When Day is Night Alone 2

[turps]

A truck pulls in late that night. Hidden in the bushes, Ryan rests his hand on Spencer's back and watches as the driver gets out of the cab, stretching before locking his truck and heading for the toilet block. From this distance he's little more than a shape in the darkness. Ryan’s pleased that someone has finally parked at last, he's pretty nervous, too, because how're they supposed to know if this guy is some kind of freak or not? Ryan had thought Si was okay, and he hadn't been at all.

"Stop thinking so hard." Spencer turns slightly, enough so he's looking at Ryan. "We have to take a chance, we can't stay here."

"And what if he's some axe murdering pervert?"

"He was carrying a magazine, not an axe."

Which is true, but now that he's faced with trusting someone, Ryan isn't sure that he can.

"Hey, it's okay." Spencer reaches out so he can pat Ryan's leg. "We'll think of something, if we have to, we'll climb into the back."

Ryan looks at the truck, at the sides of the trailer that are held down with straps, which surely they'll be able to loosen to get inside. "You're a genius."

"I try," Spencer says, and then he puts his finger the side of Ryan's mouth. "Shush, he's coming."

Ryan nods, watching as the driver goes back to his truck. There's a tense moment when it looks like he might be leaving immediately. Then the lights of the cab switch on, and for a moment, the driver can be seen clearly, a guy wearing a red plaid shirt with blond hair pulled back into a loose pony tail.

"What is it with truckers and bad fashion choices?" Ryan can't actually see Spencer that clearly due to the covering of bushes they're hiding under, but he catches the hint of an eyebrow raise and asks, "What?"

"Have you seen what we look like lately? And you're critiquing his fashion style?"

"We're very boho chic, he's just lame."

"If by boho chic you mean dirty and smelly, I agree."

"Like I said, boho chic." Ryan tugs gently at Spencer's hair and then sits still, watching the dark shape of the driver move behind the closed curtain. When he finally stops moving, and the main light dims to a faint glow, Spencer starts to wiggle out from their hiding place.

"Come on, we need to get inside before he goes."

Despite knowing he won't be seen, Ryan nods. It takes a while to work himself free. He's been sitting crouched over -- his hair is tangled with the branches and he has to go slowly because deep breaths suck. Eventually, after a cursory brushing of his hair with his fingers, Ryan's on clear ground. He steels himself before pushing upright. When he's standing and mostly steady, Ryan holds out a hand to help Spencer stand, and they both make their way over to the truck.

Neither speaks; they don't need to. Ryan can read Spencer's gestures easily, and soon they're standing at the back of the trailer, examining the buckles and straps. It doesn't look that complicated, and if they can get one undone they can squeeze inside. Then it's a matter of waiting for the morning, when they'll be on their way without anyone knowing they're there.

The straps are pulled so tight that Ryan can't get them loose, and Spencer's not doing any better. Both of them are working as hard as they can, tugging and trying to wedge their fingers between the buckles, but all that happens is that Ryan's nails chip and his fingers ache. Not that he stops, all he does is keep trying harder, moving from strap to strap, hoping that at least one will be loose. None of them are, and Ryan's so frustrated, so angry at his inability to even do this, that he doesn't hear the approaching footsteps until it's too late.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

Ryan jumps back, turning to see that the driver has hold of Spencer, his hand wrapped around Spencer's arm.

"Let go of him!" Furious, Ryan runs forward, launching himself at the man, who pushes him back easily. Fear pushing past any hurt, Ryan attacks again, and this time the man grabs hold of Ryan's arm too, tightening his grip and not letting go, no matter how hard Spencer and Ryan struggle and hit.

"Will you two stop it? I'm not going to hurt you." The man is frowning, and his strength is obvious, but he's not doing anything except holding on, waiting for them to settle down.

"Let us go," Ryan yells, still struggling to get free. "If you don't, you'll be sorry."

