Warning: SLASH (that means bois luving bois in case you've been living under a rock for several centuries), excessive use of INJECTIVES (swearing, people), possible DRUG USE, possible VIOLENCE and future BUCKETLOADS of UST.

Rating: currently T.

Summary: Sandro said I should do something stupid, so I ran away from home. Delirium said I should be his band manager, so I signed the contract. Am I the only one thinking that my life isn't really under my control much?

NOTE: ahem deep American film-trailer accent For a long time, thinkers and philosophers around the world have asked themselves the question: what would happen if you put together two obsessive slash writers, got them high on crack, locked them in a steamy sauna and gave them a single laptop? Well, maybe the enigma hasn't been quite solved, but I think we got pretty close to it.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the lovechild of the first collaboration between a Freak and the wonderful I'll Be Your Fairy-Tale (some of you are probably readers of hers anyway, and if not, go check out her stuff, because she's an amazing writer)

Here, for your enjoyment, is what the two of us managed to came up with for a first chapter :)

Treading Love and Living Lust

Chapter One

Introducing Damien, Teenage Runaway and…Band Manager?

It's dark, like, the whole, no sun, only stars and moon thing, except it's fucking raining, so it's cloudy and there are no stars to be seen, and quite frankly, if I could see the moon, then I'd be panicking about werewolves by now, and I really have enough to deal with at present, thanks very much, without a man-wolf-thing chasing me after my blood.

So, yeah, it's nighttime…


I mean, I guess I didn't realise how stupid running away from home was until I did it, and now, I wish I could punch the past me that thought it was a good idea, and then, rework the whole past and make it so I didn't decide to do this, it's just that when you do a super-melodramatic runner with the whole: "I can't take it anymore! I'm going the fuck away and never coming back!" you know, even adding in the over the top door slamming behind you thing for effect, well, it changes things, and suddenly it's not really easy to go back. I mean, for a start, I'd look like an idiot. I guess, I could go back and blame the drugs, or something, but then again they'd probably kick me straight back out the front door, doubtless without letting me put my shoes back on or even take another breath. While it seems a relatively lose, lose situation, at least my present predicament leaves me with a small smidgen on dignity, the latter option wouldn't have. Yeah, um, I'd rather stay stuck with being homeless. At least I have my dignity still standing… sort of.

If I'm honest, it's about the only thing about me that is still standing. My legs can't stand anymore, I can't stand standing up and my hair isn't even standing in the pretty spikes I spent three hours doing this morning. Oh, and before you go and think me odd for making my hair nice only to go and leave, I actually did it long before I decided to make a melodramatic escape. Oh, and why isn't my hair nice anymore? Oh yeah, because it's raining, in fact, I believe the term is pouring, and I would say I'm slightly wet, but in more factual terms, I'm fucking drenched, and seeing as it's currently mid-autumn, I'm close to hypothermia, and London is not an overly forgiving place for people such as myself who look like they live on the streets… which I technically now do.

It's just not fair! I mean, in films, running away is always cool and dignified and elegant, you know, in a rough 'uncut diamond' sort of way. It never ever rains, or if it does rain, the gorgeous sexily disheveled hero will have his perfect silky hair stuck to his neck in that still gorgeous sort of way, and he'll still get the beautiful girl to fall in love with him anyway. In this torrential downpour, I just look like a drowned rat. The sort people look at in horror before throwing something decidedly heavy at.

My life is a completely depressing pit of depression, in the black hole of deepest and darkest teenage misery. Yes, I'm being melodramatic. Get over it. I'm trying to wallow in my own self pity you know.

Well, alright, maybe I'm a tiny little bit over-the-top. I mean, yeah, sure, I suppose my parents are far too busy working to take care of me, but loads of teenagers deal with that, it's a common thing; and yeah, I do get called a freak at school and get picked on somewhat, but, you know what? It pretty much happens to everyone at one point in their life. Okay, so I happen to be one of the unlucky ones, but it's not my fault my parents decided to give birth to an ugly midget… my best friend once told me that he suspected my mom had an affair with a mouse, or something equally tiny, before she had me. I don't see how he figures this one out, I mean, sure my size would be accounted for, but, he's doesn't really know my mum, 'cause personally? I think if my mom ever got into bestiality, which I hope to god she doesn't, I reckon she'd go for a horse or something. I don't know, I think I'm starting to sound really stupid.

