Title: Loving The Indifferent
Rating: PG13, maybe R later
Warning: Future slash, probably quite a bit of blood, possible slow updates, and lots of swearing XD
Claimer: They're mine XD (Un?)Fortunately.
Author's Notes: Argh!!! (pulls her hair) I can't believe I'm starting another one! But there was suddenly this griping teenager in my head and he complained so loud! And then I figured, well, why not get somebody to help keep him under control? So I did, but the plan backfired because now they were BOTH complaining so loud! Argh!
I don't know when the next chapter will be out. Maybe soon, maybe not. Hopefully soon. Probably with the next chapter of frozen fire. But only if you like it XD
So tell me what you think. In case it's confusing, most of the prologue consists entirely of letters… Yay.
Read, enjoy, and please review! Let me know if I should continue! :D
Joaquin, I am including a letter from a son of a friend of mine – who is to be your next assignment. Go easy on the boy, he's never done this before.
If he ends up in tears because of you, I will hunt you down and spear your heart on one of those thin silver daggers you like so much.
Seriously. You know I will do it.
Sylvie sends her best wishes for the night.
I've never done this before, so if it's clear, I'm sorry. Or maybe I'm not. Does it really matter? Who the hell cares anyway? And you, why am I being sent to you of all people? I don't even know who you are!
Stewart says I should at least try to be polite. I don't know what he's talking about, because I'm never polite willingly – so I do this under protest.
Hi. My name is Alex. You can call me Al or you can call me Lex, although I don't really respond to either.
I don't actually like my name.
Stewart says to get a move on, so I guess I'll continue.
Apparently, you're supposed to know stuff about me, so what the fuck, here I go.
I'm seventeen years old. I have black hair, naturally, but occasionally it turns up as a more calming colour – like blue or red or green. It's purple right now, and I honestly have no idea how that happened. Well, all right, so I say that every time it gets dyed, but seriously. I have dark green eyes, which sometimes go gray green or blue green, depending on stuff that I'm too lazy to go into much detail about right now.
I figure if you really want to know, you can just ask me to my face when I arrive. Maybe then I can have the pleasure of telling you to fuck off when Stewart's not there.
He says I should apologize. I don't see why I should, it's not like I've said it to you yet.
I stand barefooted at 5 feet, 8 inches. And screw you if you think I'm short.
Stewart says you'll want to know my body type as well. Why the hell do you want to know that? I guess I'm like any average seventeen year old though – not too fat, maybe a little on the skinny side. My skin is pale naturally, so it doesn't have that clammy haven't-seen-the-light-of-day-in-years-because-I'm-cuffed-to-my-computer look.
Since I'm obviously going to be staying with you for a while, damned if I know why – damned if they tell an underling like me why – I'm going to tell you what I like to eat.
Stewart says not to be too presumptuous. I don't know why he thinks I would be. I don't like pizza. And you can call me strange if you want, because I'm not going to apologize about it either. I prefer Italian foods and pasta if there's a choice, but I'll settle for anything but pizza and those gross green vegetables. Every kind of green vegetable. Except lettuce. I like celery too sometimes.
Stewart says I should shut up. He says you need to know about my hobbies, but why should you? It's not like you're going to –own- me now, is it. What a stupid idea.
Just for good measure.
I like riding motorbikes, although Stewart says I probably won't be allowed to take mine there. Do you have one? It's the one thing I'm willing to do anything for, so please – I don't believe I'm writing this – but please, let me bring my bike.
Now that that pathetic show is over, we can move on. I don't have many friends, so I don't see what the big deal about hanging out with them is – and I can't say I'd realize the truth anyway, even if I did have friends.
… This sucks. What's up with this shit anyway? I don't see why I can't just live on my own. It's not like I'm –making- Stewart look after me. I can't imagine what fucked up reason my father had for making Stewart my semi guardian. And how the hell did he know you anyway?
You weren't one of his more friendly friends, were you?
Stewart says I should apologize. He's always making me do that. So I will. But that doesn't mean I mean it.
It's a good thing he didn't see that, or I'd be apologizing again.
He says I'm finally beginning to grow a conscience.
Why would I want one of those?
And why do I have to stay with you anyway? Stewart says I've already asked you that, but since he isn't supplying an answer that I'm willing to believe (I doubt you'd believe that you are my long last uncle either) so he really is hopeless. If it weren't for Sylvie I'd take my bike and ride out of here.
Well, all right, so Stewart is a good guy I guess.
Why the hell am I telling you this? God, I'm so fucked up.
Now I just have to meet you to tell you the same thing.
Stewart says my plane is arriving in your nearest airport tomorrow morning at three. He also refuses to tell me why I had to catch the late flight.
Damn. My life is so fucked up right now.
Lips curled upwards in a faint smile as dark eyes finished reading the paper. A long fingered, pale hand carefully put the letters down on the dark, hand-carved mahogany table nearby, while the other hand stretched toward the bell pull.
Somewhere in the distant depths of the silent house, a bell rang and the tall, dark enshrouded figure sat back in the towering armchair, steepling its fingers and raising eyes of an unidentifiable colour to contemplate the high ceiling.
The lips stayed curved.