Nothing But The Rain

Chapter One: When the First Star You See May Not be a Star

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: So for those of you who've read You Can Never Go Back, Breathe Me, or Brace Yourself, this is going to be kind of different. The characters are older, damaged, and slightly deranged. I'm not sure what pairing this is going to end up with, but it will be slash, and it will be Kyle centric. It won't be CxK- it'll be mainly either style or k squared. Or maybe even Kyle plus one of the other characters. Who knows? I probably should, since I'm the author. Anyway, be prepared, because this is definitely going to be…well, different. Violence and bad language shall abound. Consider yourself warned. Twice. And please review.


The alleyway is cold, hard. Dark. The perfect place for midnight liaisons. The only warmth comes from the embers of his cigarette and his blazing, disdainful gaze.

"Stop staring at me like that," I tell him, and he doesn't blink.

"Like what?"

"Like you could burn a hole through me if you tried," I snap. Doing this kind of thing always makes me testy.

He smiles then, the slightest quirk of his lips that most people would mistake as a grimace.

"You are always like zis."

"You act like that's a bad thing," I counter, snatching the cigarette away to take a drag. Then I blow smoke in his face. It doesn't faze him, of course. But I'm immature, and it gives me pleasure all the same.

Christophe's face is like stone, unchanging. He deftly secures his cigarette from my bumbling fingers, "Oui, sometimes."

The moon breaks from the clouds, but only for a moment. It's only ever for a moment. A single ray of light is enough, though, and both of our heads turn towards the end of the alley so quickly I'm surprised we don't have whiplash.

No one sees us. No one ever does.

"When are we going to do zis?" he asks, his eyes dark and swimming. He's taller than me, which is rare. I'm not used to looking up when I speak to someone. My little brother says it's good for me not to be looking down every once in a while. He hopes it will deflate my ego. No such luck so far.

I, like Christophe, have never seen arrogance as a bad thing. Maybe that will be my downfall someday. Someday is a long time away. I'm okay waiting.

"Tomorrow," I resolve, "Around noon."

"Why noon? It eez a cliché," Christophe sneers, his face hidden by a cloud of carcinogens.

"Would you prefer an odd number? Twelve thirteen?"

He doesn't catch my sarcasm. He barely ever does. Or maybe he just steamrolls right over it, every single time. It wouldn't surprise me. Very little surprises me anymore.

"I would," he agrees.

"Fine. Twelve thirteen."

Like those thirteen minutes will make even the slightest difference. It's going to happen, even if I have to do it all alone by sheer force of will. Christophe's good at his job. He won't fail. He never does. That's why they're scared of him. That's why we have to hide.

I could be killed just for being seen with him. Somehow, dying stopped mattering. It shouldn't. Actually, I do a lot of things I shouldn't. Meanwhile my body is breaking down, slowly but surely. I can't stand it. This ageing thing. This dying thing. I'm dying where I stand, sometimes.

I bid Christophe goodbye, striding out of the alleyway like I had every right to be there. I stagger and weave, like I'm drunk, attracting attention. People don't question drunks.

Out on the street, the first thing I see is him. They set up the shop with the glass window where Tom's Rhinoplasty used to be. He's on display there, like some filthy magazine cover.

I stand outside the window with all the other perverts and stare, openly. I can do that now, when it's easy to hide. He can't see us, of course. We stand in the darkness, away from the pools of light cast by the street lamps. It wouldn't do to be seen, staring at him in his own house. But he knows we're there. He looks out from time to time, trying to discern who lingers in the shadows cast by the other buildings on Main Street.

Shame makes him beautiful.

I saw him once, in the grocery store. He stood there, the fluorescent lights reflecting a halo onto his blond hair. I traced the blue of his veins beneath his skin. Three years ago seeing Kenny wouldn't have been such a rare thing. He's got immunity to the virus, or so they say.

I step deeper into the shadows. He's bathed in light. He always is. He still has that halo, even though he's standing there under the watchful eyes of all the things in the night that want to molest him, to hurt him, to try to make him lose his soul.

Sometimes you lose your soul and you just keep on walking, so that's what I do. I turn around. I leave his light. I have a mission to do.

A/N: Thoroughly confused yet? Please review.