.:Author's Note:. Holy shit. Ok so I've been reading a bunch of awesome slash fic stories, and I've been inspired to write my own. I had no idea what to write about, but suddenly I had an idea and now I'm totally stoked. So I'll admit it was a bit ripped off from Kazuya Minekura's Wild Adapter and from what I've read but I wanted some sci-fi or fantasy elements in it to spice things up (I also love violent plots =3) and I'm sick of vampires and werewolves and mermen and all that mainstream junk. So I came up with BS, aka, Beast Syndrome. And I am quite stoked. A combination of sci-fi, action, and cute slash smut 83 Bear with me, because though I have most of the plot worked out, I'm kind of wingin' this thing. Updates are a bit irregular, but I will finish this story.

Extended Summary: Sean Parker's life ends on his 19th birthday at the mercy of a bullet. Two days later he wakes up completely unscarred in the house of a strange golden-eyed boy, who happens to be a college classmate. But as their friendship grows, Sean realizes that there's something not quite right about Dante Hughens. Could it have something to do with the mysterious, lethal new drug running rampant in San Francisco known as BS...? Warning: slash m/m, rated for later content including violence and language, and perhaps sexuality.

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.:Beast Syndrome:.

Chapter One

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I died December 27th, age 19, at precisely 10:34 pm. A Bullet to the chest.

No, it didn't really hurt. I don't think "pain" really registered in my mind right then. Just a kind of cold shock, like falling into a freezing river. That biting shock from the cold water? Yeah, that's what dying feels like. And the bullet was only, what, seven ounces? It felt more like a full grown wildebeest suddenly decided to sit on my chest. But Jesus, the nerves in my chest must have been on morphine or something that day because I wasn't feeling anything. Just that cold, numbing shock.

Then wonderful gravity worked its magic.

Considering I was shot from the front, I was kind of jolted back, and then fell. On cement. The impact to my head jolted my entire body. Everything kind of went fuzzy and numb, the sky began to warp and fade, as if Claude Monet had spontaneously decided to paint my life for me. Kind of him, really, as much as I can't stand his work. Crazy French impressionists. So I'm not much of an artist. Sue me.

So right before Monet dumped a bucket of black on the canvas of my peripheral vision, I saw a tall figure, glowing against the dark of the night, with long golden hair the color of wheat fields in the summer.

Ah, I thought softly as everything began to grow dark, and here I thought angels didn't exist. Then, the light disappeared and Monet kicked the bucket.

I came to with a massive headache. My first thought at this moment? Hangover. Yeah so I'm 19 and I drink. Who the hell doesn't. This is 21st century America - nobody obeys the laws. Second thought? I'm in a bed. Well there's a comforting thought. I scrunched my eyes and forced them open slightly. They screamed in protest and snapped shut at the blinding light. I took a deep breath and froze. A very familiar and extremely nauseating scent filled my lungs. Cigarettes. And I don't smoke. My eyes finally poked out of their lids, rather reluctantly, and sniffed the air curiously. As my irises adjusted to the light, I realized that the room was actually quite dark. Instead of my usual dark-blue, slanted ceiling plastered with posters of Nirvana and Left 4 Dead, I was greeted by a flat, dull, gray ceiling, looking like something someone had hardly bothered to plaster properly, leaving grainy chunks missing here and there, with flecks of paint wearing away in several patches. A cheap white ceiling fan whirred slowly and noisily, its rhythmic pulsing somehow comfortingly familiar.

I blinked and groaned, raising a hand to rub at my heavy lids. My entire body ached, and I heard my shoulder pop as I moved my arm. A movement to my right caught my attention, and I turned my head against the thick pillow beneath my head. A young man with honey-colored eyes and sun-kissed skin sat beside the bed, which was apparently more of a cot considering how low to the ground I was, ogling me while pressing a lit cigarette to his mouth. Lightly wavy blond hair that hung past his shoulders was tied in a loose pony tail and sat propped over his left shoulder, simple as that. He wore a short sleeved white tee and a pair of worn blue jeans, both of which appeared several sizes too large for him. His only accessories were two leather thongs tied loosely around his right wrist, a gold and black cuff on his left ear, and a simple, silver cross hanging off a thin chain around his neck. He drew his hand from his mouth, exhaling slowly and releasing a jet of thin gray smoke, which curled lazily through the heavy air. His body, from what I could see peeking through his baggy clothes, was all lean athlete's muscle and his face the kind of naturally flawless smoothness girls spent hours each day dreaming about. His features were all angular and very-much-manly, but still gentle enough to attract a good number of straying eyes and batting eyelashes. But his eyes were what unnerved me most of all, a dark honey golden that pierced my flesh and sent goosebumps crawling frantically over my skin like some kind of wildfire.

