Blink had seen him that day. He had been coming back from a shoot in which he and Skittery had to pretend to be sucking each other off—something that would stick in his frenzied mind for a long time—and he saw him. The silver fox. The tanned sicko who drew him up to his apartment and raped him. Blink had played it off like he hadn't cared. That he was fine with it. But the memory clung to him like the handcuffs that had pressed into his wrists as they were bound and hung from the antique hook.

He pressed warm air into his hands, remembering how cold he had been that night. He hated when he was sober. It was so much easier just to shoot up and forget everything. It was best after he'd been clean. The feel, it was magical.

Blink rubbed his arms, feeling the tender skin. He needed to get out of there, he knew. He needed to take up Mush's offer, go to Europe. But he couldn't. He knew he could never leave the city. It curled into his veins like the junk. Manhattan was in his blood. He couldn't leave it.

Instead, he went back to the agency that day and got doused in foundation to cover the bruises. He stretched on the tarp and put his hand seductively on his crouch, staring vacantly at the enormous Cyclops eye of the camera. He remembered when he was little and it first began. He'd clutch stuffed animals and aim his big blue eyes at the camera, smiling. It'd be for toy stores or jeans or cereal. He had loved it then. It was like drugs, the flash of the bulb and the view of his pictures in a magazine.

Now he never saw the magazines. He just knew that men picked up the magazines to beat off or even curious teenage girls who didn't know what to do about the boy in their algebra or whatever. Now he used actual drugs to get that high. The junk.

"Alright," Weasel said tiredly. "You can go now. And lay off the smack, Blink. That foundation is expensive."

"Your compassion floors me," he deadpanned.

"Well you're a mess," he snapped. "You saw what happened to David."

"David didn't eat. He wasn't a junkie," Blink reminded him. "Besides, I'm fine."

With that, he left and went back to their apartment where Mush and a syringe awaited him.

--

He arose in the middle of the night with Mush curled around him, breath warm on his face. Blink kissed his cheek before edging away. Per usual, he tightened a rubber band around his arm and patted a non-bruised spot on his arm before inserting the needle.

Blink stretched out on the floor, feeling his body warm.

He dreamed of being in Europe with Mush where he walked glitter-paved streets and fairies with bright green hair and berets spoke French and handed them baguettes. Where everyone was happy and speaking in languages that tickled his ears.

He dreamed of he and Mush making love inside of a tent. No, not a tent…a flower. They were inside a flower, the dark veins showing as the sun filtered through. The fairies were giggling and flitting about the flower, screaming in French. The sun rose like a slice of fruit in the morning and birds sang to them. Trees grew like giants and sheltered them from when the sun was mean. The fairies were screaming.

Blink was dreaming of a better life. He often did that when he was high. He would shoot up, lay back and let his mind just wander. Potheads did that but it was junk for him. He would dream so long that he'd wake up and it would be night again.

Except this time he didn't wake up from his dream.