Ok this is another dark story with lots and lots of pairings.

This is just a snippet, a "trailer", so if you like this, leave a comment (and vote for it on the poll I have up, if you have the time, both would really help) and I'll continue the story

If anything in the warning offends you, don't read this story. I don't want flames.

Warnings: prostitution, mentions of incest (it's not wincest), mentions of rape, violence, underage relationships, organized crime, crime, yaoi, sex (both consensual and non-consensual -although the non-consensual probably won't be as graphic)

-2007-March-

A sixteen year old boy with pale, freckled covered skin, big blue eyes, strawberry blonde hair and a scrawny, feminine figure walked along crowded, Chicago streets. A blue hoodie beneath a brown jacket protected him from the moody wind and he walked with the same quick paced gaunt as everyone else.

Ease out a five.
Ease out a watch.
Ease out a hastily put away credit card.
Don't apologize when you bump into them.

The pick pocket's feminine, slender fingers made their way into pockets and purses with little effort. He slid his hand into the back pocket of a man's jeans, felt the bulging wallet-.

His wrists were grabbed and he was tossed into an alley that smelled of beer, piss and week old garbage. He struggled, kicking and trying to wiggle his way out of the man's grasp, but his wrists were pinned to the rough exterior of some sort of public works building, the man's grip strong and painful enough to bruise.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" the man snapped, his heavy French accent an indication of his immigrant status.

The teen let his eyes travel up the man's body. Plain white sneakers, jeans, a black t-shirt, a black wind breaker and a purple scarf; the man had a strong, built body that spoke volumes and a handsome face, he had five o'clock shadow all over his face, a slightly pointy nose, a defined jawline, dark blue eyes that seemed purple at some angles with dark circles beneath them and golden blonde hair that hung in limp waves around his face and down to his shoulders. "I don't know-."

"Cut the crap," he snapped, a heavy scowl on his face, "Do you even know who the fuck I am?"

The kid shook his head, until his eyes caught on the tattoo on his neck that had been covered by the scarf, before they were in the alley and their struggle caused it to fall out of place. On the side of the Frenchman's neck was the tattoo of a tattoo of a black bull impaling the side of a brown bull with its long horns. That tattoo was given to high ranking members of the Fernandez Crime Family. The Boss and the Boss' heir had a head of a bull tattooed on their back. The teen's eyes widened, "Jesus, Mary, Joseph..."

"Oui, you dumbass" -the Frenchman pauses, narrowing his eyes -"...how old are you, anyway? Your name?"

"Ollie," the teen spoke, "I'm nineteen-."

The older man's grip tightened. "Try again."

Oliver swallowed thickly, "Pl-Please, I can show you a good time! I'll suck you off, call you 'sir", whatever you want, all for free-."

Both of Oliver's wrists were in one of the stranger's hands, while the free hand now clutched at the fragile column of Oliver's throat. "Tell me your real age or I will strangle you."

Tears blurred Oliver's vision and he whimpered, like a wounded animal, "S-Sixteen, Sir!"

Almost immediately, the older man released Oliver, face ashen as he watched the boy stumble and cough. "Jesus, you're just a child...Jesus..." he murmured, running a hand through his tangled hair, "How do you even know about that shit-?"

"I'm not just a pick pocket, Sir," Oliver wheezed, massaging his neck, "I'm a whore, too."

"Where the fuck are your parents-?!"

"Dead," Oliver answered, dry eyes and monotonously, but he cast his gaze on his shoes, "My brother, Aliaster, was supposed to take care of me...but..."

"Your brother is Aliaster Kirkland...am I correct?" he breathed, incredulous, "he's a Jackrabbit...he...he pimped you out, didn't he."

It wasn't a question.

"...Yes."

The man inhaled sharply, brow furrowed and continuously running his hands through his hair, a torn expression on his face. "Look, boy-."

"-not a boy-."

"-Ollie. I am Francis and I will make you a deal. You stay with me, I will protect you and make sure another man, or woman, will never touch your body for money again. I will give you anything and everything you want. If I can."

Oliver looked up for the first time, "And what do you get out of all of this?"

They made eye contact.

"You."

