**** I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh ****
Chapter One
It took me a long time, I remember, to finally realize that in this world, no matter if you are mortal or immortal, there can be no Heaven without Hell, no love without hate, no good without evil, and most importantly, no light without darkness. As a teenager I didn't care, and to my knowledge I wouldn't care for a long time.
In the afternoon of the 15th, it was raining, which was not uncommon for May. When I had gone into school I knew from the start that the day was going to fall rapidly in terms of enjoyable. School had been like that for the past couple of weeks, and I wasn't too sure why. I thought it was maybe because of the weather. Sometimes, when I sat in mathematics class and found myself staring out the window, I saw that it was often gray and raining, and it would bring down my mood quite a bit. I was also convinced it was what was making all the teachers so bastardly during those past few weeks. Since April I had gotten horrible marks on a bunch of tests in different subjects and failed a literary paper in English. Not to mention the scolding that they pulled every three seconds on a classmate of mine.
I remember distinctively why I had been sent to detention that afternoon. I also remember I had been extremely upset about it, and that's why I had to go in for two hours. I was sitting in history class, bored as ever, looking out the window and around the room as I usually did during this teacher's extremely monotone lectures about some North American senator or some Japanese war hero. It was when I got my history paper back, and saw that I had failed another paper was when I lost it. I immediately asked my teacher why I had failed it, and I challenged him on a few of my answers. That earned me the first hour of detention. Then I complained about having to do detention when I was merely challenging him on a few things on my paper which I thought I held a pretty strong argument for. It wasn't good enough for him, and apparently he didn't like the talk-back. That earned me the second hour.
After school I was happy that school was out, and then sullen again when I realized I had two hours of detention to wait out. That had bummed down my attitude a fair bit. I slugged over towards the detention room, carrying my books under my arm as I stuck my two hands in my pockets, staring down at my feet as I walked. Stupid teacher...I had the right to challenge him. Maybe I would go to the principal about this. I just might...after my detention was over.
I pushed open the door. The teacher was sleeping. There was two other kids in there, one who was nodding away to a hidden walkman somewhere in his big sweatshirt, and the other was sleeping with his head on a book. I sighed. This was going to be a long two hours. Luckily I brought material to wait it off. I had the two books that I was reading that I had borrowed from the library, and I had some homework to do for other classes. Maybe these two hours would go by in a breeze.
I was wrong. Probably because I didn't read my books or do my homework. Most of the time I sat there in the desk and stared out the window, like I usually did in my classes, and in a way I didn't mind not having to go home. When I moved out of my dad's place I thought it'd be great not to have to go home to a drunkard all the time and get the living shit pounded out of you because something simple like not having a shoelace tied annoyed him. I remember those days. They were awful. Those were the days I truly believed I was living in Hell. I knew they wouldn't stay forever and I was glad to be out of there. But now when I go home to an empty apartment, I feel so empty and lonely. At least at my dad's place the lights were on and there was a familiar smell to the place.
By the time my detention was over I was so happy to be out of that school that I hadn't even cared about that teacher anymore, or about him putting me into detention for challenging him. I didn't know that as soon as I left that school I soon wouldn't have to be putting up with that teacher ever again.
This is how it happened. I knew it was a mistake from the beginning, but I was human. Humans were vulnerable, especially in such a prime age as I was.
When I had started to walk away from the school, the sky was already really dark and the light from the sun was completely gone. It was almost six and I feeling pretty hungry and zapped of a good mood. As I was walking I could already start to smell the freshness of the rain, you know that smell, when it's about to rain. Moments later it came pattering down onto me, gently at first, and, like rain in Japan, down in buckets. It soaked through my mop of blonde hair, through my clothes, and eventually through my mood.
It had been an awful day and it wasn't getting any better. I was walking down the center of downtown at this point. My apartment building was a little ways away from the school, but thank goodness it wasn't right in the inner sanctum of downtown Domino. It was barely on the outskirts. There's not a lot to my apartment. I suppose that's why it was somewhat hard to go home to it everyday. From the outside it seemed like a nice little place where a couple or, as I was, a bachelor would live freely, untouched by the human world. It wasn't like that. It seemed more of an empty shell that I could hide in, and yet it held no real protection from the outside world. Sometimes I even considered going back to live with my father, and shook the thought away. Nothing in the world would possess me to do such a thing.
I was walking down the main road, where the street was full of little shops and tiny restuarants that sold delicious food for random prices. The shops were distinct, some were unimaginable, some were so interesting you could not pull away. I spent days walking by the stores, looking into them, not once taking the time to see the contents within. The tattoo parlor, the new age crystal store, the hemp clothing store, the many bookstores, the art stores. They all held their own charming personalities that captured the hearts of many citizens.
As it was raining, the shops were open. I could see the people who managed the stores from within, they looked warm and happy, interested to tell customers about the products they sold, delighted to work in such a place. Whenever the door opened as I passed a gust of warm air flew by me and tempted me to go inside, but I walked right by. As I was cold and wet, I had no desire that day to take the time to go into the stores and look at the interesting merchandise. I wanted to go straight home, have a long hot shower, and drown the events of that day.
I wasn't aware that as I slowly walked up the street, I would near a store, and inside I would meet a person who would change my life forever.
A certain scent caught my nostrils in a grip to hold a thousand men as I walked up the street. I thought it was the sandwiches and soups coming from the little deli, or perhaps it was the intoxicating scent of burning witch sticks and candles from the new age store across the street, where they sold crystals and delivered false hopes. Whatever this scent was, it was pulling me into a type of fascination I had not experienced in a very long time.
I walked down the street. It was still raining. Cars passed me by without looking, I had my hands shoved in my pockets, my backpack on ruggedly, about to fall off, and my head down, staring at my shoes as they soaked in the rain as I walked. As I walked I came to see that it looked as though all the colour of the world had suddenly drained with the on-coming rain. All the blues, the reds, the yellows had been washed away to a dull and foreboding gray which covered the world mercilessly, leaving only the green of the trees to stand out so brilliantly, as they did in the evening sun.
I shivered, pulled my jacket together, hoisting my backpack into a better position on my back and continued to walk, although this time a bit more quickly. Ahead I could see the many towers of Domino City begin to flare and light, and look like blazing candles in the dark sky. So many lights, I looked up with mere fascination.
This was when I felt it.
I felt a presence and a urge of interest growing inside my mind, calling to me in a way I had never experienced nor imagined.
For a moment, I saw that I had stopped walking. Was it to look at the massive buildings ahead of me that made the city of Domino what it was? I didn't know what it was. All that I knew, was that as I looked over to my right, I had stopped right in front of an art gallery, one I hadn't really seen before. One that I knew was there, and yet never bothered to acknowledge. In confusion I stared at it. Inside were few people, attendants who worked there in their best suits, looking through catalouges, greeting whoever came in.
From what I could tell there were not many people inside. A man stood at the desk by the window. Perhaps this meant that he was not busy talking to someone about a certain piece that was displayed in the gallery.
