Hey, this is slash. Keep reading.

Just kidding. Sort of.

This IS slash, and it's completely AU. To clear up something before I really get into this story - there is going to be mention of Chris and Shane. You know, the guys from one of the sequel Lost Boys movies. Can't really remember which one. The Thirst, I think. Anyways, yes, it's the same guys, technically, but I have never seen that movie and they're probably not going to be anything like the original characters. Just saying, in case someone here *has* seen that movie and gets irritated by the very off characterization. :P Like, I said...this is VERY AU. ^.^

Some quick warnings, here. This is set in the '80s, and it's not going to be a light story. That means drugs, alcohol, pimpage, violence, some naughty references people might not like, some lemons and limes spread throughout, homophobia, religious and racial hate, and (possibly) some abuse thrown into there (mixes in with the pimpage). And, between all of that, angst and fluff. Yeah, this one's pretty loaded. XD Basically, it's rated M for a reason.

If you're still here, I want you to have a free hug. *hugs*

I'll talk more later. For now, just read. ;)

"'I think of all the education that I've missed. But then my homework was never quite like this!'"

"That better not be the reason you're still in school!"

Paul threw a wink to his right, taking his eyes off the road for several whole seconds as he spoke to the woman next to him. "You know I can't help myself around those hot teachers. They're just so bad." He smiled widely and she returned it with just as much zeal. They both knew how unattractive, unpleasant and Catholic his last teachers were. If he so much as looked at a teacher's behind when they turned to walk away, he would have gotten a ruler shoved up his.

She held her smile without effort and ran her fingers through her dark hair, looking on at the road ahead of them. Paul finally returned his gaze back to the empty, long stretch of concrete. The radio had been one of the only things keeping the mostly-quiet car ride bearable, and that had gone out of range after a while of driving. Paul had taken it upon himself to start singing songs from heart, and his passenger joined in most of the time. It was pleasant – carefree, even if it was a little forced.

The last time they had passed another car had been miles ago—and the last sign they saw was hours before then. "Gas station – 200 miles," it had read. Paul had thought it was a joke; surely there wouldn't be that much of a gap between gas stations in a location like this. They were literally in the middle of nowhere. If they broke down on the side of the road, it would most likely take days before they could reach any help. A worrisome thought to most, but Paul was pretty confident in their car's mechanical status. New, it definitely was not—but mechanically working? Sure. He could count on it to get them to their destination safely.

The next sign they passed was large, entirely wood and run-down, and told them they had crossed over the New Mexico border and were now on Texan terrain. And just up ahead, as the second last sign had promised, was a little gas station. Tumbleweeds were collecting in the lot and it hosted only one car. Paul had to second-guess if the place was even open anymore; it looked like it had been closed for years.

They pulled up along a pump and Paul cut the engine. Used to the nice wind from his rolled-down window, the hot and dry air was a shock. Even in his wife-beater and frayed shorts, he was starting to sweat already.

As he loaded up on gas, his passenger eventually opened her door and climbed out. She walked around to his side and leaned on the car. She was dressed much like he was—sneakers, ripped shorts, and a tank top. Except her shirt was considerably more revealing. Paul didn't mind it; he was used to her "flaunting her assets," you could say. She did it because it was more comfortable to her, and this heat was ungodly. Besides, there wasn't anyone around to stare at her. And there was a lot to stare at, as long as her legs were.

She fished some money out of her pocket when the tank was full and they headed inside the gas station together. A little Hispanic lady was behind the counter, sitting on a stool. She said nothing as they roamed up and down the aisles, looking for snacks. That had to suck, in a way—working all the way out here. Paul figured there had to be a small town nearby, because he couldn't imagine driving so far just to work at a gas station. You would have to be pretty desperate. Then again, you would have to be desperate to drive all the way from California to Texas just to have a stable living environment and consistent paycheck. And that was exactly what they were looking for, coming out here.

"Hey, look." Paul pointed to some magazines that were all printed in Spanish and had tanned hunks on the front. "Foreign candy for the road." His passenger snickered and he grinned.

"I should probably give that a try. White guys aren't working for me."

"You should've hooked up with a black guy," Paul told her. "Then I'd have a badass fro."

She rolled her eyes. He did have some of the straightest hair she'd ever seen. "Keep using that gel, hon."

By the time they were back on the road, they had a full tank, a bag of chips, a six-pack of beer, and half-empty pockets. The sun was still high in the sky, and it was still hot enough to fry an animal if it was stupid enough to leave the shade.

"It's not hot like this all the time, is it?"

