"My god, my tourniquet

~Tourniquet~

return to me salvation."

----------

Name: Christopher "Kit" Amarantus
Age: 25
Appearance:


Christopher is a young businessman who does not have much time for a personal life due to working so much. However, he is not an unkind person and will sometimes do a good deed. He is proud of his large, tastefully decorated apartment and the library of books contained within shelves lining the living room and his bedroom.

Name: Harcle Basia
Age: Eighteen
Appearance:


Harcle became addicted when he was fifteen and has been selling himself out to get money and/or drugs ever since. He lives on the streets. He has a good heart, deep down.

It had been a long day at the office, and Christopher was extremely happy that he was finally able to head home. He opted to walk; it wasn't a terribly long journey, really, and he could enjoy the sights. It was several blocks to his apartment, but his profession wasn't one that used up much stamina, really. So, he walked out of the office, bidding everyone else farewell.

It was a bit chilly out, since it was the middle of Autumn, and Kit slipped on the light jacket he'd been holding. He then strolled toward his house, stopping by a lovely corner bakery at which he often bought bread. This time, he opted for a delicious-smelling French bread. He'd enjoy it with the Brie cheese he knew was sitting in his refrigerator, unopened.

As he walked, he didn't quite notice that he'd made a wrong turn into the "bad" section of town. Looking around, he saw that he could easily get back to a familiar route; this wasn't the first time he'd made this silly mistake. He didn't like being in this section of town much; although it wasn't terrible in the sense of crime and murder, there were an awful lot of homeless people and drug users around here. Every time he thought about these people, he remembered a friend he'd once had who succumbed to drugs, only to die of an overdose six months later. The boy wasn't a particularly close friend, but it still shook him. He could have had a future but he was too addicted for that. How many other boys out there were like that?

So, Kit turned onto another street, seeing one that would lead back to his original path.

Harcle was always chased off of the 'really bad' streets and onto less conspicuous streets. Unlike most of the other boys and girls, he was independent and didn't have a pimp, or even a parent, selling him out. It was all a big territorial battle, and since he was alone, he was chased away.

He didn't go for anything fancy. Just an open white shirt and old dress pants. It was simple, yet elegant. He got more customers than he thought he would, so he was all right.

He'd run out of money last night. And he really needed his fix. He was heavily addicted to heroin. With it, he was normal. Without it, he was a complete wreck...

Quietly, he leaned against one of the old buildings, scoping around for potential customers.

Kit walked quickly, trying not to look around much. It was somehow impossible to miss the boy leaning against a building in nothing but an open white shirt and worn-looking pants. At least, it seemed impossible to look away. Somehow, he was beautiful. The businessman had a feeling the boy was addicted to something. Probably heroin. He, Christopher, knew he should not get involved. However, he was also not cold-hearted and he could tell this boy was somehow not like the rest.

He stood there, on the corner, warring with himself. Should he go talk to the boy? Would that mean the boy thought he was...buying? It was obvious why the boy was there; he was looking for potential--ah--business. Kit wasn't interested, really, despite his preferences. He finally took a deep breath, intending to just leave, but...didn't.

Harcle had sharp ears, and he'd heard the footsteps. He knew better than to approach anyone on this street...trusting anyone in this sort of area was just pure insanity. Especially someone older. He'd learned that the hard way, when he'd accidentally bumped into a man in one of the nearby alleyways, and he'd slammed a knife into his leg.

He had a scar from that encounter to remember it by, on his right thigh. He'd probably never forget the pain that had brought him.

Harcle shifted, opening his emerald eyes to gaze out at the street. It wasn't a busy street, though the occasional car flew on down at breakneck speed. He stayed away from the street. The sidewalk was the best area for him.

Christopher stepped closer, nearer to the building and the boy--who had just opened his lovely emerald eyes. Most of him knew that this was a very idiotic action to choose. He should have just gone...but what if this boy was dead tomorrow? Kit turned his dark eyes towards the boy and crossed his arms. "You," he started, not unkindly, "why are you here?" Of course he knew why the boy was here, but he did want to know how he responded.

Already, Kit was thinking about all the ways he'd heard of to help heroin addicts. Methadone, dihydrocodeine...did he know anyone capable in the professional sense? Perhaps--"But," his mind supplied, "he may not even be addicted to anything, much less heroin." That was true, but there was something in the boy's eyes--something like desperation.

"If you want something, I'll list off my price range," Harcle replied, simply. He turned his eyes on the stranger. His eyes had always been a wonderful advantage against most people. They were dark, but soft and misty. Quite alluring.

He didn't look like the normal sort of customers he picked up around this area. He looked more like a city man. Harcle didn't venture into the city unless he was really desperate. They paid good money, there, mostly in the business district.

He could get away with much higher prices for various different acts, and team up with other loners so they could double the price and split it. Here, he had to just accept the fact that most in these parts didn't have much money...and they couldn't afford his prices.

Christopher frowned, having had at least half of his suspicions confirmed. "No, I do not find myself desiring that," he replied. "But..." he trailed off. Beyond that, he wasn't sure how to articulate the thoughts currently going through his head. A little nagging voice kept saying, "You could save this boy. He doesn't have to be just another victim of overdose. You could save him."

The rest of Kit dismissed the notion. Once someone was addicted--if the boy in fact was--he was addicted. It was not an easy task to stop it.

The wind started to blow harder, the young businessman noticed. "Aren't you chilly?" he asked, grasping onto something tangible.

"I'm used to it. I live here."

Harcle stared at the stranger, rather puzzled. Why would he bother approaching him if he wasn't interested in his 'wares?' It made no sense to the boy, who wasn't used to people being kind. Since he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, though it was open in the front, the needle marks weren't visible.

His statement veered towards the truth, that he was homeless and living on the streets here...

"Of course you do," Christopher muttered, nodding. He could tell that the boy was confused; most likely, people were rather unkind to him. That didn't feel right, somehow.

He looked down at the bread he was carrying. "Are you hungry?" he asked the boy, gesturing towards the loaf in his hands. Bread was inexpensive and it would only get stale at his apartment; he could never finish an entire loaf in only a few days, and he liked his bread fresh. There was no reason not to share some.

Harcle's stomach grumbled of its own accord, and he stared at it, irritated. "No, no...I'm fine," he replied, shortly. He didn't take kindly to people taking pity on him, and he didn't want anyone else's help.

Besides, he knew not to trust people he met on the street. That would always be a mistake, no matter who it was. He wasn't going to get hurt.

Christopher sighed. The boy was trying to prove himself, no doubt. "Seriously, it's going to go stale in my apartment, and I hate stale bread. You'll really only be helping me," he told the boy.

He wasn't certain why he was making such a big deal of this, still, but it felt like the right thing to do. In any event, he really did dislike stale bread. He wasn't a fan of French toast or anything of the sort, so he didn't have much use for stale bread.

"I don't want it," Harcle repeated, eyes narrowed. "If you're not a customer, go away...please. I'm working...I can't be bothered." He wouldn't be struck down by someone else's pity.

There was a couple approaching from the other side of the sidewalk--a tall man and a very haughty-looking woman. They seemed to recognize Harcle, and were already sizing him up from where they were.