Biting into my lip, something about this art gallery had caught every sense and interest in my body, and wielded it into great interest. There was a force that grew great, greater than when I walked by the other shops. I had stopped for a reason, one I myself could not explain, but one my mind could answer in complete detail. This force, something wanted me to go inside that gallery.
I shook my head, water droplets from the rain flowing out of the ends of my blonde locks. I stared at the art gallery, unsure of why I had become so interested in it all of a sudden. I wanted to go in, but it wasn't for the warmth or to look at the paintings. Shit, I had never looked at a painting in my life. Not with interest, anyway. What was indulging me to do so at this point? I didn't understand.
There it was, the force, whispering to me in silent calls, telling me to come inside where it was warm. Chewing on my lip I wondered what would change if I went inside there. Would my life change for some distinct reason if I chose to go along with this force and see my way inside the gallery?
No. And Yes.
I shook out my hair again and shrugged. There couldn't be any harm in going into an art store, could there? Slowly I walked towards the door and reached out to take the handle. The force was stronger, the scent was deeper. I touched the handle, it was warm against my ice cold hands, drenched in the rain.
I looked back to the street, wondering if I should just go home. I had had a pretty bad day anyway, and I still had homework to get to. And besides, this force wouldn't prove to be anything of any important, would it?
My mind told me to go back home if I was so unsure, that there was nothing in this store that would make me happy, and in the end I'd regret wasting my time in going in there in the first place. But my heart refused to let me leave. It pumped, telling me in silent rhythm to go into that gallery and if I didn't, I would regret it for the rest of my life.
Two completely different opinions. How would I choose what to listen to? Would I go home or would I go inside the art store?
I remembered something. A book I had to read once in the ninth grade. It told me precisely not to think twice before listening to my heart. It had been an awful book, but now that I think about it's words, I realize how powerful those words were.
My heart told me to go into the art store. Never think twice before listening to your heart. I opened the door and let myself inside.
The wave of heat came over me, and for a moment I thought I was going to fall over. It was so different from the cold weather outside. It was warm and cozy inside the store, and it made every inch of my icy cold skin warm slowly, giving me a slightly unpleasant tingling feeling, from my toes to the tips of my fingers and up along my neck as I felt the lingering rain water fall from my hair and shoes.
A fire was lit somewhere in the room. I could smell the burning embers. Perhaps that was what had provided the heat. The man at the desk looked up to see who had come inside. When he saw it was me, his face seemed to have drained from colour and his eyes showed great lack of enthusiasm. He must have suspected I was only someone inside from the rain, I wasn't there to buy anything.
Hell, who on earth would have the money to buy some of these things? I barely had enough money for groceries, after being laid off from my part time job last week, money was getting low, and urgency flooding back into my mind when I realized I had to find a new job soon.
I didn't worry about that. I gave a small wave to the man at the desk with a half-decent smile, and he turned his nose up at me, muttering a little "welcome" and then returning back to his book on the counter. He didn't want anything to do with me for now. I would look but he wouldn't approach me in attempts to ask if I wanted to buy something.
I didn't care. He didn't need to bother me. In fact I remember how much I hated going into a little store and clerks from left and right were on my tail asking if I needed any help in finding something to my desire. Then they would leave me alone until I left, afraid I would steal something, because of course to them I looked like the type who would steal something.
But in the art gallery, what could I possibly steal? A painting? Just slip it under my shirt and walk out casually? I'm sure the clerk would notice if I had a thirty-four inch flat solid stretching out my school uniform and making it hard for me to walk. I smirked. The clerk didn't have to worry about anything.
So I came inside, after wiping my shoes on the carpet. I stepped onto the hardwood floor and looked around. The entire room was painted in a reddish burgundy colour that made the entire room look even more clouded with heat. It was inviting. On each wall, and in the dividers in the center of the floor, were paintings. Big paintings, small paintings, ones with colours and fierce objects and others with dreary colours and rather boring objects. At the bottom of the canvas signified the artist's name and title of the piece, and always, the price.
My eyes widened in shock as I looked at the first painting of a house covered with flowers, sitting in the rain. It was priced at well over forty- hundred dollars. I swallowed, and an odd feeling came over me as I realized I was walking in a very expensive store.
I didn't mind it. I took time to look along the paintings. Slowly at first, to stare at each one of them with great interest, or little interest, depending upon the content. I didn't find too much interest in many of the paintings I saw. They all seemed to be of sugar and happiness, of fantasy worlds that told lies. My lip curled at the sight of those paintings, and I shook my head. When I continued on, I seemed to have found better pieces, ones that weren't as colourful or cheery as the first.
The force was getting stronger, and I couldn't help but notice it. I walked along the store trying my best to ignore it but finding it hard. The force was gripping my every sense, just as it had done outside.
As much as I tried to ignore it, I found the feeling would not go away, and it was, in a way, bothering me to great extent. The paintings around me gave me a more comfortable atmosphere, but in a way made me a little uneasy. I felt surrounded by colour and emotion, of things that did not exist in my life. It made me jealous, and slightly angry.
There came a point where I thought I should leave. I wasn't finding any use in staying in this store. I wasn't there to buy anything, and I wasn't an art critic, and I certainly wasn't feeling any justice over this strong, strange force that had creeped it's way into my mind and indulging my senses, rousing my soul with curiosity. I wanted to leave, but something in my mind told me to stop, and almost as if defying my wishes my legs wouldn't respond to my thoughts, my commands to move and go to the entrance and make my way home. It must have been six o'clock by now, perhaps later, and I still had to get home, do my homework, have a shower and all those things. I shook my head, wondering why on earth I had stayed so long. And for what? An invisible feeling, a gut feeling? Stupid. It was stupid, and I was stupid for letting it take over my mind for such a long time.
I forced myself in the direction of the door, slouching my backpack over my shoulder and feeling rather grim. Unless the rain had stopped I'd be facing cold and wetness when I walked out to the apartment. I didn't care. I was still rather upset with myself for having stayed so long.
I went towards the direction of the front entrance, I seemed to have forgotten completely about that force that had dragged me in, or the paintings blushed with colour that surrounded me, sold at horrendous prices. I had forgotten everything as I briskly walked towards the front door.
That was when I stopped, and I saw it. A painting on the far wall which caught my attention. I turned my gaze upon it; my entire soul struck with a certain desire, a certain want. Blinking absurdly I slowly began to walk towards it.
It seemed so distant, so different from all the other paintings. From what I could see it was a very dark and grim painting, and it seemed to isolate itself among the other paintings. As I neared it the walls around me seemed to creep away, as if afraid of me. My eyes locked upon this one painting in front of me as I absent-mindedly, almost in the tone of a zombie, walked towards it.
Soon I was standing before it; my eyes drank in every inch of the dark paint and the vivid image upon it. Even now no words can really describe what I saw, what was in the picture.
