Disclaimer and Warning - Not many spoilers, so to speak, but I'm guessing you've finished at least book 7 if you know who Vancha is. Rated for male-to-male sexual references, language and adult themes like prostitution. Dark humour ensues, beware of the male sue-ness. I don't own Darren Shan, Mark Twain, or Hyde. Imagine how rich I would be if I owned all three.

Unexpected

Through space and time the path unwinds

Leading me straight to you

Unexpected

Reaching across a moonlit square

We found each other's hands

Unexpected

Under the blessing of the stars

The life poured into us

Isn't fate mysterious?

To meet is so - UNEXPECTED

For Inyx - I have no idea what I'm doing, but here it goes. It's just the beginning of it, and I didn't think it was ready to post yet, but I really wanted to apologise to you, so this is my make-up fic. I hope you like it more than I do.

Vancha March would have never guessed. Who would have, for that matter? Or maybe it was obvious from the moment they had met. Maybe there is a 'meant to be' for each and every person, even for a scruffy, smelly, disgusting old vampire like himself.

But then again, he did have a few friends who understood him, and a few was all he wanted. Having friends, for him, meant more sorrow when he lost them, or they lost him. It was something not so necessary. Nothing essential, just nice to have around. He never got too close to them, either. When things go too far, he'd leave. When people start depending on him - start liking him, wanting more than just friendship - or even fall in love with him (which he refuses to admit has never really happened), he'd run away. "I'm a Prince, for god's sakes," he'd tell himself - "I can't have someone I care for more than the clan." Not that he thought he was ever going to meet someone like that.

After all, like the late Mark Twain said, "I am prepared to meet anyone, but whether anyone is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter." Vancha was quite sure this applied to himself. Not too many people think favourably of a shabby unshaven middle-aged man who walks around in animal skin and animal skin only, tinting his hair green, and picking his nose, farting, and spitting wherever and whenever he felt the need to.

However, fate is a curious little thing. Just when you think it's never going to happen to you - that you're never going to meet that special someone made just for you - you suddenly find yourself staring into his face, whether you're ready for it or not. And it was just like so for Vancha March, one very cold winter night in a side alley of the down skirts of a small city near the sea. He found himself staring into the stormy grey eyes of a not-so-innocent looking young man.

'What do you want?'

The teenager glared straight back at Vancha, eyes narrowed, smoke rising from the cigarette he held idly in his hand. He pushed his spiky jet-black hair out of his face with his free hand, fixing his almost-captivating dark stormy eyes on Vancha's. He wasn't wearing much - torn, dirty jeans, and a tattered black shirt open at the front, revealing his smooth chest. The lack of proper clothing showed that he was in good shape - not overly thin, not too fragile. . . Vancha kept his eyes on him, quickly estimating that this boy was in his late teens, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, still underage in this country - and he was on the streets, late at night, smoking.

'Where do you live?'

'Here. What do you want?'

He asked again warily, giving Vancha a blatant once-over, eyes calculating as he surveyed the man's not-so-commendable appearance.

'If you're not a customer, then fuck off. You're scaring off the rich ones.'

'. . . Who says I'm not? And what exactly are you. . . selling?'

Vancha dared to ask, squatting in front of the boy. He pushed into his own trouser pocket the last-minute cirque tickets that he was supposed to be selling on the streets that night. An angry Mr Tall was not an attractive thought, but he couldn't care less. The show was starting in half an hour anyway, no one's going to buy. The boy's pale pink lips curled into an amused smirk, as he took a breath from his cigarette and puffed it out into the evening chill.

'My arse, moron, what else?'

'Your. . . . what?'

'Are you deaf with earwax or something? I sell my body to men. I live here. I sell. C'est la vie. Clear enough? Now go bother someone else, dick-head.'

He dropped the cigarette on the ground, watching it fizzle and extinguish in the wet gutter. He shook the dishevelled hair out of his face, and swam his gaze towards the streets where people were still bustling past hurriedly. Vancha just sat there, gaping. What could have forced a boy so young to a life of prostitution in the gutters? The boy sighed, and glared at Vancha, noting the fact that he was still not gone.

