CHAPTER II

"Would you open the door already?!" Alfred implored, his voice straining. "We can only hold him for so long, and I'd prefer that the neighbors not see what's going on!"

"Well, that'd be a lot easier if you didn't have ten-million frickin' keys on your keyring!" Gilbert retorted, groaning as he took out the current key and thrust in another one.

"Guys, I know we're all tired and testy, but let's not fight, all right?" Elizaveta tried to reason, though she was also finding it difficult to bear Matthew's weight. "Besides, yelling will just draw more attention to us."

"I'm just glad we left Rod back at his damn house. Who knows what crap he'd be nagging us about now." Gilbert cussed loudly as he yanked the key out again and tried a different one. Finally, he turned it and a merciful click sounded. "Yes!" he shouted, bursting through the front door.

"Great, now let's get him to the guest room before our arms give out," Alfred groused. He stepped into the house backwards as he held the boy up from under his arms, and Elizaveta supported the legs. Quickly, but carefully, they maneuvered through the den and turned left into the spare bedroom. Their movements slowed as they laid him down softly on the thin sheets.

"What now?" Gilbert asked, scratching his head.

Alfred removed the gray blanket covering Matthew and sighed at the task before them. "Now, we get him out of these clothes so that Dad doesn't suspect anything. Um, Elizaveta, maybe you should go find some aspirin or Tylenol or whatever it is he needs. We keep the medicine in the cabinet above the sink."

She nodded and left the room in search of the pills. Gilbert and Alfred exchanged glances; neither of them wanted to do this. "Okay," Al suggested, "how about we get out some clothes for him to change into and then figure out how we handle this?"

"I like that idea." The boys left the room, making a left into the kitchen as the wall cut off suddenly. The staircase leading upstairs was on the other side of the barrier; there wasn't a railing on that side, so it was necessary to have the wall there. They snuck up the stairs and grabbed some random clothes from Al's room before heading back down.

Noticing his friend's stash, Gilbert inquired, "Why are you carrying underwear?"

"Well, we don't know if he's wearing anything under those shorts, so… And besides, even if he is, he should have something clean to wear."

Elizaveta, waiting outside the guest room, saw them come around the wall, confused, as she hadn't seen them go upstairs. "Lemme take the meds inside, babe," Gilbert said, snatching the bottle from her hand. "He's sleeping anyway so we can't give him anything yet." She was about to smack him over the head, but he'd already slipped into the room. Alfred followed after, carrying the clothing, and all he could offer her was a half-hearted shrug.

With everything ready, the two faced each other, knowing they had to make a decision eventually. "Rock, Paper, Scissors?" Alfred proposed.

"Couldn't we play Cowboy, Ninja, Bear?"

"I don't know how to play Cowboy, Ninja, Bear."

"Fine, we'll settle this with Rock, Paper, Scissors."

The boys each held up their right hands, curled into fists, and glared with determination. In perfect synchronization, they shook their fists up and down, chanting, "Rock, paper, scissors, SHOOT!"

Gilbert kept his hand in a fist while Alfred's index and middle fingers imitated scissors. "Rock smashes scissors!" the albino shouted in victory, pretending to crush the "scissors" with his "rock". Alfred groaned at his loss and turned his attention to Matthew, lying helplessly on the bed sheets. He reminded himself that this was all to help him.

"Hey wait," Alfred said, thinking about it now, "wouldn't it be better to clean him up first and then dress him?"

"You lost, dude, so you do it." Gilbert smirked as he walked out and closed the door, joining Elizaveta in leaning against the wall. "So, Al's busy. Wanna make out?"

"Go to hell. Can't you read the atmosphere?"

"Hey…hey, sorry for trying to lighten the mood, all right? Yeesh."

Elizaveta sighed. Gilbert just didn't know how to be serious, and this situation was no laughing matter.

Behind the door, Alfred was running his fingers through his short blonde hair, not looking forward to this at all. Tossing his leather coat aside, he figured that someone had to do it, and it was his house anyway. Deciding he would remove the clothing once the bath was set, he picked Matthew up bridal-style and carried him into the adjoining bathroom, gently laying him on the bathmat. He then plodded back to the bedroom to gather up the clean clothes he planned to change the boy into afterward, placing them on the sink countertop.

