Warning: guys, it's ME, Freak of Spade! What the hell do you expect? YES, it's SLASH, shonen-ai, all that boyxboy goodness.

Rating: T for now. Might go up in later chapters.

Summary: To Luke, the only thing that matters in life is Knight. When Knight claims to hate him, he must do his best to find a new meaning to his life.

A/N: Yup, guys, a new story. I actually have a plot planned out for the story, which, if you are familiar with my work in general, is a rare thing indeed. However, I also have another plot for a story in my mind, but I don't really have the time to focus on both stories. And I just can't chose between one and the other. Therefore: I'm posting this chapter and will later post the first chapter to the other story 'The Loveheart as a Symbol of Hate' (lame title, I know, but I couldn't think of anything). The one with the best reader response will be the one I'll carry on writing on a (pretty much) regular basis.

As for now, enjoy!

Tale of a Broken Umbrella


Luke lay on the large bed, his body tangled in sheets and blankets, pillows scattered all around him, and stared up. Knight had painted patterns of flowers onto the ceiling, little faeries and strange creatures peeping through the leaves and petals. Luke adored how beautiful Knight had made his home: scenes and landscapes he had painted himself covering the walls and ceilings; the sofas and bed covered in patchwork throws; the shelves on the walls filled with books and covered in glittering sticker; old potteries and figurines covering the mantelpiece; random carpets and furs thrown over the chessboard black and white tiles of the floor. The cushions scattered over the couch and floor were embroidered all in different patterns; the TV was covered with a scrap of lace and a lamp he had painted over in watercolours so it threw strange aquamarine glows around the room when lit; he coffee table was cluttered with vases spilling with flowers, pretty mugs filled with his pencils and pens, sketchbooks and magazines stacked beneath it. The curtains were dozens of long shreds of cloth, the net curtains behind them bits and pieces of lace sewn together. Even the bathroom was beautiful: painted in pale watery shades, framed pictures and paintings of fish all over the walls, shells covering the windowsill, the clean, white tile floor covered in pale green folded towels. Shelves lined on the wall, cluttered with bottles of shampoos and beauty products and beautiful ornaments. There was not a single place in all of Knight apartment that Luke could think of that wasn't perfectly beautiful and imbibed in Knight's essence and personality.

His apartment was just an echo of Knight's beauty. He was beautiful in a way that no one else was beautiful: pale hair he kept dying in crazy colours cut haphazardly so that long strands hung in his back almost waist-long and some hung into his eyes. His eyes were the part of him that Luke loved best—at least, one of the parts of him Luke liked best: narrow and almond-shaped and beautiful mismatched: one bright vibrant green and one dull dark brown. They lit a face that was fine-boned, with delicate, perfect features: slanted cheekbones and soft wet lips and a pointed nose. He was tall, much taller than Luke: slim and slender and graceful, with the gait of a dancer and swan-like gestures. He dressed in beautiful, bizarre and unique outfits he designed himself: he never wore clothes as he brought them: instead cut them up and mixed them with other articles of clothing and added lace or ribbons or strings, ripped edges and hems, added lengths and tears and shreds and sleeves and collars: in short, he did with clothes what he'd done with his flat: he'd made them his.

Sometimes, Luke felt as though the only thing that wasn't beautiful and perfect in Knight's life was him. A skinny, short, clumsy seventeen year old, a drop-out with no ambitions, no dreams, no imagination and no talent; a plain, awkward teenager with gangly limbs and dull hair and eyes and no personality. Compared to Knight's life, Luke felt as though his existence was pointless: while Knight lived for his dreams and his ideas, Luke lived solely for Knight. He had nothing else in his life except his love for Knight: he had run away from his family when they refused to accept he loved another man; he had dropped out of college when he moved in with Knight. Now, he spent his entire days aimlessly pounding away at the beautiful piano in Knight's living room, waiting for him to come back home, and make him feel whole again. The highlight of his day: when Knight would walk into the flat, throwing his guitar case or his sketchbook or his bag across the couch, taking off his coat or jacket and then walking up to Luke to absent-mindedly ruffle his hair. Then, Luke would bring him some food, ask him about his day, and listen to him with beatific happiness talk about his art lessons, or his new music teacher, or this new person he had met at this convention, or this new project he had started. And then, after they'd sent the evening together, they'd finally go to the bedroom, shedding their clothes (because Knight insisted they both slept in the nude) and Knight would take Luke into his arms and Luke would feel complete and perfectly happy.

And then, one day, Knight talked. Luke knew that Knight had been meaning to talk for a long time, he knew that it couldn't have lasted. He'd just hoped he was wrong, hope the feeling of despair and dread whenever Knight opened his mouth was just paranoia, hoped helplessly that the look Knight occasionally sent him didn't mean what he thought—feared—it meant.

"For thy hope is but ignorance"

It was fooling to hope.

It was an autumn evening: the wind whipped rain against the window as Luke impatiently attempted to play Fur Elise on the piano, constantly stopping to check whether Knight was back or not. Knight arrived at last and Luke served him the food he had cooked (rice with fried carrots, onions, peppers and egg, soup and salad). Knight ate and talked about his day and Luke watched him, a vacant, blissful smile on his face.

And then they withdrew into the bedroom and Knight watched Luke get undressed. And he finally made the step:

"How can you live like that?"

Luke finished pulling his shirt over his head and frowned slightly:

"Like what?"

"Like that. Pointlessly, aimlessly, watching the days go by with nothing happening. You…how can you go on like that? You have no dreams, no hopes, no goals, no…nothing."

Pain flamed through Luke, and he said heatedly:

"Why would I need dreams, or goals or hopes? I love you—you're all I need!'

"I'm…you…" Knight looked as though he was struggling for words, his eyes wide and an expression almost like horror etched into his beautiful face. "How can you…how can you…you…you have no reason to live. Luke, you…you…you disgust me sometimes."

Luke's mouth dropped open.

"You…you are so…your existence is so empty and…and stupid and I hate it, I hate how you only live to see me, how all you need is me, I hate how you are so…so colourless. I need someone to love, Luke. I don't need a…a slave, or a worshipper. I want someone I can share my life with, not someone who simply picks the drops of water from my lips…Luke, you…you just…you're like…like…just a broken umbrella!"

Knight sighed, looking as though he was unable to say what he wanted to. Then, without looking at Luke, he just picked up his keys and walked out.

Luke stood frozen in the middle of the bedroom, his moth still open, horror keeping him still as a statue.

That night, Luke pulled his backpack out from under the bed where it was folded, stuffed some of his clothes inside, his wallet, and the piano book he'd bought some months ago inside, and put on his coat. At the door, he stopped, and reached for the back of his neck. His fingers found the clasp to the beautiful silver necklace Knight had given him all this time ago: slowly, carefully, he removed it. He held the small, silver heart pendant in his palm for a moment, staring down at it, and then kissed the silver, warm from always being next to his skin, and dropped it on the small table in the corridor. Then he opened the door, and left, without a single look behind him.

A/N: yep, this is actually the darkest slash fic I've ever written. I usually prefer happy cheery cute slashy fics. But this is SERIOUS. Experimenting a new style, you see :)

Anyway, this is just the intro, kind of. The rest of the story should be narrated in first-person view….unless you guys request otherwise. This chapter is just introducing you to the main character and his story.

Tell me what you think and reviews? Please pretty please:chibi-bunny eyes: