Title: Wait, Cold, Warm, Found. (1/1)

Series: First in the Split World Trilogy

Author: Vera

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: The boys belong to Sandra. I like to borrow them for nefarious purposes.

Summary: What if the zoning committee had Cyanide and Jeff going to a different district then Skids and Harley? The entire course of BmB history would have changed.

Pairings: don't die of shock, but this is NOT a Cya/Skids story.

Archive: Sure

Feedback: Yes, please!

Torres stood on the corner, contemplating smoking. He wasn't a smoker, it just suddenly seemed like a really good idea. As if it would somehow clear his head or at the very least make him think about something else. Instead of how he had been standing here for a half hour. Doing what he always did. Choose a direction, drive for twenty minutes, park in the next space to come along, get out and stand at the nearest corner. Waiting. For what he didn't know. Didn't even fucking believe in fate, but here he was.

It started in middle school with hormones. This vague off feeling, that something was horribly wrong. Somehow his life zagged where it should have zigged, became X when it should have been Y. The feeling grew as he got older and stopped hanging out with Jeff as much. Jeff. His best friend, sometimes it seemed his only friend. That sense of wrongness had clung to him.

University had helped some. He knew what he wanted to do. Chemistry was rapidly becoming his life and working as a graduate assistant he was motoring through his education. One day, in the world of science, Torres would be somebody. Right now, though. Right now he was still lost. Standing on a street corner. Waiting.

A sudden blast of warmth and music takes him by surprise. A rectangle of light shows him a bar. The men kissing by the entrance and laughing shows him what type. Would just turn around and walk away, but the cold has gotten into him and he's not ready to call it a night.

Lifts up his head and saunters in, his best 'I-belong-here' look on his face. Settles at the bar. Better to wait in the warmth with a draft in his left hand and the idea of a cigarette in his right.

()()

Another splatter of paint didn't make the least bit of difference. The damn thing was ugly and that was all there was to it. No amount of glitter could fix it, nothing in his soul was on the canvas, therefore it was worthless. He considered, briefly, burning it, but decided he didn't want to find out if the fumes could kill you. Instead, he just left it and slunk away like a thief. Settled onto the couch. Wondered if another sweater would warm him up, but knew instinctively that the cold went deeper then any wool or cotton could fix.

Long ago, he had stopped asking himself what he was doing with his life. He was painting. Inspiration would occasionally strike and then he was ready. Someday he would sell a few paintings. Until then he was usually happy enough staying to himself and cultivating a persona. The recluse artiste.

Yet, somehow he thinks, not tonight. Tonight, he picks up his jacket and leaves the chill of his own apartment for the greater chill of the world outside. Walks along the pavement in one of those curiously oversensitive moods. He can feel every footstep on the pavement, his hand moves as if oiled. Let's the rhythmic movement of his own body carry him forward, until he surprises himself by reaching his destination. It's one of the last flashy clubs. He comes here when being alone is to much to take anymore and he wants someone to wipe the frost from his bones.

The bar isn't crowded and he tries to remember what day it is. Fails. That's another of the downsides of the life he's chosen: Time slips away from him. He can vaguely remember paying the rent last Friday, but that was what? three, four days ago? Usually this loss didn't bothor him, but tonight it rankled. Like it was important.

Shaking off the feeling, he slid onto a bar stool without looking around him. Orders a beer and while the bartender's filling it he glances out of his peripheral vision. The left side is empty. The right....

The first impression is bad. Ungainly, slumped, punk, tired, worn, tattooed and pierced. The beer is handed over and he looks again, second impression is better. He can see the beauty of the boy/man. The dark skin is appealing in it's own right and it stretches across well toned muscles. The tattoos aren't flaming skulls, but DNA strands. The long black hair clung forlornly to a handsome face, masking it. Eyes slid down the lean back. Cargo pants riding low without showing anything, a miracle Mik can't hope to understand.

"You can look all you like. All that careful peeking might strain an eye muscle."