-2007-September-

A man quivered on the rain damp pavement of a dank alley, his pants unzipped, cock hanging out limply, bruises littering his face and scratches marring his naked back. "I-I-I'm sorry! I-I don't have the money now, but-but tell Mr. Kirkland that I'll-."

"Mr. Kirkland is done with your bullshit," a boy with a Norwegian accent spoke, cocking his gun, "He has been kind, giving you chance after chance, and time and again you spit on that kindness" -he pressed the gun to the man's forehead, looking at the bruises he had made when he had punched the man's face, the imprint of his ring, with sick satisfaction -"if you cannot pay for the services of Mr. Kirkland's Boys" -this came out as a snarl -"with money then you will pay with your life."

"N-No, wait-!"

"Mr. Kirkland sends his regards."

"N-No-!"

The boy fired his gun, the bullet turning the man's brain to jelly and exploding his skull all over the pavement.

"Lukas."

It took the Norwegian a minute, the name was not one that had been given to him by his parents but one given to him during his baptism into Hell, but eventually he turned, blinking in surprise as a handkerchief was thrust in his face. "I-?"

"Good job, lad!" the older man, a homely Scottish fellow with thick brunette hair and matching beard, containing highlights of silver, said as "Lukas" used the handkerchief to wipe the victim's blood and brain matter off his face and neck. "That ending bit was quite dramatic, though, don't ya think?"

The Norwegian shrugged, handing the blue plaid cloth back to his superior and mentor. "Eh, I like to go out with a bang every once and a while."

His superior stared at him dumbly before letting out a roar of deep, hearty, laughter. "Oi! Looks like Lukas does have a sense of humor!" he exclaimed, clapping his companion on the shoulder, the young boy maintaining his neutral expression. "You have a real talent for this bullocks, lad, I'm tellin' ya: you'll be promoted from cheap whore to henchman soon enough!"

The brand on Lukas' shoulder blade ached and he grit his teeth. "Thank you, sir."

"Go back to the car, now, and see how those two boys are," he said, slapping Lukas' shoulder, "Let us geezers handle the dumpin', eh?"

"Ja, thank you, sir," 'Lukas' said, quickly walking away from the alley to the car they had parked a block away. It was a small, black number with a rusty front bumper and, inside, were two people that made a bright smile form on Lukas' usually neutral face. His brother, Egil, was an eleven year old too smart for his own good with a head of beige-blonde hair and grey eyes. At the moment, he was asleep, his head on Vlad's shoulder, his hair being stroked lovingly.

"Vlad," 'Lukas' said quietly, "everything is fine. I handled it."

In truth, "Lukas" had just executed a somewhat innocent man. He had started to repay his debt but "Lukas" hadn't given the money to Mr. Kirkland, instead, keeping it in a P.O. Box under a fake name. Aliaster didn't suspect a thing; he didn't think his Boys were smart enough or ballsy enough to pull off such a stunt. "Lukas" had done all of this for Vladimir and Egil. The Norwegian could already tell that his Icelandic half brother would grow up to be pretty and would soon be made into one of Mr. Kirkland's Boys, too. "Lukas" didn't want that. "Lukas" was one of those Boys and knew all too well what would happen; "Lukas" was lucky, most of his customers wanted a "topping from the bottom" sort of boy, giving "Lukas" some sort of control. But, he knew not everyone had such luck. Like Vlad. For some reason, the Romanian received the worst of it and had to deal with all matters of perversions. Some were little things, like men that wanted to be called "Daddy" or women that wanted to be fucked by a man in drag. Others...were not, like women that whipped him until he bled or men that pissed on him. Mr. Kirkland had even baptized him with the new name "Lucifer" to make matters worse. It had been on one night, seemingly like any other that, "Lukas" had reached some sort of breaking point.

He had entered the room that he shared with Vlad and Egil, this bedroom used for sleeping and getting dressed, not fucking, and had seen the Romanian naked and sobbing on his bed, blood beneath his nose and bruises on his face and neck. As it turned out, a customer had begun to strangle Vlad with a belt as they fucked. Had almost killed him. Mr. Kirkland had beat him, giving Vlad the bloody nose and bruised face, when Vlad had cried in front of the customer then...then Mr. Kirkland raped him. That was when "Lukas" noticed the blood on Vlad's thighs and on the sheets.

