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Malice	By : Queenie Category: J-Rock/J-Pop & K-Pop > Malice Mizer Views: 2121 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Malice Mizer. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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“How are you sleeping?”

Jason lay down on his couch with his feet hanging over the edge and stared out the window. Not that there was much to stare at. He lived opposite a convenience store, and a red sign constantly blared to the world that it was open twenty for hours. It was neon. It flashed.

“I’m not,” he replied, blinking his eyes in time with the flashing so that it looked as if the sign was permanently on.

“Tried sleeping pills?”

He pulled a face, and changed the rhythm of his blinks so the sign was permanently off. “Tory, no. I hate them. They make my head fuzzy.”

Vittorio, his best and quite possibly only friend, let out a sigh. “Fuzzier than junk?”

“Not fuzzy in a good way. Fuzzy in a bad way,” Jason replied patiently. He knew it; he knew what was coming. It was the Heroin Talk.

“Heroin does not make you fuzzy in a good way, Jase. I worry about you. I worry when I have to see you stumbling around high as a kite-”

“I don’t stumble!” Jason protested half heartedly. He probably stumbled.

“When you have had half a bottle of vodka as well as your heroin, you stumble,” Vittorio insisted, “And how regular is that becoming, Jason? Every time I speak to you it is the heroin and the vodka speg bag back to me. I worry.”

Jason gave up on the sign. “I’m not drunk now,” he said in a small voice. He didn’t like all his drinking, either. It scared him worse than the heroin.

“But you’re high now.”

“I’m always high,” Jason admitted, “I need to be always high. You don’t understand…”

“You need, Jason, to move in with me so I can keep an eye on you.”

Jason frowned. “For the millionth time, I am not moving in with you. I can take care of myself.”

“So take care of yourself then. Stop drinking. Stop shooting up. Stop selling yourself. And then maybe I will believe you.”

Jason felt the fight go out of him. He leaned his head back, hung it over the arm of the couch so a spill of red curls draped down like a waterfall of blood. “It’s not that easy.”

~

Jason lived in Brixton but worked in Soho, which was a pain, but that’s the way it had to be. He turned tricks every night, and, to his mixed pride and shame, was actually very, very good at it. He made a lot of money doing this, and that money used to be spent on beautiful clothes, art supplies, Janis Joplin and Nine Inch Nails CD’s (he blamed the Joplin on Vittorio, the Nine Inch Nails on Trent Reznor), and, if he’d ever bothered saving up, he could have had a much nicer flat than the one he lived in. Oh, and of course he spent some on heroin, that went without saying, but not too much.

That was before he went to gaol, though. Things had changed, since then. He didn’t draw anymore, for instance. Hardly ever listened to music. Now he found that he was spending more and more of his money on vodka, more than was probably healthy. And much, much more on heroin, too. Which probably explained why he was so thin, now, because vodka and heroin kinda made him forget to eat. And while his little t-shirts and little vinyl pants used to fit him snugly, clinging to his body to show of its shape to perfection, they now hung off him, swamping him in what seemed like miles of glittering fabric. Oddly, his tricks didn’t seem to mind, so Jason didn’t either.

Jason didn’t mind about a lot of things.

~

Silent, silent, make each step as silent as possible. It wasn’t even a conscious act of will, anymore. Gackt simply set aside part of his brain to concentrate on his footing, concentrate on not making a sound as he slipped through the shadows skirting the streetlights, and forgot about it. He was like a cat, slender and slinky and utterly, utterly silent.

He kept his eyes fixed on his target, far ahead, but never too far. The flash of lustrous red hair was never long out of sight, the slight gleam of light flashing off a chain belt, the wlow low of a pale hand caught in the moonlight. Gackt was almost hypnotised, he couldn’t let him vanish if he’d wanted to.

The boy was so easy to follow, too easy. He wandered through the world with his eyes on the stars, lost in his own drug fuelled misery. All the paranoia he felt wasn’t actually put into anything useful. He looked behind him about every three steps, but it was so half hearted, so desultory. Jason didn’t care if anyone was following him, not anymore. He’d just about given up. He still kept the knife in his boot, still thought it was protection, and not just a potential weapon for whoever might choose to attack him. But he didn’t really care either way.

But Gackt didn’t need weapons. When the time came, he would let Jason keep his knife, let him think it might do some good. Might even give him that last, desperate pleasure of feeling it sink into Gackt’s flesh, let him think he’d actually won. Because Gackt might have been a killer, yes, but he wasn’t a cruel one. No, no one could ever say that.

