Alfred tugs his raincoat tighter over himself, feeling cold and miserable. The London weather hasn't let up at all, as it's rained for a solid two weeks straight every day. Not hard, never hard, only enough to annoy the shit out of him.
All the money in the world can't make the sky do what he wants.
Well, unless he's China.
The young teen contemplates the idea of firing some sort of atmospheric rocket into England's sky as he kicks a can down along the sidewalk of dreary Soho looking for something to do. He refuses to admit that he's lonely, his college-aged classmates wanting nothing to do with a gawky young kid from abroad. One who so thoroughly intimidates them, he once overheard them not-say as he left the classroom.
Not exactly an uncommon occurrence. He's too young, too rich, too smart. Too intense. Caused by being raised by a man who showed only the toughest kind of love. No one ever wants to be anywhere near him, especially not the kids his age. Though he hasn't considered himself a kid since his mother passed when he was five.
Whatever. He's too good for them anyway.
He feels a presence following him, but doesn't bother looking back. No way his father would let his fifteen year old heir run off to another country on his own without some muscle looking out for him. Even though Alfred had expressly said he didn't need anyone lurking around him and forbad them from getting anywhere near him. God forbid that his father take him seriously.
Now Alfred contemplates finding some way to ditch them as he grits his teeth. He's not used to not getting his own way. His eyes scan through the slowly enclosing dark to the neon-lit signs flickering on. If he remembers right, there's one of these places that has an entrance in the back... Yes, there! His eyes lock onto The Crown and Thorn, seeing the post-work crowd spilling out into the drizzle. He steadies his pace, keeping it casual, striding up towards the crowd.
Then Alfred slips into it, his lanky teen body swimming through the crowd like a fish through water. "Scuze me. Coming through," he calls out, making his way to the other bright end of the pub leading off to an alleyway. Near the end, he bolts, bursting out into the wet cobbled street and off as fast as he can around the nearest corner. He keeps it up until he reaches a crowd of people and is forced to a standstill, because nothing draws attention faster than a teen running at top speed in a city street.
Panting softly, he looks around, not knowing where he is. The rain is getting worse and it's getting darker. He knows he has to head inside somewhere before his father's goons catch up with him. Then his eyes fall on three fanged skulls on a blood red storefront, the words Beer n' Whiskey and Rock n' Roll emblazoned over the top. Alfred's eyes go wide as he takes the bar front in. He can't really explain it, but there's something dark and strange about it in a way that calls to him, even as it makes his hair stand on end.
Forgetting momentarily about his trackers, Alfred walks up to The Crobar, only to be met by a broad-faced bouncer. "Over 18s only," the man says gruffly, eyeing Alfred up and down.
Snorting softly, the teen takes out his student ID and two hundred quid for good measure. "Baby face," he smirks, handing the ID and the folded notes over. Needless to say, he gets in.
The place is slowly coming to life, although it's still early out for the crowd. The place seems strangely rough for Soho, the dive bar's walls covered in peeling posters and neon skulls and the patrons covered in hair and tattoos. And the music is so loud the floor is nearly pulsing with it. It makes Alfred grin. He saunters up to the bar and looks over the array of bottles. "Can I help you?" the bartender asks, giving him much the same wary look of appraisal as the bouncer.
"Bourbon," Alfred replies, affecting the same attitude that his father uses in board meetings. He looks the bartender square in the eye, his gaze cool and aloof. There's no need to dare the man to challenge him. Only people who have something to prove do that.
After a long moment, the man relents. "What kind?"
"Pappy's Reserve," Alfred replies, remembering his grandfather's brand of choice. He turns his attention back to the tight quarters and the jukebox. "You have a band coming in tonight?" He can see a corner where some tables are being pushed to the side, making things ready.
"Some local boys at 8. MasterBaiter," the barkeep replies with a snort as he pushes the finger of whiskey to Alfred. "Then EyeHateGod at 11. You sticking around?"
Alfred considers this a moment and then smiles. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so."
The teen whiles away the hours, slowly sipping at his bourbon as the place becomes more packed with people. He only ever lets himself get a small buzz, because he hates not being in control, especially over his own body. Instead, he spends his time people watching, then chatting up and charming some tattooed ladies with his fake Kentucky southern accent. It's terrible, but nobody can tell the difference. He gets real popular real fast as he buys them all a round. After all, money is meaningless to him, but attention- Well...
