert during the day and at what times the bandages should be changed, slipping in that awful medical jargon doctors use when they want to sound impressive and knowledgeable. Gerard stands at the foot of the bed, nodding and grunting, feeling useless.
As he hands over the crumpled bills Gerard wants to say so much. He wants to thank the man before him from the bottom of his black, little heart. He wants to get down on his knees and give him the best blow job of his life. But he doesn't. He stays perfectly silent and unmoving. The doctor takes the money and counts it quickly before pocketing it, eyeing Gerard as if he knows exactly why Gerard is so quiet, so full of terror.
“Don't move him.” The man says sternly, “Keep him in that bed for as long as he needs. We won't know for certain how much harm has been done until he wakes up and the wound begins to heal. He may have suffered nerve damage, heavy brain trauma, he may even become a complete vegetable. There's no way of knowing yet. However, I think I can safely say that he won't remember much of the attack, he may not even remember you or this...place...”
“He won't know me?”
For the first time in over 10 years Gerard sounds truly frightened. He looks at the doctor with round eyes filled to the brim with anxiousness, and bites his bottom lip.
“But I...I love him. He'll remember I love him, won't he? How could someone forget something like that? Even if he doesn't recognise me, he'll, he might, he-”
“As I said,” the doctor interrupts testily, pulling on his coat and picking up the case of medicine. “We won't know until he wakes up.”
“Do you have any spare pillows or sheets or anything?” Frank asks, looking around Sonny's bedroom enquiringly.
It's a lovely little place, very warm and friendly compared to the rest of the club he's seen. It's painted a soft green colour, close to the sheen of a spring apple and there are pictures on the walls of lavender and rolling country sides. Like in Mikey's room there are books everywhere, on every available surface as well as stacks of CD's and an old keyboard by the window covered with sheet music. He has a Hi-Fi and a small colour television, but no wardrobe. All of his clothes are piled against the wall, along with his shoes. Where Mikey had designer everything, Sonny has simpler attire. A lot of it is black, no surprise, but there are dashes of red and blue lying around here and there. There's a bathroom through an adjoining door, crammed with a shower, toilet and wash-basin. Instead of a dressing table, Sonny has a long, full-length mirror opposite the single bed, with a light wood frame betraying its cheapness. In truth, the room is everything Frank least expected.
“Why on Earth would you need those?” Sonny mutters, closing the door behind them.
“Well, the floor'll be kinda hard without them.” Frank shrugs, frowning when Sonny rolls his eyes and laughs. “What's so funny?”
“Frank, we've slept together twice in the same night, do you honestly think I'll care if we share the same bed? It's not like I haven't seen you naked, hell, I've seen you have a screaming orgasm!”
Blushing, Frank ducks his head to hide his embarrassment. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the brashness of these people, how easily everything is linked to sex or how when the time comes he'll have to embody this persona and make it believable. Because really, who wants a shy boy-toy when what they paid for is an experienced hooker?
“Can I use the bathroom,” he mumbles self-consciously, “I'm desperate for a shower.”
“Sure, go ahead.” Sonny smiles, “I think I'll have one too, once you're through.”
Barely listening, Frank scuttles into the tiny bathroom and bolts the door shut. He turns and leans his back against it, feeling as though someone is dancing the Macarena in his stomach. Sharing a bed with Sonny and not having sex, well, that's interesting.
Gerard slowly rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, setting the tiny silver cuff links atop the dresser for safe keeping. He removes his striped black and white tie, the knot having been choking him for the past two and a half hours. He unbuttons his collar, creating a V of white flesh and bobbing Adam's apple. Then he turns around, lowering himself gingerly onto the bed.
He folds himself neatly into Bert's side, tucking his legs beneath him, one arm steadying himself against the headboard, the other anchoring him to the mattress, his fingers splayed against the duvet. In this manner he can lean over Bert without touching him, leaving him to his dreams as he studies him leisurely from above. Gerard finds himself shuddering, but he doesn't need to wonder why this time. The impact of the night has finally hit home and simply sitting and watching is all he wants to do right now.
He studies Bert's face and wants to scream, can feel it pulsing hard from within his throat which feels raw and stings when he swallows. It has been so long since he actually cared enough to cry that the feeling of an oncoming sob is unnatural to him. He lets his eyes travel over the rising cuts and bruises surfacing on Bert's features, noticing acutely that they are many and maliciously red. The person that did this did it with little to no regret, that much is plain. And now Gerard feels angry, but can't quite express it in the right way. In an ideal world there would be a place inside him where he could physically squash his rage into a tight little ball which would never break free, never explode no matter the provocation. But this isn't an ideal world at all.
“Why the fuck didn't you run?” he rasps, glaring down at Bert, feeling the heat of his words burn his tongue. “Why the fuck didn't you get the hell outta there?”
But he knows why, of course he does. Bert doesn't run from things. He ran once, only once, and that was from his parents, from his old existence. That had been the biggest moment of his life. Since that day running seemed childish, stupid. Gerard can hear Bert's soft, rustling words in the back of his mind, saying, explaining...
“I was a kid then, well, I'm not one now. I've spent my whole life being afraid. Leaving home, getting out of that town, it taught me not to be afraid any more. That's why I don't run from things. I'd rather let them run over me.”
He closes his eyes, opens them again and lets the tears roll out and down over his cheeks. No one will see them, so it's okay. L'Elfe Noir is still unshakable and pristine to everyone outside this little bedroom, so he'll cry as much as he damn well pleases. Thank you very much.
“You could die,” he whispers, “You could die and it's all because you're a fucking push over.” A tear hits Bert's nose and trickles into the dry groove of his lips. “You could die and it's all because you can't look after yourself. Don't you fucking realise that when someone with a gun tells you to bend over you get the fuck out? You get the fuck out and you find me and I'll- I'll-” Another tear bounces off Bert's neck. “You can't just let someone grab you and fuck you and beat you to within an inch of your life and not yell for me! W-Why didn't you y-yell for me?”
Though he knows he did. Sure he did. He probably screamed himself hoarse. But Gerard didn't hear. He was too busy having sex with a new employee who's name he can't even remember while Bert was being violated and ripped limb from limb, most likely crying until he couldn't cry any more, being in so much pain, more pain than he'd ever been in throughout his entire life. Yeah. That's just about the shape of it, and Gerard knows it.
“Oh Honey,” he sniffs, rubbing angrily at his eyes with the back of his palm, “I'll take care of you from now on, I promise, I will, I will...”
And as a start he stands up and goes to the on suite bathroom, taking a bowl off the dresser and filling it to the brim with boiling water. Finding a flannel, he soaks it and takes both it and the bowl back into the bedroom, setting them carefully down on the night stand with all the dressings and pill boxes.
He stands over Bert for several long minutes, trying to decided the best way in which to do this. He doesn't want to wake him, though really he knows full well that Bert is knocked for six... he just wants more time, more delay. He knows what's beneath those sheets. He saw the terrible state of Bert's body back in the bed chamber, fleetingly, uncomprehendingly, and now he doesn't know is he's ready to face that again. But he has to, he understands that he has to do this, not just because it's what the doctor told him to do but because Bert would want him to.
Very carefully, he pulls the sheets down to Bert's feet, leaving him bare on the mattress. Sitting back gingerly, Gerard takes the bowl into his lap, rings out the flannel and sets to work. He tries not to look at the disgusting marks, or smell the overpowering stink of pure sex which radiates from Bert as he washes him limb from limb, but it's possibly the hardest thing he has ever had to do. It's fitting punishment, he thinks, for not being there when Bert so desperately needed him.
“You know,” he whispers, his words very small in the quiet of the bedroom, “I don't think I've ever been so fucking scared in my entire life, when I heard Mikey scream. I thought he'd found you dead, and I gotta say I had my doubts you were even alive while I waited for the doctor. You were so still. I could hardly feel you breathing.”
He dips the flannel into the bowl and soaks it, pulling it out again and beginning to rub gently at the long vertical stripes of dried blood running down Bert's chest, his heart beating very shallowly. He glances up at Bert's face, but it's blank and impassive, his ears most likely unable to hear.
“I've never told you about myself, have I?” Gerard says, wetting his lips, “Not...Not really. I've never told you about how I came to be here, running this club, becoming the biggest sinner on God's Green Earth. It's unfair isn't it? You told me everything about yourself within an hour of when we first met, and it's a year later and you don't... don't know...”
He looks over Bert's body, clean now but still horrific, and wants to weep again. He's so covered in bruises it's hard to tell what colour his skin is truly meant to be. At least the blood and salty stains are gone, at least he's half way whole. But it's not good enough for Gerard, nothing ever is, though he won't pretend he can fix Bert. When he wakes up Gerard will be there, sure, he'll help him come to terms with the attack, fine, he'll walk him baby step at a time back to reality, okay, but he'll never be able to mend him. That hurts but it's true.