Alfred made his way over to the bathtub and twisted the rusty faucet labeled "H", letting the water heat up before he lodged the plug in the drain. Oh wait, if he poured in some bubble bath, he wouldn't have to see anything as he washed him. Also, the soapy water would probably clean the kid in places Alfred would rather leave alone.

All right, so now the bath was full and everything was in order. It was time to stop procrastinating on the more embarrassing part of the job. He took a deep breath and knelt beside Matthew. First, he undid the collar, allowing it to slip off the boy's slender neck. The action revealed several hickeys, but even more than that were the bruises. Either the collar had been fastened too tight or someone had tried to choke him.

"What a life," Alfred whispered, disheartened as he hesitantly pulled the sparkling tank top over Matthew's head. His skin displayed more marks, more signs of beatings. He had to turn his face away when he pulled down the black shorts, afraid of the wounds he might find there.

Focusing his eyes on the wall, he lifted up the boy's ailing body and brought him over to the bathtub, lowering him into the steaming water. Alfred grabbed a bar of soap and a washcloth, soaking the towel in the soothing liquid before slathering the soap on. He then proceeded to scrub away the smeared makeup obscuring Matthew's face. It was coming off easily, along with the dirt and dried sweat. Once he's cleared away the impurities, he took a closer look. God, he's beautiful, Alfred thought, again in awe before the fallen angel. Without a trace of cosmetics or blemishes, he was the essence of purity.

"Matthew, how'd you end up like this?" There wasn't any point in asking the boy, for he was unconscious, but the thought was heartrending. It was becoming more and more evident to him that something just wasn't right with this picture.

He temporarily put the thoughts aside and kept washing the boy's blemished skin. The washcloth slipped down the neck and over the shoulders; he worked on Matthew's back before the chest. The only areas Alfred wouldn't touch were the lower regions, stopping just above the bellybutton and continuing down at mid-thigh.

Once Matthew's skin had been cleansed, Alfred moved onto the hair, squeezing out some of the apple-scented shampoo. A smile spread in remembrance of how his dad had bought it by mistake and the two of them had liked the fruity aroma, so they kept getting it. He thought of how pleasant it would be for Matthew to wake up with the smell of apples in his hair, contrasting with the fragrance of cherry blossoms his body would carry from the bubble bath.

Oh, Matthew's hair was so smooth and silky now with the shampoo purging the filth as he ran his fingers through it to make sure every strand was refined. He rinsed out the golden locks, now clinging to the boy's face in their wet state, that beautiful face…

That beautiful whore's face, Alfred reminded himself, troubled by the range of emotions tangoing inside his mind. He almost slapped himself the next moment, his thoughts changing again. It just didn't feel right… to call Matthew a whore. To even put his name and the word "prostitute" in the same sentence felt like a contradiction. He evoked innocence, naivety, and a tramp was anything but.

Alfred didn't want to think about that right now. It was too distressing. How much he wanted to believe Matthew was this pristine individual, but his body was tainted with the profession. There were some things you couldn't just wash away.

Sighing, he reached into the water to pull the plug and let it drain out. The level gradually decreased, slowly unveiling more of Matthew's body, inch by inch. Before he could stop himself, his eyes scanned over the boy, and he blushed, quickly moving his glance to the wall once he realized what he was doing. With his eyes focused elsewhere, he slipped an arm underneath the knees, wrapping his other around Matthew's back to support him. Carefully, Alfred lifted him up and walked over to the bathmat where he laid him down again. Well, maybe some of the mat would absorb the water so that he wouldn't have to dry off those areas. He dropped a towel over the body, hoping it would soak up the moisture as well as it covered up.

Grabbing two towels from the linen closet within the room, Al used one to ruffle Matthew's hair dry. He had to prop up the kid's head in doing so, so he inched his knees under Matthew's back to bolster the weight. Only now, the back of his head was resting on the other towel, draped over Alfred's lap; it was incredibly awkward.

"Please don't wake up," Al pleaded, rubbing the hair harder in his uneasiness. He really did not want to be caught in this compromising position.

After drying off the rest of Matthew's skin, except for the regions the towel concealed, he gingerly lifted the boy's head out of his lap and slid out. Now he had to dress him.

He swiped the clothes off the counter and hastily slipped the boxers onto Matthew with the towel still covering him. Oh, God, Matthew was wearing his boxers. This guy was wearing his boxers.