That had been Lukas' last straw and now Vlad's regular, the man who had choked him with the belt, had his brains splattered like modern art in an alley way.

Vlad smiled, adjusting Egil's body and sliding out of the car. Vlad had a slender, feminine body, as all males had to have in order to be one of Mr. Kirkland's Boys, shaggy strawberry blonde hair, red eyes and pointed canines, wearing a black corset with red piping and laces, a black, fake fur jacket that ended at the bottom of his rib cage, black short shorts, sheer, red nylon stockings with lace at the top where they ended at his thighs and black, leather, stiletto boots. "Loki...thank you," he said, saying "Lukas's" real name, eyes scanning the Norwegian worriedly, red gaze stopping at Loki's knuckles, "Your knuckles are bleeding."

"Oh, don't-."

"Shhhhhhh...Thank you for taking care of me," Vlad said, grabbing his friend's hand; be brought the bloody knuckles to his lips, kissing and licking the raw and crimson smudged skin. This was one weird thing the Romanian willingly took part in. Blood play. Maybe it was this weird fetish that made Mr. Kirkland think that it was ok to put Vlad through Hell by giving the teen all the freaks.

"Vlad..."

"Sorry to ruin the moment, gentlemen, but I'd like a word."

Loki removed his gun from the waistband of his jeans, spinning around, only to see his gun between a pair of blue eyes and the feeling of cold steel against the side of his neck. The Norwegian blinked in recognition, his eyes widening and his lips parting in shock. "O-Ollie?"

A big smile, that revealed Oliver's dimples, spread across his face and he giggled, tilting his head to the side, "Hello, dearies~!"

Loki and Vlad shared a shocked look with each other. Six months ago, Oliver had been sent out by Mr. Kirkland to do some petty pick pocketing, but hadn't returned by nightfall, to start his shift of whoring. Mr. Kirkland had flown into a rage, but Vlad and Loki were glad that their friend no longer had to suffer a fate such as theirs, even though the teen could've been dead. Now, after months of being MIA, they were once again reunited, Oliver looking better than ever.

Before he had been all twig legs, wide hips, sharp hip bones, defined collar bones and poking out ribs. He had been so pale, he had looked sick, and so exhausted. Now, as he stood in the crisp, September night air, Vlad and Loki had to acknowledge how...good and healthy Oliver looked now. He still had a feminine body, but he was softer with shapely legs and a nice, full ass. He was still pale but he didn't look like he had been run ragged or was dead on his feet. It seemed like he had been pampered, given good food and treated like a prince.

"I..." Loki mumbled, lowering his gun quickly, causing Oliver to drop his knife -a slender switch blade with a pink handle and vines and roses on the cold blade -and tuck it away, "Ollie, where the Hell have you been?!"

"Who fucking cares?!" Vlad exclaimed, his voice cracking as he surged forward, his full body crashing into Oliver, arms like leeches as they wrapped around the Brit, "Our Ollie's alive, he's ok! Just look at him! He looks so healthy, he's even wearing expensive clothes! You look so nice!"

Indeed, Oliver was dressed in a way that was classy but still attractive. He had on a light pink trench coat, black pants that hugged his legs, a beige turtle neck, grey ankle boots, a purple scarf and emerald teardrop earrings hanging from his earlobes. The Brit blushed. "Thank you, dearie," he said, booping Vlad's nose, "Sadly, this isn't a social call, loves, and we don't have much time left."

"What do you mean?" Vlad questioned, taking a step back to better look Oliver in his eyes.

"I want to take you and Loki away from here," the Brit said, his voice soothing and gentle and soft, his "Mum Voice", the voice he used when nights got too rough, too loud, and Egil could hear through the paper thin walls and cried. "I want to give you a better life, one without fear or pain. I've...I-I've met someone who can give you that, give us that. He's...He's kind and will protect us."

"How do you know we can trust him?" Loki asked, licking his suddenly dry lips as his heart skipped a beat.

"Because..." -Oliver's eyes became warmer and got a far away look, his smile softer and his face content as if remembering sweet, old, sensations and the pang of feelings that accompanied them -"because he's been taking care of me all this time. I trust him..."