Mik's surprised enough that he almost fell off the chair. The voice matches the body. Low, warm, but faintly scratched from fatigue.

"Sorry...I was just...." Doing exactly what he had been accused of. The punk shrugged. He could feel his cheeks begin to redden.

"It's all right. Flattering actually. I'm not here for action. Just came in out of the cold."

"Uhhh... You do know what this place is don't you? You can't really come in here" looking like you do, Mik wanted to add, but didn't, "and expect not to get hit on."

"I wasn't really thinking about it." The punk sipped from his glass. "Just seemed like the thing to do."

"I'm Mikhael." He said suddenly, sticking out a hand, now surprising himself. Names usually weren't a part of the deal, but the punk had made it quite clear that he wasn't interested.

"Torres." He reached out to take Mik's hand. The feel of the Russian's hand on his sent a blue shock to his brain.

"Are you sure we haven't met before?" Mik asked suddenly.

"I...I don't think so." They sat for a moment, looking confused at each other.

"I think I need another drink. You?"

"Yeah might as well."

They started talking again. Slowly at first then gaining momentum like two sleepers who had finally come out of dreamland to discover life again. The night passed quickly around them as they talked, weaving the stories of their lives. They agreed on next to nothing.

"How can you say that! Dios..."

"How can you not believe it? It's proven....."

On and on until the bartender woke them up.

"I'm sorry gentleman, but we're closing."

Mik fumbled for his wallet and laid down enough money to cover both of their last drinks. Together they stumbled out into the predawn air, feeling the stain of the all nighter on their skin. Half-sweaty, muzzy and a little buzzed from the three or four drinks they'd each had.

"Do you want a lift to your place?" Torres asked, finally.

"I'd like to walk actually." Mik paused, looking down at the Latino twenty something, felt all at once out of his depth, "You could crash at my place, if you'd like. I have a pull out sofa bed in the living room." Not that'd he'd ever used it.

Torres looked at him for a long moment, evaluating his own ability to drive. He wasn't expected anywhere. His mother no longer waited up for him to come home. She

respected that he was only still at home to save money for graduate school and treated his continuing residence more like a landlord then a mother.

"All right."

In contrast to their earlier loquaciousness, the walk was silent. The cold so absolute and clear, that they began to sober up, watching long puffs of breath solidify and then disperse in the air. The sidewalks were virtually empty of life, they could have been the last people left alive on earth. Only the sounds of breathing, shoes on sidewalk and the occasional passing car filled the silence, but somehow even they could not dispel the quiet as if these small noises only added to texture.

"Here." Mikhael said, almost whispering. Torres watched him, brown eyes sparkling in keen interest as he unlocked the door and led the way his apartment.

It was everything Torres would have expected of the Russian's home, had he thought about it. Clean Bachelor style: everything in place, but empty. There were a lot of books and some records. Mik dropped his jacket on a chair next to the door, gesturing for his companion to do the same. He then turned his attention to pulling out the couch, finding sheets and finding blankets. Since there was little Torres could do to assist in all this, he was content to watch.

He watched the muscles playing beneath pale skin. Watched the look of concentration over take the well made face as it pondered the whereabouts of a rogue pillow. Saw, without quite willing it, the loneliness of the apartment that radiated from it's resident. Felt, without wanting to, his own responding quest for companionship.

"It should be comfortable enough." Mik was talking to him, so he nodded. The Russian stood awkwardly for a minute. "I'm sorry....this is going to sound stupid, but what day is it?"

"September 22. It's Tuesday." Torres watched Mik's face for a minute, but the Russian wasn't giving away any secrets.

"Thanks... I'm going to go to sleep now." He turned and walked into what Torres assumed was his bedroom. Wearily, he peeled off shirt and pants, crawled under the strange sheets and questioning his decision of staying in a stranger's house, drifted into a dream laden sleep.