Suddenly a loud growling noise interrupted the rhythmic purring of the fan. Location? Somewhere between my crotch and my shoulders. I was hungry. Can you blame me? I felt like I'd just slept for ages. The boy must have noticed because he suddenly smiled from behind his cigarette, plucked it from his lips and stood up in a single elegant movement. He walked barefoot from the room, leaving the door half open behind him. I blinked again and turned my head again so it faced the ceiling. My body felt slow and heavy, as if I were lying in a pool of lukewarm water rather than air. I tried to remember why I was here, how I'd gotten here, and who that strange guy was. Somehow, he looked very familiar. As for why I was here, I closed my eyes and dug through my brain. Good lord you wouldn't want to know what kind of stuff I keep locked up in there.

Tossing aside memories of the week's preparations for winter break, spending Christmas with my girlfriend (until we broke our three week relationship about five days before) and New Years, I finally managed to procure the events of last night. It was my birthday, so I'd gone out to celebrate with a bunch of friends in the city. We'd gone eating in some cheap but delicious Indian place, which served a chicken curry to die for, and then we went clubbing at the usual place, Neon. It was the only 21+ club that never bothered to check IDs, and for something that consisted of being little more than a hole in the wall, it played some decent electronic, house, and club music and carried quite the reputation. I remembered my friends John and Alex having hit us all up with some drinks, and I ended up drunk as the Irish a off a few screwdrivers and a caribou. I don't really like the taste of alcohol, and I don't drink on a daily basis, but I do enjoy a little buzz here and there on special occasions. That probably explained the throbbing pain in my temple right about now. They say young 'uns don't get hangovers. I say that's complete bullshit.

From there, things got fuzzy, like a crappy 80's television with bad reception. I remember leaving the club, stumbling along the streets at an ungodly hour of the night with a few friends, and somehow I ended up separated from them. I was wandering about some generic alleyway (honestly, everything in downtown San Francisco looks the same) when I remember being surrounded by a bunch of tall guys in dark clothes. I couldn't see their faces or even remember the color of their skin in the dark, but I know my senses had suddenly jolted in warning at that point. Especially when one of them pulled a gun out. There's nothing like the nozzle of a glistening black handgun pointed at your chest to snap you to sobriety. After that, everything happened pretty quickly. The men shouted some incoherent things, then a strange figure in white bounced in and a few of them fell, then before I could really register what was going on, the man with the gun pulled the trigger and something cold and numbing slammed into my body. Oh shit.

I lurched upright, my hand automatically having jerked my chest. Bad move. A splitting pain burst through my head as if some barbaric gnome were pounding my skull in with a hammer. I winced and leaned forward, clutching the sides of my head with my hands as I waited for the pain to die down. When the throbbing finally began to recede, I released the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and sighed into the palms of my hands. I was interrupted by a loud coughing noise. The one people use to get your attention. You know the one.

My head snapped up irritably, only to see the strange blond haired young man, leaning against the doorway carrying a tray with a plate of food and a glass of orange juice in one hand, and a half-finished cigarette in the other. Nicotine addict or not, the guy looked like a god at that moment. My thought was reinforced by a loud snarl from my stomach. He chuckled and padded over, dodging the mess of strewn clothes lying about the floor, ends of his loose-fitting jeans hissing as they dragged along the floorboards. He placed the tray beside the bed and settled cross-legged beside me, leaning against the wall next to a small wooden dresser. He flicked his cigarette above a small navy blue stone ashtray half-filled with gray ash and cigarette butts, watching me quietly. He finished the cigarette and extinguished it in a small stone ashtray.

"Eat." He said pointedly as he snuffed the head of the cigarette. I muttered a word of thanks and devoured the four syrup-soaked waffles on the plate, washing them down with the cool glass of orange juice. Though coffee could have been nice at this point, I wasn't complaining. You have no idea how good a simple meal tastes after a near-death experience. Finally, I managed to finished it all and regain my breath.