Loki pressed his lips together, heart beat erratic with hope and, God, it was painful. He looked over his shoulder at his little brother, who was still sound asleep in the black car. "I-."

"Egil can come with us," Oliver said and, at Loki's shocked look, Oliver giggled, "Francis and I talked it over and we've set up a temporary place for him."

"...Temporary?"

"Yes! We have a plan to get a great, big house, so, if you say yes, where we will be staying will only be temporary."

Loki gnawed on his bottom lip, lost in his thoughts until he felt Vlad's fingers brush over his arms. "Loki...please...this is our chance," the Romanian said, sliding his hands up Loki's arms to his shoulders, up his neck to cup his cheeks, "we can start a new life" -he used his thumbs to gently rub beneath Loki's eyes -"we can be happy. You, me, Ollie, Egil -all of us."

At Vlad's touch, the Norwegian relaxed, grabbing one of the hands Vlad had on his cheeks and squeezing it. "...Alright..." he said quietly, "can you carry Egil?"

"Of course~!" Vlad said happily, giving his friend a peck in between the eyes before hurrying to the black car. Carefully, he slid the child, who was unusually small for his age, out from the back seat; Vlad placed Egil on his hip, the Icelandic's head falling limply onto Vlad's shoulder and nuzzling into Vlad's neck, still asleep.

"Ollie-."

"Shhhhhhh," Oliver said, placing his finger on the assassin-in-training's lips. Once he was sure Loki wouldn't speak again, he removed his finger from Loki's lips; he ran his thumb beneath Loki's bottom lip while his right hand brushed up and down Loki's hip -a familiar gesture that Oliver used to comfort Vlad, on Vlad's bad nights, and Loki on the rare occasions that he ended up cracking. "Can you take out your gun again, dearie?"

Loki understood, could see the nervousness in Oliver's eyes, and he nodded, once again taking out his Glock 19, equipped with a silencer, from the waistband of his pants.

The Brit lead them down the side walk, walking quickly, Loki walking in the middle with Vlad, shielding him from the alleys and store fronts.

"Lukas? What-?"

Without any hesitation, Loki shot the blonde haired American, one of the lower level henchmen that was supposed to be getting rid of the body with the others. Vlad flinched as Oliver said, "Oh, goodness gracious!" -he said it viciously, as if he were saying "fuck" instead -"Let's go, lads, we have to hurry!" The three teens all practically ran to the car that was waiting for them, a nondescript station wagon. Loki and Vlad slid into the backseat, the Romanian hugging Egil tightly to his chest, the boy remarkably still asleep.

They took note of the driver, an older man with golden hair tied back, black slacks, a black trench coat, polished, black shoes and a red scarf; he had five o'clock shadow, a healthy glow to his skin and blue eyes. He looked at the three passengers through the rear view mirror, pausing his casual smoking of a cigarette to smile at them and say pleasantly, "Bonjour~."

Not a second later, Oliver slid in beside the stranger and said, "Hello, love" before placing a dainty hand on the back of the stranger's neck and pulling him in for a kiss. Ok, so not a stranger. When Oliver pulled away to turn to his friends, he held a look in his eyes that was one part wicked and another part warmth. "Dearies, this is Francis. He's going to be taking care of us."

"Th-Thank you," Vlad rasped, still shaken from the man he had seen Loki shoot.

"No problem, mon cher."

"You just met him and already he's 'mon cher'?!" Oliver suddenly snapped, practically fuming as he glared at the man beside him.

"Oui. Why? Are you jealous?"

"Of course n-!"

Suddenly, Francis grabbed Oliver's chin, causing the Norwegian's body to tense up with anxiety. "Ollie, you forget," the Frenchman said, leaning in so their lips were only half of an inch apart, "you are my lapin. Mine and only mine." Oliver's face was scarlet, eyes hazing and his entire body vibrating. He leaned in closer, the Brit's breath audibly catching in his throat; but, instead of kissing Oliver on the lips, which the Brit so clearly craved, Francis smirked and kissed Oliver's neck chastely, instead. Francis pulled away, chuckling as he started the car.

