Well, it's about six am, and life is very cruel, considering that I only slept about three hours already. Oh well, it means I can use National Novel Writing Month to its fullest extent! Whoooo! Anyway, as I promised, here's chapter four of Sleepless Nights. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own the cast of Eternal Sonata/Trusty Bell: Chopin's Dream.

WARNING! This chapter may contain graphic content of pedophilia, rape, child abuse, human trafficking, and child prostitution. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

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The day went by a lot faster than expected. With all the tasks that needed to be finished before he was spirited away again, Jazz had his hands full. Most if it was things only he and Falsetto could do –ordering supplies, approving tradesmen and travelers, reading mission reports from their men and women in the field—but he'd figured the young lady had had just about enough of dealing with things he'd put off while gathering intel and fighting alongside their most recent comrades. So, he'd done what was necessary; check the inventory of stockpiled food and weapons, issue an order to replace and replenish what they needed, check the infirmary for their medicinal items, cheer up the current patients (nothing too serious this time, thank Saints), then head back to his quarters and read through the documents that had mysteriously apparrated onto his desk in his absence.

Though slow-going due to his substantial lack of training in the area, reading the reports and requests of his men cheered him a little. Three years ago, they were almost all fighting out in the front lines; now, only a select few were undercover, and some were training in the field, but other than that his soldiers were all at home, raising their families and living their lives in a better country than they'd been born into. Rather than looking for weapons, rations, and extra support on the Fortean front, they were making requests for music from the city's own composer and marriage licenses and a few extra food supplies for the upcoming Midsummer festival. The reports were everything he expected; just enough information to keep them guessing, but not enough to take action. (This relieved him, as he really hoped not to get into another major battle so soon.) Still, despite the mediocrity of the task, it was well into the late afternoon before he looked up from his work, and his stomach was complaining heavily over the lack of attention it had been given.

Getting to the mess hall had been slightly more trouble than usual, however; more people at home meant more mouths to feed at one time than they were used to. It also meant more people in the moderate antechamber than was suggested; meaning lines, arguments, and a great deal of noise were present during all meals. He enjoyed it, though; these sights and sounds were a novelty during the rebellion. Now, he could hear them everyday and never tire of it.

As he entered the room, his dark eyes scanned over the crowd, looking for the one who had overheard this morning. However, the individual was not in the room; either they had already eaten or had not yet arrived. In either case, he did instead spot another familiar face and smiled, weaving his way towards them in hopes of good conversation.

"Well, you look as dower as ever," he laughed, leaning over the table at the surprised face before him. "Is something bothering you, Allegretto?"

The lad was almost in his twenties now, though his hair was the grayish-silver of men three times his age. Deep blue eyes stared in shock and awe of the soldier leaning on the table, his young face a mask of pure astonishment and his posture that of a man startled. Obviously, he had not expected Jazz's particular company, and that made it all the better when he composed himself and shook off the stunned look.

"Um… well, not really…" The boy shifted nervously in his seat, glancing about the room in discomfort, as if looking for someone. "I was… well, I guess…" A faint red glow tinged the boy's cheek, and Jazz decided to sit for this explanation, whipping a chair around backwards to rest his chin and arms on the back of it. The boy fidgeted under the calm, waiting gaze until he finally mumbled something that was lost in the din of the hall.

With a chuckle, Jazz shook his head. "I can't hear you if you don't speak up," he stated, the smile on his face playful and inviting. "Come on; what's got you so down?"

The cobalt eyes glance up to him again, then dropped to his plate, the crimson stain spreading further down his face and under his collar. "Well… I just… I haven't seen her in a while, and… I've been worried about her…" By the way he started and stopped, as well as the way he thumbed the woven bracelet on his wrist, Jazz knew exactly who the young man was talking about.

"You mean Polka, don't you?" The stiff nod (accompanied by a very intense stare at his empty plate) confirmed the soldier's statement. Sighing, Jazz leaned back, thinking on what he had heard over the past few days. "From what Falsetto reported on her last time out there, it seems she has everything under control. Her shop's still busy, and she and her mother are doing quite well. I think the summer weather is doing the Polka some real good."