Sandro says I'm not qualified to judge which animal my mum would pick though, and it made me wonder why on earth he was then, so I asked him if he was into bestiality. What was really worrying was that he just gave me a long look and he said that it depended on what I meant by bestiality. I didn't care to continue on that line of conversation, because I really didn't want to know what Sandro meant by his answer. I probably had come across as looking quite odd at the time, as Sandro then informed me that I was a complete idiot, then stole my lollipop from my mouth. I didn't like him much right then.

My best mate Sandro's name isn't actually Sandro. It's Alex. The thing is though, he says that Alex is a boring name, and it just makes him think of the name Alexandra, and he doesn't like the female connotation. Once, when he was talking about it, I told him that Alex is short for the name of Alexander the Great, who was a very manly person, and a king at that, who conquered half the known world. Sandro told me to shut the hell up, because Alexander the Great was also quite possibly gay and with his best friend. I closed my mouth and shut up, slightly creeped out by that comment, especially considering that I was his best friend.

Sandro's the second reason why I ran away from home, you know. He told me I was too boring and it would end up eating me out from the inside, said it would destroy me if I didn't inject a little well, life into my life. That sounds stupid when I say it. He suggested, helpfully, that I should try to take a running jump off a cliff or something, or get a tattoo. I expect I must've looked a little frightened, as he laughed at me. I asked him if he'd be upset if I ran away, and to my disappointment, he said that he didn't really care. It kind of hurt when he said that human beings weren't really his thing. He then informed me that I wasn't technically human though, having been the product of my mother and some apparent affair with a mouse. I asked if he didn't like humans much because he was too into bestiality. He hit me and told me to shut up, so I did.

The results of this conversation however, was that I did run away. Okay, I put that in the past tense, but in reality I am still doing the running away thing, just less running and more away.

Well, I decided run away then. I ran away several days later… several days later being… uh… today and I finally did so when my father decided to have a manly talk with me and question me about my plans for the future. The thing is, I told him I was only eighteen and wasn't ready to make plans properly, because I still have loads of time. He told me that when he was eighteen he'd already written down his plan in full details and pinned it next to his chemistry revision sheet beside his bed, suggesting that I should do the same. I told him that I didn't even do chemistry. Then he got angry at me and started yelling about my shitty subject choices, so I told him I hated him, partly because I did right then. I also told him that he didn't understand me, because that's the done thing isn't it? You have to melodramatically yell that nobody understands you. I told him some truths too though, that I was fed up with him, and with mum (though I couldn't come up with a dramatic reason for hating mum, because I suppose I don't, she just sides with him too much). Then, basically, I packed a bag and ran out. I made sure to slam the door really loud, oh, and the number plate that Aunt Clarissa had given mum on her last birthday fell down and shattered everywhere. I feel slightly guilty, thinking about it now. Mum was really fond of that number-plate thingie, and I guess it was cute. I mean, it had a little rabbit painted on it, and I kind of like rabbits.

When I ran away however, I did something really, really, really stupid. Well, I did a whole of lot of stupid things, but one of the most ridiculously, insanely stupid things (barring the whole running away itself thing, of course) was forgetting my mobile. You can do a lot of things with a mobile, call people, play with the camera, use it as a torch, but the most important function of my phone that I lack right now, and it is really killing me, is that I have Snake on it. But I don't have my phone. And right now a good game of Snake would have been ideal. But there you go. This is so utterly typical of my shitty bad luck and my crap organisational skills. I couldn't even remember to pack my phone.

So look at me now. I am stuck sitting in the doorway of a shop that looks decidedly dodgy, possibly selling weapons and/or dead bodies out the back. My fucking teeth are actually chattering from the cold, my hair and clothes are completely soaked, I am completely regretting running away from a place where I had a nice warm dry bed, oh, and I'm waiting for the rain to stop and/or (I'm not fussy) for a vision of enlightenment to hit me like a thunder strike.

Unsurprisingly, neither have occurred yet. It's now almost fifteen minutes later. It's still raining, and any enlightenment on its way has not yet arrived.

An hour later now in fact, I'm still sitting on the same fucking doorstep, still staring at the rain falling from the sky, oh, and in case you wondered? I'm also still waiting for the enlightenment to turn up. I'm sure it's just been delayed or something. The street is busy suddenly, people rushing past under umbrellas and splashing mud all over the place. All over me too, much to my delight… not. Apparently today is National Mudfest Day. Welcome to the world.

