Basement, the stage
He was young, but not so young as to be ineligible to assume the stage. His shirt had been lost at some point, if he had ever had one was a question worth asking, and his feet were bare as he stalked down the wide bar that struck out into the crowd. A pair of jeans, not new, old if anything could be guessed at the place where denim was nearly white could go by, hung around his hips like a freeloader trying to catch onto anything that might make survival worthwhile.
His hair was artfully mussy, like he'd just crawled out of bed, though whether he'd been sleeping or fucking was another question worth wondering about. Then there were the hands, that looked like, from a distance, that they could have been placed on his body by a lover gone wild with charcoal or if they were suitably frisky, body paint. The truth was neither. Upon close inspection, if anyone bothered, they had been burned into the layers of skin, a script of his sins spelled out by blackest desires.
And he was completely unashamed by them. If they hurt, it didn't show in his posture (hip cocked out, body saying look at me, look) and didn't show on his youthful face. There was, perhaps, freedom in showing off the marks he always had to hide from prying, judgmental eyes, but not now, not as he smirked and opened his arms wide, full of cockiness that hadn't yet been beaten out by maturity.
He was flesh on parade, a slut to be fucked, to be fucked again, that would crawl his way forward just to have a little bit more while he was still living and able.