"So," I started, "who are you, why am I here, and what the fuck just happened?" So I don't beat about the bush when I want answers. Some call me rude; I just think I'm honest. The boy kind of looked at me quietly, not really saying anything. Did I mention how much his eyes unnerve me? The only thing I could really compare it to would be if a thin snake had just come crawling out of the cold earth and began sliding over every crevice of my body. Yeah. It's that weird. Finally, he averted his eyes down and leaned back against a small wooden drawer next to the cot.

"Well," he began, "I found you last night dead drunk in some alleyway, and it was clear you were lost, so I brought you over to my place. You've been out for two days." This woke me up.

"Two… two fucking days?" I cried, startled. I felt shocked. My parents must have been worried sick. Noticing my concern the boy shook his head.

"Your parents called yesterday, so I told them you were sick and that I, being the wonderful friend I am, took you in." He said nonchalantly flicking his pony tail over his shoulder. Conceited much? But seriously. Who was he to pick up my phone and unflappably make excuses for me? Ok so maybe it didn't help that I was asleep, but honestly, who does that? He smirked and continued.

"And as for who I am, I'm deeply wounded that you don't even remember me. I'm in your biology and calculus class." Something clicked in my head. I remembered now, we did have a tan, long blond haired guy in our calculus class, but he was always seated in the back of the room, usually reading or sleeping. Nobody ever seemed to really notice him. I'm sure he had friends, but he never seemed like someone I'd bother with. Well, this did make things a bit less awkward than waking up the house of a complete stranger. Though having a classmate pick me up and care for me drunk was embarrassing as all hell. If the word spread I'd be in deep shit at school.

Suddenly, something struck me. I touched my chest and looked down. It seems the guy had taken the liberty of depriving me of my shirt and pants. I'm pretty well built and I'm not very self conscious of my body and all, but having a guy I hardly know strip me while I'm asleep is a bit gauche. But the bullet wound from that night was gone. My body was completely fine and unwounded – not even a scar was visible (except for the one on my right hip where my cat had scratched me in a moment of frenzy). I felt thoroughly confused.

"I could have sworn I was shot that night." I muttered under my breath. I looked back that the boy, who returned my gaze with an expressionless face. He shrugged and ran a hand through his loose bangs

"Maybe you were dreaming." He said nonchalantly. "Drinking tends to heighten your nerves when you dream or hallucinate." I frowned. Well God be damned if that wasn't the most realistic dream I'd ever had.

"Well," I sighed, "that might explain why dying felt more like being dropped in the pacific ocean in mid winter." I said plainly. The boy's eyebrows shot up as he stared at me. Suddenly he burst out laughing, slapping his hand on his thigh. Rude much? As he started to settle into a bubbling stream of barely-restrained giggles, he raised a hand towards me.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologized between breaths, "that was just… wow." I regarded him skeptically and picked up the half-empty glass of orange juice. After he'd calmed down, I addressed him again.

"Oh, by the way, I never caught your name." I insinuated, eyeing him from above my glass of orange juice. He cocked his head slightly, a faint smile still playing upon his lips.

"It's Dante Hughens." I raised an eyebrow.

"Dante? As in that Italian poet Dante?" His face lit up and his mouth widened into a white toothed grin which somehow suited him very well.

"The very same."

"I'm Sean . Sean Parker. I'm afraid my parents didn't have the same originality as yours in naming me." I said. His mouth twitch but his smile faded away and his eyes suddenly seemed to blur out of focus. He hurriedly averted his gaze and rubbed at the nape of his neck. I noticed his sudden awkwardness and decided to change the subject.

"Well," I began, "I guess I'd better head home. I've got to study for the calculus test tomorrow." He nodded and stood up, grabbing the tray.

"I'll get your clothes." As he left the room, I threw off the quilt and folded my legs together. Something wasn't right. I was sure about the bullet wound yesterday, and yet, my flesh revealed nothing of the sort. Maybe Dante was right and I was thinking about this too seriously. After all, I was pretty wasted last night. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if someone had slipped something else in my drink, a hallucinogen or something of the sort. For my first drug trip, that was a pretty bad experience. There's a reason I hate drugs, other than the fact that my best friend overdosed and died about two years ago. That might have something to do with it, though. To clear my mind from such depressing thoughts, I looked around the room.

