Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note and any of the characters.

Warnings: OOC, PWP, crude language and all that stuff.

Till this moment I looked him in the eyes just once – when I was buying him. Yes, I bought this boy on the street. There were lots of such boys there, for every man to his taste, as they say. It was a fortuity...

One night stand with a stranger went against my principles, not to mention I certainly wouldn't pick up someone at such a place... But... Everything happens for a reason, it seems. Something nudged me into doing a thing... thing that I regretted as soon as I looked into the eyes of a quiet boy whose night I bought for just two thousand. He seemed out of place on that street, dressed in loose jeans and washed-out shirt that was too big for him. Grey or white, I couldn't tell the color. He stood, leaning to a shabby wall that reeked of urine and was covered with graffiti and street dirt. He stood there, as though he wasn't selling his body, as though there weren't pack of laced in fishnet stockings whores around him. As though he didn't notice my stare.

Later on I didn't regret spent money a single bit. The boy certainly knew all the secrets of his workmanship.

As soon as the door to my apartment closed behind our backs, his bashfulness and feigned innocence disappeared without leaving a trace. He was arching his body so that it looked alluring yet not vulgar, his touches were exciting but didn't arouse the feeling of a sticky syrup that would have covered me from head to toes, in which I could have drowned without a chance of ever breaking through...

I didn't notice when or how he managed to strip me of my shirt and trousers. But when I focused my attention on him, he was already kneeling before me, right on the floor of my hallway. His head was bowed when he started licking my limp member, engulfing it into his mouth, taking it out and blowing lightly on the head, pulling off the foreskin while doing all that... It didn't take long for him to arouse me. A minute of such caresses passed before I grasped his hair into my fist to keep his head in place, and started driving into that sweet mouth – red and glistening with his saliva. The boy choked couple of times and tried to pull away. Naturally, I didn't care about being gentle with him and fucked his mouth deeply, feeling how his throat contracted spasmodically and his small tongue was grazing the head. I didn't let him stop it even for a few seconds. I payed him for that, after all. The boy brushed me with his teeth from time to time, but it gave some spicy feeling to all of that.

Tears were streaming down his cheeks, though his eyes were screwed shut tightly. He clenched his hands into fists, obviously forcing himself to let me do whatever I want with his body. And I merely enjoyed myself, not giving a damn about anything at that moment. Was I ought to care? No.

Near the end he started to make some endeavors: when I slided out of his mouth, he tried to trace his tongue across the head and to press his lips tighter. He even tried moaning a bit. And I was overwhelmed with a desire to just punch him hard in the face. For being a slut. For standing near that piss-covered wall, for sucking my cock so passionately that I was almost believing that he did like it.

Humping him in the hallway was not the best of ideas. That's why I shoved him aside roughly and grasped his unruly hair in my fist, dragging him into the living room: there stood a sofa. I doubted we could make it to the bedroom...

I drew off his jeans – just pulled them down to the middle of his thighs, smacked his pale butt with the palm of my hand, and parted the buttocks before spitting in between them. I seized his cheeks tightly, feeling the strain of the muscles that were resisting the rough touches. He should've been used to such attitude as well as his body should have been used to the foreign objects inside of it. I tore off his jeans along with his sneakers, then spat on the palm of my hand and smeared it over my cock before shoving inside of a surprisingly tight opening. The boy laid his torso on the sofa, sticking out his ass even more. He just begged to get thoroughly smacked up.

"Ahh!" he moaned as soon as my hand landed on his skin.

Whore. I felt disdain for both him and myself. I spanked him again, and almost pulled out of his body before pushing back in with my full length, so that I could feel his skin on mine.

"Hnn..."

A grunt escaped boy's lips. Did he like it? Did he like being used? I felt a rash of unreasonable anger, looking at the wanton body beneath. He had his eyes shut and he smiled. But his smile disappeared as soon as I pushed my finger into him.

"What? Do you like it better?" I asked.

It was a mind-blowing kind of arousal - just looking at the boy's reaction. He whimpered, bit his lips, and tried to keep up with the pace of thrusts, caressing himself with his hand. I slapped him yet again. His right buttock was turning red, making the left one look somewhat inappropriately white. To hell with that. I moved my finger inside of him, touching and pressing the walls, fucking him all the while. It felt sickeningly good. At least, the boy looked like he was receiving every push with pleasure, having his eyes rolled up. He'd already forgotten about pumping himself – just clenched his flesh in his fist, whining and moaning all the time. He came with another long groan, marring my sofa with his semen.

Disgrace. But we weren't done just yet. Even though the boy looked like he was about to collapse at any moment. I flipped him onto his back and pulled him closer.

