Title: Trophy Boy
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob
Rating: Songfic. I'd say R, mostly for language and implied 
sexuality.
Status: New
Archive: Drop me a note and it's yours. And on that note...
Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequels: One-shot. Really. I'm serious.
Disclaimers: Everything belongs to Kevin Smith, yada yada yada�no 
copyright infringement intended, blah blah blah�make no money off 
this, yeah, whatever�really glad Smith's not the suing sort.
Notes: Another WonderWhore story. This is unsteady, uneven, and 
strange.
Summary: The long search of Jay's life culminates in finding Bob. 
With ick and ew and oh-my-god along the way.
Warnings: Prostitution. Homosexuality. Abuse, neglect, drugs, 
incest and rape. Somewhat of a happy ending, but you have to make 
that left turn through hell to get there.

"Trophy Boy"
by Kelandris


*Look at my mouth, a thin painted line
Look at my limbs, bent up and bundled in twine
Forever, ever mine*

He knelt in the dark of the alley, listening to the moans overhead. 
The man's spider-thin fingers clenched in his hair painfully and he 
swirled his tongue around the tip of the man's cock. The man's hips 
arched forward, and Jay sucked his cock in, feeling the tip slide 
down his throat.

"Uh. Uh. Uh," he heard, accompanied by his face being savagely 
fucked. He tried to dodge away, and the man's fingers clamped down 
on his head, pulling him forward until he couldn't breathe. He knew 
this trick. He'd been here before. He waited it out, counting the 
seconds down until the man released him, and he didn't try to get 
away again.

*I wish I could cry, stuck in a permanent smile
Forever, ever mine*

With an explosive grunt, the man shot bitter-tasting semen down Jay's 
throat. He swallowed what he could, gagged on the rest, and looked 
up resentfully.

The man ruffled his fingers through his hair, laughing, shaking his 
head. His blond hair was shorter, buzz-cut; not like his son's 
shoulder-length locks.

"Fuckin' hell, you get better every fuckin' day, I swear to Christ. 
C'mon, yer mom's `specting us home soon. Get your ass up."

Trying not to grimace openly, Jay rose from his knees and walked 
slowly out of the alley. 

*I know you must have loved me
Sometime
But now I'm just a toy*

Eleven years old going on twenty-five. Eleven and already practiced 
in fellatio and sodomy. He couldn't spell for shit, but he could 
make his dad come in thirty seconds, that had to mean something, 
right?

He watched his dad move through the store with slitted eyes, thinking 
a life on the street had to be better than this. *Anything* had to 
be better than this. Fuck,, a *root canal* would be better than 
this. He had to get out.

*I know you must have loved me
Sometime
But now I'm just a toy*

He knelt in the dark of a longer alley, listening to moans overhead. 
Same shit, different life. Now it was on his own terms, but did that 
make it different?

The man's long fingers knotted in his waist-length hair, groaning as 
if Jay's mouth on his flesh hurt. He licked and sucked, nibbled 
without teeth along the latex-clad surface of the man's cock, and 
felt him twitch and vibrate inside his mouth's heat.

"Oh...fuck...fucking God," he heard, which was greater praise than 
he'd ever received, save for one person. He thought about that 
person now, for the first time in...shit, it was over a year. He 
shifted uncomfortably, wishing for a heart-stopping moment it was 
that person's cock in his mouth.

Bob's cock. Bob, whom he'd always wanted, but didn't know what to 
say, didn't know how to say it. He wasn't good with words. Not like 
Bob. Bob could write poetry, Bob could write stories, Bob could fold 
him in his arms and hold him close and--

"Ah!" the man screamed, and Jay felt the condom fill with heated 
fluid. He rose, twisting off the condom with practiced ease, tying a 
knot at the end and tossing it into a ragged pile of debris.

The man's eyes held stars, not the usual hard glitter of his 
patrons. He passed Jay a fifty, not meeting his eyes after that, and 
quickly duck-stepped out of the alley. Jay was twelve now, twelve 
going on forty, and aching for something. He didn't know what, 
exactly; he just knew he was aching.

He walked out of the alley and hooked up with Boo and Nemo on the 
second street over. Nemo had scored, *big* time; he'd been invited 
to a club, been told to bring his friends.

"'S good money, Jay, I'm not lyin'," Nemo said seriously. "We go in, 
we can drink, they don't fuckin' care. All we gotta do is be there 
and be pretty."

Nemo cocked a hip, brushing his long platinum hair to the side. The 
tips were dyed green this week. It looked good on him. 

"We can be pretty, right, Jay-boy?"

