These Strange and Sordid Affairs

by Urchin of the Riding Stars

Matthew wants one night to be human. Alfred wants to eat the next day. Maybe what they both need is an ear. Sort of CanAme, Ho!fred.

Hello, my dears. This is a strange oneshot (as the name probably suggests), and chances are you won't like the storyline, nor the pairings. However, for some reason or another, this project was nagging at me for some time, and I felt like I had to do it at some point or another. Besides, it let me write about Alfred in a pink dress, which is surprisingly a big thing on DeviantArt. :)

Unfortunately, lost some work over the holiday break (so, so sorry for lack of updates; life has been life lately and desire to write there, but motivation low), but have some ready for update very soon. I hope you enjoy this story, and reviewers will forever have my appreciation.

So long, farewell, see you at the bottom.

~o*oOo*o~

---

He wished he'd thought to use some of the heady French cologne his father had sent him. Just a little bit of the stuff usually made his eyes tear up and made him gag a little, but maybe the oily goo would have added a sort of refined and exotic fragrance about him. As well as keep the one flyaway curl on his head flat on his head for a change. He worried and rolled it between his fingers, staring at the filthy bus floor as it hummed and clicked beneath him.

The money was hot and sweaty in his fist, but he didn't bother moving it back to the wallet in his back pocket. Somehow, he knew that if he did, courage would fail him completely and he would "accidentally" miss his stop, keep riding ahead until he trudged to his lonely apartment and collapsed on his sofa, once again a wretched failure.

But today WOULD be different. It was finally time he had a change. No—no, no, he didn't really want—yes, yes, yes, yes, Matthew mentally insisted, slapping his tightly clenched fists against his knees. Good God, it was hot in here. He wished he could take off his furry vest that Papa had sent him—one he didn't particularly like wearing—but he was wearing a Blue Devils jersey underneath it, and what if one of the four other occupants of the bus didn't particularly like the Blue Devils? That was setting himself up for trouble, stupid as it was. But what if someone looked up at his shirt and told him that his team was stupid? Worse, what if a stranger gave him a nod of approval? Matthew's face burned.

What would he say? If someone just so happened to board the bus at the next stop and glanced at his shirt, smiled and asked if they could sit at the vacant seat next to Matthew? The young man swallowed, blinking watery violet eyes, beginning to lose himself in fantasy. The passenger would be a Devil's Fan too, he decided, and so what if they complimented his jersey? What brilliant or witty line could Matthew carelessly counterattack with, looking faintly amused as the other person giggled and asked about games, perhaps even himself? How could he be dazzling? It'd have to be easy, considering he'd seen his father at it only a million times. With a careless flip of his hair and a charming smirk, he could coax a cold world into being warm putty.

"So, you're a Devils' Fan?" The faceless passenger would ask. Matthew didn't even know if the obscure figure was male or female; the only thing that particularly mattered was that they were interested in him, or at least were interested in his shirt, but soon they would be interested in him, too. Because he was a Bonnefoy, and he had it in his veins. As Papa kept telling him so, even if Matthew could sense now that the smiles were fixed, the man's baby blue eyes uncomfortable and unwilling to look at him directly. Or when they did, they were curiously blank, as if the man were gazing into space.

He would take the vest off. No, he wouldn't, because he would be getting off the bus soon and there was no point in taking the vest off if he had to zip it up again in just a few minutes. He'd almost worn his favorite hoodie with the Maple leaf on the back of it today, but Papa had scoffed at it when he last visited, said it did no favors for his son's figure and was bulky and really getting ragged around the edges. He'd threatened to throw it away. Matthew was quite thankful he hadn't—he wouldn't have been able to tell Papa non, and he certainly didn't feel like going through the trash for it again later.

Swallowing despite the fact that his mouth was quite dry, Matthew stared out at the streetlamps rushing past, then blinked and looked at his own reflection.

He really was very pale, wasn't he? Now he was glad he hadn't worn the hooded sweatshirt. Maybe it just would have accentuated the fact that he…no, maybe it would have looked better, considering that even when it was clean, the old jacket was off-white, slightly dirty looking. But he was thinking about his Devil's Shirt, certainly not about his hoodie, not about how pale he looked, or how his heart was beating insistently—painfully—in his throat.

There had to be married couples who owed their meeting because of a sport t-shirt. Then again, now and again, you read horror stories about people who took things way out of whack and tied people to streetlamps or poked out eyes for belonging to the wrong team. Better not to risk it.

He fidgeted, a bead of sweat sliding down the nape of his neck to his back. Focus. It wasn't nearly such a big deal as he was making it, and he knew it. Now was the time to act like an adult. Adults did adult things. Like the VERY adult thing he was about to maybe certainly god-only-knew do.

Would he even be there? The thought made the young man freeze up, staring tensely at his scared reflection, who stared back. No matter; if he weren't there, Matthew would simply come back, ask around. No, he knew himself too well for that—if he were not there, Matthew would simply go home, try to forget, try to stomach bitter disappointment with two and a half tons of ice cream. Again.

Today, he had told himself that morning in front of the mirror that was the day he would just go out and do it. That was what all the self-help books encouraged you to do, right? He'd read just about enough of them to constitute his own personal library, and they all just about said the same thing one way or another: Life is too short! Go out, takes risks, have fun!

Fun! He sagged in his seat and squeezed his eyes shut. Yes, this was supposed to be fun. Good fun. Or bad. Yes, it was bad fun. It was very, very bad, so that was good. He was going to be bad for once in his life, and he'd enjoy it.

Matthew blinked when he heard the gruff voice of the bus driver call out that they'd be approaching the next stop in a few minutes. His stop. Oh, god. He wasn't ready for this. But he had to, had to, had to or he'd never know what it was like, beyond some dubious accounts that he'd read online.

He pulled out his iPhone, went to the Fanfiction passage that he'd been reading before he left work the way he'd came: Without a word to anyone.

"Oh, hikari! Despite the fact that I have mocked you, humiliated you, hurt you and raped you, I really do love you so much so that makes my prior actions totally okay! So stop, like, cutting yourself! It's depressing!"

"Weally? You weally mean that?"

"Of course! When I said you were stupid and hateful and an ugly fuck toy, I meant 'I love you.' When I said you were fat, I was saying I cared. When I kidnapped you from everyone and everything you loved to use you for my own sick and selfish purposes, that was the pinnacle of my adoration for you. Now my precious fuck puppet, get over here so that I can chain you to the bed and hit you with this fly swatter."

Surely it couldn't be like that. This was only some story, thought up by some…some somebody. Relationships didn't have to be a factor in most of these stories, when the main focus was the sex. The glorious, kinky, occasionally downright disgusting and sadistic sex, horrifically alluring, somewhat scary, all mysterious to him. Matthew only ever had sex once, and he certainly hadn't initiated it, but had been too afraid to tell his cocky, somewhat aggressive roommate no. It had been fine, somewhat painful, definitely mortifying and messy.

But what was it like when you were in control, when it was with someone you thought was maybe perhaps slightly definitely unbelievably beautiful? The idea was terrifying, but also somewhat magnificent. Enough so that ever he started waking up nearly every morning with a painful erection, one he'd initially tried to wash away with cold water, face hot with shame.

He pressed needily into the supple body beneath him, the derisive and sly blue eyes widening when Matthew brushed against a hypersensitive bundle of nerves and the young siren cringed, letting out a disappointed keening sound when he pulled his fingers out of the warm sheath—that was something everyone did in the stories, a prelude to something much more fantastic—

Matthew swallowed.

Recently however, as his dreams were becoming no less vivid or intense—quite the opposite, actually—he'd taken his therapist's suggestion and "explored," pleasured himself. Overbearing guilt and self-hatred aside, pleasure was actually quite pleasurable when he imagined rocking his weeping cock into Alfred's body, the young man whining his name, midsummer eyes overbright with longing. For him.

He exhaled, ears going red as he nervously glanced down at his lap, willing himself not to get an erection on a public bus. Oh, God. Alfred really was some sort of incumbus if he could do this to him. Maybe he did it to everyone.

The vehicle began to slow down. Before he could stop himself, Matthew slowly stood up and clung to an overhead bar for support (germs, germs, who knows how many people have touched these things), waiting patiently as the bus came to a stop. He headed out, still clenching the money in his fist like a child out to buy a long-craved treasure from the local toy shop. His feet were heavy as they descended the dingy bus steps, and it was with a soft, automatic word of thanks that the bus door swiveled shut behind him, and the engine took off again, leaving the young man on the cold city street.

~o*oOo*o~

---

Matthew Bonnefoy was the hardly the sort of person you'd expect to be living as a reclusive hermit. His father Francis Bonnefoy, one of the world's wealthiest and most-sought-after bachelors happened to own a chain of award-winning restaurants all over the globe, including one in Paris that had not one but three Michelin stars, the highest honor a restaurant could receive for exceptional cuisine. As if that were not enough, the man starred in his very own cooking show, as well as in other programs interested in having the handsome Fleur de France's criteria and charm. Which were many.

And he, well...Matthew quietly shoved his hands in his pockets as he continued walking, past the nicer shops and boutiques to more mundane ones, steadily declining into more risque and shady looking establishments.

