My Soul to Take - 1. Chapter 1

When Neal was three, he always had a friend no one else saw. No one believed him, so they were scared when he knew things a three-year old had no business knowing. He had no business knowing swear words, or the Great Depression, or the second World War. He even spoke like someone from Brooklyn for a time, despite being three states over. It didn't make sense.

As he grew older, he knew his friend was imaginary, in a sense. He was always by his side, giving advice, asking questions, and even telling stories. It made Neal happy though; he was hardly alone. He didn't know why his friend stayed, but he never explained. His friend taught him how to outsmart people, how to be wily, and how to play up his good boy image. He wasn't popular, but they agreed it was for the best.

It was near impossible to hide anything from his friend. And he was lucky the guy was open-minded. "You sure you don't want dames, too? I've had my chance to try out both sides of the fence, so to speak, and it's pretty sweet."

Neal looked up from his book and eyed Bradley from across the table. "So what did you settle on?"

Brad gave a boyish grin, making him look a little brighter, a little more solid. "Can't a fella have both? Heard it's a thing here. Bisexual, right?"

Neal nodded, slow and deliberate. "Yes, but if you want me to try giving you a show with a woman, you are sorely mistaken."

Brad snickered and leaned over the table. "What the hell are you reading? For lunch, of all times?"

"Acoustics," Neal muttered. "My professor wanted us to do a mini-thesis, so I'm handling sound projection."

"That sounds like Engineering shit."

"It is, which makes it doubly valuable and fascinating in Communication Arts." Neal was quick to write down notes on a separate notebook, scribbling at a speed that made Brad whistle. "I'm running out of notes for this book. Plus noting every endnote is a bitch."

"Makes me glad I never went to college. Can't make sense of what you just said."

Neal popped his tongue and pointed his pencil at Brad. "I only keep you around because I don't have to feed you. Plus, you're nice to look at."

Brad chuckled and pushed the pencil away, which felt like a soft breeze to Neal. He waved a hand between them, adding, "Also because we still have no idea what's going on here."

Neal tried not to worry about it, but he did every night. He kept wondering why Brad never left, and when he would suddenly find himself alone. It was like pointing a gun at his head: the suspense, the pressure, and the shear terror of not knowing when that trigger would be pulled. He'd have to enjoy it while he could, but could he handle the sudden silence of not having Brad around? He supposed he had to.

Neal watched as Brad looked past his shoulder and mouthed a name. Smiling, Neal spoke without turning, "Jasmine, how nice of you to join me."

Neal looked over his shoulder and watched as Jasmine furrowed her brows, no doubt wondering how he kept guessing who was coming at him from behind. His grin was shit-eating, and hers was was wry and suspicious. "I'm going to figure out your trick, one of these days," she warned, sitting down with him. Brad moved out of the way just in time, too. "So how goes that paper?"

"Better than I hoped. The school has a good subscription to this journals site. I'm practically downloading a whole shelf. You?"

"Best as I can manage."

"One of the benefits of having a Bachelor's Degree in Bullshitry," Neal bragged, earning and dodging a swipe from her. "You've seen my work."

"The one for History? I almost bought the shit you spouted until I realized how you were playing up details, you fucking ass," she hissed, but her dark, brown eyes were dancing with mirth. "You'd think a slum girl like me could pull off better bullshit than a goody-two-shoes white boy like you."

"I had a teacher," Neal retorted, casting a brief but significant glance at Brad before turning back to her. "I don't have anything planned for my thesis next year, though," he remarked. "And I doubt anything from the last millenia would help me."

"You'd be surprised when you find the books for it," she replied before Brad could have a say in it. "I remember Samantha Jones, Brooklyn girl, found memoirs from her grandma and used that for a paper on social dilemmas in the 1940's."

"Oh?"

"There's no clear statistics, but the opinion on sexuality was still pretty different back then. She went on a hunt for other memoirs and diaries. I was pretty sure she got featured on a few news sites for her work, even if it wasn't award-winning."

Neal conceded the idea. He was familiar with Brad's views, but he was just one of many. "I guess forward-thinkers had to start somewhere."

"Damn straight," she cheered.

"Except I'm gayer than Neil Patrick Harris."

"Which is a damn shame," she muttered. "But I guess it's because you're not trying to impress me that you're not a stuttering mess like my other dates. You know Martin from the football team? Totally spazzed on me on the first date. I'm giving him another chance, though, so hands off."

Neal raised his hands in surrender. "All yours. But if he comes on to me, I'm sucking his dick, FYI."

"You bitch," she chortled, smacking his hands. "You're a menace."

"You live vicariously through me," he huffed. "Helps that I can get away with it most of the time. No one thinks twice about the nerdy boy."

*

It was after classes when Neal jogged to his part-time job at the diner. It was a diner a lot of late night party-goers or bar-hoppers frequented. The food was simple and hearty, and the place stayed open until eleven. He was lucky to arrange for subjects just after ten; he needed six to eight hours of sleep or he'd die.

A regular Neal knew from their frequent visits came in, looking tired and almost peeved. He put on a showman's smile as he approached him. "Good evening, sir. Table for one tonight?"

The man was a handsome guy, chiselled and charming with blond hair and blue eyes. He was rugged, in a sense, but just so friendly and kind that Neal seriously considered leaving his number on the receipt one of these days. He was like a poster boy for the great American Wet Dream. Of course, when he spoke, 'American' didn't come to mind; his accent was off in a way. "Yes, that would be nice. My usual spot?"

Neal nodded, gesturing him to follow. "I saved it especially for you."

