Brooklyn, New York

Taking propriety in the midst of a blood war was easier said than done. It called for grace executed in a ‘pour oil on troubled waters while holding the candle of an open flame’ way. If anyone could have done it, it was probably Persephone.

But she was nowhere to be found, guesses were as good as the next and who could have the balls to conjure something so pure to the playing field of something so prosaic? She’d better be found at the foot of woven ivy. Some golden tide not Brooklyn brewed ‘twix brack and packed banks with the bodies, stories of a dozen boys and girls too curious. Not within the company of purgatory and its endless bidding. Far the fuck away from this place. Where flowers are immortal, likely, and halo’d changelessly to dark hair and eyes transitioning from glass to innocence without a single missed beat. Something like paradise. Something better. A place to go to rest. With pastures to shelter the sempiternal sleep deserved by bones too weary, somewhere far the fuck a w a y.

From one chimera to the next, Baby has kept most of her second selves as well as the third to herself. Especially when it came to Caroline. There’s no reality realer than the one she’s stumbled through under strobes, the trickle of a cocaine nose. Felicity is a cheap thrill plaited between plastic and dust; fauna is a part of her she’ll never get back no matter how many petals she settles into her mane. There’s only one person in the entire universe who’d take every reflection of Senna Zaire, blackout or glowing white. And he wasn’t by her side for the sake of her happiness rather than his. Morbid and mordant, the girl is a fucking criminal.

Because whether she’d like to admit it or not, things could never just be. Not inside the earth that abided by only a scorch policy as per Bates y Zaire divinidad. Dios bendiga, amén and all that shit.

She pulled on the skin of her wrists with more loathing than the recovering junkie bedside to a suicide watch one too many times to think that there was romance or understanding at the end of the road. Had seen too much and too little. Of course in all things knew, that there was some fleeting gone and hell if that ain’t ironic. But Baby was going to take what was hers even if it wasn't truly hers, because it presented itself with an open palm and, "Thank you for bringing me here." If that didn't beg her name in the dark, then nothing did anymore. She'd taken an albatross to high heeled soles when she left, though, finding a rasping difficulty lodged in her throat that abjured something about 'goodnight' to or from Gunner. The atmosphere was the equivalent to a bed of stones and she shouldn't have missed his so soon. But they loved each other, right? No wishes, blankets or words were needed for that. He knew just as well as she did. Hoped he did, when she passed by and disappeared from the awkwardness that had probably seen much better days, even between these two families.

You could love hard, that much was true. You could try even harder, and screw your courage to the sticking place while lacing up the shoe because you knew all along it God damn fit. But fate is fate, and it always has its way. If it doesn't want you there, it'll put you here. The bottom line isn't when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. It's that lemons are bitter, there's no shortage of them and get fucking used to it, kid.

It was one thing to accrue all the bad publicity worthy of a scandal but another to then have the judgment of Deni from the corner curled up to Jasper. It all hit like steel to lungs, and Baby was taking credit where it was due with maybe just a pinch of salt. She couldn’t even begin to wrap her head around what those two were saying, and how bad it might sound at the tail end of Flip’s sarcasm mixed with the skewed haze of Jasper’s current state. Whatever that was.

"I'm just glad we got the meet and greet out of the way," somehow she managed to purr it, blushed luminescence fallen like lace to her counterpart and flawless in New York darkness, "Now we never have to do it again.” Anxiety was hidden behind a laugh that she let out like a shot, followed with a gradual gesture of a thumb to baby hairs the color of dandelions. Caught at the sugar and liquor of a kiss no sweeter than cloud nine itself she relinquished the thought. Instead, raked fingers in a daffodil copse and tangled them there. And wished she could have held it longer, pressed into the person she’d laid a lot on the line for. She tried to wash the images and sounds from her head, hoping to summon the nightly blur she traded for this. But all was fair in love and war – yeah, something like that.

Yet the questions and reminders steamrolled Senna like a thousand knives. Who – what – why. It’d be some kind of lie if she said she didn’t expect it, the problem was she wasn’t ready so God damn soon after unraveling years of confidence and secrets with her best friend, someone she loves. What was worse was November and Bel having a very typically November and Bel quarrel, all eyes somehow on Senna and Caroline instead, and Daisy blowing in like a late guest to her own debut and even that was very much the same. She guessed most things didn’t change, no matter how bad it was wanted of them.

Then there was Dom, sidelining and side-eyeing with blues intent for something coldblooded. Aedan followed in suit. Call a spade a spade. The devil was at work even when he was clocked out for the evening all because he had the right mortals playing for him. There was proof in that, catching the sleepless gaze of an addict who loved getting his hands dirty beside curious silence that secretly had a niche for such disaster. It was trouble. All of it always was. Dominic couldn’t help himself, his Baby knew that from afar – one too many cozy evenings spent with Daisy in withdrawal taught her well. Teaching an old dog new tricks wasn’t impossible, just highly fucking unlikely when the proclivity ran this deep, up like a tempest inside the brain of sobriety on her behalf. Fuck. Fuck.

F u c k.

It was alright, really, she’d known the language of double dealing since she stopped daydreaming shorelines and honest livings. Probably just found it a little too hard to look Caroline in that paper tiger face of hers and swear it was all just nothing. Another day of bullshit would be one too many, but she couldn’t cut to the chase any more than she could cut her own fucking drugs. Damn. Had she really become so fond of gambling? The inquiries sent her around the bend, but she feigned humor, passed it off, sat passenger to Miss Caroline and the divine honor of her companionship. Crossed fingers and rosary would be needed to keep her around, in spite of the most intoxicated infatuation. Senna hoped.

“It’s all a long, boring story,” lies pushed through her teeth like drying concrete, “November and Bel have an ongoing shit fest of a relationship. My friends and family are over protective. November doesn’t work the club, from what I know. But who knows. Who knows with any of them, really.”

She did.
She knew all of it.
Hopefully that truth wouldn’t find her in the morning, or the next day.

He finds it almost amusing in a morbid way that after her his eyes always seem to linger on sickly pale skin and doped up veins. Like that was his t y p e, male or female or something in between, didn’t matter as long as they loved smack more than they loved him.

It crossed his mind every time he knew there was a Callaghan on the floor somewhere in his house. Like he could smell black tar the way a hound could smell blood. Tried to ignore the fact that it made him want to lick his lips and stake a claim on something that was hardly Simon’s (and definitely not his). A road best left untraveled by all accounts, although that didn’t stop his mind from wandering.

The r e a l problem, the sign he can’t ignore, comes in a form most would label the devil and others would hardly look twice at. Aedan Rory was ordinary in a purposeful manner, but not to someone like Dom. No, for him, his heart beats fast and his hands shake slightly, a feeling of nerves best left in a teenage boy that he doesn’t even have the memories of nostalgia for, because he’s never been here before.

Aedan handles his withdrawal better than Daisy ever did, he learns, but it’s still not fun. Wonders why the hell he does this shit to himself. Is it punishment? Is it a fetish? Is he that fucked up?

