Mana here. God I am so lazy….I wanted to post this two weeks ago but I was struggling on the end. But on the bright side, I finished it. And I'm sure the wait makes it taste loads better. Ok…this is based on a fear. I went to San Francisco last month, and mind you I love that city. I was born in Stanford, so the Bay Area has been my…home. But when I was walking the streets I felt somewhat scared. Like someone was going to grab me or something or that some guys might start up a shootout. I don't know…something's wrong with me. Gah. I'll get used to it though.
Agoraphobia
After dark on the streets, everyone was an enemy. London was supposed to be one of those "nice" cities, but popular spots would attract hundreds, most whom were usually bad. Everyone had a concealed weapon hidden in the back of their pants or inside their coats. They could take them out at any given moment and start a shooting rampage, because that's what they were. Cold, dark hearts with evil intentions.
Or at least that's what Gregory thought as he passed through the streets of the cold city. It was a beautiful December night; holiday lights decorated the shops, the snow was beginning to fall and Gregory had his thick black woolen trench coat to keep him warm. But it was also Friday night, a night for villainy and reckless behavior.
Gregory never went out at night if he could avoid it. He hated it; sure with his proper training and body strength there was nothing to be afraid of, but one could never be too careful.
However he was sent on a task which called for him to step out of the comforts and securities of indoors to the streets of London, to a reclusive cigarette shop, on orders of Ze Mole. He was to buy a pack of Dunhill cigarettes, a rather expensive and high-end brand that wasn't normally found in the usual cigarette shops he often bought his smokes from. It was late afternoon when Gregory departed on to the shop. It was still bright out, and he was almost sure that he'd make it back before nightfall. But now he was on his way back with the pack secured in one of the pockets of his coat and it was dark; time for the stereotypical night time activities of big cities to begin.
He quickened his pace upon seeing two men arguing loudly outside of a bar. They were drunk, most likely, so their argument was probably about nothing, but that didn't help Gregory's fears. Then one of the men brought out his fists and hell broke loose. Gregory quickly shoved his hand inside his coat, feeling for the cool, reassuring metal of his pistol that was nestled against his chest. A gun was a must for him, even in presence of Ze Mole, where his security was most protected. But even when he was with him, he always felt that he is equally capable of defending himself; he is a mercenary with just the same potential as his French counterpart.
But he always carried his gun when he was out in public by himself, even in daylight. Anything could happen even in the calmest atmosphere. He gripped the metal as he passed by the bar, ready to pull it out when necessary. He wasn't going to shoot. He just wanted to be ready, just in case anything happened. He passed by the sight, unharmed, which was typical, but he didn't take his hand out of his coat just yet.
A homeless man was sitting against the curb, asking people for change, and Gregory turned the other way immediately. It wasn't that he was stingy. Homeless people were some that he never really trusted. How would he know that they wouldn't spend the money they receive from kind folks on alcohol or drugs? Or worse, what if it's just criminals putting on a disguise and when you pass them they grab you from behind and mug you? Ze Mole disguised himself as a homeless once, as a means to tail and execute a criminal for a mission. Since then, Gregory's always had his doubts about the innocence of that lot.
He passed the man quickly just as he had done the bar, and yet again he was thankful for his safety. He let his guard down, figuring the coast was clear. But that relief just took a turn, as he soon realized. While evading that potential danger, he found that he had stumbled into one of the wilder parts of town; a red light district.
Oh, shit…
Bars and strip clubs were the hot spots on this Friday night and everyone was too drunk off of alcohol and lust to make any proper judgment. People acted reckless and stupid. And Gregory's conservative, clean attire looked out of place in the midst of all the hot, steamy partying, prompting a few laughs and greedy glances upon entering the area.
He took a deep breath, clenching his pistol for security.
I can do this. Just a few more blocks.
"Heeeeey sexy," a man's voice slurred.
Gregory's heart stopped dead but he didn't dare look in the direction of that drunken drawl; heaven forbid what would happen next if that comment was directed towards him and he made eye contact. Ugh, he didn't want to think about it. He walked faster, but a hand to his shoulder stopped him.