…This guy, this guy, oh Matthew was a guy! Another factor to add into Alfred's tumultuous cycle of mixed sentiments.

Shaking his head to push the thoughts away, he tugged the pair of socks onto Matthew's feet, sticking each one through separate pants legs. His attempt to hike the jeans up his hips failed with the friction of the denim and the mat's fibers, so he pulled him onto the tile and tried again with success. With that out of the way, Alfred pulled the red sweatshirt over the boy's head, then slipping his arms into the sleeves before shifting the bottom of the shirt down his torso. Well, the hard part was officially over; now he could take him back to the bedroom.

Once again, Al picked Matthew up bridal-style and walked through the doorway, laying him on the sheets. Opening the door leading into the room, he peeked out and saw Elizaveta and Gilbert lounging on the sofa. They were watching that stupid reality show, Jersey Shore. He smiled, thinking of how he and his friends always put it on to poke fun since the cast didn't reflect New Jersey at all. "Hey guys, I finished."

The two looked over their shoulders at him and got up, eager to see the results. "Wow," Gilbert uttered in surprise when he saw Matthew, "he actually looks normal now. Well, if you ignore his pretty face."

"He's so cute," Elizaveta spoke softly as she stroked the slightly damp blonde waves.

"Hey! I-I can be cute too! You know, if I wanted to. I'm just too awesome for that."

"Oh, I highly doubt that, Gilbert." She drew out the first syllable of his name, knowing how much it bothered him.

"Don't you dare play that card."

"Gillllllllll-bert."

"Cut it out!"

"Gillllll-bert, oh Gilll-bert!"

"F-Fine! I'll just make fun of your name too! …D-Dammit! There's nothing wrong with it!"

Alfred observed them a while longer before heading back to the bathroom to collect the discarded tramp clothes. As he touched the collar, he realized that its existence was a major reason why he was questioning the assumption that Matthew was a whore. The collar showed that the boy belonged to someone, and although he didn't know much about prostitutes, he was pretty sure that they roamed free; they weren't anyone's property. Yet, the marks all over Matthew's body seemed to prove otherwise…unless he was some sort of sex slave.

Oh, no. No, no, no, he did not want to even contemplate the possibility that some kind of sadistic torture was done to poor Matthew. While he didn't want to believe the boy was a whore, he also didn't want to believe he was put through such suffering. The only thing he could speculate at this point was that Matthew was clearly involved in something sick, something horrible.

Alfred returned to the room and stuffed the clothing under the bed as Elizaveta and Gilbert continued teasing each other. Well, now the evidence was hidden, so all he had to do now was wait for Dad to come home and somehow convince him into letting Matthew stay with them. He was a smooth talker, but he could be coercive if he had to; the victories of their arguments used resided with him. What time was it now, anyway? He directed his attention to his watch and noted it: 6:02. Dad wouldn't be home for another two hours.

"Hey, hey, guys," Al addressed his now bickering friends, "let's not get too loud. Wouldn't want to wake him up."

"Fine," Gilbert conceded, a little peeved that Alfred had interrupted their dispute, but he recognized that it wasn't right to disturb the boy.

"Look," Alfred suggested, "why don't we go watch Jersey Shore? The Tylenol is on the nightstand and I can write him a note in case he wakes up when we're not in the room."

"Alfred's right, Gil. Come on, who doesn't want to see Snooki get socked one?" Gilbert smirked and followed her out to the living room, leaving Al alone with Matthew. He looked wistfully at the boy as he picked up the notepad on the side table, chewing on the pen as he pondered what to write. After collecting his ideas together, the pen met the paper and before he knew it, the note had written itself.

He folded it in half, titling the makeshift card "Matthew" before placing it lightly on the nightstand. Alfred made his way to the door, and before walking out, glanced over his shoulder once more at the figure sleeping on the bed. Not wanting him to get cold, he pulled a blanket from the linen closet and covered the boy with it. Finally, he left the room and plopped down on the couch between his friends. Now though, as he watched a second time as Snooki got punched in the face, he couldn't explain why he felt sickened; it didn't seem funny anymore, just horrific.


(A/N: I'm just announcing here that My Skin will be updated every Wednesday due to time constraints from school. Please keep in mind that this is a tentative schedule. Thanks for all of the support so far!)