Wall of Disclaimers is up. Sorry that I haven't been posting. Lots of stuff to deal with.

People are said to wear their hearts on their sleeves. But, it's more like it is on your wrists. A little circle made of blue veins that cluster there, to tell if someone is or is not worth your time.

Therefore, it would be an insult to show your wrists to anyone. That is made abundantly clear by the array of cuffs, bangles, bracelets, watches, and other wrist gear that created an industry that encompasses the world. There's nothing else to say about a fact of life.

Kyntak rolls up his sleeves and watches the maids peek at his wrists. Curious, he guesses. He is more than right. In a world where hiding the truth that is writ in your skin is important, he finds it easy hide every bit of oddness in him, just like they do.

He twists his left hand about to check the security of his watch. The copper kinetic on his wrist clicks as the weights inside flip and tumble. The strap is secure. A small part of him is relieved as he rubs the leather strap. Simultaneously, he tests the wrist band on his other hand. The stretchy elastic with his name and ID number is still clinging to him. He should have gotten rid of it a month ago, when they decided he wasn't "perfect soldier" material. But, a small part of him held on. That one part, that he hated and loved, held on.

People are born with it. There is no response as to why or how. No one is even sure if they really do work. But, every open believes that that circle is the key to the heart. It's just a matter of finding out if it can be filled. The moment, people say, that circle that taunted you all your life is filled is when you've fallen for good. The circle fills up and for a moment time stops and all you can think is, "Oh."

But, circles are just like numbers. They can't promise reciprocation or happiness, just the sentimentality.

For many, that is enough. The hope that the time would come when the rush of euphoria over whelms you; you know that you've found the other half of your heart; they look into your eyes and you know they have finally found you. That is, Kyntak hears, the moment worth waiting for. Forever, if need be.

He just keeps his wrists covered because he doesn't like seeing what is reflected there.

He is a half.

The veins there bunch up and he just sighs. But, so what, he thinks. It's no big deal. It is his left that bothers him.

He is a full.

He hates that even more if he can. He can't imagine it. Full circles, he knows, need empties. They have a natural affinity. And more than anything, he doesn't' want to leave himself feeling empty, all the love he was gifted with given away and never reciprocated.

The maids scurry off. They should know. No one who looks for a person like this is an empty, and there are only a few rare halves. This is the only job left to those with full hearts. He sits on his newly arranged couch and relaxes into his new plush surroundings. He hadn't chosen the location, just the time. It was a surprise when he finally looked up the address that was messaged over and realized it was the largest hotel in the area.

He busts open the mini bar and pours a glass of vodka. He would be guiding a very rich, therefore very powerful, person. It isn't intimidating at all. Hear the sarcasm?

The sound of the door opening attracts his ears and he chooses that moment to waltz into the open living space.

It is a great entrance, he thinks. The light from the chandelier hits his hair just right, creating a halo. His walk is not only masculine, but controlled and sexy, if he would flatter himself and he would. The chrome fixings and other monochrome decorations would set off his spectacular, glowing complexion. Kyntak thinks he makes a pretty striking figure, an electric angel.

His guest is just as striking. Dark aura, he thinks, but ethereally pale. He can see iron blue eyes peering at him, slipping past in a smooth line. Sharp cuts of durable fabric tell Kyntak exactly what kind of person he is working with, a mercenary.

"Kyntak." There is no need for an introduction. I'm a full. You're and empty. Let's get this over with.

The fellow just sits down and glares. "I'm not interested."

"Oh?" Kyntak slips onto the couch next to him. "Because, you see, I'm a full." He flicks off the band revealing the circle. He gives the man a look.

"I don't need you to be interested. I just need to fill your heart." The man doesn't look at him.

"You don't even need to know it's happening." Kyntak strokes the dark hair. "You don't even have to try." The fellow remains tense. Kyntak's used to hearing some sort of order. Since he has nothing to work off of, he just starts petting him.

"How was your day?" He leans over. Isn't this the purpose of the job? It is to recreate the illusion of love and provide a fill for the empty circles. He just keeps doing what he does. Their time runs out and he leaves.

He doesn't expect to see that man ever again.

A week later, he is back. Kyntak is curled up in the fancy suite again and this time with a really fantastic bourbon. He does the usual, a round of stroking as they read together.

He goes home.

They continue like that. Kyntak sleeps with his watch on and doesn't look at his wrists, because he is afraid of what he'll see. He's afraid of what he felt.

One day he doesn't appear. Kyntak thinks back on all the days so far. All the stolen minutes and hours and wonders if he's really doing something right.

He unclips the watch. The sound is sharp in the silence. His hands fumble as he pries it apart and holds it circle side down. A small part of him doesn't want to know.

He flips it over and gasps. It's full. His one-half empty heart is full.

He couldn't be more torn.

Six months. He doesn't hear from his particular guest in six months. Kyntak guesses that the relationship is over. Not that there was one. He does scrape together enough money between what he needs to live and the large sums he sends to the orphanage to keep the little ones warm and safe, and books the suite on a Saturday night.

He's going to walk in there. He's going to watch the maids tidy up. He's going to open the mini bar and get a cup of vodka.

No one is going to walk in. No dark haired man is going to be difficult. No man is going to steal his heart and break it.

He covers his wrists again.

People are born with circles and they fill. The moment, people say, that circle that taunted you all your life is filled is when you've fallen for good. The circle fills up and for a moment time stops and all you can think is, "Oh."

But, circles are just like numbers.

They can't promise reciprocation or happiness, just the sentimentality.

For many, that is enough. The hope that the time would come when the rush of euphoria over whelms you; you know that you've found the other half of your heart; they look into your eyes and you know they have finally found you. That is the moment worth waiting for.

Forever, if need be.

The moment passed and there was nothing in return.

He doesn't want to wait for forever.

He doesn't want to hope.

Kyntak rolls up his sleeves and watches the maids peek at his wrists. Curious, he guesses. He is more than right. In a world where hiding the truth that is writ in your skin is important, he finds it easy hide every bit of oddness in him, just like they do.

This time though, they scurry out much more slowly. There is no guest just a man lounging on the couch flipping channels on the television set. Kyntak waits for the last one to leave before he gets up.

He busts open the mini bar and pours a glass of vodka.

He walks into the main atrium again, but with no flourishes. There is no one there to see. Kyntak flops onto the couch and lays there sipping his drink.

I've been stood up, he thinks. The customer is never coming. I'm not going to meet him.

None of this will have ever happened.

But the door clicks and he's on his guard.

"Kyntak?" He peeks over the edge of the couch and takes in the figure that appears and vanishes like smoke.

"Hi."

The man glides around the couch pulling Kyntak's eyes after him. Memories flood his mind. Of laying together in bed and watching television. Talking about work and the unordinary amount of money Kyntak gets paid by that particular customer for doing absolutely nothing but being there. Of all the time he didn't charge for. Of all the memories he wanted to forget.

"Were you waiting long?" The man sits beside him, coat flapping dramatically as he settles.

Kyntak swallows.

"Yes."

A slight smirk grazes the familiar face. "I'm sorry about that."

Kyntak wants this to be real. He wants this to exist so badly. But he wants to cry, thinking that, finally, he's dreaming.

And his dreams are coming true.

He takes in the chiseled features and blue eyes.

They're just like how he remembered them.

He leans back and sips his vodka.

"So, what's your name?"

"Six."