The inside of Sami's childhood home was dark and dusty, and all Kai could think was that someone died here, but you'd never know it. It was so quiet and empty, it almost seemed peaceful. But the man that lived here was anything but. His eyes were cold and empty just like his house, and that was unnerving.
Meanwhile, Sami was still trying not to be nine eight seven, small and scared, but he was having a hard time (his sister died here). The only thing that kept him here was counting up the twitches of his left hand (seven eight nine). He couldn't even touch the boy next to him, couldn't call him dolly, couldn't hold his hand, and that was driving him insane (even more than he already was). He could, however, trace the outline of his best friend who sat in his pocket, ready to just fly fly fly into the devil wearing a holy man's robe.
Kai turned to his pretty little psycho as soon as the Holy Father (how ironic) was out of sight. Presumably to make them dinner, although Kai wasn't sure he would eat it (the man's eyes were still cold). The psycho was stiff, but softened as the flower boy tucked himself under Sami's arm and into his side. "After dinner or before?"
"After dinner I think," Sami responded, "Let's put him on edge first. If he makes the first move, we'll do it sooner." HIs dolly hummed in response and twisted around to wrap his arms around Sami's waist and rest his forehead on the psychos chest (the air in the house was cold, but the person next to him wasn't).
"I think he knows we're fucking."
"He does." The psycho pressed his bloody lips against his baby's chestnut and honey curls (that still smelled syrupy sweet), "He most certainly does."
"Does that mean we can hold hands?" The cotton candy boy lifted his face upwards, cough syrup breath warming the alabaster skin of his pretty little psycho (this house was so fucking cold).
Sami thought when the amber in his lover's eyes lit up with (almost childlike) hope and innocence, nobody with any sliver of life left in them could ever tell this boy no. So he smiled (not plaster this time) and planted another kiss to his baby's forehead.
"Sure thing dolly. We can hold hands. It'll piss 'im off anyways."
And when the dimple in his dolly's right cheek made an appearance, the psycho couldn't bring himself to regret his decision- even if it meant that he'd have to kill his daddy a little bit sooner than planned.
YOU ARE READING
SUGAR AND STEEL
Teen FictionIn which a boy as sweet and sickly as cough syrup and cotton candy meets a boy that tastes like Juicy Fruit and cigarettes (and is best friends with a butterfly knife)