Jay smiled sickly. "Fuck, yeah. Let's par-tay!" He pasted a smile 
on his narrow face, and Nemo yelped, dancing off down the sidewalk. 
It'd be good money. He knew that. He also knew he'd come out of 
this with scars, which apparently, Nemo-boy didn't understand. He 
knew *exactly* the type of club Nemo'd been handed, and traded a 
knowing glance with Boo. Boo had limped for a solid month after one 
night in another club. But it had to be said, the money had been 
great. Boo had been able to stay off the street and heal up.

*First there was me, nothing but time
Til he came along, you told me 
You'd always be mine
Forever, ever mine
Look at his face, somewhat like mine*

He never remembered who had told him, afterwards, that his father had 
died. Fifteen now, fifteen and three years on the streets behind 
him. He was finally going home. He grabbed a bus ticket with the 
night's profits, said goodbye to the few he cared to--Nemo was long 
gone, stabbed to death by a trick he'd displeased, and Boo'd got the 
plague in `92--and he was off, a tattered military-issue backpack 
holding all his worldly goods--some comics in battered plastic 
sleeves, his kit, his stash of pills, and three changes of clothes. 
Going back home.

The look on his mom's face when he walked in would have been funny, 
save that he really knew she'd meant it. He knocked on the door and 
his mom answered, and for one moment, she'd just scanned him up and 
down, nearly licking her lips. He saw her fall into whore mode, 
cocking her hip out, and realized, with a sinking feeling, how much 
of his street action he'd got from her, watching her, growing up. 
That was fucked up. That was beyond fucked up.

Before she could say anything, he leaned against the door frame, 
shrugging.

"Hey, Mom," he said softly, his voice roughened by age and abuse. 
Her eyes widened, and she suddenly pulled her robe closed, and 
stepped back. He walked into the house, listening to her begin to 
sob behind him, but not before his hips brushed hers and he felt the 
shudder pass through her. Fuck. Whoever said you can't go home 
again was shit-wrong--you *can* go home again, and once you do, 
you're *still* on the game.

*I know you must have loved me
Sometime
But now I'm just a toy
I know you must have loved me
Sometime*

He spent the next few months with his mom, doing everything he could 
to stay out of her way and out of her bed. She continued to bring 
guys home, and if some of them wandered from her bedroom to his 
afterwards, well, it was more money, right? And more hacks into a 
soul already bleeding. But what the hell, right? It wasn't like he 
deserved better. It wasn't like he deserved anything more than this 
life.

But at night he'd go to sleep and dream of brown hair, brown eyes, 
and miss something he'd left behind, long ago. Miss something 
desperately, something he'd never had. Something he still ached for.

*But now I'm just a toy who needs you
A boy-to-be who
Needs to be*

The last straw came the night she brought three guys home, and wanted 
him to join in. Not with them separately, but all of them. The 
whole happy gang, and Mom and son together at last. He said fuck, 
no, and the three guys beat on him until he couldn't say no anymore, 
and his Mom had stopped screaming. They left soon after that--
unconscious people aren't as much fun, he guessed--and one of them at 
least wasn't a complete shit, because on their way out with the tv 
and the stereo one of the guys had called the cops. And the cops had 
taken them to the hospital, where Mom went into intensive care and 
Jay spent the night in the psych ward on lockdown, after beating up 
three nurses when they tried to touch him. After that, he let them 
tend to his wounds, heard how well they'd heal, and left as soon as 
he had the opportunity. He never saw his mother again.

*Better than him, worthy of you
Given the chance that he had, I know what I'd do
Forever, ever mine*

Back on the street again, something he was used to, only Red Bank 
wasn't New York. Tricks were scarce, drugs were more expensive, and 
the world was a whole lot lonelier. Then, across the mall he'd seen 
this guy come out of Comic Toast, and everything had fallen into 
place.

He'd walked across the food court, conscious for the first time of 
his electric green crop top, his lowrider black jeans. He was 
dressed for the game, and knew it, knew it with a sense of shame he 
hadn't felt since he'd run away for the first time. He crossed his 
arms over his midsection, and stepped into Bob's way.

Bob had looked up, blinking, and froze.

"Hey," was all Jay had been able to say.

Bob hadn't said anything back. For a moment they'd just stared at 
each other, and then Jay had bit his lip, turning away. Shit. Bob 
didn't want him anymore, either. Too long, too many years, nobody 
remembers you when you're gone--

*If I could move, I'd set him on fire and I'd run
forever*

And then Bob had opened his mouth, and that young, unsure voice had 
rolled out, touching the back of Jay's neck, fixing him in place.

"Hey," Bob had whispered. "Need a place to crash?"

And hey, sometimes people do remember you. He turned, looking at 
Bob, and smiled for the first time in five years.

"Yeah, man. How you been?"

Just like that, the ache was gone.

END
(Features excerpts from Barenaked Ladies' "Just a Toy")
*****
Kelandris the Mad
half past late and dreaming of you