"We're in the middle of the desert, Paul."

"Nu-uh. Deserts don't have mountains, Mary."

"Don't call me that," she chastised, but her small smile squashed any authority in her voice. Paul let slip his own smile in return.

"Sorry." It was tricky to not call her by her name a lot of the time. For him, at least. Most people didn't have any problem just saying "mom," but it felt weird for him. She didn't exactly feel like his mom a lot of the time. Maybe it was her age, or maybe it was because she was so easy-going. Either way, he had to work on it; whenever he would call her Mary, people would start to assume she's his older sister, despite the fact they look almost nothing alike (besides their heights, of course). While it was flattering for her, there were also people in the past who had thought they were a couple, and that had been awkward.

"Can I have a drink, Mom?" She smirked around her mouthful of beer and shoved a thin-necked bottle his way. He downed it within five minutes and they threw their empty bottles out the windows as they finished, laughing whenever they managed to hit cactuses that were close to the shoulder of the road.

Mary propped her feet up and Paul leaned back in his seat, one arm resting on the top of the steering wheel and the other laid across the window frame. The rest of the ride was fairly peaceful; they never had to stop, and they rarely passed other cars. It was just one long, straight stretch. When they actually started reaching civilization, the color was draining from the sky and Paul's eyes were tired. He had to sit up and stretch in his seat to wake himself up from his autopilot trance.

Mayhill was about an hour west of San Antonio—caught in the middle of the desert and intense forestry. If Paul had to describe the scenery on the ground, it was simple: a slightly grassy desert, or dry grassland, if you will. That was it. It was getting dark so there wasn't much to see (not that it was a gold mine for the eyes in the afternoon). The city started off gradually; just some houses and farms at first, and then what seemed like a little town. And then, in the distance, Paul could see the city. The tall buildings were a big giveaway. Mayhill, in its entirety (quite a large area), housed about half a million people. That's what the little green sign had said, at least. Paul was from an even larger city, and judging by the number of skyscrapers, that estimate seemed about right. Well, if you could judge a city by its tallest buildings. Did that work?

"Santa Rosa Street," Mary read from the directions she pulled out of the glove department. "It's on your left. Somewhere up ahead." Their turn came up quickly; apparently their street wasn't quite in the heart of the city. Bummer.

It didn't take Paul long to figure out that this neighborhood was…well, poor. That was good; he would have something in common with his neighbors. There was no use in covering up its state. To be blunt, it was a ghetto, complete with graffiti, run-down streets with faded yellow lines, collapsing porches, overgrown weeds on the sidewalk, concrete barriers, chain-link fences, and stripped cars. There were a dozen or so tall buildings—the apartments—that fared no better than the houses. One of those buildings was their destination.

It took Paul several minutes to find a (safe) place to park; he found some designated parking spaces a block down from their apartment building. As he looked around, he saw very few cars—not a very good sign. He was going to have to trust that the lack of keys in the ignition and items on the seats were enough to keep people away.

They only had two boxes for their possessions—everything they owned. Paul made sure the windows were rolled up and the doors were locked, and then they headed for their building.

It was Paul's uncle that had brought them to this place in particular; they were going to be sharing an apartment unit with him. He had never been here before; his uncle had always come to visit them in California when they saw each other. This was going to be a very different exchange.

After ascending several narrow stairwells, they were standing outside of a room that was missing its middle digit on the door. Without the second letter, it read 69. Paul snickered.

Mary set down her box and knocked on the door. After several long moments of nothing, she knocked again. There was a loud bang as something knocked over on the other side of the door, and then they could hear a body thump against the door when the apartment's occupant checked the peep hole. A chain slid back, the doorknob unlocked, the worn door swung open, and there stood Paul's uncle, in his unkempt glory.

"Tommy!" Mary beamed, and pulled him in for a warm hug.

Tommy was a large but built fella who stood over a whole head shorter than Paul and a few inches below Mary. Middle-aged, graying and brown-eyed like his sister, he had a messy composure; stained plaid shirt from all of his mechanical work, old jeans, and a wiry beard that rested against his chest. It had definitely grown since the last time Paul had seen him. Otherwise, he remained the same.

"C'mon." He waved them in briskly. Mary scooped up her box and Paul let her enter the apartment first. He took one last quick look at the number of doors that were on the floor, just for future reference: only one other door.

Tommy swiftly shut the door behind Paul and locked it in several places. "I thought you were somebody else," he said, his adopted accent peeking through. Tommy was significantly older than Mary and had been living in Texas since before Paul was born; this state was more of a home to him than California ever was, and his slight twang reflected that.