His saving grace in this sin is Novi, but his attraction to her lies in the very basis that she is nothing like a concrete daisy. There’s a certain draw to the lack of commitment that speaks to his i s s u e s and the knowledge that she’s not his anymore than he’s hers. Because the last time he belonged to someone it didn’t end well. But November is a seasonal flavor, and she won’t last forever.

“I don’t fit the criteria that makes you hot.” Almost two decades passed and those words still wrap around his mind as clear as the first time they ever fell out of Daisy’s mouth, mischief in her eyes that weren’t yet as dark as they would become. Even before there was dirt crusted under her nails she knew him too well.

She didn’t make him hot. Neither did Novi. Therein lied the problem.

But him.

He’s a familiar taste.

Ice can get so cold it burns, and he’s played with Aedan before but this time it’s different. This time there’s i n t e n t. This time he’s hellbent for a little frostbite.

His brand of poison is poison itself, and he wants them just as much as they want the needle.

These few weeks particularly because his world has been thrown off balance right when he thought nothing would ever shake it again. Daisy’s the ghost of a memory he’s always seen on shady street corners when it’s late out and he’s had a little too much; but he k n o w s she’s nearby now, might break his neck doing double takes, wondering where she is, what she’s doing.

He doesn’t allow her to take up a permanent residence in his mind only because he has a job to do. She’s not back for him anyway, regardless of what promise was made. Like she’d said, she can die happy now, and he thinks maybe...he needed the closure just as much as she did.

His first day is a plan. Formable, solid, dislodging every other responsibility in his book for a girl constantly covered in baby’s breath. If he has anything resembling a soul left it’s only because of her, and Miss Beaumont poses a threat he can’t tolerate. Not for her, not for family.

Seeing Aedan back to back, two nights in a row, feels dangerous, but he needs a partner. Bel’s not an option despite their on par thinking, and Gunner drew his line and stepped across it. Dom would label him a traitor if he wasn’t already well acquainted with the fact that Bate’s boys often got into trouble mixing their hearts with business.

That fact, however, should have kept him from going to Aedan altogether. But really, there was no one else he trusted to get the job done. The little things he could have done alone, waited until he was ready to place a hit, but he found himself sitting across from the Dingo before he realized his feet had taken him there.

He buys him a drink. Tells himself it’s because he’s rusty. Doesn’t remember how to get his own hands dirty - been too long since he’s had to.

It doesn’t sound convincing even to him.


She’s too easy to pin down, like she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care, and a refurbished warehouse even in a place like Buschwick isn’t enough to stop them. Aedan is seamless in entry, footfalls as quiet and unnoticeable as the man himself, analytical as hell and smarter than him.

It wasn’t much, a lived in block with the kind of stagnant air that claimed no one was around to breathe it much. Hard worker, laptop gone, personal effects unimportant. Tabloid he thinks, nothing is as important as the job.

As the story.

He runs his fingers over the scruff on his jaw and knows Miss Caroline is far too pretty of a thing to not have come from somewhere. A somewhere with loving if overbearing parents and a nice little safety net waiting for her to fall. She didn’t belong slinking her way through the underbelly of Brooklyn, he knew that, he was sure Baby did as well.

She was a transplant dandelion, and if Dom knew anything it was how to move a plant without killing it. Even a weed, if he could just convince it to move.

Disorder and disarray weren’t his preferred methods of anything, caused his teeth to set on edge and the hairs on his arm to stand, but it was the best way to say someone was in your space and meant no damn good. A warning amplified by the seemingly normal front door.

He walked, and left destruction in his wake.

He lost his sense of time, enough so that it was only the feeling of a steady gaze on his back that eventually pulled him from what he was doing. Aedan was standing in the bedroom, a picture frame hanging in limp disinterest in his still raised hand, expression blank as always except for the mild lift to his eyebrows that spoke of clear judgement. Dom wondered briefly how long he’d been staring.

“What,” he mumbled, even though he knew exactly what. Stealth was usually the name of the game, but Caroline had an option B, and Dom wanted to at least say he’d given her the chance to turn tail and run. Something in his gut said she wouldn't, but he knew he had to try. For the purpose of being allowed to say he was a g o o d m a n.

Predictably, Aedan understood that, because instead of answering he simply gave a shrug and tilted his fingers enough that the frame tumbled from his fingers and smashed against the ground. Dom breathed out a chuckle despite himself, and the hint of amusement in Aedan’s gaze when he passed left him feeling like this was worth it.

He left the frame on the ground.

Locked the door behind them.

Caroline.

Caroline.

C a r o l i n e.

They watch the way her hands shake. The way she checks over her shoulder like someone might be right behind her. The way her smiles seem fake when she directs them at anyone. She grows comfortable again, eventually. Soothed by a goddess, unable to leave h e r behind.

Aedan.

Aedan.

A e d a n.

Sitting beside him in the truck, long legs stretched across the floor board, chin resting in the palm of his hand, expression to all the world bored but eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. Dom’s aware he’s dangling her life like a piece of meat in front of a rabid dog and he wonders if Aedan will bite before he says it’s okay.



Caroline laughs when Senna holds her hand.

Aedan smirks when Dom finds his double meanings transparent.

Caroline kisses Baby like she’s made out of porcelain.




Aedan goes through a pack of cigarettes in two minutes flat.

(Dom gets caught up in the way smoke looks tumbling out of his mouth.)



Caroline goes to work. Goes home. Goes to Senna.


Aedan’s withdrawal is slow, but he hides it well, handles the side effects with a loosely curled fist and closed eyes. Accepts nicotine and alcohol and doesn’t say he needs more. Oh, but it’s still m e s s y.


Caroline has a news reporter ID.


Aedan sits at the desk in his office, drinks expensive bourbon filled to the brim of his glass, doesn’t bother to say thank you. Pours over notes and documents, rubs his thumb over his lower lip slowly, runs his hands through his hair.

He walks when he thinks, arms spread out, drink in hand, finger pointed to enunciate thoughts Dom can’t hear but knows.



Aedan lights his cigarettes with both hands, opens his eyes slowly when smoke blows across his face, offers the lighter but Dom shakes his head because his throat is dry and his hands aren’t stable.

Aedan rests his head in the doorway when he waits for Dom to be ready, raises his eyebrows at things that have to be in their place all the time, doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t dare. Dom flips him off anyway, because he knows.

Aedan finds that amusing.

He looks good in the moonlight. Looks good when he walks, fingers in his pockets, gaze crossing over one shady building to the next. Checking things Dom doesn’t think about anymore. Visibility. Acoustics.

Weeks have passed.

She’s still not gone.

He thinks of the first time he had to sit Senna down in the garden and explain to her that even though they were pretty, a weed is a weed.

Not worth the save.

Oh, but does he want to d r a g it out. Make it s l o w. Because he a c h e s something real.


Aedan sits him down, they talk something serious. Not so much in words, but in nods and glances. Aedan watches him out of the corner of his eye, Dom tilts his head back, gives a nod. They’ve got this.

