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roryfrommybabysittersavampire · 2 months

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here is the first unedited chapter and some of the draft of the second chapter of a book im kind of sort of writing but probably won't finish ! it almost works as a standalone story so it's not that much of a cliffhanger if you end up enjoying it. this is mostly just backstory about a trans guy growing up and being real sad and stuff because I'm sad and trans but there's ahappy ending yay!

words : a little more than 14 thousand

tags: ocs, trans, gays, coming of age briefly, two boys kissing /straight, rich people, homelessness, pet play kink, (dog motif), side character named seth, sub/dom, prostitution, some characters are strange about trans ppl and the character isn't educated at all about his identity, I edited out the actual smut because it was bad, I'm just riffing here guys I'm just typing ( I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm trying so hard. it's 3:52 in the morning)

tw lots of drugs and mentions of sa. probably more too. just like lots of trauma but none of it is very graphic because he brushes over all of it because he is Not Healthy.

CHAPTER ONE:

It must've been one hundred degrees out. Hotter, even. Every single pore leaking sweat, clothes clung like seran wrap, useless to pull his shirt from his back because it had nothing to do but stick again. Rue had never really used a thermometer, couldn't figure out where to stand to read one, but his dad's truck had a little number in the corner of the dash that he watched crawl up on the drive to school. Sixty when he got in the car, seventy before the sun was up. He felt the heat trying to crawl in through the bulletproof windows all morning, distracting him from long lessons about prefixes and suffixes that he really did mean to pay attention to. Watched the clock crawling toward a dreaded lunch release. But he knew that no amount of wishing could delay it, and now here he was. Did it even get hotter than one hundred degrees, or did it work like a percentage? Was one hundred the hottest? If it was, it was probably one hundred degrees out.

Rue was crouching behind the dumpster, hiding from the oven-light sun. His class did an experiment when he was younger where they cooked pizza outside with nothing but boxes and tinfoil. It didn't take long, either. He couldn't remember if they ate it for lunch or snack. For all he knew, he could be that pizza–stuffed in the foot of shade between the searing, smelly metal, and the anthill-ridden, cracked asphault, nothing when he looked up except for plastic dumpster lid. From where he sat he could see the old, rusty race car sitting by the fence, a low angle of the windows looking into Ms. Warburg’s office. He was playing a dangerous game, but he was also playing a smart one. That was usually his strategy. He couldn't run as fast as the other boys, couldn't scream as loud or hit as hard, and with the end of fourth grade approaching they were all starting to surpass him in heigh, but he could think better than they could. The rest of them broke off, ran around in noisy circles in the gravel while Mitch counted off his one-one-thousands. Rue tiptoed away in the chaos, sprinted around the corner of the building, watched until Warburg left her office, and took his chance. She could've been grabbing something outside of the door, but it didn't matter. That just meant he had to be quick enough for her to spin right back around. He ran, crouched, slid into the perfect hiding spot so fast that his knees bled. He was sure to win, then. No kid would dare cross the principal to find him. He just had to sit back, relax, and wait.

That was so long ago, though. Could it have been a whole half an hour? Was lunch over already? He looked down at his skinny arms, his shoulders wrapped in bright blue striped sleeves, circular sweat stains under his armpits. No, the little things looked perfectly raw to him. No bubbling, burning skin, blood didn't leak from under it like pizza sauce. He'd half-expected it to.

Yes, time was definitely passing, just as it had passed all day. It took a while to notice, but he couldn't deny it any longer. No one was coming. His legs were getting restless, the shadow had moved just an inch toward him. He took a risk, peeked his head out– Ms. Warburgs’s office was empty– and around the corner of the building–

“Rue Nadine!” the shrill voice came from behind him, froze him solid while he stuck his neck out uncomfortably, looking out at an empty field. Goosebumps shot down his neck, a chill tried to follow that didn't quite work because his skin was cooking. He'd done so good for so long, this could hardly be happening. Finally he sighed, turned around. “Would you like to tell me what you're doing out here?” the woman shrieked.

“Playing hide and seek,” he said, a casual answer.

Ms. Warburg’s face scrunched up, into the center the way it always did, like she smelled something bad, though she probably actually did that time. The dumpster wasn't pleasant. A hint of sour banana, some piss, a general trash smell that really couldn't have been anything but trash. “Don't get smart with me. Get out of there, my office. We're going to call your father.” She turned sharply on her heel, confident that Rue would follow. He smiled to himself as he clumsily stood on cramped legs. Oh no, my dad! How terrifying! Why were your parents supposed to be a threat? It was a sad thought, when he really considered it.

No one looked at him while he followed through the muggy, swamp-cooled office. Didn't care. Just another one of Warburg’s catches. They had to humor her at that point. At least she could still go out to hunt and get herself back inside. He sat down too hard on the soft chair by her desk, tapped his fingers together while he waited for her to ease herself down the way old people did. The office wasn't as bad as a lot of the kids made it seem. And Warburg wasn't either. She was old, yes. Smelled weird. Had a man’s voice that somehow still managed to be screechy, gave harsh punishments for harmless crimes. But she let Rue sit in the corner when he was having a bad day, run in and talk for a few minutes without warning when he couldn't sit still in class. She liked hearing about his books. The ones he was reading, and the ones he was planning to write. And she didn't look at him when he was upset, didn't say a single word from the time that he burst in crying with his head hung to the time he left breathing steadily, nodded to her politely, left and went back to class. She knew that he was a good kid. For some reason, though, she had a very strict idea of how to maintain that.

“Would you care to explain to me what you were doing, or do you plan to wait until your father is on the phone?”

Rue looked up. Her face was bored, her lips puckered and pouting like a trout, her wrinkly eyes thin and calculating. “My dad please.”

She narrowed her eyelids even further somehow, turned slowly without breaking eye contact until she had her spidery fingers wrapped around the black plastic receiver. She typed in a number without looking it up, laid the clunky thing back down and let it ring on speaker. Rue tapped his fingers on the desk, bit his lip. It rung. Rung. Rung.

She looked at him like it was his fault when his father's voicemail crunched through the damp air. Leave a message! She lifted the receiver, put it back down with a crash while she glared at Rue. “Okay, your mother then.”

Rue’s eyes shot wide, new sweat mixing with the cold stain sitting on his back. He tried to look calm, cool, put together. Sat still. Didn't tap his fingers as she flipped through a noisy binder, stopped on the page with his name on it. “Please just call my dad again.”

“Your mother’s number is right here, and I have to speak to someone.”

“No!” he snapped.

She glared again, wrinkles between her eyebrows, scrunched pig nose. “And why is that?”

“She's dead.”

Ms. Warburg looked shocked for just a moment, almost apologetic, before she rolled her eyes. “No she is not.” Started typing in the number.

“What do you mean she's not?” he shouted, pleading. “Do your records seriously not reflect that? She got cancer! She's not gonna pick up!”

When she only looked at him and waited for the phone to ring, to her ear this time, Rue shot up in his chair and tried to grab it from her hand, over the desk. A loud clatter, a cup full of pencils spilled across the clean wood desktop and onto the floor, Ms. Warburg’s rubbery hand swatting him away, putting on a fake smile as he heard the whisper of his mother answering the phone.

“Ms. Nadine, hello? This is Ms. Warburg, the Icecap Elementary principal. Yes, it's lovely to speak to you too. I’m calling, actually, because your child is in my office– no, this is disciplinary–”

Rue sat back in his chair, seething. Crossed his arms. Glared the meanest, nastiest glare that his little eyes could manage as he swayed slowly back and forth on the spinning chair. He resolved never to come into the office again, no matter the reason. She was a liar. She didn't care about him.

“Well,” she drawled, smirking at the boy as she spoke into the deteriorating microphone. “I found Rue– I’m sorry?” her face fell. “No. No, I will not be doing that, I apologize, ma’am. We have a contract that prevents it. Yes, I’m serious, I’m not sure what motivation I would have to lie about that. With all due respect, Ms. Nadine, that is not the issue at hand right now. I will continue to respect your son’s wishes– please don't use that language with me, ma’am! Alright– Ms. Nadine? That's fine. Have a nice day.” She turned away while Ms. Nadine’s voice continued to crackle into the air, hung up the phone. She looked at Rue. “Would you like the records to reflect that your mother is dead, on your word?”

He swallowed. Blinked at her, wasn't exactly sure what was happening.

“Or, I suppose I should just put a note not to contact her.”

“That sounds better,” Rue mumbled. The room was too silent. Something had shifted. He had a good enough idea what was said from Ms. Warburg’s side, but he wished she'd just put it on speaker. Let him hear it for himself. He couldn't let himself move.