Two decades ago, when Francis' road to stardom was well underway, he'd gone to Quebec to open a chain restaurant and flattered his way into one of his customers' bed on opening night. They had a relationship for a few short weeks, and then Francis had departed for Belgium, promising that he would keep in touch. He had not, and weeks later, the anxious and lovelorn customer discovered she was pregnant.

He really not ought to be thinking this sort of thing tonight. Even if he was taking a risk-dangerous in more ways than one-at least that one wasn't even a factor.

She'd chased Francis down from Morocco to London and at last cornered him, threatened to sue him, begged him to take responsibility and raise the child. The woman adored the chef, expected that he would "do the right thing," and marry her. Only Matthew's father hadn't wanted to do such a thing-not in the slightest. It was bad enough the press had learned of his indiscretion and the positive paternity test; he was both a food and sex icon, a man so ridiculously popular that he had his own radio talk show. He had been elevated to near god-like status, and he wasn't prepared to give that up for a only slightly attractive, needy woman. He agreed to pay as much child support as his former girlfriend asked for, perhaps drop in every so often to see how his child was faring, and no more.

It was a blow to Matthew's mother that she never recovered from, and her son's birth did nothing to alleviate that pain. She enthusiastically put him through cooking classes when the boy was but five years old, convinced that with inheriting his father's hair, he'd inherited his genius. But Matthew never expressed much of an interest in cooking, and he wasn't terribly good at it.

Bitterly disappointed, stewing in her resentment and her fanatic dreams of raising a miniature Francis and tying the star back to her side, she'd enrolled Matthew in art classes-much as he tried, he wasn't talented in the slightest-in theater, in which he had terrible stage fright, in many other assorted programs that her son didn't excel in the slightest. At last, when Matthew was ten years old and simply just...was, was, decidedly nothing special, she gave in, and more or less gave up on him, and on her life. She'd sent Matthew away to boarding school, and whilst he hadn't wanted to go in the slightest, he hadn't voiced one word of complaint. He didn't dare to. Years of witnessing his mother's tantrums taught him from an early age to stay out of her eyeshot as much as possible.

So he went, and why not? It certainly wasn't as if he had any friends in his hometown. Francis agreed to send Matthew to a pricey boarding school, where he'd been wretchedly bullied, either ignored or reduced to a common lackey, and he couldn't refuse. After Matthew graduated, his father personally picked out a college for him in the states. He hadn't wanted to leave Canada, but once again, there hadn't been any reason to stay. Not really.

There really wasn't a reason for or against his going anywhere; different climate, same routine. He went to school. He received an allowance. He bought groceries, he did homework. He watched television and went to bed. Beyond that, there was nothing. Nothing he could be perfect in, nothing he could ruin. Nothing that could break his hopes the way he had his mother's heart, simply by existing.

And at the end of the day, that was really all he was good at: Existing. He'd never had someone he could call friend, considering he felt physically sick just by thinking of attending a social event. He'd been invited to a few of his father's, and his mother had wrestled him into uncomfortable clothes and bad-smelling cologne and shiny shoes, but after a few people had come to exchange some polite nothings with him, he'd stammered a few replies and hid.

People were terrifying. People were cruel and people were nice and so terribly enticing and hell and his father and his mother.

And they were also him, though he was one in six billion.

"Hey, big boy. Wanna have the ride of your life tonight?"

Matthew stared resolutely ahead of himself as he continued walking on the dingy and trash-ridden streets, trying to avoid the nighthawks cooing and calling out to him from the shadows. His palms were growing sweaty from where they were slammed in his pockets—the fact that he'd been here once before did nothing to alleviate his nerves.

The sort of district he was in was unceremoniously squeezed in-between one of the city's crematoriums and a waste disposal facility, a rather blunt way of saying you're an eyesore and we want you to go away. Apparently most of the folk here had gotten the message: Most of the girls prowling the streets carried a resentful, world-weary look to themselves even as they preened and attempted to seduce passerby. Even the effeminate drag queens looked surly and suspicious, their eyes wary and too-intense above flirty, frozen smiles. Matthew had to force himself to glance at them, because he was looking for the familiar glint of ash-blond hair underneath the few working streetlamps.

The first time he had been here, he had been wandering mindlessly throughout the city, deciding to take a break from routine and explore beyond his well-worn path between work, home, and the grocery store. And he had wound up in what looked like hell; all the shops had steel bars in their windows, and most were boarded up, covered in gang insignias. He spotted rats rustling about an alley positively filled with garbage, and he'd had the bad luck of wearing a particularly nice coat that day, so homeless and prostitutes had all but chased him down the dark streets, Matthew sprinting for his life.

"Gonna get you, fucking little rich! Gonna hunt you down and make ya squeal like a pig, ya hear?!"

Matthew believed him. Choking on sobs, he ducked into a dark and filthy passage where a tiny little red star twinkled at the end. Lungs burning, he'd staggered to a stop, unsure of what the light meant. An open store, maybe, another person waiting to help, or to mug him?

But then he heard the strangled shouts and curses growing louder behind him and he took off running again, only to very nearly collide with the brick wall that marked the end of the alleyway. Horrified, Matthew stared at it, clawed at it with shaking hands, willing it to disappear. He was trapped.

Desperate, he whimpered as he turned around, meaning to canter up the alley back to the street, but several hulking shadows were already closing in on him, mean, gaunt faces breaking out into sneers.

"P-please! I don't have any money," Matthew had pleaded, his terror mounting as the thugs started chuckling. "Oh, Richie Rich ain't got no money? We'll see, pretty boy, we'll see…."

A puff of smoke blew in from the right, and the young Canadian winced and made a face as he turned to locate its source. A cigarette ember was shining next to him—that had been the source of the light—and a silhouette dropped it, stubbing it out with a heel.

"The hell is this?"

Despite the fact that his mind was a jumbled mess and that he was sick with fright, Matthew was astonished to hear the rich, throaty voice—undeniably male, despite the heels. He hadn't even known he was there.

The figure turned to look at him, then at the gang frozen in front of the alleyway. Rather than register alarm or dismay at the sight, the man simply sighed, a drawn-out and exasperated one. "Oh, Christ, not this again."

And from out of the shadows, Matthew could have sworn his reflection stepped out to join him, only it was decidedly not him; the young man's skin was much tanner, cheeks rosy and limbs well-muscled. But though he looked impressively well-built, that wasn't what really made Matthew gawk at him—the figure was wearing a strapless, pearl pink dress that went just above his knees, accompanied by pink pumps set with little stones. The long strap of a pink purse hung over his shoulder, and he wore pink pearl earrings with tear-drop shaped rubellite stones hanging from them. Despite his ensemble, he looked far from embarrassed, though Matthew knew that if he were ever caught dead in such a way, he might run away to Timbuktu or commit suicide.

Still, he admired the stranger's nerve. Especially when he was a drag queen up against seven or eight angry, mutinous people.

"Hey, ladies," he drawled. "I thought the mustache parade was last Thursday. And that's comin' from me, sillies."

"Buzz off, you little shit," Growled an unshaven man, who nonetheless retreated a few steps back. How frightening could a guy in a tutu be? "This brat's ours."

The man in the pink dress didn't even blink. "Oh?" he asked, a little too innocently. "Well, love, I beg to differ. Sorry, folks, but I think I'll take it from here."

"Fuck you, Alfred."

"For the right price." The man spit at his feet and now Alfred looked pissed. "Hey, I'm not even going to tell you what crap I had to go through to get these. So knock that the fuck off."

"Make me."

Something gleamed in Alfred's overbright blue eyes, and the shaking Canadian got the strangest impression that was exactly what Alfred wanted him to say. "Don't forget I'm wearing a damn stiletto here." As if to accentuate his point, he daintily raised his foot and slowly removed the shoe, holding it at the ready. It really did look rather sharp, like a penknife.

The scruffy homeless man snarled and stepped forward, but then a girl with make-up bleeding down her face seized his arm.

"Tyler, just leave it," She muttered anxiously. "Dat scooch kicked the crap outta ya last time. He's…ya know who he belongs ta, member?"

"Skank ho, I don't belong ta anyone," Alfred snapped, fire dancing in his eyes and the girl flinched. "Look, just get lost now, okay? Nine bets out of ten he plays on my ball team, anyhow."

There were growls and muttered threats, but to Matthew's surprise and profound relief, the haggard figures began to leave. The young Canadian student sagged against the wall, his legs buckling underneath him. Respite quickly burned back to trepidation however when he saw Alfred looking at him, his expression inscrutable. What did he want with him?

Alfred put his shoe back on, turned to look at him, and Matthew's mouth went dry, his tongue tying, as was its wont at the worst possible times. A hot blush burned its way upward, and he was incredibly relieved when Alfred gave him a kind, almost sympathetic glance.

But he wondered what it might be like to have Alfred looking at him with the fire in his blue eyes. Exhilarating? Or terrifying?

"You alright, dollface? Ya look whiter 'en death."

Matthew threw his hood over his face and nodded like a bobblehead, feeling a second, crashing wave of relief very nearly knock him off his feet. Alfred hadn't noticed the strange burning that was steadily growing inside him, white hot flames licking at his insides. It was both scary and somewhat pleasurable, and he supposed it had to do with the adrenaline searing through him with the run.

