
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/761535.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Graphic
      Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Football_RPF
  Relationship:
      Sami_Khedira/Mesut_Özil, Mesut_Özil/Sergio_Ramos, Sami_Khedira/Sergio
      Ramos/Mesut_Özil, Francesco_Totti/Mesut_Özil, Cristiano_Ronaldo/Ricardo
      "Kaká"_Izecson_dos_Santos_Leite, Hidetoshi_Nakata/Mario_Götze, Branislav
      Ivanović/Marko_Marin
  Character:
      Mesut_Özil, Ricardo_Izecson_Santos_dos_Leite, Marko_Marin, Filippo
      Inzaghi, Cristiano_Ronaldo, Sergio_Ramos, Sami_Khedira, Mario_Götze,
      Nakata_Hidetoshi, Francesco_Totti, Branislav_Ivanović
  Additional Tags:
      Implied_or_Off-stage_Rape/Non-con, Sexual_Abuse, Physical_Abuse, Angst,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Prostitution, Alternate_Universe_-_Gangsters,
      Explicit_Language, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Psychological_Trauma, Mental
      Breakdown
  Series:
      Part 2 of La_Vie_en_Rose
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-14 Updated: 2013-04-16 Chapters: 2/? Words: 9910
****** Les Chagrins S’effacent, Heureux À en Mourir ******
by nikuy
Summary
     Two years ago, "hope" didn't stand for anything but an empty word
     filled with false promises that is said to keep one to carry on.
Notes
     I've been writing the following part(s) of La Vie en Rose of course,
     but I was in doubt whether not you'd like it because even I
     personally had my fair share of mental breakdown writing this. (What
     have I done...?)
     Anyway, I might or might not have mentioned before that I'd like to
     explore the depth of the plot of this prompt and after a damn long
     time, I'm still in love with this prompt after all and decided to
     post the first part of this.
     Do tell me what you think of this, guys! <3
***** Chapter 1 *****
The conversation that had been going on around him became a mere buzz and
nothing else to his ears; it was as if he couldn’t understand the language
others were using. He blankly stared through them. The man in expansive gray-
striped suit clinging to his friend’s shallow waist was a slightly good-looking
one, said the others, but he was no different from the middle-aged man
indulging his other friend on the other couch wantonly, doing whatever his hand
was doing underneath those layers of skirt while his friend letting out small
noises these perverted creatures deemed to be caused by pleasure. He shifted on
the lap of the man he was sitting on as he felt fingers trailing down the back
of his neck, sliding lower to the small of his back. It was supposed to be
disgusting, but he had forgotten how to wince or squint at the impossibly
filthy feeling as those fingers touched him inappropriately through the flimsy
material of his dress. The touch felt more like a nudge to the back of his
throat, it should have triggered his gag reflex, normally it would lead to the
churning of his stomach, but he was far from normal. Way too far.
 
“I have to say that this is an honor for me, Filippo.” The man he was sitting
on—was it Francesco? He was one of Inzaghi’s good acquaintances (or so the man
claimed). He lightly tugged on his hair—he could not not wince at that—and
breathed in. He chuckled, “Mesut, isn’t it? I’ve had my eyes on you ever since
your debut.” He reached out to caress the expanse of skin on his arm that
wasn’t covered with his white lacey glove, but then the man with blonde curls
decided that Mesut was way overdressed as he rolled down the glove, touching
more skin in a way that made Mesut’s skin crawl, but he gave in under his
touch. He had been taught to. “Mi bello.” Francesco took his hand and kissed it
gently.
 
“I’m glad that you take my offer, Francesco.” Filippo spoke from across the
table, a big smile split through his face, as he weighed the wine glass he was
holding. The old geezer on the other sofa was already so into it while the man
in gray suit already looked comfortable with the one in the maroon dress. “You
should be happy, Mesut. Francesco here has a soft spot for girls your age; it’s
a good thing that you’re to his liking.”
 
Mesut smiled and glanced shyly at the blonde man behind him, “Thank you, signor
Totti. I can’t be happier.” The words that slid out of his mouth were tasteless
and silent, but the tone he was using succeeded to bring the older man to a
more indecent mood as he started to run his hand on the fringe of the dress he
was wearing.
 
“You, dear gentlemen, would be needing privacy, I believe?” Filippo rose from
his seat, “I have prepared the most comfortable rooms for you to spend the
night here.”
 
“That would be very convenient.” Francesco touched the boy’s hips and he took
the cue to stand up, not less gracefully than he already did and let the older
man to feast on his backside for a second longer before he moved aside to make
a space for the blonde man.
 
“Gentlemen, let me show you to your rooms.”
 
*
 
The house was running busy during this time, just like the other nights. Moans
and cries were seeping through the thin walls that separated the rooms on the
second floor, while the bar on the ground floor was on fire. People were
chattering, drinking, singing, and some disappearing into dark corners doing
the only deeds that they know. It was just another part of the daily routine in
this house—Inzaghi would slap anyone who would use the word ‘brothel’ to refer
to this place. Inzaghi called this place a home for the lost ‘angels’, he made
it a home for boys like Mesut, only the word ‘boy’ was the second most
forbidden word to be used under this roof.
 
These boys were all addressed as ‘girls’, they were all taught to be ones; they
were given frilly dresses, makeup to paint themselves pretty, and were obliged
to appear so when they were not in their compartments. Mesut had had his own
fair share of scrubbing the floor endlessly, polishing the senior girls’ shoes,
washing the dresses until one day Inzaghi assessed his physical feature and
decided that it was about time that he should make his debut. He made it on the
second year of his stay, he could not even describe the horror he experienced
the first time he was handed down to the old man who bid for him with ‘an
outstanding price’ (Inzaghi really liked to boast about his ‘record’ on selling
his virginity to the highest bidder it was bitterly comical). He was told that
if his debut price was that high, he would be able to avoid weird, low-class
customers because his price would only rise and rise from that time on if he
would do it right. He did not.
 
The first time left him a deep, gaping wound, reeking of rotting garbage in the
rainy season. It broke him, his friends called it; he was broken at the first
attempt. It was almost impossible for him to go on, he was lost, the pain was
unlike anything else, but one day he woke up with a companion sitting by his
bed in his compartment. It was Kaka, one of the house’s most respected ‘girls’.
It was right after Inzaghi punished him for beating a customer—a cheap one, but
still a customer. It was unheard of in the house for a young debutante to
receive such horrid punishment, and Kaka couldn’t help but to finally let his
compassion show. He was the one who begged Inzaghi to spare him with a promise
to make him better.
 