The phone rang. Rue jumped. Ms. Warburg picked it up.

“Hello, Ms. Warburg speaking. Mr. Nadine, thank you so much for calling back! We had a touch of an issue, but it's been resolved. It’s really nothing to worry about, but are you in a place where you can pick your son up early? Now would be ideal, actually. It’s no big deal, he's just a bit rattled, but I think Rue would prefer to tell you himself—“ she glanced up at him. He nodded. “Okay, thank you so much. Have a nice day, sir.”

She hung up, turned to the wide-eyed kid. “Your father will be here in fifteen minutes.” Her face was unreadable, but her eyes were not narrowed, and her nose was not scrunched.

Rue sort of wanted to hug her, sort of wanted to run. He had nothing left to say, everything she could possibly need had been aired out. She took a red pen from her desk as he watched, one that had been nicely sitting in a cup when he walked in, pulled off the cap with a characteristically shaky hand and drew a line through his mother’s phone number. Scrawled something in cursive next to it, closed the binder and put it back in the filing cabinet behind her. “I had Mr. Jenks get your things from your classroom, they should be sitting in the hall when you leave. But you are welcome to wait in here, if you'd like,” she said as she turned back and looked at her old, wide Dell computer.

“Thank you,” he said, got out of his chair and went to sit in the corner with his knees pulled to his chest. She didn't look at him, he didn't look at her. When someone knocked on the door to say this his father was there he turned, nodded to her politely, and left.

***

“Do you know how many times I was forgotten in hide and seek, bud?” Rue’s dad asked while he served dinner that night. Rue was sitting at the table, pinching at the tweed tablecloth, still hanging his head. “It was like, five. You’re gonna have to try a lot harder if you wanna catch up with this hot shot.” He pointed at himself with his newly free hands.

Rue laughed half-heartedly. He hadn't shared the actual problem yet. He didn't lie, exactly, but he embellished a few facts to make the tone of the phone call make sense. He was sad because the kids didn't like him, played the game to get rid of him, got him in trouble. It made sense. Yes, Rue was bullied. Sort of. A passive kind of bullying. He didn't know at the time, but it would continue through fifth grade, worsen a bit in middle school. It was a bittersweet fact that no one would ever touch him. There was never a single bruise on him that he didn't put there himself. No one would call him anything explicitly terrible, nothing bad enough to quote. He would sit alone at lunch, be forgotten in hide and seek, and that was really the worst of it. And that was fine. Better to have nothing interesting to tell on that front. And not the issue at hand, not at all.

His dad sat across from him, picked up his plastic fork and stabbed his ‘Pad-say-ewwie’. He was trying to look casual, trying to get Rue to laugh. He was a good dad. He wanted his kid to be happy. It wasn't his fault that he thought that meant a constant smile, a complete lack of complaints. It made enough sense. Rue was not spoiled, but unchanged Bandaids were pasted all over his wounds, in the form of a nice room and laid-back rules and whatever dinner he wanted while they watched whatever movie he wanted to watch, if he wanted to watch a movie. He didn't complain. He didn't know what he would change about their situation, if he could change anything. Maybe his mother would be there, but she would be an entirely different woman, and that would be an unfair wish. Maybe his dad would be a bit more responsible, better at cleaning, smarter with his creative solutions. But that would change his dad, and that was a slippery slope. He loved his dad. His life was good.

Rue looked up, smiled. “Thank you for getting dinner.” He forgot that he was only ten sometimes. Felt a lot older. Fifteen, maybe. Thirteen on a good day. He did his own laundry, made sure his dad felt appreciated. And he thought all kids should be a bit more like him, but not like him. Adults loved him, but he had no friends, and he was too young to start going out and talking to the older kids. He assumed that he played them up in his head, anyways.

“What's up, buddy?” His dad asked, adjusting his position in his seat and making his eyes look sad.

Rue looked up like he was confused. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not calling you a liar, I swear, but are you sure you told me the whole story? War lady seemed pretty worried about you.”

Rue considered his options, then gave up thinking, let his tongue blurt it out. “She called mom.”

“Fuck,” his dad sighed simply. Put his fork down. “Was it bad?”

Rue shrugged. “I dunno, but I’m pretty sure mom got upset when she said my name, so…” Rue trailed off, ate a piece of broccoli while his dad looked at him like a wounded animal.

“I’m so sorry, bud. You know it's just her issue, it has nothing to do with you.”

This is Rue’s sob story. The one smudge on Rue’s perfect, comfortable, not-quite-spoiled life. It was the reason that Rue’s mother chose to give full custody to his father in the divorce, the reason that Rue was tragically outcast from his peers. It was why he was ten, and felt fifteen or thirteen on a good day, but when he was being honest, in his journals and his head mostly, he was perfectly terrified to grow up. So much that he could barely read anymore for fear of escaping for too long, wasting time. Stuck in a perpetual state of not quite here or there, a non-child praying every night to a god he didn't believe in for time to slow down for him. And, finally, it was the reason why he was so close with his father. And that would make it good, even if it was a bad thing, but it was not a bad thing, and thus was Rue’s sob story.

Ah, the dreaded word. That terrible, taboo phrase. Should I say it? Do you deserve to know his secret, his curse that he withheld from everybody save for Ms. Warburg and his beloved father? But he knew he couldn't keep it a secret for much longer. It was already coming apart at the seams– tiny feet, little, skinny arms that did not cook like pizza. I suppose I’ll just tell you. It's not like he was truly ashamed. He really won't mind. So, here it is: Rue’s terrible, evil, secret curse was that he was a transgender child. Yes, one of those little things who forced grave choices on their parents, who drew news attention and made teachers complicit. He made the choice himself to keep it under wraps, after he made the choice to tell his father. So grown up, he was, even at seven, when he dressed up in a tiny play suit jacket and went to deliver his father a paper that said, simply, “I’m a boy,” with a small smiley face at the bottom. He would've been fun to put in dresses for a bit longer, but it made too much sense to disagree with. No one knew where he got “Rue” from, not even Rue himself, but it suited him, so he kept it.

And, of course, the crux of his suffering. His mother, bless her heart, loved him too dearly to watch Rue’s father feed his delusions. Couldn't bear it, packed up all of her things and left the night before the name change. Tried to sue him for child endangerment or something, lost, divorced him and requested not to have any scheduled visits. The judge laughed at her for refusing to use her child's legal name, and that was it. She didn't see them for years. Rue did not tell Ms.Warburg, but the little buzzes from the receiver were some of the first that he'd heard from his mother in years. And that was fine. He was happy with that.

That night he told his father what few details he caught, confessed that he was scared for the first time in a long time. Cried on the couch while his dad made popcorn. There was no option to grow out of this. It would follow him. They watched the first Ghostbusters movie and Rue looked out the window at the moon and thought of his mom. She must be thinking of him, too. He hoped that she was, after so long. He wouldn't be able to stop himself.

***

Middle school got worse, just as he suspected it would. He remained friendless, put in no effort to change it as voices around him slowly grew deeper. In seventh grade his father took him on a camping trip and couldn't make it up the mountain. Rue sat next to him on the side of the trail, stickers in his legs, while his dad told him that he had heart cancer. Rue didn’t even know that was possible. They cried together. Apparently he'd been trying to fight it silently for a year, but his time was running out. He thought it might be his last camping trip. They finished the hike slowly. Rue looked at his dad while he slept and wondered if he would wake up in the morning.

Summer approached. His father dragged his fragile, timebomb body to the rows of appointments to get Rue on hormone blockers, got all of his important documents together, signed his last will and testament. He wouldn't tell Rue what was in it. Not yet. There's no need for that yet. We're prepared, but we're hopeful. Hopeful but prepared. It became his mantra over the last few months, repeated every time that an arrangement was made, an appointment was scheduled. Rue stayed inside with him all summer, his grandmother came to help when a fourteen year old’s care could no longer suffice. His father died peacefully in late June. Rue stayed in the house with his grandmother until the custody was settled.

But she turned out to be a nasty woman as well, of course. One afternoon Rue’s uncle came to the house to give his condolences, and he said something strange. Something about being sorry, which Rue nodded at, and then something about a girl's body. A man’s going mind, in the end. Rue shook off the man’s handshake, wiped his palm on his leg and went to his room. When he came out things were missing. Important things. His father's laptop. His father's guitar. His father's journals and sketchbooks and his tobacco pipe. He cried. The old woman comforted him, told him that he would get them back when his uncle passed.