He neglected to mention the letter he'd received the night before from Solfege, about how her daughter had taken ill again a few days prior. She had asked him to pass the message along to another (which he had), hoping he could heal the girl's spirits as well as her body, though her sudden decline in heath was nothing serious. However, Allegretto was not that person, and he doubted that the boy would be able to keep his anxiety from boiling over into spats of ill-placed arguments. Considering that the specified party would not be leaving until early tomorrow, he decided against telling Allegretto when the requested man was departing.

The information he'd given seemed to satiate the silver-haired street fighter, however his look was more downcast than before. With a hefty sigh, Jazz placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and smiled kindly when their gazes met. "I'm sure she misses you, Allegretto," he assured him gently. "After all, you got a letter two days ago, didn't you? You can't expect couriers to be running at all hours everyday." The nod he received was solemn, but the boy did not disagree. "Well, there you are, then! I'm sure you'll get a response in another day or two. Have faith in her." A light shown in the boy's eye and he nodded again, sitting straight up as an incentive filled him once more.

"Thanks Jazz."

"Anytime. Come to me if you need anything, okay?"

"Yeah, I will." Standing, the lad made his way out of the emptying mess hall, leaving the soldier alone at the table. Others waved at him as they left, and he returned the gesture, renewed by the knowledge that his teen love was thinking of him still. Jazz could only smile as he watched the boy go, then stood to deal with another issue at hand—he'd been distracted from his initial task of actually eating. However, when he arrived at the kitchens, it seemed that most of the meal had already been eaten, leaving something akin to the barest of scraps. This didn't bother him, though; instead, he chuckled and took what he could, deciding not to bother the kitchen staff as they themselves were in the midst of dining. Then, he left back to his own quarters, munching unceremoniously on a roll as he walked.

Where others would have been a kind sort of company, he met few on his way back, and none could do more than spare him a smile or wave as he traversed the stone passageways. Ever still, he lost himself in thought, taking roost in a small alcove behind one of the many free-flowing waterfalls of the secluded town. From here, he could gaze over much of the subterranean city, watching his soldiers and their families go about their daily business as he ate the remainders of his meal. However, he couldn't help thinking back on his talk with Rhyme, which (rather inevitably) led him back to that day, the day his brother sold him for livelihood. The day, perhaps, he lost most of his innocence as a child, one portion that would never be regained.

Without even realizing it, his gaze grew as pained and solemn as it did distant, and he whispered to himself the words he remembered so clearly. "Come now, gentlemen. I assure our wares are only the finest. In fact, we just got something new in this morning, if you'd like to see…"

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"…though, I must admit, he's quite fresh. Not trained yet, but I know that such men as yourselves prefer a more innocent touch." The middle-aged woman smiled brightly, the expression making her lined face as beautiful as it must have been years ago. She stood before the open door in a wrap of deep twilight silk, the firelight casting shadows of dusk and nightfall across her slender frame. She gestured inwards to the room, the jewels on her fingers sparkling in the soft light. A few voices chuckled from behind the jam, and the boy inside squirmed nervously, careful not to let the cloth about his lean frame pool onto the pillows beside him. Madam Clarinet had ordered him to stay still after some of the young women had bathed and clothed him, using a musky oil of some sort to soften his lightly bronzed skin under the bone white silk of his less-than-covering robe. His black hair had been combed and cut into a feathery yet silky wave, and his dark eyes lined with gold to bring out their luster. Still, he shook, and only by will did he not cry. He had been told that he was a prize indeed; that young lords would love to keep his company for a night. He didn't know what she had meant, but it filled him with worry bordering on fear.

"So, my lords, who would like to teach this young lad our ways tonight, hm?" Her smile hid some form of mischief he couldn't place, and he held his breath to hear the responses from the hallway.

"Unfortunately, Madam, my tastes lie in those slightly older," one voice answered. It was low and gruff, haughty in its nobility. "From what I hear, this new boy you have is no more than a child. Why, it'd be quite ludicrous to have a boy so young." A sigh of relief escaped his lips, and Jazz relaxed, relieved that he had not been chosen for whatever must be giving him this tight feeling of fear in his chest.

