Summary: Cecil grew up on the streets of New York, working at a local diner and trying to avoid his foster parent: Brandon. His not so awesome life is suddenly turned upside down when a cold soldier takes too long to ask for a check. Can he make Cecil believe he's worth more than a human punching bag?

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Slash; M/M; MalexMale; Sexual situations in later chapters; Rape; Abuse

Copyright: I reserve the right to create, distribute, or remove my literature. All of these characters are my own, and the story is my own. Do not copy, recreate, or otherwise distribute this story or any of its characters or portions of my story(ies) without my written consent. Because of issues of copyright on this site, I may remove the story if I discover it is being used someplace else. Please inform me if you see any copies of my work on FictionPress or anywhere else.

Disclaimer: This story and the characters within it are fictional. Any resemblance to real life situations/people is not intended and purely coincidental. Any resemblance to any fictional stories/characters/plots on FictionPress or anywhere else is purely coincidental.

Author's Note: This is actually a rewrite/re conception of a previous story I posted up a while ago. Although I really liked the story I felt that it was too unrealistic and just needed revamping. The characters have been changed a bit, and the plot tweaked, but the overall idea is the same. Sorry to anyone who was reading my other story, this one is just a better version of that. Also, I hope that if I have enough readers, it will motivate me to continue writing the story, rather than take six month long breaks between chapters. Enjoy!

Today was Monday. To anyone else, Monday would mean back to work. The day furthest from the weekend. The most depressing day of the week. To unlucky children, today meant the start of summer school. To Cecil, it meant the start of a week of freedom. Every day of the week, except Saturday and Sunday, Cecil was away from his dilapidated excuse of a home for twelve hours a day. The 17 year old took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of gasoline, old french fries, and trash waiting to be collected. It was early morning, and in the city that never sleeps, that meant crowded sidewalks and loud honking as Cecil made his way to the diner he worked at. "Damien clocked out early, hurry up and get out there."

The raspy voice of the diner owner greeted Cecil's ears as soon as he entered the diner through the back door. Mr. Abrahams. Tall, fat, mean, but the source of Cecil's check. And freedom. He tossed his empty backpack into his locker and slammed it shut. Mr. Abrahams knew all the combinations, so it was just for show. Cecil made the mistake of once placing a thick slice of chocolate cake in his locker, only to come back at the end of the day and find it gone, the container sitting idly in the trashcan in Mr. Abrahams office.

In the kitchen, the smell of sizzling bacon and scrambled eggs reached his nose. Cecil took a look at the tickets Damien had left him, tying on his apron as he went. "Table 6 is ready for you." A blonde, heavyset old man called to him as he entered the kitchen.

Every month there was a different set of cooks. This month included an old Russian in between jobs, a Mexican who never spoke, and a preteen young boy who hoped to become a famous chef one day. The only constant on the culinary team was the head chef, Jorge. Young, he came to work at the diner with the American dream in mind, all the way from Spain. Cecil wondered how long it would take Jorge to figure out that there was no such thing.

Wordlessly, Cecil took the steaming plates of pancakes and hash browns, placed them on his tray, and headed out to the floor. He forced a smile on his face as he approached his table, which was full of a family of five. "Hi, my name is Cecil. Damien has ended his shift, so I'll be serving you for the remainder of your stay. I hope that won't be an inconvenience."

Nameless faces smiled back up at him, unaware that Cecil didn't give two shits about if they were inconvenienced. They could leave if it bothered them so much.

The mom and dad offered big smiles and told him not to worry. The teenage girl and boy stared at their phones, and the baby in the high chair smeared apple sauce all over her face.

Cecil's fake smile remained plastered on his face as he headed over to the other table Damien had so carelessly left for him. It was in the middle of the breakfast rush, but that didn't stop Damien from leaving whenever he wished. He knew Cecil wouldn't complain about it. He knew Cecil would just nod and take up whatever load of people Damien had left on the floor. Mr. Abrahams didn't care so long as he was always staffed. Cecil cared. He just didn't do anything about it.