Mesut didn’t know whether it was better than before or not, he had even lost
his senses for right and wrong, but Kaka helped him to cope. He helped him to
see the good in what they are stuck in, none of them chose to be…this, but Kaka
showed him how to make the best of it. The Brazilian beauty had been through
tough hardships before and unlike Mesut, he had no ‘Kaka’ to keep him sane. He
was a strong believer, no matter what he had been through and only to have him
around was enough for Mesut to feel that he wasn’t fighting for a lost cause.
Only, was it a cause at all? Because unlike Kaka, Mesut chose to made himself
an object, a thing, he left what people would describe as moral, faith,
existence, feelings, and everything that makes him human behind once he put on
his dress and painted his face. He was a mere toy, a tool to please others.
There was no way he could dislike whatever that was to be done to him, he
managed his life like that. He started getting customers of higher class and
positions. He made more money than he could ever think what to spend on.
 
The worst thing was it turned that the higher the class you are in, the more
‘creative’ you tend to be in the most unpleasant sense. He was familiar with
the likes of Francesco, though the man gave him more eerie vibes. The second he
met him, he knew he wouldn’t like him so he switched himself ‘off’ and
presented himself as the ‘girl’ that Filippo expected him to be.
 
“This is your room, Francesco.” Inzaghi opened a door; Mesut had never been
into that chamber before, the owner only allowed important guests in this kind
of rooms, but then again he didn’t care. The better he cooperates, the quicker
this would end. He was about to court Francesco into the room, but then Inzaghi
grabbed his forearm. “Can I have him for a second, Francesco?”
 
The blonde man turned and smiled thinly, “Not too long, please, Filippo.”
 
“Of course.” The owner was all smiles and sweetness, which Mesut knew very well
was a mere mask, and as if it was his cue, the smile disappeared along with
Francesco into the room and he turned to the boy and cupped his face harshly.
“You listen to me, angel.”
 
The boy held his teeth from tugging on his own lip and nodded before he opened
his eyes to look at the owner, fear was evident in his eyes. If there was
anyone who could make his legs wobble in the most horrible way, it was Inzaghi.
“Y…yes, signore.”
 
“That man right there is one of my most important sponsors right now, so don’t
you dare to fuck it up.” Inzaghi hissed lowly as he grazed his fingers along
the younger one’s trembling neck, smirking, “You do not say ‘no’ to him. You do
not talk back. You do not cry, or scream, or laugh, or make any sound if it’s
not what he wants. You fulfill whatever he wants and see your attempts to be
handsomely paid. You fuck this up, you’re fucked. Are we clear?”
 
“Yes, signore.”
 
“Good.” He released the boy and watched him getting his composure back with a
smirk. It was worth the time listening to Kaka after all; this ‘girl’ did his
job very well. “Off you go.” He dismissed Mesut with a cold smile.
 
*
 
“Mesut? Mesut!”
 
The boy blinked awake and realized that he was still in the same bedroom from
last night. He tried to move his body, but everything hurt. He tried to at
least turn his head to see who was calling out his name that frantic and saw
Kaka, dressed in a white silk robe with his hair extension neatly attached to
his head; auburn locks framed his beautiful face. It felt almost like looking
straight to the sunrise the first thing in the morning and Mesut groaned as he
felt how hard it was to simply roll over.
 
“…K-Kaka…what…?”
 
“Mes, you okay?” Kaka sounded so worried while the boy still couldn’t
understand why.
 
“What…? Why are you…why does it hurts…?” Mesut suddenly winced as he tried to
get up and Kaka placed a hand on his shoulder. Fear and shock crept into him
just as slowly as the realization for the pain came. He was in a sticky mess,
his throat was badly sore, he could feel himself leaking and he could not help
it. He could smell a faint tangysmell somewhere. “…Kaka…K-Kaka…it doesn’t look
that bad…does it…?”
 
“N-no…dear, let me help you…”
 
Mesut couldn’t see it, but he had heard that tone before. Kaka lied to him too
before, once.
 
*
 
Mesut was lying on his bed in silence. Kaka just left with the doctor and he
heard his friends buzzing like bees on the outside of his and Marko’s
compartment. Marko sobbed lightly when he snuck his roommate his breakfast and
left after he managed to feed Mesut half of it. The boy stretched his lips into
a smile ironically at the thought that everyone was worried sick over him. Rule
number one of this place was no customer is allowed to break the goods; but
that didn’t seem to apply to Francesco because Inzaghi simply ordered Kaka to
call a doctor and dismissed him to get some rest.
 
The old Mesut would’ve wished that he could forget about all of it, but this
Mesut replayed the memory from last night in his head with a blank expression.
That Italian wealthy man was…it was plain horror. He remembered Francesco
caressing his extension with an eerie smile on his face and offered him a glass
of wine, which he drugged with something that even the doctor said could be
lethal. He remembered the man taunting him, calling him with nicknames that
only would be appropriate for little girls while he got dizzy and heated in a
way he knew was impossible because it was painful. He had no idea what that
crazy fuck drugged him with, but even a whisper sounded way too loud to his
ears, the simplest touches burnt his skin and he came with way too little
stimulation it wasn’t normal. What happened next wasn’t normal either; the man
came up with ‘creative’ uses of the stuffs around them—the cupboard full of
toys didn’t seem to please him enough, so he started with the wine bottle, then
the toys came later, with not enough preparation. It was painful, but his
tongue betrayed him all night by begging for more, crying for more. The man
stuffed him with some toys he found and pounded into him, tugging on his hair
while biting his neck, his shoulder, with his sickening groans and moans and
petnames. He remembered throwing up at one point, but the sick fuck did not
stop and pounded harder into him, gripping on him that he left bruises here and
there.
 
When he woke up, Kaka was already there. He helped him to bathe and dressed him
with a lot more comfortable clothes. He hadn’t been reacting too much even
though he recognized the look on his friend’s face, but he couldn’t care. Not
now. He needed to embrace these feelings first, he needed to get used to it—to
learn to live with it, just like how he coped up with this life. Once he could,
he would be able to live again and to deal with it no matter how many times he
should. He felt the swell on his thighs, his hips, chest, neck…they didn’t
matter. They’d be gone in a matter of days and he’d know better now to expect
such treatment the next time he saw a customer, so he could brace himself and
not to let himself breaking over and over again.
 
