The smell, the taste, the sight flooded Gerard's mind, overwhelming his senses like a tsunami. Lights flashed
like an epileptics death-bed in his eyes, reflecting against piercings, rings and slickened tongues- all sparkled like stars in the haze of apathy cast by broken youth. It wasn't new to him; he'd seen it all before. The sly movements, the lustful maneuvers, the
words born of intoxication. It was all the same. Cloned in each club across the world. Drink, find, fuck. But right now, the endless cycle didn't bother Gerard much.
His mind was burning, alight with talk and breath and people fucking living around him; but it all narrowed down. A boy, a pretty boy, lost in wraths of club lights and hiding away behind a blue fringe - it was just him. He was bent around the bar, lax stance and fingers that were lost in a delicate dance of bones and chipped black nail polish. That wasn't it though - it was the fray on his clothes and the slight smudge of mud lining the bottom of his clinging skinny jeans. A lost boy, without a home and without connections.
Gerard pushed up from the sofa, ignoring the whines of the girl he'd been absentmindedly occupying and pushed through the crowd towards the bar. Underdressed youths pushed sweat bathed bodies into his bare arms, rubbing off the smell of weed and buzzing with the energy of LSD; the little pills and paper in question littering the club floor. He could feel the dying and the death and the hangovers to come - the black bags under worn out eyes and questions over the hand shaped bruises. They were gone and lost in the maze of life, and drugs gave them another way out.
He'd been there once or twice. Or more.
A blonde soul strayed to the side and the once lost boy came back into sight, fingers still dancing like a couple of rouge ballerinas. Gerard smiled to himself, examining the spine clearly visible under the thin grey vest top. No food, weak, skinny.
\"One Bloody Mary, if you would.\"
He just likes the way it's meant to represent blood and death and how it's all so fucking wrong to drink blood but so fucking right to die. The youth flinches at his voice and the bartender eyes him critically before lounging below to get a glass. Up close, Gerard can see the pale skin and the bloodshot eyes and thinks; easy. He settles himself against the side of the bar, facing the boy with unconcealed interest. Want.
The boy looks over as the drink is pressed onto the wooden surface in front of him, the bartender slides off to the other side and this time, the smile isn't to himself. The boy stares now, as Gerard takes a drink, eye contact remaining unbroken.
\"What do you want?\"
His voice is lovely, like a singers. Smooth and perfectly pitched. A vast contrast from the music and the screaming - the moaning form the corners and the shouts from the alleyways. The bass is going to kill him slowly and carefully, but that's no different than any other addiction. This world has an addiction - an unquenchable desire for death.
\"You.\" His eyes are green and they'll look lovely closed, or rolling back in their sockets. Gerard wonders what green and red make. He really wants to know.
\"It's £50 for a fuck.\" And he's looking down at his stilled hand (dead dancers) and oh, he's very ashamed of himself. Prostitution is revolution. They say it's the oldest profession and damn he needs the money.
\"Back alley then lovely?\" He nods, getting to his feet.
Gerard smiled, taking the un-preoccupied hand of the youth and tugging him towards the crowd. His hand trailed over the counter,
fingers slipping from the aged wood and legs untangling. Movements were slow and unhurried, so differential to the dead and dying surrounding us. Jerky movements and hurried thoughts were
traits of the misled. They were heading to the grave fast like the poisons they took. Like the poisons everyone took. The boys’ hands were soft in his, skin feeling like firm silk encompassed in
the rough cotton that was Gerard's own hand. He felt wraith-like and inhuman in his grip.
It's out the back entrance, rain slick walls and rubbish piled sky high. The boy kisses like an angel and his hand know where to go but he hasn't taken the money yet so he's new to this. Gerard can feel his bones, rough skin of hands running over a breathing skeleton; feeling each vertebrae of the spine. He's so pretty, a prize Gerard almost feels reluctant to ruin.
But Gerard wants and that's just.
He slips the knife from his pocket, enjoying the slightly warm slide of metal after hours in a club, he draws it to his chest, almost hitting against the youth's own. He doesn't feel it. He pushes more into Gerard, wrapping legs around his waist, tongue pushing deeper still and concentration is almost lost. For a second Gerard likes the skin on skin and the feeling of being wanted, even for money, and he wishes, for a moment, that this could all be very different. Except.
He pushed the knife down and it slices cleanly through a stick thin calf, cutting a jagged hole into a pale skinned thigh. He can
feel the splitting flesh and the muscle flexing despairingly, no longer attached and at loss. Gerard bites down the scream, clearly feeling the way his teeth push through each sinew of
skin - breakbreakbreak. His teeth bite through the lipglossed lips and the mouth is free.
Teeth come down hard on the working tongue and blood rushes over his teeth - a deep coppery taste that makes his head spin in pleasure. His body is writhing but the knife is securely stuck through his leg, every twitch ripping more tissue. Tears join the coppery blood taste and Gerard always adds salt to his meals, anyway.
A pause. Gerard pulls away and the boy almost screams, but his hand is there in a flash, blood stained and gripped tightly around the flawless jaw. Wide green eyes stare and blue hair falls limply to the sides.
\"You're going to shut up, aren't you?\" The boy twitches under his body grip, and Gerard presses him closer to the wall, letting the blade shift slightly in it's bed of bone and flesh. The boy closes his eyes and ragged breath flares from his nose, his lips twitch under his hand and Gerard knows he can't breathe properly.
\"Aren't you?\" and then he nods and his lids close tighter; blocking out the world, ashamed like before. Gerard smiles, and in a single movement releases his hand from his mouth and pulls the knife from his leg. The boy gasps out loud, a small noise but Gerard's there again, pressing closer with the knife brushing his throat, blood shining in dull moonlight.
\"You said you were going to be quiet.\" He likes this. The control, the blood, the fear. He likes the pretty boys and the clubs, the different knives and the varying reactions to death; and the prospect of never seeing daylight again. One begged once, when the knife came out.
Gerard had left.
\"Fuck you.\" His voice cracks and he spits blood in the process, the fresh liquid hits the older male's face and his tongue, slow and sure, darts out to catch a drop adorning his upper lip. Gerard wants to laugh because the boy knows he's fucked and he isn't bowing down, and he could admire that, he really could, if this was any other situation.
\"What did you say?\" His eyes are open again and he looks defiant and so fucking scared, like a doll trapped in a house full of traps. He's gone already and he's to scared to cross over completely. Gerard saves people. He helps them. Sometimes they don't understand, but that's okay, because he does. He knows they want to die anyway, he knows the drugs are a step closer and drinking's an escape. The hookups and the breakdowns are little stepping stones down the river of death. Some people jump, some people slip - and some are too scared to jump, and need a push.
\"You sick bastard - you freak, you fucking abo-\"
Blood and then he's quiet.
Gerard likes it when they're quiet.
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