It was of a demon. A demon and a human, the human was pale as the moon and the demon was softly skin toned. Both of them sprawled across a large four- poster bed, with a French window in the far corner to show that it was deep into the night when the full moon was out. The bedroom, as it looked, consisted of no more than this bed, the window, and a carpet on the floor, which I could not conclude to be of any important to the image whatsoever. It puzzled me. The demon sank pointed fangs into the neck of human, the human man, it seemed. Not even a man, not from the hair and the shape of his face and the way his smooth stroked white body laid so gracefully on the bed, even as his neck was being ravaged by this monster. It was a boy, a boy perhaps not a day older than myself, with bleached hair and deep eyes that showed just the agony and the pain he was suffering. The demon above him seemed to laugh, at the boy, at me, for questioning his power.
The entire painting was drowned in seething darkness, and it held a certain charm that I could not place in words. I stared at the painting and realized it was by far the greatest I had seen of the evening. Not that I necessarily had an eye for extremely gothic things, but this painting had etched an interest in me that nothing else in the world possibly could have. I reached out to touch the dried paint that formed this picture, and just lightly brushed my fingertips over the surface of the painted boy. I traced the lines of his muscular strong legs with my pointer finger and swept my thumb over the horror-stricken face. I bit down on my lip and thought of this boy as me, and the demon, the one biting into my neck and taking in the pleasure and bliss of my torment, was the rest of the world. Grinning at me, sadistically.
I had to have this painting. There was nothing in life that stirred me more. I wanted to wake up in the morning and see the painting on the wall of my bedroom. I wanted to explain in great detail the obsession I had with it when people came over. I wanted to stare at it with obsessive passion when I had nothing else to do, or for when I couldn't sleep in dreary evenings. I wanted it so badly; my blood seemed to ache for it. My mind called for it, my heart reaching for it.
My eyes slowly traveled down as I dared to even look at the price they asked for this piece of work. I knew it would be horrendously expensive and if I sold everything I owned and saved up for a thousand years I might be able to buy it then. I let my fingers fall and traced themselves over the little sign at the bottom of the canvas that gave the title, the artist, and the price. I saw the name of the painting first. A new interest sparked inside of me.
"Merciful Death".
What could possibly be merciful about this sort of death? I stared at the painting and wondered why the artist would give it such a name. I studied the characters again, trying to discover why it was named the title it was given. Was the boy sick and about to die? Judging by the tone of his skin I would almost say he had the plague. And judging from the French window and the four poster bed and the style in which everything had been painted, the picture looked to be about 1700's. Maybe that was it. The plague that had flooded Europe and this boy had it. The demon that was slowly taking his life, his blood, was draining away the illness, bringing the boy to a much calmer and more peaceful death. That was indeed, merciful.
How do I know about the plague and such? I smirked. I didn't look like an average A student but I kept an ear open once in awhile and took in some things when I wanted to. Studying Europe was a bit of a fascination with me. Heaven knows why.
I looked at the name of the artist below the title of the painting. Unknown.
That helped (sarcastic). How was I supposed to know about this person, research his or her paintings (assuming I would) without knowing who it was. This person must have been obscenely rich and perhaps very old, but gifted nevertheless. I wanted to know this person, meet him, talk with him if I could. It made me frustrated to know that I could not know his name. Not for now, at least.
I looked down at the price, and I winced. It was marked at over fifty-two hundred dollars. I couldn't pay for that, not even if I saved my money for the rest of my life. I sighed heavily in defeat, looking again at the painting, staring at it with a delicate eye. Perhaps I could not have this painting, not now, not in many years, but perhaps I would be able to find out more about the artist than the tag below the picture provided.
The man at the desk. I was sure that he would know. I tore my eyes away from the painting; upset as I did so, but took it not to matter for I would see it again in moments, when I returned with the man from the desk. I turned towards the front entrance where I had seen the man at the desk that had paid no mind to me when I came inside.
I turned, and this was the moment my life had changed. This was the first moment I felt my world would no longer be the same. It was the first time I set eyes on him.
Seto Kaiba.
At the time I did not know who he was, but I stopped immediately at the mere sight of him. I had lost thought of everything else. I had forgotten that I was standing in the art store, suddenly obsessed with a painting I had seen from the corner of my eye, and gone to fetch the man to ask of the painting's artist. Everything was a blank from my mind with the exception of the man, not even the man, the teenage boy who stood before me.
He was by far the most beautiful creature I had ever seen in my entire being. I saw him from the side at first, but I knew him to be incredible, extraordinary and even in a way, magical. He was a tall lean creature, and his eyes were set immensely on a painting of an evening landscape. He looked so intent and never moved, and I thought perhaps that he had been an image of my imagination, a trick of the light, a mere image, like those in the paintings that surrounded me.
But for a moment there was just him, and me everything else in the world was foggy and indecent. I cared not for them; I could care less for anything of the sort. I stared at him, and he became clearer as everything else went darker.
How I wanted to touch him, I wanted to make sure he was real. He had captured my mind, my heart and my soul without trying, truly I was no match for him, but I needed to see him, to talk to him. My entire being longed to have a moment with just him and me.
I watched as his eyes squinted for a mere second, as though he were greatly irritated, and as though he knew fully well that I was watching him, in a smooth delicate motion he turned his head and looked at me.
I knew my blood had gone cold and all the colour had flushed from my face. I found myself paralyzed to move, unable to do anything but stare at him, even as I could see that he was irritated, as it was written all over his face.
No words could describe him, nor his appearance, but I could try hard with all the words that meant beautiful. He stood at a remarkable height and was thin and fit, the clothes he wore, the black pants, dress shirt and trench coat were dark as night, enabling him to fit the personalities of a moving shadow, stuck to his figure not tightly but well-fit. His skin was white as snow, that was how I describe it, so white that he looked dead. But it was smooth, powdered smooth, glowing in the faint light luminously. His dress shirt exposed his collarbones and the beginning of a long, thin neck, and the perfect oval face that made me shiver with a certain desire. His slightly long nose, his high cheek-bones, his perfectly round chin were amazing, as though he had been chiseled from stone perfectly by an expert carver. His hair, a deep auburn was neatly done, the bangs fell down over his forehead and into his breath-taking hypnotizing blue eyes, that seemed to tell a story all their own. Dazzling as they were, they were startling in a way. When I saw those eyes upon me, I felt as thought they were drilling a hole into my soul, peering at me in a way that would give me nightmares.
His form was mesmerizing; his entire being was overly beautiful, even ridiculous in a way. But his expression was grim and tiring, staring at me with little patience, as though he knew that I was suddenly gawking at him uncontrollably.
I was still; as though frozen from the cold as his deep blue eyes slowly ran up and down my body, drinking in the sight of me. I knew that compared to him I must have looked like a run-down middle-class rag doll, what with my soul uniform and my back pack, the mop of blonde hair upon my head. I knew he must have been disgusted at the mere sight of me.