"Got lost?"

He nodded again dumbly; Alfred smiled knowingly. "Thought so. Only see your type around here every now and again. Though it happens a lot more often den ya think it does." He winked, and Matthew's breath hitched, his gloved fingers digging into palms.

What did he mean by that? His type? What was Matthew's type? He became self-conscious of the velvet coat he wore and wished he could hide his head underground like an ostrich and not come up for the next thirty or forty years. Wealthy? Was that what Alfred meant? Or did he mean something else entirely? What did Alfred think of him, the boy he just rescued on a whim and knew for all of thirty seconds? He was dying to know.

But Matthew was too shy to ask, and Alfred was turning and pointing at something now, so he hastened to pay attention: "Head back up, walk past those three stinkin' eyesore buildings till ya pass an old liquor store. Go down the alley there and keep your head down till ya get to a nicer neighborhood near da city. You should be able to find your way home from there."

Alfred turned to go, and Matthew stared at him before he automatically stepped forward, stammering madly: "I...um, well, okay! T-thank..." He trailed off when the young man in the pink dress paused and turned again, a wicked smirk curling the end of his mouth, eyes lidding.

"Catch ya later, sugar. Something tells me I'll be seein' you around."

At that, Matthew bolted, accidentally knocking over an overfilled trash can along the way. He could hear Alfred laughing from all the way down.

---

~o*oOo*o~

This time, he'd brought a can of mace. While he was definitely nervous being back here, he kept one of his hands curled around the weapon, ready at any time. While people still called out to him and begged, perhaps something had changed in the way he walked and they kept their difference. Maybe he'd changed because he now had a purpose. It was difficult to say.

He hadn't forgotten Alfred. It had been weeks since the incident, and now there wasn't much room in his mind for much else. Beforehand, he might amuse himself with vague imaginations of his papa acknowledging his existence beyond a twice-year visit or expensive gifts he sent when he remembered he had a son, or of hockey league scores and favored pancake recipes. Now, those thoughts just seemed...tripe in comparison to the prostitute who so boldly encountered thugs in dark alleys and still smiled so alluringly, so naughtily. He looked like Matthew, so much so Matthew had wondered if maybe his Papa had had yet another affair which resulted in pregnancy. But he aborted the thought; not only was it too terrible to entertain, La Fleur could have virtually anyone he wanted in his bed. He could have heads of state or glamorous stars, so why settle for some poor soul who would only give birth to another prostitute?
Who would voluntarily become that if there was another option?

But maybe that was simply Alfred, who didn't look in the slightest like he gave a shit what anyone thought of him, who seized life by the throat and did as he very well damn pleased. And Matthew wanted him, more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life: Papa's attention, Mother's affection, the ability to be a good chef and an un-disappointing child, that stuffed polar bear he'd got at age four-the one Christmas present from his father that he'd ever truly loved. He wanted Alfred to look at him with that fire in his eyes and to say three simple words:

I want you.

And the beauty was that, more likely than not: Alfred would not reject him.

Matthew shivered and kicked a can as he walked. And he wouldn't be like everyone else who took advantage of Alfred, though in retrospect he couldn't imagine Alfred letting anyone walk over him. Still, he'd offer Alfred more, and then, maybe...but first things first. He had to find Alfred, who was Matthew but better. Radiant.

He tried asking a prostitute if he'd happened to see Alfred-a bad idea, because the gigolo wasn't interested in helping someone else take his business-and went back to searching. Matthew combed the area in which he'd first met Alfred, cautiously backing down streets and peering around hopefully for a familiar flash of pink.

But he found nothing. Growing desperate, he circled the area, going so far as to pay a toothless vagrant for information concerning a man in a pink dress. Who, Alfred? Well, he come by every now and 'gain, not tah often now, almost nevah comes now, dunno where he goes off tah-and his search became increasingly more frantic, more desperate.

It was growing darker and darker, and though Matthew's fast walk had improved to a jog, there still no sign of his knight in the pink dress and glittery lips. His heart sank deeper and deeper within him, to a place where he could hardly coax it back out again once it had submerged. Despair stole over him, and after searching every street corner and alley, he was forced to accept the horrible, black-maw-of-hopelessness truth:

I don't think he's here.

Exhausted, he sank down on a half-destroyed bench and hid his face in his hand. Oh, god. He'd come back out here like an absolute moron, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing here. Tears started glittering in distraught violet eyes, and he hugged himself, willing himself to forget. Or die. He was afraid to die, afraid to remember more.

A car rolled past him and he ignored it, too engulfed in misery to do more other than stare at his shoes. What did he do now? The right thing to do was to wait for the bus and trudge home, but if he was going to be just as sad there as he was here...

He let out a noise.

Then what was the point?

A click, click, clicking sound came from behind him, and again the sound did not register until a voice he fully expected to never hear again said gently, amusedly:

"Hey, sugarpop."

He fell to his knees, ripping his head around so quickly he crikked his neck; Matthew stared, his mouth going very dry. Alfred lifted an eyebrow, a sly, devilish smile curving his lips. He was precisely how Matthew had remembered him, but more. Ravenous violet eyes went up and down the pink dress, and he swallowed, swaying slightly.

"I thought I might be seeing you around here again," the prostitute purred lazily, stretching carelessly against a broken lamplight before slinking up to Matthew, reaching out to cup his cheek. Like a shy young horse, Matthew started slightly at the touch, though it was as friendly as one from a particularly affectionate housecat.

"H-hi." Damn, damn, damn his stammer—"H-how are you?"

"I think the better question might be, how are you?" Alfred giggled, leaning against the pole and crossing a long leg in a manner that was as cute as it was wicked. "Anything I can, ah, relieve you of, kind sir?"

The young Canadian-Frenchman stared at the prostitute stupidly, the wires between his brain and mouth disconnected. He had to give his inner gears a kick before he blurted out: "How much?"

Alfred blinked, but otherwise seemed unshaken—Matthew would have loved to know how he did that—and smiled again, blue eyes twinkling.

"Well now, that depends on what you'd like. For oral, I—"

"How much will it cost me," Matthew hastily interrupted, flushing scarlet, "To have you for the entire evening?"

Again there was that cunning smirk, a flash of perfect pearly white teeth. "Mmm…normally I charge by the act, not the clock, but…" He thought for a moment. "I suppose for….five hundred, I can be your bitch until midnight, Cinderella."

"Done," Matthew said gratefully, automatically holding his money out. Alfred looked at him for a good long moment before accepting, brow creased as if he were thinking something over. There was something pitying in his eyes, and it made him decisively uncomfortable. "Guess you're new at this kind of business, huh kiddo?"

"Wha?"

"Never mind."

"So, you'll come with me?" His voice came out a squeak, as if he were again a scrawny high school boy asking out a girl he's fairly certain will overturn his heart and dump it on the street.

"Lead me away, Prince Charming." Alfred said cheerily, wrapping his bare arms around Matthew's neck and kissing him lightly on the pulse. He felt the spot flare up, and his pulse beat becoming almost painfully fast, as if in response. "So, do you have a car somewhere nearby, or did you want to get a room….?"

"Um," Matthew said shyly, sidling from one foot to the other, "Will you have dinner with me first?"

Obviously that hadn't been NOW the pretty young man looked baffled. Troubled even.

"Wha?" Alfred asked incredulously, as if Matthew had invited him to go sky-diving without a parachute, become a crash test dummy, or attend clown college.

"I have a reservation someplace," Matthew said quickly, hoping it wasn't a deal breaker. "I can get a taxi for us and everything, and I'll pay your fare for your…coming back home. And for dinner. Promise."

Alfred began chewing on his lovely, pink lipsticked lower lip, appraising him. "Hmm. Well…I'd think you were plannin' on slippin' a little something into my food if ya were anyone else, buster. So that ya could have yer fun, take back your cash and ditch my body in a dumpster somewhere."

Alarmed, Matthew shook his head vigorously, becoming a blur. "Huh? Oh no, no, no! I mean, well, even if I were planning on doing that I'd say that but still! I won't hurt you! I'm so sorry, we don't have to do dinner, a-anywhere you want is fine, really, it's not that big a deal, I don't wanna make you uncomfortable—"

"Babe," Alfred said patiently, putting a finger on Matthew's mouth and effectively shutting him up. The Canadian noted that Alfred had gone so far as to paint even his nails pink. "You're on the clock now. Might as well shut your yaphole and find a cab that'll even come to this Ritzy neighborhood." Alfred extended his hands out to the filth around them, and the anxious young man couldn't help but crack a smile. "Tell ya what: I'm starving and I'd love it if you treated me to dinner. Then," Alfred's lids lowered and his voice became as smooth and silky as velvet, as the two fingers tiptoeing up Matthew's face, making him shiver and stare at Alfred as pathetically and longingly as a puppy will eye its mother or master. "I'll treat you to dessert."

~o*oOo*o~

Matthew did not, as a matter of fact, have a reservation at New York's La Fleur, but the frowning maitre'd slowly scanned over his papers, his look of skepticism slowly thawing into realization as he looked up at Matthew's face and at last saw the son of the owner. The young man thought that it would be nice to be recognized on sight, but no matter; some hapless couple was immediately booted from a table, and no less than five waiters and waitresses escorted the two to the center of the restaurant. Candles were hastily lit, bubbling golden champagne poured into sparkling crystal glasses. Very conveniently, a pretty woman in a black gown approached a platform in the middle of the store and began to play an elaborate golden harp.