"Where ya goin' sweetheart?" The same voice from before crooned into his ear, "ya look a little lost."
Gregory wrinkled his nose; the man's breath reeked of alcohol. He brushed the arm violently away from his shoulder with his free hand, still refusing to look at the offender's face.
"S'cuse me," he mumbled.
"Whoa, a bit rough, aren't we?" the man grabbed Gregory by the shoulder again, this time with more force. This surprised him; for a drunk he seemed pretty strong.
"I said, 'excuse me,'" Gregory said through gritted teeth.
"Well you're rude!"
Gregory was taken by surprise when he suddenly found himself shoved up against a grimy brick wall. This time Gregory had no choice but to see his face, and what he saw frightened him. This man was quite tall—taller than him—and his muscled arms were covered with tattoos. He was bald, and his ears were laden with gold and silver earrings. And his eyes were filled with what could only be lust.
The man took hold of Gregory's neck with his massive hand, securely fastening him to the wall. Normally Gregory would have retaliated by pulling out his gun and taking that bastard out. But fear prevented him from fighting back. There was something about this man that scared him. Perhaps it was the fact that Gregory was anticipating this incident as he was walking through the streets, alone and paranoid. Or perhaps Ze Mole wasn't there beside him to ensure him confidence to take him out single-handedly.
The man drank greedily to the sight of Gregory's eyes, which were now black with fear.
"Now then, are we going to do this the easy way, or the hard way?" He sneered, exposing his rotting teeth.
He had begun unbuttoning Gregory's shirt with his free hand. As a drunk, he found this to be very difficult, so he gave up and tore the front, exposing the blond's pale chest. Gregory's eyes widened even more as the man brought his chapped lips to his skin and begun devouring his collarbone.
Oh God…help…
There was nothing he could do. He was at a huge disadvantage; each time he struggled, the grip on his neck grew tighter. He still had his hand on his pistol, but he feared that if he brought it out and shot him, other drunken people would assume that a shootout was starting, and they would take out their guns.
Then, feeling stupid, Gregory remembered he had legs. He gave up and decided to play dirty, kneeing him in the groin. And the approach worked wonderfully for him. The man doubled over, giving the blonde an opportunity to make a run for it. He dashed away from the scene as quick as he could, remembering at the same time to not be worried; even though the offender was bigger, he was drunk. He wouldn't have the sense to follow him.
Gregory continued his path down the district, but thankfully the Landmark London Hotel wasn't too far away. He entered the hotel, trying his best to not look flustered. He nodded at the bellboys that greeted him at the door and swiftly entered one of the elevators. Once the doors closed, he collapsed on one of the walls and took a deep breath, recalling what had just happened.
Gregory regained his composure as the bell sounded and he had reached the top floor. He stepped out, taking in the scent of air-conditioned roses.
Everything was ok. No one would attack him here.
He arrived at a selected room and opened the heavy door, breathing a sigh of relief.
Oh thank God…
"I'm back," Gregory called into the suite. After taking the cigarettes from his pocket, he quickly shed his coat, carelessly leaving it on the floor before entering the bedroom of the suite where he found Christophe. The Frenchman, looking fresh after a hot shower, was dressed in a white bathrobe, and was reclining on the dozens of pillows the master suite provided. He nibbled at a forkful of cheese cake while watching the news on BBC.
He looked so comfortable, a picture of luxury. Gregory frowned; this image infuriated him.
"You were right, Grè-go-ree," Christophe said, popping a blackberry from the cake into his mouth, "time away from ze school ees a good idea."
He offered Gregory a fork of cheese cake, but Gregory refused.
"Yes, but it seems that we switched roles." He showed no effort in hiding the irritation in his voice.
Christophe's smirked, detecting Gregory's distress. He always loved playing on Gregory's misery.
"Ees somezing ze matter?"
Gregory chucked the pack of Dunhill to Christophe before flopping onto his front on his side of the bed.