Oliver sat back, gulping loudly and giving a small huff of indignation. "You, Sir, are a monster."

"Oui, and do not forget it."

The Brit giggled abruptly as Loki watched them intently, but silently. Oliver and this Frenchman just seemed to...to fit. Whenever they looked at each other, it was warm and affectionate. Loki hoped -prayed -that he would find safety and happiness with them, that this all wasn't two lovers' honeymoon phase delusion.

-2008-February-

Aliaster sat in his private room, decorated with dark browns, black leather, grey-green suede and a roaring, stone fireplace, smoking a cigar with scotch on his breath. On the floor beneath him, his whores were getting ready for the night shift. Since September, his Boys had started to go missing. First it was Lukas, Lukas' brother and Lucifer; then it was Lick, the Twins, Sakura and Snowflake. His favorites. The ones that brought in the most profit.

Worst of all, it had been almost a year since his brother, Oliver, had disappeared. He missed his favorite play thing, his heart aching with every beat. When Aliaster was drunk or brooding, he remembered Oliver's pale skin, how easily it flushed, and the coppery freckles that were scattered like constellations across his slender, skinny body. He remembered how gentle Oliver was to the other whores, almost motherly, and how he laughed and smiled easily when in their presence. All of this Aliaster watched from a distance; in Aliaster's presence, Oliver didn't laugh as often, when he smiled it wasn't as broad and his eyes took on an emotion that Aliaster couldn't place but didn't like.

The red head exhaled the smoke of his cigar, reaching for his scotch and, once again, yearning for Oliver's presence. There was a knock on his door and one of his underlings stuck his head into the room. "U-Uhm, Mr. Kirkland?"

"What?"

"It's...well, you should see for yourself..."

With a grunt of annoyance, Aliaster placed his cigar between his lips and stood, following his employee down the stairs. In the foyer, where clients usually sat to wait for their whore, standing awkwardly, was Oliver. He wore a trench coat that was too big for him, his feet bare, and bruises littering the skin Aliaster could see. "O-Oliver...?" he questioned, taking the cigar from his mouth, eyes wide and jaw slack from shock, "I...where did you-?"

"A-Aliaster!" Oliver cried, running to his older brother, sobbing. He collapsed on the stair in front of the Scot, knees making a painful thumping sound as they made contact with the hard wood, and hugged Aliaster's legs. "I-I-I'm so sorry! I'm sorry! I-I -They came out of no where and-and I tried to get away! I really did! B-But they gave me this stuff and I couldn't move! Th-Then they...Then th-they-!"

"Hush now," the red head said softly, sensing where the conversation was going as he lifted Oliver up, bridal style. "You're safe back here with me." Meekly, Oliver nodded, rubbing his still flowing tears away with his fists. Aliaster looked down at his men and ordered, "Make sure the others stay in line. Don't disturb us," before taking Oliver up the stairs, to his private room. He sat his little brother on a black leather couch before reclaiming his seat in the matching black chair. "Oliver..." he breathed, reaching for his glass of scotch and draining it, "Do you know why they freed you?"

Oliver chewed his bottom lip, face red and looking down at the accent rug. "They...They s-said that I was a u-used up w-whore an-and that they g-grew tired of me. And-And" -Oliver's voice cracked and he choked on a sob -"they c-called me a-a...a...th-they said they w-wanted you to see your br-broken t-toy." Oliver sobbed into his hands, causing Aliaster's chest to hurt.

Over time, Aliaster had gained a long list of enemies and there was a number of them that wouldn't hesitate to kidnap Oliver, rape him then throw him away like trash -just to hurt Aliaster. Aliaster stubbed out his cigar before standing and sitting down next to his little brother on the couch. "Oliver, I'm so sorry these men hurt you because of me," the Scot said, tilting up Oliver's chin as he spoke sincerely. His little brother was precious to him. His. All his.

"Aliaster-."

There was a sudden, loud bang that made Aliaster jolt out of his guilt induced haze. "What-?"

Aliaster made to get up but was stopped as he suddenly found himself with an arm full of brother. Oliver had straddled his lap, arms around Aliasters neck as he buried his face in the spot behind the Scot's jaw. "Allie, please d-don't leave..." he whimpered, "W-What if...what if they come back?"