September 22. Mik racked his brains to pinpoint the date. Nothing. No birthdays nor anniversaries missed. Certainly no holidays. Frowning he shivered in his large bed, piled with blankets, wondering what he had missed. Tabitha had turned off the heat again. She did things like that at random, just to piss off her tenants. She desperately needed a boyfriend, Mik decided for the umpteenth time. Maybe Torres....No. Mik dismissed that thought before it could become fully formed.

Already, he felt oddly protective of the man-child, wanted to talk to him more when they were both awake again. It was the first time he felt like something fit. Torres was supposed to be here, now. Even the thought that he was sleeping in the other room eased his mind long enough for sleep to over take it.

()

Cold. Cold woke Torres from his light sleep, forcing him to contemplate his choices. He could put his jeans and shirt back on, but they already smelled like bar and his burgeoning hangover informed him that wasn't an option. He could search the strange apartment for extra blankets, but he was fairly certain he wasn't going to find any. If it was this cold and Mik wasn't used to having visitors, chances were all the blankets were in the master bedroom. So. Freezing seemed his only option.

Not acceptable, he decided. Quietly as he knew how, he slid from the creaky, uncomfortable sofa/bed and stood. The world swam around him for a short time, so he waited, getting his bearings in the darkness. The sun peeked through heavy curtains, but not strong enough yet to lighten the apartment's early morning gloom. On cat feet, he thread his way into the bedroom, realizing to late that he had no idea if Mikhael was heavy sleeper or not. To late because he was already inside, even darker in here. Could see the vague outline of a body in the bed, chest rising and falling, curled under a pile of blankets.

Ah ha! He snuck a bit closer and reached down to pluck off the top layer, but Mik suddenly shifted in his sleep, so that his hand met briefly with a hairy ankle. And his fleeting impression was: warm!

How long had it been? How long since he had curled around another human being, in search of creature comfort? Late high school and college had seen him with women abound, but lately the once proud man-whore that was Torres had wearied of the parade. The spaces between were larger and more frequent. Anne. The name came to him suddenly. Anne had been the last. That had been in June, he remembered. Now the full brunt of September was on them and nothing. Nor had he thought about looking for someone else to take her place. One would eventually come along, but it would never be the right one. Maybe...

"Torres?" Mik was sitting up in bed, staring at him. He must have felt the accidental brush and woken up. He realized how he must look, still stripped down to his boxer's and one hand lingering on the bed.

" I just came in to get a blanket…"

Mik grimaced.

"My landlady is a bit sadistic. The cold woke you?"

Eye contact and Torres nodded, once.

"I'm glad it did." Mik replied to the nod.

"Why?"

"Sometimes...I don't know if I'm imagining it." Mik spilled out all at once. "The cold. I mean, I know it's cold out, but I never know when she shuts off the heat and sometimes..."

"You just feel cold even knowing that the thermostat reads 76 degrees." Torres finished off. Now it was Mik's turn to nod. An uneasy silence gripped them both until Mikhael, sensing the changing mood drew up the covers next to him.

"If you want..."

Torres didn't let himself think with anything, but his goose bumped skin before sliding under the covers of the infinitely more comfortable bed. Awkwardly, Mik turned to him, offering what he had. Torres heaved an internal sigh before taking it, settling into the Russians' larger body. Why not? His nihilism and optimism working together for once. No day, but today and all. He hadn't met anyone else and frankly, there was no one else to care what he did in his private life.

"Cyanide." He said decisively, feeling a little silly since he was saying it into a burly WARM! chest.

"What?" Mik asked, already starting to fall back asleep.

"My name. Cyanide. Cyanide Torres."

"It's a pleasure to meet you." And for the first time in a long time, they both laughed.

()Six Months Later()

"Cya?" Mik called from the front door. He could hear his lover's music playing softly in the living room, but there was neither hide nor hair of him there.

