Inspired by Koko Be Good by Jen Wang

Dear Someone;

Prologue

There's a special place in the universe for people like me. They end up there because life's a bitch and likes to throw them curve balls. Not all the time, not every person, but it happens enough to make you wonder just what it is certain people are doing wrong and what they need to do to fix it. You can take your best swing at that pitch, but there's no guarantee that you won't strike out. And if you do strike out, then God pity you, because other people sure as hell won't give a flying fuck.

That's how I used to feel, in any case.

Just listen.

Imagine this: you've never met them before, never heard of them and probably never would have if Fate hadn't intervened. Had they been born in your lifetime or had they crossed your path at some point, I'm sure they would have held you in their arms and whispered sweet nothings in your ear. Imagine someone so perfect in all their imperfections that is an exact match to your fragile yet stubborn personality—someone who compliments your very being so well that it's impossible to imagine the two of you without each other. Imagine that person, ideal in not only appearance, but in heart and spirit as well. Imagine you love them, have always loved them and always will, but you've never met.

You fall in love with someone you've never met—and never will meet.

It starts with a voice. For me, it started with his song. That song led to a journey through the life of someone so troubled, so pained, yet so full of life and colorful, so like and unlike me that it made no sense; it still makes no sense. But it felt right.

I'm not rambling; I'm speaking my heart.

Just listen.

Imagine yourself in my shoes. Imagine your whole way of thinking inverted and then crumpled in on itself. Imagine the intensity of a feeling you shouldn't have and don't understand. Can you see it? Can you feel it?

Are you hearing what I'm saying?

That's the backdrop. It's just a glimpse, but there's so much more. It's that journey, that someone's journey, that I'm writing about now. And by writing about him, I can explore me. No moment spared, no incident unimportant. So sit back and journey with me. Take everything in and, maybe, learn from it.

Please, just listen.

Reality;

Age 13

When the door closes, the world is cut off.

He puts on some classical music at a dull volume, dims the lights, and closes the blinds. Then he locks the door. His voice, with a low and drawn out tone to it, gently says to relax. I can only sit at the foot of the bed and wait until he's ready. Always when he's ready, never a moment before.

I don't speak. I don't move.

I close my eyes and conjure up an image of the world outside, kept away from me by nothing more than a wooden barrier and a growing lump of fear snaking its way through my chest. I think of that world, a softer and quieter place filled with the whispers of loved ones. Or loved one. I think of my latest homework assignment, left soda-stained and abandoned on my desk. I think of the last game I snagged a chance to play, of Old Lady Lockhart and her pretty granddaughter down our street. I think of the shrill orchestra of crickets and the rest of Night's creatures sounding in unison outside. I think of anything else that takes me away.

So long as it takes me away.

Then he's ready.

I open my eyes to peer into piercing gold ones. He stands tall and bare from the waist up, nothing but glistening amber skin and finely sculpted muscle. Silver hair drapes over his shoulders in small, bundled spikes. He's wearing the same lazy grin as before, perhaps with more playfulness than I'm used to with him. He touches my face, lightly running thick fingers along my cheeks. Then he cups them in his palms and tilts my head upwards. Those eyes are lit with amusement, and again he tells me to relax before whispering my name. It rolls like a prayer, a blessing, off his tongue.

"Roxas."

I don't say anything back. Not that he's looking for a verbal response. Those fingers are hot against my skin. The smile broadens. "Come now, we've done this before. You know what I want, Roxas."

I give a hard swallow then nod. He laughs.

"And what do I want?"

I think back on the last time I'd snuck out for him, the last time I was kept in this room. The last time he touched me. It's something I still can't wrap my mind around, but I ignore it for now and give him his answer. He likes to draw it out as long as possible, make it a game, so I take my sweet time undoing his zipper, rolling down the jeans and underwear, touching and licking and…

"Good boy."

I'm like a pet to him, but I don't know if that's more disturbing than the way his narrowed eyes glaze over. His gaze burns, hurts. At some point his fingers find their way into my hair, gripping the locks more tightly with every second drawing him closer to release. Like the last time, he's silent through most of it, save for the occasional mutter now and then.

Only when he's closer, only when he fists my hair and tugs my face forward, does he break the pattern; his voice gruff, animalistic. "More. Open."

I try not to gag on the fullness of him, try but fail, overwhelmed by the throbbing force against the back of my throat. He tastes of salt, sweat and the musky scent and flavor of his cologne. My eyes water. My fists bunch up against his waist, pushing away, but he just holds me there and keeps thrusting himself forward. I choke.