“Mesut?” The boy opened his eyes (when did he close them?) and saw Kaka’s head
poking from behind the door. The older man then smiled and walked into the room
with a plastic bag. “How are you feeling?”
 
“Okay.” Mesut muttered.
 
Kaka sighed and sauntered towards the bed and sat down next to him, “No, Mesut.
It’s not okay.” He gently brushed a bang off the brunette’s forehead, “Being
treated like that…not okay…”
 
“I can deal with it.” He flatly responded.
 
He sounded vacant and Kaka knew he was about to lose it again; the older man
couldn’t have that. It was already hard enough to stop Mesut from crying back
then and he thought that it was the worst part, but no, it wasn’t. Mesut had
his ways of closing himself up and he learnt from one shock to another. Lately
Kaka realized that the boy was no longer a boy; he was a man with his own mind,
shaped by the life they were living in. He had seen boys losing it, but in the
end, it was either giving everything up or embracing the job and trying to make
the best of it. Mesut did neither; the boys had their own way of embracing
their life under this roof, but he had seen some like Mesut who claimed to
embrace it but they did not. They were slowly leaving their body to be an empty
slot, which was what he saw happening to Mesut right now.
 
“Dear, please. You can talk. You can cry.”
 
“I don’t want to.”
 
*
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry, I'm not sorry for more drama and tacky lines. Ack. *hides*
     (Also, my tifosi is showing in this fic) (srsly Hide is too cute)
     Comments?
Mesut wouldn’t admit it, but he was very fond of the look on Kaka’s face when
his patron was around. His patron was a wealthy Portuguese entrepreneur,
Cristiano Ronaldo. It was also an interesting thing to see because when Ronaldo
comes, it always means free drinks for everyone and he’d rather chill in the
bar with the lot of them and Kaka by his side rather than confiding in the
comfort of the VIP rooms he was free to access anytime. While he was at it, he
would talk to other girls as well, but never to flirt. He started talking with
Mesut after Kaka introduced them to each other and he was a funny, insightful
man. Unlike other customers, he did not leer at other girls for he had his eyes
only and always on Kaka.
 
Tonight he came again and everyone cheered in the bar. Mesut had started
working again now that his wounds and scars were healed, and when Ronaldo
arrived, he felt a familiar rush of something—relief, perhaps—as he knew he
could feast his eyes on Kaka’s smiles and bright eyes around his patron’s
presence. It was almost like a fairy tale; Ronaldo actually told them that he
wasn’t used to such establishment, but he admitted that he couldn’t take his
eyes off Kaka the first time he saw him. It sounded like those stories his
mother used to tell him when he was little; it was sweet and nearly
unrealistic. He was happy for Kaka and he knew that one day Ronaldo would take
him out of this shithole. He wasn’t too happy though when his eyes met
Ronaldo’s and the man grinned at him.
 
“Hey, Mesut! Where have you been?”
 
The boy smiled thinly at him, knowing that he couldn’t run this time now that
Kaka spotted him and beckoned him to come over to their table. “Hello, sir-“
 
“When will you drop the formalities, seriously?” The Portuguese rolled his eyes
as he took a sip of the cheap beer he got from the bar. It was like seeing a
prince in fairy tales drinking a bottle full of shit, but Ronaldo claimed that
he liked it.
 
“Okay, C-Cristiano.” Mesut sighed as he sat down on one chair, the name rolled
on his tongue uneasily. This wasn’t how he used to act towards customers, but
this one demanded the weirdest requests.
 
“Chill, Mes. Got your drink? What do you want?”
 
“Cris, he can’t-“
 
“Scotch. Straight.” Mesut swiftly told him and Cristiano chuckled at that
before he ordered it for Mesut.
 
“Mes, you’re not fully healed yet!” Kaka glared at him—or almost. Tonight he
was wearing that dress Ronaldo bought for him, a backless dark emerald body-
fitting dress that showed the shape of Kaka’s lean body perfectly. He also had
his pretty wavy brunette extensions framing his face beautifully and Ronaldo’s
coat covering his legs. He only managed to look threatening enough for a puppy
and it didn’t work on Mesut, obviously. The younger boy laughed and thanked the
waiter who brought him his shot.
 
“This eases up the pain, Kaka honey.” Mesut winked playfully and downed his
shot not all too ladylike despite of his usual brunette extensions, the new
little lacey headdress, the broken-white colored classic dress with pastel blue
accents, and white Mary Jane shoes.
 
“You look like you come out from Wonderland or something, Alice.” Ronaldo, as
blunt as ever, commented. “It looks good on you though.”
 
“Cristiano!” Kaka pinched his patron’s waist, making him wince.
 
Mesut waved it off, “Gifts from a sick one too. He likes playing Mad Hatter.”
Mesut smiled as he joked about it lightly. Way too lightly.
 
Ronaldo seemed to realize that he just stepped on a sensitive matter that
turned his boy’s mood sour and now that he heard it, he couldn’t help to feel
sorry. Kaka took over easily as he noticed his patron’s face fell though, and
turned his pretty eyes to the younger boy. “Have you got any customer this
evening?”
 
“Nah.” Mesut threaded his extensions with his fingers—he had the nails painted
today, “Just a few small favors in the back room. Nothing much. If I could, I
don’t feel like it today.”
 
“That explains your dirty knees, naughty little Alice!” suddenly someone
plopped down on Mesut’s lap and giggled; it was Mario, sporting his usual
playful alter-ego with bunny ears and soft pink Victorian dress and platinum
blonde hair extensions. Talking about sick people here, Mario liked his patron
enough even though his patron loved to dress him up with funny stuffs. It was a
Japanese schoolgirl uniform yesterday with pigtailed jet black wig and
stockings. He patted Mesut’s cheek lightly, “You’re very pretty though. I’d
like to dress you with that pretty pink cheongsam my man got me last week. The
white lotus flower hairpin would look amazing on you.”
 
Mesut rolled his eyes while Ronaldo and Kaka exploded with laughter, “I guess
you need to slow down on your drinks, Mario!” the Portuguese giggled.
 