The red head's heart melted and he, gently, wrapped his arms around his treasure. "Of course, Oliver, I promise I won't leave you."

"Allie..." Oliver whimpered, sounding vulnerable; the Scot had always hated that nickname but, from Oliver, it sounded as sweet as honey. "I can still feel them...all over me...make me clean again...please?" How could he say no? Aliaster drew Oliver closer by the hips, leaning forward to brush his lips against the blonde's.

Suddenly, there were shouts and the quick pop-pop-pop of gun fire. There was no way Aliaster could ignore that and he stood, quickly, moving to the door. "Aliaster, wait-!"

Oliver's plea was cut short as the door banged open, hanging loosely from its hinges after it was kicked in. There in the doorway -wearing a red shirt unbuttoned to he middle of his chest, a black sports jacket, black slacks and expensive black shoes -was an intimidating figure smoking a cigarette. He was not intimidating for his height, which was average, or bulk, which was decent; it was the man's hard eyes and the tattoo on the side of his neck that intimidated Aliaster.

"I-."

"Mon lapin, you have done such a good job! Is he armed?"

"Not any more~!"

Aliaster's eyes widened and he looked at Oliver, face clearly displaying his shock and hurt. The Brit had Aliaster's Glock, waving it around with a wicked grin and an evil glint in his pretty eyes. "Oliver-?"

"Shut up," the Frenchman snapped, sounding as pissed off as a wild badger. "Who said you can fucking speak to him?"

Despite everything, the red head sneered, "He's my brother-."

"And you are a rapist and a pervert -do you want to continue stating the obvious?" he asked sarcastically, making sure his automatic gun was aimed at Aliaster's heart. "Mon lapin, come here."

"Yes, of course, love~" Oliver said skipping out from behind the Scot to Francis' side. Aliaster watched with an aching chest as Oliver stood on his tippy toes to give the Frenchman a peck on the cheek.

"Oliver, what is the meaning of-?"

"I didn't say you could speak to him," the Frenchman once again snapped with a harsh glare.

"Now, now, love," the Brit playfully scolded, slipping the gun into the waistband of Francis' slacks, "Maybe he wants to know how well you take care of me." The question was a lofty purr that made even Aliaster blush as he watched Oliver press himself against the older man's side and cup the front of the man's pants.

Aliaster suddenly felt like lead was in his chest, like he was suffocating. His love was betraying him right before his very eyes! He had left home to escape his desire for Oliver, had basically sold his soul to the mafia, had taken Oliver in when their parents died -anything important, or life changing, that Aliaster had done had been for Oliver...and this was how he was being repaid?! "You bitch!" the Scot shouted, lunging at his brother, his eyes trained on the Brit's impish grin. A harsh, painful blow, accompanied by an animalistic snarl, sent Aliaster reeling backwards. The red head's skull throbbed and bled from where Francis had pistol whipped him.

"Don't," Francis placed his foot on Aliaster's skull, right on the wound, aiming his gun at his red head, "ever go near Oliver. Don't touch him, don't look at him, don't speak to him. If you so much as breathe in Ollie's direction, I'll beat you. Hurt him? Hurt him and I'll break ever bone in your motherfucking body before I kill you. Understood?"

Before Aliaster could answer, the door opened, cutting through the thick atmosphere. "Ollie," 'Lukas', said walking into the room, a gun in his left hand and one of Aliaster's new boys beneath his right arm, "All of his men have been taken care of."

"Oh~ excellent!" Oliver giggled, clapping his hands excitedly. Suddenly, his expression softened as he looked at the new boy and bent to be eye level with the boy. "And who might you be?"

"N-Noah..." he whimpered, tears running down his bruised cheeks, his split bottom lip quivering. He was wrapped in a fuzzy, green blanket and, as his bare, bruised legs suggested, he was naked beneath it.

"What are you doing here?"

"M-My Papa d-died leaving a-a lot of debt s-so Mr. Kirkland beat up my b-big sister and took me as p-payment," Noah sobbed, 'Lukas' pulling him close.

