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By the time he got to Kinkan College, Siegfried Prince III had acquired an impressive list of schools he'd been thrown out of, a reputation for being a loose cannon and a substantial inheritance, much of which he'd sniffed, swallowed and shoved up his nose. He'd also acquired a nickname - "Mytho" - because of the hazy fantasy world in which he spent most of his time, and the fact you never knew what lies would come out of his mouth.
He landed at Kinkan because he was very good at graphic illustration and K.C. had the reputation for being a good art school, but mostly because it was the kind of place where a big donation would assure a member of the upper crust that his wayward son would get a diploma no matter how big a screw up he was. Mytho wasn't alone in being a ne'er-do-well; the guys in his classes - the classes he actually made it to each week - were rich losers all. But even they had to concede Mytho was in a category of his own as far as weirdness was concerned. They also thought he was an asshole, and sometimes he was, though a lot of their disdain came from jealousy over the fact it was real talent he was abusing. The other thing they hated him for was the fact girls found him irresistible, no matter how much of an asshole he was to them.
Frank Knight wasn't a girl, but he found Mytho irresistible, too.
Perhaps that should've bothered him more than it did. After all, Frank had never lacked for girlfriends in high school, and not all that long ago he'd been one of those guys checking out the coeds, noting the ones with long legs or big breasts or a bold gaze that said they'd be easy. But that was before he met Mytho, before he wound up here after two previous roommates had already refused to share dorm space with the weird blond guy with the blank stare. Now Frank no longer fantasized about Lily, the buxom redhead in the writing program, or Peggy, the long-legged dancer from the Drama department, or in fact any of the giggling girls who looked at him boldly as they passed on the quad. Instead he'd watch Mytho sprawled on his unmade bed, his lanky body tangled in the sheets, and no longer cared that he was ogling his roommate like some kind of homo.
Face it - Mytho was beautiful. Fucked-up, yeah, spaced out so much he stared blankly at people, but beautiful in a way "handsome" didn't even begin to address. And he was fucking rich, too, something completely alien to Frank, a scholarship student with not much to his name but a hunger to succeed as a writer. So Mytho was like a, well, a mythical creature, something out of Shakespeare's tragedies - beauty, talent and a tragic flaw all rolled up together. Maybe, Frank thought, maybe I should write about Mytho. Maybe Mytho should be my muse.
Of course, he wasn't blind to the fact his roommate, despite his ethereal looks and vagueness, could in fact be an asshole. The way he treated Claire, that gorgeous brunette who hung around a lot and seemed to think she was Mytho's girlfriend, was just one cringe-inducing example. The other night, for example, she'd stayed around all evening watching Mytho sketch, and despite Frank being there in the same room, crawled all over Mytho trying to get a response. "Do you even like me, Mytho?" Frank wanted to plug his ears so as not to hear the answer.
"Sure," Mytho said flatly. He never once looked up from the sketch pad, on which he was drawing, of all things, the rubber duck that sat on his windowsill.
"But you never tell me you like me." Claire stuck out her pretty lower lip and pouted, but her hands kept holding on to Mytho's arm. "Do you really like me? Tell me you like me, Mytho!" She slid down until her head was in Mytho's lap and he finally, finally, had to put the pad aside.
"I like you," Mytho said. He could've been saying, "I want pizza."
Claire giggled artificially. Eventually she went home, giving Mytho an unreturned kiss as she departed. Frank caught a glimpse of her expression as she left, and had to resist the urge to punch his roommate in the face. But when the urge passed he had to admit that what he really felt was relief.
Well, he might be turning into a homo, but one thing for certain, Mytho was one fucked-up dude.
Frank was there when Mytho stumbled home the next night strung out on something, his body twitching with jerky kinetic movements, his mood uncharacteristically emotional. "Frank," he panted, clutching his roommate by the shirt, "I don't...what do I do? I can't do this any more, I can't, I-"
"Sshh, Mytho," Frank hushed him, trying to ignore the flush of excitement Mytho's touch elicited. "Calm down, buddy. Everything's okay-"
"Nothing's okay, Frank, nothing will ever be okay, everything's all...jumbled up in my head. Why don't I feel anything? Why am I like this?"
"I dunno, Mytho." Frank pulled him onto his bed, sat down, held him as Mytho shook. "You're fine, Mytho," he soothed. "You'll be fine."
"Liar!" Suddenly Mytho pulled away, and was backing up, hands thrust in front of him as if for protection. "I'm a freak, a goddamn freak!" His back came in contact with the wall. "I shouldn't be here. Maybe I should just die."
Frank's heart lurched. "Look, Mytho-" he stood up slowly and moved forward, as if toward a wary animal. "I don't know what's going on, but I can help you, okay?"