"Through your nose," he growls. But I can't fucking breathe. I'm pounding on his hips, and only when tears start slipping from my eyes does he pull out and allow me that breath.

He waits a beat, watches me twist away with gasps and harsh coughs, then he calmly tells me to open my mouth wider and suck.

He shoves it back in.

We follow this pattern until it's not so painful, until every inch of his arousal tastes familiar, until I can suck in oxygen through my nose instead of fighting back the urge to vomit. Eventually getting it in deeper is easier. It's enjoyable, dare I say, when he stops man handling me and lets me blow him on my own terms. I close my eyes once I get into the rhythm of things, letting out the appropriate moans and slippery smacks of lip against heated flesh here and there.

He sounds pleased, but not once do I look at him to be sure. I keep my eyes closed during the entire thing.

For when he dumps his load square in my mouth, on my face, with a groan.

For when he returns the favor with more passion and tenderness than I think is possible from him.

For when he's pressing me firmly into his sheets, sweaty skin brushing against and sticking with mine.

For when he takes me again and again and again, until I can't hold back my cries of pleasure out of spite anymore.

He works my body raw, hands always roaming, sultry kisses always being laid on my chest and naval and forehead. Soft calls, simple words. "Yes, yes. That's it, Rox…"

If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's whispering love in my ears.

But I do know better.

He fucks me until he's spent, until my voice is left hoarse and we're both panting. The bed shifts when he collapses by my side, when he curls into me with a hand on my cheek. Only the thumb moves against it, a blazing reminder of moments before.

"Roxas."

I don't open my eyes.

Somehow I know he's smiling at me—no, smirking if nothing else. Nothing else is said or done; we just lay there. My mind wanders. To the cricket song sounding outside. To Old Lady Lockhart and her pretty granddaughter down our street. To the video game beckoning me to come play. To my abandoned homework. To my family, sleeping away just as unaware as ever. To the world outside, beyond that door.

I open my eyes.

He doesn't fuss or do anything when I slip away from his hand. He lets me use his shower in peace. Only his cat-like stare speaks to me when I come back to the room to dress, raking through me. His body is splayed out on the bed like a bronze Adonis, unmoving. That damned smile never leaves his mouth.

When I'm clean and dressed, I stand before him and stare expectantly until he lets out an amused huff. "Alright."

The man moves, reaches for something on his nightstand. A wallet. He pulls out two fifties, still crisp, and folds them carefully in my outstretched hand. "Because you asked so nicely. And remember —"

"Our little secret." I hardly recognize my own voice after so many hours of abuse, but it still holds the hard edge I've made habitual. "Got it."

That smile. Those eyes. They crinkle and narrow once more.

"Good boy."

"Whatever."

I leave.

We All Start Somewhere;

Age 23

His name was Xemnas.

Or, perhaps, I should say is? The last time I saw that face, spoke to that man, was close to a decade ago. Where he is now and what he's doing with his life doesn't concern me. All I know is that every detail of his body has been etched into my mind ever since. Every alluring dip of muscle in smooth skin. The feline quality of his eyes, how their amber gaze would darken with each aroused thought or utterance. The obsessive way he fashioned his hair, every silver strand in place around his chiseled face. His limbs were long, his build seemed slender in spite of all his muscle and bulk, and his teeth could make pearls weep with envy. His smile, which he always reserved for me during our more intimate encounters, exuded excited confidence and sexiness. Everything about him was, and probably still is, painfully attractive.

He was a dangerous being. I soon found I didn't mind all that much.

The first time I met him was when I was thirteen. It was on a Tuesday in the sweltering month of August, in our small town neighborhood of Glesdale. It was a summer filled with hunched, sun burnt bodies sticky with sweat and shuffling along the pavement. It was a summer where my sister and I were tasked with cleaning our small daisy yellow abode wedged in the beginnings of forest. She offered to handle the inside if I covered everything outside. The yards, front and back, the gutters and windows and grime caked onto the paneling. Particularly, though, the stable.

It was a ratty old thing. We didn't have a horse, just rabbits, but somehow they managed to make the sickest of messes. Fortunately, our father had hired a gardener who had been willing to help me clean out the cages.

Oddly, that gardener had been Xemnas.

I tell you now; I probably knew on some subconscious level exactly what he was. Maybe not right away; maybe I hadn't known the exact word for a guy like him but I realized soon enough. Long before he ever pushed me aside for getting older, for getting much "too old" for him.

At first, we'd just gathered the rabbits in their cages and set them outside the stable, getting ready to clean out the whole thing. Strictly business. I had tried to pretend that he wasn't there, shooting me those curious looks every few minutes, and focused on eliminating the stale stench that pervaded through the air. He hadn't tried to start up some trivial conversation. Eventually I got a good look at the man, form fitting tank top and ripped jeans and all, examining the almost fluid movements he made as he tossed old hay into a garbage bag.