By 11:30, the morning rush was over. They had about 45 minutes before the lunch rush would come in. That gave Cecil enough time to grab a bite to eat. And brush his teeth.

The bathroom next to the lockers contained a shower, and toilet, and a dirty sink. The cupboards were filled with a variety of old and new toothbrushes, several different brands of toothpaste, and miscellaneous items such as razors and hair gel. Here was where Cecil usually made himself presentable. He hated spending any more time than was necessary at home.

Jorge wordlessly presented him a plate of eggs, bacon, and sausage. Cecil didn't thank the chef, he only hurryingly scarfed down his food to make it back out to the floor in time for the afternoon rush. It was like an unspoken deal: Cecil wouldn't point out that Jorge wasn't anywhere near attaining the American Dream, and Jorge said nothing about the fact that Cecil spent more time at the diner than at home.

"Pretty boy! Get back out there, we got a large party coming in." Mark, the high school dropout teen, poked his head in the kitchen door.

Pretty boy.

That was always his name. When he was in Kindergarten, Cecil was teased that he looked like a girl. In Elementary school, he got several Valentine's day gifts from unsuspecting boys, and not one from a girl. In Middle School, they called him a fag. In High School, it was a mix between fag and pretty boy. Cecil preferred the latter.

Cecil was slim. Average height, not too short, not too tall. Big, doe gray eyes, and curly black hair he always kept in a ponytail. Cecil didn't know if he was attracted to either sex. Living at home would do that to you.

The large party turned out to be a group of about a dozen men and women dressed in army uniforms. Cecil sighed. He hated big parties. He hated constantly being called back to the same table when he had five other tables to man. Selfish pricks. Cecil poked his head in the bathroom to check for food in between his teeth, then headed out to the floor, a fake smile plastered on his face. "Hello, I'm Cecil, I'll be taking care of you this afternoon."

He was greeted with monotone faces from the men and calculated smiles from the women. Great. A group of people just as good at hiding their emotions as he was at his. They offered 'hello's and 'how are you's, and Cecil responded accordingly. They didn't really care how he was doing. Just as he didn't care how they were doing. "Will this check be split up?"

"No." A stiff, one word reply from the soldier nearest Cecil answered his question. Cecil really wanted to roll his eyes. But he didn't. He just smiled and began to take their orders. Typical orders of burgers and french fries. They'd probably hadn't had American food in a while.

Cecil pushed his annoyance away from him and delivered the tickets to the kitchen. The afternoon rush began to pile in, fueled by corporate workers and tourists who thought themselves too good to buy from the cheap food carts littered around the city.

The soldiers stayed for a while, while Cecil manned five other tables besides theirs, checking back occasionally for refills and to ask if they wanted their check yet. He hated parties who stayed so long. Mr. Abrahams wouldn't let him leave for his break until all of his tables had left, and with the soldiers refusing to leave, Cecil was stuck. "Are we all set?" He asked, for the third time, smile looking more and more like a grimace. He had to pee.

"Check." The one-word-soldier demanded, straining Cecil's smile further. He just nodded and practically ran back to the kitchen to get the check.

"Here you are, sir." Cecil slapped the checkbook down on the table perhaps a little too hard, but just smiled it off and left to another table before they could react. He really had to pee.

The bell above the door jingled, and Cecil glanced up briefly to see who it was. Shit. It was Brandon. The one person he didn't want to see at his sanctuary of a diner, however annoying the customers were. Cecil pretended not to see the man as he manned his tables, but kept an eye on Brandon as he moved about. Brandon didn't ever come to the diner unless Cecil had done something to upset him.

Mr. Abrahams spotted Brandon and took him to the back. They were best buddies, courtesy of Brandon's charming personality and ability to make people believe anything he said. Which was why Cecil had yet to be transferred to another home.

"Pretty boy! Come to the back when you're done with that check." Mr. Abrahams called out to him, causing Cecil's heart to skip a beat. Brandon wanted something. And knowing him, it wasn't good.