Mytho turned his face into the wall. "You can't help me." His reached out and grabbed onto the curtains, crumpling them in his grip. "If I died, nobody would miss me, Frank." He looked at his hand, and from there to the window. "Maybe it would be better if I just checked out."
Frank realized with alarm Mytho was moving toward the window. It was a warm night and the vertical panes were pushed open to catch a breeze. "Mytho. Come over here, okay?"
Mytho turned and gave Frank an enigmatic smile. He put one foot up on the windowsill. "Fifth floor, man. Think that's enough?"
"Mytho," Frank said sternly, though his heart was thudding madly. "Stop being so fucking emo and come back here."
Mytho stepped up on the sill. The moon behind him threw him into silhouette and he turned his face into the light. "You're a cool guy, Frank," he said. "Goodbye."
Frank leapt.
He caught Mytho by the waist and the two of them tumbled to the floor, crashing into the desk lamp on the way and throwing the room into darkness. Frank landed hard, the breath knocked out of him, but he rolled until he could hold Mytho down under him. He breathed heavily, trying to get air back in his lungs. "What," he gasped, "what the hell is wrong with you?"
Mytho stilled under him. His eyes stared blankly, but then began to fill with tears. "I...don't...know!"
Frank watched the first tears drip down his roommate's face. "Listen to me, Mytho. I'll help you, but you have to do whatever I say. No more of this crap. No more taking drugs. Do you understand?" Mytho stared listlessly, and Fakir shook him. "Are you listening to me?"
The expression in Mytho's eyes sharpened, though he continued to cry silently. "Yes. Yes."
"Good. Now you're going to bed, and you're gonna sleep this off. And tomorrow-" he hoisted Mytho to his feet and piloted him toward his bed. "Tomorrow, you'll see. Things'll be better. We'll talk about stuff then."
Mytho obeyed silently. Frank pulled off his roommate's jeans but left him in his shirt, gently pushed him flat on the bed and covered him. Mytho submitted without any complaint. "Goodnight, Mytho," Frank said, turning away.
Mytho's hand reached out suddenly, catching him by the wrist. "Frank?"
"Yeah?"
"You're a good friend." Mytho smiled sadly. "My only friend, you know?"
"Yeah," Frank answered. "Your friend. Goodnight." He combed his fingers through Mytho's hair. Mytho sighed. "Go to sleep."
"Okay."
Frank straightened the lamp, pulled the window shut and locked it. He grabbed his cell phone, turning once to check Mytho before leaving. He stepped into the empty corridor and leaned against the cool wall, slumping with exhaustion. Damn it. Damn it to hell.
His fingers found the cached number and he waited three rings before the receiver on the other end was picked up. "Yes?"
"Mr. Drosselmeyer? It's Frank Knight."
"Yes, my dear boy?"
The affected voice was as annoying as ever, and Frank frowned in disgust. "Don't 'dear boy' me."
The man on the other end laughed shortly. "You sound angry, Mr. Knight. Is everything all right?"
Frank rubbed his forehead. "No. No it isn't. Myth- Siegfried tried to jump out the window tonight. I had to tackle him to stop him."
"Well that's what I pay you for, isn't it, Mr. Knight? You're to watch him, make sure he doesn't hurt himself. I thought you had him under control. I'd hate to think that wasn't the case."
Frank gritted his teeth. "He's under control. I give him the medicine every day, but somehow he got his hands on something else - he was really wired. I could barely control him."
"Do better at it, then. Your salary is dependent on it. We made an arrangement-"
"You don't have to remind me, Drosselmeyer. I'm doing what you and the Prince's trust hired me to do. But I still don't understand why you don't want him to remember-"
"And that," barked the man on the other end of the phone, "is still none of your business. You do still need the money, don't you?"
"Yes, but-"
"But what?"
"That's not why I'm doing this. Not any more."
"Really? Then why, may I ask-"
"I care about the guy, okay? He just - I want to, I mean..."
"Don't get emotionally involved with Siegfried, Franklin. He's a troubled young man, and it would be a mistake, a serious mistake, I assure you." The harshness in the voice changed to its usual affected tone. "Now then. If everything's been taken care of satisfactorily, we have nothing more to discuss, do we?"
Frank pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a raging headache. "No. No, I guess not."
"Good night, then. And don't worry. What you're doing is helping the poor boy, not hurting him. Just think of it as being a good friend." There was a click and the line went dead.
Frank closed the phone and fought the urge to hurl it against the wall. A good friend, right. He remembered Mytho lying in the bed, vulnerable, trusting. You're a good friend. My only friend, you know?
"No," he rasped. "I'm nothing but a fake."