The Evening Street : RADIODUST

5: Dragonflies -Wings

author's note

I am trying to get better at writing! I hope it flows better now. PS: these days I have been excruciatingly busy. So, note that updates will be random, but I will try to get down at least 60,000 words before I allow myself to hiatus from this fanfic completely.

June 16th

June 16th
Anthony held tight onto the gray pole of the metal-death-trap, suffocating under the heat, humidity and lowering-drug-high. Tonight, the subway was a nightmare. Every ear piercing shriek, vibrantly colored ad, and chittering voice made Anothy want to scream. His headache was shit. Anthony felt like shit. Even his thoughts, half numb from Angel Dust, were shit.

For fucks sake, Anthony was thinking more about the cheesy ass hand kiss from the guy he met at Val's club than his kidnapped sister. Nobody does hand chivalry kisses anymore, not even his grandpa. The last time Anthony witnessed hand-kissing was when the guy who bought Angel's services was into kinky medieval roleplay. Anthony hoped Alastor wasn't into that shit. Alastor is weird, but please Madonna Maria, don't be that weird.

Anthony could not unsee the puppet rat torture.

"Arriving at third street" the subway chimed.

Look, Anthony's brain went off topic again. He was a stupid bitch. Anyways, Anthony thought that the hand-kiss was cute and charming. The way Alastor kissed him was gentle and polite, great for a rom-com. Madonna Maria, if that man did not make Anthony feel like an Angel, then Anthony had no idea what else would. The regular Joe was crude and had no class. The "classy" Joes with da' superficial charm were in it for the sex. Al was a breath of fresh... foggy air. What did Al want? No one goes up to a whore for a chat. Al had to want something, but that something was unknown. That something was not sex.

It can't be for conversation. Alastor said it was for conversation, but anyone on the street can tell ya that charm like that ain't natural. Angel knew lots of liars, politicians, actors and show-gals. They smile and make you believe 'em.

Angel knew better than to trust Alastor. Antony, sentimental sack of shit, did not.

Anthony kicked the pole. Pain spiked in his foot. The spiraling thoughts about Alastor, the hot gloved stranger, halted.

Anthony is stupid. Another part of his brain, the working part, told him to feel guilty about the lack of worry for his sister. Anthony did feel guilty. He felt sick like shit. Maria, the day Anthony felt adored by someone else who isn't family was the day his sister went missing. He should have declined the not-smooth gentleman and chaperoned his sister. Anthony should have told Stolas that he was free that week. Plus, how the hell did Anthony miss the opportunity of watching

"Fuck," Anthony groaned. His head throbbed at the sharp squeal of some nearby kid.

Whatever though, his surroundings never mattered, because Anthony can't think straight. No not because he's gay, obviously he is.

The drug crash was pushing Anthony's mind off a cliff. Anthony wanted to be done with the lows and crashes. Drugs ruined Anthony's well being, screwed around with his thinking and his temperament and reason but, well, Angel loved drugs.

Take a little bit of powdered luck, and Angel stood taller than the heavens. His dance became more alluring and his tongue more seductive. Anthony's sorrows, mopey sad ass bitch, was drowned with the beauty of PCP-colored lenses. Patrons loved Angel when he was confident, alight with lust and high. Patrons despised a sad Anthony, crying about his missing sister, or trash pimp, or depressing life.

Angel didn't like to think about Anthony, like Anthony didn't like to think about Angel. It's not that Anthony feels ashamed of being a slut, it's just not... great for his image as an actor. Angel does not hate Anthony, it's just... not good to break down during a show.