"Oh, no, a boy like you shouldn't be here," Oliver tsked, brushing aside the long fringe of Noah's bangs, "Dear, Loki is going to find your sister and bring you back to her. How does that sound?"

"I-I would like that v-very much, m-mister..." the boy hiccuped, rubbing away his tears with the back of his hand. Loki whispered sweet thins in Noah's ear, leading him from the room.

If looks could kill, the glare Oliver sent Aliaster would've done the trick. "You took a little boy from his home and you sold him off to be raped," he hissed, gritting his teeth, "I swear to God, I'll never let you see the light of day."

-2011-November-

Matthew sat in the corner of his living room, hugging his knees to his chest. Papers, boxes, clothes, shoes, toys, plastic bags, empty jars, empty food and candy wrappers, books, accessories, blankets, spare tires, cables, garbage, anything you could think of was piled up to the ceiling by his shop-o-holic, hoarder mother. He watched, as a bystander, as a ghost, his mother and brother scream at each other.

"I didn't say you could throw those away!"

"They were a pair of sneakers, Ma, and they were falling apart!"

"But I could've still-!"

"No, you wouldn't have used them for shit! You never do! You have so much 'usable' crap, we can't even see the fucking couch!"

"Watch your language! I am your mother!"

"Then fucking act like it!"

Alfred was several years older than Matthew, a product of their mother's first marriage to an alcoholic son of a bitch. Luckily, Matthew and Alfred took after their mother in the looks department, so they both shared many characteristics. At least physically. Alfred was an athletic jock, now a college frat boy getting a business and a law degree. Matthew, however was still in high school, being a fifteen year old with a sweet, baby doll face and a bookish personality.

Matthew watched numbly as his mother angrily reached for a half empty bottle of vodka. "I give you kids everything-!"

"Like Hell you do!" Alfred screamed, grabbing the bottle before their mother could drink from it and throwing it against the wall, "You don't do shit! I can barely pay my tuition, thanks to you and this shit hole!"

"This isn't any of your business, Alfred!"

"Yes it is my mother fucking business, when my baby brother is the one stuck in this hoard!" Alfred slammed their mother against the wall, face splotchy with rage and gripping her petite shoulders so hard, his knuckles were white. This was enough to shock Matthew out of his stupor -his brother had never physically assaulted their mother -as realization hit him all at once. Things were never going to get better and he would be trapped in piles and piles of stuff just like his mother. He would be trapped if he stayed. Trapped playing middle man between Alfred and his mother, trapped with his mother and her hoard, trapped with his brother who barely paid him any attention.

Matthew slowly stood on wobbly legs, navigating through the piles to the stairs, miraculously kept clutter free. His room was the only clean one in the house; his mother's room was filled with her clothes and Alfred's room had filled up quickly after he decided to live on campus. Matthew grabbed a backpack and threw in four pairs of pants, four shirts, a pair of dress shoes, five pairs of underwear, five pairs of socks, energy bars, bottles of water and the coffee cans, jars and plastic bottles filled with dollar bills and loose change. He put on a pair of skinny jeans, a black turtle neck, a new pair of hiking boots, a red hooded sweatshirt and a tan winter coat before putting on his big, somewhat heavy bag.

The blonde looked around his room with the peeling yellow wallpaper and teddy bear boarder, his twin bed with the brown sheets and the polar bear plushie sitting on his pillows. He felt no regret as he turned his back to his room, only bone deep weariness. Matthew hurried down the stairs only to see Alfred and their mother brawling -hitting, kicking, biting, hair pulling, drawing blood. Alfred locked gazes with his half brother as he yanked at their mother's golden hair, tugging and pulling. "M-Mattie?! What-?"

He didn't let himself hear the rest, running to the back door and shoving it open. I have to run. I have to get out...

"No, Mattie!" Alfred yelled, releasing their mother and running after his younger brother. "W-Wait -ah!" Their mother grabbed his legs, tackling him to the ground, not aware of her youngest son running from the house. "You damn cunt!"

The teen didn't look back, watching his breath turn to white fog in the air as he ran down the street. The neighbors didn't spare Matthew, or his house, a second glance, used to the screaming and arguing between his mother and brother at this point. He saw the bus at the bus stop and he picked up the pace, wheezing as he ran.