“I’ve had my share of fetish dresses, thanks, Mario.” The brunette shoved him
off his lap and Mario stumbled off.
 
“You’re just jealous because Hideto bought me nice things.” The pretty blonde
boy giggled and kissed Mesut’s cheek, leaving a bright pink kiss mark. “I heard
things though. Good things.”
 
“What things?” Kaka suddenly was interested. Mario was fun and easy to
socialize with almost everyone, even sometimes Inzaghi would leak out something
he did not mean to around the bubbly teenager.
 
“The freaky pimp had a talk yesterday.” He moved onto an empty seat, leaning
forward as he turned his voice lower, “On phone. With someone. I don’t know
who, but I’ve always suspected that he likes to dress up as well, secretly, and
is a mistress of some rich uncle somewhere-“
 
“The point, Mario!” Mesut nudged him none-too-lightly.
 
“Oh. Yeah. The point.” The blonde giggled and turned to Mesut, pulling him
closer. “It’s about our favorite stone-hearted princess here.”
 
“What is it?” Kaka was growing impatient and Ronaldo took another sip on his
drink.
 
“Baby, you’re acting like a girl way too much.”
 
“Blame the owner.” He threw his patron a deadly glare and the Portuguese shrank
on his seat.
 
“Anyway,” Mario took over everyone’s attention once again and smiled, “He might
announce this girl’s patronage soon. Maybe next week.”
 
Mesut blinked while Kaka tensed at the unpleasant shiver that just ran down his
spine. “What?”
 
“Yeah. I think you just impressed a bunch of people.” Mario turned to the
subject of his talk, “Someone already bid for you and we’re talking about
hundreds of grands here.”
 
Ronaldo could actually feel Kaka tensing up and glanced at him, “You okay,
love?” he asked worriedly as he realized how pale his boy looked.
 
The brunette noticed the change in Kaka and smiled at him while Mario was
puzzled, “D-did I say something wrong?”
 
“No, dear.” Mesut patted his shoulder, “Thanks. It’s great to hear that.”
 
Mario took his cue to excuse himself and leave the table with worried eyes on
Kaka. Mesut ordered another shot of scotch but Ronaldo offered him a bottle as
he thought Kaka might need some too. He downed his share a little slower than
the older ‘girl’ and felt like disappearing once Kaka’s eyes turned to him
again.
 
“You have to refuse that one.” Kaka muttered.
 
“It’s not my place to say no.” the younger boy shrugged, “Other girls have been
calling me a late bloomer for not having a patron earlier anyway. I told you
I’ll get used to it.” He bitterly remarked. Both of them knew well who the
first bidder was, who else would give such a big offer to make sure his
patronage safe? It was one of Inzaghi’s ways to secure good money; he’d have
the patronage vacancy announced anytime now that he had a good offer in hand
and by then, it’d be either too late for anyone else to bid or it was too
expensive. It happened a few times before and only happened to the ones Inzaghi
was so keen to break; he had no idea that the owner hated Mesut that much it
was getting more and more horrid.
 
“Isn’t it a good thing?” Ronaldo carefully asked, “I mean, doesn’t that mean
that Mesut get to have someone to provide him and away from Inzaghi? Like, me
and you?” he touched Kaka’s hand gently, but the man didn’t say anything.
 
“Let’s just say that not everyone is as kind as you,” Mesut answered him for
Kaka, “and your boy here thought that I wouldn’t be able to cope with this
one.”
 
“I don’t want you cope up with that one.” Kaka coldly retorted, “I don’t want
you to get used to that kind of…thing.”
 
“The last time I checked, you’re not my dad.” Mesut finally spat his venom. He
hated it when anyone, especially Kaka, goes all caring and shit like that. “Or
mom, in this matter.” He leered at the older man’s dress with a cynical smirk,
“Now excuse me, I’ll retreat to my room seeing that no one is hardcore enough
for me tonight. Thanks for the drink, Ronaldo.” He downed his last shot and
turned his back at the shock all over Kaka’s face. He wouldn’t regret it like
the other things he had done, he didn’t even look back as he swayed his hips
away from the table.
 
He knew by now that Ronaldo would escort his beloved princess to their usual
room—he didn’t judge, he saw how desperately in love that man was with Kaka—and
demand the older man to share his concerns. Kaka would start with how he had
been trying not to care, not to pay any mind to it, but he just couldn’t. Poor
guy. Kaka was a good man at heart and he couldn’t just stay put when he sees
someone in trouble. Mesut thought that it was all sad and funny at the same
time; maybe Kaka didn’t realize it, but everyone is in trouble under this roof,
so to be able to live, everyone should just embrace whatever they were getting.
One time Kaka went all furious on a customer for forcing a girl—Marko—into an
act he deemed inappropriate right in the open. It was a blessing that Inzaghi
loved him (or the money coming from his patron) enough to let it go, but Mesut
thought that was unnecessary. The customer had registered for Marko and he was
getting what he paid for, wasn’t that how it works in this kind of environment?
 
When he returned to his compartment, the first thing he did was to sit down on
his bed and unclipped the extensions—these old stuffs started killing him
lately—and stared at Marko’s side of the cramped room for the longest time. He
had heard Marko’s side of sad story; thrown into an orphanage at eight along
with his little sister, started working hard at ten, started worrying at
twelve. He had been working here for two years and no one bade for him, another
late-bloomer, but it was because he was rather naïve and clumsy that Inzaghi
wouldn’t present him to anyone that would be able to pay for such
establishment.
 
However, he did notice that Marko had a cause. He could see it all over the
wall on his side of the room, there were pictures on them; pictures of people
who lived free out there he hadn’t seen for a long time, most of them were of
his little sister. The blonde boy once showed him a picture of his sister
excitedly and rattled about her for hours nonstop; he even mentioned that he’d
work so hard to give her a better living than his. Every month he would send
every penny he got to his sister, he was determined to work hard so he could
get out of this place by paying Inzaghi what he spent on him years ago. Lately
Mesut noticed that there was one particular photo that Marko kept in his
dresser and looked at every night before he went to sleep. He caught a glimpse
of it before and recognized the person in the photo right away; it was one of
the customers. The one that always dresses sloppily, a brainy fellow he seemed
to be, but not rich enough to buy patronage. He spilled his feelings out after
the incident with that customer who hurt him, in front of Mesut and Kaka. Kaka,
as a fairy godmother that he was, supported the idea and started adding it to
the list of the things he should pray for in the morning and before bed. Mesut,
on the other hand, chose not to say anything that’d only hurt his roommate.
 
