Malice

Ok, you all know the deal. This is all FICTION. I don't know Gackt, but I'm 99% sure the boy isn't a vampire. I DO know Jason, he's my character, and anyone who steals him is a dumbarse, because he is the biggest brat of a muse in the known universe :) This story contains gay sex, implied drug use, prostitution, lots of bad language, vampirism, and poor characterisation of Gackt. (Hey, I just thought he was pretty, ok?)Reviews, corrections and constructive criticism are all welcome with open arms, but do remember that it's very AU. Flamers can bugger off.


Introduction - Terror

There was someone in his flat.

He knew it; he could feel it in his bones. Feel the knowledge screaming through his very veins. Even though he hadn’t actually heard anything, it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to. He could feel it. There was someone there.

Jason stared up at his bright white ceiling (bright white and not shrouded in shadows because even after a whole damn year of being out of gaol, he still had to sleep with the lights on), and listened, listened for something, anything, that would confirm his fears that someone was out there. He held his breath, willed his body to stop moving, almost willed his heart to stop beating, and listened.

Nothing at all except the hiss of traffic below and the wind whistling around outside like some bored old ghost. No sinister footsteps clicking on concrete. No heavy breathing. No jangle of keys rattling on a thick leather belt. No ‘tap, tap, tap,’ of a nightstick banging against his door.

No guard slipping his key into the lock and gesturing Jason out of his room.

No long walk down the hall with his eyes lowered, fear and outrage fluttering in his heart.

No dark, dingy office. No desk to be bent over. No dirty rag to gag him. No strong hands gripping his thin wrists until they bruised. No gun to the back of his head. No, no, no, that was all over. It was over, and it never had to happen to him again. That was over, and had been over for a year, now.

He was safe.

“Go back to sleep, Jason,” he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse and scratchy, and very small. “He’s not here. He’s not fucking here. So just close your eyes and go to sleep.”

He didn’t listen to himself, though. He kept staring, his eyes wide and terrified, at his ceiling. Nothing could make him close them, not now. He wouldn’t sleep ‘til morning. He knew the pattern by heart; nightmare, terror, insomnia. It was pointless to try and break it. Ride it out until morning. Because, on the other hand, he wouldn’t, couldn’t get out of bed. Because although he knew that the flat was empty, knew that he was all alone, just the way he wanted to be for the rest of his life, the idea of actually getting up and leaving his bedroom, leaving the protection of his blanket, paralysed him with fear. No, he’d stay exactly where he was, barely moving, until morning, get a few hours sleep and then get up and have a hit of heroin to wash away the memories. It hadn’t taken him long to get back on the drug after getting out of prison, and this was why. He needed it to flush away the terror, the unbearable, unexplainable terror that filled up every one of his nights.

He felt the tears slip down the side of his face, soak into the pilloEighEighteen years old,’ he thought, ‘and you’re acting like you’re five. God, I’m so fucked up…’

He fixed his eyes on a long crack in the plaster, and tried to think of something else, something to distract him. Morning would be a long time coming.

~

Out in the darkness of Jason’s hall, a tall, slender figure darted quickly through the shadows and was gone, slipping out the window without a sound. Jason was right; he hadn’t heard anyone sneaking around in his flat at all.

He’d just felt it in his bones.