"Expecting other company?" Mary teased, setting her box down again next to the dirty, pea green couch that was as old as Tommy.

"No," he shot back. "Jus' you."

"Geesh. Calm down, little big bro." Tommy, who was a good three inches or so below Mary's five-ten (yikes, right?), took offense to that, as usual. But all he did was grumble something incoherent and turn towards Paul to take his nephew in.

Paul had been looking around the combined living room and kitchen area, hardly paying attention to the other two in the room.

He snapped to attention when his uncle exclaimed, "Jesus Christ!"

"What?" he asked dumbly.

"You're huge! You could have given your grandfather a run for his money back in the day. What are you, six-somethin'?"

"Uh…" His mind was still foggy from the long drive; he had to think about it for a moment. "I dunno."

"Well, you gotta be somewhere around there." Tommy gave Paul a playful but rough smack in the arm. Paul tried to think of how many years it had been since he had last seen his uncle. It wasn't like he had grown a lot in the last year; he had always been pretty freaking tall. He remembered measuring in at six feet his freshman year of high school. But this was his family, after all; they weren't known for paying attention. It wouldn't surprise him if his uncle started asking when he became a blond. "You got a girlfriend back in California?"

"No, no girlfriend," he replied nonchalantly.

"Aw, man – you're gonna get loads of pussy here, I'm telling you."

"Tommy!" Mary gasped with faux disbelief.

Tommy chuckled to himself and slapped Paul on the chest. "Beer in the fridge." You could count on one hand the number of strides it took Mary's long legs to carry her to the fridge for that beer. It took Paul twice as long; his mother settled with tossing him a bottle from across the room. He took a seat at the bar that connected the living room to the small kitchen. Fatigue was settling in; he was struggling to stay awake and aware. He wasn't even aware that he wasn't really drinking the beer – only holding it between his hands.

"Not much of a beer-drinker, I take it?"

"He's tired, Tommy, can't you see?" She rolled her eyes. "Boys are so thick."

"Then he needs to drink some of that. He'll be wide awake in no time."

"Since when does booze have caffeine in it?"

"Since some asshole down the street decided to start selling it with the insides of wake-up pills or somethin' like that. Damn genius, he is. You won't be gettin' sleep for a week afterwards, but the beauty is you don't need it! Fancy that, sis – a pick-me-up beer."

"Huh." She examined her beer through the slim neck, as if she would be able to spot the drug inside.

"Go on, kid. Try some."

Paul looked down at the cold beverage. He glanced at his mom, who paid no attention to him; she just drank her beer while studying the surface of the counter. Tommy was watching him; he didn't even have to look to know that.

Well, what the hell. A beer was a beer, tampered or not, right?

He grimaced at his first taste, and shivered on his second. There was definitely more than just a little bit of pill juice in there; the smell and taste of it was completely different – cringe-worthy. Nasty, even. But he finished the whole thing, nonetheless. Paul wasn't one to waste.

It took several hours for most of the effects of his drink to wear off. The pills were probably expired, unless they didn't last very long because the beer countered it. Oh well. Science. He had no clue. It didn't matter though, because the pills did wear off, and he crashed hard on the floor mattress in the second bedroom with an empty bottle clutched in his left hand and a shoe in the other.

When he woke up in the early hours of the morning, he was extremely groggy, only wearing one shoe, and had a dull headache. It was stuffy as hell in the bedroom, since it only had one old window that barely opened. Paul noticed that Mary wasn't lying in the twin mattress on the opposite wall, and the door was cracked open. Quiet voices drifted through the opening.

Paul trudged his way to the kitchen, bumping into walls and redirecting his direction of travel a few times when he realized he was going somewhere else. It was a simple layout, Tommy's apartment, but being in a place that wasn't home yet and having a cloudy mind made things disorienting.

"…before someone steals it."

"I know!" hissed a feminine voice. "Can't I just hang onto it for a little longer?"

Their conversation stopped when Paul entered their vicinity. They had been talking very quietly – whether it was out of courtesy to Paul sleeping or to keep him from hearing a private conversation, he didn't know, and he didn't ask. When Mary realized he was there, she smiled brightly at him and turned around in her chair. "Morning, sweetie." She patted his arm as he walked by and he returned her smile.

"Hey, Mom."

Paul opened up the fridge, hoping to find something in it, but all it held was beer, fast food hamburgers, beer, a Coca Cola, and more beer. Well, that was a disappointing find. "Got anything for headaches?" he asked his uncle, rubbing his forehead and eyes.

