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Matt needs to get his mind off of things.

Nothing is working out at all. The band is fighting, the war with Voldemort is over, and he is back from Britain. He and Val have broken up, and he has never wanted to hit something or hurt someone more than he does right now.

He's liquored himself up, and has found himself at a seedy bar, where a just as seedy looking man is standing behind the bar, giving Matt a wide, rather creepy smile. "Can I do anythin' for yeh, sir?"

"A vodka," Matt says, and the man nods, handing him a filthy glass, and several women in skimpy outfits wearing too much makeup walk around the bar, swaying their hips.

Matt suddenly gets a very good idea of where he is. Usually, he might mind this, but tonight he doesn't.

Even war heroes need someone, when their loved ones have left them or died.
"How much?"

The man knows just what he's talking about, and his grin grows a bit wider. "Depends," he says, a golden tooth glinting in the light, and the man is obviously eyeing Matt's platinum canines. Matt pays him no heed. "What're yeh lookin' for?"

"What've you got?" Matt asks, and the man shrugs.

"Anythin' you could want. Yeh up for a male or female t'night?"

Matt knows he doesn't want a girl. He's not sure that he wants a guy, but he knows that he might hurt a girl, and he wouldn't feel so bad if he hurt another male.

Because he knows he will.

"Male," is his decisive answer, and the greasy man nods.

"What're yeh into? Brunets? Blonds? Redheads?"

"Blonde," says Matt, who doesn't particularly like redheads, and has never been partial to brunettes in any way. Maybe Valary ruined that for him.

"We've got a pretty one in right about now," leers the man. "Room 222. Whaddya want 'im for?"

"Anything," Matt says, and then adds on before he can help himself and before he even realises what he is doing, he has added, "Everything."

"Sixty pounds."

Matt dutifully pays the pimp, and knocks back the rest of his vodka, and heads upstairs to the room he'd spoken of.

He knocks on the door. A voice with a faint British accent tells him to come in, and Matt does. The door is not locked.

The boy has his back to him, and Matt sees faint bruises on lovely pale skin, and he instantly wants to mark it.

He needs a vessel for his anger, and this blond seems to be just the right shape and size for that job.

The blond turns around, and Matt's well aware that he isn't wearing anything. Matt hasn't ever thought about boys like this before, and when he feels himself wanting to go and fuck him into the bed, he doesn't feel very disturbed.

Sex is sex. Anger is anger. And a hooker is a hooker, no matter how pretty he is, or whether he's a he at all.

"What can I do for you?"

He's beautiful, in a strange sort of way. Androgynous and angelic with white blond hair, nearly flawless white skin, wide grey eyes rimmed in black makeup that seems too heavy for his pretty face, with cheekbones sharp enough to kill.

Matt doesn't seem to care how starved the boy looks.

He doesn't really care about the boy at all.

"What you do for everyone else," Matt replies, his hazel eyes narrowing. Already, he just wants to grab that pretty white throat and throw him down and make sure that not one inch of the blond is left unblemished.

"I don't do the same thing for everyone." The blond hasn't asked his name. Matt doesn't want to tell him now, anyway.

"Fine," Matt snaps, and without warning, grabs his shoulders, unzips his own fly, and the hooker knows what to do and he does it.

The black-haired male pulls his hooker's head up and says in an almost emotionless voice that he doesn't want to come just yet.

He's saving that for later.

"When you come," Matt growls much later, when he's fucking him from behind, his fingernails digging bloody crescents into the whore's back, "I want you to scream my name." Matt is worth much more than just a whispered name. He's worth a scream, because that is what he wants.

And Matt knows he will get it.

"I don't-" gasp "-know your-" moan "-name," pants the hooker, and Matt gives an almost feral grin before biting into his shoulder and making him whimper in pain that Matt wasn't sure he'd ever known how to inflict.

"It's Matt," he says, a wild light in his eyes, and nipping painfully at the smaller male's earlobe, he adds fiercely, "and don't you fucking forget it, slut."

The blond doesn't.

"'Ow was it?" asks the creepy man at the bar, and Matt smiles, wiping blood from his chin.

"I'll be back tomorrow."

And he walks off, tasting the blond's blood on his lips without bothering to wash it off.

Matt returns.

"Same one as last time," Matt says, tossing the pimp the payment.

"Draco?" says the pimp, and Matt feels a rather unpleasant sensation at the realisation that his little plaything has a name. He knows he will never use it.

"Blond?"

"That's 'im. Same room as before."

Matt goes up, and this time he isn't as gentle.

When he leaves, he has blood caked underneath his fingernails and in his mouth and on the palms of his hands.

The man at the bar pretends he hasn't noticed.

"You little fucking whore," says Matt, and Draco whimpers, fear in wide grey eyes that Matt never looks in.

Because it might be his downfall if he does, and Matt doesn't want to fall just yet.

He's enjoying this power, and Draco cannot do anything to stop him. And Matt hasn't gotten tired of him.

How can he get tired of beauty that's always his and will do whatever he says?

Matt hasn't a clue. But when he leaves and Draco has to get medical attention, Matt only feels a twinge of something that may have once been his conscience.

He doesn't really need it much anymore.

He finds himself punching the client that goes in before him to fuck Draco for no good reason.

There is blood on his hands and his knuckles are cracked, and Draco does not ask what any of it is from, like the good little whore that he is.

