Author's Note: See Pink1 for warnings, disclaimers, rating, etc.

//I just wanna have fun//

He met someone. Who introduced him to other people. Who invited him to parties. He was hanging around a club in Muggle London that he'd heard about in his travels around the city, when he met the first boy. When he met him, he had a feeling they'd be friends. He had the same hair color and a similar build as *him*, so he guessed that was just his type.

<He was in the mood to be outrageous tonight. The old favorite of pinks and the new favorite of purples, were the order of the day. He looked in the mirror and blended more purple on his eyelid.>

At parties, he had met people who were varying degrees of himself. Some of the ones he met, didn't wear makeup like him, but liked boys. Others piled on the makeup and dressed to the hilt. He felt somewhere in the middle, which suited him fine.

<He was in the mood to party tonight. He pulled the mascara brush out of the tube and it made a popping noise. He remembered a young boy from a really long time ago. He brought the brush up and piled the mascara on his eyelashes. He put the eyeliner on as well.>

He had lost his virginity to the first boy, more out of frustration and impatience than love, but felt he was lucky he had found someone who was gentle and kind. He'd heard some of the other boys brag about their exploits and he found them just downright frightening.

He was still in love with *him*, so he never really got too emotionally close to anyone. He did like the first boy and they talked. And they still loved each other often. He'd had other boys, of course, but he wasn't a slut.

<He picked up the blush and swirled some on the brush. He brushed it on his cheeks, putting more on than was necessary.>

The first boy was his favorite, though, and he knew why. The first boy had a good sense of humor and laughed at all his jokes, just like *him*. He would sometimes accidentally call *his* name out during sex, instead of the first boy's name. He was always apologetic afterwards. The first boy would feign anger, then punch his shoulder lovingly and laugh at him, because he knew most of the sordid story.

<Whenever he was in this mood, this mood of agitation, he became more shocking than usual. He patted the powder hard on his cheeks, as if to pound those freckles away.>

He kept his two lives very separate. So separate that he made up a different last name for himself. No one knew he was a wizard. He never drank too much, because he was afraid he would say something to give himself away. They thought he was a nice guy and funny, but a little odd. That was okay with him.

<He didn't wear his plum lipstick tonight. Oh, no, it was going to be a brassy copper. His makeup was mismatched and he wanted it that way. He wanted to wear his boldest, loudest colors tonight. He stuck his tongue out at himself in the mirror, before turning away.>

He always questioned the first boy about what his life was like and how he did whatever he wanted. The first boy would explain again, how one day he just decided to be himself. He would get mad at the first boy for making it look so easy.

<He stood there waiting for his friends. He brushed his hand down the shirt to make sure it looked good. He was wearing a bright purple t-shirt. The brighter, the better tonight. He loved this shirt and thought it look cool under the neon lights of the club.>

He was jealous of everyone and their seemingly wonderful lives. He thought they could do what they wanted, when they wanted. He was even jealous of his family. They seemed so happy with themselves, traipsing through life, contented. His co-workers seemed satisfied to work themselves to death, just for a paltry paycheck.

<He wanted to forget about real life tonight. He stood there talking to his friends, having a friendly argument about which club they should go to. He was arguing for the most outrageous club in London.>

He was frustrated because he wanted more out of life. He wanted happiness, whatever that was. He wanted freedom. He wanted a million things, but when he would just admit it to himself, he knew, he just wanted love. From *him*.

//He’s beautiful//

The voyeur saw *him* in downtown London. He started to wave, but stopped when he realized *he* was with a bunch of people who looked like *he* did when he had watched secretly back in school.

The voyeur ducked behind strangers and watched *him* talking animatedly to the others. He watched as *he* flipped that beautiful red hair back in a flirty way towards a boy who had black hair.

The voyeur again remembered all those times hiding away, watching. He missed it. He missed *him*. The group began to leave, so he followed the best he could without being seen.

The voyeur was disgusted with himself for acting like a child all these years. Even though now he was a grown man, he still hadn’t told *him* how he felt. He loved *him* and he always would. He stopped following *him*, but made plans, now that he knew where *he* hung out, to follow again.

//He's beautiful//