The room was dark and shabby, with clothes strewn about like spring daisies, and the only source of artificial light in the room appeared to come from a naked, unlit light bulb hanging precariously by a few colorful wires from a hole in the ceiling a foot to the right of the ceiling fan, which also looked ready to plummet. Honest to God, I would have a hard time sleeping at night with that thing running over my head. The only furniture in the room other than his small dresser consisted of a small wooden desk and chair in the far left corner of the room by the door, which was occupied by a mountain of binders, papers, textbooks and worn-down pencils. A small plastic trash bin nudged the legs of the desk, packed with crumpled papers gum wrappers, and a melancholy-looking empty foam cup of Cup-o-Noodles, the wax-paper cover still hanging by a borderline hinge, curling up and back like a pumpkin vine. I bet my life this guy lives by himself and pays his own rent. If he had working parents taking care of him, he wouldn't be living in this kind of dump. I speak for myself.

Suddenly I noticed a strange looking, silver, box-shaped suitcase leaning in the left corner of his room, almost covered by a loosely discarded thick black sweater. It looked strangely expensive and out of place in the dank room. I was abruptly shaken from my curiosity as Dante entered the room, my clothes neatly folded in his arms. I felt honored considering he didn't even bother to fold his own clothes. Dante plopped my worn skinny denims, blue zip-up jacket, and green and blue checkered button-up shirt into my lap, followed by my red slide-up Chocolate cell phone and black leather wallet. I raised the clothes to my face and was surprised to discover that they smelled of lavender soap.

"Did the laundry fairy snatch my clothes last night?" I asked the blondie incredulously. He rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, she flipped a bitch as soon as she saw your dirty, sweaty clothes." I smirked.

"Well, that was awfully nice of her." Dante grinned.

"Just hurry up and get the fuck out of my house. I don't enjoy taking care of invalids. And I had to sleep on the couch you know."

"Yes sir, sorry sir, you know you could've stuck me on the couch, sir."

"I would've but you were tossing and turning so much in your sleep that I was afraid you'd fall and break your skull on the floor."

"And you care why?"

"Because the landlady would kill me if there was blood all over the floorboards." I grinned.

"Touché." I murmured. I spread my legs and groaned, stretching out my body. After being asleep for two days, every muscle was taunt and aching. I slowly got to my feet, stretching some more. I noticed Dante looking at me in that disconcerting way of his again and glared at him.

"What are you looking at?" I nipped at him. "Jealous of my body?" So I said, but if anything, I should be the one jealous of his. He raised an eyebrow.

"Not much to be jealous of. Sure you have abs but… you're kind of a stick." I glared at him incredulously. A stick? Me? Ok so maybe I wasn't as meaty as most sporty guys, but that's because I don't work out five hours a day, and I quit basketball last semester because my coach kept on hinting that I was too short. I'm five nine, how the hell is that short? And you know what? Maybe I don't want to look like a buffed up jock. Girls don't necessarily judge you for how much muscle you sport around your biceps.

"Well excuse me for being lean." I snapped back. He grinned and turned on his heel.

"It's all cool man." He said as he left the room. I sniffed and pulled on my denims and shirt, slipping my arms into my jacket without zipping it up. I checked my cell phone and noticed that I'd received two text messages. In a few usual clicks I opened up the first one, a message from my mother that I should call her when I was heading back, and the other from my friend John wondering if I'd made it back in one piece two nights ago. I sent him as message reassuring him that I was fine and decided to call my mother when I'd left Dante's place. I pocketed the phone and opened my wallet, checking to make sure my credit card, identification driver's license, and twenty bucks worth of money in ones and fives were still in there. Luckily, nothing had been stolen or tampered with. That meant Dante was either really naïve or really honest. Or he had too much pride to steal from a sleeping guy's wallet.

I thought it only polite for what he'd done for me and quickly made the bed. I almost felt inclined to clean up his room as well but he suddenly popped his head into the room and narrowed his eyes.