His eyes rose back to mine and they set in a tight lock. He wouldn't move until I did, he would not speak a word until I did. He was waiting entirely for me, and if I did nothing, he would turn, and he would leave. It was easy as that. And with this sudden interest, I did not want him to leave. Not for anything in the world.
To my surprise I saw something other than disgust in his deep eyes. It was written across his face. He looked rather intrigued, slightly interested in me, perhaps. I was somewhat startled by this but made no defiance as to his actions.
"Hi." I chirped suddenly, and before I realized what I had done I had seemed to have lost myself in the pools of his azure eyes. To which, as I spoke, they seemed to peak in an odd way.
I completely snapped out of the trance he had set me in. I blinked my eyes several times and became fully aware once again of the art gallery I was standing in, of the paintings that surrounded me, of the heat that enclosed my body, and that I had talked to him. I felt like I would faint right then and there.
I opened my mouth in an effort to speak, but I could not muster a word. He seemed rather amused by this, and tearing away softly from the painting he had been previously observing, he took a few steps towards me, once again looking me over from head to toe, drinking me in almost hungrily.
His extremely uneasy frown etched softly. "Hello." He said in reply.
In an effort not to do anything critically stupid, and failing miserably, I blurted out. "I'm Joey."
His perfect brown eyebrows rose in question, and I wanted to smack my forehead and hit myself with a baseball ball, chanting "stupid, stupid, stupid" all over again! I had told him my name, how forward could that have seemed? What would he say in reply to it? I didn't even want to know. Suddenly I had the greatest urge to run past him and leave the art store and never come back. But he was so enticing; I was scared that if I left I would never see him again.
He said nothing for the longest time after I introduced myself, and I took this as a good sign. He must have been considering something to say to reply. I didn't know what he would say but for the longest time as I stood there all I wanted was for him to speak again. I wanted to know his name, oh God how I wanted to know his name. I knew it had to be some poetic creation to fit someone such as him. Speak to me again, angel. Tell me your name. Speak, please!
At last he did. He gave me a small smile; his eyes were icy and stone cold. "I'm leaving."
When he had turned his back to me I felt a great reluctance and urgency run through my entire being. I saw the sexy curve of his back and how well the trench coat kissed his hips, all of which making me tremble in the knees. But I couldn't let him go just like that. I reached out suddenly, grabbing his wrist, and harshly pulling on it, without really meaning to.
I saw the azure eyes and nearly fainted. They brimmed with annoyance and irritant, and I knew that moment that he was angry. His expression told me all. It was cold and forbidding, and the way his eyes narrowed to me...*shudder * I feel I would have nightmares for weeks. That's funny...having nightmares about an angel.
"What do you want?" he snarled softly at me, I could hear his anger in his voice.
Now if you looked this guy right in the eyes you would never want to cross him again, or worse make him angry. But at the time I couldn't tell myself those things. I was already too obsessed with him, with his entire being, and it held me in a chaining grip, and wouldn't let me go.
What did I want from him? Fuck, I didn't know. I wanted to stare at him consciously with my jaw hanging open and my shoulders slouched. I wanted to touch that beautiful face and swim my fingers through that creamy chocolate hair or lose myself completely in his eyes, only if they were full of warmth. I wanted everything from him. Everything and anything.
"I-I" I couldn't find my voice, nor the words in which I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell him that I simply liked his outfit. Well, moreless simply wanting to lie to him by saying I liked his outfit, just his outfit!
What would you say to someone that beautiful who was so angry at the moment? What?
I cleared my throat when I saw him becoming too impatient. "You're not from around here, are you?" I asked, shrugging my shoulders.
A suspicious chocolate brow rose in suspicion, and I bit down on my cheek from inside my mouth. What a stupid question, of course he wouldn't be from around here, and if he was, there was no doubt I'd have never seen him before. Domino was a huge city! My question lacked logic completely!
To my surprise he smiled softly as if he knew that wasn't what I was trying to ask him. "Are you sure that's what you wanted to ask me?"
~ I want to ask you if you'd be willing to give me a hand job! ~ I thought to myself, staring at him, and then suddenly I couldn't stop my mind from creating awkward yet enticing pictures in my mind.
My eyes skinned over him, discreetly, and I knew he was growing angrier. I swallowed tightly at the thought of his naked form, his moon skin against mine, the chocolate hair and the blonde hair. I couldn't stop thinking about it! It was going to drive me insane.
Right, I'm gay, if you didn't notice.
When I faced his eyes again, he was smiling softly, almost pleasantly, as though he was taunting, and this made me very worried. What was he smiling about? It was almost as if he were responding to the thoughts and images I had just had in my head...was that possible?
I shook my head. No, that wasn't possible. He could just see into my head so easily as that. I swallowed hard and blinked at him. "Uh-" I almost wanted to ask him if he were gay. Hell yes, I wanted to ask if he was gay!
He let out a chuckle from low in his throat, a sound that seemed to me to be godlike. My fingers were shaking when I saw him smiling down at me. "You know you're cute when you're groping with your eyes."
I couldn't tell if he was sarcastic or sincere. My heart skipped a beat for a second and- wait! Did he just say that I was cute?
His smile grew, and I knew his ploy. He had me wrapped right around his finger, tightly. And I, like any other fool, would fall submissively to him.
Groping with my eyes? Oh, so he noticed.
I'm sure glad he didn't say, "undressing people with your eyes". That would have resulted a little bit badly, I think.
He had had enough of this, I could tell by the wave in his eyes. "I have things to do." He said, not apologetically, but sincerely. He simply took my hand away from his wrist and gave me the same emotionless smile. "It was nice to meet you...Joey." He said. "Perhaps we'll meet again someday."
Oh God please!
And just like that, I was standing there in the middle of the art gallery, bathed in the warmth, the colour and the image of him standing there smiling at me, and he was gone.
I blinked several times, I shook my head. I stood in front of paintings and tried to make sure I hadn't gone blind by losing myself in those majestic pools of blue. He said I looked cute. I sighed softly, thinking of him again, trying to retrace every curve and line in his body. But as soon as I tried to rebuild him in my mind, I saw his image fading quickly, and I knew I needed to see him again.
What had he said? Perhaps we would meet again?
I left the art gallery, but I promised I would back. Either the next day, or in a few years, but there always to go and see "Merciful Death", and perhaps look for the boy who was standing there, staring at the painting in front of him. I wanted him back. Badly.
When I got home it was nearly eight thirty, and I cursed myself, ripping out my binders and notebooks from my backpack and trying desperately to get done the load I had been given that day. I had never forgotten everything when I had been in that art store.
I suppose it wasn't surprising. When I finished all my homework, it was a little after midnight. When I slugged myself to my bed, where the room was slightly warmer than the rest of the apartment, I collapsed onto my bed and seemed to have fallen asleep, instantly.
My dreams were plagued. Plagued by the white creature with the sexy aura, the chocolate hair, and the blue eyes that told a story all it's own.
I hoped one day I would be able to discover and understand that story of his.
Later on, I had. And I regretted it.