"'Ludicrous', you say?" A younger voice spoke this time, equally as imperious and definitively more spoiled. "Well, pardon my insanity, my lord, but I prefer to have someone who fits snugly." This produced a round of low chortles that made the boy shift slightly in humility. "Besides, the younger they are, the more trustworthy their voices are." The voices outside the door carried on like this for a bit, and each of their insinuations grew more and more blatant, until finally one spoke up.

"Do we actually get to see this new boy you have, Madam? Or are we to remain out here in the dark until your precious new flower blooms?"

"No, not at all, my lords," the dark lady answered, a light laugh in her voice that belied the contrite respect on her face. "Come in, and you shall see for yourselves what a true gem we have discovered."

One by one, men entered the candlelit chamber after Clarinet's gesture inwards. He could count six in all, each but one as dark-skinned and regal as the woman who kept him here. Some were large, others were small, but they all held that glimmer of curiosity and want in their dark, gem-like eyes. The last one was fair-skinned, and he seemed more interested in what his cohorts wanted than the boy, though his deep blue eyes strayed to the child more than once with a malevolent gleam.

The youngest spoke, his the voice that had been heard second in the hall. "My, my, you were not joking, Madam Clarinet." His voice dripped with selfishness and laughter, and he smiled at the boy as an unmarried soldier would a buxom tavern wench. "He certainly is young, and quite the lovely peach. Though, I must ask; where did you find him? He doesn't look like one of your lady's brats."

"He came to us from the south, actually," she answered modestly, giving the lad a reassuring smile that didn't make his nervousness any better. "An orphan, from what I hear, with a mother of Gospel blood. Do not worry, gentlemen; I have already taken the necessary precautions. He's as pure as Baroquen snow." A few murmurs spoke up, and the men talked amongst themselves for a bit. However, the boy's gaze was trained on the only man looking at him; the pale one, who had such a cold and cruel gaze he could not look away from. Eyes of dark aquamarine bored into his soul behind silver hair and a single lens of glass, and it was this gaze of utter malice that made the boy want to crawl away and hide more than anything.

"My dear Madam, I would like the boy." The child shifted his attention immediately to the man who had spoken—a new voice that sounded softer than the others, yet held a firmness that could not be denied. The declaration had come from a young man, likely into his early twenties, and very noble. His features were smooth and coppery, with deep gold eyes and fluffy tawny hair reminiscent of a lion's mane. He was certainly gentle, but held a build of a man who knew how to end a life with ease. He smiled as Jazz's hopeful eyes fell upon him, then nodded. "Indeed, I have decided. How much for his innocent company?"

"Ah, my Lord, the bartering begins at two thousand," the matron answered coyly. "This is, after all, the only youngling we've had in almost ten years."

"The only youngling worthy in ten years, you mean," a man scoffed, his hawkish features set in a haughty sneer. "I admit that the boy is beautiful, Madam, but an untrained, albeit untouched, specimen is worth nowhere near two thousand gold."

"I quite disagree. As a matter of fact, I think my own lord might find it a mere trifle to obtain such a creature." The pale man had been the one to speak, and had done so with the calm, confident nature of a man knowing that he will always get what he want. The boy had to force himself not to tremble as those chilly eyes met his again, the firelight flickering across the single glass lens upon his young face. "To find such a mix is a rarity in our world, and one well worth the cost."

"Indeed," the lion-esque man conceded. He turned to the matron with a smile. "I will pay five thousand for the boy tonight, and five hundred for every night I may keep him." Madam Clarinet raised one delicate eyebrow in amusement, but was cut off before her lips could space more than a hair's breadth.

"And my lord, Madam, will pay ten thousand tonight if we may take the boy when we leave tomorrow." The pale man was smirking now, the expression charismatic and horrible all at once, and his eyes glimmered with a hunger the boy did not recognize… yet.

"Such offers, gentlemen," the Madam chuckled, hiding her smile behind one carefully decorated hand coyly. "Do any others make offers on the child?"