It’s not the first time Dom’s dropped cash on a dirty deal like this. Not the first time he’s bought out a Dingo’s service.

Not the first time he’s enjoyed it.



On the last day, he gives in.

Oh, he’d known they’d been leading up to this moment, he just hadn’t wanted to admit it. Hadn’t wanted it to end.

He fills a glass, drops it in front of a salivating Dingo, presses his hands to polished mahogany and murmurs, “Alright. You can have her.”

Sentiments like running water, too rapid to catch whole, one thing streaming into another. The smell of fallen leaves and cologne brought her down to Earth, to Bel - but the pain in her chest left her untethered. Pupils perforating her damage made her aware, looking down at the damage her tormentor had caused. While his damage had been directly internal, the journey home had been none the kinder. Pin sized reminders of his methods of persuasion dotted her forearm, deep red painted up and down her exposed flesh from where she had allowed the world to wound her. November felt ashamed, exposed, like she had deserved this for being so vulnerable - for allowing herself to ever reach the point of emotions clouding her judgement where she had become an open target for a predator.

How could she tell Bel? How could she share of her former life? Of the crime that had awoken the beast from within, the moment she went from scamming perverts at truck stops to serious time. Of how she felt that moment she saw the life leave his eyes, of the breath she took in as if she was taking in his own essence. Of how she felt no regret, not a drop of it - of how in that moment she had felt complete. How could November allow herself to be so transparent?





Defeat was a well not often peered into by the termagant Bel loved. To see her jittering, red peppering her serene veneer in a way that could only be described as harrowing vandalism, masticated his core. The consumption was to the effect of there'snothingIcanfuckingdoIfailedyouandI'msorry. But no words came to aid riven November, save for eyes for eyes, verbalized; the vascular clenched duke of virility. And she laid there. Silken, crumpled. Quieter by the minute and allaying the person who should have been there when she needed him and fuck all if he didn't take it like a shotgun wound. She wasn't short of a goddess in customary encounters. Here, she was an imbrued immortal. Bruised like the sin of ripe fruit, crying. And she never cried.



If anyone could understand it would be Bel, but she wasn’t ready to reveal that part of herself yet, to even speak it aloud let alone share it with another. She had gotten this far living in denial, the distance she was willing to carry the burden was unforeseeable. All she needed was the slightest provocation back into that life, of guns and drugs and constant scheming - the downward spiral would never end. Constantly dodging one obstacle after another, it was a gypsy’s nightmare and dream at the same time. A challenge, one that seemed unsolvable, yet to outsmart karma and to become victor time after time was euphoric. November couldn’t allow Bel to be dragged into that aspect of her life, it was nothing but destruction.

So she kept shut, she didn’t offer and he didn’t push. That’s why he would always be home.



"Hey, hey," he fanned comose, timid alone for the fact he was afraid she'd stop breathing, "What'd they put in you? Do you know?" Any attempt to be patient with her reply was crossed out by his daubing thumb. What was known as ordinary - the usual, was now a wary interrogation. The blur of his blackened brand hovering over skin already tainted in a way he just didn't understand. This work was not his own and even the stakes they played at didn't involve such a b u s e. He'd never touch her this way, never pump her full of bacterias uncharted. Never leave her for dead. She'd seen some shit but, he wasn't sure that line of slop in life had ever been quite like this.



The way he fretted over her, balancing between rage and regret, while she laid across his table just a shadow of the woman who had scorned him just hours ago, yet all she could think about was taking his pain away. Splintered fingers serpent around his palm as he pushed the foliage from her hair, bringing his coarse hands to her lips for her to kiss as tears dampened her cheeks. “I’m okay, I’m okay.” She quivered, ignoring her ailments as if it made this any easier for him. He whispered promises of revenge and recovery, wiping away her tears knowing there wasn’t a damn thing she would let him do except be there for her right then - right now.



"Tu no eres. Tu no eres." It was almost chiding. Only he'd never spoken this softly to her. "It's alright, 'cause I got you now." The baritone in his chest rumbled, the sacred word of a hungry wolf. He'd be out for blood for this. He'd bleed for this. Die for it, if he had to. Whoever'd taken her into their hands with intent to torture had paced five ways well the fuck over No Man's Land on a one way trip. The only way out was in a box.



She wanted to tell him that she loved him too, that she knew the moment he held her at gun point that first time in that Manhattan hotel. November wanted to tell Bel that she was sorry for earlier, sorry for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong but that it was only because at the end of the day it killed her to see him gradually self destruct by burning all of the bridges around him until he was left isolated. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry about the jealousy, but that she knew that no other woman would ever know Bel as she did, that no other woman could see past the filth and the grime to see what was inside - dark and teeming with demons and love him all the more for it. Their inner darkness would always find a way back to each other, where things were messy and complicated but they could muddle in the disparity with one another.

November wanted to say all of these things, but instead she said, “I’m sorry.” Holding onto his hand as a child did to their blanket for comfort. She was safe now, here with Bel. She was home.

Her fingers brushed along his jaw, bringing his face to hers to rest her forehead against his. She could feel his emotions vibrating from under her touch, but words were lost. All she could do was ramble, “I’m so sorry, Bel. I fucked up, I fucked up so bad.” Tears wet her cheeks, she couldn’t let go of Bel. How could she explain how she was a bad hit away from the IRA finding out she ratted? How could she explain she ratted? “I fucked up, they’ll kill me - I..” She couldn’t continue. “I’m sorry.”



She went for a gesture of comfort. Just like his girl to always be so about-face. He couldn't welcome it like this, not when her eyes were the size of Luna sated with nightmares. It was beyond him to imagine how this would tally up on the damage scale, how many nights she would spend awake from here on out, how often her demeanor would jerk into the eeriness of bloodshot eyes over the shoulder 'til hell would freeze over. She didn't deserve to live that way. So he'd make good on his promise. One way or another. "I don't know who they are, November," he whispered into her palm, "But I'll find out." His eyes crammed shut, "Don't apologize. I'm the one that's sorry."



November pulled Bel in closer, melding her lips into his. It wasn’t like others they had shared, lust was replaced with need - passion replaced by intimacy. The remnants of spirits lingered on his lips, his touch feather light as if he feared he would break her.

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DEAD WEIGHT APPENDAGES AND COMMISERATION

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est. December 24th, 2012
fifteen years of age
"Home is not where you were born;
home is where all your attempts to escape cease."
— Naguib Mahfouz

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The monster’s got me gnawing at myself in a cannibalistic fervor, but he says he’s got a thing for bruised circumorbital space and fragile tissues stretched over ribs just begging to be kicked so I guess it’s okay.

I’m waiting for him to drag me out back. Rough masonry scratching through thin cotton as he lines up the shot. There’s an apathetic bullet with my name on it, but somewhere between cutting my tongue on the unswept glass of your mouth and veins cracking at midnight I think I fell in love with the caustic kickback of decisions made in haste.

you alright? he asks, gaze stalling on mine as he holds his cigarette. He’s looking hard for the hesitation in my voice as if he could pull it out and use it as evidence. you look tired.