"Mattie!"

He jumped on the bus right before the doors closed, pulling out his school public transit card. Matthew swiped his card, looking out the window to see Alfred chasing after the bus. Pulling up his hood, Matthew ignored his big brother and took a seat.

-2012-August-

Matthew sat with his knees to his chest, his back against the brick exterior of a building, a disintegrating foam cup by his feet. He had no more money and the most he could call home at the moment was a cardboard box and a ratty blanket. His hair, once bouncy and golden, was now stringy and dirty, he was thin, tired and his skin was streaked in grime. He whimpered pathetically, not that anyone would hear. Being homeless, he was as much of a ghost as he had been with his mother, her hoard and Alfred.

A bark alerted Matthew to the presence of his companion. The white, fluffy, dog had begun to hang around Matthew ever since the teen had given the scrawny, starving dog some of his food. It wasn't even a lot of food, but Matthew couldn't really complain; he appreciated the company. He even went so far as to name the stray dog Kuma.

"I'm sorry, Kuma," Matthew whimpered, scratching behind Kuma's ears with a rueful smile, "today's...sort of an off day..." Kuma responded with an answering whimper, licking Matthew's fingers before nuzzling beneath Matthew's chin. He hugged the dog's neck, hiding his face in the animal's fur...until he heard the familiar thunk of a few coins, that is. His head jerked up, doe-like eyes wide with gratitude. "I -thank you! Thank you so much!" He looked up and his cheeks colored. At first, he thought it was a woman, the person was so beautiful, but he was clearly a man somewhere in his twenties. He had an angelic face and longish hair, an emerald earring dangling from one ear, a pink trench coat, a green scarf, limb hugging jeans and slightly heeled black boots. He was...a pretty, gorgeous, angelic man.

"Oh, my..." the strawberry blonde murmured, eyes wide as they roamed Matthew's face, "What are you doing out here, cupcake? The streets are no place for a pretty, young boy like yourself."

"I...I don't have anywhere else..."

The stranger's eyes softened and he bent down, extending his hand, "Come with me then."

"W-What?"

"I'll take care of you, feed you, let you rest, give you nice, clean clothes. You can even bring your dog. All you have to do is work for me but, if you truly wish it, you can leave at any time, all you have to do is say so."

Now, Matthew wasn't naive and he wasn't an idiot, either. He knew this was...stupid, dangerous, but he was desperate, willing to try anything.

With happy tears in is eyes, Matthew smiled, nodded, and took the older man's hand.

Ok! Done!

Sorry for any grammatical/spelling errors...

Anywho, like I said, tell me if you want me to continue this, ok?

Characters:

Oliver (real name): England

Francis (real name): France

Loki (real name)/Lukas (street name/stage name/prostitute name): Norway

Vladimir (real name)/Lucifer (street name/stage name/prostitute name): Romania

Egil (real name): Iceland

Aliaster (real name): Scotland

Feliks (real name)/Lick (street name/stage name/prostitute name): Poland

Feliciano and Lovino (real names)/The Twins (street names/stage names/prostitute names): North Italy and South Italy

Tino (real name)/Snowflake (street name/stage name/prostitute name): Finland

Kiku (real name)/Sakura (street name/stage name/prostitute name): Japan

Noah (real name): Nyotalia Liechtenstein

Matthew (real name): Canada

Alfred (real name): America

Matthew and Alfred's mother: OC

Ok so that's it for characters~!

Heads up: the characters may seem a little OOC only because I am combining some personality traits with those of their 2ps just for the sake of the plot...also, because I am the author and can do that shit ;)

Anywho, if I get a lot of reviews telling me to continue this I will

In other news, I am currently working on another chapter for "You're My Obsession" (PruCan), working on a one shot that received a lot of votes on my poll (a PruCan), then I'm also working on another one shot for my "Broken Dollhouses, Broken Hearts" AU/collection/series thing (which will be FrUk) ...soooo...yeah, something to look forward to. Other than this story.

I also have to read Othello for AP Lit. It's a good plot and all but it's just...a pain in the ass, you know? *sigh* unfortunately that 'tis my life.

Have a good night and sweet dreams!

~kitty