Caught in Possession

The Prized Asset

Warnings:

Violence and mention of blood.

Mention of drug use.

Threat of SA - it does NOT happen.
~

Mew hadn't intentionally followed him there that night - he really hadn't - yet there they both were, in the glimmering, fairy-light strewn caverns of an exclusive underground Soho night club, sweetly scented puffs of shisha smoke twisting through the air, shuddering to bone-shaking bass rhythms as they boomed hypnotically from floor to low ceiling and back down again like an opulent bouncy ball.

"Mew, cuz, this obsession with 'Lips' is getting creepy" - it was the voice of Tul in his ear, shouting to be heard over the magical musical meanderings of a live, electronic Four Tet set, as the two leant against the bar surface, awaiting glasses of rich, golden, whiskey.

"Fuck you, you don't know what you're talking about. I had zero idea that he would even be here tonight", gesturing an apparently dismissive hand in the direction of the unmissable Gulf Kanawut - unmissable, literally, in a tight fitting, metallic silver suit, pristine white trainers, and a matching white shirt whose buttonless 'v' neckline dipped assuredly low enough to quicken Mew's, and every other admiring onlooker's, pulse, as it clung invitingly to the footballer's tanned chest.

"Hoy! Yeah right, and I suppose you don't know he's going to be at his own team's training sessions either, right?" - Tul ploughed on undeterred, well accustomed to the harshness of his cousin's tone after a lifetime of near daily tongue lashings.

Well, that part, admittedly, was untrue. Mew knew, of course, that Gulf would be present at training. He hadn't meant for it to become a daily routine - watching the younger man - yet somehow, irritatingly, it had. Hell, what was he trying to be, a noble guardian of some sort? He snorted ironically, bitterly at the very notion - he certainly wasn't qualified for that role, after all, hadn't he already failed that test those years earlier...

He shook his head vigorously, jerking it violently from side to side in an attempt to physically banish those nagging, niggling, gnawing thoughts that crept unwelcome, uninvited, to dip toes into his mental stream: 'Not now, not here, demons'.

"It's...not what you think Tul", Mew dragged himself back to reality to respond, "Let's just say there's more to that kid's story than meets the eye"

And it was the truth.

After witnessing the Lang mark on the younger man's body, Mew had tried to expel the knowledge, forget about it, tell himself it wasn't his problem. That he was just a damn pretty face whom he would gladly, thirstily, fantasise about - masturbation material, or, of late, even the image that clouded his mind in the dizzy throes of climactic pleasure as he fucked someone, anyone, distractedly.

Yet he had found himself in his father's office one Tuesday - a place he generally didn't venture to unless summoned - palpable, heavy, mistrust thronging between them, yet he had to know more. Was compelled, somehow, to know more about Gulf Kanawut.

He didn't obtain much intelligence, his father offering only cursory responses and clearly impatient as to why such questions were even being directed. But Mew emerged from the airless, cigar-choked room with fists unknowingly clenched as he digested sparse new facts: His instincts had proven to be correct. Gulf was indeed owned by the Langs, a pawn for that most evil, diabolical dynasty, the fault of cruel fate alone. And worse - had been since he was a boy, trapped, suffocating, no way out:

"He's the Langs' prized asset. They call him their 'forever diamond'" - the casually-dealt words had sent a shiver down the younger Jongcheveevat's spine. The implication was there - they would only let go of him if Death himself shredded the contract.