AN: This is a bit different from most stories, and if you have a problem with anything in the warnings please vacate.

Some Supernatural! themes in here.

Warnings: Volatile Language, Child Abuse, Angst

He ran.

For the first time in his life, he ran.

He had no idea where he was going, or what he was going to do, but he ran. His head didn't turn back; his eyes didn't search any other routes than the one's ahead. His feet had never been used for anything so productive; his hands never to lift him to his freedom before. Birds scattered in the setting sun, and out of a little garden he ran into the street.

Cars honked; he didn't stop. Across the street, down a few blocks, through an alley. The ghetto; he had seen and wished sometimes that he lived there. He wanted to be closer to something; more connected, like he had seen many of them act. He wished for it, but he didn't stop. His breaths came out in huffs, and the little, well kept shops began closing themselves.

He breathed in and out, and into another, well hidden alley he darted. There was a door, and he slid through it. He stopped. Eyes of hazel and dark mocha turned up to look. His lone sea foam green stopped and stared and were frozen. It seemed all merriment had been sucked from this place upon his arrival.

He was still breathing hard, and that must have been the only sound that was going on in there. He twitched, and his eyes came around to the stage. The singer there was staring at him too, but he couldn't discern whether it was in vehemence or admiration. It seemed mixed.

He looked like white trash to all the mocha colored faces. Ugly. He wore mesh, a torn shirt, chained trip pants, and big black boots that were stained with dark, dry blood that looked like dirt from so far away. His hair was a dark scarlet color, and his eyes were rimmed in black. He looked around at it all; it wasn't a bad place. In his words it was like magic.

The place looked like it had been grown from the ground up. There were ivy vines up the wall, the ground was a fresh dirt color, and the tables looked like they had been grown with the greatest care. The bar and stage were a matching, glassy green, with ceramic flowers imprinted in them. It amazed him.

"Ain't no damn kids allowed in here," someone muttered.

"You better get outta here, little boy," someone called over to him. Muttering started up about him, and then switched to personal affairs and whatnot. The music started up again, as if he were simply a bit of a strong breeze.

"Look, now you better go'on and get outta here," a seemingly young woman came up and began to usher him out. He yanked himself out of her grasp.

"I'm going," he muttered gruffly, turning on his heel.

"Now hol' on a minute," a man in his 60's or 70's said as he came out from behind the counter. He grabbed the boy by the chin and turned his head this way and that. The high school kid yanked himself from the man's hands and stepped away. His eyes spit fire at the man.

"If you don't hold still, you better," the man said, grabbing his face again. Green eyes glared down at him, but he didn't move.

"Where you get this mug from, boy," the man asked. The adolescent narrowed his eyes angrily. The man was not as tall as the boy, but he was close. If he could plant him on his back he would. The boy snarled and flashed his teeth at the man. The bartender only chuckled.

"Listen, that may work on some other folk, but not me. Now, you gonna tell me what happened, or am I gonna have to guess myself?"

"What does it look like he was doing, Dad," the young woman asked, "He got into a fight. You should put 'm out if you ask me."

"Well, good thing I didn't ask you," the man said at her, "Now, go back to doin' what I asked you to do, Marsha."

The woman rolled her eyes and the towel in her hands and walked away. The boy watched her for a second before turning to the man again. He had let go of his face. The boy didn't know why he hadn't left yet. He had done it before; turned on his heel and walked away. Maybe he could now.

"I know you wan't fighting nobody. Your knuckles ain't busted up like a fighter's. So, you gone tell me?"

Usually, the boy would use his pupil-less teal eyes to stare down someone who challenged him. He would do it to anyone and everyone without qualm, then turn and walk away. But this man, who looked like he could be the boy's grandfather, and who had a soft sort of disposition in his demands, made him look away. He shrugged his shoulders. The man crossed his arms.

"Mm-hm," the man hummed skeptically, "Fine, then. Go and get a broom and start sweeping."

The boy looked questioningly at him. The man raised his eyebrow before nodding his head in the direction of the broom.

"You can't stay here if you ain't got work to do, kid. Go'on and get the broom."

The boy, who was oddly tall and defiant, shifted awkwardly for a moment. He could leave. His eyes swept the fae paradise one more time before he turned and picked up the broom. He swept about; getting swept up in the music once or twice and stopping and then getting caught once or twice. He sung lowly to the music when he recognized the words, and fell silent when it seemed as though someone was listening to him. As he swept past the bar, the woman who had previously been on stage stared at him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. The stony boy guessed she was good at that.

"Don't stop for me," she said, taking another drink from her tall glass. The boy hadn't stopped for her. He hadn't stopped yet. He had only given her a quick glance and silenced his quiet singing. She set her glass down and folded her legs kindly, still staring at him.

"Do you want to be a girl or something," she asked, and though he didn't stop, his grip on the broom tightened viciously. Some of the bystanders who'd overheard her snickered.

"I mean, you wear all that make-up and you dyed your hair such a pretty color-"

"Marceline!"

The boys foot slammed into her stool, and her back hit the table behind her. It was the only thing keeping her from meeting the floor. He boy's hands clenched around the broom, and he stood very, very still.

"I was born this way," he said, an angry calm in his words. A shiver ran up the spine of the woman as she righted herself.

"Marceline, what the hell you doin', patronizing that boy," the old man leaned over the counter and shouted angrily at her.

"Ay, I ain't the one lashing out at people! He could'a broke my damn neck," she said, shouting at both the man and the boy at the same time.

"You shouldn't be goading a kid. You're an adult, ain't yah? You drunk, ain't cha? Go home, Marc."

"Dad-"

"Marc, go home, before I make Marsha take you home," he said, pointing a threatening finger at her. The mocha skinned woman grabbed her belongings angrily and shoved past the boy with the red hair. Some childish part of him wanted to stick his tongue out at her back.

