Give me your rentboys, your whores, your not quite monogamous masses yearning to. Well. You know.
Location: A room. Of some sort.
Time: Not important, but probably late afternoon to early evening.
Seth Cuthbert, a small, slight boy with short Holocaust survivor hair stepped into the room. He stared at each of the gray walls, then sat down on a couch that seemed to be one of the main decorative features. After a moment, he was confronted by the entrance of another boy, an equally small, pretty sort of a boy in a top hat and a cravat. They were men's clothes, although the boy looked hardly older than sixteen. Seth blinked. "Hello," he said.
"Hello," said the pretty boy. "I'm the Saint. Who are you?"
"I'm Seth Cuthbert," said Seth, slightly puzzled. "You're a saint?"
"No. The Saint. It is different," the Saint informed him laboriously, and sat down next to him on the couch, a good deal closer than Seth would have liked. "And now," he added. "We wait."
"We wait for what?" asked Seth somewhat nervously. There was something fundamentally indecent about the Saint.
The Saint shrugged. "For the people to come. I expect they will. I," he added, with a flourish of one hand, "am a magnet. For people. Pretty people especially."
"I think you give yourself too much credit," said Seth
"You're here, aren't you?" pointed out the Saint.
Seth looked blank, then settled down to pout for a bit.
The Saint waited patiently, toying a bit with his top hat brim.
Location: A room. Of some sort.
Time: Not important, but probably late afternoon to early evening.
Seth Cuthbert, a small, slight boy with short Holocaust survivor hair stepped into the room. He stared at each of the gray walls, then sat down on a couch that seemed to be one of the main decorative features. After a moment, he was confronted by the entrance of another boy, an equally small, pretty sort of a boy in a top hat and a cravat. They were men's clothes, although the boy looked hardly older than sixteen. Seth blinked. "Hello," he said.
"Hello," said the pretty boy. "I'm the Saint. Who are you?"
"I'm Seth Cuthbert," said Seth, slightly puzzled. "You're a saint?"
"No. The Saint. It is different," the Saint informed him laboriously, and sat down next to him on the couch, a good deal closer than Seth would have liked. "And now," he added. "We wait."
"We wait for what?" asked Seth somewhat nervously. There was something fundamentally indecent about the Saint.
The Saint shrugged. "For the people to come. I expect they will. I," he added, with a flourish of one hand, "am a magnet. For people. Pretty people especially."
"I think you give yourself too much credit," said Seth
"You're here, aren't you?" pointed out the Saint.
Seth looked blank, then settled down to pout for a bit.
The Saint waited patiently, toying a bit with his top hat brim.
Comments
"He is," Seth agreed, reaching up to touch Terence's cheek. "Do you write him or anything?"
"I," Terence began. "It's hard. He ended it pretty clearly before he left, and all I want to write is sheets and sheets of love letters, but I can't, so they're like, they're like fucking telegrams." He caught Seth's hand. "Thanks for letting me be all depressing like this." There was a moment before Terence processed all of Seth's earlier dialogue, and then: "Wait. You know him? How is he? Is he okay? Does he teach where you go to school? Is he still all freckly?"