“You said you never understood your parents,” Gerard continues, drawing the duvet back up to cover the boy, gulping hard. “Well... I was sold by mine.”
Down in reception Matt Good is crouched beneath his desk, holding his mobile close to his chest, thinking. He heard the doctor leave a long time ago, and knows Gerard won't come down again until the afternoon with everybody else, but he's still terrified. Once you become a Testosterone Boy contact with your family is forbidden under club rules because according to L'Elfe Noir it simply complicates things. If you hear something bad has happen such as illness or a death has occurred then sure, you can call, maybe even visit, but otherwise it's a sackable offence.
“But no one would know...” Matt thinks, staring at the blue screen and the cluster of black numbers just begging to be used.
Ever since he was a small child he has always counted upon his family for every kind of emotional support there is. He was never made to account for anything he did. He was able to confide anything without fear of scorn or rejection. That's why he was able to tell his mother that he was gay, that he wanted to move away and live in Gerard's establishment and earn money he could send home to her. They were poor, starving sometimes, but he could earn a fortune for them if they would only understand. They didn't necessarily need to know where the money came from exactly, but he told them because he never lied, he could never lie to anyone. This is and has always been his biggest weakness.
Taking a deep breath and hoping against hope that she'll answer, Matt presses the call button and holds the phone close to his ear.
After a dial tone of sheer eternity, the line comes alive and he hears a voice that makes him tear up at once.
“Hello? Who is it?”
“It's me,” he chokes, “Ma, I've done something awful...”
Sitting back against the headboard, the bowl of bloodied water clutched in his hands, Gerard stares out at the rest of the room with uncommon detachment. His shoulders are shaking and there are tears running down his face, though he doesn't seem to feel them.
“It...” He clears his throat and sighs, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “It was a decade ago, so long since... I, I was 15.”
He tips his head back and bangs it against the board, making it judder. He winces, but doesn't cry out.
“Mikey was... what... 8? 7? They put us together in the same bid, served us up to the backstreet society, real old school. They never told me why. They never said what I'd done wrong to deserve it.” Gerard grits his teeth, snarling through the sobs, “The just made sure they got a good deal, stayed to make sure we were sold for the right price. I saw their faces in the crowd. I can remember...”
...the smell of it. Like cattle in a hold, herded together in an old meat locker somewhere deep within an abandoned warehouse. Naked and shivering, he held Mikey close against him, staring around at all the other boys, seeing the same terror on every face, the same hopeless wondering. What was going to happen? All of them could hear the banging and scraping of hundreds of chairs in the hall above, the dull rumble of voices too numerous to count.
“What's happening, Gerard?” Mikey gasped sharp in his brother's ear.
“I don't know.” He replied, though he could sure guess, eyes darting about the ceiling above, his body jerking with every loud bang or shouted curse.
“Where's mum and dad?” Mikey pushed, wriggling closer into Gerard's chest, turning his face into the boy's neck, not liking the way he could feel everyone in the room watching him with rapt attention. Just because he dared to speak and they didn't.
“I don't know.” Gerard said again.
Silence fell inside the locker, all the boys huddling closer and closer together as the time ticked by. Gerard could feel his lips turning blue from cold and he began to bite them, causing them to bleed a little. It was hard to believe that just a few short hours ago he had walked through the front door of his quiet suburban house, in his quiet suburban life, after spending the day at his quiet suburban school. It seemed ridiculous that he had made Mikey a peanut butter sandwich and listened to Crowded House as he washed the dishes in the sink, that they had spent the rest of the afternoon watching Looney Toons in The Den. He could remember hearing the front door opening and closing, could remember thinking it was his dad home early from the office, could remember waiting with his eyes glued to the television, not realising the danger until he was smashed sharply on the back of the head with something so heavy it made his nose bleed. It was a classic case of hit and run, only they all ran together, Gerard and Mikey stuffed in the boot of a car, two men laughing in the front seat, job done.
Blackness took them.
Then they were lying on a freezing stone floor, waking up together with these teenagers all around them, all of them in nothing but their skins, all of them looking groggy and fearful and not quite believing what was happening. But inside they knew, though they wouldn't say it aloud. They knew why their clothes were gone, knew why they had been taken from their homes, knew why upstairs was crawling with rowdy revellers, knew why suddenly all the hairs on their bodies were standing on end. They just prayed they were wrong...
...Gerard falters and frowns, brows creasing; his hands are hurting. Looking down he realises that he has been gripping the basin so hard that his fingers have gone white around the rim. Trembling, he leans over Bert and places it on the night stand with a clatter. His hands shake as he rubs them palm to palm, the bones showing through the skin behind a pale tracery of veins. It had been so long ago, the night that changed his life, and yet it still made him feel...feel...
...terrified. Stumbling and straining to keep Mikey close to him, Gerard tried to gain a firm footing on the stage, his bare feet slipping on the linoleum. After the strong whiteness of the meat locker these hot spotlights felt like fire against his exposed skin and he blinked rapidly to rid the burning spots from his eyes. In his confusion he hardly noticed the leather collar and leash being fitted to his neck, only registering the fingers gripping tightly at his shoulder in case he made to bolt when it was too late.
“We'll begin Gentleman with tonight's specialty item-” A magnified drawl to his left, loud over a buzzing PA, “-donated by the leaders of our organisation, the Mr and the Mrs Way, a big hand everybody if you please!”
Applause attacked Gerard's ears and he looked around in pure disbelief, taking it all in and feeling the pit of his stomach drop out and roll quickly away from him. Well, at least it could escape. The room was huge, lit only by spotlights trained at the stage he and Mikey stood upon. Nothing but the first 5 rows of people were illuminated, the rest cast into shadow by the spotlights' glare, all of them male, all in varying degrees of decline. Not a youngster in the bunch, and every one of them smirking and making lewd gestures, cackling, wolf whistling.
“Jesus.”
It was all he could say, over and over again, clutching Mikey to him for all he was worth. In turn Mikey wound his arms around Gerard's waist and hid his face in the boy's ribs, comforted only slightly when his brother's hands found purchase on his lower back, nails digging in protectively.
“Gerard and Michael. Ages 15 and 7, brothers, to be sold under the condition that they not be separated. Neither are marked or pieced, neither are tattooed. The older previously used, the younger untainted. A great bid Gentlemen I grant you, and all proceeds go to maintaining this fine organisation. As you can see both are well formed specimens-”
A man stepped up from behind the brothers and wrenched them forcefully apart, facing them outwards towards the crowd who immediately began to cheer and cat-call. Gerard's face and neck turned red and he struggled to cover himself but the man dealt him a hit across the side of the face. Mikey wailed loudly until he too was given a hefty slap. The crowd's jeers reached fever pitch. Only two figures seated in the front row remained silent and in their seats, though grins curved their thin lips. They met Gerard's eyes and their own glittered maliciously as their son fought and tugged at the leash, trying with all his might to break free of its constricting hold. He had never felt so angry and yet so panicked and the emotions brought tears sparkling on his cheeks.
“Shall we begin the bidding?”
A hush fell...
... “I'll never forgive them for that night,” Gerard whispers hoarsely. “Never, for as long as I live. They led a double life, a secret, sordid life I could never have unearthed. They cared a hell of a lot more about that life than they did about their sons, that's for damn sure. To just cast us off for profit, like it didn't matter, not even caring where we ended up or who would win and take us home. We were lucky I suppose, as lucky as you can be in a situation like that, because the person who came up with the most cash didn't turn out to be a raving psycho. He was just a guy, a guy with a strip club, a guy with a brothel.” ...
... "If you touch him I'll fucking kill you! I swear to God I'll slit your throat! Get the fuck back! Get the fuck back!"
Gerard shielded Mikey with his entire body, keeping his brother behind him as their new owner stepped towards them determinedly. He was middle-aged, dressed in a suit and had a face like a marble angel. After the auction ended the two had been bundled into a van and driven half way across town to be delivered, free of charge. Now they were backed into the corner of a basement, fighting for their lives and something perhaps even more precious than that.
“I'm not going to hurt you, just cool it kid,” said the man calmly, stopping a foot away and putting his hands in his pockets, eyebrow cocked.
“Like hell!” Gerard spat, “You dare come a step closer and I'll-”
“What?” The man smiled good-naturedly at the raving teenager, amused. “You'll what? You're completely defenceless and you know it.”
Gerard's bottom lip was beginning to tremble and his eyes were extremely bright, but he would not lose control over himself, too much was at stake. Mikey was too transfixed with fear to even speak as he lay, sprawled on the cement, watching the confrontation with an expression simply unfathomable.
“My name is David,” the man said warmly, grinning, “David Tennant.”
Gerard didn't reply. He glared.