"I believe I will up my offerings, my dear lady," the tawny-haired man stated firmly. "Eight thousand tonight, and the price of your highest lady each night I take this boy."

Silence greeted this statement, then the man with silver hair chuckled. "Ah, I must concede, Madam Clarinet," he murmured. "How can I compete with such devoted customers?" He nodded to the royal-looking man, giving a slight bow with a smile that was all but contrite. He seemed, more than anything, simply amused…

"Then, it is decided." Clarinet clapped her hand, smiling brilliantly in the low firelight. She snapped her fingers and a teenage girl came to her immediately, bearing a parchment and feathered quill. "Eight thousand gold tonight, and nine hundred for each night thereafter in the name of Prince Piccolo the Twelfth for as long as he may visit my humble brothel. I take it you wish the boy to be exclusive until you terminate your contract?"

"Of course."

"Then sign here my Lord, and our contract will be complete." He signed the paper, and the group moved out of the room, leaving the Prince in the room alone with the child. The matron smiled at the both of them as she pulled on a rope, speaking only once before the cloth dropped completely.

"Enjoy your prize, my Prince; I assure you, he is quite the catch."

After the sheets of fabric covered the door entirely, the two simply stared at each other, the fire making the only sound in the now frightfully hot room. The musk that permeated the very air grew thicker, making the room seem hazy, and he felt his skin begin to glimmer with sweat. Still, he could not take his eyes from the man, Piccolo, desperately trying to keep from shaking under the white silk. The man glanced over his prize with warmth and comfort before walking forward…

…and sitting gently on the pillows next to him.

"What is your name, dear child?" He was earnest, honest and kind, simply wishing to speak, and so the boy did gladly.

"Jazz, my lord." The words were dry on his tongue, as if they didn't belong there in the first place, but he tried anyway. "It's Jazz."

"Jazz, hm?" The name came out as a purr in his throat, not unlike a great cat's growl. "That's quite the name. I'm sure you shall live up to it one day, should you receive the chance."

The boy stared at him, some of his anxiety lost in his confusion and interest. "What do you mean? Is my name special?"

"Oh, very. After all, I'm sure you will be quite well-known someday." The kind glint in the man's golden eyes changed rapidly to a deep ember of hunger. Before the boy knew it, his hand was stroking his hair, brushing it out of the way as strong fingers played over his delicate scalp. Eyes closing, he wondered if Madam Clarinet had meant only that; that he should be the man's company tonight and nothing more.

"You are such a beautiful child, Jazz," the deep voice crooned, the hand moving lightly from his scalp to his neck. Instinctively, he tilted his head away from the touch, allowing the fingers to brush his neck and send shivers down his spine. It was a comfortable feeling, and all his fear was gone. This man was kind; all he wanted was someone to talk to.

"Thank you, Mister Piccolo."

"You are quite welcome, Jazz." He heard the shifting of his companion on the pillows and turned his head towards it, opening his eyes slightly. The smile the older gave was dazzling. "It is nothing, dear boy; I am only shifting. Though, would you mind sitting closer? You look tired, and I wish nothing more than for you to be comfortable." He patted his lap, and Jazz climbed into it without concern, resting his head back against the sculpted chest. Those strong hands stroked his arms and neck, relaxing him until he swore he could almost fall asleep in the comforting embrace. Then the hands traveled lower; across his chest, his stomach, his hips. Gently, they parted the fabric from the flesh, and chiseled lips pressed against his shoulder and neck.

Before he could understand what was happening, the hand dipped lower, brushing a spot that made the boy gasp and stare at the ceiling in shock. It was a new feeling; something different and something… something wrong.

"M-mister-"

"Hush Jazz, be calm."

"B-but…" The boy tried to squirm away, but the strong hands and arms pulled him back into the man's lap. Jazz shifted uncomfortably; he didn't know why, but it felt as if he was sitting on a metal rod that had not been there before. "I… I don't feel right…"

The prince chuckled, the sound resonating deeply in his chest as his hands began to flutter once more; one across the buds on his thin chest in soft circles, the other between his legs with firm touches that made the child ever more feverish. His tongue, moist and warm, slid over the sweaty, oiled skin, making Jazz openly shudder even as he panted for air already. This reaction made the man growl deeply, and his hands moved faster –harder—and his lips and tongue swirled over virgin skin in molten circles. The younger cried out, though in what he didn't know, and the hands seized him tightly.

