It wasn’t fair. That wasn’t something he said very often but today, kicking stones at the helpless tin-can trash-bins that lined the alley walls, it felt a very accurate description for his life in general. His hometown had been destroyed as a kid. Yeah, whatever, he didn’t like the bastards back there anyway. What had they done for him? Nothing, that’s what. It did leave him homeless at the ripe old age of nine but hey, he’d lived. He and Jesse had a whale of a time growing up and mucking, fucking around, learning the ropes and generally getting into trouble. Well, him more than Jesse. Jesse found the trouble, he didn’t get into it. Anyway, they’d pulled through on their own, just the two of them to morph from grubby-fingered boys – again, that was more him than Jesse – into rather damn fine looking gentlemen who did what they pleased, got what they wanted and carried on like any other bachelor would: becoming as hedonistic as they possibly could.

True, this took different forms but who was he to deny anyone their own sort of pleasure? He sure didn’t deny himself. Behind him, against the dim and muted sunset half drenched in clouds was proof of that; a half-naked figure left sighing, lovelorn, against the alley-wall. Proof, right there and then, he thought with a smug, straightening his fur-rimmed jacket and tugging long, black locks back into their casual pony-tale. Unfortunately, his poor victim hadn’t been completely ravished ala the norm. Something was up; he hadn’t felt like it. Flip a coin, it’d come up heads every time because when Damien ‘Grief’ Atalo didn’t feel like a screw, something was very wrong.

He’d left the manor earlier. Jesse’s little business ventures had left them sitting pretty forever and while Damien had his own apartment further into the city he came back ‘home’ for about half the week just for some company. He was sure Jesse enjoyed it too. The artificial red-head may have seemed impassive to everything but he was human, Damien knew that. The occasional smile, the occasional favour, it was all human and emotion and stuff and even though there was no physical relationship between them anymore Damien just couldn’t ditch a friend like that, income or no. Call it loyalty, just don’t say commitment. Jesse had gotten him out of a lot of shit in the past and after what they’d been through, Damien was there to stay. Brothers in arms, two against the world, all that stuff.

Then two weeks ago she’d turned up. They’d thought she was dead and who wouldn’t? The last time either of them had set eyes on her she’d been across the burning city library, ducking debris and refusing to leave her elder sister’s side. When you’re only single digits you don’t realise there are back doors and it had hit the little boys hard to realise that their friend had probably been burnt alive. Jesse never quite recovered, withdrawing so far into himself that he never laughed, rarely smiled and appeared quite devoid of human contact. It was understandable; he’d been the closest to her, her little guardian, and he’d failed her. While it was hard, the best Damien had ever hoped for was for a hug and that she’d been happy to provide. Tracita de’Silver, the little doll-faced child who was so shy she barely spoke, was apparently far better at surviving than either of them had thought.

It had been a miracle she’d recognised them at all. No longer the non-descript, messy child he once was, Damien had to admit he now positively sparkled amongst a crowd. Long, luscious black locks swept down a perfect body and made him quite the dark Adonis, if he did say so himself. Modesty dictated he simply describe himself as hot, when really he was a living, breathing sex-god. Why shouldn’t he revel in it? A body like that didn’t come without work. Jesse had grown up and his once angelic mop of blond hair was now a vicious, rather fake red in colour, standing out against his pale skin and white business suits. Under that was a body of rock, Damien knew. They weren’t little boys anymore.

Tracita would always be a little girl, though. While no-longer sporting the baby-fat of childhood, her face had hardly changed, still dominated by large, dark-blue eyes and framed with ringlets of dark hair; a porcelain doll brought to life. Her hips and chest jutted into an hourglass yet she still dressed in pretty skirts and dresses, with high-socks and ribbons. A living toy, silent and too fragile to be left alone in the real world. Jesse had been her knight, him her friend in the playground. They had re-found her out with her adopted brother in the stores. She was just that sort of girl, the one men felt they had to go out of their way to look after and the one they would raise hell for if hurt. Even he wasn’t immune to the pull, though she was far too cute for him to even think about seducing. Too cute to rape.

Jesse always did like cute. Damien would never tell – only partially because they were friends – but the older man had a weakness for that sort of stuff. Kittens, puppies, My Little Ponies; if it was cute, he horded it. It was no surprise that he’d fallen head over heels for his childhood sweetheart all over again. He remained the ruthless creature he’d always been, brutal in the meeting-room and even worse to those who ticked him off but around her it was different. He was a sweetheart and while their relationship was dominated by silence, it worked. He knew, he was watching. Where Jesse had spent hours in his office conducting business before, content to let Damien prattle on about anything from the weather to his latest sexual kink, he now went out to all those ‘dating’ places. The zoo, cafes, the movies; whatever Traicta seemed to enjoy, he’d do it. And he’d smile. Jesse wasn’t meant to smile, wasn’t meant to favour anyone except him, and Damien didn’t like it. They were meant to have a relationship going here. Not sexual, not anymore, but there was a steady, mutual back-scratching going on. He gave him plush toys surreptitiously and in turn Jesse kept the bills paid, the maids gorgeous (and oh so willing), and made their life comfortable. Heck, Damien went out of his way to help Jesse out! Extra pocket money for strutting his sexy self around town and delivering love, joy and messages around the city, and to keep Jesse from going insane at parties. To get Jesse alone anymore was a rarity; Tracita was always there, sewing on buttons or making cakes, or just being generally girly in the background. It threw off the mood, and he wouldn’t dream of bringing a lay home anymore. Oh no. Tracita wouldn’t like it and while she wouldn’t say a word, she never did, he’d know.

Another rock hit a window, sending splintering sounds into the drizzle that had begun to fall. He’d walked further than he’d thought and now, surrounded by large grey walls and fancy fences, leather jacket barely waterproof, he stopped. The manor loomed in front of him, homey lights beaming from its curtained windows. What the hell was he doing? Who cared if some cutesy bitch had come in and cast a spell over his best friend? It wasn’t any of his damn business and if Jesse wanted to indulge almost paedophilic fantasies that was up to him. He wouldn’t bother to avoid them when they were ‘busy’. It was his house too, damn it all, and like hell he was going to be driven out just ‘cause they’d hooked up and were acting all couple-like. No, he was a free bird and he’d stay that way, screwing who he wanted and offending Tracita’s sensibilities if he damn well wanted. Hell, he’d tell her himself, he thought as he slammed his keys into the lock and gave them a gratuitous turn and a wiggle. He’d tell her right -

It was late, he realised as the grandfather clock across the wall began to chime midnight. Socked feet curled under her and her head drooping ever so slightly as she dozed, Tracita sat in the armchair by the fire. He’d known it was her as soon as he’d set foot inside, the warm smell of baking and large pools of light giving her away. She’d made herself at home, he’d thought angrily, but as he stood there in the doorway and watched her he knew. When he’d been alone in primary school she’d been the only one to sit with him, drawing maps on the ground with chalk and getting colourful dust all over her neatly pressed frocks. When he came home drunk, or had a hangover and a one-night stand to deal with in the morning, she’d just press a bowl of something warm into his hand and refill his coffee. As he peeled off his leather jacket, fishnet dappling his skin, her bright blue eyes snapped open and she watched him until he made eye contact. Grudgingly, he obliged, and she simply nodded towards the kitchen oven. Two meals, covered in tin-foil and still hot, sat proudly inside just waiting for him and Jesse to come home and claim them. A thin, knowing smile spread over his lips. He couldn’t hate her. And it wasn’t fair.