“The building you are in,” David continued undaunted, “Is my club. It is called Pierre Précieuse and from now on it is your home.”
“Home?” Gerard snorted. “No way man, we're leaving-”
“I think you'll find that is entirely out of the question.” David cut across meekly, “I have staff on hand at all exits, you're not going anywhere.”
“You can't watch us all the time.”
“I beg to differ.”
The two stared at one another for a very long time, trying not to be the first to break the contact. Gerard lost.
“Good...” David murmured, watching the boys appraisingly. “I see you're coming to your senses. Now...” he stepped nearer, “The auctioneer stated you've been used.”
The statement hung in the air like smoke from a gun, the words acrid and taunting. Looking at the floor and his bare feet, Gerard nodded miserably.
“You're no virgin.” David smirked, “You've given it to a woman.”
“Yes.”
“But you've never taken it from a man.”
Gerard's eyes clamped shut and he forced down a rising sob, tears burning behind his lashes.
“No.”
“We'll see to that,” David paused, seeing Gerard visibly tense. “All in good time. You're very beautiful, we don't want to rush it and spoil you. As for the younger one-”
Gerard's head shot up and he was suddenly vehement once again.
“Don't you dare!”
“I wasn't ever intending upon doing so, I assure you.” David replied smoothly, “He's far too little for any of my clients. I do have rules, you know. Even the damned have principles. We'll wait until he's older, which won't be for a long while yet. You, however, are a different matter all together.”
“Clients?” Gerard's voice hitched and he frowned guardedly.
“Yes, clients.” David nodded, that queer smile spreading across his face again. He looked positively gleeful. “This is a brothel, of sorts, though I'd say it was far more than that... You're in heaven.”
Somehow, Gerard very much doubted that...
...and as he slumps down flat on the mattress and turns to face Bert on the pillow, Gerard still cannot help but wonder.
In the half-darkness, Femme Fatale looks even smaller and more graceful than he did under the disco lights or the lavish lanterns of The Red Room. Frank sits on the edge of the prostitute's bed, bare chested, hair still wet from the shower, gazing not at his surroundings but at Sonny who is standing with his back to his new room mate, examining himself in the tilted, full-length mirror. The shadows swallow him like a tiny bird as the French boy pulls off his shirt and lets it fall softly to the plaid carpet. The dim honey coloured light coming from the bedside table licks his ribs and stomach and the shallow curve between his shoulders, outlining the blades in grey and gold. And Frank thinks to himself as Sonny moves to loosen the catch on his jeans that Lord, he has never seen anything quite so beautiful as what lingers before him now.
“You think I'm seducing you?” Sonny murmurs, smiling smoothly at Frank through the looking glass.
“You don't need to seduce me, I'm yours already.” Frank replies in hushed tones. To be loud is to break the modesty veiling all of this, and he clings to modesty now more than he ever did before. Tomorrow night, or should he say this evening, he will lose his modesty forever.
“Well,” Sonny pushes his jeans down over his thighs, knees and ankles, steps out of them but doesn't turn around. “I'll stay over here for a while, if it's all the same to you. It makes me feel...feel... Oh, I don't even know how I feel.”
Frank doesn't say a single word, nor will he until he knows he can work his tongue. His eyes, though drowsy with sleep, cling to the sight conjured by this little French boy. He sees a guy in his late teens, on this side of legal but not by much, trailing pale fingers over his own reflection, not pressing against the glass but tracing it just barely with his fingertips. He sees a guy mesmerised by his own beauty, or something infinitely deeper, and inside himself he knows he could never behold his own image with such reverence and affection. He simply doesn't have the stomach for it or the courage to look past his obvious flaws. Sonny however, seems unable to tear his gaze away.
Frank has never known vanity, neither does he recognise it in others. To him vanity is an absurd and impossible thing, an illusion drawn up by those too ignorant to appreciate the natural chemistry and charisma of their own bodies. If it is a sin to love yourself, then it is the best sin of them all. He admires people who have the strength to be 'vain', and Sonny has it down to a fine art. Like Venus in furs, Sonny is a masterpiece of love, dressed up in the spoils of a great goddess unafraid.
“I'm glad you've come,” Sonny whispers suddenly, puckering his lips ever so slightly in a kiss that Frank alone would understand. Though only a reflection in the mirror, he can feel the heat of those European lips brushing against his own. “I've been so unbearably lonely. It's a hard life, and a friend is always appreciated.”
“I can imagine.” Frank smiles, “I'm glad I came too.”
Silence permeates the room as the two boys share a wordless glance, undimmed by the reflection and homed to perfection by the close proximity the tiny place affords. Both are quietly thankful to Gerard's preoccupation with Bert, because whatever happens later in the game tonight they get to be together in the same bed and talk and feel and experience something totally untainted and private. They may never get another chance like it. They don't pretend they're in love, that's ridiculous, but they do love each other in their own ways. As best friends love in the very bosom of their relationship. As strangers love who pass on the street and admire one another indifferently. Love is inherent in humanity, and inescapable no matter how much you hate with your very soul.
“Sometimes I wish Gerard wouldn't call us his children,” Sonny breathes.
“Why?” Frank asks.
“Because children are sexless, and I adore my sexuality like a child. Is that a contradiction?” he muses.
“Perhaps.”
Sonny takes a few steps away from the mirror, his back still facing the room and his eyes still glued to his own image, but Frank knows heaven right now. The French boy turns and the lamp casts his face into relief, and his snub nose softens and those beetle black eyes become deep and liquid. He is an angel, a cherub from another world, and Frank loves him. Loves him like a creature loves another creature for looking at them when no one else will in the whole universe. Frank knows that he is an attractive kid, Gerard showed him that earlier and so did the masked stranger from The Red Room, but until now he has never believed it with all his heart. Sonny's face in that moment makes him believe. It's ecstasy in its purest form.
The boy's hands tangle in Frank's hair as he sits in stunned happiness, Sonny stood above him pressing the new Testosterone Boy's face into his chest. He likes the rhythm of Frank's breath against his skin, and loves how when he tugs at Frank's locks the kid breathes just a little bit faster. He loves knowing that he has the power to inflict that change upon another person.
Though neither are naked, both still clad in their boxer shorts, they cannot bring themselves to care. They don't want to fuck or make love. They just wanna be near somebody and touch them because they are alone. Outside they have the entire city and every sorry individual who passes through Pierre Précieuse's doors, but inside they are as alone as a baby left on the corner of a warehouse, an innocent and clean being abandoned without the chance to express themselves and too young even to say they are unhappy.
In the back of their minds they know why Gerard calls them children. It's because beneath the debauchery, illegality and conscious awareness of their own filth there is a normal, screaming, hating infant.
The simplicity of the next few moments is astonishing, even to the boys themselves. They don't thrust their companion down into the mattress and proceed to straddle, dominate, use and confuse them. Quite on the contrary, they peel back the white linen sheets and clamber under them, exchanging very warm little smiles as they do so. They lay their heads down on the soft pillows, butting their faces into the fabric and sighing like contented kittens and they keep apart. Though so close they can feel each other's breath on their cheeks and revel in the heat radiating between their bodies beneath the bed clothes, they do not touch. They do not need to touch just now, all they need to do is stay beside one another and talk. They speak in whispers, tiny, meaningful whispers.
They turn off the lamp. Darkness lets the secrets come out easier than during the light, as they can hide again as secrets are so prone to doing because the light is not there to see what path they take or what curtain they hide behind. Yes, secrets have safety in darkness.
They can still see each other however, because even if the lamp lies dormant, the moon and the cityscape will never die. Through the window panes the mingling light of silver moon beams and electronic afterglow turn the boys an eerie bluish white. Like two slumbering Maxwell Demons, they survey each other and prefer this intimacy to any sexual act they could ever perform. It's an inclination that will surely not last for long, but one they appreciate none the less.
“What was France like?” Frank asks, feeling the wholesome elation beginning to work on him already. The tiredness has drifted away to be replaced with an eagerness to know everything Sonny will let him know.
“Oh, you would love it there.” Sonny's teeth gleam as he grins reminiscently, soaking up the atmosphere between them. “It's a place of beauty unrivalled by anything I have ever seen in my short life. It has the timeless beauty of a Kingdom of Light and the artistry of masters. The cities are like treasure troves and the small towns like something out of a Grimm Fairy Story. Everywhere you go you see varying degrees of poverty, but regret, never! The French are proud but have every right to be. Their country is like no other in Europe and a far cry from these metropolis American shorelines. Paris is a bustling, innovative, ant farm of noise, art and dramatics beyond your wildest dreams. Art, true art, is Paris. That is where I lived, and I wish I could go back there...” Drawing in a breath, he pauses, as though waiting for Frank to speak. And he does.
“Why did you leave if you loved it so much?”