"And you, son, got no right kicking people's chair in here, you got me?"

The red head looked at him like it pained him to admit his faults, but eventually he nodded. The man nodded back to him and went to get the official roster for the evening.

"Damn," the old man said. He hadn't anyone to replace her act. She was due to sing two more songs, and if he tried to call in Angie... well, she'd never show up, would she?

"Now the skies could fall," he heard soft singing beneath the main performer. He turned his head and watched the boy sweep and sing to himself.

"See, nothing even matters. See, nothing even matters at all," he continued, oblivious to the man who was watching and listening and the idea he was giving him.

"Ay, Red!"

His head popped up and his mint eyes looked disgruntled at the caller. The elder man grinned at him from behind the counter. He gestured for him to take a seat. The boy shifted awkwardly before doing as he was told.

"You got one helluva voice on you."

The boy's hands shifted nervously over the broom. He racked his brain for a moment before saying, "I'm sorry."

"What? No, boy, I ain't telling you to stop!"

The boy ran a hand through his red hair in confusion. He bit the inside of his lip as confusion passed through his eyes.

"I'm asking you to get up there and sing," he said. The boy flinched and took a step back. His version of a no.

"Aw, come on boy," he said, "You done run out my best singer, and don't pretend you didn't do what I saw you do, either."

He turned and hung his head a little. He shook his head once more. The man said, "Think of this as a way to repay me for driving away my singer."

The boy paused as if in contemplation before grunting in defeat. The man beamed and said, "Good! Two more songs, and you're on!"

Something like nerves might have racked themselves up in him, but the boy's level of stoicism made him immune to things like that. He simply swept until he heard the man call, "Red, you're up next."

There was a delay between himself and the woman before him. It was enough for people to murmur in confusion about where Marc was. By the time the boy made it on the stage, the place was restless. He could hear questions about why he would even be up there, about his capabilities. He didn't really care about any of that. He owed the man a favor, and he would repay it. Although, he didn't know what to sing. His mother's voice flashed into his mind.

He wanted to hit something, and make it bleed. He wanted something, someone to hurt as much as he did when he remembered. And the lyrics started playing in his head.

He sung, "Time will bring the real end our trial."

One of the band played right behind him, soft and low to accommodate his low, reverberating voice. Soon, the others joined the bandwagon. The club was enchanted, and silent. He knew he must have posed a very strange juxtaposition. Stark white kid, strange, bloody clothes, sitting in a fae nest.

"Your face will be the reason I smile. But I will not see what I cannot have forever. I'll always love you," he sang sweetly. His eyes closed and with them the image of a sad Caribbean sea. It was just him; his voice carrying strongly to every corner of the room.

"I had to leave. I had to leave. I had to leave. I had to leave~... I came wrong. You were right. Transformed your love, into lies."

He probably didn't even realized that he was swaying and nodding his head to the beat. When the jazz band stopped playing, he breathed out as if he hadn't in a long time. His face relaxed back into its blank state, he put the microphone back, and walked back off the stage. He picked up his broom as if there wasn't a simple, steady applause for him and continued his sweeping.

"That was better than I expected," the man said as he strode up to the red head. The boy paused and nodded his thanks. He looked the boy up and down, and asked, "What's your name, kid?"

"Gaara."

The man wrinkled his nose and gave the boy another once over. He said, "Really? No, obviously. How 'bout we just stick with Red? Its easier as a stage name too..."

Gaara's hand shifted though his hair again. The man led him back to the bar and began shining one of his glasses with the rag over his shoulder.

"If you think I'm gonna let a robin like you get away without singing another song, you gone crazy," the older man replied, placing the glass down and staring at Gaara. The red head looked up at the stage and seemed to fall into a haze. The man was pleased with himself. Gaara seemed to like it here, and if he could keep him away from whatever was tormenting him, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

"My name's Tyrese," he said, breaking the tall boy out of his reverie. Mint eyes blinked in acknowledgment.

"Do I have to be here everyday," the boy asked, and the man was sure that there was a bit of hope in his voice.

"No. I'll set up a work schedule for you, and you can come back tomorra 'n get it. We're open everyday, save Sunday. Sundays are for church, understand?"

Gaara nodded, but did not tell the man that he had never been to church in his entire life. It wasn't the kind of thing his parents were into doing. His mother hadn't been a religious person before she left, and his father still wasn't now. He waited a while before he began sweeping again. As the jazz band members came down the stage, one with a cello paused by to greet him.

"That's a nice voice you got. I ain't never seen nobody wipe the smug off their faces so fast," the man said, laughing. Gaara blinked at him, wondering what was funny.

"My name's Emile, by the way," he said, tucking his bow under his arm and holding out his arm. It was then that Gaara took notice of the cello case in his other arm. He stared at it until the man noticed, and laughed again.

"Ah, you like my cello, do ya," the man asked. Gaara's eye flicked to his, and he nodded.

"I took lessons," he replied. Emile smiled at his initiation of the boy into conversation. He shook his head.

"In a proper school? No, no, no, no. That ain't no way to learn how to play the cello. You gotta learn the soul. Then you can play the cello right. I can teach you, if you'd like."

Mint eyes finally lifted from the cello case to hazel. He blinked before giving an almost enthusiastic nod. As enthusiastic as Gaara could be, anyway. Emile smiled again and said, "You got a pen? I'll write down my number-"

"I am going to return tomorrow."

Emile eyed Gaara strangely before nodding and turning, "Well, I best be going. See ya round-"

"Gaara."

"Gaara. See ya."

I'm trying something new, with very annoyingly short chapters.

I hope its alright, even with all the OC's.