~*~
**** What do you think? Good? Bad? ****
Chapter One
It took me a long time, I remember, to finally realize that in this world, no matter if you are mortal or immortal, there can be no Heaven without Hell, no love without hate, no good without evil, and most importantly, no light without darkness. As a teenager I didn't care, and to my knowledge I wouldn't care for a long time.
In the afternoon of the 15th, it was raining, which was not uncommon for May. When I had gone into school I knew from the start that the day was going to fall rapidly in terms of enjoyable. School had been like that for the past couple of weeks, and I wasn't too sure why. I thought it was maybe because of the weather. Sometimes, when I sat in mathematics class and found myself staring out the window, I saw that it was often gray and raining, and it would bring down my mood quite a bit. I was also convinced it was what was making all the teachers so bastardly during those past few weeks. Since April I had gotten horrible marks on a bunch of tests in different subjects and failed a literary paper in English. Not to mention the scolding that they pulled every three seconds on a classmate of mine.
I remember distinctively why I had been sent to detention that afternoon. I also remember I had been extremely upset about it, and that's why I had to go in for two hours. I was sitting in history class, bored as ever, looking out the window and around the room as I usually did during this teacher's extremely monotone lectures about some North American senator or some Japanese war hero. It was when I got my history paper back, and saw that I had failed another paper was when I lost it. I immediately asked my teacher why I had failed it, and I challenged him on a few of my answers. That earned me the first hour of detention. Then I complained about having to do detention when I was merely challenging him on a few things on my paper which I thought I held a pretty strong argument for. It wasn't good enough for him, and apparently he didn't like the talk-back. That earned me the second hour.
After school I was happy that school was out, and then sullen again when I realized I had two hours of detention to wait out. That had bummed down my attitude a fair bit. I slugged over towards the detention room, carrying my books under my arm as I stuck my two hands in my pockets, staring down at my feet as I walked. Stupid teacher...I had the right to challenge him. Maybe I would go to the principal about this. I just might...after my detention was over.
I pushed open the door. The teacher was sleeping. There was two other kids in there, one who was nodding away to a hidden walkman somewhere in his big sweatshirt, and the other was sleeping with his head on a book. I sighed. This was going to be a long two hours. Luckily I brought material to wait it off. I had the two books that I was reading that I had borrowed from the library, and I had some homework to do for other classes. Maybe these two hours would go by in a breeze.
I was wrong. Probably because I didn't read my books or do my homework. Most of the time I sat there in the desk and stared out the window, like I usually did in my classes, and in a way I didn't mind not having to go home. When I moved out of my dad's place I thought it'd be great not to have to go home to a drunkard all the time and get the living shit pounded out of you because something simple like not having a shoelace tied annoyed him. I remember those days. They were awful. Those were the days I truly believed I was living in Hell. I knew they wouldn't stay forever and I was glad to be out of there. But now when I go home to an empty apartment, I feel so empty and lonely. At least at my dad's place the lights were on and there was a familiar smell to the place.
By the time my detention was over I was so happy to be out of that school that I hadn't even cared about that teacher anymore, or about him putting me into detention for challenging him. I didn't know that as soon as I left that school I soon wouldn't have to be putting up with that teacher ever again.
This is how it happened. I knew it was a mistake from the beginning, but I was human. Humans were vulnerable, especially in such a prime age as I was.
When I had started to walk away from the school, the sky was already really dark and the light from the sun was completely gone. It was almost six and I feeling pretty hungry and zapped of a good mood. As I was walking I could already start to smell the freshness of the rain, you know that smell, when it's about to rain. Moments later it came pattering down onto me, gently at first, and, like rain in Japan, down in buckets. It soaked through my mop of blonde hair, through my clothes, and eventually through my mood.
It had been an awful day and it wasn't getting any better. I was walking down the center of downtown at this point. My apartment building was a little ways away from the school, but thank goodness it wasn't right in the inner sanctum of downtown Domino. It was barely on the outskirts. There's not a lot to my apartment. I suppose that's why it was somewhat hard to go home to it everyday. From the outside it seemed like a nice little place where a couple or, as I was, a bachelor would live freely, untouched by the human world. It wasn't like that. It seemed more of an empty shell that I could hide in, and yet it held no real protection from the outside world. Sometimes I even considered going back to live with my father, and shook the thought away. Nothing in the world would possess me to do such a thing.
I was walking down the main road, where the street was full of little shops and tiny restuarants that sold delicious food for random prices. The shops were distinct, some were unimaginable, some were so interesting you could not pull away. I spent days walking by the stores, looking into them, not once taking the time to see the contents within. The tattoo parlor, the new age crystal store, the hemp clothing store, the many bookstores, the art stores. They all held their own charming personalities that captured the hearts of many citizens.
As it was raining, the shops were open. I could see the people who managed the stores from within, they looked warm and happy, interested to tell customers about the products they sold, delighted to work in such a place. Whenever the door opened as I passed a gust of warm air flew by me and tempted me to go inside, but I walked right by. As I was cold and wet, I had no desire that day to take the time to go into the stores and look at the interesting merchandise. I wanted to go straight home, have a long hot shower, and drown the events of that day.
I wasn't aware that as I slowly walked up the street, I would near a store, and inside I would meet a person who would change my life forever.
A certain scent caught my nostrils in a grip to hold a thousand men as I walked up the street. I thought it was the sandwiches and soups coming from the little deli, or perhaps it was the intoxicating scent of burning witch sticks and candles from the new age store across the street, where they sold crystals and delivered false hopes. Whatever this scent was, it was pulling me into a type of fascination I had not experienced in a very long time.
I walked down the street. It was still raining. Cars passed me by without looking, I had my hands shoved in my pockets, my backpack on ruggedly, about to fall off, and my head down, staring at my shoes as they soaked in the rain as I walked. As I walked I came to see that it looked as though all the colour of the world had suddenly drained with the on-coming rain. All the blues, the reds, the yellows had been washed away to a dull and foreboding gray which covered the world mercilessly, leaving only the green of the trees to stand out so brilliantly, as they did in the evening sun.
I shivered, pulled my jacket together, hoisting my backpack into a better position on my back and continued to walk, although this time a bit more quickly. Ahead I could see the many towers of Domino City begin to flare and light, and look like blazing candles in the dark sky. So many lights, I looked up with mere fascination.
This was when I felt it.
I felt a presence and a urge of interest growing inside my mind, calling to me in a way I had never experienced nor imagined.
For a moment, I saw that I had stopped walking. Was it to look at the massive buildings ahead of me that made the city of Domino what it was? I didn't know what it was. All that I knew, was that as I looked over to my right, I had stopped right in front of an art gallery, one I hadn't really seen before. One that I knew was there, and yet never bothered to acknowledge. In confusion I stared at it. Inside were few people, attendants who worked there in their best suits, looking through catalouges, greeting whoever came in.
From what I could tell there were not many people inside. A man stood at the desk by the window. Perhaps this meant that he was not busy talking to someone about a certain piece that was displayed in the gallery.