'If you want me so badly, then pay. Once for 50 bucks, twice for 90, 30 for a blow, and if you so want, 300 for the whole night. First timers get 10 percent off the stated prices. You look like you're badly in need of some, I can take care of it. I've been on the streets for nearly a decade, I know when a man's not getting any.'

'That is none of your business!'

'Actually, it is my business. I thrive on it.'

'For god's sakes, why are you doing this?'

'Cause I have no other way to live, idiot. Don't look to me like you're the type who can afford a whore, though. Are you buying, or not?'

'Fine! You're coming with me.'

Vancha pulled out the cirque tickets from his pocket, and pushed one into the boy's outstretched hand. He shot Vancha a withering look.

'That don't look like a 50 dollar note to me.'

'It's worth 60.'

'It's a fucking piece of paper.'

'It's very rare.'

'I don't care. No money, no shagging. 's the ultimate thing you learn in life, man. In the end, you can only trust two things - yourself, and little grey pieces of paper called money.'

'For the love of god, I'm not going to hurt you!'

'And you expect me to believe this because?'

'. . . . Fine.'

Vancha took off a small cotton sack on his belt, and handed the boy the whole thing. What the heck, he thought, I'm sure Hibernius would understand why I gave away all of that night's profits to a nameless whore on the streets - NOT. The boy opened the sack, looked inside, and whistled, an impressed grin playing at his lips. He then looked up, a whole new expression on his face - attractive, seductive and. . . beautifully sweet. He smirked, taking Vancha's stubby hand and shaking it vigorously.

'Deal. And you are. . . ?'

'I could be asking the same of you.'

'Just Harley. Harlequinn, if you must know. Now, you.'

'Vancha March.'

'Well then Mr March, for tonight . . . '

Harley grinned, a lazy, arrogant grin;

'. . . I'm all yours.'

'Hurry!'

Vancha yelled, pushing through the flowing crowd on the street, checking his watch every five seconds or so. Harley frowned, letting himself be pulled violently forwards by the arm. The city lights were bright on them as they rushed through the night, Vancha running much faster than he looked like he could - and Harley tripping and stumbling after him.

'What's the haste? I mean, we have the whole night, let's take things more slowly, hey?'

'We only have ten minutes!'

'Ten? You last that long? That's pretty good for an old man like you.'

Harley exclaimed in fresh admiration, staring at Vancha's crotch, obviously getting the wrong meaning. Vancha stopped for a second, letting Harley catch his breath -

'Mr March. . . .may I enquire as to . . . . where we're going?'

'Shhhh, just take deep breaths, we've still got a lot to run. And we only have. . . shit, 8 minutes! Hibernius is always on time, too, he'll close the gates right on the tick.'

Vancha mumbled, not even a little tired or out of breath. Harley pouted, his petal-like lips forming a little 'o' as he cocked his head sideways.

'There's a nice little alleyway just around the corner there if you want me so quickly - but if you prefer softer surfaces, there's a nice cheap love-hotel a street across from here with sexy fur beds and great hireable bondage. Or another option would be a disused meat factory, there's some sleeping quarters in there, it might be a little musty but it's something. . . . .Agh!'

Harley stumbled as Vancha checked his watch, swore, and started running again - Harley protested between gasps for breath, cursing his aching sides.

'I swear. . . .I won't be as good. . . if you tire me so much. . . .I mean. . . .they say sex is never good . . . when you're depressed or. . . . exhausted. . .!'

Vancha paid no attention to Harley, cursing and running at a speed normal men of his age would be killing himself doing. Harley gave up protesting, and decided to save his breath for later when he'd be doing his "duty" for Vancha.