I am. I’m tripping into strangers beds like I don’t know who I am without their oxhide hands around the arc of my throat. Eyes like the prussian blue fingerprints left around my neck, cold as a brooklyn december, black as the hole razor words leave in my chest.

Somewhere there’s a rolex that knows how it feels to crash against cutting cheekbones and i miss it.

I don’t think I need to feel you to know you, though. My subterfuge. Cleansing by self immolation. Blackhole heart taking in everything but the light. It’s all to get back to you. Or it was.

so where you been?

Between twilight and the waking hours. In a chapel of unreason. Guilt is my most frantic prayer even if the only religion i know is the one devoted to my own survival.

I know you’re looking for me, but I promise I’m not the person you met in April. By now my name must be bitter in your throat even if the taste of longing rest on your tongue just as sweet as ever.

You’ve got a way about you. Coy like a bullet sliding into the chamber. You wear humility like a three piece and you love like a half-starved animal tearing away chunks from the nearest willing body, but I’m used to tearing them from myself and maybe there's no difference at all.

I’ve decoded the subliminal supplication of your obsession with manufactured apocalypse; veins sheared, pruned, torn apart. You’re use to this. Standing in the presence of all the gods you’ve destroyed. A pile of severed tendons and viscera. You love that the work is your own.

all i’m saying is that i miss you

There they go;

Slow and viscious;

Your teeth against my collar bones.

I don’t want to have to touch you, you know? I don’t want to be near you to prove that I love you, but the way you slide in fevered and burning, searing your name across my veins is intimacy inverted enough, and if I was bound for hell then let it be so.

Heaven’s knocked out enough of my teeth.

grin and bear it, baby.

You don’t gotta tell me twice.

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寸先は闇
Twenty y.o.
4-10-2011
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An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind -Hammurabi’s Code

I’m so tired I can’t stand. I’ve been cramming for months for one hundred and TWENTY credits, early completion. So you know what that means. Extra credits on hours I already don’t have, because my face has been stuck to surgical casebooks when I should be sleeping. But it’s looking bleak. I feel like I’m selling myself to thieves and I am standing here naked. I go to yawn discreetly…

Ma backhands me in the ass to keep my spine right and otousan is grinding his teeth. I’m embarrassed all around. It’s bad enough that they both think I should have made it this far on my own. I can only imagine the sales pitch they made to this dean and his board director and it’s really humiliating to be standing here. My parents sitting on either side of me makes it hard to tell if they’re here to make sure I don’t fall over, or to overplay how undeserving they think I am for a break. I haven’t fully bloomed yet and will I ever get to? Hard to tell if they believe I’ve got it all under control and can take more pressure or if they believe I’m an amateur who needs to fight for my right…

To party? Nope. Haven’t even had a light dusting of blow in the past year while all my fellow students were dropping Molly or acid or whatever at electric water lily festivals. When the halls were so empty I was reviewing The Mont Reid for fun. Just the thought of Wolfgang Stehr makes me want to go to sleep, I’m soooooo tired…

“私たちは契約を結んでいる.”

I’m wide awake now. That doesn’t sound or look academic. Otousan is poker faced and nods. The spectator, or who they told was a trainee for administrations, is Korean. She doesn’t even know she’s a spy. I want to take her aside and tell her I’m just as lost and confused but I have Indian burns on my wrists from my mother knowing me too well. I stay quiet and I wait…

“Write this down, Ji Su Park.” The dean forces a smile and the young mouse eagerly goes to her pen and paper. “Even as a model student, there is not much we can do as your scholastic peers to guarantee you an early graduation. Unfortunately there are many demands and conditions and in Ivy Leagues, we need total faith before we…”

The pop sounds like a whisper. It rings off again and is lost and sealed in the office. The mouse drops in a heap that isn’t loud enough for her body and it hurts that someone’s daughter is going out like that. It’s so quick. Quiet. At least it was clean. At least it was clean…

“Do any special favors.” He derides in Japanese while the only living matrons in the room are forced to be stoic. Like we were just out for sake and dumplings. Like there isn’t somebody’s child leaking on the carpet. He straightens his tie and otousan swabs the silencer placidly. I know what he’s thinking. He did this for me. And I better not screw it up. Because everything runs so much deeper than what is only seen on the surface. Everybody has their secrets…

I want to look at her but I can’t. I know how this works. I should know. I should be an expert. I am. And I will be. I’ll be the best with no room for error. That’s what happens next. “Congratulations, Miyu, for your accelerated doctorate. You worked hard for this.” I nod respectfully. I fold my hands and am suddenly very alive. Very awake. Very plugged in. Ma bows her head knowing better than to speak in her Colombian tongue, she’s only here for collateral. My parents would die and kill for me…

“私はあなたと私のビジネスを楽しんだ.”

I never want to feel this way again. I won’t let somebody die alone like that, in a room full of people they don’t know, on the floor. Cold and alone. It’s just wrong. If I have to use any of this for anything I’m going to do it differently. This world needs a new rule book…

At home I go straight to my room and get in bed with my Jimmy Choo’s and blazer on. I don’t change and I don’t sleep. I see Ji Su Park’s young eyes begging for a chance and a way out. I know how she felt. I know how badly she wanted it without realizing what she really wanted. I hear the friction of my father’s perfect handshake. She never had a chance. She didn’t get to bloom. Ji Su Park cries in the dark…

So do I.

“私はあなたと私のビジネスを楽しんだ.”

Location: Strip Club
Mood: Content
Dialogue Code: #CDAF95
Thought Code:# 4080FF

Amber liquid swirls in her glass gracefully as her eyes wander the club. She is listening to the chinking of the ice cubes, breathing in a fragrance that only years in an oak barrel can achieve, as she watches first the Bates, particularly Gunner. Her eyes linger, she tells herself it is only because some s m a l l part of her is aching to desperately cling to the lingering memories of their shared times. She lazily swivels in her seat, delicately crossing her legs as she looks back at her drinking companion Simon. She waits with some anticipation for him to open the gift she had set in front of him.

The music is so loud that it makes her skin tingle. The bass thumps in time with her heart beat as though they were one, filling her from head to toe with music. Over the roar of the song, a distant, hazy chatter can be heard. She can’t make out any words, just the occasional shout of peal of laughter.

Hani watches the dancers move like water transformed by music, flowing in graceful arcs, limbs in constant motion, and she feels a sense of awe. With each swaying movement of their hips, with each alluring twist of their body, they entrap the eyes of the onlookers with their beauty. Moving like ribbons in the wind, they are timeless. Elegance at its finest and pain in its true form; a dancer is a daughter of passion and an admirer of agony.

A hand touches her delicate waist and she jolts with some surprise before turning slowly. Five foot seven, willowy and a face cut right from the pages of a men's magazine. Hani gazed upon the perfect form of the stranger and forgot herself for a moment. Suddenly she is lost in the way the lights danced on this stranger’s mahogany skin. The woman is glistening with a sensual sweat that makes Hani unsure of herself, and all she can do is swallow. Her eyes are drawn to the scarlet river that gently caresses its way down her neck, reaching to just below her shoulder blades. If the gods are real, she tells herself, then this woman is their masterpiece.

