SUGAR AND STEEL

Chapter 2

          21-year-old psychopath Samuel (Sami) Crawford found the boy standing in front of him as pretty as when blood splattered on the pale (almost translucent) skin of his inner wrist. He also thought that being less than three feet away (so goddamn close) to this pretty flower boy was invigorating.

             His left hand (with the stubby nails from biting) twitched towards the inside pocket of his jacket where his best friend lie, tracing the outline of the beautiful butterfly knife in his twisted mind quite clearly. He also contemplated letting the butterfly fly fly fly towards the pretty boy in front of him, but decided that he didn’t want to just yet- he wanted to hear the flower boy’s voice first (if it were even half as pretty as the boy was he would be eternally glad he waited).

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             When his mental itch to just fucking talk to the flower boy got unbearably strong and his left hand’s twitching became stronger, the nineties-born psychopath decided to jump into the pretty boy’s trap (for surely someone so pretty had a more sinister plot).

             “Mind if I steal a smoke?” and oh god, when flower boy finally faced him, glossed and chapped (always fucking chapped) lips forming an “o” of surprise and shock, hazel eyes blown wide, the twenty-something psychopath lost the air in his lungs. Because the gloss on his lips and the blush on his cheekbones (that would be oh so easy to slit open with his beloved butterfly knife) made the boy look like cotton candy - sickly sweet and easy to tear.

             And when said cotton candy boy tossed the psychopath a crumpled pack of Marlboros with a fucking white lighter (yes, white) without anything but a shrug, Sami decided he wasn’t going to let this boy go. And he most definitely was not going to share this boy with his best friend (who still wanted to just fly fly fly out of that pocket in his jacket) just yet. His friend would have to wait because this boy (who looked like cotton candy and sin sin sin) was going to be his.

    So he called the boy “doll” and “darlin’” sickly sweet like cherry cough syrup and honey, played him just right until he couldn’t anymore. Because when the cotton candy boy with the roses embroidered on his jeans (don't forget the roses) called him Samuel in a voice that was too goddamn pretty to be legal (he was definitely glad he didn’t let his friend fly fly fly before he heard the boy talk)

    “Be a good little boy, God is watching Samuel.”

his best friend very nearly flew flew flew across the boy’s throat. And when he saw the little silver crucifix laying in the hollow of his collarbone,

    “FUCKING USELESS”

the raven haired (and blood craving) psycho wanted to see to see lilacs and lavender around the pale column of the boy’s throat.

    "Not worth the air you breathe, now fucking pray to the God the real Samuel served”

       But he let go before spring could come and the flowers could bloom and the pretty snow of his skin was covered by their blossoms (and more memories of crash thrash smash could flood his head).

“Crystal clear”

“Glad to hear it.”