It was one of those moments. One of those moments when gladness just washes over you like white bubbly waves spreading over a sandy beach. One of those clichéd "warm fuzzy feeling" moments, when you just sit back, a smile on your lips, and you just know that what you've worked for was really really worth it. And it damn well was worth it for the tired stinky Prince, as he sat back and watched the glowing expression of the boy sitting next to him.

It was worth losing the $500 Hibernius had trusted him with, it was worth killing his legs to run a few kilometres in 10 minutes, it was worth all the poisonous glares he got from people on the street as he dragged an obvious male whore around the city. It was worth every fucking minute of embarrassment, even if it was just for that one moment of gladness.

Harley said nothing, as he watched the cirque performers one by one. He said nothing, but his face gave him away so obviously. He may have lived a decade on the streets - he may think he knows everything he needs - but he had never seen anything like this, anything so bizarre, so amazing and wonderful. Vancha watched - not the stage but at the boy's face - the different angles of the shades of light illuminating the wonder in his eyes as he watched Truska grow her beard, every breath he swallowed as Cormac cut himself up and regrew himself, every laugh he held back as he watched Rhamus stuff himself with anything and everything imaginable. His eyes were that of a child as he watched the show - not a whore, not the adult he tried to be, nothing but a child's eyes full of wonder and innocence. And those eyes - took Vancha's breath away.

As the twilight faded into night, and night fell to midnight, every minute seemed like a second, every hour like a breath. Time is an illusion, they say, and especially so for a vampire. Ten years has its weight on a human - but not on a vampire. As does a day - a day is enough to deepen a wrinkle on a woman's face - but not on a vampiress's. It's like that. That night was one of those nights.

When the deepest of midnights died and even the trees and grass had fallen asleep - the show ended with Evra's final appearance. That was when Harley spoke for the first time.

'That boy. . . '

'What? You know Evra?'

Vancha asked, running some spit through his hair as he winked at a lady who walked past them to the exit. Harley shook his head slowly, and met Vancha's gaze. His eyes had returned to those cool, adult, calculating eyes again, Vancha noticed with disappointment.

'He has the same eyes.'

'. . . What eyes?'

'He was the same as me, wasn't he? He used to do the same things I do. I see it in his eyes.'

'. . . . He did. He wasn't free like you, though. Hibernius had to buy him off a brothel owner. He was mistreated badly - but he's better now. He's not as scared; everyone is good to him here.'

'I thought freak shows whip their freaks.'

'No, not here. Hibernius is a great person, he really is.'

Vancha smiled, eyeing Harley as he frowned incredulously.

'Who's Hibernius?'

'He's the owner of this place, and shit, speaking of the devil. . . '

Vancha grumbled, biting his lip and turning around 180 degrees to face the tall cirque master who had just popped up out of nowhere. The tall man greeted Harley with a slight bow and a tilt of his top hat, before smiling at Vancha.

'I noticed there were few empty seats tonight. You must have sold well.'

'Yeah. . . well,' Vancha shifted in his seat uncomfortably, 'I need to talk to you about that, actually.'

'Yes, I could see. I have noticed also that the bag I had given you is nowhere to be seen.'

'You mean this?'

Harley grinned, holding the sack that Vancha had paid him with. Vancha swore, a headache creeping in. Hibernius raised an eyebrow.

'Well, well, well. Vancha March, may I enquire as to why this young man has our profits, and what I would like to hear is that he was just helping you sell the tickets, but I know I will not hear that.'

'Damn you and your "foreseeing abilities".'

Vancha rolled his eyes. Hibernius's jet-coal eyes twinkled brightly, as he bent down and looked into Harley's eyes.

'Your name, young man?'

'. . . What if I don't want to tell you?'

Harley glared back self-consciously, backing away a little, holding the money sack close to his chest. Hibernius chuckled.

'Well in that case, you must allow me to read you.'

Harley frowned, confused - Hibernius smirked, then closed his eyes for a while - and opened them, smiling slightly.

'Harlequinn, prefer to be called Harley, no last name, no home, no parents. You live on the streets and I know what your job is although I will not say it out loud.'

