He flattened his collar again, trying to limit his breathing. The smell of trash, of refuse and rot, would start to chip away at his will in another minute or two, but that would be enough time to close the deal.
"Suck 'n fuck?" The question floated down to Roxas laced with smoke, and he nodded. The redhead was taller than him, features obscured in the cloak of night, the flare of the cigarette he'd provided glowing embers in his eyes with every long inhale. "Benjamin'll do it," the redhead said, shrugging, killing the cigarette with a final drag before tossing it on a pile of spoiling food. Roxas nodded again. He'd brought along a nice round grand, the last trip having cost him three hundred plus on some flamboyant piece of ass, pulling a baggie of coke from, apparently, under his ballsack. Besides, it was the city. It was good to have a cash buffer. Not like he really needed a grand. Not like he wanted to have that much sex. No way. Not Roxas.
New Canaan was a little over an hour away from the city, longer by train. Pastel polos, cargos, button downs-all color-coded in his closet, the wardrobe of a fake, perfect boy with a fake, perfect life. Staunch Republicans, drivers, and dinner at 6:30pm, always an affair with elegant, structured courses. Roxas had a girlfriend, a petite debutante with golden laughter who summered in Monaco. He had a hound, a stately Whippet appropriately named "Regal." No, not a dog; a hound. He started learning Latin at four, French after birth since his au pair spoke nothing but. He could play the cello. He hated his life.
Roxas led the redhead down the block, hailing a cab. The cab ride was uncomfortable, silent, and Roxas wouldn't look the other boy in the face, content to stare at his folded hands. Impeccable manners, lowered eyes. When they pulled up at the Waldorf Astoria, the redhead scoffed.
"You rob a bank, kid?"
Roxas opened the door, held it open for the street boy. The redhead stared at him, shrugged, then opened his own door. Roxas smiled faintly, shook his head. "No." He waited a beat, turning over the money in his pocket. The room had been expensive, but it wasn't anything he didn't have. And after last time, the grit of dirt against his back, unnameable things scuffling in the dark while the boy worked him over... no more of that, thanks. If he was going to slum it, at least there could be a compromise. One dirty street boy, one luxury hotel. Compromise.
When Roxas let the boy into the suite, the redhead whistled under his breath. "God damn, I feel like a fucking princess." He turned around then, and Roxas, unable to avert his eyes quickly enough, finally saw his face. Strange features and tired, vicious eyes. The hair was even more vivid in the light, body lithe and waif-like in a way that made Roxas think heroin. Made Roxas think addiction. He was angular, beautiful. "You steal money from your daddy?"
Roxas cleared his throat briefly before speaking. "I'm not a child." He took his coat off, folded it over his arm and offered to take the street boy's. Street boy, whore, prostitute. A dirty fuck. "May I take your coat?"
The redhead laughed in his face. "The name's Axel, kiddo. And no, 'I'm not a child.' I think I can figure out how to hang up a jacket."
Roxas tried not to shrug, shrugging was rude, and he entered the adjoining room, sliding his slacks off and climbing on the bed. Watching Axel walk toward him-pulling his belt from the loops of his pants, undoing the closure on his jeans-made his heart pound in his mouth.
"Don't waste any time, do you?" Roxas handed him the folded hundred dollar bill, a fifty tucked inside. He knew the redhead wouldn't check the amount until later. "Not much of a talker, are you?" Roxas took a breath and slid his briefs off. Axel smirked. "Can I get a name at least?"
"R-" a pause, unsure, "Richard."
"Cute," Axel said, palming his erection. "Little richie rich Richard." Axel's tongue traced the outlines of his ear, breath floating across his skin and pulling up chills from his blood. "Well, Richard. Thanks for the effort. I appreciate it."
Roxas was abruptly disgusted. Why thank him? He was paying to have sex. Paying to keep his secret a secret, paying to revel in the touch of someone he wanted. Paying with his body, with his sanity, with his life in measured doses. There was no thanks involved. Shame and lust, yes. Roxas plucked impatiently at the band of Axel's briefs.
Later, after he came in Axel's mouth, memorizing the burn of toxic green irises as he slid in and out of that hot, slick mouth, fistful of red hair in his hand, Roxas wondered how he could ask Axel to say the night without paying for another two hours. They would sleep, and in the morning, brunch. After Axel fucked him while running a thumb over his mouth, the groves of his fingertips tracing the seam of his lips and dipping in, making him suck, Roxas thought about pitching the idea-uncomplicated sleep where they didn't even have to touch. Though it would be nice, please. Say yes, please.
But when the clock hit midnight, Axel sat up, hopping off the bed. Roxas watched him dress, jumping up a little to get his tight jeans situated on his hips. The movement was cute, Roxas thought. Endearing. Axel was sniffing erratically, scratching at his arms. "Thanks, kid."
"You don't... have to thank me." Roxas managed, forlorn already. It seemed to get better in his head all the time. One day there would be someone who would want something more. There would be someone who would really want him, not just the money.
Axel stared at him, shrugged, and walked out. It was a long time before Roxas found the peace to sleep