Her lips are moving. She is speaking?

The woman must have realized Hani was unable to hear her because suddenly the ebony beauty leans in close, too close. Her lips tickle Hani’s ear. She can smell the woman’s carefully applied perfume, a heavy scent of lilies washes over her. Hani sees flashes of this beautiful woman stretched across a bed of lilies, their white petals were striking against the dark chocolate that was her skin. Simply beautiful. She lets out a tiny gasp and squirms uncomfortably. She does not like being so intimately handled.

“Would you care to dance, sexy?” She barely makes out the words that rub like silk across her skin. Hani is shaking her head. The heat from her fingers creep into her consciousness and she wants to pull away. Touch. She has spent so long without it that she is unsure she wants it anymore, let alone how to handle it. It is an invasion, an unwanted intimacy. Hani is attracted to her with the kind of heady trance that brings a butterfly to nectar, or a moth to a flame.

“No, Thank you….” Hani says with a small timid smile. Despite the woman’s alluring offer, she finds she wants more alcohol before she is willing to participate in the mating ritual that is dancing. Her petal pink lips turn up in an amused smile.

“…Maybe ask me after a few more drinks.” She says with a warm tinkling laughter. The woman gives a pout of her sensuous lips that almost convinces her to say yes.

Her eyes wander indolently back to her cohort and she can only smile almost shyly. Her burnt sienna orbs scintillate with a mischievous glint that could be notice next to the umber that rims her iris. They glow with humor and playfulness that never seem to escape her eyes. She nudges the box forward a little further. She had bought him a gift on a whim and now she felt somewhat unsure about it. The silver key-chain had caught her eye with its functionality, and her heart with its humor as it said ‘You’re a great friend but if Zombies chase us I’m tripping you’. She grins like a fool as she watches him expectantly.

May 17th 2010
16 years old

Hani walks the mall with the cool and perfect indifference of a ninja, or so she tells herself. She watches the patrons of said mall with a small amused smile as they are served by underpaid drones and sucked into purchasing the over-priced merchandise they don truly need. She doesn’t really go to shop, she simply loves the chaos. Anything was better than being home.

Every Saturday morning she drinks in the colors, the aromas and the atmosphere like an elixir. She thrives on interacting with the stall holders, each one almost a caricature of bubbly friendliness. They knew her by name and often kept something aside that they knew she would buy...and she always did. She weaves through the crowds, edging through the dense flow of people with her bags, which seemed to be getting fuller by the minute.

The shopping mall is her Mecca, make-up and shoes…her guilty pleasure. She can roam the aisles, take inspiration from the stores and make herself anew. She came in feeling ordinary and leaves as if she walking on clouds, her purchases already speaking for her on all her social media channels. She can see herself at the clubs already, soaking in the attention faster than the cocktails, hundreds of "likes" on her selfies.

She wanders into a store, one chain or another, she is doesn’t really care which store it is. Boredom drove her to walk the maze of crowded bodies and chaos. A trinket catches her eye and she get the familiar itch in her palms. She resists the urge to make her way immediately to it, instead she inspects some sunglasses, taking various photos before setting each pair down.

A tingle starts in her stomach as she moves closer to the shining object, despite her brain protesting, as if her actions have become severed from her thoughts. Her hands move slowly as she fingers the bracelet, with the battle lost, she begins to create reasons for the behavior being alright: She had never thought of it as an addiction before she tried to stop. She usually resisted the siren call of the adrenaline rush, isn't the resolve always strongest then? The slide backwards was just small "reward" at first, but habit grow back, thicker than it was before. And its only one of her addictions.

Hani was never watched when she entered the stores, she made sure of that. She dresses in a pencil skirt and white blows, and carries a laptop bag, her shoes are expensive and her hair well-groomed. No one suspects her. The bracelet is in her hands now, and in one quick motion it goes into her computer bag. She didn’t need to steal, really, she was flush. Hani just needs the rush, and this was the only place she could do it. It wasn't always this way; she used to snatch and run. After ten hours in a holding room with a large smelly mall cop, her mother told her "don't you ever get caught shoplifting again!" and she didn't. Didn't get caught that is.

She exited the store, with a wave and a smile to the security guard, one last ‘Fuck you’ because just stealing wasn’t enough anymore. That is a problem she seems to be running into more often than not. The thrill that came from nicking was fading fast, and soon she would have to return to the dismal repetitive mindlessness that was her life.

No, this would not due. She would find something that would bring that spark back if it killed her.

He supposed if he wanted to place blame on anything, he could grind back the gears to the night of the club.

Simon had been low already- he'd yelled at his mom, spent hours in his cave trying to lose himself in weed and keep his thoughts off of his demon, but ended up grinding against some fucked up kid cause he looked like a strung out version of Jasper anyway. He'd stared hard at Lar's cocaine and had to restrain himself from moving towards it, told himself 'it's not him', even if the drugs were stained with that inky-black smugness that could only belong to one person.

Jasper had been there that night. But Jasper was always there really, a black web in the back of his thoughts that he kept getting caught in. He'd pull himself free only to find threads still clinging to him, pulling him back in. That night Jasper had kept his distance at first, his presence in the darkness of the club tugging on Simon's attention- a constant reminder. It didn't matter how much whiskey he drank or how much weed he smoked, his eyes would still scan the crowd to make sure Jasper was still there.

It drove Simon crazy that he'd stayed away. Made him want to storm over and yank that disgusting hair, force their faces together, shove his hands up his awful clothing and rip and tear until he'd indulged himself fully. He was drunk, but sober enough that he wouldn't indulge those parts of him that were tangled up in that darkness. Instead he'd lingered at the bar, demanding refills and avoiding that blackhole that tugged at him to come. He forced himself to slide down silently next to his brother, bent over the bar, his agitation showing through with the tap tap tap of his rings against his whiskey glass. Glaring at wall of glass and alcohol across from him while his neck prickled for him to turn around. Like something dangerous and beautiful was watching and his instincts wanted him look.

Dom was always steady. Steady and silent and present, someone that could handle all the shit that was constantly dumped on their family. He'd look at his baby brother smoothly, taking in the tightly wound knobs of his shoulders under pricey clothing, the way anxiety seeped out through his fingers. He hadn't been concerned- Simon seemed to always have some sort of shit winding him tight- but his agitation was strong enough that Dom could taste it on the back of his tongue. He'd taken a long sip of his glass before muttering a gruff, "Alright?"

His brother rarely talked, let alone insert himself into a situation that he wasn't readily needed in. Dom's time was too precious and too pulled thin for him to meddle into every little fuck up his brothers got themselves into. His attention was enough to pull Simon's thoughts out of that fucked up darkness and back to the bar, where he glanced sideways and nodded, "Dealing. Just needed a break from all that" He gestured a limp hand at the loudness behind him, "You alright?"