Alfred only realizes that it's come eight already when he hears a mic screech into the speakers. He checks his watch, seeing that it's in fact 9:02. "Buy us another drink, love," his bosomed bar companion purrs in his ear, hot against his arm. He does so absentmindedly, his attention drawn instead through the dark and to the stage out of curiosity.
That's when, through the dark, through the crowd of arms in the air, through the sharp screams, the croons in his ear, the bright-dark colored lights- Alfred sees him.
It's like he's forgotten to breathe or everything's just gone into slow motion. Or somehow he's gotten tunnel vision. Or that he's been drugged. Yes, drugged. Definitely drugged. Because how else can he explain the chills that run down his spine along with the intense unnameable heat that's burning him up from the inside out.
The guitarist, so not like the others, who are in grunge T-shirts and jeans. No, this one, he's in full punk gear, the leather pants, the shredded skull shirt, all the spiked leather cuffs and that collar. His body is nearly glittering in the dark light, there's so much metal on him, either through rings or piercings. He's not even all that attractive in the traditional sense, long and lanky, his features just a little too sharp. But for some reason, Alfred cannot stop staring, his entire body flushed hot and cold. "B-bourbon," he tells the barkeep, losing his aloof and powerful edge just a hair, this punk rocker throwing him so off his game.
His eyes stay riveted to the guitarist for the next full hour of music. His companions lose interest. Not that he notices. All he can see is the punk rocker in front of him, so involved in the music he barely looks up.
Come ten o'clock, the band takes a break, heading off stage while the jukebox takes over. Alfred's blue eyes follow the guitarist out the back. Then he goes after without hesitation. Sifting through the crowd of people, he knows he's lost his place at the bar for good. Yet he pushes past the people through to the back and out- outside into the dark and the rain.
It's suddenly so quiet as the metal door slams shut behind him, his ears still ring from the echoes of the music. He looks around into the dark, seeing no sign of the elusive guitarist. All he sees are the garbage bins, their metal illuminated in the wet and the short reach of the overhead light in the dark. Nothing else. He's lost him.
"You're getting soaked," a voice calls from behind him and Alfred whirls around. And there he is, just casually smoking a cigarette as he leans against the wall. His hair is bright green. Alfred couldn't tell in the multicolored spotlights inside, but it looks so perfect on him he didn't know why he didn't imagine it that way. Snorting softly, the guitarist tugs him back out of the rain and back underneath the overhang to the door. "You know I had that propped open. Now I have to walk out to the front," he says, clearly annoyed.
"Sorry," Alfred says, his voice weak and small.
The punk only sighs and shrugs. "Whatever. I'm in no rush to get back in there," he says, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "I'm only doing them a favour. Their normal guitarist is sick and I stepped in. It's complete shite, isn't it?"
"A-um..." Alfred replies, unsure of how to answer. He barely even heard the music, his attention so focused on the man in front of him.
The rocker glances over at him, his eyes as green as his hair. They're absolutely mesmerizing. "Aren't you a little young for this place?"
"No, I'm not," the teen replies, relieved that a little bit of power is coming back to his voice. "I go to Imperial College, for your information." Oh, great. Now he sounds whiney.
That earns him an appraising look. "That a Yank accent?" he asks curiously. "Hn, no surprise. Lots of international students." Immediately, he grows disinterested again and for some reason it just makes Alfred angry.
Suddenly, the door swings open, smacking Alfred right in the back. The teen stumbles forward, falling up against the punk and his sharp spikes and soft leathers. His mind completely short-circuits as the guitarist's hands come up to catch and steady him, wrapped up momentarily in the man's arms.
"Oi, watch it!" the guitarist yells over his shoulder to the offender.
"Sorry," the voice calls out unrepentantly. "Now hurry up, Iggsy. We have to get a few more songs in before we're kicked off stage."
The guitarist - Iggsy- grumbles under his breath and presses Alfred off of him. He takes another drag and then hands the cigarette off to the teen. "Here, finish it for me," he says and then sidles past to head back inside. The door slams behind the teen, left in the cold with only a discarded fag as a reminder.
Alfred shudders violently, needing to fall back against the wall to get a hold of himself. He's never felt such an out of body experience before. He's never been so off his game. Never so impotent, so out of control. He trembles, looking down at the cigarette butt in his fingers. Gritting his jaw so tightly his teeth ache, he crushes it in his hand, ignoring the burn against his skin.
He hates it.
He will find this Iggsy. No matter where he is, who he is. Then, he will make him pay.