Throughout it all, Matthew kept staring at his 'date.' Now no one batted an eye at the fact that Alfred was wearing a pink dress, though the maitre'd had certainly given the prostitute a considerably ugly look when they arrived. Now Alfred was looking around with some mild interest at the large vases filled with flowers, at the chandeliers sparkling fiercely overhead, at the bubbling fountain and pictures of cherubs on the walls; Papa had always been one to go a little ornate.

He cleared his throat, nerves creeping up on him again. It was hard to say what was making Matthew more nervous: the impending act of what he'd paid Alfred to do tonight, or the idea of simple conversation. He'd never been particularly good at it, scarcely knew anyone well enough to know what they'd like to talk about. On the rare occasions his father talked to him, the man normally ranted on for several minutes to hours at a time, hardly letting him get a word in. "Ah….guess you haven't been here before?"

"Actually, you'd be surprised." Taking no time to pause and savor the aged ingredients, Alfred simply picked up his glass and downed it. A bowing waitress immediately refilled it. "I have, as a matter of fact."

Matthew was doubtful. "O-oh." Normally people reserved seats at one of his father's restaurants months in advance. Alfred raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Had the…what was it? Something…poached Scottish lobster tail…Christ, I can't even remember the rest of it…"

"Monsieur is probably referring to the Scottish lobster tail with lardo di Colonnata, vegetables à la grecque and coral vinaigrette," Offered a waiter, and Alfred made a sort of vague there-you-go hand gesture and Matthew immediately hid a smile behind his hand. "Think the restaurant would be too chucked up about me asking for a PBJ instead of shit I can't pronounce?"

The Canadian laughed despite his worry; he couldn't help it. The smiles of the staff grew somewhat harder, more fixed. Alfred leaned back in his glossy seat as if it were a throne, looking both bored and somehow remarkably in his element.

"Hey, darling, mind fixing me a hard drink?" he asked, looking up at one of the waiters, who, whilst obviously uncomfortable just looking at Alfred managed to retain some professionalism. "One harder than Michael Jackson's junk when he walks into a preschool," the prostitute said seriously, and Matthew very nearly dropped his glass. "Well, guess he doesn't walk anywhere now, considering the guy did the world a favor and up and died. And uh…" He threw Matthew a furtive glance. "Are you old enough to drink, sweetie?"

"O-of course!" Matthew meant to snap, but he sounded more like an indignant mouse than anything else. Alfred laughed again; the sound was like a bell. "I'll have…." He scanned the menu. "Uh, that one, please. If it's no trouble."

"And get us something fun and awful for an appetizer, if that's fine," Alfred said serenely, and all the waiters bustled off. The young man picked up his menu and snorted. "Lord, I can't even say most of these things…and they're not even in French! So anyhoo," Alfred intertwined his fingers and set his chin on them, and Matthew was struck by how strangely adorable the look was. "Mind explaining to me why these waiters are so keen to impress you?"

"T-they're just being friendly, I guess," Matthew said in a small voice. Alfred looked slightly put-on.

"What was that?" he asked in a sing-song voice, cupping his ear in a dramatic and over the top fashion. Matthew squirmed in his seat, both annoyed and amused.

"I said, they're just being friendly," he said, in a tone that seemed much louder to him but still made Alfred look unimpressed, and he extended his ear mockingly in Matthew's direction again. Bewildered, Matthew all but shouted it and finally then did Alfred respond, with a scoff.

"Please. I know these classy restaurants are all about giving you the best service, but if you asked these penguins to line up and throw themselves on the ground so that your feet didn't have to touch the carpet, these ass-kissers would do it in a sec." A waitress arrived with a beautiful-looking cocktail, and Alfred thanked her cordially as another waitress placed a basket of bread on the table, along two elaborately sculpted salads (which consisted of maybe four or five leaves around a charred piece of meat). "See what I mean? You got some pull around here, kiddo. Are you someone I oughta know?" His tone was teasing, but genuinely curious.

Matthew shrugged. "Well….I….ah…." He fiddled with his collar. Good God, it was hot in here. "I'm the son…of the owner. You might know him as La Fleur, y'know, on the TV….?"

His voice trailed off, and Alfred nodded enthusiastically. "Hey, that's sweet. Sure I've heard of him once or twice."

Once or twice? Most people, upon learning that La Fleur was Matthew's papa responded with varying amounts of hysteric squeals and disbelief, and then proceeded to fire questions to him about Francis Bonnefoy. Alfred simply smiled at Matthew as he sipped his drink.

"So, do you cook?"

"No," Matthew muttered, shamefaced. "My Papa tried to teach me how, but I'm no good at it. I mean, eh, I'm okay, but I don't appreciate food the way he does. I mean, I'm glad I have food, because, well, I need to eat to live, but if I could eat pancakes for every meal, chances are I would, but—"

"Hon," Alfred interrupted calmly. "You're spilling wine all over yourself."

Matthew paused, and blankly looked down to realize that he was indeed spilling dark red stains all over his front, all over the expensive vest that his father had bought him. Waiters bustled forward with napkins, and Matthew buried his burning face in his hands. "Oh my God," he cried, dabbing desperately with a linen. "I'm so sorry!"

"Why the hell are you apologizing to me?" Alfred asked bewilderedly. "It's your lap, not mine. But hey, if you're gonna have me give it a little dance later on, I'd appreciate it if you cleaned it off."

One or two of the waiters chuckled nervously; rolling his eyes, Alfred waved his hand carelessly at them. "We got this covered, babycakes, no worries. I think it's safe to say those stains aren't going away anytime soon."

"What am I going to do now?" Matthew asked wretchedly, poking at the messy garment he now wore. Alfred began poking at his salad with his fork, looking decidedly unimpressed.

"You got a T-shirt underneath that, right? You'll be fine."

"But this is a nice restaurant," the young man said nervously.

"Yeah, and these guys are your bitches, sweetie. Hell, I'm your bitch, they're your bitches—you got them all linin' up, Mr. Pimp," Alfred said, smiling broadly when Matthew went red again. "Dude, I swear, you're like a Christmas tree ornament or a traffic light…turnin' from red to green all the time. You…." Alfred trailed off, and he clapped a hand to his face. Now it was his turn to look a little embarassed. "Wow. I fail at life. Don't even know your name yet."

"It's alright. I should have introduced myself."

"Yeah, you should have," Alfred agreed, taking a swig of his drink. "So what is it? Unless you want me to keep calling you sugar, or babe, or wait, I've got some really awful ones, Creampuff McSugar Daddy—"

"Matthew. Matthew Bonnefoy."

"Mattie's a nice name," The prostitute asserted sagely. "So, Mattie, are ya going to take it off, or are you going to keep your date waiting?" He winked.

Matthew nearly stammered again, but upon realizing Alfred was teasing again he sent the prostitute a dry look and reluctantly peeled the vest off him. It felt heavenly to do so. "So, hockey fan, huh?" Alfred commented, and it took Matthew a moment for him to realize that Alfred was looking at his Blue Devils' jersey. "I was more of a baseball person myself, considering just how much I loved the big bats…hitting home runs…yessiree, nothing better than hitting a nice grand slam, if ya get my drift."

"Oh. Were you a very good player?"

"Eat your salad, sweetie."

---

After a time, the waiters brought colossal platters holding very pretty, very tiny amounts of food. Alfred nodded and spoke politely before helping himself, and Matthew was concerned that the growing quiet between them meant that he was neglecting his guest. But when he tried talking to Alfred, the prostitute just gave him brief, monosyllabic replies that sometimes just consisted of grunts. Resisting the urge to gnaw on the tiny stubs that were his nails, Matthew went to his own meal, his restless feet twitching unhappily underneath the table. He was boring. He was boring Alfred, and now, he-

His foot accidentally brushed against Alfred's, and he immediately opened his mouth to apologize, only to realize that Alfred's foot was deftly curling around his. Alarmed, a bit of something-something-something goat-cheese spilled out of his open mouth, and a shiver ran down his spine as he felt a bare foot rub softly up and down against the one Alfred's other foot already held captive, soothing, sensual.

Hardly daring to breathe, he looked up and saw Alfred slowly pull a bit of steak off his fork, hmming softly in appreciation and again pulling out that wink that made Matthew's head swim, his heart pounding against his ribs with all the force of a battering ram.

Slowly, but not slowly enough, Alfred let go of Matthew, and returned to his own meal. Matthew hastened to follow suit, still aglow with pleasure at the comforting human contact. He was invigorated; it honestly felt like Alfred had communicated telepathically to him, and he had understood. He was very likely wrong; was usually wrong, but the overwhelming majority of him agreed that Alfred just wasn't much a chatterbox when it came to dinnertime, and Matthew wasn't being snubbed.

They passed some time in companionable stillness and it was actually pleasant. Matthew couldn't recall the last time that he'd supped with anyone, and he drank in the moment the way he did his port when the time for dessert came around. For whatever reason, there was escargot with plum sauce (ugh), though at least there was a maple-syrup dish available.