She arranged a Christian burial in August, complete with a speech about her son accepting Jesus into his heart in his last moments on Earth. Rue could not confirm or deny it– she had taken those moments from him. Invited him in to feel the body go cold. He didn't believe it, though. His father was closer to pagan than anything else, though agnostic may have been a good word for it. Rue sat in the back row seething. His mother took him home, loaded his bags from the church sidewalk into the back of her SUV and drove him to a strange house in silence.

His mother did not abuse him. Thus was his sob story. She did not hate him, didn't even dislike him. Most of her issue was with his father, after all. In her eyes Rue was a victim of brainwashing, a child who refused to be saved. And when she finally gave up on his salvation she only treated him like a thing that she was tasked not to kill– a houseplant, a fish, maybe a hamster on a good day. She didn't hate him, didn't neglect him, she just couldn't agree with his life choices, didn't think that his grandmother had done anything wrong. It was fine, Rue was simply defeated. He spent his energy surviving. Getting along with her. Bathing himself. No time for grief, at least. Might as well figure out how to sue an uncle.

***

Rue finally made a friend in the first month of high school. The kid approached him while he was laying on the ground during dodgeball, asked him what his problem was. He was tall, looked even taller from the floor. Rue said he was just tired. The kid said me too. His name was Donald, or Donnie, or Don. Rue didn't like him much at first, but at least they were talking, and then he still didn't like him much for the months after that either. Don was not gentle. He said whatever he thought, whenever he thought it, and he did what he wanted to. It was unfamiliar, but the general idea was attractive. By winter break Rue learned to laugh along, brush off cruelty, sometimes even chime in. He got attached, stopped being careful and followed Don wherever he asked. It felt how being fifteen should. Rue learned to see Don’s teasing as proof that someone was thinking of him, his arguing as proof that they were still equals, his cigarettes passed Rue’s way as proof that someone was taking care of him. Besides, not many people would so willingly treat Rue as ‘one of the boys’ the way Don did, enforce his treatment as one of the boys, no matter how many strange comments his curse inevitably came with. And Don was smart. Smarter than the rest of the kids, so that he didn't quite fit in for it, just like Rue. Logical. He didn't hate nonsensically. He had well-spoken reasons for why he thought how he did, so Rue listened. And, since they were smart, in their moments of intentional stupidity they were very careful about their company. They almost made it a game- assembling a gang of sorts, going through mental applications together. Don was the leader, Rue the thing that he kept by his side. And the kids listened. All of them, like Don was infallible. They worshiped him up until he graduated, then chomped at the bit for his phone number so that a diploma could not keep him away.

Don’s parents were rich. And not good job rich, inheritance rich. They had a huge house, too many nice cars, and endless spending money that Don could snag without anyone blinking. Starting in August of Rue’s senior year they went out of town for four months, to The Bahamas, and Don had the house to himself, and suddenly Rue’s life was perfect. His mother had lost interest. She didn't ask where he was going when he packed a few of his things. He got to pretend like he was an adult, that he'd gone off and moved in with a rich, dangerous man who bought him drugs and a pretty jacket and a bottle of his own cologne. Rue and Don slept in the master bedroom when no one else was there, Rue made a bed on the floor of Don’s room when there was company. There was company often. Endless rotations of friends and acquaintances who brought anything Rue wanted. Sometimes Don took him out on drives in the Ferrari, showed him off while he sold sandwich bags of weed, then let Rue smoke his stash in the passenger seat and smile out the open window at the passing streetlights.

That September Don got him testosterone. The gang treated it like a drug deal, found someone who could sell it to them cheap, had a party and laughed like Rue was shooting up when Don gave him his first shot. Then they considered the idea for a moment, said ‘now that Don can use needles right’– ever so cautious, even when they were speaking about killing themselves– but that wouldn't be for a long time, they agreed. Then they changed the subject. The beginning of that year stayed good. Rue’s voice dropped. He kept going to school while Don stayed in their big, empty house, training himself to be a kingpin. The brand new adult had his mind set on it. He was gonna climb to the top, work his way up from petty eighths to bags of cash and coke across state lines. He liked the rush. He liked when people listened to him. Rue had grown fond of listening to him, too. He didn't object when Don laid out his plan, liked the idea of hanging on a gold-watch-clad arm forever.

But, of course, eventually Don's parents came home. It was December. They found out about his amateur operation almost immediately, kicked them out that same night. Rue’s mom shooed them off when they came to her door. Rue excused Don so he could plead. She had a slough of reasons, even if Rue were to break down one she'd come back with ten more. It was hopeless. He gave it one last shot.

“He stays or I go forever.”

She laughed. The decision was too easy. She told him that he was welcome to get the rest of his things, or she'd make him breakfast if he was there when she woke up in the morning. He left crying to find Don on the sidewalk, they walked to the closest Denny's. Rue had one backpack with him. Don still didn't have a car.

Everything shattered around them, the illusion gone as they looked at each other in the sticky, faux-leather booth. They weren't grown-ups, drug lords, gang leaders. They were kids. And they were alone, and scared. They held each other, equals under the flickering orange light hanging too low over the table, traced the endless cracks in the wood scratched up and refinished a hundred times over, until they were asked to leave.

“It's 24 hours,” Don had objected quietly, looking up at the young waitress with tired eyes.

“Don't matter, I didn't say we're closing.”

Don blinked at her, annoyed, exhausted.

“Would you please just leave sir, it’s been a long night.” She glanced back at the angry woman watching her from the kitchen.

Don nodded and pulled Rue's arm behind him, out of the booth, out of the door, to the curb. They sat down. He took the bag off of his back, larger than rues by a few pockets, reached in and counted his money. Three thousand dollars, he said. It was much more than Rue expected. He didn't know why they didn't order anything while they sat. Maybe they could've stayed longer.

“What are we gonna do?” Rue asked.

They looked at each other for a long time.

That night they walked an hour to their friend Camden’s house. Don told him that he could drop the act after he opened the door like they were royalty, looked around nervously like he had no other choice. They weren't gang leaders, they weren't drug lords. They needed a place to sleep. Another friend. Camden’s parents lent them the guest room and Don let Rue crawl into his arms while he fell asleep. In the morning the Camden's pulled them out for a talk. Are you guys dating? No. Are you into drugs? Yes, Don said. There was no point in hiding it. The Camden’s would find out eventually, they might as well wait for a place that accommodated their situation. Rue cringed. What kind? Weed, we drink. That’s usually it. Ms.Camden raised her eyebrows. We had a stint with coke, Don said very casually, but it's over, he brushed it off. She nodded. Is that why you’re on the street? Rue looked to Don. No, no, he assured her. Uh, Rue’s mom is a bigot, my parents are bigots. He made a face like explaining more might shatter something in the boy standing next to him. Ms. Camden looked to her husband. Fine by me, she said, shrugging. Her husband shrugged too. Yeah, sure. He's still in school, right? Mr. Camden asked. Rue nodded. You? Don shook his head. You work? No, but I’m looking. Does he talk?

“Sorry, yeah”, Rue laughed. “Thank you, by the way.”

And then it was okay again, for a while. Just a speedbump, it's okay. They realized quickly that the interrogation was a charade, that there weren't really any rules as long as everything was well-hidden. First it was the beer bottles. They piled them up in a bag. Threw them out. No one cared much. Then the smoke. They opened a window. The house smells, a Camden might say in passing, and ask if there’s been a skunk nearby with a wink. They nodded, yeah, smiled back. Then it was the late nights. The days home from school as Rue and Camden slept them off. The empty dimebags. Around February things started to slip. Rue’s grades got low enough that the school was concerned. He had to look his mother in the eye as she examined him in the stuffy office– hair cut short and messy, scruff above his lip, charcoal around his eyes, a safety pin in his ear. And worse, the eyebags. The strong, sunken cheeks. She didn't know him. She left crying. He was let off with a warning.

***

The first night that they tried heroin was the same night that Camden went to his first punk show. Don made a big deal of it, dressed him up. Our scene, he kept saying, though he and Rue had only been to two or three shows themselves. While they were there Camden told them he got the impression it was really just an excuse to get high and hit people. He didn't mind it, it was fun. They met a guy named Jack afterwards who drove them in his breaking down Toyota to steal two bottles of ‘Henny’, as he called it, his favorite, then drank with them in the truck bed until they were all delirious. They could've died a million ways that night. None of them understood Jack's motives, bent over to whisper little jokes about the weapons he was grabbing whenever he stepped away. The three weren't that interesting. He was a few years older than them, in his third year of college to be a vet. Later into the night, or morning by then, probably, they picked up Jack’s friend Cooper. He was the one with the fix. Don was too smart to put something into his arm on a whim. He would've said no if the thought hadn't been brewing in his head already, ever since some guy he talked to in a bathroom described the feeling to him. Like a blanket made of water made of silk, safe in a hurricane, or something like that. Don would never seek it out. Never. So, it must have been fate that it came to him instead.