Biting into my lip, something about this art gallery had caught every sense and interest in my body, and wielded it into great interest. There was a force that grew great, greater than when I walked by the other shops. I had stopped for a reason, one I myself could not explain, but one my mind could answer in complete detail. This force, something wanted me to go inside that gallery.
I shook my head, water droplets from the rain flowing out of the ends of my blonde locks. I stared at the art gallery, unsure of why I had become so interested in it all of a sudden. I wanted to go in, but it wasn't for the warmth or to look at the paintings. Shit, I had never looked at a painting in my life. Not with interest, anyway. What was indulging me to do so at this point? I didn't understand.
There it was, the force, whispering to me in silent calls, telling me to come inside where it was warm. Chewing on my lip I wondered what would change if I went inside there. Would my life change for some distinct reason if I chose to go along with this force and see my way inside the gallery?
No. And Yes.
I shook out my hair again and shrugged. There couldn't be any harm in going into an art store, could there? Slowly I walked towards the door and reached out to take the handle. The force was stronger, the scent was deeper. I touched the handle, it was warm against my ice cold hands, drenched in the rain.
I looked back to the street, wondering if I should just go home. I had had a pretty bad day anyway, and I still had homework to get to. And besides, this force wouldn't prove to be anything of any important, would it?
My mind told me to go back home if I was so unsure, that there was nothing in this store that would make me happy, and in the end I'd regret wasting my time in going in there in the first place. But my heart refused to let me leave. It pumped, telling me in silent rhythm to go into that gallery and if I didn't, I would regret it for the rest of my life.
Two completely different opinions. How would I choose what to listen to? Would I go home or would I go inside the art store?
I remembered something. A book I had to read once in the ninth grade. It told me precisely not to think twice before listening to my heart. It had been an awful book, but now that I think about it's words, I realize how powerful those words were.
My heart told me to go into the art store. Never think twice before listening to your heart. I opened the door and let myself inside.
The wave of heat came over me, and for a moment I thought I was going to fall over. It was so different from the cold weather outside. It was warm and cozy inside the store, and it made every inch of my icy cold skin warm slowly, giving me a slightly unpleasant tingling feeling, from my toes to the tips of my fingers and up along my neck as I felt the lingering rain water fall from my hair and shoes.
A fire was lit somewhere in the room. I could smell the burning embers. Perhaps that was what had provided the heat. The man at the desk looked up to see who had come inside. When he saw it was me, his face seemed to have drained from colour and his eyes showed great lack of enthusiasm. He must have suspected I was only someone inside from the rain, I wasn't there to buy anything.
Hell, who on earth would have the money to buy some of these things? I barely had enough money for groceries, after being laid off from my part time job last week, money was getting low, and urgency flooding back into my mind when I realized I had to find a new job soon.
I didn't worry about that. I gave a small wave to the man at the desk with a half-decent smile, and he turned his nose up at me, muttering a little "welcome" and then returning back to his book on the counter. He didn't want anything to do with me for now. I would look but he wouldn't approach me in attempts to ask if I wanted to buy something.
I didn't care. He didn't need to bother me. In fact I remember how much I hated going into a little store and clerks from left and right were on my tail asking if I needed any help in finding something to my desire. Then they would leave me alone until I left, afraid I would steal something, because of course to them I looked like the type who would steal something.
But in the art gallery, what could I possibly steal? A painting? Just slip it under my shirt and walk out casually? I'm sure the clerk would notice if I had a thirty-four inch flat solid stretching out my school uniform and making it hard for me to walk. I smirked. The clerk didn't have to worry about anything.
So I came inside, after wiping my shoes on the carpet. I stepped onto the hardwood floor and looked around. The entire room was painted in a reddish burgundy colour that made the entire room look even more clouded with heat. It was inviting. On each wall, and in the dividers in the center of the floor, were paintings. Big paintings, small paintings, ones with colours and fierce objects and others with dreary colours and rather boring objects. At the bottom of the canvas signified the artist's name and title of the piece, and always, the price.
My eyes widened in shock as I looked at the first painting of a house covered with flowers, sitting in the rain. It was priced at well over forty- hundred dollars. I swallowed, and an odd feeling came over me as I realized I was walking in a very expensive store.
I didn't mind it. I took time to look along the paintings. Slowly at first, to stare at each one of them with great interest, or little interest, depending upon the content. I didn't find too much interest in many of the paintings I saw. They all seemed to be of sugar and happiness, of fantasy worlds that told lies. My lip curled at the sight of those paintings, and I shook my head. When I continued on, I seemed to have found better pieces, ones that weren't as colourful or cheery as the first.
The force was getting stronger, and I couldn't help but notice it. I walked along the store trying my best to ignore it but finding it hard. The force was gripping my every sense, just as it had done outside.
As much as I tried to ignore it, I found the feeling would not go away, and it was, in a way, bothering me to great extent. The paintings around me gave me a more comfortable atmosphere, but in a way made me a little uneasy. I felt surrounded by colour and emotion, of things that did not exist in my life. It made me jealous, and slightly angry.
There came a point where I thought I should leave. I wasn't finding any use in staying in this store. I wasn't there to buy anything, and I wasn't an art critic, and I certainly wasn't feeling any justice over this strong, strange force that had creeped it's way into my mind and indulging my senses, rousing my soul with curiosity. I wanted to leave, but something in my mind told me to stop, and almost as if defying my wishes my legs wouldn't respond to my thoughts, my commands to move and go to the entrance and make my way home. It must have been six o'clock by now, perhaps later, and I still had to get home, do my homework, have a shower and all those things. I shook my head, wondering why on earth I had stayed so long. And for what? An invisible feeling, a gut feeling? Stupid. It was stupid, and I was stupid for letting it take over my mind for such a long time.
I forced myself in the direction of the door, slouching my backpack over my shoulder and feeling rather grim. Unless the rain had stopped I'd be facing cold and wetness when I walked out to the apartment. I didn't care. I was still rather upset with myself for having stayed so long.
I went towards the direction of the front entrance, I seemed to have forgotten completely about that force that had dragged me in, or the paintings blushed with colour that surrounded me, sold at horrendous prices. I had forgotten everything as I briskly walked towards the front door.
That was when I stopped, and I saw it. A painting on the far wall which caught my attention. I turned my gaze upon it; my entire soul struck with a certain desire, a certain want. Blinking absurdly I slowly began to walk towards it.
It seemed so distant, so different from all the other paintings. From what I could see it was a very dark and grim painting, and it seemed to isolate itself among the other paintings. As I neared it the walls around me seemed to creep away, as if afraid of me. My eyes locked upon this one painting in front of me as I absent-mindedly, almost in the tone of a zombie, walked towards it.
Soon I was standing before it; my eyes drank in every inch of the dark paint and the vivid image upon it. Even now no words can really describe what I saw, what was in the picture.