"Oh, my dear Jazz, I simply must have you now."

"W-what?"

In an instant, the child was thrown to the floor, landing sharply on his belatedly splayed hands. He could feel the throbbing between his legs, and his body shook as he tried to focus on the man now above him. A moment of feral heat passed over them both, and then the man was stripped, his member a firm, needy rod before him. Without warning, he pushed the child's face into the floor, his other hand gripping the slender hips and propping them upward.

He couldn't stop crying now. Something was wrong; what happened? What was going to happen? Before he could ponder much further, he felt Piccolo's thigh slide between his own, giving him something to rest against as the hand slid away to massage the soft rump. The massage slowly shifted to a more sensitive place, and soon Jazz could feel one of his fingers slide in. Desperately, he squirmed, trying to get away, but the intruding appendage was simply joined by another with a sharp, aching pain, and he could only pant against the floor, tears falling because of his pain and confusion. He whimpered as the digits flexed and parted within him, then cried out when a third joined them with a tearing pain. It hurt so much, and he didn't know why it was him.

Then, the fingers were gone, and his legs were forced apart, straddling the wider legs. He pushed himself onto his hands, wondering what was going to happen next, when another pressure was placed against the sore, wet spot. Jazz stiffened, fear grasping him, and he screamed as the man behind him thrust deeply into his inexperienced body. It burned and chilled, ached and tore with every thrust as the man pounded time after time into his tiny form, and his cries and tears went unnoticed; save, perhaps, to increase the frequency and force of the motions. He tried to crawl away, but he was forced back by strong, lustful hands, pulling him into Piccolo's lap. The Easterner forced him to sit upright as he bounced the boy harshly, breathing heavily in the boy's ear and he nibbled and licked the child's neck. The ministrations of the man created conflicting feelings; the thrusting hurt more than any pain he'd felt before, but the touches and tastes and bites made his body heat and harden with just as much ferocity.

Then, suddenly, he felt a blinding shock of incomprehensible pleasure. He cried out and the spot was hit again, sending stars across his vision and forcing another wanton utterance from his young throat. This cycle continued, each more forceful than the other until finally his body simply couldn't take it anymore and he arched, the pleasure and pain overwhelming his body to the point of release. He felt the stillness as the man behind him stopped his movement and felt up and down the now slick prepubescent shaft between his thighs. Whimpers and mewls of pain emitted from the child, and the heavy breathing slowed for a moment.

"I am so sorry, Jazz. Would you like me to make it up to you?"

He wasn't sure, but it was clear that the man was not giving him much of a choice. Slowly, he felt the iron rod of the man's penis slide from his body, and he was lifted into the air to be placed rather unceremoniously on the pile of pillows. He moved away, and the boy slipped off the silky pillows without realizing it until his damaged buttocks hit the floor with a thud and he whimpered once more. Nothing had hurt like this, and now he hurt even more. He glanced over to the prince, who was rubbing the swollen member gently as it shone in the firelight. After a moment, he moved back to the pillows and sat, the offending organ still protruding as he smelled ever more strongly of musk and oil. The child sighed and curled up slightly, wishing this to be the end. However, it seemed as if the sheik was merely resting for a moment. In mere seconds, the man was upright, and he pulled the boy to his knees before him.

"Taste it, dear child," he purred, holding the hardened shaft of his member towards the younger as he brought the boy's head closer to him. "I promise, it will be unlike anything you have ever tasted before." Hesitating, the child tentatively leaned forward and touched his tongue to the tip of the shaft. It tasted of skin and the oils the women had rubbed into his skin; sweet and spicy. A soft groan made him look up, and the man's nod and iron-clad grip forced his continuance. He licked over the tip, unsure of whether this was right or not, then placed his lips over the hardened organ to suck on the sensitive bud. The groan immediately became more needy, and both hands gripped the child, pulling him closer and forcing the member further into his mouth.