Of course Dominic Bates would never utter any truth to such a simple question, too wrapped up in his world of questionable morals and decisions based solely on the protection of his family. So Simon didn't expect much when Dom takes a moment to run his too-knowing eyes over his baby brothers form, knowing there's more the younger Bates isn't owning up to, but deciding it can wait. He's fine. Dom lifts a shoulder, throws back the last of his whiskey. "Dealing."

Simon had nodded, followed suit with his own drink. The bartender was ready with two more glasses, knowing the Bates well enough to not leave them waiting.

Simon raised his glass to his brother, locking eyes with Dom. He trusted Dominic to make the right choices, that whatever he did was always for the well being of them all. Even as aloof as he was, Dom cared. Cared too much maybe? It was enough that Simon would never burden his brother with trivial shit like Jasper, so he just clinked their glasses together and slipped back into the crowd.

He'd known where Jasper was without searching. Maybe it really was some sort of magnetism, or maybe it was just because he'd spent the last hour trying really hard to not know where Jasper was.

Locking eyes with him had been his last mistake, but the relief in his chest at the slow crawl of that devilish grin was enough for him to know he'd fucking enjoy himself for his sin. It was relief to feel that web circle around him, even if he hadn't realized at the time how tightly he was ensnared.

Succinct and slow, the bourbon didn’t help the friction between his sandpaper tongue and the roof of his mouth, but curious onlookers kept ‘em coming and Jasper reciprocated in greedy looks. Back married to the countertop; the press of hands against chests when people got a little too close. Sometimes he forgot how easy this game was. Even with his sardonic slur, the words unfurled smooth as wine. A hint of chastisement lost to those desperate for his narcotic stilt and something a little different from the leather clad seraphim-substitutes moving through the club; something different than what they had waiting back home. Rationalized how his fingers were just as quick to graze the fabric of their jeans as they were to carve desperate tracks down the back of his neck, tongue bruised and bitten sour, matchstick bones under skin that screamed exsanguination.

Where was Simon, anyway?

Someone was ready to go and the animal in his chest told him not to fight it, had him leaning closer if only to get the secrets to splash like gin. His skin wared against itself like the fuckin devil sat beneath but he kept it together when he had to. Let the sanguine press of his delivery carry the point home underneath prussian blues and heavy base. When all was said and done he’d gotten drunk on the regret of getting everything except what he’d came for, lit a cigarette on the ashes of burnt bridges when his body disappeared just as quick as his drink, ended the search just as soon as it started. If all he wanted was to paint someone’s desire red with his blood, he could’ve saved himself a trip.

Jasper caught sight of his paper swan just as he found another spot to sit and the corners of his mouth tugged in the direction of a smirk. Watched him pass from dancer to dancer, chasing streetlights and anything that could be the exception to his calamity. How much easier would shit be if he’d just accept that the answer was Jasper, huh? He lost Simon in the crowd just as Deni slid in with those cutting cheekbones. Built chaos off of a lithe frame, tongue sharper than the knife she’d probably be sticking into his neck one of these days. She had a bone to pick and Jasper shrugged his shoulders, wondered at what point between the mere inches separating their visages had he actually welcomed the idea of her viewing him anatomically correct.

An ardent fascination for the killer stained his ventricles, bled fast and raw and ugly, even for himself. Nodded every so often even if his attention was divided between his resident addiction and the idea of letting those nimble fingers slip between his ribs. There’s no real position for Jasper in the war for Senna’s heart; he won no matter where you looked. So long as Simon’s security blanket was out tying up loose ends or fuming from the sidelines, he had what he wanted.
That’s what he thought anyways. Caught Simon take a seat next to Dom and knitted his brows in scrutiny. Maybe nothing in particular was wrong that night. Maybe Simon was throwing back drinks for no reason, made casual small talk with a man whose words were always, always just that; small. But he knew Simon. Or as much as he needed to know. Spent too many nights picking holes in his empty chest, laying the groundwork for his indoctrination. Simon had too many thoughts for anything to be nothing at all; couldn’t let shit slowly smolder into embers the way his brothers could. No, the kid was probably blue in the face from the fact that his constricted lungs hadn’t relaxed yet, like he’d been cast off to some frostbitten wasteland; limbs frozen, teetering on the edge of a ravine filled with all the emotions he couldn’t share even on a good day, let alone now that he was being hounded by his own demons.

Did he know he had one more coming?

Cause Jasper had been there and done that too many times. Bit his fingers until they were mangled dealing with people who had too many reservations, too many thoughts, too many reasons to go back home and sip some coffee and get their lives together. He eyed the back of Simon’s head like a dog even though he knew no one saw the tsunami coming, just the low tide washing over Simon’s feet like a Sunday pastime.

Still, as most junkies knew, you couldn’t hold anything back for emergencies when every time was an emergency. Not when someone still had the opportunity to leave first. Jasper’s lips pursed together as he considered it, part of him wanting to be rid of the threat while the other welcomed the competition; it had been so long since anyone questioned his authority and Simon didn’t look half bad wearing rebellion like an Armani suit. If he noticed the hunger behind Jasper's eyes Simon didn’t seem disturbed, slipped through the crowd with a quickness and showed Jasper he wasn’t really gone, not at all, not in that sense.

Good dogs always came home. Jasper had to give him that.







Forever’s a tripwire, made evident by tormented cities that don’t know anything other than backwater remedies and solicited sickness. Silk presses to silk sheets, skinned knees meet the pavement in exchange for a moment's reprieve. Namely in the form of competing product, panacea sneaking up nasal chambers and nerve endings alike. A brand bearing his counterpart’s name. Bates.

Echoes of refusals only add fuel to Jasper’s fire. You've got the wrong Bates if you expect a blow buddy. Okay, buddy. How long can you juggle both a fiend and his many affairs before the ball drops?

Denial and self negation were Simon’s dogmas. Brought forth on shaky ground, consecrated by the word of the faithless. And if it doesn’t make him look every part of the renegade. Too good for a slow burn by means of injection. Makes Jasper’s smear campaign all the more fun. Backs pressed against greasy walls, hands snaking up thighs when the bartender’s watching, sinking teeth in his neck every time Simon looks away, like maybe Jasper could take out every spiteful offense he ever garnered on the body that’s been pressed beside him these past few days. Privacy be damned.

Simon’s not really there anymore. Not Simon Bates at least, not the person that represents the still existing good of his family, the ever protected Baby Bates. The Simon that was currently entangled in shadowy smiles and heated tongue fully belonged to Jasper- the clutches of his title and family tossed aside. Euphoric, letting all that shit go- family business, expectations, history- and allow this thing to tightly wind itself around him. He’d never realized how ready he was till now, how much this fucking heat had burned till he let Jasper take it away. Or maybe it wasn’t gone- maybe this fiend was making it hotter then ever and Simon had just grown too used to burning.

Patience is the name of the game, but tonight's the exception. Groundwork of a malignant nature finally coming together. Weeks ago Jasper would’ve told himself that Simon’s laxity was a feat reserved only for his mother and a joint. Funny how shit changes. When the music starts to bore him Jasper buries fourteen knuckles in the fabric of simon’s shirt like they don’t have four shots lined and waiting, shifts closer until the distance between them is a figment of one’s imagination. Canines against earlobe. “Wanna do something else?”