"Don't even think about it." He said in as menacing a voice as he could manage, considering his voice wasn't that deep. I snapped my hand away from the pile of discarded clothes by the bed and shrugged absentmindedly. I followed him out of the room into a small square living room. The living room was equally stark looking, the only light coming from a small window on the left wall which inconveniently faced a wall, allowing for little light even during the day. A small, 90s style television stood shyly on a wooden stand beside an equally cheap looking radio, on which blinked the time 12:43pm. A musty, earth brown couch adorned by two pillows faced the television, a blue and white striped blanket hanging off the corner. A small round table which stood awkwardly on three legs was placed squarely in the middle of the room behind the couch, two chairs drawn up beneath it. The right corner of the room morphed into a small kitchen, separated only by a jutting counter, on which an old gas stove and a sink was imbedded. An old square oven, complete with two timer knobs, was placed In the wall perpendicular to the counter, and facing the sink and stove were a few cabinets placed at eyelevel. The room was painted in the same decaying white, crumbling corners and everything. I would've flipped a bitch if the rent here was anything over $60 a month.

I asked for the bathroom and Dante pointed me to a door on the wall to the right. I flicked a small switch outside the room and opened the door. The small bulb on the ceiling flickered and turned on, lighting a small square room with a white tiled floor, which accommodated a toilet, sink, and one of those small square showers like the ones you see in cheap motels behind a blue plastic shower curtain. I relieved myself, flushed, and washed my hands with a bar of yellow soap. At least there was a decent sized mirror above the sink, though, unsurprisingly, there was a large web-like crack at the top right corner, as if something had slammed into the mirror at high velocity. I observed my reflection in the mirror, running a hand through my mop of layered chocolate brown hair. I was no hotshot, but I was pretty decent looking, with a long face, smooth features, and soft eyes. Short bangs fell over my forehead up to my eyebrows and lengthened over my ears and neck. I let my hair grow out since I quit basketball, kind of like how some girls will cut their hair after getting dumped by a guy. God that sounds sappy, but I guess basketball was my childhood love affair in a way. Suddenly, I noticed a small rip in my shirt right above where my heart would be. I scowled. I must have snagged it on something at the club or ripped it when I was lying drunk in the street. I sighed, pulled my sweater over the hole, tousled my hair, and left the bathroom, switching off the light.

Dante was sitting idly on the edge of the three legged table, swinging his legs back and forth when his eyes whipped up as I left the bathroom.

"You ready?" He asked.

"Yup."

Dante hopped off and strode over to a large door at the end of the room, motioning towards my black vans sitting promptly by the entrance. I slid into them and tapped my toes against the floor to adjust them as he slid the chain lock from its place and unlocked the door, opening it and stepping out. I noticed he was barefoot but didn't say anything and followed him out the door into a narrow, dimly lit hallway perpendicular to the door. Instead of the musty cigarette scent in his house, I was met by a moldy earth smell, though cooler, still none too pleasant. He closed the door behind me, not bothering to lock it, and walked briskly down the corridor, its walls a deep brown and carpeted by a rustic red which silenced Dante's naked footsteps. He turned suddenly and disappeared down a narrow, wooden spiraling staircase. I followed until the steps abruptly ended against a large wooden door with a crescent shaped stain glass window at the top. He opened the door, sending a bright stream of sunlight to flood my eyes. I squinted and blinked furiously. Honestly, I don't understand how this guy can live in the dark every day and then just flounce out the door. It's terrible for the eyes.

I exited the building and squinted before me through the sunlight. Down a few cement steps and across from the house was a large, quiet street filled with parked cars and a few bypassing pedestrians. I could hear traffic not too far from here, so I realized we couldn't be too far from downtown. The air was cool and crisp, and a light breeze from the bay urged me to zip up my jacket, but the sky was a clear blue and the clear sun showed promise.

"The bus station is three blocks down." Dante said, pointing to the right. "The muni should be there in about twenty minutes so you have plenty of time." I nodded and turned back towards him. He leaned casually against the thick wooden ramp of the steps, arms folded over his chest, holding the large door slightly open with his foot. I stuffed my hands in my jacket pockets.

"Well, thanks a bunch. I mean, really. You saved my ass back there. I could've woken up at the end of two days in the middle of the street butt naked and robbed to the flesh or in a police station getting detained for public indecency." Dante smiled lightly and waved me off.

"Don't worry about it." He said casually. "Just buy me lunch at school on Monday, alright? And not some cheap cafeteria food either." I smirked.

"Will do. Take care man, and don't make it a habit to go picking up bums off the street alright?" Dante laughed at this and waved me away. I grinned and jogged down the steps, stepping out into the street towards the bus stop. As I walked, I stole a last glance over my shoulder. Dante was still leaning on the banister, bronzed skin gleaming, his hair tossed by the wind and shimmering in the sunlight like gold, and for a minute, I really thought he was an angel.