pretty boy [dead]

t w o .

Peter glanced at the café's lock one more time, he was just making sure that no one will ever break in to his generation passed café.

He proceeded his walk through the empty streets and the only sound that was heard was the clicking of his boots and the little jingling sound of his keychain strapped to his leather side bag.

He loved silence, it helped him think. Then the image of him appeared in his mind,

Vaughn.

The name brought warmth to his cheeks again. He ran his hand through his wild brown curls and smiled to himself brightly in the dark night atmosphere.

As soon as the figure of his own home, a three-storey, white modern apartment. He found another figure at the steps, then his blood ran cold. Silently panicking he grabbed the nearest thing, a stone.

It wasn't the best but It'll help.

Well he hopes so.

(a/n: dumbass cutie.)

Just then the figure groaned like as if he was in pain and Peter stood frightened- heck, terrified. There was only a lamppost three blocks away so he could only see hints of black cloths.

"W-who are you?" Peter's voice cracked out, and his eye twitched from embarrassment. But as the figure moved a little, Peter's senses turned cold and fear comes rushing in him.

Just then, the figure stood up- groaning in pain and ever so slowly, walked to Peter. Peter clenched the stone so hard he thought he was going to break it.

Just then the light illuminated the stranger's face and he gasps,

"Hey Pretty Boy."

Vaughn.