The blond gave a shy smile as he followed Neal and settled down in his booth in the corner. It was a cozy spot away from curious and prying eyes, and it had a good view of the street outside the window. The man put his suitcase between him and the wall and picked up the menu. Neal, practised, whipped out a pad and pen. "The usual, sir?"

The blond shook his head and carefully scanned the menu, raking over options with interest. "No, I'll have a breakfast this evening. I'd like the big breakfast platter with hash browns."

"Of course. Will you have coffee or hot chocolate? We have a special on the latter: imported tablea."

"Mm, I'll try that hot chocolate, then."

"Big breakfast and premium hot chocolate. Last minute additions before I run this?"

"Your number."

Neal almost wrote it down on his pad when he realized what the man meant. "...Oh."

"I'm sorry. Was that too forward?"

Neal chuckled, his laugh a nervous sound that bubbled out of his chest. "I was actually considering sneaking you my number, sir."

"Just Sergei, please." Sergei brought out his card and offered it to Neal. "Sergei Morozko."

"Oh, so calling you 'Sir' was accurate?" Neal mused, studying the card and realizing how the man was a freelancer for security.

"Almost, but it's more 'sh' than 's'."

"I should probably take you up for Russian lessons. How much would you charge for those?"

Sergei pretended to think it over. "For you? I'll think about it."

Neal snickered and tucked away the card. "I'm feeling the love here, Sir. I'll be right back." Neal promptly left, almost marching back to the kitchen window before he gave the order and crumpled to the floor with an overwhelming mix of feelings of excitement, shock, and oh-my-god-someone-likes-me washing over him. That was promptly followed by all the doubt, the loathing, and every possible way this could go wrong, and his stomach recoiled in all the wrong ways.

Neal was vaguely aware of the familiar cold presence of Brad beside him. "Neal, that was damn smooth."

"I had no idea what I did."

"You flirted, and he took that as a green light."

"Holy shit..."

"Hey, this is good. You got yourself a date. A guy picked you up."

"Holy shit."

"And you're... are you seriously panicking?"

"HOLY SHIT."

"Neal, look at me."

"HOLY SHIT!"

Brad's rueful smile went from Neal to a coworker he had, who knelt down and tried to call Neal out of it. Brad helped by being a voice, but oftentimes he was useless; Neal needed a warm body, real hands to hod him, shake him back, remind him that he wasn't alone. brad helped, but he wasn't enough. All he could offer was a fleeting, faint presence. He felt sick just thinking of how useless he was, but he had little choice in the matter. Still, that didn't stop him from wishing.

Neal was quiet as he calmed down and went back to work, his coworker Lamar keeping a close eye on their odd little runt. Brad, in turn, kept track of everything. What was surprising, and scary, about Neal was how efficiently he fell into a mindset of professional work ethic. It was like drawing back into a little headspace; he'd seen fags and bitches with their kinks, the way their personalities turned on a dime. It was worrying to see Neal smile like a charmer one moment and turn on his heels to look just short of dejected. He had no idea what brought that on; he figured the guy's number made him feel elated. He'd thought as a ghost who'd stalked this boy for most of his life, he'd know how to read Neal by now, but the guy was unpredictable and erratic, elusive in ways that were praiseworthy and frustrating.

Neal paid special attention to his special customer, Sergei, but he could tell he was a little withdrawn. When Neal left to handle the bill, Brad watched as Sergei's gaze followed him, brows furrowed as he no-doubt wondered what was wrong with Neal.

Brad decided to join Neal as he handled the bill. "Your man's worried."

"Not my man."

"Well, he's looking at you, worried he kicked your puppy." Neal didn't react, almost rebelling against him. "Neal, come one. What's going on?"

"Too many thoughts," his terse answer shot out. "I can't... I could easily mess this up. This isn't the first time, you know that."

"That's just stupid. You won't know until--"

Neal's fists banged lightly on the wooden surface of the counter. "I have tried. Six times in the past few months, all rejected because I was a skinny, needy little shit. Tell me again what makes this different."

Brad... considered that. "Well, he asked you out, not the other way around."

Neal was silent a moment. "Point."

Brad let out a frustrated sigh as he tried to find the right words. "Look, Neal. I'm not saying this guy is good or bad for you. I think that maybe a few bad times shouldn't be enough to ruin you from finding a good fella. Maybe just let yourself be... open to it? Damn, I'm not good at this kind of shit."

Neal glared at him, but quickly morphed into a proper waiter as he tended to an order by the counter. Afterwards, he fell back into his sour mood. "...Fine. I just... I was just being nice. I was hardly flirting. At best, I wanted a friend to hang out with, you know? Someone I could horse around with. A little extra company."

"Someone who's warm," Brad pointed out, making Neal snap his head t him. "it's fine, I get it. I sometimes wish I had someone like me around, too, only I feel like I'd be damning them in the process."

"I wouldn't mind just having you if we could actually touch each other," Neal allowed, albeit reluctantly. "I really need to figure this out, to give us both peace."

"I hear you. And you might want to get back to your man before he gets the wrong idea."

Neal scoffed. "Not my man."

"Not yet."

*

He heard the child's cry from far away, his heart aching as he felt for the young man's loneliness. When bright green eyes looked at him with a stitched-on smile, his heart nearly broke. It was a mask that struggled greatly to bury an overwhelming loneliness. He watched as the spirit hovered around him, comforting but lacking. Maybe he could help, somehow. He knew the man he was before, and got to know the boy he was now. And every night, after supper, he would grieve for him.

But the young man's kindness was a warmth that pierced through the frigid cold, and he smiled as one day, he finally gave him his human name, a name he once held from so long ago. The faint smile on his lips was enough to thaw and mend his heart. "Just Sergei, please. Sergei Morozko."