Cecil just put on a huge smile and nodded back at Mr. Abrahams. Of course, those soldiers had to be the quickest paying party in the world, contrary to their eating habits. Cecil almost glared at them for being so quick with it, but he didn't. Instead, he thanked them for their time, and left. Well, at least they left a decent tip. A very decent tip. Cecil's mood almost lifted, until he realized that he had to go and face Brandon.

Mr. Abrahams was still talking to Brandon when Cecil reluctantly made his presence known with a slight clearing of his throat. Brandon of course, placed the most charming smile on his face when he saw Cecil. "There he is! Rick, is there somewhere private me and him could talk?"

"Just out that back door there, it's usually pretty quiet." Something in Mr. Abrahams' tone voice put Cecil on edge, as if he wasn't already. Gosh he had to pee, but knowing Brandon he wouldn't let him. Probably wasn't worth mentioning either, or Brandon would find some sick way to make Cecil suffer for it.

Mr. Abrahams headed back out to the kitchen without a second look backwards, and as soon as the fat man was out of the way, Brandon grabbed Cecil's arms and dragged him outside. The alley out back smelled of stale cigarettes and garbage. And it was dark, Cecil noted, just fucking perfect.

"You stupid bitch!" Cecil found his head connecting with the brick wall behind him, followed by a large hand that wrapped itself around Cecil's neck. "You didn't clean up that picture you broke."

Oh yeah, the one you threw in my face last night? "Sorry sir." Cecil had been too tired from all the cleaning Brandon had him doing last night to even think about that stupid picture lying in the middle of the hallway.

"Sorry doesn't cut it you idiot! Do you know how many questions I got asked over that this morning?" Brandon hissed, tightening his grip on Cecil's neck, effectively cutting off his air supply. "Now they want to talk to you."

Cecil wheezed, grasping Brandon's hand as his lungs burned. Brandon sneered, and smacked him across the face, where, undoubtedly, it would leave a nasty bruise and perhaps a black eye. "They'll be here tonight, at eight. And clean yourself up you piss pot."

With one last disgusted look, Brandon released Cecil and went back inside, slamming the door behind him. Cecil coughed, head throbbing from where it had hit the wall. Tenderly, he touched the back of his head, and was surprised to find only a large knot. I must be growing thick skin. Cecil glanced down at his pants, noticing they held a large dark stain on them. He groaned, this was just what he needed. Maybe there was an extra pair somewhere.

Cecil gingerly lifted himself from the ground, and awkwardly walked to the door. At the sound of a clearing of the throat he paused, heart beating faster. Someone had seen? He whipped his head around to the entrance of the alleyway, where a lone figure stood. It was One-word-soldier. Cecil glared at the man. If one-word-soldier hadn't taken all day, Cecil might still be dry. The same superior, smug look was on his face, piercing blue eyes staring haughtily back at him. "Punk."

Cecil scowled, "Mind your fucking business."

Without waiting for a reply, Cecil pulled the door open, then slammed it shut behind him for effect. He was scared. Scared that the One-word-soldier would call the police. Scared that he wouldn't be able to find pants and would have to walk around with a large dark stain on the front of his pants.

In the mirror, Cecil could already see a bruise forming all over his cheek and underneath his left eye. On his neck, the shape of Brandon's fingers wrapped around his throat in a blue and purple bruise. Cecil pried open his locker and grabbed the only thing Mr. Abrahams wouldn't be caught dead using: make up. Cecil always kept a few containers of concealer and foundation with him wherever he went, for situations like these.

Automatically, Cecil began layering on the products, and slowly but surely his bruises disappeared from view. He would have to put a hat on to hide the fact that his eye was swelling up, but other than that he looked like new. And Brandon knew this. Once he was all covered up, Cecil began to raid the lockers. Damien always kept his work clothes in his locker, and since he had left early, Cecil didn't have to worry about hearing his mouth. Cecil filled the sink with soapy water and quickly scrubbed his pants. This wasn't the first time Brandon visited him at work, and it wouldn't be his last.

Author's Note: There you have it! Please let me know what you think, I appreciate each and every review and I would love to know if you have any suggestions for me. Also, if you see any spelling/grammar mistakes, let me know.