It was of a demon. A demon and a human, the human was pale as the moon and the demon was softly skin toned. Both of them sprawled across a large four- poster bed, with a French window in the far corner to show that it was deep into the night when the full moon was out. The bedroom, as it looked, consisted of no more than this bed, the window, and a carpet on the floor, which I could not conclude to be of any important to the image whatsoever. It puzzled me. The demon sank pointed fangs into the neck of human, the human man, it seemed. Not even a man, not from the hair and the shape of his face and the way his smooth stroked white body laid so gracefully on the bed, even as his neck was being ravaged by this monster. It was a boy, a boy perhaps not a day older than myself, with bleached hair and deep eyes that showed just the agony and the pain he was suffering. The demon above him seemed to laugh, at the boy, at me, for questioning his power.
The entire painting was drowned in seething darkness, and it held a certain charm that I could not place in words. I stared at the painting and realized it was by far the greatest I had seen of the evening. Not that I necessarily had an eye for extremely gothic things, but this painting had etched an interest in me that nothing else in the world possibly could have. I reached out to touch the dried paint that formed this picture, and just lightly brushed my fingertips over the surface of the painted boy. I traced the lines of his muscular strong legs with my pointer finger and swept my thumb over the horror-stricken face. I bit down on my lip and thought of this boy as me, and the demon, the one biting into my neck and taking in the pleasure and bliss of my torment, was the rest of the world. Grinning at me, sadistically.
I had to have this painting. There was nothing in life that stirred me more. I wanted to wake up in the morning and see the painting on the wall of my bedroom. I wanted to explain in great detail the obsession I had with it when people came over. I wanted to stare at it with obsessive passion when I had nothing else to do, or for when I couldn't sleep in dreary evenings. I wanted it so badly; my blood seemed to ache for it. My mind called for it, my heart reaching for it.
My eyes slowly traveled down as I dared to even look at the price they asked for this piece of work. I knew it would be horrendously expensive and if I sold everything I owned and saved up for a thousand years I might be able to buy it then. I let my fingers fall and traced themselves over the little sign at the bottom of the canvas that gave the title, the artist, and the price. I saw the name of the painting first. A new interest sparked inside of me.
"Merciful Death".
What could possibly be merciful about this sort of death? I stared at the painting and wondered why the artist would give it such a name. I studied the characters again, trying to discover why it was named the title it was given. Was the boy sick and about to die? Judging by the tone of his skin I would almost say he had the plague. And judging from the French window and the four poster bed and the style in which everything had been painted, the picture looked to be about 1700's. Maybe that was it. The plague that had flooded Europe and this boy had it. The demon that was slowly taking his life, his blood, was draining away the illness, bringing the boy to a much calmer and more peaceful death. That was indeed, merciful.
How do I know about the plague and such? I smirked. I didn't look like an average A student but I kept an ear open once in awhile and took in some things when I wanted to. Studying Europe was a bit of a fascination with me. Heaven knows why.
I looked at the name of the artist below the title of the painting. Unknown.
That helped (sarcastic). How was I supposed to know about this person, research his or her paintings (assuming I would) without knowing who it was. This person must have been obscenely rich and perhaps very old, but gifted nevertheless. I wanted to know this person, meet him, talk with him if I could. It made me frustrated to know that I could not know his name. Not for now, at least.
I looked down at the price, and I winced. It was marked at over fifty-two hundred dollars. I couldn't pay for that, not even if I saved my money for the rest of my life. I sighed heavily in defeat, looking again at the painting, staring at it with a delicate eye. Perhaps I could not have this painting, not now, not in many years, but perhaps I would be able to find out more about the artist than the tag below the picture provided.
The man at the desk. I was sure that he would know. I tore my eyes away from the painting; upset as I did so, but took it not to matter for I would see it again in moments, when I returned with the man from the desk. I turned towards the front entrance where I had seen the man at the desk that had paid no mind to me when I came inside.
I turned, and this was the moment my life had changed. This was the first moment I felt my world would no longer be the same. It was the first time I set eyes on him.
Seto Kaiba.
At the time I did not know who he was, but I stopped immediately at the mere sight of him. I had lost thought of everything else. I had forgotten that I was standing in the art store, suddenly obsessed with a painting I had seen from the corner of my eye, and gone to fetch the man to ask of the painting's artist. Everything was a blank from my mind with the exception of the man, not even the man, the teenage boy who stood before me.
He was by far the most beautiful creature I had ever seen in my entire being. I saw him from the side at first, but I knew him to be incredible, extraordinary and even in a way, magical. He was a tall lean creature, and his eyes were set immensely on a painting of an evening landscape. He looked so intent and never moved, and I thought perhaps that he had been an image of my imagination, a trick of the light, a mere image, like those in the paintings that surrounded me.
But for a moment there was just him, and me everything else in the world was foggy and indecent. I cared not for them; I could care less for anything of the sort. I stared at him, and he became clearer as everything else went darker.
How I wanted to touch him, I wanted to make sure he was real. He had captured my mind, my heart and my soul without trying, truly I was no match for him, but I needed to see him, to talk to him. My entire being longed to have a moment with just him and me.
I watched as his eyes squinted for a mere second, as though he were greatly irritated, and as though he knew fully well that I was watching him, in a smooth delicate motion he turned his head and looked at me.
I knew my blood had gone cold and all the colour had flushed from my face. I found myself paralyzed to move, unable to do anything but stare at him, even as I could see that he was irritated, as it was written all over his face.
No words could describe him, nor his appearance, but I could try hard with all the words that meant beautiful. He stood at a remarkable height and was thin and fit, the clothes he wore, the black pants, dress shirt and trench coat were dark as night, enabling him to fit the personalities of a moving shadow, stuck to his figure not tightly but well-fit. His skin was white as snow, that was how I describe it, so white that he looked dead. But it was smooth, powdered smooth, glowing in the faint light luminously. His dress shirt exposed his collarbones and the beginning of a long, thin neck, and the perfect oval face that made me shiver with a certain desire. His slightly long nose, his high cheek-bones, his perfectly round chin were amazing, as though he had been chiseled from stone perfectly by an expert carver. His hair, a deep auburn was neatly done, the bangs fell down over his forehead and into his breath-taking hypnotizing blue eyes, that seemed to tell a story all their own. Dazzling as they were, they were startling in a way. When I saw those eyes upon me, I felt as thought they were drilling a hole into my soul, peering at me in a way that would give me nightmares.
His form was mesmerizing; his entire being was overly beautiful, even ridiculous in a way. But his expression was grim and tiring, staring at me with little patience, as though he knew that I was suddenly gawking at him uncontrollably.
I was still; as though frozen from the cold as his deep blue eyes slowly ran up and down my body, drinking in the sight of me. I knew that compared to him I must have looked like a run-down middle-class rag doll, what with my soul uniform and my back pack, the mop of blonde hair upon my head. I knew he must have been disgusted at the mere sight of me.