It was an unrealistic idea. A poor guy who couldn’t even feed himself and came
to their place to find pleasure was only a useless pervert just like other
customers. He saw no difference in it even when Marko told them that the man
was saving up for his patronage; Mesut still thought that the man would leave
his friend heartbroken. It happened before. Many times, even to ones under
patronage. He did let his tongue slip once when Kaka was talking about it while
they were washing their dresses in the laundry room only to get himself the
man’s trademark motherly sigh and a lecture. Kaka made a point though; Marko
still had a sister who needed him, he needed all the hope he could get. No one
could blame him.
 
Hope. He had given up on hopes for some time now; he had nowhere to go out
there. The last thing he heard from his parents was that they left for Turkey
with his youngest sibling, he had two other but he had no idea where or even
who they were; he really had no place to go back to if he was to be freed from
this place. At least this brothel shelters and feeds him, which was enough. He
had never even touched his earnings ever since he started working. The last
time he checked, it was enough to buy him high-end designer dresses and
designer shoes, yet he sees no purpose in doing so. He wasn’t looking forward
to free himself, to make himself look pretty, or even to attract more
customers. He didn’t know what he was doing here else than to devote himself to
others’ wishes and to please others to the demanded extent. He wasn’t lost; it
only means that he embraced his purpose in living.
 
Love. Love? Would there be a space for love in him while he didn’t have any
hope or, even, desire at all?
 
Love, though, sounds distantly familiar. For him it sounds like an echoed voice
in a dark, long tunnel. It was shapeless and faint, as if the tunnel was miles
long. When he was willing to trace back deeper into the tunnel, he would,
however, started hearing the echoes clearer and a sense of familiarity would
hit him sparsely. He would start to be able to understand what the voices were
saying and at a new depth, he realized that those voices were calling out his
name. The voices were so familiar that he tracked it down this time, trying to
find back what his life had thrown him out of and he remembered smiles.
 
Laughter.
 
Football.
 
Stolen candies.
 
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t permanently erase those two names from
his head; Sese and Sam. Those names were like magic words that switched all the
neon lights in the tunnel at once, showing him the path he had walked on before
back to the start where he could see two boys by the end of it. Two boys—they
looked younger than him; one was wearing an old football jersey of a Spanish
club and shredded jeans, his eyes were smiling beautifully like his lips, and
he had unruly blonde hair that hanged around his neck. His face was covered in
freckles and his voice was loud, clear, and heartwarming—this one is Sese and
he loved to sing. The other one was a wee bit darker with neat jet black hair
and darker eyes that didn’t smile like his lips, but those eyes gave him
security. He stood only an inch taller than the blonde boy, wearing a nice tee
and branded jeans. His voice was soft but loud enough for Mesut to hear; it was
the most settling voice he had ever heard. It must be Sam.
 
Sese and Sam; fire and water, sun and moon.
 
His.
 
At least those were what they used to be for Mesut when he was much younger.
They had always been there ever since he could remember, even in the living
room when his family first moved in; little toddlers were lost on their
adventure, as his mother once addressed them. They were fascinated at the one-
year-old Mesut who was sitting on the carpet with his rattling toys while his
older siblings were helping his mother in the kitchen. The next thing that his
mother knew was that her baby was no longer playing alone when she got back to
him.
 
His own memory started later than that though. Sese and Sam always came over to
take him for football games and/or revealing new places when he was old enough
not to cry if he fell. Sese was the one who would suggest new places to be
claimed as their latest headquarter of the month while Sam always had
interesting stories to tell from the books that he read. They protected him
like their own brother, he stole his first candy from a convenient store with
them—he actually had no memories about his childhood without them in the frame.
 
Most were unclear, but he knew they were there. At least he remembered small
kisses. Soft, sloppy kisses. It was of earlier memories. He remembered Sese
holding his hands as he said something nice and pleasant, caressing his hair
with blush upon his cheeks as he gave him a small, innocent peck on his lips.
At different time, Sami hugged him as he cried—why did he cry?—and whispered
things into his ear; sweet, sweet nothings, before he tilted Mesut’s chin to
give him a kiss on his lips. It made his heart race and his cheeks redden, even
now. They used to love one another, they shared kisses and tried to manage that
none of them felt left out. It was a single memory that he could not
forget—bury, yes, but he could always find it beneath the layers of the new
ones he made.
 
He gasped as he heard knocks on his door and realized that tears were streaming
down his face. This couldn’t be good, he had brought himself too far into the
past and this was what he got. Quickly he grabbed some tissue from his
nightstand and wiped his face hurriedly. He unlocked the door and swiftly
twirled around as Marko barged in.
 
“Thank God you’re awake, I lost my keys again.” The blonde boy laughed as he
closed the door behind him. Mesut glanced at him and noticed that his makeup
was ruined, his lipstick was smeared all over his chin, his extensions hanged
loose, and his dress—well, the dress was intact, so he guessed someone was
impatient.
 
“You seem to be in a good mood.” He commented as his roommate struggled to
unzip his dress and simply poked him to come closer so he could unzip it for
him.
 
“Well, I am.” Marko sounded giddy.
 
Mesut doesn’t usually humor anyone, even his own roommate, over trivial things
he thought unimportant, but he smiled at the tone the blonde boy used, “A visit
from your loverboy?” he gently unzipped the dress and tugged it down to his
roommate’s slim ankles so he could step out of it.
 
“Uh…” Marko stammered and blushed furiously as he turned around in the flimsy
white panties he was wearing. “H-how did you know?”
 
“I recognize drying come as good as you know I won’t let you live off it.” He
grinned teasingly and laughed as his roommate freaked out and covered certain
areas on his lower half.
 
“W-we cleaned up-“
 
“I’m joking, Marko!” Mesut barked with laughter, “But it’s true, no? That he
visited?”
 
Marko threw him an annoyed look as he grabbed some boxers and old tee from his
dresser, “Yeah, he did.” He still blushed as he took his panties off and
dressed up clumsily into a more comfortable attire. It reminded Mesut that he
needed to do the same and he got up from his bed to take a tee and shorts.
 
