Not entirely happy with this one but it's not going anywhere so have at it. Title credit to Federico Garcia Lorca who is my gay Spanish lover.

Jack cooly regarded the sumptuous apartments that had been provided for him, all brand new and glistening white. The first thing he did once settled, Was make a single cup of coffee. It took thirteen minutes to find one button and the thing that struck the would be king most of all was the prompt, undemanding efficiency of the device. No screwdrivers or Yuusei required. All it had cost was the meager price of his past.

Trodding through the kitchen, the ceramic tiling left the cold sterile impression of a hospital wing yet even that felt rich beneath his feet. And pure some how, like this small embryo of existence could cleanse and save him. He strayed to a window, ceramic mug in hand, and gazed out on a city bathed in moonlight, the city that had been promised to him and he couldn't stop his mind from straying to the one that had promised it, further still from the memories on which those promises were built.

But why? And for what?

Rex had given his reasons, pretty magnanimous poetry, but as thoughts lingered over the director, just as pristine as the rooms they shared, he couldn't help wondering. Brooding over such matters wasn't in his nature yet somehow he felt if he could just discern the motives he might better understand the man behind them. Although, it wasn't as if that knowledge would serve him any better either.

Turning from the vast sight, Jack dropped onto a couch fronted by the largest tv he'd ever seen and no amount of fussing could get it to turn on. So he took a sip of the black brew and laid back, idly fingering the soft leather, feeling not unlike a young orphen in these new surrounding, coming full circle. He let his eyes fall shut. On everything.

As he dozed off his hand fell to the floor and with it spilled a half empty cup of coffee.