He liked the boy. He had to admit that. He wanted to put him out of his misery. For a few weeks now, he’d stood outside Jason’s bedroom door at night, stood there and listened to the boys fear, listened to his pain. Of course, he knew, he added to it. His presence was picked up by Jason’s mind and, confused, he translated it into his own fears. Not knowing the real horror outside his door, he turned it into the terror of his time in prison, the spectre of the guard, Ruddock, who was a man far more evil than Gackt could ever possibly be.

Gackt only wanted Jason’s life. Ruddock had destroyed his soul.

~

Jason was staring at his ceiling again, but for once it wasn’t because he couldn’t sleep. He’d just had a hit of heroin, and his thoughts were drifting, swirling around his brain, looking for a way to let him escape out of his body, go flying through the cold night. Vittorio was wrong, he wasn’t fuzzy when he was high. His thoughts were long and silky smooth, cold and stripped bare. He could lay there for hours when he was high, doing nothing but staring and thinking.

Tonight he was thinking of the boy he’d seen out on the street earlier, the young Japanese kid. Actually, he maybe wasn’t a kid, Jason mused. At first glance he’d seemed about seventeen, at most, but then…but then they’d locked eyes. Jason had felt dwarfed in that instant, felt like he was in the presence of someone (something) far older than he. Far wiser. There was an ancientness in those beautiful eyes, a malice, too. Jason had looked away quickly, a small gasp escaping his lips. And when he’d looked back, a moment later, the boy was gone.

During the course of the night he’d managed to convince himself that it was all his imagination. Ancient? Wise? The kid had been a seventeen year old hooker, nothing more, and there wasn’t really much less. Not ancient, and certainly not wise. Not any wiser than Jason, anyway. He’d all but forgotten the incident; the only thing worth remembering was the boys extreme beauty.

And that’s what he was thinking of now, now that his mind had been freed by the heroin, freed from the daily constraints of normalcy. Every feature had been burned into his retina, had been just waiting to be called to mind. That pale, smooth skin, for strs. rs. Only Asian boys ever had skin that completely smooth, not a single line to mar the marble perfection of it. Jason had found himself wanting to reach out and touch it, run his fingers over the softly rounded cheek. He was sure it would feel like silk, cold silk. And then, those lips. Jason let out a sigh. More perfection, and it wasn’t a word he used particularly lightly. But he found his vocabulary deserting him it it came to describing this kid, and perfection was the only word ready to hand. Eyes? Large and almond shaped, turned down at the inner corners in two perfect points, and there was that damn word again. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he get the idea of running his fingers through the boys artfully teased shock of blond hair, out of his head? Why couldn’t he banish the image from his brain of the boys tongue, wet and pink, licking along his wrist, the boys lips closing on it, the boys teeth piercing his own willing flesh…

Ok. This was getting weird. Jason had had some pretty fucked up fantasies, but he’d never gotten hard over the thought of someone drinking his blood before. He didn’t get off on pain. He went through enough of it in his line of work for it to have lost its novelty very quickly. And yet, and yet he was hard. And he could practically feel the sharp stab of teeth in his wrist…

Fuck it, he thought. I can blame it on the heroin. And while he brought one hand to his mouth, chewing on his own wrist, feeling his pulse against his tongue, the other slipped to his pants, opened them, and started stroking his cock. Yeah, in the morning he could blame it on the heroin, because right now it just felt too damn good…

~

Gackt watched through the crack in the door, his own mouth working greedily at his own wrist, his own hand pumping at his own cock. His eyes were fixed on the boy laid out before him, drinking in the sight like he would later drink in his very life. But no, not now. It could wait. Because Gackt had never revealed himself to one of his potential victims and let him live before, and now he wanted to see what would happen. His curiosity, he used to say, would be the death of him, his need to know everything about everything. Normally he managed to restrain himself when it came to his victims, but this one… this Jason… he was different, and Gackt didn’t know why. But it was all too interesting to kill him right now. Later, yes, and he would relish it but now… now, there were pleasures like this to be had, weren’t there?

He watched Jason come, a strangled cry erupting from his full red lips, the hand that he had been ineffectually trying to gnaw at now clawing the bed, messing up the sheets. Gackt let out a small gasp and let himself follow suit. As he came, a drop of blood ran down over his lips and fell on the floor before he could stop it. He watched it, watched it shine in the light from under Jason’s bedroom door, trying to get himself together enough to leave, because he had to leave, he couldn’t be here for Jason to see, not yet… he didn’t want to kill him yet…

~

Jason lay gasping for a moment, the strength of his orgasm leaving him breathless. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered eventually, sitting up, “You have issues, boy.” He crawled off his bed, leaving his jeans undone, and grabbed his towel from where it hung on the back of his door. He stepped out into the hall, getting ready to head into the shower, but some movement, some movement that should not be there, stopped him.

The curtains over the window at the end of his hallway were fluttering. And he knew, knew as sure as he knew his god damn name, that he had not left that window open.
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Malice