Simon whispering yes sounds more like a prayer, he's sure he's never said the word with more affirmation.







"Just go with it," Jasper breathes, something almost intimate about the way his mouth curved around hollow words. His hand reaches out to trace the dip of Simon's collar bone, sliding past his throat and the slope of his jaw to entangle itself in the mess of his hair, nails against scalp. Goose bumps race behind Jaspers touch, Simons spine arching back against the filthy brick wall of the alley way. He’s shivering, though his body is hot and molten.

What's it like to burn for what you want but can't have? The feeling always seemed to elude Jasper, shameless as he was, yet Simon’s desperate eyes on the syringe spoke volumes. “Not like there’s any consolation prize for getting old in Brooklyn, right?” My god, if anyone knew it, it was this bunch. Junkies and dealers and the whores in between, a morbid kind of synchronicity Jasper clung to like it was his own circadian rhythm. Always bringing him back the gutter. Not that he made much effort to straighten up. Not when gilded patrons were willing to fund his appetite just for a taste. Something Simon was willing to go all the way for. While he still has him Jasper bites his way inside Simon’s mouth, doesn’t come up until he taste iron, until alcohol leaves a burn in his throat.

Sometimes you need something to take the edge off. Gospel to someone as far south as Jasper, but being around Simon added the necessary exclamation point. Dominic and Gunner had grown man shit to keep them occupied -- bruised knuckles and busted lips all inclusive -- when their own demons came out to play. They were the type who trudged on as if salvation only came through suffering; who lived as if every reassurance was within a prayers reach and backdoor exchange. If they wanted to be saved they must have buried it. And what was Simon? Certainly not that. What with his polished edges on the verge of splitting, Jasper looking like a sleek intruder pressed against his image. No, Simon would sooner hang his hands on hooks and spit out his incisors for the chance to be easy because he never learned that the numbing and hallucinatory loneliness of this world was how you walked through it's conflagrations unscathed in the first place.

He’s got one had gripping Jasper to him, the other one fisted in the rumble and dust of the disgusting spot they have drunkenly fallen into. Simon’s making some low whine in the back of his throat- a begging noise, the one a dog makes when you have something it wants. He should be embarrassed, but he’s too far gone for that. Sucked in, completing ensnared- if Jasper left him right now he’d probably sink into despair. But Jaspers too-thin body shows him further against the wall and traps him there- makes him alive and on fire all at the same time. He wants more. More, more, more,- but all he can managed is that fucking whorish whine and a deathly grip on stretch out white cotton.

This lifestyle doesn’t suit you. That’s what Jasper thinks as he relinquishes his grip on Simon. In another time, in which he’d never marred or betrayed anyone, he would’ve said the words out loud and assiduousness wouldn’t have felt like muriatic acid flushing through his veins. But at this point, Jasper had no problem snatching stray prospects without pretending his violence was anything but. Junkie through and through. His blood’s been runnin’ soporific since summer ‘11, but he can think of a few things to make it slip like kitchen bleach. Strip the color from anything more vibrant than himself. And fuck if he wasn’t more than willing to go as far for this connection as need be. Ready to seize every shortcoming. Peel wax from wings, flesh piled on the concrete. After all, was that not, on some subconscious level, why the youngest Bates had linked himself up with the inky blackness that was Jasper Callaghan in the first place? Because he knew even the sun, in all of it’s life-sustaining hellenistic glory, could break the neck of a daisy? Because the thing Simon ached for - what Jasper dubbed control - was only attainable on the reciprocal end? shit, if you want it come get it come get it come get it come-

But Jasper would never control him, would he? So long as Simon had someplace else to skirt off to, someplace else to escape when the walls started closing in. Every breath an excise Jasper wouldn’t ever be able to pay where his own merit was concerned. He’d keep Jasper away through sheer respiration. Close but not close enough until the levee breaks; maybe the flood buries him, but maybe it doesn't. Maybe time is just what Simon needs to stop living life at 70 mph, rib cage in his throat, road signs be damned. It didn’t matter how soft Simon was. Eventually he’d reach some sort of understanding with this virus of life; realize leaning into the bathtub isn’t peace and the light doesn’t look any different just because you’ve buried your head beneath the water.

The thought makes Jasper itch. And there’s no sun out to make everything look shiny and golden, so these street lights will have to do.

“Here--,” he snatches laces out of dusty sneakers with practiced ease, the subtle base in his voice making it almost seem like a command despite its implications having more to do with the fact that something in Jasper had lapsed. His patience, perhaps? Wraps the string around Simon’s arm before giving the ends to Simon to keep them tight. Simon takes hold, simply following orders although his heart beats rapidly up his throat. He’s shaking, but he’s sure its from anticipation- how long had he been begging for this, only to have that needle turned away? Every so often Jasper looks up from his arm just to find Simons wide eyes in the dark, to reassures himself that this is actually happening. Last thing Jasper needed was realization snatching Simon by the neck, but by the looks of it, that’s the last thing Simon needs as well. Desire glowing brighter than the neon signs advertising smokes and nudes. Good. He’d be damned if he became the sticky note Simon misplaced and forgot about, the dollar bill he never missed. Come hell or high water, he would be the fucking vulture over Simon’s shoulder. Jasper was sure of that as he poured the powder onto the spoon and went to work, heating the smack until it liquefied before he filled the syringe and putting the spoon to the side, hands working and turning over themselves like a language without discourse.

Ardent denouement in reverse, fresh veins waste no time in showing up. Take the drug like a champ. It goes in so easy- Simon was expecting pain but he barely realizes the red swirl inside the needle is his own blood. A shiver slides through his body as Jasper pushes the plunger in and it takes Jasper back to his teenage years when every trip was new and predatory hands felt cool to the touch. He’s staring at Jasper, eyes vacant but locked, praising him like some sort of God. He watches as Simon’s muscles find a different kind of peace. Eyes lose that cornered sparkle. Jasper pulls the shoestring off as liquid purgation settles into Simon’s body, stakes a claim like a welcomed invader, crosses erect and ready to go.

He’s stunned by the warmth, not burning, just a smooth comfort that wraps around him. Jasper’s web turned soft and gentle and liquid- his body slips into it like a warm bath and he feels his brain give way.

The youngest Bates breathes in deep- filling his chest with a sort of air he’s never felt before. Alive and exhilaration- oxygen that filled him with a pure wave of good. The drugs putting out any fire that had burned within him and seeps into every cell- leaving behind nothing but euphoria.

“Fuck” He wants to say more- he’s got a lot of thoughts about what he wants to say- but his voice sounds like its underwater and all his shaking hands can do is grip the body in front of him. Simon keeps Jasper at arms length and just stares, his large form looking much smaller crammed into the space between the brick and dumpster. He’s running his Brioni suit but he doesn’t give a shit anymore. He smiles; a shivering sort of uncontrolled smile cause his face feels like it’s facing the sun. His demon looks like the opposite, how had he ever thought otherwise? Why had he denied this? Why had Jasper let him say no when this could make him feel like this?