Sonny doesn't answer for several seconds, and though it could very easily be Frank's imagination he thinks the breath on his face seems captured and subdued. Across the divide Sonny feels tense.
“It, well...” Frank sees Sonny drawing his tongue across his lips. “It was because of my family, my mother. She would beat me. And no matter where I tried to run in Paris, she would find me. I had to escape from it, from her, from the whole life I was living in France. I wanted to forget everything and start again. America, The Land of Opportunity, it seemed a great idea at the time. Though, anything was better than facing her and her cruelty.”
“How horrible for you...” Frank gasps, ensconced.
“I deserved it, I was a naughty child.” Sonny hisses quickly, “I would disobey her. But sometimes even I have to admit I didn't always deserve the punishments she gave me.”
“What kind of punishments?”
Frank doesn't know how he had the nerve to ask. He wants to pull the question back and tie it up with his tongue, but it's too late now and Sonny is very quiet. Though through the dark and silence Frank hears the beating of the French boy's heart. It serves to comfort him.
“It depended on how bad I'd behaved. Sometimes she locked me in the cellar without food, other times it would be menial tasks such as cleaning the house from rooftop to basement. And other times it would be violent and painful, such as whipping me in the backyard or chasing me through the house until she had me cornered. Such times usually ended with bodily injuries, like bruises and sometimes a broken bone. And I ran away from all of it, and now I'll never see France again.”
“You could still go back there...” Frank suggests kindly. “It's not too late.”
“No.” Sonny sighs loudly, exasperated that Frank doesn't seem to understand. “I can't go back. I'm penniless, I'm a prostitute, and I have enormous debts. Gerard keeps me here because I owe him so much for everything he has given to me since he took me off the streets. I was supposed to bring in business and regulars and fancy tips to earn my keep, but somehow the punters just brush past me in favour of something more desirable. I have to remain here until my debts are settled and I have savings for a better life. You know that, it's plain to see I'm sure, and until people think of me as beautiful I will never get away from here...”
“But you are beautiful.” Frank insists, aghast that Sonny could think any differently.
“Don't pity me, Frank, I can't handle it.”
Frank does all he can and all he has ever been capable of doing. He reaches his hand under the bed clothes and places it at the small of Sonny's back. The boy looks at him, doe eyes huge and glistening in the tangible blue light. Frank doesn't smile, doesn't laugh, frown or cry. He edges into the divide and tangles their legs together, knees pressing into groins and hot inner thighs interlocking. Frank doesn't know a lot about consolation, only respite and temporary relief; so he lets his lips brush against Sonny's in an offer of tender loving care.
The soft keening and mouth muffled moans this kiss creates would satisfy the most hard hearted of punters. If Gerard had witnessed it, he would have respectfully turned his head away instead of gazing like the natural voyeur he proudly is. The muted rustling of the sheets as Frank turns Sonny onto his back and presses flush into the young boy's most special nooks and crannies is only bettered by the sight Sonny finds reflected in the full length mirror: Frank's bare back, tinged blue and as solid as anything he has ever touched before, obscuring himself from view as he lies beneath, helpless and unwilling to push away.
Lying between the French boy's legs, Frank nuzzles against Sonny's neck, biting, licking, pulling away and starting again, trying to make his companion forget and be happy again. Anything to be happy again. He holds Sonny tenderly, one arm wrapped under and around him while the other disappears beneath the sheets and tracks the line of his jugular, collar, ribs, abdomen and public bone. The enveloping heat, the security in this closeness makes Sonny want to cry but he holds it in and kisses Frank like he can't remember how, tugging with his teeth and breathing sloppily and wanting nothing and everything and...Oh God...
Sweet oblivion be damned. Sweet, sweet oblivion is rich in this reckless abandon and by everything under the rising sun it is for this moment that people live. This moment when another person can lay hands upon their bodies and whisper that they are beautiful, that they fulfil everything they have ever wanted to touch and taste and belong to. Pleasure solves humanity's most desperate problems, even if that's only for a short while.
“Frank...” Sonny places his hand over Frank's as it makes to slip inside the boy's boxers. “You don't need to make me feel better this way. Just talk to me, talk to me like you talk to your friends. Treat me like you would treat others.”
“But this is how I would treat others.” Frank puzzles, “To make people feel better I...”
“You'll make a magnificent Testosterone Boy, you know.” Sonny cuts in, smiling as he wraps both arms around Frank and determinedly holds him so that they lie chest to chest, Frank's head beneath Sonny's chin, his hand resting on his stomach and away from its former path.
“Why?”
“Because the job of a Testosterone Boy is to make the customer forget about what ever it is they run from to seek comfort for in our arms. And you seem to be a natural, Frankie. A real natural.”
Warm and sated, Frank smirks in a self satisfied manner, enjoying the feeling of being held and the vibration of Sonny's heart beating beneath his ear. He would have liked to make Sonny feel better through physical gratification, of course he would, but somehow this is nicer. This is so much sweeter than oblivion.
“Can I ask you a question?” he mutters curiously.
“Of course you can.”
“Your first time, what was it like?” He has to suppress his own giggles and he hears and feels Sonny chuckling with him.
“Un débacle!” Sonny exclaims jubilantly, “It was short, painful, hot and certainly nothing to write home about! Non!”
They continue to laugh, arms wrapped like bows around each other and legs tangled and suggestively positioned tomorrow in the sleepy morning light.
On the other side of town, the cold light of dawn strikes the torrent of water issuing from the head of a shower, the stream turning slightly rainbow as it flies and sticks to grimy tiles and streaked cubicle doors. The glass twinkles and shimmers, the patterns swarming across its surface like so many tumbling spiders. The feeble sun licks at an icy, metal hoop fastened in the nostril of a naked man who stands, motionless and relaxed under the running water. He inhales deeply, drinking in the heat and comfort readily and without restraint. His eyes are slipped shut, so he doesn't see the blood stains slowly eking out of the pores of his skin, the creases in his palms, the gaps between nail and cuticle. The floor of the shower is pink with it.
Adam Lazzara stretches his arms above his head and groans loudly as his bones crack. As the water cascades down his back and over the muscled bumps of his shoulder blades he gives out a pleasurable hiss. The long, ragged scratches up his spine smart as the water hits them. They shine red and angry on his tanned flesh, looking out of place but strangely alluring. The physicality of them is voluptuous, demonic, and makes Adam grin openly to the dirty bathroom walls. He savours the screams still reverberating harshly in his ears, ringing and screeching like panicking sirens.
This feeling, as he stands there cleansing the crime from his body like it's a bad smell, is everyday and God it tastes delicious on the tip of his forked tongue.
---
SO... That was a weird chapter to write. From now on the chapters are gonna be alot like this, looking at the pasts and lives of the characters instead of looking at the club and the punters side of it. Hope you understand Gerard a bit more now :) He has emotions, who knew :P
Author - consistant
Rating - NC17
Pairing - Frank/Mikey eventually (and other random pairings throughout)
Status - Chapter 12
Summary - A twisted Moulin Rouge, a Glitterati crowd and a whore on a swing.
POV - 3rd person
Disclaimer - Don't own, don't know, don't sue. This is completely and totality fictional.
Author's Note - This doesn't get updated often, so i don't expect any of my old readers to come back, but it's written now so for whoever reads this - ENJOY.
Chapters:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
_________________________________________________________________
Testosterone Boys and Harlequin Girls - Twelve
Gerard doesn't care what the rest of the staff are going to say when they realise Bert has been taken to his room and not to his own tiny apartment in the basement. They don't know, or so he thinks, that this is the room the two often share. The very bed is sacred, like that of a married couple. Though, he's never truly perceived it that way before, not until tonight. Seeing Bet now makes him wonder why he's only just coming to realise the boy's significance in his life. The spilt blood was somehow the key unlocking the feelings inside him, the feelings he perhaps always knew were there even if he never shared them. Fickle thing really, rape and attempted murder.
“Will he live?”
Did he really just say that? He didn't feel his mouth moving. He could pin it all down on tiredness and drinking to excess, but in his head the truth blares like a fog horn. He's too fixated on the body tucked beneath the sheets to care what the hell his body does. Let it catch fire and burn down to ashes and bone, as long as he doesn't look away from Bert's face throughout the entire ordeal. No matter the extremity of the pain, it'd be worth every agonising second. He's got so much to make up for anyway, might as well do it in style.
Gerard is listening to the doctor explaining about concussion, trying to make sense of it but failing miserably, too interested in the heavily stained bandage now wrapped around Bert's forehead. The material is soaking, the dark, earthiness of the blood turning brown as it dries through the gauze. It looks terribly human and makes his stomach churn and turn over on itself. Bert shouldn't be human. He isn't a person. He's a lover and companion, a friend but never a human. Humans can die. He doesn't want Bert to die, it would destroy him utterly. He understands that with such clarity now, it scares him. Why does it scare him. What does this mean? Why did this happen? Why? It's all so unanswerable and maddening to a person who is always in complete control. Who never slips up.