It was then that I accidentally looked him in the eyes. I didn't notice it at first: ordinary eyes – gray, emotionless – that's what I thought the first time our gazes interlocked.

And now I look him in the eyes for a second time since the moment I bought him. He lays below me in the dimly lit room, but I can see him clearly. Ryuzaki, that's his name. We used to be friends back in my childhood. I didn't know much about him, aside from his name and some common facts. His father was a photographer, mother was a housewife, at least that's what he said about them. They never stayed in one city longer than couple of months. And Tokyo wasn't the exception. I've known Ryuzaki for just three months. He was thirteen when I was eight. We met in the art gallery, where I went with my class for an excursion. He was looking at one of the Modigliani's paintings, mumbling something under his breath when I stood nearby. "Very nice," he said. I didn't like the painting he was looking at, so I told him what I thought about it. That's how we started. And ever since we met every week. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, I still remember that. We used to talk and discuss something that seemed important back then, but I barely can recollect a thing we were saying to each other. I only recall the feeling of a perfect mutual understanding that I experienced whenever we talked.

He disappeared after three months of our, so to say, friendship. Though I had not quite friendly feelings for him. Adoration or mere infatuation, either way it was wrong for me to bear any of those sentiments. I never looked for him. And right now he's here. He lays under me, simulating arousal and desire to continue the act. It's a wonder I didn't recognize him at first sight – he doesn't look older than me, more so, he barely changed throughout the years.

I turn my gaze away from his naked body. All of the excitement and desire vanished completely. And I'm sure Ryuzaki can see it, if only he doesn't feel it. He doesn't make a move when I stand up from him and move towards the bathroom to rinse my face with cold water and give him a chance... a chance to leave without any conversations.

When I return into the living room he still lays there, frozen. I feel like covering him up, even just a bit.

"Why didn't you leave?"

"You payed me. And you've yet to finish."

Doesn't he recognize me? He's playing a fool. And for fuck's sake, does he really deem me such a horrible person who can screw the memory of his childhood just because they payed for it? But god damn it, that's exactly what I did. And whom to blame in this situation? Him, of course. Because I am certain that he did recognize me the very second he looked at me.

"Why?" I ask. And I mean him being a prostitute, of course.

"Guess," he says and looks me in the eyes, smiling. His gaze holds not any shame or regret.

I sigh and pick his clothes from the floor, throwing it to him next moment.

"Get out."

His scornful sniff serves me as the answer. I watch him as he dresses up. What did I expect? And... was I expecting something else? Right now he will walk away like he did years ago, and most probably I'll never see him again.

"You are strange," he says, standing in front of me once he's fully dressed.

"So what?"

"You want me."

"Not today."

"Tomorrow, perhaps?" he says and smiles a little too sugary smile.

"...Tomorrow it is."

"You are crazy."

Yes. Probably I am crazy. I shouldn't have told him that. But... since that incident, every night I see him entering my bedroom. I watch as he slowly takes off his clothes, musses his hair so that the moonlight plays and tangles in that dark splendor. Then he silently folds back the blanket, crawls under it and presses close to me. He doesn't spend much time warming himself there, leaning closer to my face and presenting me with a kiss that sometimes makes me think... It doesn't matter what it makes me think. His kiss gives a beginning for everything. Sometimes we make love, doing it slowly and gently. I take him, kissing his cheeks and forehead, whispering nonsense to him, caressing every inch of his skin. Sometimes we fuck like two rabbits, striving for satisfaction of our lust. Sometimes... Sometimes we just lay there and kiss, and talk about things that seem important at the moment.

In the morning he walks away. I don't know where or how he usually spends his day, but I am certain that at night he will come back to me.

The truth reveals itself to me unexpectedly after six months of such nighttime affairs. Ryuzaki is a sleepwalker.

He blurts out his confession one morning when we are still in bed and clocks already show half past eleven. Turns out he always knew about his sleep problem, and that night when I picked him up on the street, he was just wandering around, sleeping as he walked. Ryuzaki says the next day he couldn't remember what happened. When I ask him how he felt after the first night and how he explained the pain in his rear, Ryuzaki blushes and smacks my head lightly. He says he was unaware of his own actions for about two months. He was noticing the strange state of his body upon awakening, and eventually decided to put a small camera on his clothes to track down his own unconscious movements. The footage showed him the truth and... the next night he came to me being fully awake, and did the very same thing that we've been doing for two months straight. He says I'm crazy for willing to stay with him even though I deemed him a prostitute.

And, yes, I am definitely crazy. I've been crazy for about a year now. And I don't really regret it. Because it's not just me being a lunatic. It's both of us.