His eyes rose back to mine and they set in a tight lock. He wouldn't move until I did, he would not speak a word until I did. He was waiting entirely for me, and if I did nothing, he would turn, and he would leave. It was easy as that. And with this sudden interest, I did not want him to leave. Not for anything in the world.
To my surprise I saw something other than disgust in his deep eyes. It was written across his face. He looked rather intrigued, slightly interested in me, perhaps. I was somewhat startled by this but made no defiance as to his actions.
"Hi." I chirped suddenly, and before I realized what I had done I had seemed to have lost myself in the pools of his azure eyes. To which, as I spoke, they seemed to peak in an odd way.
I completely snapped out of the trance he had set me in. I blinked my eyes several times and became fully aware once again of the art gallery I was standing in, of the paintings that surrounded me, of the heat that enclosed my body, and that I had talked to him. I felt like I would faint right then and there.
I opened my mouth in an effort to speak, but I could not muster a word. He seemed rather amused by this, and tearing away softly from the painting he had been previously observing, he took a few steps towards me, once again looking me over from head to toe, drinking me in almost hungrily.
His extremely uneasy frown etched softly. "Hello." He said in reply.
In an effort not to do anything critically stupid, and failing miserably, I blurted out. "I'm Joey."
His perfect brown eyebrows rose in question, and I wanted to smack my forehead and hit myself with a baseball ball, chanting "stupid, stupid, stupid" all over again! I had told him my name, how forward could that have seemed? What would he say in reply to it? I didn't even want to know. Suddenly I had the greatest urge to run past him and leave the art store and never come back. But he was so enticing; I was scared that if I left I would never see him again.
He said nothing for the longest time after I introduced myself, and I took this as a good sign. He must have been considering something to say to reply. I didn't know what he would say but for the longest time as I stood there all I wanted was for him to speak again. I wanted to know his name, oh God how I wanted to know his name. I knew it had to be some poetic creation to fit someone such as him. Speak to me again, angel. Tell me your name. Speak, please!
At last he did. He gave me a small smile; his eyes were icy and stone cold. "I'm leaving."
When he had turned his back to me I felt a great reluctance and urgency run through my entire being. I saw the sexy curve of his back and how well the trench coat kissed his hips, all of which making me tremble in the knees. But I couldn't let him go just like that. I reached out suddenly, grabbing his wrist, and harshly pulling on it, without really meaning to.
I saw the azure eyes and nearly fainted. They brimmed with annoyance and irritant, and I knew that moment that he was angry. His expression told me all. It was cold and forbidding, and the way his eyes narrowed to me...*shudder * I feel I would have nightmares for weeks. That's funny...having nightmares about an angel.
"What do you want?" he snarled softly at me, I could hear his anger in his voice.
Now if you looked this guy right in the eyes you would never want to cross him again, or worse make him angry. But at the time I couldn't tell myself those things. I was already too obsessed with him, with his entire being, and it held me in a chaining grip, and wouldn't let me go.
What did I want from him? Fuck, I didn't know. I wanted to stare at him consciously with my jaw hanging open and my shoulders slouched. I wanted to touch that beautiful face and swim my fingers through that creamy chocolate hair or lose myself completely in his eyes, only if they were full of warmth. I wanted everything from him. Everything and anything.
"I-I" I couldn't find my voice, nor the words in which I wanted to speak. I wanted to tell him that I simply liked his outfit. Well, moreless simply wanting to lie to him by saying I liked his outfit, just his outfit!
What would you say to someone that beautiful who was so angry at the moment? What?
I cleared my throat when I saw him becoming too impatient. "You're not from around here, are you?" I asked, shrugging my shoulders.
A suspicious chocolate brow rose in suspicion, and I bit down on my cheek from inside my mouth. What a stupid question, of course he wouldn't be from around here, and if he was, there was no doubt I'd have never seen him before. Domino was a huge city! My question lacked logic completely!
To my surprise he smiled softly as if he knew that wasn't what I was trying to ask him. "Are you sure that's what you wanted to ask me?"
~ I want to ask you if you'd be willing to give me a hand job! ~ I thought to myself, staring at him, and then suddenly I couldn't stop my mind from creating awkward yet enticing pictures in my mind.
My eyes skinned over him, discreetly, and I knew he was growing angrier. I swallowed tightly at the thought of his naked form, his moon skin against mine, the chocolate hair and the blonde hair. I couldn't stop thinking about it! It was going to drive me insane.
Right, I'm gay, if you didn't notice.
When I faced his eyes again, he was smiling softly, almost pleasantly, as though he was taunting, and this made me very worried. What was he smiling about? It was almost as if he were responding to the thoughts and images I had just had in my head...was that possible?
I shook my head. No, that wasn't possible. He could just see into my head so easily as that. I swallowed hard and blinked at him. "Uh-" I almost wanted to ask him if he were gay. Hell yes, I wanted to ask if he was gay!
He let out a chuckle from low in his throat, a sound that seemed to me to be godlike. My fingers were shaking when I saw him smiling down at me. "You know you're cute when you're groping with your eyes."
I couldn't tell if he was sarcastic or sincere. My heart skipped a beat for a second and- wait! Did he just say that I was cute?
His smile grew, and I knew his ploy. He had me wrapped right around his finger, tightly. And I, like any other fool, would fall submissively to him.
Groping with my eyes? Oh, so he noticed.
I'm sure glad he didn't say, "undressing people with your eyes". That would have resulted a little bit badly, I think.
He had had enough of this, I could tell by the wave in his eyes. "I have things to do." He said, not apologetically, but sincerely. He simply took my hand away from his wrist and gave me the same emotionless smile. "It was nice to meet you...Joey." He said. "Perhaps we'll meet again someday."
Oh God please!
And just like that, I was standing there in the middle of the art gallery, bathed in the warmth, the colour and the image of him standing there smiling at me, and he was gone.
I blinked several times, I shook my head. I stood in front of paintings and tried to make sure I hadn't gone blind by losing myself in those majestic pools of blue. He said I looked cute. I sighed softly, thinking of him again, trying to retrace every curve and line in his body. But as soon as I tried to rebuild him in my mind, I saw his image fading quickly, and I knew I needed to see him again.
What had he said? Perhaps we would meet again?
I left the art gallery, but I promised I would back. Either the next day, or in a few years, but there always to go and see "Merciful Death", and perhaps look for the boy who was standing there, staring at the painting in front of him. I wanted him back. Badly.
When I got home it was nearly eight thirty, and I cursed myself, ripping out my binders and notebooks from my backpack and trying desperately to get done the load I had been given that day. I had never forgotten everything when I had been in that art store.
I suppose it wasn't surprising. When I finished all my homework, it was a little after midnight. When I slugged myself to my bed, where the room was slightly warmer than the rest of the apartment, I collapsed onto my bed and seemed to have fallen asleep, instantly.
My dreams were plagued. Plagued by the white creature with the sexy aura, the chocolate hair, and the blue eyes that told a story all it's own.
I hoped one day I would be able to discover and understand that story of his.
Later on, I had. And I regretted it.
~*~
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