Well he's slipped up now all right.
“Make sure you keep the wound as clean as possible, and change the dressings a few times a day, to keep the stitches in good order. We don't want that gash corrupting, no, no infection, you understand? Wash him, change his clothes, get rid of grime and dirt, anything that could spread germs to the wound. Be gentle, his head will be very sore and the flesh tender for days, maybe even weeks. I've got drugs here, painkillers, see that he takes them. You do realise, Mr Way, that without taking this boy to the hospital we're leaving things very much up to fate....”
And so on... And so on...
Gerard hears the words reverberate around the room, like shouting under water echoing into the depths, into the deep. They could be saying anything really, he can't know for sure. They could be insulting his mother, calling her a whore, a tramp, a wannabe baby-banger. They could be stripping him down fault by fault, degrading his body inch by inch, peeling him bare flake of skin by flake of skin. They could be asking for a quick fuck, the only true form of payment he recognises. It doesn't matter. He simply will not comprehend it. He's in error, does not compute land right now playing with the devil and the space monkey cross-breeds of insanity-ward legends.
Strands of curled, clotted hair rest against the pillowcase, surrounding Bert's face like a coppery halo, sticky and knotted from sweat and blood. The doctor had to shear hunks of Bert's shaggy mane away just to get to the gash on his crown, to stitch it and clean it and bandage it up all good as new. The lifeless hair looks horrible, disgusting even. Gerard wrinkles his nose and feels bile rise a little in his throat. He swallows it back down, breathing deeply.
“I'll come back to see him again tonight. Today will be crucial. If he pulls through it, we'll be okay. If it looks like he's flagging when I return, well... It's either hospital or death. You decide.”
With that blunt rejoinder, the seedy doctor begins to gather up his equipment, shoving everything into a large leather carry case with silver buckles. He leaves bottles of pills and heaps of bandages and gauze on the night stand, explaining as he does so what dosage to give Bert during the day and at what times the bandages should be changed, slipping in that awful medical jargon doctors use when they want to sound impressive and knowledgeable. Gerard stands at the foot of the bed, nodding and grunting, feeling useless.
As he hands over the crumpled bills Gerard wants to say so much. He wants to thank the man before him from the bottom of his black, little heart. He wants to get down on his knees and give him the best blow job of his life. But he doesn't. He stays perfectly silent and unmoving. The doctor takes the money and counts it quickly before pocketing it, eyeing Gerard as if he knows exactly why Gerard is so quiet, so full of terror.
“Don't move him.” The man says sternly, “Keep him in that bed for as long as he needs. We won't know for certain how much harm has been done until he wakes up and the wound begins to heal. He may have suffered nerve damage, heavy brain trauma, he may even become a complete vegetable. There's no way of knowing yet. However, I think I can safely say that he won't remember much of the attack, he may not even remember you or this...place...”
“He won't know me?”
For the first time in over 10 years Gerard sounds truly frightened. He looks at the doctor with round eyes filled to the brim with anxiousness, and bites his bottom lip.
“But I...I love him. He'll remember I love him, won't he? How could someone forget something like that? Even if he doesn't recognise me, he'll, he might, he-”
“As I said,” the doctor interrupts testily, pulling on his coat and picking up the case of medicine. “We won't know until he wakes up.”
“Do you have any spare pillows or sheets or anything?” Frank asks, looking around Sonny's bedroom enquiringly.
It's a lovely little place, very warm and friendly compared to the rest of the club he's seen. It's painted a soft green colour, close to the sheen of a spring apple and there are pictures on the walls of lavender and rolling country sides. Like in Mikey's room there are books everywhere, on every available surface as well as stacks of CD's and an old keyboard by the window covered with sheet music. He has a Hi-Fi and a small colour television, but no wardrobe. All of his clothes are piled against the wall, along with his shoes. Where Mikey had designer everything, Sonny has simpler attire. A lot of it is black, no surprise, but there are dashes of red and blue lying around here and there. There's a bathroom through an adjoining door, crammed with a shower, toilet and wash-basin. Instead of a dressing table, Sonny has a long, full-length mirror opposite the single bed, with a light wood frame betraying its cheapness. In truth, the room is everything Frank least expected.
“Why on Earth would you need those?” Sonny mutters, closing the door behind them.
“Well, the floor'll be kinda hard without them.” Frank shrugs, frowning when Sonny rolls his eyes and laughs. “What's so funny?”
“Frank, we've slept together twice in the same night, do you honestly think I'll care if we share the same bed? It's not like I haven't seen you naked, hell, I've seen you have a screaming orgasm!”
Blushing, Frank ducks his head to hide his embarrassment. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the brashness of these people, how easily everything is linked to sex or how when the time comes he'll have to embody this persona and make it believable. Because really, who wants a shy boy-toy when what they paid for is an experienced hooker?
“Can I use the bathroom,” he mumbles self-consciously, “I'm desperate for a shower.”
“Sure, go ahead.” Sonny smiles, “I think I'll have one too, once you're through.”
Barely listening, Frank scuttles into the tiny bathroom and bolts the door shut. He turns and leans his back against it, feeling as though someone is dancing the Macarena in his stomach. Sharing a bed with Sonny and not having sex, well, that's interesting.
Gerard slowly rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, setting the tiny silver cuff links atop the dresser for safe keeping. He removes his striped black and white tie, the knot having been choking him for the past two and a half hours. He unbuttons his collar, creating a V of white flesh and bobbing Adam's apple. Then he turns around, lowering himself gingerly onto the bed.
He folds himself neatly into Bert's side, tucking his legs beneath him, one arm steadying himself against the headboard, the other anchoring him to the mattress, his fingers splayed against the duvet. In this manner he can lean over Bert without touching him, leaving him to his dreams as he studies him leisurely from above. Gerard finds himself shuddering, but he doesn't need to wonder why this time. The impact of the night has finally hit home and simply sitting and watching is all he wants to do right now.
He studies Bert's face and wants to scream, can feel it pulsing hard from within his throat which feels raw and stings when he swallows. It has been so long since he actually cared enough to cry that the feeling of an oncoming sob is unnatural to him. He lets his eyes travel over the rising cuts and bruises surfacing on Bert's features, noticing acutely that they are many and maliciously red. The person that did this did it with little to no regret, that much is plain. And now Gerard feels angry, but can't quite express it in the right way. In an ideal world there would be a place inside him where he could physically squash his rage into a tight little ball which would never break free, never explode no matter the provocation. But this isn't an ideal world at all.
“Why the fuck didn't you run?” he rasps, glaring down at Bert, feeling the heat of his words burn his tongue. “Why the fuck didn't you get the hell outta there?”
But he knows why, of course he does. Bert doesn't run from things. He ran once, only once, and that was from his parents, from his old existence. That had been the biggest moment of his life. Since that day running seemed childish, stupid. Gerard can hear Bert's soft, rustling words in the back of his mind, saying, explaining...
“I was a kid then, well, I'm not one now. I've spent my whole life being afraid. Leaving home, getting out of that town, it taught me not to be afraid any more. That's why I don't run from things. I'd rather let them run over me.”
He closes his eyes, opens them again and lets the tears roll out and down over his cheeks. No one will see them, so it's okay. L'Elfe Noir is still unshakable and pristine to everyone outside this little bedroom, so he'll cry as much as he damn well pleases. Thank you very much.
“You could die,” he whispers, “You could die and it's all because you're a fucking push over.” A tear hits Bert's nose and trickles into the dry groove of his lips. “You could die and it's all because you can't look after yourself. Don't you fucking realise that when someone with a gun tells you to bend over you get the fuck out? You get the fuck out and you find me and I'll- I'll-” Another tear bounces off Bert's neck. “You can't just let someone grab you and fuck you and beat you to within an inch of your life and not yell for me! W-Why didn't you y-yell for me?”
Though he knows he did. Sure he did. He probably screamed himself hoarse. But Gerard didn't hear. He was too busy having sex with a new employee who's name he can't even remember while Bert was being violated and ripped limb from limb, most likely crying until he couldn't cry any more, being in so much pain, more pain than he'd ever been in throughout his entire life. Yeah. That's just about the shape of it, and Gerard knows it.
“Oh Honey,” he sniffs, rubbing angrily at his eyes with the back of his palm, “I'll take care of you from now on, I promise, I will, I will...”
And as a start he stands up and goes to the on suite bathroom, taking a bowl off the dresser and filling it to the brim with boiling water. Finding a flannel, he soaks it and takes both it and the bowl back into the bedroom, setting them carefully down on the night stand with all the dressings and pill boxes.
