[DISCLAIMERS] I don't own Weiss. And Schuldich is still feuding with me because I made him uke for who knows how many times.
[AUTHOR'S NOTES] Gift fic to Zeets, my best friend. Because she loves Yohji, and because I love her. And all my thanks to the wonderful people who left me reviews for my other fics. Am truly deeply grateful. Sankyuu. Truthfully this is the only fic I'm satisfied with among my solo works. Hope you'll enjoy this little angst piece I'm doing for leisure.
Reines Weiss (pure white) – Part 1
The music hammered his ears from all sides and he could not care less as he rocked along the screaming lyrics. With effortless ease he chased notes with twisting arms, pursued the rhythm with booted feet. Sensual. Flawless. Every single fluid motion dripped sex. He smiled.
He was sex.
A hand groped, reached, and he allowed himself to be swept into the older man's arms. Indifferent. Unresisting. Parted his lips in mild welcome as the stranger devoured him with hungry teeth and tongue.
They kissed.
No. Not a kiss.
It was carnal lust, an animalistic act stripped of love and in its place, raw blatant desire. The young boy molded himself against his customer's body. With a slight quirk of lips and slanting of empty jade eyes he set his skilled hands in use. He knew exactly where to touch, to arouse. He knew what the sort liked: a deceptively submissive, innocent-looking child with the will of fire to argue with his looks.
He knew what they liked, and he played what they liked. He was fourteen and he was beautiful. Skinny, underfed and gaunt.
A hand in his hair.
Slender frame and angular features. Trim waist, lean hips.
A rough knead on his thigh.
Soft dark locks and luminous green eyes. Gullible eyes. Knowing eyes.
The man groaned and grounded himself upon the teenager's thigh. The boy responded, pure and simple. He pressed himself against the larger body and rubbed suggestively, knowing the friction would drive him mad. It did.
The man led him off the dance floor and threw him into a chair. Already he was breathing hard.
The brunette stared up with icy green gems. His gaze never wavered.
"Fifty," he said.
The man glared. Clamped his hands on the youth's already spread kneecaps and wrenched his legs wide. "Thirty."
The boy snorted. Amused. Derisive. "Forty five."
"Thirty five."
"Forty five. No more, no less." Impatient. Snappish.
"Fine. Forty. That's my last offer." Eager hands fumbled with the clasp of his leather pants and he rolled his head back, exposing his slender throat, dark tresses falling behind him.
"Deal."
He closed his eyes as his pants were tugged past his hips. Felt the rough messy kiss imprinting his jawline. He wanted to laugh at the mockery of it. A parody of sex. It wasn't sex. It was a fuck and not a good fuck at that. The client was new to this. Probably some well-kept loving husband and good father wanting a taste of 'crossing over'. Wanting a piece of some pretty whore's ass.
Wanting him.
He groaned in discomfort at the hastiness and roughness, thankful the ordeal was over not ten minutes after it started. The man thrust too hard, dug too deep, came to fast. Definitely not one of the best fucks he had.
The brunette picked up and pocketed the bills his client had peeled off from his stack of twenties. Damn. Not even a tip. The youth speared his customer's back with his eyes in irritation.
Goddamn mother fucker. Would it kill him to pay a few more bucks?
He fastened his fly and straightened his clothes. Walked out of the rampaging rave clubhouse and sidled into the quieter alley. He saw a few of his kind there. Pretty girls. Whorish girls. Girls in scanty leather see me want me touch me fuck me skirts. Tanks cut so low it was a miracle their breasts didn't fall out.
They glared at him. He glared back. Damn, he wouldn't render so cheap as to fight to be fucked. He needed pay, but he never stole.
A rosy plump woman scurried past. Head tipped, eyes downcast, unwilling to witness the degradation of the human kind. She half-ran. A little scared, a little suspicious. A girl with jet-black hair stuck out her spike-heeled foot and tripped the woman. Her bags scattered to the floor in a crumpled mess.
And the bunch broke into peals of laughter.
He didn't. He picked up her purse at his feet and handed it to her.
The hag's eyes flashed. "You're proud of yourself, aren't you? Living this life and getting paid for your body. Get away from me, whore!"
She grabbed her bags and hurried away.
The boy laughed bitterly. Yeah right, life's exactly what he wanted it to be and more.
The youth shoved his thin hand into his pocket and fished around for his packet of smoke. He shook one out. Glared at the box. He'd traded for half a packet not three weeks ago and now he was down to the last of his stock.
Cursing, he started his lighter and lit his stick. Took a long drag from his cigarette and puffed. The smoke formed a wispy mist, extending above his head, reaching for the sky. The boy looked on with empty eyes.
Reaching, it seemed, for heaven.
The weak wisp struggled in vain for mere seconds before vanishing into thin air. He stared at his half-burnt joint in contempt. With a sneer and casual flick of his hand, he tossed it onto the mud-caked road. Ground the glowing joint with the heel of his boot and walked into the streets, hands in pockets.
Heaven was another universe away. He couldn't dare to hope.
Yohji laughed again and it earned him curious sidelong looks from his fellow workers. The sound was brittle, full of self-loathe, disgust.
Heaven.
Goddamnit. He was in hell.