"If you're going to make me run across the city at night just to buy you cigarettes, then I'd suggest you pick them up yourself next time," he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking.
"But you are more familiar wiz London," he said in mock hurt, "I would get lost."
"Oh, like that hasn't stopped you before!"
Christophe's smirk disappeared as Gregory buried his face into one of the white pillows. He often liked to tease Gregory when he was upset over little things. But it didn't appear to be something small this time.
"Did somezing 'appen, Gregory?" He asked, now with a little more worry in his voice.
Gregory rose into a sitting position to glare at Christophe. He didn't say anything, but it was obvious he was holding back tears.
"Well, what ees eet—oh…" Christophe's eyes widened when he laid eyes on Gregory's neck; the once porcelain skin was now littered with dark purple splotches and even deep red marks, appearing to be bites. Immediately, he set his plate back on the night stand and repositioned himself to face the blonde. He raised a hand to touch his neck, but Gregory jerked away.
"Don't touch me," he whispered icily.
But instead of heeding to his words, Christophe wrapped his arms around him, holding him close and kissing the tip of his ear. Gregory didn't resist; even though he was severely angry with him, Christophe's touch was very soothing.
"What 'appened?" He asked gently, "'oo did zis to you?"
Gregory shook his head, causing the tears welled up to fall. He grasped onto Christophe's robe tightly to hide them, but Christophe was not fooled. He ran his hand across the blonde's back; this always seemed to make him feel better. Gregory's silent tears turned into silent gasps, prompting Christophe to hold him tighter and mutter reassurances.
"Eet's ok," he cooed, "I am 'ere now."
Gregory's tears continued to fall, but he tried his best to not make a sound. Gregory was always emotional, and he enjoyed a good cry every once in a while. But he hated crying in front of people, and especially in front of Christophe. Christophe, he felt, already thought he was weak; he didn't want to seem even more weak.
After a few more minutes of tears and French consolations, Gregory felt he was stable and pulled away from Christophe. He refused to look directly at his face. Christophe didn't look at Gregory's face either, but he did focus he gaze on his neck and chest.
"Poor zing," Christophe said while running his thumb over a particulary nasty mark on his neck, "'e fucking ruined somezing so beautiful."
"This is just the least of my worries, Christophe," he choked, still looking away, "he could have killed me or worse…r-r-rape—"
"But zat did not 'appen," he cut him off, "zat ees ze only zing zat matters."
"But it very well might have. I did a poor job in defending myself."
Gregory hopped off the bed and walked fluidly toward the large mirror to examine himself. He felt sick and dirty after just a glance. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were all puffy, red, still fresh from tears. His front was a complete mess, his shirt torn at the front thereby exposing the bites and hickeys. He tried to conceal it by pulling his shirt back together, but it was destroyed beyond repair. And at this, he scowled.
"Do you know what I did, Christophe?" He growled, "I kicked him in the balls. That was the only defense strategy I had thought of. I really am weak."
"You were scared. Eet ees only natural zat you resort to your primal instincts."
Gregory spun around slowly and eyed Christophe suspiciously.
"And why are you being so compassionate all of the sudden?"
Christophe raised an eyebrow.
"Am I not allowed to be compassionate to you? Eet was entirely my fault anyway."
Gregory laughed.
"Ok, now you're just creeping me out."
He ripped his shirt off his back forcefully and tossed it into a bin.
"I'm going to take a bath," he said, "I can't stand being so filthy."
"'Ow about I treat you to a baz?" Christophe said.
"Hm?"
"Zere ees a spa in ze 'otel zat you weel love. Mud baz, 'ot tub, massage…what do you say?"
Instantly charmed by the idea of such treatment, he lit up with a small smile.
"And do not worry," Christophe said, scooping up the blonde in his arms, "I weel make sure no one besides me gives you zat massage."
XX
I've never had a mud bath before but it sounds so relaxing. Not quite sure if there's a spa at the Landmark London, as I have never been there. But do I ever want to visit Britain! I swear…my soul is British. I'm like gonna go live there after I graduate and become a physician's assistant.