He stands over Bert for several long minutes, trying to decided the best way in which to do this. He doesn't want to wake him, though really he knows full well that Bert is knocked for six... he just wants more time, more delay. He knows what's beneath those sheets. He saw the terrible state of Bert's body back in the bed chamber, fleetingly, uncomprehendingly, and now he doesn't know is he's ready to face that again. But he has to, he understands that he has to do this, not just because it's what the doctor told him to do but because Bert would want him to.
Very carefully, he pulls the sheets down to Bert's feet, leaving him bare on the mattress. Sitting back gingerly, Gerard takes the bowl into his lap, rings out the flannel and sets to work. He tries not to look at the disgusting marks, or smell the overpowering stink of pure sex which radiates from Bert as he washes him limb from limb, but it's possibly the hardest thing he has ever had to do. It's fitting punishment, he thinks, for not being there when Bert so desperately needed him.
“You know,” he whispers, his words very small in the quiet of the bedroom, “I don't think I've ever been so fucking scared in my entire life, when I heard Mikey scream. I thought he'd found you dead, and I gotta say I had my doubts you were even alive while I waited for the doctor. You were so still. I could hardly feel you breathing.”
He dips the flannel into the bowl and soaks it, pulling it out again and beginning to rub gently at the long vertical stripes of dried blood running down Bert's chest, his heart beating very shallowly. He glances up at Bert's face, but it's blank and impassive, his ears most likely unable to hear.
“I've never told you about myself, have I?” Gerard says, wetting his lips, “Not...Not really. I've never told you about how I came to be here, running this club, becoming the biggest sinner on God's Green Earth. It's unfair isn't it? You told me everything about yourself within an hour of when we first met, and it's a year later and you don't... don't know...”
He looks over Bert's body, clean now but still horrific, and wants to weep again. He's so covered in bruises it's hard to tell what colour his skin is truly meant to be. At least the blood and salty stains are gone, at least he's half way whole. But it's not good enough for Gerard, nothing ever is, though he won't pretend he can fix Bert. When he wakes up Gerard will be there, sure, he'll help him come to terms with the attack, fine, he'll walk him baby step at a time back to reality, okay, but he'll never be able to mend him. That hurts but it's true.
“You said you never understood your parents,” Gerard continues, drawing the duvet back up to cover the boy, gulping hard. “Well... I was sold by mine.”
Down in reception Matt Good is crouched beneath his desk, holding his mobile close to his chest, thinking. He heard the doctor leave a long time ago, and knows Gerard won't come down again until the afternoon with everybody else, but he's still terrified. Once you become a Testosterone Boy contact with your family is forbidden under club rules because according to L'Elfe Noir it simply complicates things. If you hear something bad has happen such as illness or a death has occurred then sure, you can call, maybe even visit, but otherwise it's a sackable offence.
“But no one would know...” Matt thinks, staring at the blue screen and the cluster of black numbers just begging to be used.
Ever since he was a small child he has always counted upon his family for every kind of emotional support there is. He was never made to account for anything he did. He was able to confide anything without fear of scorn or rejection. That's why he was able to tell his mother that he was gay, that he wanted to move away and live in Gerard's establishment and earn money he could send home to her. They were poor, starving sometimes, but he could earn a fortune for them if they would only understand. They didn't necessarily need to know where the money came from exactly, but he told them because he never lied, he could never lie to anyone. This is and has always been his biggest weakness.
Taking a deep breath and hoping against hope that she'll answer, Matt presses the call button and holds the phone close to his ear.
After a dial tone of sheer eternity, the line comes alive and he hears a voice that makes him tear up at once.
“Hello? Who is it?”
“It's me,” he chokes, “Ma, I've done something awful...”
Sitting back against the headboard, the bowl of bloodied water clutched in his hands, Gerard stares out at the rest of the room with uncommon detachment. His shoulders are shaking and there are tears running down his face, though he doesn't seem to feel them.
“It...” He clears his throat and sighs, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “It was a decade ago, so long since... I, I was 15.”
He tips his head back and bangs it against the board, making it judder. He winces, but doesn't cry out.
“Mikey was... what... 8? 7? They put us together in the same bid, served us up to the backstreet society, real old school. They never told me why. They never said what I'd done wrong to deserve it.” Gerard grits his teeth, snarling through the sobs, “The just made sure they got a good deal, stayed to make sure we were sold for the right price. I saw their faces in the crowd. I can remember...”
...the smell of it. Like cattle in a hold, herded together in an old meat locker somewhere deep within an abandoned warehouse. Naked and shivering, he held Mikey close against him, staring around at all the other boys, seeing the same terror on every face, the same hopeless wondering. What was going to happen? All of them could hear the banging and scraping of hundreds of chairs in the hall above, the dull rumble of voices too numerous to count.
“What's happening, Gerard?” Mikey gasped sharp in his brother's ear.
“I don't know.” He replied, though he could sure guess, eyes darting about the ceiling above, his body jerking with every loud bang or shouted curse.
“Where's mum and dad?” Mikey pushed, wriggling closer into Gerard's chest, turning his face into the boy's neck, not liking the way he could feel everyone in the room watching him with rapt attention. Just because he dared to speak and they didn't.
“I don't know.” Gerard said again.
Silence fell inside the locker, all the boys huddling closer and closer together as the time ticked by. Gerard could feel his lips turning blue from cold and he began to bite them, causing them to bleed a little. It was hard to believe that just a few short hours ago he had walked through the front door of his quiet suburban house, in his quiet suburban life, after spending the day at his quiet suburban school. It seemed ridiculous that he had made Mikey a peanut butter sandwich and listened to Crowded House as he washed the dishes in the sink, that they had spent the rest of the afternoon watching Looney Toons in The Den. He could remember hearing the front door opening and closing, could remember thinking it was his dad home early from the office, could remember waiting with his eyes glued to the television, not realising the danger until he was smashed sharply on the back of the head with something so heavy it made his nose bleed. It was a classic case of hit and run, only they all ran together, Gerard and Mikey stuffed in the boot of a car, two men laughing in the front seat, job done.
Blackness took them.
Then they were lying on a freezing stone floor, waking up together with these teenagers all around them, all of them in nothing but their skins, all of them looking groggy and fearful and not quite believing what was happening. But inside they knew, though they wouldn't say it aloud. They knew why their clothes were gone, knew why they had been taken from their homes, knew why upstairs was crawling with rowdy revellers, knew why suddenly all the hairs on their bodies were standing on end. They just prayed they were wrong...
...Gerard falters and frowns, brows creasing; his hands are hurting. Looking down he realises that he has been gripping the basin so hard that his fingers have gone white around the rim. Trembling, he leans over Bert and places it on the night stand with a clatter. His hands shake as he rubs them palm to palm, the bones showing through the skin behind a pale tracery of veins. It had been so long ago, the night that changed his life, and yet it still made him feel...feel...
...terrified. Stumbling and straining to keep Mikey close to him, Gerard tried to gain a firm footing on the stage, his bare feet slipping on the linoleum. After the strong whiteness of the meat locker these hot spotlights felt like fire against his exposed skin and he blinked rapidly to rid the burning spots from his eyes. In his confusion he hardly noticed the leather collar and leash being fitted to his neck, only registering the fingers gripping tightly at his shoulder in case he made to bolt when it was too late.
“We'll begin Gentleman with tonight's specialty item-” A magnified drawl to his left, loud over a buzzing PA, “-donated by the leaders of our organisation, the Mr and the Mrs Way, a big hand everybody if you please!”
Applause attacked Gerard's ears and he looked around in pure disbelief, taking it all in and feeling the pit of his stomach drop out and roll quickly away from him. Well, at least it could escape. The room was huge, lit only by spotlights trained at the stage he and Mikey stood upon. Nothing but the first 5 rows of people were illuminated, the rest cast into shadow by the spotlights' glare, all of them male, all in varying degrees of decline. Not a youngster in the bunch, and every one of them smirking and making lewd gestures, cackling, wolf whistling.
“Jesus.”
It was all he could say, over and over again, clutching Mikey to him for all he was worth. In turn Mikey wound his arms around Gerard's waist and hid his face in the boy's ribs, comforted only slightly when his brother's hands found purchase on his lower back, nails digging in protectively.
“Gerard and Michael. Ages 15 and 7, brothers, to be sold under the condition that they not be separated. Neither are marked or pieced, neither are tattooed. The older previously used, the younger untainted. A great bid Gentlemen I grant you, and all proceeds go to maintaining this fine organisation. As you can see both are well formed specimens-”
A man stepped up from behind the brothers and wrenched them forcefully apart, facing them outwards towards the crowd who immediately began to cheer and cat-call. Gerard's face and neck turned red and he struggled to cover himself but the man dealt him a hit across the side of the face. Mikey wailed loudly until he too was given a hefty slap. The crowd's jeers reached fever pitch. Only two figures seated in the front row remained silent and in their seats, though grins curved their thin lips. They met Gerard's eyes and their own glittered maliciously as their son fought and tugged at the leash, trying with all his might to break free of its constricting hold. He had never felt so angry and yet so panicked and the emotions brought tears sparkling on his cheeks.