I remember having a hard time tearing my eyes away from his biceps. (Maybe he was the start of that little fetish, too.) I remember trying to make out the strange word tattooed along his shoulder before giving up and stealing away inside the house for a short break. I remember my sister nagging at me when she found me in the kitchen, fussing at me to at least bring the man some damn ice cream if I was gonna let him do all the work. A popsicle for him, and one for myself.

Those golden eyes flashed seductively when I offered it to him. Something about the look he'd given me had sent an electric jolt through my spine, made me stare back at him with just as much intensity as I leaned against the stable wall and started munching on my ice cream. The two of us had eaten slowly in silence before I spoke to him for the first time.

"What's your tattoo say?"

He'd barely glanced at his arm, still watching me. "It's Armenian. Says Trust."

"Trust who?"

A shrug.

"You're Armenian?" I'd asked after he settled back into quiet.

He'd smacked his lips against his popsicle, grinning slightly. "On my mother's side."

"You don't look it."

"I get that a lot." It was here that he paused, letting his popsicle slide from his lips an umpteenth time. Then his already low voice grew lower, holding a hint of amusement. "Funny, you don't look much like your father, either."

My scowl had been poorly hidden. I took another chomp of ice cream, ignoring the screaming coldness on my teeth. "So I've been told."

He'd merely chuckled, said he'd seen it all before. Said he wasn't surprised, as it was common with many of the ritzy, frou-frou rich folk that hired him to tend their gardens.

"Children that don't look like their parents?" I'd asked.

He finished his popsicle with a shake of the head. "Children with unfaithful parents."

And what had he known? (Apparently enough.)

Why the conversation had turned in that direction, I still don't know. Perhaps it was his reason for eyeing me so intently earlier, as if trying to figure out if I was truly my father's son. Why he'd made it his business, I still don't mind or know. Why we went on talking about our parents' life decisions and their love affairs, I'm still not sure.

All I know is that moment had been our ice breaker, and Xemnas had been very interested in my life. I remember, after some more time spent talking and cleaning, he claimed I seemed extremely mature for my age. I remember telling him age was just a number, that it didn't matter.

I recall his breath, fierce in my ear, when he leaned in and playfully whispered, "Age certainly doesn't matter to me."

The next thing I knew, I had a mesh of sea-salt popsicle slush and his probing tongue in my mouth. Out in the burning August heat, with the rabbits shifting restlessly in their cages, my left over popsicle dripping in my hand, and the possibility of my sister or father coming outside and seeing us—I let that strange man kiss me. Touch me. Fondle. Suck.

I'm telling you all of this not because I have some sad fixation or regret of that event. No, but because I look back to that moment with mixed emotions and think: "That's where it started." I know what we did, what he eventually talked me into, was wrong. I know I should have said something to someone—but at the time, it felt good. I don't see our relationship as something to be ashamed of, but in fact as some form of love. Perhaps I didn't love him, and I'm sure he didn't love me.

But I loved the thrill he brought to my otherwise dull, small town life.

By the end of that day we'd exchanged numbers. He came to our house every two weeks to tend to the long stretch of yard behind our house. Often times I helped, though my father assured me it wasn't necessary. Often times we'd hide away in that stable and do the unspeakable. Later, during the start of my freshman year in high school, he convinced me to sneak out at night and trek to his home. (It wasn't that far from ours, I found.) It wasn't every night, but often enough for our fix, for a routine to be formed.

Xemnas was the first of many men that I fucked and the first to pay me for it. The first I played around with regularly while the rest of the world was oblivious. I'm sure if my father had paid enough attention, he would've fired the man. I'm sure, if my sister had found out, she would've cried. It was only later, long after Xemnas, that anyone got upset.

I tell you all of this because he was the beginning of it all: the late nights, the wild streak, the steady flow of cash and sexual favors. The attitude I developed because I fucking loved it and damn if I was gonna stop. That man was the start, even though our "relationship" lasted but a year, and I'd be lying if I told you I don't still think of him from time to time. I can't bring myself to hate him for planting that initial seed of corruption.

I can only blame myself for what it brought next.

A/N: So, I'm trying something different again, and all I can really tell you is that I need this story. I can't really tell you why, just that it's been waiting to be written for a while. It'll probably be slow, but it will get finished. Consider this a prologue of sorts.

Also, I gotta give a shout out to my girl Rain (0Through1the1Glass0) for being my new beta and putting up with me. Thanks again, boo!