“Did you guys have fun?” he asked as he unzipped his own dress and slid out of
it. Marko didn’t immediately answer, but then he did when Mesut threw him a
questioning glance.
 
“O-oh. Yeah, we did. Not too much, but enough…” he shyly said.
 
The taller one sat back down on his bed once he got into his shorts and turned
his eyes back to his roommate, “It’s not the sex that makes you bubbly like
that.” He smiled at the surprise on Marko’s face.
 
“Yeah…” he mumbled his response, “He…he actually is firm about getting me under
his patronage. He…he might be able to purchase it next month. I know the price
hasn’t been announced, but he said he’ll try to make prepositions with
Inzaghi.” he giggled. “Silly Branna.”
 
The taller boy stared at him for a moment. It was the first time that he felt
so vile for thinking that Marko was being unrealistic, that he even thought
that the boy was a little soft in the head just because he had hopes and
actually acquired love during his stay in this place. “Hey, um, Marko?”
 
“Yeah?”
 
“I…” Mesut tried to find the appropriate words to say, something that had been
long gone from his dictionary over such rare usage and his own state of mind.
“I apologize that…that I’ve been so ignorant about that. I mean…” he clicked
his tongue and scratched the back of his head, Marko’s bright green eyes were
following him, “…what I’m trying to say is, I…I’ve never responded to your
thoughts. To your ideas, your stories—I even scolded you so often for being
‘annoying’ to my sense, I guess…I’m the one who’s being a prick.” He eyed his
friend who was nursing a puzzled expression, “That is a really great thing to
hear. I’m happy for you.” He smiled wider. The lack of response from his
roommate made him feel a little embarrassed, maybe he shouldn’t even said that,
but he felt like he had to. He intended to at the first place.
 
“Oh.” Marko blinked momentarily before he looked down to his lap, “Oh. Geez. I
wasn’t expecting that, no worries, Mes.” He chuckled, “It’s actually weird
enough that you suddenly asked about my love life, but it feels really nice
though it kinda’ weirds me out.” He beamed at his roommate and Mesut chuckled.
 
“I didn’t even know why I asked.” He reached for the makeup remover and some
cotton on his nightstand.
 
“You should do that more often, you know? It actually feels nice talking with
you.” Marko did the same and squirted some of his makeup remover on some
cotton, “You’re nice when you’re not…well, bitey.”
 
“Am I…?”
 
“It’s quite obvious how you hate everything, Mes.” Marko said in an apologizing
tone, but he didn’t stop as he dabbed the cotton on his face, “But talking with
you like this, like…right now, feels good. Even your eyes are so pleasant to
look at.” He grinned at the faint blush on his friend’s cheeks—he couldn’t
determine whether it was his eyes playing games with him or it was the blush-
on, but it didn’t matter because the adorable look on Mesut’s face was quite
amusing. “Don’t take me wrong though; you have beautiful eyes, just…they
usually look hard and angry at everything, but they’re so gentle just now. They
look prettier.”
 
He found his loss of words at that and didn’t say anything more. A smile was
enough to make his roommate beam and apparently, it meant more than words.
 
*
 
It was him who came to Kaka the first thing in the morning. He snuck out of his
room and up to the VIP level—Inzaghi would definitely kill him if he found out,
but the cook said he went out earlier, so he took his chances (Ronaldo wouldn’t
mind that much, anyway). He knocked on their room—it was on the same level with
the room Inzaghi provided for Francesco—and waited patiently. After a minute or
two, the door was opened and Kaka showed up in his silk robe, his face was
clean from makeup and he wore his own hair this time. He looked surprised to
find Mesut, but before he could say anything, the younger boy beat him to it.
 
“I’m sorry I was such an ass last night and I’m sorry that I’m an ass all the
time. I should’ve known that you did what you feel right and you care about
everyone around you. Okay, you don’t even have to forgive me or anything, I
just need to say that. I’m off now.” Before Mesut could even turn to leave,
Kaka grabbed his arm and kept him still.
 
“Silly boy, what on earth…come on in!” he tugged on the boy’s arm but Mesut
tugged it back in horror.
 
“No way! I would break more rules than I already did-“
 
“It’s going to be okay! Cris wouldn’t mind!” the slightly taller man tugged him
in and closed the door behind him. He turned to the younger man who was
flushing hard and crossed his arms in front of him, “Sneaking up here not
dolled up is already bad enough, but at least if you’re found here with me, I
can make something up.” Mesut nodded while looking at his own feet in shame,
but then Kaka softened a bit. He cupped the boy’s face gently and tried to look
into his eyes, “What’s with the sudden apology?”
 
“Nothing.” Mesut looked back at his eyes coyly, “I was thinking last night.
About things. It’s not that I agree with you or anything, but I shouldn’t have
been such an ass like that. You’re my friend.”
 
Kaka almost winced at that, but he kept his composure cool, “It doesn’t really
matter, Mesut. It never really matters.” He patted the boy’s cheek gently,
“I’ve been nosey. I shouldn’t have done that. Cris said that I care too much.”
He rolled his eyes with a smile, “I just don’t know how to care less.”
 
“I know.” Mesut smiled, “You’ve always been an angel, Kaka. I would’ve been
worse without you around that I might drive Marko out of our room.” He
chuckled.
 
“That’s good.” There was a muffled voice calling out for Kaka from the other
room and he patted the boy’s shoulder, “You better go back to your room before
Cris walk out here naked, okay? And if you ran into anyone, just told them I
had some pressing matters that I need you to do for me. And, oh, I’d like to
talk to you later, okay?”
 
“Okay.”
 
*
 
As the sky grew dark, the house came to life. The servants and new recruits
were cleaning the third and the second floor while the waiters and the
bartenders were preparing the bar on the ground floor. Underneath the fuss, the
girls were preparing themselves in their compartments. Some were running in and
out from one to another room, borrowing stuffs and were being quite loud. Mesut
almost ruined his cat-eyeliner when he heard someone screamed over torn
stockings and hissed at his bedroom door with a glare. It was obviously Mario;
he remembered spending two years with Mario in this place, but he didn’t
remember himself being such a girl on simple things like that. Marko, who just
clipped his short, curly blonde wig, chuckled.
 
