He was wandering the streets of an unknown city. He wasn't sure exactly how he got there or why the hell he was walking, and honestly, he didn't care. He kept walking, turning corners, and crossing the streets without looking. He was taking his chances with getting hit by a car.

He wasn't exactly sure what time of day it was, but it was dark and cold. No one was out walking, and no one was around to witness it if he had a complete nervous breakdown on the sidewalk. His plan was to walk until he forgot himself. Who he was and why he was in Insert Name Here city.

He wasn't depressed, he knew that. But he was on the verge of insanity for the stupidest reasons. No, he corrected himself; the only stupid thing was what had pushed him over the edge. Sure, his girlfriend dumped him over the phone. That in itself was somewhat depressing, but nothing that would drive any sane person into stumbling streets in a glazed-eye, depressed state. No, what had really pushed him over the edge was her reasoning. It wasn't any bullshit about how they had grown apart, or how he was never home, or how they didn't connect anymore and were better off as friends. It was because she thought he was gay. And she was probably right.

He wasn't exactly sure when it had happened, maybe it was there all along and he had never noticed. She was right; he was a flaming, flamboyant faggot. He had pled with her in desperation, but she had made up her mind. He was touring in a moderately successful band, and she was at home, cutting hair. He never understood what was so fascinating about hair, or why she was always too involved in her job to talk to him. In her mind she had a future in that career, and it could never include him. He had no future in any career; therefore, he would only bring her down.

Then he had really screwed up any chance he had at winning her back. He told her one of the two guitarist kissed him in a fit of drunken obliviousness. And alarmingly, he hadn't minded it at all, he actually almost enjoyed it. Sure, he kissed the guitarist on-stage at almost every show, but once they finished that night's show, they returned to the bus and called or texted their girlfriends. They never acknowledged that a vast majority of girls ranging in age from fourteen to eighteen wrote stories about them and fantasized about them being together. It was never awkward, because it had never meant anything. Now it meant something, but he wasn't quite sure what.

He hadn't seen any of his band mates, which included his three best friends and his brother, since his fight with his now ex-girlfriend. He was almost sure they weren't looking for him. It wasn't uncommon for him to disappear for a little while. But usually he called, or came back before nightfall.

He crossed another street, faintly recognizing snow melded with dirt to create a brownish color sticking to his non-leather shoes. The guitarist was vegetarian, and wouldn't let them wear leather. That was what he loved about the guitarist; he made his opinions clear, but didn't push them on anyone. He wouldn't let the band wear anything made out of an animal, but he never said anything when the rest of the band was eating meat.

His phone vibrated from the pocket of the guitarist's pleather jacket. He had stolen the jacket, because it smelled strongly of the guitarist. It was much too small for him, and layered over his black hoodie, it almost restricted him from breathing. But he didn't dare take it off. It was the guitarists, and he was afraid that if he took it off, he would drop it into the brown sludge that was now seeping into his shoes.

A car whizzed past him, and he stared at it, because he almost vaguely recognized it. He thought seeing the car was quite odd, because, as far as he knew, no one was up in Insert Name Here city. He wondered where everyone was, because in the back of his mind he remembered how crowded New Jersey was at night.

Maybe they're all evacuating, he thought. Maybe there's going to be an earthquake or a tsunami of epic proportion. But they weren't anywhere near an ocean, as far as he could tell. He was pretty sure they were somewhere in the Mideast. It sure wasn't Chicago, he snorted, laughing at himself. He wasn't concerned about looking insane, because no one was there for him to look insane to. Maybe there was a fire. Or maybe it was a holiday, maybe Christmas, and people weren't out because they were in church. Yeah right, he mused, how likely was it that everyone was in church? Not too likely. There weren't enough churches to fit a city of sinners.

He briefly thought of what the guitarist would think about him being so pessimistic, but as soon as he the thought entered his mind, he shoved it away. It only made the horrible, aching pain worse if he thought about the guitarist. How beautiful he is, or how talented he is, even if he didn't realize it. How delightfully short he is at 5'4, even if the guitarist did everything he could to make himself look taller.

He debated whether or not to answer the phone. He was still thinking it over in his mind when the vibrating stopped. He pulled out his phone, checking the missed calls. The guitarist had called, probably because he realized he was missing his jacket, and was wondering if he had seen it.