"Nope. Sorry," Tommy replied shortly.

The next half-hour dragged by, accompanied by lots of silence as they all sat and slowly woke up further. When the clock read seven, Mary blurted, "Are you sure you want to go to school? I can pull you out; you're old enough."

Paul laughed, "What am I gonna do all day long if I drop out?"

"Work," Tommy mumbled to himself.

"I'm just making sure." Mary looked down at her half-empty beer. Her dark hair fell forward and hid part of her face.

Paul's smile faltered. His mother had been asking him if he wanted to drop out since he started high school. She never finished school, and she didn't really see a point in him completing it. After all, what good was a high school diploma? But Paul insisted on finishing. He had been going through schooling since he was just a little shit. One more year was nothing to him. Might as well wrap it up. Plus, he had always hoped he would be able to make better money with some education. You know, support his mom and everything.

"Have another beer," Tommy suggested suddenly, pushing one towards him. "It'll loosen you up for it."

Paul was going to say that he didn't need any "loosening up," but settled with, "'Kay." He had never turned alcohol down in the past, and he wasn't going to start now. If you asked him later on why he had taken it, he wouldn't have an answer – he would only know that he hadn't been thinking at all.

It would turn out to be the first dumb decision he would ever make in Mayhill.

The air was hot and dry outside already, despite the time – quarter after seven, now. He was walking down his street, towards where his car was (hopefully) still parked. All he carried was a pair of keys on a chain, which he dangled and spun around his fingers. No notebooks, no pencils – he didn't need any of it. He could always mooch supplies out of somebody when he got to school. It worked all the time.

The street was quiet, except for a loud ruckus coming out of a building that he was near. He couldn't make out what was being said until two people came bursting out of the front door and down some steps – including a rather pissed off woman and a pale blond guy being pushed out onto the sidewalk. She spat out a jumbled mess of what Paul could assume to be Spanish, judging by her general appearance.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he yelled back, taking a stance at the bottom of the steps.

"Get out of my face!"

"Bitch, I did not cheat on you—"

"Go fuck yourself, asshole!"

"Fine!" he fumed as he marched around the car that was parked on the side of the street, frantically shoving his hand in his pocket to fish out his keys. "Maybe I will! I don't need you anyways. I'm out of here."

Paul maneuvered around them and their little scene, glancing behind his shoulder a couple times to make sure he hadn't gotten sucked into it just by being near them. But they were preoccupied with cussing each other out; they didn't even notice he had passed them.

"Good!"

"Don't you mean 'bueno'?"

She cried out in frustration and he got into his car. She flipped him off as he drove away; he made sure he screeched the tires as he rounded the block.

Paul kept his focus forwards after that, eyebrows raised. He mouthed one word: Wow.

That was a great relationship, right there.

The vague directions to the school Tommy had given were horrible, to say the least. God bless the very obvious signs that pointed out where exactly Kimberly High was; he would have been driving around Texas for hours trying to find it, otherwise.

Kimberly High was probably just one of many high schools in the city, but its student-body was still rather large, if the sheer size of the building was any indication. The halls were bustling with loud chatter and shoving, too narrow for the amount of traffic coming through the commons area.

He leisurely made his way to the office to pick up his schedule and locker assignment. Mary had called the school several weeks ago to have his things set up, so he was pushed through the long line at the secretary's desk quickly. Thank God. There were a couple black girls giving him death glares while he had been in line, for some reason. It was…awkward.

The lockers were green and there were cute little stuffed bulls that had been lined up along the secretary's desk. Maybe it was assuming too much (she could just like bulls and the locker color choice could have been random), but he was going to float with the idea that that was the primary school color and mascot.

On his way to the first class on his schedule, he spotted a lone pencil in the middle of the hall; he scooped it up and grinned to himself. What a lucky day it was, that he found one so quickly.

He looked twice at the name of the class on the schedule – History of Contemporary Problems. Oh, fancy. Well, it had history in the title, so that probably meant it was some American government thing. He could do that; he knew the names of the presidents. A teacher at his last school had forced him to memorize them all and recite them to the class. He had forgotten most of them almost immediately afterwards, but he did remember who the first president was, at least.

School had only been in session for a few weeks for everyone else; another lucky thing for him. The bell rang shortly after he took a seat and the teacher started gathering some papers at her desk. A tall man with shaggy, dirty blond hair loomed over where Paul sat and deadpanned, "That's my spot."