He didn't trust their needles, though, of course. So careful. He offered to host, said that if someone wanted to drive they had a clean shed out back, as long as they were out by sunrise. Camden cringed at the thought, but gave in when they all agreed, let Cooper drive because he had the least cognac coursing through his veins.

That night was also the first time that Don kissed Rue. It was nothing big, nothing too real. It happened right after his second hit, after he knew what to expect. He did Rue’s first so that his hand would be steady as possible, then his own, and fell back into the blankets that they'd stuffed against the corner. He turned his head and studied the boy. His hair was mussed, his muscles all limp. And his eyes were somewhere else entirely. Floating, vacant. Don knew that he was happy. He smiled. ‘Watch this,’ Don had mumbled to the room, gave a half-hearted laugh, before he leaned forward and caught Rue's lips. Just for a moment. When he pulled back Rue was there, looking at him. Dude, Jack laughed from the opposite corner, gross.

The next morning they talked while they ignored theit strange, feverish hangovers. Rue swore that he was done.

“We can do it like this. It was fun. But an addiction has to be broken at some point. It’s the only inevitability. You break it, you withdraw, you crave– or, I guess, you die,” Rue shrugged.

Don shrugged too. “It is always an option.”

They were only joking. Rue didn't know that Don was already chasing his first high again. It had been everything he wanted, just like the man in the bathroom described it. After Rue fell asleep on the floor he’d sent the strange men off, told Camden he was good to go inside, and laid next to him, watched Rue’s eyelashes fluttering on his flushed cheek, the stray hairs falling over his face, as he took the last two hits that he'd managed to convince the strangers that they'd already done.

He sought it out after that. Waited until Rue was asleep. Always when he was asleep. Knowing that he wasn't home was never enough. Don had to see him there in front of him, confirm with his eyes that Rue was gone, kicking his feet like a cat dreaming while Don wasted his high tucking everything safely under the bed. Rue stopped seeing Don before school, made sure he didn't wake him when he slowly rolled out of bed at seven every morning.

What field do you intend to major in?

Rue stared at the text on the grainy, decade-old laptop screen. There was no asterisks next to it. It was not a required question, he could leave it blank if he wanted. That almost made it more of a challenge.

None of your fucking business

He submitted the form.

Summer rolled around. Graduation again. Rue walked. He got no awards, one of few in the thousand person class. His mother didn't attend, but Camden’s parents hugged him after the ceremony, gave him a 20 and a red rose, took them all out to dinner at a fancy restaurant that served strangely shitty fried food. Don came clean that night, after they got back to their room. He had no reason to, mindless self-preservation. The guilt was eating him alive. It ate him at home while he sat in bed waiting for Rue’s bus. It ate him while they talked, when they laid next to each other, so that Don started facing the other side of the bed when he slept. It even ate him as he watched his Rue walk across the stage, wearing the big white robe that fell awkwardly over his bony shoulders, smiling wide because he really did accomplish something big, and Don could hardly pay attention.

Rue only nodded along, looked at him when he finished speaking. Don wanted some kind of anger. Tears. Anything. But Rue would only understand, tell him that they'd get him help together, that everything would be okay. Thank you for telling me. You didn't have to hide. All of it for nothing. All of the time lost, the sleep, the months trying to speak over his own pulse thrumming in his throat.

He couldn't stand the thought. Don let himself get angry. He wanted something. Anything. And it was Rue’s fault, really, that he wouldn't give it to him. He wouldn't feel that way if Rue could just try to be normal. If Rue was a dick like him, if Rue wasn't fucking riteous and perfect. He didn't say it like that out loud. No, it came out more like: “you should've known. What did you think was happening? How little attention do you pay me if you can let a heroin addiction go unnoticed, Rue?”

That part was too loud. Don held his breath. No Camdens stormed through the door. I’m sorry, Rue said, genuinely. Don slapped him. And when Rue only looked back up with stupid, shocked doe eyes, Don punched him, across the jaw, so that he fell to the ground. And then Rue looked apprehensive, and so Don climbed on top of him, and punched him in the eye, again, and then again, grabbed his shoulders, threw him down. His skull made a dull sound. No crack. No echo. And then Rue looked scared. Don was satisfied. He felt sick to his stomach. In a second Rue was reaching up, clinging to his shoulders, kissing him. Clawing the back of Don's head with chewed, ragged fingernails, biting Don’s lip. He might have melted for a second, but it wasn't that easy. He pulled back suddenly, knocked the wind out of Rue’s chest when he slammed him to the floor and held him there firmly so that Rue could only stare up blankly as he tried to catch his breath. Don stared back. There were no looks exchanged, no silent agreements or unspoken acknowledgements. He only helped himself up with his weight on Rue’s chest, and walked out of the door.

***

Don died in early July, two days after Rue’s 19th birthday. At least, they think so. They found his body in the early stages of decomposition, his gasses flooding a locked bathroom at the public park, a location popular thanks to certain individuals who enjoyed stench and swarming flies as hookup ambiance. Rue assumed they weren't too happy about the news either. He was grateful that Don waited, at least. He had a decent birthday with the Camdens. And he'd almost suspected it by that point. He made attempts to contact Don at first, but they got further apart as he grew tired of waiting for an answer. That didn't mean his thoughts were any further from the subject, though, no matter how hard he tried to sway them. He was lonely. That August he didn't move much. He laid in bed, watched his own memories. Camden played video games with him sometimes. They talked, about real, genuine things. Feelings. Grief. It was foreign. Camden laughed at that, until he thought about the statement, and he stopped laughing.

Rue decided to kill himself around September. He knew that he wouldn't be welcome in his room for much longer. Camden was staying home for college, and he was basically a brother, but Rue ate food. It might not have been much, but it was a cost. And he bathed. He needed the occasional ride. Toothpaste. Accutane. Every once in a while the Camdens even insisted on taking him to buy new clothes, taking the boys out for a nice dinner. Rue always insisted that they just give him a twenty so he could go to the thrift store, it would go much farther, but sometimes he lost and came home with new, stiff jeans. He was nineteen, and he did not pay rent, and they were not his parents. That, and he was tired. And lonely. And bored. Sure, he could lay there and play video games for the rest of his life if the Camden's let him, but that was no way to go. Better to die young, pretty and tragic, than ugly and burnt out and wasted. He knew that. If he couldn't live the life that he wanted to– and he couldn’t, he lost that chance some day in early July– there was no point in waiting around for the next forty, fifty, sixty years.

But he could never be that proactive, really. Suicide sounded like such a commitment. He went to sleep with the resolution that he would simply let himself die. The first morning after he and Don tried heroin, they'd spoken at length about addiction. That was always the conversation that Don was good at. Logical. Philosophical. Removed– not an I, but a we, an us, a you. They'd laid it out simply. There were two options. Three, if you counted complete abstinence, and four if you counted the rare, casual user. But, with addiction, there were two: you quit, or you die. One day, you either choose to stop, or you choose to let it kill you. And they both knew that it would be a conscious choice. Don knew, up to the moment that he took his last hit. Rue could picture him, stumbling down the sidewalk at night, into the stray branches, scraping his arms. Hanging heavy on the metal latch, hearing it clack shut. The bars drop. Crawling onto the floor, into the filth, propping himself up in the corner. Making a decision. He dragged himself into that bathroom like a sick cat drags itself under the neighbors porch, lays down and waits. The flies buzzed around his head like the rats that lived there, waiting patiently, watching his last breaths from a distance, laying there with it. Until it was gone. The cat is dead, Don is dead. Then there is no more contract. Then they can crawl into the eyes, the ears, chew open the stomach and leave bits of fur matted to the ribs. It's only meat, then.

Yes, it was the perfect plan. He would just die. Simple as that. Pick up whatever he damn pleased. Take whatever was offered. Whatever was thrust into his hands. He’d say yes to it all, over and over. He would drink through the hangovers, hair of the dog that swallowed Don’s tongue, because it didn't matter! Everyone wanted to do it, and now he could. When the Camdens finally kicked him out he thanked them for all that they'd done for him, cried. He might've fallen to his knees. He didn't remember. He woke on a bench with a headache, and didn't care. Something was sitting under him. Don’s bag. He opened it. Don's cash.