"Um…" Matthew began hopefully, when he could bear the quiet no longer. "Do you like your food?"

"Not bad," Alfred said amicably, avoiding the escargot in favor of chocolate gateau. "Definitely not bad, though the fish sauce kind of tastes like death. But considering my idea of fine cuisine is Mickey D's, I'm probably not the best person to ask."

He attacked another dessert, and Matthew, accustomed to thoughts strictly of the white-bread variety, imagined what Alfred would look like covered in sweet orange blood sauce and vanilla bean ice cream. He choked on his crumble.

"Yao is gonna flip when he hears one of my clients was the Fleur's son. He likes Chinese take-out more than anything else, but he does love watching your Dad's show when it's on. Maybe it's because he's hotter than hell, maybe it's just cause he makes pretty-looking food for a pretty boy." Alfred enthusiastically began on his third dessert, but took one look at his silent dinner partner and immediately lowered his spoon. "You okay, baby?"

"N-yeah." When had his stomach turned to ice, and when had this artisan-sculpted chocolate begun to look terrible? "I'm just not very hungry right now."

Matthew felt Alfred's gaze burning a hole through his forehead. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Alfred impatiently summon a flock of waiters with a wave of his hand. "Scuse me? Can we get all this in a box? We need to go now."

The young man let out an unhappy squawk. "N-no! I-I mean...I didn't...no, I'm sorry...i-it's alright, we don't have to go..."

"Are you hungry?" Alfred asked, no-nonsense. Matthew stared at his tightly-wound together hands, willing one to unravel from the other.

"No," he said tightly.

"Then let's get moving." Oh, boy. You visited a La Fleur restaurant, you made it your mission to stay for awhile, ooh and ah over every beautiful masterpiece presented to you, eat every last bite because the portions were small, just enough to send your tastebuds heralding with orgasmic delight...or that was what his father had told him, anyway.

But the waiters only bowed and scurried to follow Alfred's request. Matthew looked at him with some awe. Who was he?

---

"Mattie?"

"My name's Matthew."

Their second stop had been an enormous hotel, with the literal red carpet rolled out in the posh front entrance. The bellhop didn't even look twice at Alfred's strange choice of dress, had only smiled hugely when Matthew mutely presented him with a credit card and asked for the nicest suite available. They were given a tiny gold key and shown the way to the master elevator, which was currently on the way to the master suite. Matthew gazed at the floor numbers, which glowed as they passed them.

Alfred's hand touched his own and he jerked again, but made no move to make eye contact.

"Mattie, you're not looking so hot. Sure you wanna do this?" A thumb brushed against his hand, began moving in little circles. "I can give you your money back if you don't."

"Don't you need it?"

"Hey, I have some class, y'know. Well, maybe not," the hooker conceded with a small frown as they arrived on the top floor. Only one door was available, a colossal set of double doors made out of shining redwood. While Alfred paused to admire the archway, Matthew went straight to it and opened it without any fanfare, heading inside. Alfred followed, whistling in admiration.

"Nice." He turned around for a full view, eventually hurrying after Matthew, who was on his way to the bedroom. "Way nicer than the motel rooms I've seen. The beds are so filthy I'd almost rather screw people on the floor."

He turned to his client, who had become a statue.

"How d'ya wanna do this? Are you a cowboy?"

"I'm a Canadian," Matthew responded, puzzled.

At that, Alfred roared with laughter, and Matthew immediately threw him a hurt glance, sinking onto the luxury bed and glaring silently at the floor. A second later, Alfred's arms were winding around him.

"Sorry, babe, I get that you're new to this. What I meant to ask was what position did ya wanna try?" He cocked his head, tilting up Matthew's chin with his index finger.

"This your first time? And am I bottoming or you?"

"Whatever you want," Matthew said quietly, almost inaudibly. He ought never to have done this. Alfred snorted and grabbed his shoulders, shaking until his agog client's head was lolling around on them.

"None of that shit," Alfred snapped, the honey out of his voice. "Tell me what you want, Mattie, and I'll give it to you. Fair's fair."

"I thought you'd be glad," Matthew mumbled, confused. "That I'm letting you call the shots."

Rolling his eyes, the prostitute huffed and shook his head, though there was a small smile on his face. It was at once compassionate, irritated and slightly endeared, as if it belonged to a mother watching her child pulling spaghetti out of their hair.

"It's definitely refreshing, but it's sadder than anything else, sweetie."

"I'm sorry."

"Fuck," Alfred cussed. "Every time I hear ya say 'I'm sorry' when you're not hurting the shit outta me tonight, I'm gonna charge you three hundred dollars."

"I'm...ah, never mind."

"C'mon, Mattie," Alfred insisted, climbing onto Matthew's lap and watching his ears turn red. "I've seen it all. Do you want me to ride you, or do you want to ride me? Do you want to eat cake batter off me, or do you want me to suck you off? What do you want?"

"I don't know," Matthew said miserably, looking up at the concerned prostitute with sad eyes. "I want to feel good."

"In that case, I think you better top," Alfred said decisively, "Definitely seems like you're virgin to this kind of thing."

"I'm not a virgin," Matthew retorted defensively. The man in the pink dress just gave him a look, which said all too clearly Yeah, whatever, you little lying weirdo.

"So, um, do I just…" His voice nearly gave out with his next words. "Put it in you? And then it...it feels good?"

Alfred cringed. "Wow. Holy shit. Come here, sweetie. I've had enough of this."

"Wha—" But Alfred had already pressed his warm lips against Matthew's cheek, continuing to move them even as he felt the pale young man freeze up. After awhile, Matthew slowly relaxed, though his breathing was difficult to control as Alfred's long fingers pressed against his back, digging into the muscles. At first, it hurt, but soon enough he began to shiver with delight underneath the touch, sighing in pleasure as Alfred massaged him, his face buried in Matthew's neck.

I am holding someone, he marveled, his hands timidly creeping to Alfred's waist. And someone is holding me.

A strange sort of tenderness began to churn up inside of him when, after a time Alfred drew his lips to his client's ear and whispered, hotly, slowly: "Hold me." And Matthew was definitely worried that he'd do it wrong or drop him or do something Alfred didn't like or expect, but the action was mechanical; it was easy to pull Alfred into a bridal-style embrace. He clumsily ran a hand up and down Alfred's back, thrilling when Alfred arched his back and purred, nestling into Matthew's shoulder and letting out a content sigh.

"You're warm."

At that, Matthew pressed a quick, chaste kiss against Alfred's cheek, which was nice, more than nice, but hardly felt like enough. Alfred opened an eye and considered him with a content smile.

"I don't normally let clients do any lip-kissing, but..." He playfully kissed the underside of Matthew's jaw with a light and sugary touch, gradually working his way up. "Consider this is a gift from me. I like you, Mattie."

"Me?"

Alfred's lips connected with his own. "You."

At that, Matthew kissed Alfred once, twice, and then the room started to burn. Or maybe Alfred was, so hot beneath his fingers, which were also burning. The fire was back, the flames that frightened him so weeks ago, something he believed came as a result of fear. And there was still fear, because this could still go totally wrong, because he was approaching a cliff and looking into water which depth he had no clue of.

But with it came carthasis, the overpowering rush that was better than the drugs he'd tried back home, the rush that came with the sacred, sad and glad sweetness of human contact. His tongue uncertainly traced around soft, soft lips before getting permission to sink into a hot mouth, where Alfred's tongue met his, battled for dominance. At any other time he would have submitted immediately, but he actually gladly fought with it, because this was a fight he could and did want to win. And he did. Alfred moaned, and Matthew eagerly began lapping at Alfred's mouth, high off the taste.

Hands were sliding off his face, and hot breath and gasps were intermingling, because every time one pulled away someone pressed forward needily, and Matthew clutched Alfred to his chest, rolling him onto his back with an authority that surprised him. At last he moved away from Alfred's lips, slowly and jerkily running a hand down the prostitute's front, his face hot.

Alfred smirked up at him, scattered across enormous feather pillows. "Come and get me, honey. Going to unwrap your present?"

He'd never imagined Alfred naked, but keen to show the man of his daring, he ordered, "Flip over." Before immediately adding a much meeker "Please."

The blond snorted but obliged, and Matthew's hand trembled as it slid up the zipper glinting. He let out a long, rattling breath before slowly beginning to tug at it, so feebly that it barely budged at all. Alfred let out an unhappy groan.

"Come on, hon. I've been waiting for you all evening. Please."

Every nerve of him trembling, Matthew obliged, slowly, slowly unzipping the dress and gradually revealing more skin, more soft and moist skin that set Matthew's mouth watering. With a cry, he immediately started kissing and suckling every bit of the velvety skin he could get at, and Alfred's hands jumped to his shirt, tugging at it. The Canadian drew back, paused, then all but wrenched his second favorite shirt over his head, letting it fly to the floor before he flew at Alfred, his hungry kisses reaching his likeness' collarbone just as Alfred's lips encased one of his nipples.

He stiffened, a loud, guttural groan escaping him as Alfred sweetly lapped at it as he would a lollipop, his touch causing the fire in him to curl and crackle dangerously, beautifully, and it wasn't too long before he tried to mimic Alfred, but the young man stopped him by putting a finger against his gasping mouth.

