-x-x-x-

Thirty-one

He couldn't breathe. His chest and ribs wouldn't expand enough under so much weight and muscle. The air choked in his throat, and the pain drove cruel fingers into his lungs, talons in spongy-soft tissue. It hurt. Oh God, it hurt so much, it hurt so, so much . . .

And yet, it felt unbelievably good. Unbelievably right.

"Please." The word left his mouth like a prayer. A holy entreaty. "Please, harder, fuck me harder —" He begged like a sinner begging for absolution.

The cock in his ass obeyed, and his world was reduced to the most primitive forms of taste, touch, and smell. He tasted sex, felt sex, smelled sex. It was all sex, all salty cum and hard dicks and rough hands and hot, slapping flesh, and he loved it with every fiber of his being, because this was where he belonged. Under a nameless, faceless man, with his head thrown back against the pillow, his legs spread wide, his body drenching the plain sheets with sweat, his ass and insides punished beyond sensation. Dear God, he was a slut, and he loved it.

And after he'd come, after he'd sprayed the bed with white and the man had sprayed his skin with the same, smearing it onto his body like some kind of obscene finger-painting, he asked for the money and he got it. The man took his wallet and overturned it in the air, letting the paper bills rain down all over him on the bed. And then the man took each bill between his meaty fingers and dragged it through the trails of cum, dirtying the money and dirtying him even more, because he was the slut, the prostitute, and he deserved every moment of it . . .

Arthur jerked awake.

His phone was vibrating under his pillow, where he always kept it at night. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and pulled it out. It took a couple of tries; his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

Almost as quickly as it had gone off, though, the phone stopped. For a second, Arthur just stared at it in groggy incomprehension, trying to make sense of the letters on the small screen until "Missed call: Alfred Jones" was replaced by "New text from: Alfred Jones."

hey arthur. srry culdnt sleep. r u up?

Alfred's text-speak (and overall horrible spelling) was still a nuisance to read, but like every other time, Arthur couldn't stop a small smile from tugging at his mouth as he deciphered it and texted back. I am now. Did you call?

srry for wakng u up. n yea, calld by accidnt. hit teh wrng button. i wuld def call u if my rmate was awake tho.

It's no problem. Is there a reason you decided to get in touch with me at two in the morning, or is it just because you couldn't sleep?

Alfred's response came a minute later. i had a bad dreem. :(

Well, that made two of them. A strange coincidence, but Arthur felt more comfortable reassuring Alfred than recalling his own nightmare (could it even be called that? Especially when his dream self had so clearly enjoyed . . . but no, he didn't want to think about that. He couldn't).

I see. Do you want to talk about it?

The pause between his sent message and Alfred's reply stretched, and Arthur had begun to entertain the idea of maybe going back to sleep, if he could, when his phone vibrated again.

it was about u. n ur job.

That was how Alfred referred to it. Arthur knew he tried to avoid mentioning it at all if possible, but on the occasions that he had to, he hinted at it in the vaguest terms he could come up with. "Your job" had become the discreet default. Even so, Arthur's stomach still churned when it came up, despite the fact that if it weren't for his job, he would never have met Alfred. He was learning to live day by day, leaving behind his muddled, contaminated past. But it was a slow process. And there were some things he doubted he'd ever be able to think upon with total ease — this being one of them.

He hadn't completely given up on his job yet. He hadn't been able to. So far, nothing substantial had taken place — just contacting clients, letting them know the change in his situation, and asking them if they would still be interested in his services. Judging by the ones Arthur had talked to, most, if not all, of them were. None of them seemed to care that the middleman, Gilbert, would be gone from future exchanges. Why would they? All they were after was the sex. It was always the sex, followed by the money. It was the way the industry worked. And yet Arthur kept calling, kept asking, kept confirming without taking any real action, like he couldn't bring himself to potentially hurt Alfred but also, at the same time, couldn't bring himself to abandon his own hyper-self-awareness. Like his mind was still solely focused on his survival as an individual instead of his existence as a unit with Alfred.

Alfred didn't know about what he was doing; at least, Arthur didn't think he did. For all Alfred seemed to be aware of, Arthur had merely put his job on hold for the past couple of weeks, and would drop it entirely with time. No, Alfred didn't know about anything, really . . . Alfred was still too naïve, too trusting, too loving for his own good. And Arthur was too dead-set in his own ways to change, even though he was at risk of breaking the one heart he held as close as his own.

Perhaps it was never meant to be? Arthur sometimes found himself watching Antonio (he was still living in his apartment for free, sleeping on a spare mattress in the living room, and while Antonio didn't seem to mind a bit, Arthur had never stopped feeling guilty about it) and wondering if people who prostituted themselves through necessity ever truly found love. Wondering what they did with their lives, if it happened. How were they supposed to act? How did their lovers act? Or did they simply ignore it, and continue living the way they did, unaffected?

arthur? r u still there?

Hardly, Arthur thought, but texted back: Yes. Sorry. I was distracted for a moment. Reading back over their texts to ground himself again, his throat began to tighten with dread. He didn't want to hear about Alfred's nightmare. He didn't want to see Alfred describe something that might very well already be reality, or had once been reality, or would be become reality one day.

The buzz of the phone in his hand almost made him drop it. i dreamd tht u were at a hotel w/ a cliant n u compltly fell fr him aftr u two had sex. the cliant wasnt me, btw.

Well, Arthur had figured as much. But the dream was so tame compared to the dark possibilities that had been running through his head that his heart immediately lightened. Relieved, he quickly began typing.

Don't worry. It was just a nightmare. You . . . He paused and felt his cheeks flush with heat, but pressed on. You mean the world to me. I don't think what happened with you will ever happen again for me with anyone else. He quickly pressed "Send" before he could talk himself out of it, heart pounding painfully hard.

He was acting like a teenager. It was ridiculous. He was just about to start chastising himself for it when his phone received Alfred's answer.

A less-than sign, followed by a "3." A little black heart, along with: thnx. its teh same fr me.

Arthur allowed himself a tiny smile.

actuly, i thnk i can sleep now. thnx alot. cant wait to see u agan soon! :)

Which would it be? Alfred, or his clients — his love, or his job? Arthur bit his lip. It was late at night, and he was too tired and vulnerable to be making large decisions like that. He needed more time. More consideration. More consulting, more weighing of pros and cons, and more logical balance. But for now, he decided to go with his instinct instead of his reason so that he, too, could live with himself in the morning.

Good night, Alfred. Sweet dreams.

A/N: I'm back. Did anyone miss me? Haha.