Hey, wasn't that a Fanta advert? I think…

I am so cold. My more distant bodily parts have gained that slightly itchy numbness acquired from being freezing and I am contemplating the idea that I may be developing hypothermia/pneumonia/frostbite. Oh, and I am very, very sleepy. I didn't actually sleep last night because I was on the phone to this girl. I can't even remember her name you know. It was something along the lines of Daisy I think… or maybe it wasn't. I'm remembering it being a flower, or something associated with them at least, maybe it was Rose? Everything presenting itself in this little brainstorm is dragging up blanks. She can't have been much if I don't remember her name. I think she's a cousin of Sandro's older sister's boyfriend's stepmother's ex-husband's adopted kid's best friend… or something like that anyway. She says she likes me, I still don't actually know who she is. She says she met me once at Sandro's older sister's party she threw for her boyfriend. I remember being distinctly hung-over the morning after that party, so I suspect I may have met her, and yet my intoxicated state at the time means I haven't a clue who she is now. I think her voice kind of sounds like those voices in the noodle adverts. I don't want to marry her… Sandro said I should. I'm not going to.

"He looks like a manager. Doesn't he look like a manager? I'm sure managers look like this." Huh? I thought the street was empty by now… it's almost twelve at night now after all, it's been silent for the last three hours.

I look up. A guy with ripped red clothing that clings to him and pale skin, with gold tinted glitter on his shoulders and cheekbones, and some really fine, weird golden wings is standing at the foot of the steps I'm sitting on, staring at me. I am not entirely sure whether he's talking to me. Behind him is another guy with equally fair skin and an explosion of black hair, completely clad black leather and sky blue silk, wings a bit like the other guy's, just all blue and white, and he's uh… twirling a tiny bluish flower between his fingers and glaring at the first guy.

"Greetings, mortal boy," the guy dressed in red clothes says to me, voice sweet and chirpy, almost at odds with his appearance and outfit. I am now going to assume he definitely is talking to me, because he's looking right at me with these, like, huge intense old painting frame kind of gold eyes

"Uh… greetings," I say, because I can't think of anything else to say. God, I sound rough though… maybe I really have got pneumonia…

"My band-mate and I have chosen you as our human manager," red announces grandly, as though he's bestowing some great honour upon me or something. The word human is unnecessary there unless he's suggesting his mother had an affair with a dragonfly or a bird or something…I guess he doesn't know about my apparent mouse heritage.

"Manager," I say, slightly blankly.

"Yes," he informed me, seeming thrilled that I am capable speech. "You see, we are forming a rock band, like you humans have. It looks like fun, but obviously, we are in need of a human manager, and you are the solution, you can be it!"

I am definitely pulling a face at him right now. This is quite possibly the most bizarre encounter I have ever had, with anyone, and also the most odd demand I've ever had, I don't really even like music, you know, and these guys want me as a band manager.

"What if I don't want to be?" I ask them, trying to sound confident and stuff. I need to find out what my situation is here, and this seems a reasonably question with which to ascertain it.

The guy in red looks down at his fingernails, which are painted a rich, bloody, crimson. He inspects them slowly, his bright, eager smile, lessening slightly as I watch him, morphing into something slightly more dangerous.

"If you don't want to," he begins again, looking up at me, a sudden cloying sweetness to his voice, "then we'll just have to force you, won't we?" He says it in a way that makes it sound perfectly reasonable, mostly in the way that jumping off a cliff sounds reasonable when someone holding a loaded gun to your head tells you to do it.

I barely even think about my answer, I hardly want to test this guy's patience.

"Okay," I agree, nodding slightly, watching him.

"Good," the guy in red smiles again, widely, the glint gone from his goldish eyes, sounding chirpy again.

He hands me a slightly tattered looking piece of paper and what appears to be a biro, the end of which has been chewed so badly it's practically drooping. I don't bother reading the small print, seeing as the whole page is covered with it, I just look for the dotted line, swallow and sign, my scrawl looking very much at home on the crumpled looking contract that he snatches away from me again, looking gleeful.

Hang on, a manager for a rock band? I don't even like rock.

AFTERNOTE: Here we are. Your duty, now, as the good readers and awesome little people that you are, is to review and tell us what you think. Is this a collab made to succeed? Aaaand anything else you can think of really. Get to it. Clicky the wittle button and grow the magic flowers in us writers' hearts.