"No need, baby. This is all about you tonight. And be careful not to leave any hickeys or any of that crap."

"I want to make you feel good too," Matthew sighed, glancing down at his uncomfortable pants and blushing. Alfred's lovely, award-winning smile glinted as he tugged at Matthew's belt. "Gonna show what you got, cowboy?"

He was infinitely shyer when it came to taking his pants off, though Alfred slid out of his dress as easily as a snake will slide out of its skin. Teeth chattering with both anticipation and with nerves, he closed his eyes and slid his boxers down with a definite jerk before he could change his mind. He heard silence; cold dread started to break through his high.

"I'm...I'm sorry, I...gah!"

Alfred was inches away from his own face, staring down at Matthew's cock with a mixture of trepidation and wonder. "Hell." He whistled. "Wow. I didn't think I'd ever see one that came close to...but this pretty well does. I mean, wow."

"Is it okay?" Matthew asked softly, butterflies beating holes against his insides.

The blond just looked up at him, grinning broadly. "If by 'okay,' you mean, you should charge people big bucks to get up on that carnival ride, then hell to ya, it's 'okay.'" He leaned back, and Matthew thought he saw the prostitute...pouting. "Man, I hate it when I get folks bigger 'en me. That's just...wow. La Fleur's got nothing on you, Mattie."

"Um, thanks," Matthew muttered, feeling a strange sense of what felt suspiciously like pride and profound embarrassment. Something cool brushed against his cock, and he opened his eyes to find that Alfred was sliding a condom over his cock, with some difficulty. "H-hey!"

"Gotta put a cap on it, that's my policy," he said. "Unless you brought one?"

"Well, I-I'm sorry, I-"

"Never mind." Alfred shook his head. "You really are hopeless, Mattie. And that's six hundred you owe me now."

"I'm sor-aaah!"

In a flash, Alfred's lips pressed against Matthew's member before opening his mouth, lightly looping around the head before traveling upward, tracing over a vein and suckling with his hot, dirty sweet mouth. Jaw dropping, Matthew's hips immediately jerked up, and Alfred frowned, backing up slightly and holding a hand up.

"Sorry," Matthew said again, between gritted teeth. He let out a yelp as he felt teeth ever so lightly graze around his member, and his hands tangled into Alfred's hair, whimpering in ecstasy.

It felt...oh, God, it felt like too much, like he wanted to pull away because his senses were on overload but he couldn't because it felt too good, it felt too good to listen to Alfred obscenely slurp around his cock and lap at it like he would something sweet, finally, finally returning to give his prickling, hard head attention, giving it warm suction and worrying it and sending sparks dancing throughout his body-this was nothing in comparison to the sex that his roommate had coerced him into years ago, and he cried out, forcing himself to pull out of the sweet mouth and he wildly dragged Alfred to his knees, dripping, aching cock still hot, still needy for attention.

Alfred glanced behind him, and his sultry look made Matthew eagerly drag him towards him. "Well. Looks like someone's found his backbone."

"Mmmph," Matthew mumbled, positioning himself over Alfred's body before hesitating, a bit of the cloud lifting from his lusty, craven thoughts. "O-oh. I have to prepare you, don't I?"

The blue eyes blinked. "That'd...that'd be nice. Um, there's some lube in my handbag...if ya wanna grab it..."

Dazed, he scrabbled off the mattress, blindly poking around for it until his hand brushed against something smooth, and he struggled with the cool clasps, accidentally dumping everything out and seizing a bottle out of the debris. He climbed back up, dumping a more than generous amount on his slender fingers, on his throbbing cock. Then, he hesitated again, looking at Alfred's lovely body, perfect as a statue of Adonis.

"So, I..."

"Spread me out."

"Will I hurt you?"

"Not if you're gentle."

Sucking in a deep breath, Matthew cautiously extended a finger in, nearly drawing out when he heard Alfred grunt and felt him shiver. More carefully, he felt around, extending another finger after a moment. Scissoring, he felt his heart leap when Alfred hummed in appreciation, and he tentatively stroked Alfred's sweet spot, adding a third finger to caress.

"M-Mattie, god, if you...aaagh," Alfred writhed and so did the carnal flames engulfing Matthew. "H-hurry up!"

With a breathy gasp, Matthew obliged, moving his hard and rosy-red shaft against Alfred's body, bracing himself, and slowly pressing in. Gritting his teeth, Alfred squeezed his eyes shut and babbled incomprehensibly as Matthew bucked and rolled his hips frantically, trying to keep himself from just sliding in all the way. "G-God! H-holy mother of..." He thrashed, and Matthew peppered his sweating neck with kisses before ravishing Alfred's gasping mouth. "I-ah-t-think that's...y-you can...ughaaah, Mattie-"

And Matthew slid in with a loud moan, sinking balls-deep and thrusting experimentally, eyes flickering when he felt Alfred's hot body tighten around his weeping cock, which swelled inside Alfred. Could Alfred really be a prostitute with this sort of body? Had he shared it with some...somebodies many times before?

The thought spurred a vicious sort of rage that Matthew had never before felt in his life, and he drew almost out the way out with a snarl before sliding straight back in, feeling Alfred shudder and wail underneath him. He would do everything and anything for Alfred, and no one else would be allowed to touch him again. Ever. He started to thrust more shallowly, aiming for Alfred's prostrate and feeling the young man grind against his body, a symphony of gasps as their tongues clashed, drool oozing down Alfred's mouth as Matthew captured one frantic kiss after another, keen to extinguish the fire he became even as he flung kindling on it, feeling Alfred's sweating body rock back watonly on his shaft, keening helplessly when Matthew's member caressed his prostrate. "Oh, Mattie, please, faster-!"

And he obliged, his pleasure spiraling, whirling upwards out of control, his hands flying to Alfred's own erection and pumping, and Alfred's cries improved to a scream as Matthew thrust deeper and deeper inside, the burning at his navel tightening almost unbearably as he reached his peak-

"Alfred!"

And then came the snap. With a long gasp, he came, his body giving out and collapsing on Alfred, whose wobbling arms fell underneath him as Alfred came a second later.

For a moment, Matthew just lay there, inhaling the perfume intermingled with Alfred's sweat, Alfred's natural scent before a soft noise came from underneath him: "Hey, hon, you're kind of squashing me."

He immediately rolled off, reluctant as he was to do so, chest still heaving. "Sorry."

Alfred grumbled something incoherent into a pillow as Matthew pulled him into his arms, hair plastered to his sweating scalp. "Cuddler, huh? I knew I had you pinned."

"Hmm" was the only response Matthew had as Alfred cuddled up to his chest, his eyes considerably dimmer now, even as Matthew quietly looked down at him with glowing eyes. For awhile, they lay there, Matthew occasionally brushing an adoring kiss against Alfred's skin, his hands gently stroking and smoothing at the prostitute's body. Alfred just lay there quietly.

After a time, he asked, groggily: "What time is it?"

Matthew really, really didn't want to respond, didn't want to move, didn't want to be pulled out of the magical trance that held him so enraptured, so content in this comfortable cocoon of skin and warmth. But he hesitantly got up to look at a nearby clock all the same, pulling Alfred with him so that the young man was still warm against his chest. "...midnight." He exhaled. "Time...time flies when you're having fun, huh?"

Alfred exhaled. "I guess." And he made to get up. Confused, Matthew held him fast. "Where are you going?"

"Time's up, buttercup. Gotta head back to...to where I was."

What? Matthew looked at Alfred, trying to pull meaning out of the words. But the prostitute simply looked at him, not looking dashing or sexy or anything other than just slightly exhausted. Oh. For a moment, he stiffened, fell out of time, but a second later he was back.

"You don't have to do that." He tried to push Alfred's head back down so that he would lay still cradled against him again, but to his surprise and disappointment, Alfred resisted.

"And why is that?"

"Because I love you." Alfred paused, and Matthew hugged him close, kissing him on the head. "I love you and I want you to stay with me. You saved my life that night, Alfred, and now you've saved me again. I can afford to take care of you, you know. I want you to stay with me."

There was a long pause; Matthew's breath hitched in giddy hopefulness, a warm smile spilling across his face. He waited, waited for Alfred's shock, his joy to quickly become apparent and his happiness to spill over with words of love. Instead, to Matthew's surprise, Alfred only gave him a calculating, concerned stare, which after some long and painful seconds, became a sigh. "Oh, honey." Alfred's shoulders sagged, as if the weight of the world suddenly collapsed on them. "You really aren't kidding me. Christ."

"Why would I joke about something like that?" Matthew wondered, a little hurt. He made to kiss Alfred again, but the young man gently extracted himself from Matthew's arms. "Alfred...?"

The prostitute slowly took his hand again, pressed his lips against it. "Love, I'm sorry, but if you thought the two of us could ever be any..."

"I'll change!" The plea was violent, desperate. "Alfred, I can change. Whatever you need me to be, I swear I can-"

"Mattie," Alfred interrupted wearily, his voice low. "Don't even..."

"But I LOVE you. I swear I'm not lying! Honest!"

"Kiddo, you just think you love me," Alfred murmured placatingly, which only made Matthew angrier. "Will you quit the...the fuck calling me that! My name's not Mattie, and we're probably the same...fucking age, so stop calling me 'kiddo!'"