'What the. . . ?'

Harley's eyes opened wide, and he backed away a few more seats, trying to hide from the tall man's gaze. Vancha chuckled. Hibernius turned to Vancha, glaring.

'And you, Vancha March, you are not in the position to be laughing. Although I admire your subtlety for bringing a homeless boy here, I do not admire the fact that you gave him the money we are supposed to have to buy our staff food and drink for the coming journey.'

'Sorry. . . I really, am, Hib, I just couldn't. . . .'

'I know. I will work this out. Harlequinn,'

Hibernius took a step closer to the curled up boy - Harley glared at him, curling into a smaller ball, guarding his money.

'I'm not giving it back! I earned it, and I'll work for it, I swear! I did as that man told me, and now I'll go and sleep with him and let him do whatever he wants to me, and then I'll do the same tomorrow night, and that'll pay off, right? Or you could join us, you know, I can easily make two men equally happy, I swear!'

'Harlequinn, I need the money back. . . '

'No! I need it too, I need to eat, I need to live - and I bet you have enough money as it is! You have a home, I don't! You have good clothes, I don't! You have a life, all of you, and no matter how hard I try, I never will! All I want to do is live, why can't you let me?'

Harley was close to tears now, scared to death but determined to guard the money. Hibernius sighed, scratching the dark hair underneath his top hat, and sitting down next to the boy.

'Vancha did not bring you here to hurt you, Harlequinn. Neither did he bring you here to sell you to me. He brought you here to set you free.'

'I am free! Just let me keep the money and I'll go back to my street, and I'm always free! I'll always be there if you want to buy me again, just let me keep the money and. . . and. . .'

'You do not have to.'

'You do not have to return to your street, Harlequinn. You can stay here.'

'. . . . . . What?'

'Stay here, work here. We will give you a place to stay, clothes to wear, food to eat, and the freedom for you to leave whenever you want. Just give me back the money, stay here for two nights - and if you still do not want to stay, I will give you back the money, doubled, and you can return to your street.'

Harley considered it quietly, eyes calculating as he surveyed Hibernius.

'You won't make me work overtime? I can only handle three customers at once at the most, and 10 times a night is the limit to being pounded in the arse. I could pick up some after-show customers and let them shag me in a room, and you could have 20 of the profits, if you want me to work independently. Or I could easily sleep with your 'staff' and you can pay me for gratifying them, or. . . '

'Harlequinn, I will not make you work in that way.'

'. . . what do you mean?'

'As long as you are here, I will not let one man touch you, including Vancha.'

'But he paid for me!'

'No, not if you give the money back to me, remember? You will not sleep with anyone but on your own or with the snake boy who you will share tents with, and your chores will be to work with Evra - cook breakfast, put out the washing, and get the cirque in place before a show. Nothing more, nothing less.'

'But. . . . I can't cook, I can't do anything. . . I only know one kind of work, and that's to. . .'

'Shhhhh. Evra and Vancha will help you. Do you want to give it a try, at least? Vancha does not just bring anyone here. He has seen something in you which may contribute to the cirque, and I see it too. You will be a great staff - if you would just give it a try.'

Harley glanced at Vancha, who grinned back, nodding. Harlequinn was so confused. All his life, everything anyone ever wanted from him was his body - not commitment to work, help, love, nothing like that, just gratification and pleasure they could get from his body. Anything less and they'd beat him and take their money back. So he learnt, he learnt how to please men and that's all he knew. He never went to school, he never learnt how to write even his name, and the illiterate downtown accent still hung heavy on his tongue. He didn't learn how to love, how to trust, how to share, how to give; he thought all of that was total crap that only existed on stupid fluffy soppy Christmas cards he saw dumped in the bins on the street when he went scavenging for food in the snow.

'. . . . .Alright.'

Harley croaked, surprising himself that he actually said it. Hibernius smiled, putting an arm around him, and whispered:

'Welcome to the Cirque du Freak, Harlequinn.'