The phone started twitching and buzzing again. The guitarist was calling him again, and he must really need to talk to him. But what was so important? He checked the time on the LCD display of the watch that his mother had gotten him for his thirtieth birthday. Shit. He had been gone for over seven hours, and it was nearing two in the morning now. His brother was probably freaking out, and forcing the rest of the guys to divide into search teams to look for him.

He pondered whether or not to answer, flipping the phone absentmindedly in his hands. What would the guitarist say? Is he calling about the jacket, or does the guitarist want to know where he is? What pretty words was he going to use to spin this into 'come back, you're being a moron, and I really don't want to have to deal with this'?

He hesitantly pressed the 'accept' button, lifting the phone up to his ears. Silence. Maybe he had accidently hit the 'reject' button by mistake, he thought.

"Where the fuck are you?" The guitarist's angry voice spat over the wire. Never mind, he had hit the right button. Now he had to deal with the consequences of not mistakenly hitting the wrong button.

"I-," he started, but no words came out after that.

"Save it. Where are you? Kyle's worried sick!" Kyle was his younger brother, and another member of the band. At the sound of his brother's name, he was cruelly flung back into reality.

"I didn't mean to-," he started, but was interrupted by the guitarist's angry rant.

"No! I fucking don't want excuses, James! We were all looking for you! Kyle's worried! I'm worried!" He shuddered at the guitarist's use of his name. Usually the guitarist called him Jamie, and he couldn't quite remember the last time he had called him James. He must really be mad, he thought.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, digging his foot into the sludge on the sidewalk. He shoved his free hand into his pocket, and hung his head like he was a child that had just been scolded by his mother.

"Oh, you're fucking sorry! Well, that makes everything better, doesn't it?! Well, I can guess I can just forgive you for running away and scaring the shit out of all of us! Because you're sorry!" The guitarist yelled, and James could imagine him pacing between the bunks on the bus and running his hands through his chin-length hair repeatedly.

James whimpered, the wet sludge seeping into his socks. "I- I mean- I didn't mean-…"

"Of course you didn't. You never mean it when you do this stupid shit." The guitarist sighed, and a click signified that he was exasperated enough to not pester James about where he was.

James sighed, and slid his phone back into his pocket. He really hadn't meant to worry anyone, or make anyone angry. For a moment he wished that the guitarist would call him back, and demand to know where he was. But he didn't. He sighed again and turned another corner, resigning himself to walk aimlessly again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, as he rounded another corner. He stared at his feet, and hoped he wasn't going to run into anything.

He continued walking, rounding more corners and crossing more streets, still not hearing any other people. He closed his eyes, willing his legs to keep moving.

"Mumph!" He grunted, running into something. He opened his eyes, still downcast; he saw a pair of torn black high tops, peeking out through ridiculously long skinny jeans on ridiculously short legs.

His eyes traveled upwards, gracing upon the scowling face of the guitarist. The guitarist closed his arms over his frail chest. He looked like he weighed almost nothing, and James wondered how he was able to stay up.

"Next time you run away, I'm not coming to find you." He deadpanned, and any happiness James felt from seeing his friend instantly vanished.

James swallowed, and nodded, returning his eyes to their downcast position. He didn't dare look at the guitarist's face, at the guitarist's expression of disappointment and annoyance.

"Come on, let's go back to the bus," he ordered. The guitarist grabbed James' arm and dragged him, not giving James another chance the run. But James' feet wouldn't have let him. As soon as the guitarist touched his arm, he was completely willing to follow him wherever he was going.

"Kyle!" The guitarist yelled when they got into seeing distance of the bus. "I found him!"

The side door burst open, and James' younger brother leaped out, running full speed toward them. When he reached them, he bent down, holding his knees and panting. "You're-breathe-a fucking-breathe-jack ass."

James' just stared at him, and Kyle eventually straightened up. "What the fuck!? We were all so worried, fucker!"

James swallowed, and hung his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Fortunately, Kyle took an apology better then the guitarist. Kyle's arms circled him, and held him as he leaked out tears he didn't know were being held back. The guitarist snorted, walking past them and back to the bus.

James sighed; wondering what he would have to do to get the guitarist to talk to him again. The guitarist could hold a grudge superbly, and could go weeks without talking to someone he was mad at.