And there again was the bolt of electric blue fire in Alfred's eyes, and the intensity of it put the helpless heat Matthew felt simmering inside of him to shame. He faltered as Alfred stared at him, really stared at him with that blisteringly hot, almost uncontainable energy, and it seemed a miracle that energy didn't shoot out Alfred's eyes, or that they didn't explode with the intensity of the storm behind them.

But after Matthew had been reduced from anger to another quivering mess, a grim smile appeared under the blue flames. "Well. Someone's really getting outta his shell, huh? I like it. But Matti-Matthew," he corrected himself, and Matthew now thought he missed the pet name, if only slightly. "Babe, I had a really nice time tonight, nicer than one I've had in a long, long time, but you're fucking kidding yourself right now. We can't...be we. I swear it's not you, it's me."

"Is that supposed to make me feel any better?" Matthew asked shakily, the hurt twisting into his body like thumbscrews, and he twisted his hands into the comforters, betrayal looming across the battlefield of his mind. "Why? Alfred, y-you're being so unfair." And with that, the dam broke and the tears came pouring down his face.

Stillness. Looking distraught, Alfred made to put a hand on Matthew's shoulder, thought better of it, and put it aside. "Honey, your heart's meant for a very lucky someone else."

"Do you love someone else?" He spat, hurt still heaving onto every word. Alfred hesitated, and more tears oozed down a pale, brokenhearted face. "I knew it."

"No," Alfred responded quietly, shaking his head. "Maybe. A long time ago. I'm not sure. I don't think I'm fit to actually love anyone or anything now. That's why I'm perfect for this job. I talk a pretty mean game, sweetheart, but I'm royally fucked up inside, like you." Alfred gave him a sad grin when Matthew goggled up at him, eyes red. "But you've got real potential to turn inta something real. Real and good and more beautiful than ya are right now. If only for dat damned shyness and your fucking need to fucking depreciate everything you fucking do, everyone could see how great a guy you really are. It's fucking dingbats like your parents that have to look for something good when something special is already under their noses."

"How did you..." He shook his head, astounded. "I want to be more like you. You're your own person."

"Mattie, don't you get it? I'm not mine, I'm everyone's," Alfred said resignedly. "Sure, I ultimately get to pick who I sleep with, but when business has been real bad and I haven't eaten for a few days, have to spend all my remaining cash on makeup and tanning and not looking like a dump—I'm desperate. Ten bucks for a handjob, when I normally charge fifty?" Alfred's eyes misted over. "Fine. I'm hungry. So hungry that I can't think straight. You want me to dress up in some dumbass getup and tell everyone about the 'whore who can't get enough of you' for only two hundred bucks? Good and dandy. S'not like I can find work doing anything else. Even the big smelly truck drivers into BDSM and the bean poles who talk a whole lot of filthy shit and beat their mothers every night are suddenly good prospects when you've been kicked off your 'friend's' sofa and you think you might be dead tomorrow morning."

Matthew was lost.

"But…you look so nice," He said slowly, hesitantly. "So healthy. And the way you were talking and laughing at dinner…anyone would have thought you were a movie star."

"Yeah. It's glamorous, alright. I love being chased off by the cops every week. I love doing almost every guy that comes looking. I love having people throw rocks at me and calling me a whore and the scum of the earth. I love being a sperm dumpster." Matthew shuddered as if Alfred had physically slid a knife inbetween his ribs. "Who knows? Maybe some people find it sexy. Hell, I know some people think it's sexy. It just kind of makes me sad." He worried at his bottom lip. "I only ever got to make love twice in my life, and while I have the option to date outside of work, who wants a relationship with a whore? You THINK you do, Mattie, because you don't understand that you're meant for something so much better."

"But you..."

"It's not so much fun when you're standing on the same street with other 'people of the night,' knowing at least three of 'em has to buy diapers or food for their kids sometime quick. Sometimes we get lucky…a lonely businessman comes for a quick pick-up, and we can squeeze a little extra out of him. It's actually pretty funny, when one of them drives up looking all forlorn and tryin' to be intimidating when he's clearly tryin' to compensate for something." Alfred chuckled and Matthew turned his eyes to the floor so that the prostitute couldn't see the hurt and indignant tears brimming in them. "Then, an hour or so later, he drives back and drops his quick fix off, beaming all stupid and cock of the walk."

His chuckling abruptly fell still when he looked at Matthew. "You okay, kid? You look awful."

"You said you had a nice time tonight," Matthew murmured, squeezing his bare legs to his chest and trying to keep the pain out of his voice. "How can I know that you're not just lying?"

"You really can't" was Alfred's vague answer. "Truth is, I'd be lying if I didn't tell every client I get that they're experts at the game, and that I'm craving more." Again, that look of wistfulness. "Good business opportunity. Everyone likes to think they're somebody to somebody, or at least they get off a little in the meantime. Oh," he said sadly when he saw Matthew clap his hands to his face. "I should shut up right now, huh? Don't cry, angel. Tonight WAS nice," he said earnestly, and Alfred waited until Matthew looked up again, young face lined with misery. "I don't remember the last time anyone held the door open for me or treated me to dinner or asked me about myself. And that says a whole lotta 'bout you Mattie, because when ya want to learn the real character of a guy, you look at how he treats the people under him." A hint of the old wickedness sparkled back into his eyes, and Matthew blushed as Alfred threw his head back and laughed heartily. "And I mean that literally, too. I can testify that you're not at all shabby at the business. If you're looking to quit your day job, I can easily hook you up if ya lookin' for an exciting new career as a gigolo."

Aghast and red-faced again, Matthew started to stammer but Alfred waved it aside, smirking. "Just kidding. You're not that kind of person. I respect that. Means less competition for me." Alfred winked and leaned forward, pecking Matthew on the cheek. "You're going to be so happy one day. Trust me."

"No I won't," Matthew faltered, twisting his hands into the bubblegum pink fabric of Alfred's dress. "Not without you."

"Son of a bitch," Alfred hissed, slapping his thigh in frustration. "Don't you see? If I really didn't care about you, I'd try to hook you, make you into a regular sucker." Just how many regular suckers did Alfred have? The thought was unbearable. "But I can't give you what you need, Mattie. My heart's crap, and I can't change. I'm in deep, and I don't wanna change now. Besides," he added, with great kindness. "Before you try and love anyone, ya gotta love yourself."

A lump swelled in Matthew's throat and the young man looked down again, lips quivering madly. Alfred made a sort of hushing sound and pressed Matthew in a sort of hug, the Canadian's face pressed against the other's shoulder blade. He screwed his face up and inhaled Alfred's scent, desperate to burn it into memory—

"Hey, now. It's okay. Maybe you don't see you just yet. Or maybe you're just looking at all the blasé things about yourself that you want to change."

"Who'd want me?" He croaked. "I don't even know what is me, anyway."

Alfred thought for a moment. "Let me see…I see you….you're definitely the devoted type, I think, so I see you gettin' hitched someday. Nice flowery wedding, though you'll probably end up with some hotshot who wants lasers and smoke machines at the ceremony," he added dryly, and Matthew let out a noise that was between sob and giggle. "Maybe you'll have a kid or two, though you'll agonize over the million things you expect to go wrong before your sweetie finally convinces ya it'll all be alright. Then, I see a soccer mom."

Matthew slowly shook his head, wiping a tear from his eye. A reluctant smile had found its way to his face. "You're really weird, Alfred."

"And that's why they love me," the prostitute said proudly, awkwardly patting Matthew's back before standing up, peering around the floor for his pumps and stepping back into them. The student watched helplessly, desperate for some incentive to make Alfred stay, but unable to think of any.

"Wait," he faltered, standing up so quickly he nearly stumbled as Alfred reached for his purse. "How much do I owe you?"

Alfred turned, and this time there was no mischief in his eyes. He set something down on a nearby table, and Matthew saw that it was the five hundred he'd given Alfred earlier.

"You paid for dinner. And the room. That'll be enough."

"But you said—"

"Mattie, if you come looking for a quick fuck, look me up," Alfred said gently, leaning forward to give Matthew a quick nose kiss. "But if you're looking for something a bit more meaningful…I'd keep wandering, past the red light district. Don't even go looking for love—go look for a sport bar with a Blue Devil game on. Or a nice, hole-in-the-wall restaurant with great pancakes where the waitress calls you honey pie and remembers your order," he added vaguely, and Matthew gave him a blank stare. "Look for what you want to make better. Uh, volunteer, and all that shit. Go on vacations. Stop to look at things you know are pretty, or things you think could be maybe sort of nice if you stopped and thought about it. Get outside the city and find somewhere you can look up at the stars." He snorted. "Shit, I dunno. Sleep in. Dress like a slob. Dress neat. See a therapist. Insert a lot of other generic crap."

"I don't want to die alone," Matthew wavered, and the words made his throat ache something terribly, made his eyes sting until he was blinking away tears.

"Everyone dies alone, stupid." Alfred said bluntly. "Hell, even if you fuck someone until the dawn's early light, ya gotta pull out and be your own person again eventually. Sex is the closest thing ya can get to being one with anyone, but that don't guarantee you're gonna connect with someone mentally or emotionally, and that's the shit that counts." He closed his eyes for a moment. "It'd be nice if a certain someone remembered that."