Some nights he slept outside, some at strange men’s houses. He didn't know what he was– gay, straight, or if those even applied to him– but learned quickly that the men wanted to take care of him. They wanted to look across the booth at his flutteringeyelashes, to grab his waist while they walked him out of the bar, to undress him with their unwashed hands. He didn't even have to do anything. Just stand there. Try not to hold his breath. He liked to pick who he'd be each night. Sometimes he was the club singer, the seductress, hidden beneath unshaved scruff and faux eyelashes. Those nights you could look thoroughly, but ask to touch. Others he was just a scared little boy, lost, looking for someone to take him home, give him a bed to sleep in. And who knew, maybe something else would happen. It was out of his hands. And the men, to his surprise, seemed to like waking up next to him. Liked reaching up to touch his small breasts with a quick comment, a little slight. Sometimes he moaned at the pang that it sent through his chest. Other times, when he thought it might be safe, he tore his head away, turned his shoulder and made them take it back.

He could feel himself succeeding, after some time. He was certainly dying. He didn't know the date, hadn’t checked in a long time. Sometime in March, maybe? He thought he saw a ‘March Madness’ sign somewhere. Easter was getting close. Was he really gonna make it to Easter? His limbs were weaker by the day, his headache, the fog between his thoughts becoming such a constant that some nights he could hardly make it through the greetings. Then he had to stumble to the very back corner of an alley, sleep with Don's backpack on the wrong way, covering his chest, pressed into his aching stomach, hugging it as he drifted off easily. One night, a very foggy one, after a week without a bed, when he couldn't quite remember his way through a conversation– hello, yeah, uh– Rue. – no, it's my name– yeah, hi there, do you wanna– no thanks, kid, the man said– a rare occurrence– he dragged himself out of the bar’s creaky side door, collapsed against the corner of the dumpster and pulled out a cigarette. He tapped his pockets, searched the backpack. No lighter. Fuck. He let his head fall back so that it hit the wall harder than he intended, and bounced off. Painful, throbbing. He looked up, swayed gently and smiled as he watched the stars above the polluted city.

“Are you okay?”

The voice rung out like the clear note of a harp through a construction site. Rue guessed that the man was an angel, finally coming to take him. He had the palest skin Rue had ever seen, white hair, a soft white button- up shirt. The alley light shone behind his head like a halo.

“Am I dead?,” Rue slurred.

The man helped him up, took his bag. Rue only saw the gesture, didn't think twice about its contents. It didn't matter much anyways, not anymore. Rue hung onto the man’s arm as he took long strides out to the road, opened the sleek, low car door for him, and held his hand as he ducked into the back seat. He made a gesture to scoot. Rue did. The man climbed in after him, closed the door.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Rue.”

“Hm. Did your parents name you that?”

“Does it matter?

“No, I just like it. It suits you.”

“Doe your name suit you?” Rue asked, smiling stupid. Maybe someone slipped something into his drink, but that made no sense. He wouldn't have been left waiting, left to stumble into the alley alone. He must've simply taken something that he'd forgotten about, replaced a few too many meals with hard liquor.

“Hm. I don't know. I’m Michael.”

Rue laughed. Very fitting. “Are you an angel?”

“I don't think so. I’m taking you back to my place, a party should be starting in a few minutes.”

“Cool,” Rue said, and let his eyes fall shut in the nice, conditioned air, the soft leather seats.

“Stay with me,” Michael’s voice cut through the pull of sleep like an electric shock. Rue’s eyes opened on their own accord, the light stung. “I promise it’ll be worth it. My bed is ten times more comfortable than these seats.” Rue smiled and nodded, smooth, though he was unsure if that was possible. He chose to watch neon signs fly by outside of the window instead, feel the hum of the engine below him as Michael kissed warm marks up his neck.

A second after the car rolled to a stop the door that Rue was leaning on was opened from the outside, and he fell, let the valet boy catch him. Michael held his arm again, firm, safe, as they walked up the rows of white steps– were they marble? And Rue remembered where they were. Are you a prince or something? he asked. No, Michael said. Then why do you live in a castle?

“It's barely a mansion.”

“There's a valet.”

“That’s Seth. He helps around here.”

Michael stopped him at the door, looked at his eyes. Rue noticed for the first time that Michael's were nearly see-through, so blue-gray that they might have gone red if he was a rodent. His hair was nearly as light as an albino rat’s, too, thin but full, long and straight so that it framed his face and suggested some kind of nobility. Not quite enough there to call a mane. You're pretty, Rue wanted to say. But he bit his tongue instead, didn't need to let anything else fall out.

“The house is very full. There will be people dancing, drinking, fucking, swimming out back. You might even catch some Russian roulette. To put it simply, there are no rules. Except for that you do not tell people about this. You do not give out this address. What happens in this house stays in the house. Do you understand?”

Rue smiled again. Couldn't help it. “To be completely honest, I’m not even sure where we are. But if I did– yeah. I'm good for it.”

Michael searched him, then nodded, satisfied. He opened the door. It made a dramatic sound, like it looked like it should. Every head turned, a sea of smudged eyeliner, pincurls, bare chests, Mardi gras beads and red solo cups. The music shook the floor as they walked through the foyer, through the smell of sweat and sex, pheromones and body spray, undulating bodies, puddles of beer on the floor. Some vomit. A few girls stopped Michael, desperate for his attention, but he gave them nothing, shouldered past the crowd on the stairs that parted just slightly as he dragged Rue through it, until they were safe in a big, open room. The master's. It was even bigger than Don’s parents’, somehow. Warmly lit with lamps built into the walls, a white bear skin on the floor, a TV on top of a gas fireplace. A desk, another desk. Hand carvings in the cabinets. He could see the bathroom connected to the room, the door standing open. A twin-sized bathtub and vanity mirrors.

Michael silently sat on the edge of the bed, leaned back on one hand and tapped the space next to him. Rue joined him, sank into the plush duvet.

“What are you on?” Michael asked, tugging on Rue’s shoulder until his head was resting in the blonde man's lap, on his thin legs.

“I don't know. I’m definitely drunk,” Rue said as Michael began to play with his short, ratted hair.

“Are you addicted to anything hard?”

“Coke, but who isn't.” Rue rolled over so that he was looking out at the room. The bear, calling for help.

“Anything else? Needles?”

“No. I’m clean, if that's what you're worried about. I get tested.” It was a lie. He didn't know how, where to go. He could’ve always always asked, really anyone, but that would involve admitting that he didn't know. And he knew that it was selfish, but at that moment he couldn't think about much other than the bed under him, the fingers petting his sensitive scalp.

“No, not that. But that's good. I’m just learning about you.”

“Oh?” Rue opened his eyes, craned his neck to meet Michael's. “Do you know anything yet?”

“Not much, no. You’re homeless. I believe you like to be told what to do.” A pause. “And you're trying to kill yourself.”

Rue sat up, offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, there's two thousand dollars in your bag, and you haven't eaten in– what, three days? A week?”

“Have you been fucking following me?”

“No. It was just a guess. There's a hollowness that people get, you can see it in the face and neck, mostly. Maybe it's the low blood sugar.”

“I drink plenty.”

“Alcohol? That's not how it works. That's worse than negative calories–a poison. Like a disease for your body to fight.”

“So you want me to stop drinking?”

“I want you to stop fighting me. Let me in.”

Rue looked him over slowly. He didn't trust many people. Didn't trust any of of the men that he let touch him, fuck him, none of the strangers that he smoked with on street corners, not the cops or his mother or God. He never said it if he didn't have to, but he did have boundaries. They were fairly standard for most, but he got questioned often, bewilderment and anger. Yes, you can grab my hair. Yes, you can finger me, treat me like an object. But you sodomize me, and you don't leave marks. No bruises. No hickeys. No hitting. Michael had already broken one rule, and Rue didn't seem to care much yet. It was always the same question, when they really wanted it anyways. Why? You clearly like it! You clearly want to be hurt, kicked, bitten. So why won't you let me? And he would tell them they were right, never really a clear answer. Just his rule. Just his one hard line. Some crossed it anyway. Those were some of the few interactions that he might've considered bad ideas, too far. Real self-destruction, leaving him to stumble through the streets for days, unsure exactly who, where he was. But he always bounced back, begrudgingly. Fine-tuned survival instincts on autopilot, a suicidal cockroack living through nuclear winter. He considered it, looking at Michael, who was looking back at him, patiently. Was that what he meant? Let me in, trust me. Or maybe it was simply a euphemism. A sleazy line to try to get his pants off faster, like he couldn't just ask.

“What do you want?” Michael asked him gently.

Rue didn't know why he was being so forgiving, lending him enough time to sort a few thoughts. Or maybe Rue was waiting to answer on purpose, drawing it out. If he didn't choose, eventually Michael would do it for him. That's how it usually went. And Michael was right, he liked it better that way. It was easier. He was done with trying, making decisions. Quit a long time ago. He even trusted Michael, he decided then. He didn't have to force his lungs to breathe, didn't have to pull out the rehearsed, batting eyes when he looked at him.