“Shall we begin the bidding?”
A hush fell...
... “I'll never forgive them for that night,” Gerard whispers hoarsely. “Never, for as long as I live. They led a double life, a secret, sordid life I could never have unearthed. They cared a hell of a lot more about that life than they did about their sons, that's for damn sure. To just cast us off for profit, like it didn't matter, not even caring where we ended up or who would win and take us home. We were lucky I suppose, as lucky as you can be in a situation like that, because the person who came up with the most cash didn't turn out to be a raving psycho. He was just a guy, a guy with a strip club, a guy with a brothel.” ...
... "If you touch him I'll fucking kill you! I swear to God I'll slit your throat! Get the fuck back! Get the fuck back!"
Gerard shielded Mikey with his entire body, keeping his brother behind him as their new owner stepped towards them determinedly. He was middle-aged, dressed in a suit and had a face like a marble angel. After the auction ended the two had been bundled into a van and driven half way across town to be delivered, free of charge. Now they were backed into the corner of a basement, fighting for their lives and something perhaps even more precious than that.
“I'm not going to hurt you, just cool it kid,” said the man calmly, stopping a foot away and putting his hands in his pockets, eyebrow cocked.
“Like hell!” Gerard spat, “You dare come a step closer and I'll-”
“What?” The man smiled good-naturedly at the raving teenager, amused. “You'll what? You're completely defenceless and you know it.”
Gerard's bottom lip was beginning to tremble and his eyes were extremely bright, but he would not lose control over himself, too much was at stake. Mikey was too transfixed with fear to even speak as he lay, sprawled on the cement, watching the confrontation with an expression simply unfathomable.
“My name is David,” the man said warmly, grinning, “David Tennant.”
Gerard didn't reply. He glared.
“The building you are in,” David continued undaunted, “Is my club. It is called Pierre Précieuse and from now on it is your home.”
“Home?” Gerard snorted. “No way man, we're leaving-”
“I think you'll find that is entirely out of the question.” David cut across meekly, “I have staff on hand at all exits, you're not going anywhere.”
“You can't watch us all the time.”
“I beg to differ.”
The two stared at one another for a very long time, trying not to be the first to break the contact. Gerard lost.
“Good...” David murmured, watching the boys appraisingly. “I see you're coming to your senses. Now...” he stepped nearer, “The auctioneer stated you've been used.”
The statement hung in the air like smoke from a gun, the words acrid and taunting. Looking at the floor and his bare feet, Gerard nodded miserably.
“You're no virgin.” David smirked, “You've given it to a woman.”
“Yes.”
“But you've never taken it from a man.”
Gerard's eyes clamped shut and he forced down a rising sob, tears burning behind his lashes.
“No.”
“We'll see to that,” David paused, seeing Gerard visibly tense. “All in good time. You're very beautiful, we don't want to rush it and spoil you. As for the younger one-”
Gerard's head shot up and he was suddenly vehement once again.
“Don't you dare!”
“I wasn't ever intending upon doing so, I assure you.” David replied smoothly, “He's far too little for any of my clients. I do have rules, you know. Even the damned have principles. We'll wait until he's older, which won't be for a long while yet. You, however, are a different matter all together.”
“Clients?” Gerard's voice hitched and he frowned guardedly.
“Yes, clients.” David nodded, that queer smile spreading across his face again. He looked positively gleeful. “This is a brothel, of sorts, though I'd say it was far more than that... You're in heaven.”
Somehow, Gerard very much doubted that...
...and as he slumps down flat on the mattress and turns to face Bert on the pillow, Gerard still cannot help but wonder.
In the half-darkness, Femme Fatale looks even smaller and more graceful than he did under the disco lights or the lavish lanterns of The Red Room. Frank sits on the edge of the prostitute's bed, bare chested, hair still wet from the shower, gazing not at his surroundings but at Sonny who is standing with his back to his new room mate, examining himself in the tilted, full-length mirror. The shadows swallow him like a tiny bird as the French boy pulls off his shirt and lets it fall softly to the plaid carpet. The dim honey coloured light coming from the bedside table licks his ribs and stomach and the shallow curve between his shoulders, outlining the blades in grey and gold. And Frank thinks to himself as Sonny moves to loosen the catch on his jeans that Lord, he has never seen anything quite so beautiful as what lingers before him now.
“You think I'm seducing you?” Sonny murmurs, smiling smoothly at Frank through the looking glass.
“You don't need to seduce me, I'm yours already.” Frank replies in hushed tones. To be loud is to break the modesty veiling all of this, and he clings to modesty now more than he ever did before. Tomorrow night, or should he say this evening, he will lose his modesty forever.
“Well,” Sonny pushes his jeans down over his thighs, knees and ankles, steps out of them but doesn't turn around. “I'll stay over here for a while, if it's all the same to you. It makes me feel...feel... Oh, I don't even know how I feel.”
Frank doesn't say a single word, nor will he until he knows he can work his tongue. His eyes, though drowsy with sleep, cling to the sight conjured by this little French boy. He sees a guy in his late teens, on this side of legal but not by much, trailing pale fingers over his own reflection, not pressing against the glass but tracing it just barely with his fingertips. He sees a guy mesmerised by his own beauty, or something infinitely deeper, and inside himself he knows he could never behold his own image with such reverence and affection. He simply doesn't have the stomach for it or the courage to look past his obvious flaws. Sonny however, seems unable to tear his gaze away.
Frank has never known vanity, neither does he recognise it in others. To him vanity is an absurd and impossible thing, an illusion drawn up by those too ignorant to appreciate the natural chemistry and charisma of their own bodies. If it is a sin to love yourself, then it is the best sin of them all. He admires people who have the strength to be 'vain', and Sonny has it down to a fine art. Like Venus in furs, Sonny is a masterpiece of love, dressed up in the spoils of a great goddess unafraid.
“I'm glad you've come,” Sonny whispers suddenly, puckering his lips ever so slightly in a kiss that Frank alone would understand. Though only a reflection in the mirror, he can feel the heat of those European lips brushing against his own. “I've been so unbearably lonely. It's a hard life, and a friend is always appreciated.”
“I can imagine.” Frank smiles, “I'm glad I came too.”
Silence permeates the room as the two boys share a wordless glance, undimmed by the reflection and homed to perfection by the close proximity the tiny place affords. Both are quietly thankful to Gerard's preoccupation with Bert, because whatever happens later in the game tonight they get to be together in the same bed and talk and feel and experience something totally untainted and private. They may never get another chance like it. They don't pretend they're in love, that's ridiculous, but they do love each other in their own ways. As best friends love in the very bosom of their relationship. As strangers love who pass on the street and admire one another indifferently. Love is inherent in humanity, and inescapable no matter how much you hate with your very soul.
“Sometimes I wish Gerard wouldn't call us his children,” Sonny breathes.
“Why?” Frank asks.
“Because children are sexless, and I adore my sexuality like a child. Is that a contradiction?” he muses.
“Perhaps.”
Sonny takes a few steps away from the mirror, his back still facing the room and his eyes still glued to his own image, but Frank knows heaven right now. The French boy turns and the lamp casts his face into relief, and his snub nose softens and those beetle black eyes become deep and liquid. He is an angel, a cherub from another world, and Frank loves him. Loves him like a creature loves another creature for looking at them when no one else will in the whole universe. Frank knows that he is an attractive kid, Gerard showed him that earlier and so did the masked stranger from The Red Room, but until now he has never believed it with all his heart. Sonny's face in that moment makes him believe. It's ecstasy in its purest form.
The boy's hands tangle in Frank's hair as he sits in stunned happiness, Sonny stood above him pressing the new Testosterone Boy's face into his chest. He likes the rhythm of Frank's breath against his skin, and loves how when he tugs at Frank's locks the kid breathes just a little bit faster. He loves knowing that he has the power to inflict that change upon another person.
Though neither are naked, both still clad in their boxer shorts, they cannot bring themselves to care. They don't want to fuck or make love. They just wanna be near somebody and touch them because they are alone. Outside they have the entire city and every sorry individual who passes through Pierre Précieuse's doors, but inside they are as alone as a baby left on the corner of a warehouse, an innocent and clean being abandoned without the chance to express themselves and too young even to say they are unhappy.
In the back of their minds they know why Gerard calls them children. It's because beneath the debauchery, illegality and conscious awareness of their own filth there is a normal, screaming, hating infant.