"What?"

"You might die in a warm bed surrounded by your grandkids, or you might die on the street like this one homeless guy who got shot by druggies nine or ten times in the back last week." Matthew cringed, bloody black and white images flashing in horrifying detail across his eyes. "Either way, you're in your own skin, and as far as anyone knows, you're completely alone when you…cross over. Or disappear. Or get born again. Can I go now?" He whined, passing from one foot to the other. "I'm starting to sound sentimental as shit, and it's embarrassing."

"What are you going to do?"

Alfred shrugged.

"It's late," he mused, zipping up his pink dress. "If I wait around the corner for a little while, chances are someone will come around wanting an early-morning screw. But I don't think that'll happen. Besides, I'm tired and I think I might head to Feliks' digs. I made a good amount last night, so he'll probably lend me the couch if I fork some over."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay here?"

"Mattie. Mattie, Mattie, Mattie," Alfred tsked. "You NEVER ask a hooker to sleep over, or they'll rob you blind. Not all of 'em are as nice as me, so ya gotta be careful."

"WOULD you rob me blind?"

"Of course not, but still." Alfred messily ruffled Matthew's hair, something the young man acknowledged with a scowl, and Alfred let out a pealing laugh before heading towards the door.

"Goodnight, hon. Here's looking at you, kid."

"Tha—" But the door had already swung shut and Matthew cut off in mid-sentence.

Alone again. Rejected by his first love, rejected by a prostitute.

He closed his eyes and silently listened to the sound of his heart crack before he closed up in a lonely ball under the covers and waited for senselessness to come, because he would not sleep, not for a long time.

Goodbye.

Tears weren't enough.

~o*oOo*o~

---

He half-wished he'd stayed. This was a nice hotel and it was a nice bed and a nice boy he was leaving behind. But Alfred knew himself too well; if he stayed, he would not head back, and that was the last thing either of them needed. He let out a soft tutting noise as the elevator made its way to the ground floor.

Because it was true. Because what was left of him was shit, and while a lot of it was pretty awesome shit to look at according to the majority of those who clamored for his services, it still wasn't whole. Alfred smiled a strange smile, his eyes sad.

He wouldn't be doing some poor kid who needed to step out of his father's shadow any favors by sticking with him. He'd only end up a bullet-ridden corpse in some lake faraway, and Alfred...well, he wouldn't be in a very desirable place either, so it was probably better he head to Feliks' house and drink. Drink and forget.

Cute kid. Not like the man he once loved, not like his fussbudget first love who would up breaking his heart for the first time, but nice boy. He'd be alright.

Alfred left the ritzy hotel, winding up on the city streets, looking to hail a taxi cab. But then a large hand closed over his shoulders in a vice-like grip, and Alfred let out a shout of alarm, fist whirling around at the ready.

But another hand seized it before it could hammer into an uppercut, and Alfred saw a familiar pair of violet eyes staring down at him, gaunt. "O-oh." He closed his eyes. "Jeezus, you scared the shit outta me." Alfred clapped a hand over his racing heart, trying to ignore the dread that had snugly encased it in hot, dark fear. "H-hey, Vanya."

The tall, pale-faced Russian stared down at the young man, his trenchcoat and red scarf fluttering in the nippy morning air. He let the silence hang between them for a long, uncomfortable minute before bending down to look at Alfred, his stare unwavering as it took in Alfred's flushed face, his hair, which was more disheveled than normal.

"You were working." The thickly-accented words were harsh, but resigned.

"I had to," Alfred argued feebly, sorrow stealing across his face as Ivan dragged him down the street, towards where a dark, posh vehicle was waiting, not looking at him. "I was hungry."

"Why did you not stay in the penthouse?" Ivan asked coldly. "All your needs were met for there. Unless, of course, a different...ah, hunger was occupying you?" He spat the words out like pure venom, his grip becoming painfully tight.

Because your psycho scary sister is trying to set me on fire, stab me in my sleep, and/or kill me with sheer mind power. Because you're gone for two fucking weeks after you lose it and start shouting at me, then come back and act like nothing happened. ""Vanya, baby, it's not like that, please. I needed some fresh air."

"Fresh? You call this filthy city pollution fresh?" If they weren't out in public, Alfred knew he'd be shouting. "That's rich. Well, like it or not, you will enjoy good air, clean air, very soon, because you're coming back with me." He dragged Alfred to the car door and held it open before the driver could slip out. "I am not letting you slip out again like naughty animal. I think you need to be re-acquainted with the room."

Alfred just looked at the head of the Russian mafia, his face overcome with grief. "Ivan..." He reached out for Ivan's arm, who irritably whipped it away. "If something were to happen to you, God forbid…" He shook his head vigorously. "I can't afford to get out of practice. I'll die."

"What did I do to deserve this lack of faith in me?" Ivan demanded. "I give you things. Nice things. I work hard, to get you what I feel like you deserve, remove you from ghetto to nice house, with nice sisters to look after you. And this is how you repay me? Slinking out to be a dirty slut, betraying me and my trust? My affection for you?"

The way you did with that Lithuanian boy you forced to suck you off?

Alfred was silent. Ivan's infuriated eyes melted away into something substantially cooler, though also substantially more hurt. "You are awful," he croaked, tucking a strand of flyaway blond hair between Alfred's chin. "You are awful because I love you and you don't love me back. Not like you should. If you really loved me, you would stop running behind my back all the time. Making me think you are being unfaithful."

"Ivan, I know what you're doing." Alfred said quietly. "And sooner or later…regardless of how many connections you have, angel, or how smart or dangerous you can be…." A half-hysteric laugh. "I think it's going to catch up to you, Vanya. And I'm scared, so scared of that. I won't be able to bear it if I stay so close to you."

"That is too bad. Because you are mine. Until you are dead and even after that." Ivan turned to look up at the towering hotel, his expression becoming very ugly. "What sort of person is he? Perhaps I should pay him a visit to find out, da?"

No. Panicked, he threw his arms around Ivan's torso and inhaled, the scent of vodka and blood permeating his senses. "He's you, albeit shorter and scareder and less Russian-ny. God, between you and him, I think I oughta become a fucking psychiatrist," he said without ire, looking up into purple eyes that now seemed puzzled.

"Hold me." After a moment's hesitation, Ivan's overlarge arms did wrap around him-before they promptly shoved him into the backseat. He swung his long legs in and slammed the door shut behind him, and the driver sped off.

Well, that makes three, Alfred thought duly as he watched the hotel disappear into a blur. He supposed he ought to appreciate the nightlife while he still could; it would be a long, long time before he could see it firsthand. If indeed ever again.

And while he was regretful, sad, he supposed he was grateful as well, if only to have this sort of night once again before he died.

As Ivan sank his head into his lap, Alfred absently petted him, smiling faintly when he recalled the stammering young man's steady change throughout the night. Hopefully hormones wouldn't turn him into an absolute shit, but Alfred doubted that would happen. Matthew had a heart of gold, and hopefully he found someone almost worthy of it someday.

Here's looking at you, kid.

---

When Matthew got up again, he did not know if it were morning or evening, or how much time had passed. He simply headed down the stairs, headed out of the hotel and kept walking. For what may or may not have been a long time, he walked, putting one foot in front of the other, pausing to look at things, drank even the most minute details in, tried to commit them to memory. He hummed tunelessly to himself as he did so, looking for a place to just be.

Not a lot of people just be in the city, he observed. Everyone's always rushing someplace, needing to do and act and go. Maybe such an existence was a good one, if done in moderation. To work and to do and to feel this stillness inside that was neither sadness nor gladness, just simply was and was waiting expectantly to become something more-

Maybe that was what it was to be human.

When his legs became heavy underneath him, he ducked inside a mom and pop sort of pancake restaurant, where a grizzled old woman fussed over him and brought him free juice as well when he asked for water-you're looking tired, son, and I'm sure your mother would want the same for my boys-and he just smiled at her and took it with gratitude and a grain of salt, staring out at the dingy windows as he waited for his blueberry pancakes, wondering vaguely about the phone call he was going to have to give to his father sooner or later.

If Francis wouldn't pay for his going back to Canada, maybe he'd just...do it himself. It would take awhile. But he'd noticed a help wanted sign in the front window, and he supposed it couldn't do any harm but to ask.

Who knew?

Sober-eyed, he almost took a sip of juice from a cup of kindness, paused, and then raised it slightly, with reverence. It was stupid, he knew, but it was all he had to go on.

Here's to you, Alfred, he thought, before downing the lot.

~o*oOo*o~

Kind of random ending, but it felt right. God, I'm tired. In a few hours, the first day of the new semester begins...wish me luck, everyone. Finishing up my required college curriculum classes this year.

Uh...the sex scene. I always feel weird about doing them *blushes* so please tell me if anything can be improved.

Matthew suffered from Social Anxiety Disorder, or SAD. And it was sad. Or maybe it's a glad story. I'm not quite sure. Am a little worried this story is too weird in general, and that I've become too preachy in my work. I'm sorry if it seems like I am.

Much love always. Please press the lovely review button below. And put words in the box, even if they're the strange, shouty kind. ^_^ ~UOTRS