"Suck on it hard, Jazz," he growled, tangling the boy's pitch locks between his fingers as he pulled him ever closer. "I want those licks and kisses all over it."

He was afraid, but he did as he was told. He licked every spot he could find, kissed the throbbing piece gently, and moved back to the tip (because it made Piccolo happiest, he thought), taking as much of the organ into his mouth as he could and sucking hard. The man moaned deeply and forced his head into a rhythmic bob, forcing the boy down as much as he was able without gagging. He wasn't sure why this was important, but it didn't hurt like before…

…until everything came in more force. He his head was pulled even harder, so much that he did gag slightly. He released his lips and pulled away, but the tawny-haired man simply pulled him up into his lap again, this time facing him. There was no prelude this time; he was simply shifted and penetrated, eliciting another scream of agony as the man pounded him relentlessly. Somehow, the child was shifted into the pillows, the man resting the boy's legs against his chest as he thrust harder and deeper into him before. Jazz screamed, crying with each thrust of how it hurt, but that only excited the man more. Harder, faster, deeper… it went on for what seemed like forever until the man finally jolted and drew the child over him completely with a roar that may simply have been the child's own screams. Twice. Thrice. Then a shudder and a chilly, liquid sensation in his belly before the man ceased moving. The child's whimpering sobs were mixed with the deep breathing of the spent man. The pain throbbed within and without, and he could feel liquid dripping down his back and into the pillows.

Finally, after an age, the man pulled out, dropping the child harshly into the pillows again with an exhausted whimper. He blinked, trying to focus on the man, but a warm hand brushed over his brow.

"Rest, little one. I will have more to teach you when you wake."

Then, thankfully, darkness overtook him and the pain was left behind… until next he woke.

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Jazz didn't realize how much time had passed until the bells chimed, snapping him out of his state. Sundown. He straightened up, shaking his head as he forced himself to block out the memory for now. So focused was he that he didn't see the man standing behind him until he nearly crashed into him. A figure clad in navy and white staggered and nearly crumpled to the floor, but the commander was fast enough to catch and steady the thin man.

"Frederic! I'm so sorry; I didn't see you there!"

The man chuckled quietly, regaining his balance and waiving off a hand as he picked up his fallen hat. "It's quite all right, Jazz," he answered crisply, his smile genuine (and yet masking) as he put on his hat, once again completing his ensemble. "I was actually just looking for you." Instantly, his expression became one of worry, showing the paternal nature the composer desperately tried to argue he did not have. "Have you been feeling all right? Everyone I've spoken to said you seemed a little… odd, today."

Shaking his head, Jazz recalled again the memories that crept upon him before, but shoved them back into the far recesses of his mind once more. "It's nothing, really," he laughed, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. "I've just been distracted a lot recently."

"As I've noticed," the elder man stated dryly, piercing him with a flat stare. "You seemed to be lost in your thoughts quite often as of late."

"Just being reminded of times past!" The statement was said as a joke, and the smile he gave only reinforced its intent. The navy-haired man arched an eyebrow over his sapphire-blue eyes (which clearly showed he didn't believe an ounce of the "intent"), but sighed and shook his head.

"All right. But talk to someone if you're bothered by something, all right? Falsetto knows you best, but I'm here to help if you need it."

"On my honor." Holding up his right hand, Jazz grinned at the musician as he rolled his eyes and strode away in a regal huff. At the end of the hall, Frederic turned back to give the military man a hard stare, then imperiously faced the other direction and turned a corner. The rebel chuckled and rubbed his head, amused by how irritated the composer seemed before heading off to find out what else needed to be done before the day was out.

Not to mention getting dinner. Apparently, revisiting old memories makes a man hungrier than Hell.

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Well, finally done. I can already see people wanting to destroy me for doing this to Jazz, but hey—I figured he needed a sufficiently terrible past to overcome. There's more where that came from, kiddies, so either deal with it or stop reading. It's only going to get more gruesome, I guarantee it. For now, reviews are quite welcome.