There's an alleyway behind the bar he frequents most nights, dark and musty and dank, rife with the stench of sweating dancers, lubed-up alcoholics with nowhere and no-one to put out; and it's here he leads the kid, oddly quiet after the cackling fit of seven black vodka and raspberry shots, blond hair mussed up as if he's been to and beyond the bedside of many a stranger tonight. He can't see his eyes, but it doesn't matter. A quick thrill, a cheap kill - it's all the same to him - and imagining the pain in them as the blood ebbs out quickly is only a courtesy spirit measure after all. Unnecessary. Chillingly phantasmic. What-the-fuck-ever.
He presses the little blond hardbody against the crumbling brick wall, eyes briefly askance as a teetering couple cackle past, before purring low in his throat, savouring the warmth against the winter chill. He moves in deeper, hands whispering over their skin, testing the waters. Blond kid doesn't back down, doesn't complain, merely grins a little and slides his cracked black-nailed fingers along Axel's stomach, scratching in reddening lines like some kind of satanic rich-kid kick until he pants out a moan, feeling cheated in the easiness it took. Axel was expecting easy - hell, he came here for the pretty easy reckless (and came again most nights...and again and again and) - but this kid was charmeuse in his hands, Grayson levels of flexibility, and kissed like a fish on acid with just enough tongue - and he was getting far too into this to even care about the end result, wasn't he; and that was the telling point, really, whether he would be soon enjoying their body with their mind intact or dancing with tarnished metal slivers just out of reach...
And then a soft hiss, an errant grin - devilish and shitstarting and fuck- there's pressure against his groin, and it's not what he was expecting at all, painfully sharp and he reacts in the only way he knows how against a wall (proverbial or not) as calm heat speeds through his ears.
"Well," he clears his throat, eyeing up the switchblade before him, held in a much steadier hand than his own. "This is almost..."
"Embarrassing?" The blond cocks an eyebrow at him, twisting the knife in much the same motion. "You were expecting - what? Some little blond skit unable to formulate even the basest of sentences?"
"Not this."
"And what's with the raincoat and leather gloves anyway? Who are you, the next Pat Bateman? I've met better fucks in cheap Gaultier knockoffs than you."
The words spill from his mouth, before he even has time to process the finalities and the complications of which he speaks.
"Come back to my apartment."
Blond kid snorts. "And get axed to some shitty News song? Yeah. I think not."
He slides out from the red-head's warmth, slicing through him with his eyes, black like the dead, and flicks his knife closed.
"I'll...see you when I see you, then?" He hopes the hope dormant in his eyes, in his voice, in his entire being, isn't too obvious, isn't aching out into the very air.
"You'll be lucky," comes the snapped response, as sharp as his blade, and twice as deadly.
"So what's your name?" Axel finds himself shouting back to his back, strident and lithe.
Kid turns, profile view, and finger-salutes. "Call me, babe!"
It took all of five minutes for Axel to regain some composure, and indeed, the use of his vocal cords, before grumbling out to no one in particular: "It's Axel. Not babe."
He shoves the steak knife roughly into a pocket, and follows the night home.