“I want you to tell me what to do,” Rue said, as steady and sober-sounding as he could. It was the truth.

Michael nodded, stood up and disappeared into the closet. When he came back he told Rue to close his eyes, I think you'll like this, so he did, until long, thin fingers were fastening a soft leather collar around his neck, buckling it in place.

Michael held him afterwards for a moment, twirled little curls into his hair and hooked two fingers under the leather, played in the mess between his legs as he kissed Rue’s shoulders, his jaw. So many marks. Rue welcomed them. Almost asked for something more extreme– did he have a pocket knife? Maybe he could carve his name, draw a nice picture in the blood. Michael had a striking likeness to a painting in that moment, afterglow and lamplight. Olives and purples in his shadows, pinks in his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and the point of his strong but small nose. His eyes were glowing almost turquoise, his long blonde eyelashes each defined an individual.

But he couldn't stay long. In minutes Michael was standing him up, dressing Rue in clothes so soft and light that they barely felt like they were covering him. The leash came off first, the collar last. Michael stood him in the mirror, looked over him in the silk and lace. Men’s clothes, somehow, clearly. They were cut just right. No one would know. He'd starved his boobs away, anyways. Michael's pecs looked more like tits than whatever his thin, concave, bony chest did. Rue didn't like how the center part stood out in the mirror, bumpy and emaciated. He thought about gaining weight to fix it. That was the first plan that Michael inspired. The first inkling of self-preservation instilled. There was no big commitment, but it was a goal with a motivation. To look good. To look good for Michael. The realization strung. He would have to eat, force his digestive system back into a functioning state when he'd nearly convinced himself that he would let it be the first to go, and it would be an accident when he could no longer swallow or digest fast enough to stay ahead of his own decomposition. Out of his hands. And why now, after he’d done so well? There was an easy answer.

Of course you wouldn't, Michael was mumbling somewhere. No reason to tell me you were a fucking virgin, of course. Not a virgin, Rue corrected. I’ve fucked at least 30 guys, I think. I’m not a virgin. You know what I mean, Michael said. You liked it, Rue countered. Michael turned at that, slowly walked up in front of him, calm. He adjusted the lace collar of Rue’s shirt, tilted the boy’s chin up to meet his own unreadable eyes. Rue swallowed.

“Don’t tell me what I like, mutt,” he said, gentle for the words, bent down and kissed him. Rue stared up, in awe. “It was fine, but I prefer to know when I'm about to hurt you. It makes it much better for both of us.” When Rue only sat there, slack jawed and hard again, Michael said ‘speak.’ Not a command, just a gentle suggestion. Rue said ‘yes– okay.’ He couldn't think of a good enough title. Sir was too formal, Master too clunky. Owner was fine for the time, but only in his head. It was no name fit for an angel.

“Good puppy,” Michael whispered simply, against his earlobe. Rue shuddered, Michael smiled. Who knew?

The people in the hallway greeted Rue like he was coming down a red carpet. Bitter, unspoken congratulations with some vague sense of knowing, though they couldn't have possibly guessed the details. Rue wished that Michael left the collar on, gave him a tag: ‘Rue’, of course, so he wouldn't have to introduce himself to the endless strangers, then the address, instructions to return him to Michael's room if he was lost. He doesn't bite. Never even learned how. No need to be afraid.

Michael was right. Downstairs, anything and everything was happening. There was the usual– floors packed with swaying hips, wandering hands, couches brimming with voyeuristic teenagers who could care less about the setting. The booming bass still shook the floor. The whole dining room table was covered in various liquor bottles– some cheap and generic, some so expensive that Rue had never even heard the names before. No one seemed to want those, too focused on getting wasted to bother when they’d be content with enough Fireball. Rue grabbed a green bottle as they passed it, figured that he was allowed because Michael didn't stop him. He’d always wanted to try absinthe. 150 proof, the bottle said. He lifted it to his lips as they moved. It stung. Way too sweet. He drank more.

The night cut out after the third tip of the big green bottle to his chapped, burning lips. Rue woke up happy and sore, rolled over expecting to see a pretty blonde angel next to him, and instead found a dirty tree trunk. He was on the ground. Somewhere. He sat up. He was in a park that he didn't recognize, not even the yard like he'd hoped for a moment. Across from him there was a coffee shop that he'd never heard of, a hardware store, a crumbling apartment complex. He remembered nothing of how he got there, very little of what he did the last night. When he stopped and checked himself he found he was still in Michael's silk shirt with the lace collar, but his own jeans, and a strange black hoodie. He checked the tag, but it wasn't elementary school. No one had written their name on it. It was 3XL and polyester. The pockets were big and empty. He put it back on to hide marks that his memory of Michael didn't leave, glanced at the ground around him, panicked for a moment, until he saw a sliver of black fabric peeking from a trash can’s wooden covering. He pulled on it. Don’s backpack, dirty and scuffed and covered in ants. But he couldn't care. He brushed it off, looked inside. Nothing but the cash. Michael couldn't have just left a fucking note? ‘Hey, sorry I left you unconscious in a city park, call me!’

Whatever. He zipped it up, swung it over his shoulder, and started walking. Might as well think while he walked instead of sitting there. Two birds with one stone. It worked better when he knew where he was going. He was used to waking up in strange places, but he was also used to recognizing them. He'd been around the city. It looked like he was still in the city, but he had no proof of it. There was only a similar aesthetic, a sour smell to the air. So, he would look for confirmation of that. Sure, good enough.

It didn't take long to find out that Michael had dropped him in Harlem. He laughed. Whatever. It was close enough to a joke. He didn't have a place, really, just the usual haunts. No real attachment to the ten-block radius around the big tall building. Still, it would be two hours back to where Michael picked him up on foot. He might as well pay for a bus pass at that point, a meal here and there. He'd have to if he was serious about it. But here was where the thinking came in. Was he serious?

Was one good fuck enough to change the last – what was it– three, five months of certainty? Was he seriously going to stop dying? Oh, what an incredible commitment. It was a choice, by that point. And he would have to make it. He had made absolutely sure of that in the past however long it was. It was true: he was dying unless he chose not to. And that was an incredible success for the man that he was a day before. Here came the thinking. But did he really have to think? He didn't want to, he could do whatever he wanted. And wasn't it settled already?

He headed for the coffee shop, didn't look before he crossed the street– a force of habit– and stopped on the sidewalk, staring at the pastries through the decorated window. There was another issue, of course. Food cost money. Choosing to stay alive cost money. He had money. Some of it. Maybe enough to get him healthy, back to Michael without a weird bumpy chest. But he was yet to spend a cent of it. He knew that was ridiculous, misplaced sentiment in a basic resource, but in Rue’s mind the money was the last gift that Don ever gave him. He couldn't shoo the thought. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he walked up to a cashier, reached into his bag, said, I’m sorry, I change my mind. Went hungry. And it didn't matter, really, but there was one more little thing. Rue did not know exactly how he got Don’s backpack. He didn't know the morning that he found it under the bench, he didn't know after months of thinking on it. In fact, he was entirely certain up until the moment that it was in his hands that Don had taken it with him when he left. He could picture it clearly, his standing up with Rue’s chest as a handrail, bending down and swinging the thing over his shoulder before he stormed off. But his recollection was beyond worthless at that point. He couldn't be certain of anything. Sometimes he entertained himself by watching memories over and letting things change, ruining them forever. He’d figured he wouldn't need them.

All of that aside, he was hungry. He reached into the bag, pulled one of the hundreds from the dry-rotting rubber band holding the flimsy stack of bills together. Only twenty of them. Nineteen now. It didn't seem like much suddenly. He wanted to put it back. Twenty is good. Nineteen is small. But it was okay. He stuffed away the thin brick and forced himself through the door. A stylized doorbell chimed.

The woman behind the counter looked up, furrowed her eyebrows for a moment then smiled. “Hello… sir? How can I help you?” She had a short brunette pixie with blonde highlights. Other than that, she was perfectly normal. Green shirt. Blue jeans. Perfect makeup. Little diamond earrings. It matched the decor. White and minimalist. Wood fixtures. She blinked at him, waiting for an answer.

“I just want a scone, but I only have hundred dollar bills. Does that, like, work?”

“Thats it? No coffee or anything? This is a coffee place, you know.” She was trying a joke.

He looked at her like he was lost. “That’s it. Thank you.”

He clenched his jaw as he handed her the bill, rocked back and forth on the balls of feet while she counted off the change into his hand. Ninety five sixty-eight. It felt small. He stuffed it into his pocket, took the scone and turned without a goodbye. She called a nicety at his back.

