Part III

A boy sat hunched on a bed of black tar, with a graying sweatshirt wrapped round his skinny waist. The sleeves were frayed, and the front lettering was white and faded. His legs were hairless and pale, and they lay straightened out like sticks in front of him. He sat plainly, hopelessly, in the middle of the scarred road, while the stars blinked down upon his porcelain face. He looked up once, twice, and again smiled weakly, wiping his nose with his sleeve. His hair was a mop of darkened curls upon his head, and was tucked inside the hood of his ragged jacket.

It was simply himself against the sky, the road against earth, blood against horizon. Nothing could stop him now, for he held truth brazenly in his right fist and repugnance in his other. His mother would be sobbing once she heard, wracking her beautiful face against the pale shoulder of his father, who would soon stand lifeless as well…

"What holds the earth together?" he asked softly, to God or perhaps to the stars themselves. "Is it love that binds, or ecstasy that lies in the briar patch, thick as thieves with pleasure? Could figures dancing like fireflies in the night's air hold the ends of the sky, and sew the night to the horizon with needles like clouds and thread like air?"

A rush of blood came forth to his head, knocking the breath from his lips and the life from his eyes. His wrists lay delicate and statuesque, and were ashen with elegance and pride in their blue and red veins. His eyes were wide and fearful as the headlights cawed brightly like two yellow crows in the dark. The car screamed on its breaks, and the boy struggled to get to his feet. "I don't want to die," he whispered.

But it was too late, too late…

"D…?" Mickey's eyes were focusing, catching short glimpses of his pleasant environment. He could see every etch in D's fine fingered cheekbones, every line of worry that plagued his forehead, every freckle that danced beneath his thinning lashes. Mickey had never really looked at him, and watched the way his red locks brushed the tips of his taut nipples. Now that his eyes lay averted, they fell upon D's throat. It was almost a work of art, running thick with rivers of tendons and holding a quivering Adam's apple in its depths.

He murmured something barely audible, but his words disappeared into D's hot breath. "Hey…" D whispered, trailing his pasty forefinger down Mickey's blazing cheek. The touch was white hot, bristly on smooth sweat drenched skin. Countless times, onstage, underneath the red and blue glaze of the lights, D had touched him before; around the neck, by the waist, or even an arm or hand. But the touch was always rough and unfeeling, sweaty and raging like an enraged highwayman. The night had always been thick with the taste of blood and fire on midnight's glum pocket watch, and D had been breathless, drunk on fever and plumes of glory that he still held tightly in his silver fist.

Never had the touch been anything other but comfort, slightly jolting for his cravings or low energy levels, setting his fingers off in a whirl of color and sound. But now it was strange to feel his gentle touch, his soothing breath and cerulean eyes that revealed all too much.

D was thick with masculine beauty, suddenly; his head was seemingly painted with the Gods scarlet paint, and though his eyes held worry and fatigue, his cheekbones stood prominent and sculpted, and his lips parted with a soft and almost angelic sigh…

Mickey had never been this close to a man before, besides his very father, who barely kissed his bony cheeks. His chest was pounding delicately, his eyes were adjusting slowly, as D leaned closer, licking his wine red lips for a sweet taste of innocence that lay between Mickey's rosy nipples and thighs…

"D, man, you gotta see this!" came a muffled shout. Mickey pushed D off roughly, and he wound up on the floor, scrambling to his feet. Mick snatched the yellow blanket and shoved it to his waist, just as Steven skidded into view. His bottle was rocking in his fingers slightly, and the amber liquid was sloshing around expectantly. D's eyes were a blaze.

"Oh my god, Mike just went shit, and there's a huge-ass…" he trailed off, biting his lip as he saw the expression on D's face. He gave a weak smile in protest, and shrugged lightly. "Do you honestly think I care?" D's voice was deep and hollow in his throat, ringing solid and clear like a baritone bell. "You're a fucker, Steven. You know that?"

"Man, what the hell is your problem? You PMS-ing or something?"

D sprang forward like a cat, and knocked Steven to his back. He balled a fist and slammed Steven in the mouth, splitting his blackened knuckles on his front teeth. He repeatedly knocked him in the face with his fists, screaming obscenities while he thrashed his head. Steven flailed helplessly from underneath his rage, whimpering and squeezing his eyes shut until D's temper diminished.

Suddenly, two bronzed forearms heaved D from around the waist, wrenching him sharply from his bloodied prey on the ground. He twisted and struggled at his captor, clawing at the death lines on his thinning belly. Finally, Mickey released him, and he whirled around angrily. "What the hell, you bastard!" D shrieked, slapping Mick sharply across the face. Mickey's bottom lip split, and was bleeding in little streams down his rugged chin. D stood panting, his fingers bloodless and white. He blinked rapidly as his breath fell, and stared into Mickey's hurt eyes. Then he turned, and hurried down the aisle, taking refugee from his fallen siren, and leaving his heart in pieces behind him.

Steven was shaking and crying, his blonde flesh was an array of hate and death, and his eyes were vacant with blood and a pupil-less gaze. He lay like a child that had fallen, with legs bent round his bottom and back curved of fear. Mickey bent down, holding the yellow blanket loftily to mask his nakedness with a single hand. With the other, (which shook just slightly), he offered Steven a hand and drew him to his feet. "What the h-h-h-hell's his p-p-problem?" he asked tearfully, wiping his nose with a snapped and thick wrist. Mickey just half smiled, and patted his shoulder roughly. "You okay?" he asked, licking the cut that sliced through his bottom lip. "Yeah," said Steven after a few seconds of silence. "Yeah, I'm fine."