“He’s been on fire since morning.” He said as he ran his fingers through the
blonde curls in front of his mirror, “Today is his patron’s birthday or
something and he cried because he cancelled his order for some…’slutty kitten’
costume on the internet.”
 
“Uh...” Mesut shivered at the disturbing mental image and reached out for his
lipstick palette, weighing between the nude color and the pastel orange one,
“Kaka knows when his patron’s birthday is. He never goes crazy like that.”
 
“It’s different. Kaka loves his patron.” Marko grinned, “While Mario…well, have
you ever heard him going on and on about his? Wait, never mind.” He missed the
slightly annoyed look on Mesut’s face and carried on, “He likes his patron. A
lot. It turns out that they have less sex than anyone has ever thought. They’re
more like…friends. With benefits. His patron is an artist or something, he
likes Mario and he loves dressing him up and taking pictures of him.” The
blonde boy giggled as he grabbed a yellow satin mini-dress that blinded his
roommate’s eyes, “Mario loves it when people worship him, but he said sometimes
he doesn’t feel like he’s working because his patron just won’t initiate any
physical contact and would be happy enough only to see him dressing up in what
he bought him. It’s funny, but that kind of thing does exist.”
 
“Oh,” Mesut nodded as he took his extensions out of the box gently, “That’s new
for me.”
 
“I’m sorry, but you should try to look at the things around you.” Marko mumbled
as he slid into his dress and patted it down gently, “There really are amusing,
unthinkable things around us. It’s entertaining.”
 
“I do look around.” He bit back, but his roommate laughed and he put on a pair
of white stilettos.
 
“Look closer!” he grabbed his spare keys and walked out of the room before his
roommate could retort.
 
Closer, huh? Mesut dabbed his brush over the nude lipstick and applied it
gently on his lips. Wherever he laid his eyes, he only sees people who are not
bright enough to recognize that this was a torment that they were living in; a
bunch of hopeless people who romanticize and dramatize everything so they would
be able to deny the reality. Mesut was not that kind of person, though he would
learn to respect what his friends were into. He felt that maybe his younger
self would never thought that he would ever turn into this bitter person. He
even envied his younger self; he had such a joyful life and only thought of
happy things despite of the reality that surrounded him.
 
Putting down his lip palette and brush, he wondered. It was no less bitter than
this; a little, maybe, but he only remembers that he used to live a happy life.
Happiness took forms of the simplest things, the smallest gestures: candies,
football, friendly hugs, and sloppy kisses. His happiness took the forms of
Sese and Sam, their smiles, the voices, their touches. They were the first
thing that he looked forward to wake up to in the morning and the one who would
send him back to his dreamland every night. His world used to revolve around
them—at least he had them, back then, to make him forget.
 
A question crossed his thought in a brief moment; why did they stay if it was
him alone who lived a shitty life?
 
“Mesut?” there was a knock on the door and the boy looked up from his mirror.
 
“It’s not locked.”
 
The door was pushed open and Kaka took a step in, dressed simply in his pajamas
and that cute smile on his face. “You’re not ready yet?”
 
“Just a little bit more.” He smiled at the older man who was a few steps away
from his bed, “Come here.”
 
Kaka did and he sat down on his friend’s bed. He watched Mesut fixing his hair
and clipped a few strands of extensions underneath his own hair; a notion that
he was lazy tonight, but wouldn’t mind doing a little favor. “Have you heard
anything from Inzaghi?”
 
“Not yet.” He replied as he brushed his bangs—they really were getting longer,
but he couldn’t cut them off until he could get new wigs or extensions—to fall
gracefully around his eyes and fluffed them up a bit. “Maybe Mario was just
bluffing.”
 
“I’d rather not say so.”
 
Mesut spared him a glance before he returned to his work on his hair, putting
on a simple black headband to keep his hair on its place, “Then you’ve heard
something?”
 
“Not yet.” The Brazilian smiled uneasily; “You know that I can’t shut it even
though you turned me down last night, no?” the younger boy blushed, “So here’s
the thing. I got a little tipsy and I might have spilled…things…to Cris and he
freaked out. He couldn’t take the fact that we’re not made of flowers and
brought up by Easter bunnies.” He chuckled at Mesut’s smile; that was
understandable. “The thing is…he demanded Inzaghi’s presence last night but I
told him that it’d mean he should save everyone if he was to play hero right
there.”
 
“Not bad, fairy godmother.”
 
The older man almost rolled his eyes but he made a small bashful smile, “It’s
not that I’m unaware that we’re all in trouble just by being here. It’s
just…everyone is coping well, Mesut, body and soul.”
 
“Kaka…”
 
“I can’t help it. I notice that while you’re a strong boy yourself, you’re
breaking inside and that’s far worse—it’s not that I know what’s going on in
your head or anything, but I can’t-“
 
“Kaka.”
 
“-imagine that sort of…of…monster, taking a hold on you while you’re not—you’re
a child, Mesut. I’m sorry, but I have to say this, you shouldn’t even have
experienced that…that…” he couldn’t bring himself to continue and it was
Mesut’s turn to sigh.
 
Gently, the younger boy cupped the older man’s cheek and looked into his eyes,
“It’s okay.” He whispered, “I mean, I know that is not okay, but it’s fine.
You’re sweating too much over this. I appreciate it, really, but there’s no way
out of this, okay?” he tried to smile, to ease the look on his friend’s face,
but he strangely couldn’t. “I don’t know if the pimp did this on purpose, he
hates me ever since I kicked that one customer’s butt when I was a newbie. I
don’t really care about it anymore, but me, you, Marko, everyone in this place
are under his mercy. He knows the people that we don’t. I’ve been thinking
about it thoroughly.” He removed the mirror and his kit from the bed and turned
to Kaka, “I don’t like what I get here, and I most definitely don’t like…the
treatment I got from that crazy fuck. I hate it, but if I couldn’t get away
from it, I must get used to it. Are you still with me?”
 
The older man was already on the verge of tears and he would not blame him. It
must be annoying for Kaka to listen to the same thing over and over again from
a sinner—his altruistic tendency must’ve been all beaten and bloody by Mesut
alone. “Go on.” The Brazilian took a deep breath.
 
“I don’t have to like it to be able to get used to it, right? So I think my
body can handle it. I should be able to handle it, because…” he trailed off. He
didn’t know what he was about to say, but he could feel it even to the tips of
his fingers. Something that he secretly treasured. He didn’t even realize it
before, he still wasn’t even sure, but the words were already sliding to the
tip of his tongue.
 