He stormed into the alley, threw himself to the ground. Took a bite of the thing in his hand. It tasted like flour and butter, fine. The sugar on top made him sort of nauseous, he brushed some off, watched it glisten on the asphalt, gagged like he was swallowing a pill. The ball of gluten crawled down his esophagus how he imagined it felt to be one of those animals that had to swallow its prey whole. He should've ordered a coffee. He refused to go back inside. But it was okay, because the change wasn't Don’s money anymore. She took that, and gave him back dirty, finger-grease cotton. Whatever. He took another bite. The roof of his mouth stung like someone took a razor to it as he chewed, skinless gums, spitless tongue. He swallowed anyway, squeezed his eyes shut as it went down, swished his cheeks and forced his saliva glands to work. Then he wrapped the scone back up, threw it rudely in the bag. Whatever. Fuck you, he told it. Stood up. His stomach felt full.

Back to walking.

***

Things got worse the moment that Rue tuned back in. The decision was made as soon as he looked in Michael’s mirror that night. He knew it, there was no point in thinking much harder if he didn't want to. And he despised it. He despised watching for danger, despised planning the day ahead of him. He was forced to stop floating through like his lungs were hydrogen blimps fated to flood, and he could spend whole days reminiscing on the feeling of happily dying, but it was always a memory. He was eating again. He was finding safe places to sleep. He was listening, paying attention. He had a reputation, apparently. ‘Hey, I know you,’ one man had said ‘yeah, you're a free whore! They say you're a godsend if you like ‘em like that.’

‘Well, when you put it that way,’ Rue had laughed. But the phrase had struck him. The man was right. Rue started charging after that. And it was much more difficult, it turned out, to sell himself when he wasn't dying.

None of it mattered. It was all just a means to an end, all secondary. Most nights Rue dressed up nice and went to high-end bars and clubs, the ones he'd never touched before because they probably wouldn't let him in, and he talked to people until he had to leave. Asked everyone that would look at him the exact same question: “Do you know a Michael?” Usually it was a no. When it was a yes it was a different guy. He had no idea who was telling him the truth, they had a good enough reason to lie to him. He remembered that much. ‘What happens in this house stays in this house’ and all. He figured meeting Michael didn't happen in that house.

He resolved to stop drinking for a while when his head threatened to lose the bits that he did remember. That made things worse, too. When he went out sober he could feel eyes like weights on his shoulders. He always knew they were there, but suddenly they were real, really looking, and none of them looked at him anything like Michael did. Most eyes weren't nice. The ones that were were too nice, trying to look through him. He started rotating bars more frequently, made his way in circles around the city. Let people forget who he was, it was better that way. He was fine with being a stranger.

A month passed, Rue was no closer to finding his angel. Sometimes he told himself that Michael must be hiding, that he didn't want to see him, and that's why he told everyone in the entire city to pretend that they'd never heard his name if Rue asked. Other times he thought about just how many people there were in a city, and the prospect of finding a single one of them in a single house was crushing. He didn't remember what the house looked like, either. Marble steps. Expensive. He wouldn't know if he was walking right past it. And he was down a thousand dollars already, with all of the admissions and honest-to-god meals that he’d been paying for. He gave up on the rich clubs for good the night that he finally counted his money, decided he'd go back to what worked. Walked into whatever door he stumbled past, kept asking everyone. Lowered his prices. When money felt scarce he didn't spend it. Went hungry. Let strangers buy him drinks, couldn't remember why he stopped. And then suddenly he was dying again.

He noticed it in an alley. It seemed fitting. It was another week that he spent mostly alone. He'd considered making a real friend for a bit, but they never stuck around for more than a day. He'd take one if he found one, he figured. He'd been left by a DJ named McCallan in front of a bank about a week ago, after he said that Rue was “just too weird.” Rue nodded and shooed him off. ‘Go on, then.’ He’d grown pretty fond of McCallan over the hours that they'd spent together, though, and Rue felt the absence when he left. He went and bought himself a bottle of whiskey, sat where he and the boy had been sitting, up at the top of the slanted cement under the bridge, where no one could see them. They’d kissed for fun, confirmed their lack of real feelings out loud. Just wanted warm bodies to be close to. Rue had spent the day quietly picturing a future with him– at least a few weeks of companionship. Someone to laugh at the absurdity of it all with while he made his plans for the day. It was fine, he was better off alone.

He was thinking about McCallan again when his heart started to stutter, and then his chest was numb, like there was something heavy sitting on it for a bit too long, and he sat there and looked up at the stars, visible that night, and thought ‘this makes no sense, I’ve done so well,’ but then he thought a bit harder and he really hadn't. Only holding onto those few weeks after Michael left, pretending that time would stop for him. And maybe the difference was just hope. He was hopeful back then. Every day he wanted harder and expected less, and it was starting to seep into his veins, he thought. Into his lungs, refusing to take in as much air. Starting to crowd his head, get in between his thoughts again. Funny, because he never did get sober when he thought even harder. Just less drunk. Dying less. And here he was again. So soon?

Michael, he thought, like somehow he could think it straight between their brains. Michael, and then, please, please, please, please, please. And then God. And when no one came still he opened his eyes and stared up at the moon and wondered if his mother was thinking of him, wondered who would deliver the news to her, or if maybe she thought of him something like Don. Maybe she suspected already.

Michael. I don't want to die.

He laughed at himself. No one could hear him. It was just like him to find a way to waste his last moments alive. He kept laughing. So hard his chest hurt, and then he was coughing, but still laughing, quietly, because it was quite funny how much worse that hurt his chest. Maybe this was it. A last hoorah before Rue was done, gone, another empty, stained corpse in another New York alley. A little joke between Rue and God. He'd never been religious, but it always seemed to crop up when he thought of the end. And then, like it always did, the gentle thought of heaven came to a question of hell, and Rue opened his eyes again. Stop doing that, he told them. I’m not fucking dying.

And so he made his neck right itself, forced his lungs to breathe a rhythm. He stood up, locked his knees and went limp at the hips to let the blood rush to his head, righted himself again. Stumbled to the curb. Looked both ways. A heaviness, a spinning. His legs shook, his stomach tried to crawl up into his ribs, but he felt quite removed from it all, he realized, so it was no bother. A car approaching. Oh, you again, Rue thought. Laughed. What’s that? The buildings were too tall around him, and he felt like an ant. A tiny ant, and then he looked up at the stars and he was just an atom, shrinking, shutting down just like he was meant to, and the car whooshed past. Breeze on his face. Crisp, freezing. He didn't want to feel it, torn back down to Earth, forced to move his sore neck, and then the spinning, his skull hitting the ground, a thump and a crack like thunder and lightning, and then it was storming, and the raindrops were running down his face, metallic on his tongue. He hadn't felt himself fall. And then he guessed that was it.

***

You fucking idiot…

There was a voice mumbling somewhere. A scratching sound. A bright light.

What did you think was gonna fucking happen if you picked out a fucking skeleton…

The voice was angry. Sad, maybe. Rue’s first thought was ridiculous. He considered it for a moment, brushed it away quickly. No, it couldn't be God. God wouldn't have picked him for anything. Or maybe He was talking about someone else? He tried to open his eyes, to see if he still had any, maybe. Did you get to keep your eyes when you died? No point in thinking about it. He blinked. There was no bright light.

Rue.

He took a count of his limbs, moved his fingers, his toes. His head hurt. Badly. There was a thrum in the back of it.

Rue!

Finally, he turned his neck. Michael.

He laughed. Micheal. He was dead, yes. That was for sure, but it didn't matter. He made it to heaven, and in heaven he was on a soft bed, Michael’s bed, Michael’s room recreated to a T, and there was Michael. In front of him, looking at him like the most important thing that existed.

But if this was his own personal heaven– Something was missing. His face fell. He sat up.

“Don?” his voice was crackly, pathetic. His arms hurt, sore for some reason. No, that didn't make sense. Why would heaven hurt?

“Don?” he asked again, panicked, two and two crawling together behind his eyes as his tear ducts threatened to spill over. Michael was still alive, he had to be. Or maybe he died, too, at some point, but that seemed unlikely. So, this Michael was fake, made of heaven dust. But Don was dead. And Don was not here. And here was heaven. Rue let his head drop to his knees, started crying when the realization settled. There was no point in fighting it. No one was watching, technically. Something was blaring behind him.

He turned his head. Michael.

“Jesus Christ, finally!” he heaved, looking at Rue like something was utterly wrong with him.

When Rue looked closer, he realized that Michael did not have wings. His hair was unkempt, his eyes red around the edges. And that made no sense, because that's not how he would look in Rue’s heaven. He blinked.