He wants to say more, more he’s pretty sure Jasper gets it.

The itching part of his brain that usually argues with his every thought has gone quiet; his mind finally feels at ease.







Morning rolls around like a thirty-eight to the temple; stray light slipping in from between ratty blinds just to assault his eyelids. My god, he needs to get those replaced. Or move his mattress someplace else. Props himself up on bony elbows while his pupils adjust to the vanishing dark, pauses for a moment when he feels a sleeping Simon on the other side of him then brushes the acknowledgement to some distant corner of his brain, someplace reserved for all the other bad ideas that’ll come back to bite him at some point. Then again, thoughts of his impending harm didn’t do much to phase him nowadays; the kid all but grew up on bleach baptisms behind park benches, transfixed and renewed by way of narcotic.

He settles into skin that feels like it’d rather be elsewhere, peel away and slink off underneath the couch someplace. There’s a splitting kind of silence at this hour. As if the linchpin to disorder found something else to occupy it’s time with. Couldn’t be bothered with errant car alarms and wily dogs and every other entropic manifestation of Brooklyn coming to life. Hm. He kinda misses the ferocious city. Every noise a numbing departure from the contagion of sobriety. Thick. How his tongue feels in his mouth. Thoughts bleeding into each other, blank as the expression across Simon’s face when sun settles across his temples and fixates itself on the dip in his hip bones.

Jasper’s resolve lays limp across his shoulders like a skinned animal. Palms pressed to closed eyes like maybe he could rub the static away and will himself to feel some semblance of alright. But the monster’s a persistent type. An affair way beyond whisky flirtations and midnight escapades.

Simon wakes up when the sun finally reaches his face, burning light turning the world red below his eyelids. He keeps them closed tight, because his skin feels like it’s crawling with maggots and death. Pulling at him, whispering disgust into his veins and begging for that euphoric sun. You aren’t good without it, more, more, more. He makes a wrenching moan, something between a gag and a cough, abruptly silencing that monster inside for only a moment. A shaking hands reaches helplessly for the nearby sheets to hide his face from the sunlight.

A mumbling whimper escapes him and he feels the mattress shift, a body coming closer and blocking out the light. He tries to ask for help, but his lips are quivering and dry and his mouth feels like sandpaper. He gets the resolve to shift a little, joints aching, and uncovers his head to open bloodshot eyes up at Jasper.

Jasper is framed by the sun coming through the shades behind him, holy glow of light darkening his sickly thin frame to a skeleton. His eyes are too dark, a stark comparison to the Godly figure Simon remembers from their drug addled night. Its not right, not what he wants- he wants the good back, wants this sour, sticky itch gone. That fire is burning in his head and he desperately wants that warm engulfing liquid to put it out.

There’d pleading in his eyes when looses a breath through his nose, reaching for Jasper.

“More.”







Sometimes the simplicity of life goes right over Jasper’s head.
Like the ocean can’t hug the shore without a hurricane following suit.
As if the truth can’t spill minus a .22 to the temple.
He’s half naked in a Bate’s house, waiting for a sign that it’s time to leave.
It never comes.





Simon wakes up on Jaspers dirty mattress, head pounding and skin crawling but mind clear. Jaspers pale naked body is drapped over the side of the bed, half on the floor like he was crawling towards a semblance of comfort in his crack house apartment.
His phone is dead so he smokes and stares at the semi-lifeless body next to him.
No texts, no calls. But that’s nothing new either. His brothers are ‘Dealing’ and he knows that meant to leave them alone.
He unlocks his phone and dials one of the only four numbers in his favorites.
“Hello”
Dom’s voice is unusually stressed, tone rough and frustrated. He didn’t mean to answer, or he was expecting a different call.
“Hey, brother, what are you-“
There’s a sigh and some yelling from somewhere distant. He’s probably on the job, Simon shouldn’t have called.
“I’ll call you back”
The line goes dead and Simon lets the phone drop. He takes a drag, attention back on Jasper, and brings him back to life with a kick.





Jasper thinks he could kill Simon. Run every red light just to find him in a cloud of marijuana smoke. Five knuckles against polished flesh. Unfailing hands around his neck. He’s halfway out the door when the monster runs ghostly fingers down his spine, but a text back reminds him he’d just as soon lick the blood and champagne from Simon’s jaw line than murder the kid.
He stumbles over an empty bottle and lets out every curse he can think of on his way to the bathroom. Jumps in the shower in an attempt to scrub the massacre from his fingers. Doesn’t stop until skin cracks beneath his hands.
Guess we all get a little trashy sometimes.





[to: simon]
You up???

[to:Jasper]
Fuck you

[to:Jasper]
yes

[to:Jasper]
your place or mine





“Do you even wear half the shit you buy?” A joke lined with something accusatory. He’s rifling through Simon’s closet like he wasn’t well aware of the kid’s affinity for anything designer. There’s little shame in his game when he pulls a random shirt off the hanger and slips it over his head.
“Well, shit,” he mumbles between breaths. He’s more impressed than he really should be, cause anything’s an upgrade against the dusty levi’s he came in, but damn. He might have to steal this one.
“Looks good” They don’t do niceties, but this sweaty, naked, strung out version of Simon doesn’t really care what they do and don’t do. He’d fuck Jasper in anything he wore, but there is no denying that his clothes look good on him. Evidently, his shit looks good on any one, but that ability to make even a demon look clean-cut showed the power of a $250 white button up.
It bothers him though, how fast Jasper masked himself in designer and seemed to be normal. He could pass off as handsome- Simon’s pin prick pupils follow movements as he pulled out a blazer.
“Don’t” He’s irrationally angry suddenly, but far too gone to get up to do something about it. Limbs loose, body heavy- all he can do was throw a pillow across the room. “Fuck me again while I’m still cooked, asshole”





His mom asked him if he was alright again.
Yeah, he’s alright- he knows she doesn’t believe him, but he’s high when he lies and feels none of that regret that usually follows.
He moves out two days later while she’s at tennis.





He’s hard to reach these days. Translucent skin against tile when a come down loomed over the horizon. Nikes leaving skid marks in a crowded bar. Perched under the arm of whoever would have him.
Course he’d always make time for his favorite. Five letters flash across the screen in an attempt to find out where he is, if he’s free.
History’s a bit hazy, but he knows this; when he first saw Simon, his mind already had a place for him. Wedged between black tar nights and marlboro mornings. Lodged in his throat like the taste of cough syrup; peaked teeth in his neck.
His thoughts screamed massacre when he saw Simon.
So he did.

[To simon;]
meet me at the club?





Dom’s voice mailbox is full- but Simon knew that.
It didn’t stop him from calling yet again and listening to the automated woman’s voice on speaker.
Jasper isn’t answering his texts and his skin hurts. Burns, itches, he’s shaking.

Dom can't come to the phone right now, his fingers are too slippery with blood… the 'slide to answer' wont work.