A wide smile slowly broke out across Paul's face as he gazed up at the guy who looked like he could be out of college, with his stubbly jaw and hard eyes. "Sorry, man," he apologized. Using his legs, he pushed the desk to the side, out of the row. "There ya go." Now the man had his spot back.

It took a very long moment for the man to respond at all. At first he just stared unblinkingly at Paul, and then very slowly, his mouth quirked and he snorted. He sat down at the empty desk in front of Paul without another word. Paul inched the desk back to its normal place while the teacher stood at the front of the room and started passing out small blank sheets of paper. She instructed them to write their opinion on women suddenly being allowed to join the Order of the Garter. Paul gaped. The what?

"Fuck this class, man," the blond sitting in front of him mumbled, leaning back in his chair. He was obviously speaking to Paul, though he didn't face him directly. "If she wasn't so hot I'd bail all the time."

Paul tried, but he couldn't suppress his snicker. Silly Texans, sounding so silly. Everyone talked in that thick drawl here. It was very amusing to him, and would probably take a while to get used to – if he ever did. Geez, he shouldn't have laughed; the teacher stopped talking and turned her full attention to him.

"Is something funny?" she snipped.

"No, ma'am." He couldn't wipe the smile off his face, which seemed to annoy her greatly.

"Just answer the prompt."

He looked down at his sheet of paper and wrote, "Women can wear garters whenever they want. I don't discriminate." He paused and added, "P.S. Wear heels that are a little shorter. You look like you're in pain. Keep it real, babe." He finished by (fearlessly) putting his full name on it and passed it forward.

The blond guy who had sat in front of Paul stopped him when class was over, inviting himself to walk besides Paul down the hall. "So you new?" he asked casually. "I know faces around here, but I don't know yours."

"That's cool. I don't know yours either."

"You got a name, blondie?"

"It's Paul," he replied. They were walking aimlessly down the hall with no established place to go, but he didn't mind. Neither did the strange blond guy.

"My folks call me Jeremy. Everyone else calls me Shane. Shane Powers. You can call me whatever you want, but if it's anything other than Shane, I might just have to kill you."

Paul laughed, taking it as a strange joke. "Okay, man."

"This is where I leave," Shane said distantly, stopping in front of a classroom. "I'll see you around, blondie."

Strange. Strange, but in a way, Paul liked it. Different was good. He'd definitely have to talk to Shane some more.

And – of course – his next class was on the complete opposite side of the school from where Shane had departed. English. Paul was late for it. Very late. The halls had gone dead silent by the time he found the room, and when he entered, the teacher had already started class. Other students stared at him when he walked in and the teacher eyed him curiously.

"You're my new student." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, I guess I am." He waved a little at all the kids who had zoned in on him, most of them unblinking and expressionless. These poor souls – they must be dying in this class.

The teacher glanced at something on their podium. "Paul…Gle…Gel…" He attempted to say Paul's last name, but gave up after a couple tries.

Was it really that complicated to say? "Yup." They could work on it some other time.

"All right, Paul, have a seat, please."

He waltzed to the first empty seat he saw, which was centered in the middle of the room. He hadn't even really looked at the people around him—not until he was fully seated. And even then, he only noticed one: the person sitting in front of him. All he saw was the back of them; tight curly hair that was bunched up in a bun, loose curls falling out left and right; simplistic clothing that clung to their narrow shoulders. Paul couldn't see anything else from this angle. He didn't know what it was that was so eye-catching about this person to him, really. He wondered if it was their posture; everything about the way they sat spoke just look right over me. Polite (they weren't slouching or hiding), but internalized. Like they were trying their best to look small and blend in.

Paul wasn't sure how he was able to gather that much just by the back view of somebody and the way they were sitting; normally he wasn't so good at reading people. But there was something. Something drew his attention in.

I wanna know your name, he thought, unaware that he was staring. He was crossing his fingers that the person would turn around for whatever reason and he'd be able to look at their face. And if they didn't do that, he'd have to get up for an unneeded tissue or something to get a look. Why hadn't he looked before, when he walked right past them?

And for the first time ever, Paul was focusing intensely someone he hadn't even fully seen yet. He didn't know their name, didn't know their face, their voice—nothing. Yet he was smitten from the start, smitten because of some strange obsession that had clicked instantly for him, like a flame igniting in his mind. This was completely new to him; he normally didn't care about people he didn't know.

He didn't notice the bell had rung until everyone collected their books and filed out of the classroom. Paul sprung up, walking right on his infatuation's heels to try and get a glimpse or maybe even a word. But he never did; the mass crowd of people in the hall pushed him out of the way, and within a few seconds, the curly-haired student was long out of sight.