Escort

ESCORT

A/N This is my first story here, so please don’t be too harsh. All constructive comments are welcome. Storz is un-betad; sorry for any grammar and linguistic mistakes:)


December night in Oxford was cold and rainy. A narrow street was dark and seemed abandoned, no light escaped from the houses that surrounded it to lighten wet pavement. A lone male figure walked in a quick pace, shoulders hunched, hands tucked in sleeves of a black trench coat, so it looked as the person was hugging himself in mock comfort, deprived from real embrace. The street was long, and Lucien couldn’t wait to get to the end of it, where an equally cold room was waiting for him. At least it didn’t rain there.

He felt cold seeping into his bones. Hard wind splashed his long, black traces into his face, causing him to close his eyes and stumble. He cursed under his breath, pulling his hair out of his sight. At least, there was no wind in the tiny, cold room, except from small whiffs that ran through hidden cracks.

Blessing and cursing in the same time, young man unlocked heavy iron door to the old building and stood in its hallway, enjoying the lack of wind and warmth that emerged from the apartments. Slowly he walked up to the third floor and then climbed narrow, steep staircases that led to his room in the attic.

Once in his own small world, Lucien couldn’t take his drenched coat quickly enough. He was totally wet, feeling even his underwear clutching to thin body. Last month, during a severe storm, his umbrella got broken and he hasn’t had enough money since to buy a new one.

Lucien took off his thin shirt slowly, wearily and shivered as his long black hair spilled down his bare, pale shoulders. And the cold in the room didn’t help at all.

A book and papers that were hidden from rain fell on the floor, scattering themselves. Lucien left them there and reached for the towel that lain on the back of a chair to dry him. He shuddered. This hasn’t been the first time for him to get soaking wet, but it has never been so cold in his room. Perhaps, he should light a small fireplace, for just a bit, until there were no more puffs of his breath dancing around his face like child ghosts of forgotten time.

Lucien looked around in the dark, not wanting to use electricity by turning on a bulb, which hanged from steep ceiling and prayed that there were some wood left. His uses minimum of fuel, minimum of electricity and eats only so much food so not to faint. For a moment he stumbled, white dots dancing in front of his eyes. Lucien placed thin arms on the wall to support himself. He didn’t eat much, sometimes he forgets because he is drowned in alluring world of scholarly work and more often because every penny is essential and should be spent in another way. Today he has eaten two apples and some prickles left from yesterday.

For weeks he wouldn’t eat anything but see-through pieces of bread with margarine, drinking hot water instead of tea. When he wants to reward himself he’d buy a piece of chocolate. Some hot soup with meat would do him good and chase away unnatural paleness off his cheeks, but he can’t cook; there is never enough time for that and meat is expensive, restaurants are out of question except when some good natured customer takes him out in order to make their encounter more romantic.

The room, which has been Lucien’s home for the better part of this past year, was a tiny one. A bed was placed next to a small window, through which cold breeze has been oozing. It was made of metal with old and uncomfortable mattress and iron form, probably made at the time of WW2, as most of the other parts of furniture were. Next to it laid wooden chair with a glass and an alarm clock. Opposite of it was the said fireplace, a pathetic imitation of a cosy family home. Under the window was a hot plate with a two cooking pots, a plate, three crystal glasses-unusual things and cutlery which is clean from lack of use. Next to it is small washbasin with cold water, but if he is lucky Lucien could get some warm.

Young man chuckled ironically, thinking of this, his life, of what he could’ve had and what he actually owned. Shaking from cold he put away drenched clothes and reached to a small wardrobe, the last piece of furniture in the overcrowded room. He opened it with shrieking sound resonating through the room; one day he was sure closet door would fall straight on him. With no light to show him the way, he stretched his arms like a blind man, finding his way through couple of suits, which weren’t even his, at least he didn’t pay for them, his clients did. After long minutes of touching soft materials and hard book covers, the other thing that occupied the closet, he took out his home clothes that consisted of an old pair of flannel pants and a sweatshirt, which he have had since his freshman year in high school.

Lucien stretched before sitting on the cracking bed. At 23:30 the only thing he longed for was a good night sleep. Hopefully, sleep would bring him some rest, not that all his problems would magically disappear, but at least for some time during those couple of ours of darkness, he could dive in a better world, could let himself dream of a warm body next to his and strong arms keeping him safe from everything in this world. Usually he wouldn’t let himself glide into his world, but that was the only healthy way to survive constant stress imposed by his job.

He was exhausted. The day at the university has been tiring, yet he liked being there more than most of young people. After the classes, he’d usually go to the library and stay there until the librarian would playfully shoo him out. It was the only place where he felt secured enough; and it was warm there. And for couple of seconds he could afford to feel satisfied.

Well, at least, until he would start thinking of a way to pay his ridiculously high university fee and debts to usurer that weren’t his own. Social help he got was simple mockery in comparison to what he had to pay. So, the only way out was to get a job, a well paid one, which wouldn’t take a lot of time from his studies-he became an escort.

Lucien rubbed his temples, not wanting to dwell on it. There was no solution in self-pitying. Just, if there was no cold everything else would be tolerable. It was laughable yet horrible when a cup of steaming tea was a luxury, even if the tea bag had been used three times already and the barley noticeable flavour made greyish-brown liquid nectar of the gods. And yet there had been time when a tea cup was a norm and he could ask for whatever taste he wanted, but those times had been gone forever. There was no point in dwelling on the past, he reprimanded himself once more. Perhaps it would be the best to go downstairs and see if the old landlady was still up.

As he thought so, a knock on his door was heard. Lucien opened.

“I heard you coming up.”, the old lady said “So I though you’re still up” He nodded absently. “You must’ve had a tiring day”, she concluded.

“Yes, Mrs Grant. I hope I didn’t wake you up.

“Nonsense, boy.” she brushed it away. “Annie called you.” she continued conspicuously “and said to see her or call her back first.”

Lucien smiled. Old lady was his angel and he loved her like he’d his own grandmother. The poor widow thought that Annie was his girlfriend and he left it like that. He didn’t know how‘d she react if she was to find out he was gay and on top of that an escort and his so-called girlfriend was a secretary of the escort agency he worked for.

“Thank you. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

*********
It was past midnight when he finally went to cold and uncomfortable bed feeling forlorn and lost as he was a mere child and not a young man of nearly 20. As every night he would hold his favourite photo of his mother from the time when she was a young woman before he was born, kiss her and put it on a pillow next to him. If only she hadn’t died...But there was no point in thinking like that: she was gravely ill and her only salvation was death, there was no pain, no emotion, no love, just rich, profound nothingness. How much he wanted it for himself...The only person he was angry at was his father. If only he hadn’t been so weak, so stupid, so much in love with her, he might’ve still had at least some part of his family; but like this he had nothing and no one.

As always when going to bed, he put on himself almost everything he owned: two pairs of sweat pants and one of old tattered jeans, his two t-shirts, two sweaters that had definitely seen better days and on top of that he’d cover himself with a thin blanket, which was more suited for summer pick-nicks rather than freezing, bitter winter night. Sometimes when mercury in thermometer went frozen and water in glass would form perfect mirror Lucien would put on his coat and everything that might create certain amount of pressure on his numb flesh and make sensation of warmth. Unfortunately, tonight his coat was out of use, so Lucien fell asleep curled into foetal position warming insensitive fingers on small puffs of air that escaped regularly full, pale lips.

TBC...