"In the bedroom." The voice drifted from the other room, overpowering the sibilant whispers of the radio. Mik flicked the switch on the massive stereo that he had bought for Cyanide's birthday. It was a monstrosity in his home, but the only thing that reminded him on weekdays that he still wasn't alone in the world. Reminded him why time was important because days had meanings again. Fridays meant waiting for the afternoon, a knock on the door and a flurry of smells and activities. He had been out more in the past six months then his entire adult life combined. Weekends meant outing's and staying's in. Long leisurely days in bed, quick days in stores and movies, theaters. Cramming everything into their lives.

Mik entered his bedroom to find chaos. He didn't bat an eye. Since the younger man had started to bless Mikhael with his regular presence, he frequently found himself asking the same question, "What?" Now it seemed par for the course. Empty bags and desolate hangers littered the floor, a pile of clean laundry was heaped onto the bed. Laundry that definitely wasn't his, unless someone had spilled black ink onto nearly everything he owned.

"Should I bother to ask what's going on here?"

"No." Cya informed him with a quick grin, never pausing in his work. "Just go to your studio. I'll come in when I'm done."

Mik watched for a moment as clothes were shoved around seemingly at random. His lovers whipcord body moved between bed, closet, drawers as if motivated by an outside force. For a moment, he wanted nothing more to have Cyanide warm beneath him, littering his face with kisses. But he knew better then to force the issue and like a well trained dog left his bedroom in the hand's of the Latino.

It was only an hour or so later that warm arms encircled him from behind. Smooth cheek and sharp chin resting on his shoulder. Dancing eyes took in the new painting and refrained from rolling. They'd had fights already about Mik's paintings, Cyanide didn't like them. Mik accused him of behind unsupportive. It was an ugly scene and one they'd both learned to avoid.

"Come on."

Mik rose to his feet, cracking his back while Cyanide looked on amused.

"You'd think by now I'd be over it." He said to himself.

"Be over what?" Mik asked him.

"Over how damn big you are!"

"You love it." Mik teased, his grin lascivious.

"Yeah well." Cyanide blushed.

"Show me what you did."

The closet was a marvel of engineering. It looked like it had been spilt in half by a ruler and a truly anal retentive mind. Which it had. The ruler was on the floor. With the calculator. Mik smiled. Attention to detail was definitely one of Cyanide's strong points.

Half the closet was his clothes and the bottom his shoes. The other half...it looked like a sea of black, spotted with the occasional red or white. Various boots littered the bottom and a few pairs of sneakers. Mik glanced over to his CD collection for confirmation. The small 24 stackholder had been replaced with one of those massive towers he had seen in stores, but was afraid to buy because he knew that he would never accumulate that much music in this lifetime. This one was filled to busting.

"What's all this about?" He finally asked, turning to face Cya.

"I thought a lot about what you've been saying the past few weeks," The younger man pushed at his lip piercing, nervous, "I decided you were right. It would be easier if I just moved in." He shrugged. " So I did. Is that okay?"

Mik smiled, reassuring. It was so very rare that Cyanide asked his opinion on anything, let alone something as big as this, that he wanted to savor it.

"It's better then okay."

"Good enough that I can stay without paying rent?" Cya asked hopefully.

"Well....." Mik put on a thoughtful face, " I don't know about free, but I'm sure we could work out a payment plan..."

Cya let out a mock groan.

"Four times a day tops. And not right before I have to go to class or work."

"You drive a hard bargain."

Mik drew the younger man into his arms, doubly please to find that Cya went willingly. They stood for a long while, capturing the moment. They're relationship wasn't easy. Their similar temperaments, but difference in taste led to a number of vicious arguments. Mik's high expectations in love and Cya's identity struggle threw them for curves and sometimes, not even sex made up for it. Still, they stayed together because in between all that, there was something Right. Something Real. The world just clicked better when they were in the same room. Things were clearer.

"I bought home some Indian from that place you liked down the street from the University."

Mik blinked in surprise.

"But you hate Indian."

"There's also pizza."

It turned out that curry tasted very good with tomato sauce, especially when blended with gentle kisses.