SUGAR AND STEEL

Chapter 1

         19-year-old art student Kai Davis thought that the sunset from the top of the bell tower was pretty like the bruises of lilac and lavender against his pale skin (that ached with every swing of his knees over the edge). He also thought that being this high off the ground, a maximum of one foot (exactly twelve inches, now eleven once he scooted ever-so-slightly closer) away from certain death, was invigorating.

             His left hand (with the chipped iridescent polish) played with the silver crucifix around his neck, sliding it up and down it’s matching chain, as he chewed his gloss covered (but still chapped, always chapped) lower lip in concentration. From afar, he didn’t look like a boy contemplating death, but a boy that was contemplating the beauty of the world around him. The truth, however, was that he was contemplating both quite equally.

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             When his chapped (always chapped) lips were blue and his joints were stiff from the cold, the boy decided it was best to make his way back down the rusty rungs of the metal ladder, clank clank clanking his black, soft leather Doc Martens on every rung. His frozen fingers barely clung to the metal as he descended downwards as if he were going to hell (which he most certainly was).

             When his feet hit the ground with a not so quiet thud, the boy swore he had frostbite. But before shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his torn light wash jeans (don’t forget the embroidered roses, never forget the roses) he pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboros in the classic red and white box, a white lighter (yes, white) encased inside.

             He lit up, wrist brushing against the crucifix that he felt weighed as much as his parents’ expectations (which was really saying something) and inhaling the smoke and soot and certain death deep into his cracking lungs. He chuckled darkly as he exhaled the cloud of silvery smoke because look where he was now, freezing his ass off and smoking a goddamn cigarette.

             “Mind if I steal a smoke?”

             Kai turned sharply, the voice surprising him, making him jump nearly three feet out of his skin, a feeling that he hated (although that would be a weird way do die, no?). There, where there had seemingly been nobody before (even though he wasn’t really looking that hard) was a boy about his age, dark hair shining like a wet raven’s wing under the yellowed streetlight and skin as pale as the moon far above them. Kai shrugged and tossed the boy the pack and lighter.

             “Thanks doll,” the mystery boy replied, the words dripping out of his chapped lips like honey dripping down the side of the jar, slow and slick and sweet. “I really appreciate it.” The pack was tossed back to the art student as two of the mystery boy’s long and bony fingers gripped the cigarette he held between his teeth while he inhaled. Kai thought the boy looked like something that would be in his sketchbook, with his hair falling into his eyes the way that it was and the smoke curling up around his face like a halo for satan.

             “It’s not polite to stare darlin’.” His lips tweaked up into a smirk. “The name’s Samuel, but call me Sami.” The way this boy’s mouth cut the ‘g’ out of darling left Kai slightly weak at the knees. It also probably had to do with how goddamn fucking cold it was.

             “My name’s Kai, but you can call me Kai, Samuel” he replied, emphasizing the mystery boy’s full name. Suddenly, Samuel was in his face, right hand gripping and twisting twisting twisting the art boy’s collar.

             “Don’t fucking call me Samuel, got it flower boy?” Kai nodded and the grip on his collar let up.

             “Got it,” Kai whispered, truly entranced and appalled by the mystery boy who, most definitely Kai had decided, belonged in one of his sketchbooks. He figured he should probably be scared, but this midnight haired stranger with the short temper

             “Don’t fucking call me Samuel”

entranced him thoroughly.

             “Got it flower boy?”

             And Kai had never liked being called flower boy (it often came with punches and crash thrash smash and more lilac and lavender on his pale skin), but he decided right then that he would be this honey tongued and chapped lipped stranger’s flower boy for eternity if that’s what he wanted.

             “Crystal clear.”