"IF YOU'RE going to stay here, wear this at least."

Paul raised his head, finally seeing the boy properly now. He was biting his lip, turning it cherry red against his teeth. His knees were bruised prettily, pale legs bare except for his thighs.

"Thank you." He mumbled, taking the shirt from him. He popped his buttons in front of him.

Ringo's eyes flickered from his face and to the dip of his collarbone. Paul raised an eyebrow, smirking at the lovely color rising up his cheeks.

"Like what you see?"

"O-Of course not." Ringo said quickly, avoiding his gaze. "Jus' hurry up, I can't stand the smell."

Paul peeled off his bloodstained shirt and handed it over. It was obvious that the cloth Ringo had didn't belong to him, he couldn't possibly fit into it.

"This belongs to your boyfriend?"

"Bestfriend actually." Ringo clamped a hand over his mouth. Fuck. "I mean---"

"I won't go after him if that's what you're worried about, sweetheart." Paul said, taking note of how easy it was to make him blush. His hand reached out and brushed over his bare knee. "Unless you tell him, of course. Then things get a little complicated."

"I-I won't." His adam's apple bobbed nervously as he chewed his lip.

"Do you have any cigarretes?" He asked, fingers itching for a cancer stick.

Ringo took one hidden behind a stack of CDs and handed it to him and a pink pastel lighter from the same spot. He met Paul's questioned stare and answered,

"My mom doesn't know I smoke." Ringo said nervously.

"Figures. How old are you?" Paul asked, looking at him as his cheeks hollowed, puffing the toxic smoke.

"...Seventeen." He hesitated, sitting on the couch opposite him. "Can I ask you a question?"

Paul chuckled. "You just did."

He crinkled his nose, about to shoot back but fought against it. "Why do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Killing." Ringo said quickly, and uncomfortably.

Paul looked at him in the eye, gray smoke wafting from his lips. "Who do you think I kill, sweetheart?"

"Prostitutes," He said quietly, clutching a pillow to his chest as if it was somekind of barried between them. "Y-You kill prostitutes."

"Why do you think I kill them?" Ringo jolted when his hand touched his knee. "Come on," Paul urged, fingers skimming up his leg. "Figure me out, lovely."

"You had a bad experience with them?" The boy stammered, wanting nothing more than the man's hand off him.

Paul sensed his unease and decided to grip him mid-thigh, thumb raising the end of his sweater. Ringo's face turned as white as his boxers, the blue of his eyes clear with how wide they went.

"You're so dainty." He mused, cigarette hanging lowly from his lips.

Ringo was supposed to protest but all that left his lips was a terrified squeak that barely resembled words.

"What was that, doll?"

"I..." Ringo slowly moved away. "I-I need to get back to bed. I have s-school tomorrow..."

"Of course." Paul smiled, and he didn't look like a murderer for once. "Anything for the boy who saved my life."

A shiver ran up the teen's spine. And Paul finally let go of his knee.

"Thanks by the way." He continued, making him feel even worse.

"You're welcome." Ringo choked out.

<><><><><>

Ringo bby you're in deep shit

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ATL, Grace xxx