The simplicity of the next few moments is astonishing, even to the boys themselves. They don't thrust their companion down into the mattress and proceed to straddle, dominate, use and confuse them. Quite on the contrary, they peel back the white linen sheets and clamber under them, exchanging very warm little smiles as they do so. They lay their heads down on the soft pillows, butting their faces into the fabric and sighing like contented kittens and they keep apart. Though so close they can feel each other's breath on their cheeks and revel in the heat radiating between their bodies beneath the bed clothes, they do not touch. They do not need to touch just now, all they need to do is stay beside one another and talk. They speak in whispers, tiny, meaningful whispers.
They turn off the lamp. Darkness lets the secrets come out easier than during the light, as they can hide again as secrets are so prone to doing because the light is not there to see what path they take or what curtain they hide behind. Yes, secrets have safety in darkness.
They can still see each other however, because even if the lamp lies dormant, the moon and the cityscape will never die. Through the window panes the mingling light of silver moon beams and electronic afterglow turn the boys an eerie bluish white. Like two slumbering Maxwell Demons, they survey each other and prefer this intimacy to any sexual act they could ever perform. It's an inclination that will surely not last for long, but one they appreciate none the less.
“What was France like?” Frank asks, feeling the wholesome elation beginning to work on him already. The tiredness has drifted away to be replaced with an eagerness to know everything Sonny will let him know.
“Oh, you would love it there.” Sonny's teeth gleam as he grins reminiscently, soaking up the atmosphere between them. “It's a place of beauty unrivalled by anything I have ever seen in my short life. It has the timeless beauty of a Kingdom of Light and the artistry of masters. The cities are like treasure troves and the small towns like something out of a Grimm Fairy Story. Everywhere you go you see varying degrees of poverty, but regret, never! The French are proud but have every right to be. Their country is like no other in Europe and a far cry from these metropolis American shorelines. Paris is a bustling, innovative, ant farm of noise, art and dramatics beyond your wildest dreams. Art, true art, is Paris. That is where I lived, and I wish I could go back there...” Drawing in a breath, he pauses, as though waiting for Frank to speak. And he does.
“Why did you leave if you loved it so much?”
Sonny doesn't answer for several seconds, and though it could very easily be Frank's imagination he thinks the breath on his face seems captured and subdued. Across the divide Sonny feels tense.
“It, well...” Frank sees Sonny drawing his tongue across his lips. “It was because of my family, my mother. She would beat me. And no matter where I tried to run in Paris, she would find me. I had to escape from it, from her, from the whole life I was living in France. I wanted to forget everything and start again. America, The Land of Opportunity, it seemed a great idea at the time. Though, anything was better than facing her and her cruelty.”
“How horrible for you...” Frank gasps, ensconced.
“I deserved it, I was a naughty child.” Sonny hisses quickly, “I would disobey her. But sometimes even I have to admit I didn't always deserve the punishments she gave me.”
“What kind of punishments?”
Frank doesn't know how he had the nerve to ask. He wants to pull the question back and tie it up with his tongue, but it's too late now and Sonny is very quiet. Though through the dark and silence Frank hears the beating of the French boy's heart. It serves to comfort him.
“It depended on how bad I'd behaved. Sometimes she locked me in the cellar without food, other times it would be menial tasks such as cleaning the house from rooftop to basement. And other times it would be violent and painful, such as whipping me in the backyard or chasing me through the house until she had me cornered. Such times usually ended with bodily injuries, like bruises and sometimes a broken bone. And I ran away from all of it, and now I'll never see France again.”
“You could still go back there...” Frank suggests kindly. “It's not too late.”
“No.” Sonny sighs loudly, exasperated that Frank doesn't seem to understand. “I can't go back. I'm penniless, I'm a prostitute, and I have enormous debts. Gerard keeps me here because I owe him so much for everything he has given to me since he took me off the streets. I was supposed to bring in business and regulars and fancy tips to earn my keep, but somehow the punters just brush past me in favour of something more desirable. I have to remain here until my debts are settled and I have savings for a better life. You know that, it's plain to see I'm sure, and until people think of me as beautiful I will never get away from here...”
“But you are beautiful.” Frank insists, aghast that Sonny could think any differently.
“Don't pity me, Frank, I can't handle it.”
Frank does all he can and all he has ever been capable of doing. He reaches his hand under the bed clothes and places it at the small of Sonny's back. The boy looks at him, doe eyes huge and glistening in the tangible blue light. Frank doesn't smile, doesn't laugh, frown or cry. He edges into the divide and tangles their legs together, knees pressing into groins and hot inner thighs interlocking. Frank doesn't know a lot about consolation, only respite and temporary relief; so he lets his lips brush against Sonny's in an offer of tender loving care.
The soft keening and mouth muffled moans this kiss creates would satisfy the most hard hearted of punters. If Gerard had witnessed it, he would have respectfully turned his head away instead of gazing like the natural voyeur he proudly is. The muted rustling of the sheets as Frank turns Sonny onto his back and presses flush into the young boy's most special nooks and crannies is only bettered by the sight Sonny finds reflected in the full length mirror: Frank's bare back, tinged blue and as solid as anything he has ever touched before, obscuring himself from view as he lies beneath, helpless and unwilling to push away.
Lying between the French boy's legs, Frank nuzzles against Sonny's neck, biting, licking, pulling away and starting again, trying to make his companion forget and be happy again. Anything to be happy again. He holds Sonny tenderly, one arm wrapped under and around him while the other disappears beneath the sheets and tracks the line of his jugular, collar, ribs, abdomen and public bone. The enveloping heat, the security in this closeness makes Sonny want to cry but he holds it in and kisses Frank like he can't remember how, tugging with his teeth and breathing sloppily and wanting nothing and everything and...Oh God...
Sweet oblivion be damned. Sweet, sweet oblivion is rich in this reckless abandon and by everything under the rising sun it is for this moment that people live. This moment when another person can lay hands upon their bodies and whisper that they are beautiful, that they fulfil everything they have ever wanted to touch and taste and belong to. Pleasure solves humanity's most desperate problems, even if that's only for a short while.
“Frank...” Sonny places his hand over Frank's as it makes to slip inside the boy's boxers. “You don't need to make me feel better this way. Just talk to me, talk to me like you talk to your friends. Treat me like you would treat others.”
“But this is how I would treat others.” Frank puzzles, “To make people feel better I...”
“You'll make a magnificent Testosterone Boy, you know.” Sonny cuts in, smiling as he wraps both arms around Frank and determinedly holds him so that they lie chest to chest, Frank's head beneath Sonny's chin, his hand resting on his stomach and away from its former path.
“Why?”
“Because the job of a Testosterone Boy is to make the customer forget about what ever it is they run from to seek comfort for in our arms. And you seem to be a natural, Frankie. A real natural.”
Warm and sated, Frank smirks in a self satisfied manner, enjoying the feeling of being held and the vibration of Sonny's heart beating beneath his ear. He would have liked to make Sonny feel better through physical gratification, of course he would, but somehow this is nicer. This is so much sweeter than oblivion.
“Can I ask you a question?” he mutters curiously.
“Of course you can.”
“Your first time, what was it like?” He has to suppress his own giggles and he hears and feels Sonny chuckling with him.
“Un débacle!” Sonny exclaims jubilantly, “It was short, painful, hot and certainly nothing to write home about! Non!”
They continue to laugh, arms wrapped like bows around each other and legs tangled and suggestively positioned tomorrow in the sleepy morning light.
On the other side of town, the cold light of dawn strikes the torrent of water issuing from the head of a shower, the stream turning slightly rainbow as it flies and sticks to grimy tiles and streaked cubicle doors. The glass twinkles and shimmers, the patterns swarming across its surface like so many tumbling spiders. The feeble sun licks at an icy, metal hoop fastened in the nostril of a naked man who stands, motionless and relaxed under the running water. He inhales deeply, drinking in the heat and comfort readily and without restraint. His eyes are slipped shut, so he doesn't see the blood stains slowly eking out of the pores of his skin, the creases in his palms, the gaps between nail and cuticle. The floor of the shower is pink with it.
Adam Lazzara stretches his arms above his head and groans loudly as his bones crack. As the water cascades down his back and over the muscled bumps of his shoulder blades he gives out a pleasurable hiss. The long, ragged scratches up his spine smart as the water hits them. They shine red and angry on his tanned flesh, looking out of place but strangely alluring. The physicality of them is voluptuous, demonic, and makes Adam grin openly to the dirty bathroom walls. He savours the screams still reverberating harshly in his ears, ringing and screeching like panicking sirens.
This feeling, as he stands there cleansing the crime from his body like it's a bad smell, is everyday and God it tastes delicious on the tip of his forked tongue.
---
SO... That was a weird chapter to write. From now on the chapters are gonna be alot like this, looking at the pasts and lives of the characters instead of looking at the club and the punters side of it. Hope you understand Gerard a bit more now :) He has emotions, who knew :P