Matt isn't really there, throughout their fuck session. Instead, as he's pounding Draco into the floor (because the heads of the nails sticking out of the floorboards make Draco's back hurt much more than the bedspread does) he is thinking of the guy who had been with his whore, and Matt suddenly realises he doesn't want to share.

Good whores are so very hard to come by.

Finding personal whores is even harder.

"How much for two months?" Matt is inquiring of the man, who he has learned is named Pete, and Draco is in the background.

Matt is pretty sure this is the first time he's ever seen Draco clothed, if it can be called that.

"Two -- two months?" asks Pete, stammering. Matt can see his brain working furiously. He knows Pete has a choice between two months without his star male hooker, or a considerable sum of money from someone very, very reliable.

Draco's eyes are downcast, and Matt sees with some satisfaction that the blond knows that he has no say in the fucking matter at all.

"Five thousand," says Pete, and Matt agrees.

He takes Draco with him to the penthouse he owns in Huntington Beach, California, and Matt doesn't give Draco many clothes.

He won't need them anyway.

Jimmy and Zacky are starting to wonder why they can't come over anymore.

Matt doesn't want to share his pretty blond whore, whose body is now mottled with bruises the size of Matt's fingerprints, and Matt has never been so pleased to not have to use restraint during sex.

He's always had to, because he's muscular and much bigger than most of his partners have ever been.

But with Draco, it's different, because Matt doesn't care whether he's careful or not.

He still doesn't call him Draco, but Draco still screams out his name.

Even in his dreams.

And Matt knows their nightmares, but sometimes, and this is only very rarely when he's sick (he thinks) he wishes they were good dreams instead.

It is when Draco is gasping for breath and Matt is fucking him, Draco's wrists handcuffed to the bed, that Matt finds him most beautiful.

Somewhere along the way, Matt has changed.

He isn't so sure that he really likes what he sees.

Draco hasn't been allowed to spend the night in Matt's room, and nothing about that changes until Matt has nightmares about the war and Draco, whythefuckishethere, is standing next to his bed with the wide eyes that Matt has never dared to look into, shaking him awake.

"It's just a dream," whispers Draco, and Matt, after catching his breath, fucks him so hard that Draco cannot walk the next morning and sends him out.

But the next night, Matt has thought about it, and as a half sort of apology, he lets him stay, and when his arms wrap around the slender, bruised frame of the person who he has spent more time with over the past three weeks than his best friends, Draco flinches.

He stays because Matt tells him to.

They have sex just as often as they did before the nightmares, but something has changed, something Matt isn't too sure of.

He never calls Draco anything, because Draco already knows who he's calling to.

But one night, the blond says just before going down on him, "I want to be Draco," and Matt feels as though he can't deny him because his mouth feels so fucking good.

But when they're back on the bed, Matt fucks him hard and says, "Come on slut -- is that the best you can do?" And he sees something break.

If he hasn't been sure that Draco has a heart, he knows now, because it has just broken into a billion little pieces and Matt knows that he has finally overstepped the one boundary Draco has ever set.

Draco does not sleep with Matt that night, even when Matt asks.

Matt is sorry.

He is sosososososososososo sorry.

He never, ever meant to.

But Jimmy is in his penthouse, and he has found his Draco, the bastard. And Jimmy is crying and Draco is crying, and Jimmy is kissing away his tears, holding him, and Draco his holding onto him desperately. Jimmy is promising that nothing will ever happen to him ever again because he will take care of him, and Matt feels as though maybe his heart has broken in half and he doesn't know why.

He does know that he should have seen this coming.

And he cries for the one person he almost had but lost before he ever could.

He never meant to hurt him.

Except, he knows he did.

And Matt is sorry.

Draco doesn't look so pretty six feet under, and Matt cannot help but feel as though a part of him is missing.

He doesn't really know why.

Maybe because he lost himself a long time ago, and when he places the flowers on the grave he has practically dug for Draco himself, he finally allows himself to cry about the things that may have happened between them that never did.

Matt has never felt so empty before.

He doesn't think it will go away this time.

Draco is crying and Matt can hear him from the other room.

He isn't sure what makes him do it, but he has his boxers on and he gets up, walking for the first time to Draco's room, and he sees that beautiful back arched in a way that suggests that the weight of the world is on his shoulders, and Matt for the first time really takes in the damage he has done.

The bite marks, the fingermarks, the cuts, the bruises. Matt is sorry for them all, and as Draco cries into his hands, Matt quietly comes up behind him and for the first time ever, slides both muscled, tattooed arms around the person who he knows he has wanted for so very long. Draco stiffens in his arms, but Matt holds him gently, like a porcelain doll that can be broken with the slightest touch, and Draco turns his face into Matt's bare shoulder and just cries and cries and cries until he has no tears left.

Matt's hand is caressing Draco's hair and he presses butterfly kisses to every wound he can reach, and whispers "I'm sorry" over and over and over again until he too is crying and hasn't let go of Draco yet.

"I don't deserve you," Matt is whispering, and he can see that Draco agrees, but doesn't really care anyway.

"People never get what they deserve anyway," is the heartbreaking response, and Matt cannot help but try and do whatever he has to do to make this up to Draco.

"I didn't mean anything I said," Matt is babbling now, "I didn't mean anything I did. I love you, I love you so much, I'll never, I won't, I can't I--"

"Matt," is the whispered name that sounds like a prayer, and Matt kisses him gently.

"Draco," he breathes, and this time, they don't fuck, they do something a bit more beautiful than that, and the next morning, Matt is still holding Draco tightly to him, and he isn't letting go.

He doesn't think he ever will.