“I’m not dead?”

“No! You're fucking welcome!” Michael snapped, not really angry, just worn down, eyes wide and staring.

They were on Michael’s bed. In Michael’s room. Rue collected his facts. Stared blankly at the eyes ahead of him, until he narrowed his own. “You saved my life?”

“Yes.”

“You fucking asshole,” Rue said slowly, venomously, though he was sort of smiling. His head hurt. He needed to lie back down.

Michael’s eyes got wider still, his mouth hanging open in shock. He was sort of smiling, too. “What on Earth does that mean?”

Rue crawled back to the pillow that he'd woken up on, stained so red it was nearly black. That made sense. Once he was as comfortable as he could get, he spoke. “There's a lot of reasons. But I should clarify first, this is the happiest that I’ve ever been.” He closed his eyes, smiled.

“Alright. I'm very glad,” Michael said like he was confused, and like he was not used to being confused. It was much different than Rue’s practiced, graceful confusion.

“Anyways, you piece of shit,” Rue mumbled with his eyes closed, reveling in the fabrics that Michael had collected. “I’ve been looking for you for a month.”

“Oh, I’m not easy to find–”

“And!” Rue cut him off. Opened his eyes, smirked for a second. “And yet, somehow you magically found me, a moment from my tragic death.”

“I assumed you'd ask about that. Seth was driving me home and he stopped because someone was bleeding on the sidewalk. At first he didn't know that it was you–”

“Bullshit. You were totally following me.”

Michael furrowed his eyebrows, clenched his jaw like he was preparing to defend himself, so Rue just continued.

“Or having someone follow me, whatever. And that means that you just, like, watched me suffer? Up here in your big fancy silk bed? What the fuck, man?”

Michael looked at him, took a breath. Calmed himself. “Yes.”

Rue’s eyes shot wide, shocked.

Michael raised his eyebrows. “What's that? I’m only confirming what you already believed.”

“I was just saying shit, I didn't think you were actually that fucking phsychotic! What, was there a black limo ten steps behind me at all times or something?”

“It was a dark blue Subaru. A limousine would draw too much attention.”

“So? Explain!”

“Oh, suddenly you give the orders?”

Rue rolled his eyes. “Dude? The last thing I remember is dying on some dirty sidewalk, and a few minutes ago I thought this was heaven. I’m gonna need to get some shit straight.”

“You thought this was heaven?” Michael smiled.

“Fuck you.”

“You're much nicer when you're drunk.”

Rue glared.

“I understand that this is a confusing situation to wake up in. I don't mean to downplay that, I’m only trying to slow you down. You’re badly hurt, if you haven't noticed.”

“Yeah,” Rue said, no shit.

“I’ll help you understand when you can sit up straight, how about that? For now, sleep.”

Rue examined him. There were no signs of cruel intent, not that he could spot. His thoughts were fuzzy, limited to the immediate, the pain, the bed. It was worthless to try to consider his options, and he didn't particularly want to anyways, so he gave up. “Fine,” he sighed, rolled his eyes a little and crawled under the heavy blanket like he was upset about it.

Michael smiled, leant down to brush his hair away and kiss his forehead. His lips were softer than Rue remembered. He melted, smiled back. Kept himself from reaching out and holding Michael to his chest when he turned to walk away. Closed his eyes and listened to the door open, close. Laughed to himself. There was no point in trying to understand, no realization to come to. Michael knew, Michael would tell him when he woke up. He didn't have to think much to know that he trusted that. Michael saved his life, after all. There was something else he did that Rue couldn't quite place suddenly, but he shouldered off the thought and forced himself into an easy sleep.

--------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER TWO: first draft of the opening :3 there is more but it's worse

The people that lived in the strange mansion on top of the hill didn't have a single worry in the entire world. Behind the tall, beautifully detailed walls, the statues in the driveway, the manicured gardens, and the miles of dense, private forest surrounding them, they were happy. Endless wealth assured that each resident lived to their own standard of comfort, just like they'd been promised. Anything that they wanted, they simply had to ask for it. Anything. A scone for breakfast, or a jet to Japan. All of this, and not one of them lifted a finger to maintain it. Their only job was to use their leisure to its fullest. This wasn't an easy fact for most onlookers to accept. Those graced with the sight insisted that the occupants must be slaves, or secret devil worshipers. Speculation that the house was occupied by a very small, very silent cult traveled in whispers around the city– there were even certain individuals who swore up and down that the luxury on top of the hill could be credited to ritualistic blood sacrifice. And you really couldn't blame them. In reality, only one thing was required from the happy people living in the big, secluded mansion. And even that thing was flexible, because if they could not fulfill it, something had to be terribly wrong.

You will think that it's hyperbolic if I tell you that they had no problems, but there was truly no problem that they couldn't afford to fix. They lounged around with crystal wine glasses hanging from their hands, went wherever they pleased, and spent their time however they could possibly wish to spend it. The deal was simple. The only thing that they owed in return, for all of it, was their love. Michael told them over and over again, any time a doubt developed. He’d explained it very well one day, with everyone gathered around him: I couldn't possibly use all of this on my own, so I’ve chosen to share it with you. This is all ours. It’s a love language, I suppose. I would give you less if I had less to give. And if you continue to love me, all I ask from you is that you share that love, however love comes to you. It's silly to assume that you should work for something that belongs to you already. And they had all nodded and blushed. It was undeniably difficult to accept that there was no catch, but they had no grounds on which to complain. Their lives were perfect. The five people who lived in Michael’s house were happy.

And it was a miracle that they were! Only a year ago Rue had been walking the streets, unaware of exactly what he was on, but strung out nonetheless. Now, he slept on a chinchilla-fur bed in the corner of one of the most expensive living rooms on the east coast. Natalie had spent every day crying in her bedroom about the prospect of the corporate world ahead of her. Cry no more, Michael put her on the stage, her dreams of being a star brought to life in technicolor. Colton had run out of money for train tickets, left stranded in the city, so he’d spent his days on a stolen bike. Now he could lay by the pool, practicing his flips, touching Natalie. And Annika had been happy a year ago, but she’d known that it was all about to fall away under her. Now with Michael’s help she made herself a room so beautiful and safe that she never quite wanted to leave it.

Michael was, for all means and purposes, their savior. A philanthropist, perhaps, though he found the term clunky. The money that they shared belonged to him, but he hadn't earned it. In fact, he'd vowed not to touch it until that very year, letting it rot in scattered bank accounts across the United States and its adjacent islands. And look where it got him when he finally gave in! He'd been foolish to hide from what he was for so long. When they asked, he told his lovers that the funds came from his father's estate, and then he trailed off. It was true. They understood when he asked them not to push any further. When he died, his father had left Michael everything that he’d amassed in the material world, and more as it collected interest. It's funny how fast big numbers crawl, you almost forget where the point is. He could let his lovers go out and spend a million dollars in one place if he wanted. But he didn't tell them that.

There was a sense of reserve carried in the luxury on top of the hill. The cars were parked in a large garage, hidden away. The face of the building almost looked quaint. Cozy. Until you stepped back and realized that it was towering over you, three stories of gently worn wooden panels that were called a mansion for a reason. And was that a stained glass window? Inside, it was no different. A sense of serenity, homeliness, but then you kept walking, and you got lost, and then even more lost as you tried to find your way back through the halls scattered in endless frames that you never seemed to stumble across twice. The people who lived in the mansion on top of the hill did not need excess to be happy. And perhaps they wanted it, and perhaps onlookers would say that they already lived in excess. But they all shared one fund. And each of them knew that the others would say nothing if they began to take more than their share, but they would all know, and things would be wrong because of it. For everyone but Michael, or course. And though he was free to have as much as he wanted, he rarely took advantage of that freedom. The people that lived in the mansion on top of the hill were equals, to an extent. On paper. Out loud.

But the fact could never be shouldered that Michael was in charge. And he could deny it all he wanted, but he took advantage of it when he needed to. In this vein, he chose a nice mansion to move them into, though they already lived in quite a nice mansion. He said very little about it before the purchase was made, and that was fine. And he said very little after he announced it, and he was allowed to. And though they’d hosted highly glorified parties more nights than they hadn't in their old place, Michael chose to close the doors for a while, keep their new address private, stop refilling their liquor cabinet every night, and give the maids a break from the constant chaos. And no one argued, because he had that power. And then they became the strangers on top of the hill.....

that's it folks. thank you a lot of you actually read this far. more to come if I don't burn out and die. let me know if you have any thoughts idk <3

#writing #fiction #hey this animal can talk #my art #ocs

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