Kyle was still talking about something irrelevant, but James was more focused on watching the guitarist's silhouette in the bus's back window. The two other guys, Rick and Austin, didn't bother themselves with coming off the bus. They were now accustomed to James' antics and mental-health escapades.

Kyle grabbed James' arm and began pulling him toward the bus. "Come on, come on, we have to start driving!"

James nodded, not having quite understood what he was saying. Kyle realized that James wasn't listening, but chose to think that he was. They reached the steps into the bus, and James moved back to let Kyle proceed first; to shield him from any oncoming attack.

"We get to stay in a hotel tomorrow…" Kyle was still talking, and James briefly wondered if he never got tired of talking. He wasn't complaining, because it was nice to have someone that he knew for sure was still talking to him, and would keep talking to him, no matter what incredibly moronic thing he did.

James pushed past Kyle, suddenly impatient to get to his bunk. They had no privacy from each other while touring, but at least he could face the wall and pretend he was alone. The guitarist must have been in the cramped bathroom, because the door to the back room was open, and he couldn't see him anywhere. Austin, the other guitarist, reading on his bunk, which was above Kyle's, he gave James a small wave and an apologetic smile. Rick, the drummer, was lounging in the driver's seat, waiting for the signal that they were ready to go.

James curled up in his bunk, and Kyle went off to sit on Austin's bed. They launched into a deep-sounding conversation, and James didn't have the energy to pay attention to it. He rolled over to face the wall, and buried his head deeper into his pillow. He felt the bus start to move, and heard the soft sounds of Austin and Kyle's conversation.

And then his peace was interrupted by an ear-splitting shriek, which sounded bizarrely feminine to him. He rolled over, abandoning his previously sleepy state.

"What was that?" He heard Kyle ask, but couldn't hear Austin's reply.

"Spider!" Another yell. A crash. A door opening and then slamming shut. James could see the guitarists' legs from out of the corner of his eye. The guitarist was deathly afraid of spiders. That was another thing about him that was endearing to James.

"Kill it! Kill it!" He screamed and starting jumping, flailing his hands above him.

Austin and Kyle didn't move, or they didn't appear to, from what little James could see.

James sighed, and got out of his bunk. He stood up, running his hand through his hair and sighing. He walked toward the back of the bus, avoiding looking directly into the other man's eyes. He opened the door to the bathroom, located the spider, which really wasn't that big, and he kind of felt sorry for it, and killed it.

"Thank you, Jamie!" The guitarist squealed for behind him, and he felt arms wrap around his torso in a backwards hug.

"You're welcome," he said shyly. He was suddenly self conscious, and wondering how the guitarist could reach around his fat torso. He stood still, waiting for the guitarist to stop hugging him. He wanted to think that the hug lasted longer then what was considered friendly, but he was sure it seemed to last much longer than it really did.

When the guitarist had released him, he turned around slowly and walked back down the aisle to his bunk. He crawled back in; not looking at anyone for fear that his face was still red. He settled down into his bunk, and returned to facing the wall.

The light was turned out, and he could feel the guitarist climbing into the bunk above him. The mattress strained downwards for a few seconds, and there were a few moments of shuffling before complete silence.

"Goodnight, Jamie," he heard the guitarist whisper. And he smiled, because that meant that the guitarist wasn't mad at him anymore.


Omg. I am SO sorry, guys! I wouldn't be suprised if you all have given up on me!

I promise that I'm going to start making more of an effort to update more frequently... Or, at least within a two-month period. .

This one's my first slash story (that I've posted), and I'd like to hear you're feedback about what I should improve. xD

I promise that I'm working on a new Fangs update. Right now. I promise that it'll be up BEFORE next summer. ; ) Or maybe within the week... who knows?

I had a little bit of inspiration with this one, and I'd really like to thank yue midnight raven. Yue (can I call you Yue? xD) TOTALLY reminded me that I need to love my readers more. : ) So thanks, that really, really helped a lot. Also, you really got the word out about Fangs? Aw, thanks. That means a lot. But dang it, now I HAVE to update. Lol. I promise, I promise.

Okay, I'm getting to be repedative now. Lol. Comments equal love! Also, I love hearing from you guys, so feel free to PM me to DEMAND for an update, or just to chat. :) I know I've been bad about answering reveiws, but I'll get better at it, I promise. And remember: Fangs isn't dead, and I will be posting very soon!

CommentsLove and I love you all lots!