“Because…?” Kaka tilted his head a little.
 
“…memories…?” Mesut chewed on his lip. He couldn’t cry now. He couldn’t break
down in front of Kaka while whatever the night has to offer him was waiting for
him behind his door, but he poured it out. “I hate it. I hate it when that…that
freak hurt me. I hate that he made me feel vulnerable to be able to—to rule my
body…to do as his twisted little head pleased. I want to fucking kill him and I
wouldn’t even bother to make it look like an accident. I…” the older man looked
startled when a drop of tear made its way out of Mesut’s left eye, “I don’t
want…the only happiness that I got to be tainted. It was wonderful. It makes me
forget about what I’ve been through, where I’m living in…that’s the only thing
I got that makes me me.” He felt a growing numbness in his heart as he spoke,
but he knew he was halfway there. “I still have it in me. I still do. No matter
how deep I bury it, it’d always come to the surface if I let my mind wander. I
need to get it off me. I don’t want to taint it. It’s a pure thing and now I
know what I’m becoming, so do understand that no fairytale would happen to me
and I can live with that.”
 
Kaka didn’t seem to be able to say anything at this point and reached out to
touch his hand, “But it makes you empty…”
 
“It’s better.” Mesut squeezed his friend’s hand; a small smile was on his face,
“It’s much better. Trust me.”
 
*
 
A few days later, Inzaghi called Mesut to his office to tell him that the price
of his patronage had been announced. The expense was incredulously high; he
could not even afford it himself with his two years of savings. It gave him a
shiver when the owner told him the first bidder was Francesco Totti—he must had
seen the discoloring of the boy’s face that he smirked so wickedly like that.
The mock-auction was due a week from today and the brunette knew straight away
that it was one of Inzaghi’s games. As he was dismissed, he made a quick run to
the nearest toilet and threw up in one of the stalls. His eyes and throat had
been burning ever since the owner mentioned the twisted billionaire’s name;
even his name already made him feel insecure and frightened beyond belief.
 
He hit the wall with his fist that the sound echoed throughout the toilet and
winced—not because of the pain, more because of his own negligence. If only he
had not brought those memories back, maybe his heart would not have swelled
with a tinge of hoperegretlovelostcravepain. He shouldn’t have remembered. They
should not have called him.
 
It took him half an hour to get on his feet and steady again. He checked
himself in the mirror before he went out and decided to get some cherry brandy
to remove the bad taste from his mouth, so he strode down the stair coolly. The
bar was full and loud, just as usual. He could see a small commotion Mario made
in the middle of it as he brought other girls to pose with him as his patron
took their pictures. He smiled as he remembered what Marko told him about Mario
and his patron, and because of that he didn’t watch where he was going and ran
into someone.
 
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He looked up at the man—oh, he smelt kind of nice and looked
kind of good too. He was tall, dark of hair, but chocolate in the eyes. He was
holding Mesut’s arms gently and Mesut couldn’t help but to stare at him for a
second as a wave of familiarity hit him. However he had never seen this man
before; so sleek and handsome, he even looked graceful. Even if he was a
regular, he should have always wanted to be in the privacy of the VIP rooms.
“I…I’m sorry I didn’t…”
 
The taller man stared back and his lips parted as if he was about to say
something, but Mesut felt him retreating as he released his arm. He smiled
warmly at him, “It’s alright. Watch where you’re going next time, won’t you?”
he nodded before he continued climbing the stair.
 
The boy whipped his head back to look at him, mesmerized. He had never had any
customer treating him like that before; whoever would deal with him would the
luckiest bitch of the night. He walked down the steps reluctantly towards the
bar while throwing glances at the direction where the man was going to and
avoided Mario in one of his festive dresses and his ecstatic patron on his way
to Marko’s table. The boy was sitting alone while laughing at the show their
friend was putting up. He joined him.
 
“So that’s Mario’s patron?” he asked as he eyed the thin and actually good-
looking Asian man behind his camera.
 
“Yeah. It’s his first time in the bar, he’s quite shy when Mario introduced him
to everyone, but a few bottles of beer later, and he’s getting comfortable.”
Marko shrugged.
 
Mesut nodded and snorted as Mario practically threw himself all over his
patron. There was no intensity like it was between Kaka and Ronaldo, or other
girls with their patrons; they just laughed and Mario claimed that he was tired
loudly. The taller man did not take any second to excuse himself from the crowd
and carried the boy on his back upstairs.
 
“So,” Marko caught his attention, “How’s the talk with Inzaghi?”
 
“Patronage.” He shrugged as he once again had to remind himself that he was
about to be sold to a demon in human form. He waved his hand to catch the
attention of the bartender, mouthed off his order, and turned to Marko, “In a
week, I’m sold.”
 
“A week?” the blonde boy’s eyes turned as wide as saucers, “What got his
panties on fire?”
 
“Money perhaps.” Mesut smiled at the waiter as he delivered a bottle of brandy
and two glasses with rocks. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I bumped into a real
looker.” He grinned at his roommate as he poured them both some brandy.
 
“Now this sounds good.” Marko chuckled as he took his glass and downed it in
one go, “How does he look like?”
 
“Tall,” Mesut sipped on his drink with a silly smile, “dark, big...he looks
like he could take down Inzaghi’s bodyguards all by himself.” He downed the
rest of his drink, “He’s quite young, black hair, kinda’ long, full lips…dark
eyes…he touched my arm, his hand is quite big.” He poured Marko and himself
some more and they downed their drinks down. “I hope he’s here to make a bid
for me.”
 
“Whatever works for you, Mes.” Marko clinked his glass with Mesut’s and downed
it again, “I was actually wondering…where the hell is Kaka?”
 
“Isn’t he somewhere up there with his loverboy?” the dark haired boy mumbled
against the edge of his glass, licking the cool sweetness he could reach.
“Where’s yours?”
 
“Late night shift.” Marko replied with a long face, “Someone made a pass at me
but I screwed up, so here I am.”
 
“Aw, poor you.” Mesut patted his cheek gently and glanced at the men sitting on
the barstools before he turned back to his companion, “Why don’t we find a guy
to chat for more free drinks?”
 
*
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