"Really?" The man shakes his head and Ryan catches sight of a hint of a smile. "Seems to me you're the ones who need to be sorry, especially when I hand you over to the authorities for trying to steal my cargo."

"We weren't trying to steal it." Spencer has stopped struggling now, is standing with one foot raised off the ground. "We needed a ride, that's all."

"And you couldn't have asked?"

"Last time we did that it didn't end well." Spencer indicates himself and Ryan with a sweep of his hand. "Look, we're sorry for bothering you, but if you let us go we'll go away and you'll never have to worry about us again."

"Sorry, kid. Can't do that."

"Why? You going to take what you want, too?" Ryan spits out. "Is there some kind of trucker code we don't know about where rides are paid with sex?"

"For some perverted bastards, maybe." The man looks from Spencer to Ryan, as if considering what to do. "Look, if I let go will you run?"

Ryan doesn't reply, just glares, but Spencer says, "Normally, yeah. But right now I don't think we could."

"I figured." The man sighs and lets go. "I can't let you travel in the back, but I can offer you a ride."

Spencer moves so that he's leaning against the side of the truck, his expression defiant. "We don’t have any money."

"I don't want any." The trucker looks between them, and says softly, obviously to himself, "I must be insane, fucking friends and their bad influences." Then, more loudly, "My name's Bob. If you don't want to tell me your names that's fine, I'll just call you Hey You."

Ryan's about to answer that that's fine, but Spencer gives him a look, and Ryan closes his mouth, letting Spencer do the talking. "Spencer and Ryan will be fine. That's Ryan."

Ryan nods slightly, but keeps glaring, showing Bob that they're not trusting him, they're on guard. Not that Bob seems to care. In fact, all he does is walk back to the front of his truck. Then he looks back. "Are you coming or what?"

"What do you think?" Spencer asks Ryan, pitching his voice low.

Ryan shrugs, unable to answer the question, because the fact is, he's got no idea what to think. Bob seems okay; he could have hurt them but he didn't. That doesn't mean, though, that he won't. And Ryan's not about to drop his guard -- he's been caught out once, it's not about to happen again.

"We can't stay here," Spencer says, and despite how tired he appears, there's also an underlying layer of determination. "And if he tries anything, I'll punch him out."

"Excellent plan." Making a fist, Ryan holds it in the air until Spencer does the same, and they bump their fists together.

"If you've finished plotting to beat me up, you should come here."

Ryan lets his hand drop and frowns at Bob, because what's he doing spying on them from the front of the truck? But Spencer doesn't seem concerned at all, just starts to limp forward, one hand braced against the side of the trailer. Seeing that, Bob watches for a moment, and Ryan expects him to say something, ask for an explanation or make some stupid meaningless remark, but all he does is disappear back around front, leaving Ryan to hurry and catch up.

When he gets there he sees that Bob's looking for something inside the cab, the only thing visible being his legs, showing off his cargo pants and striped socks. It only proves the point that truckers have no fashion sense at all. Ryan's about to point that out to Spencer when Bob straightens up and jumps to the ground. Turning, he holds up a small first-aid kit.

"You probably need the hospital, but I know you won't go, so this is the best I can do."

"Thanks," Spencer says, and he takes the kit.

In reply, Bob climbs back into the cab and rummages around in the foot-well of the passenger seat, finally coming out with two big bottles of water which he sets on the ground. "I'm going to restock on junk food, give me a shout when you're done."

He goes without a backward glance, heading over to the vending machines, where he starts feeding in coin after coin.

"You're the one with the mad skills, you'd better have this." Spencer holds out the kit to Ryan.

Ryan looks away from Bob, who seems to be on a mission to empty the machine of every chocolate bar in there. He takes the first-aid kit off Spencer and opens it up, setting it on the step of the truck. He takes stock of what's inside, because while he doesn't have mad skills like Spencer seems to think, Ryan can patch himself up, and others too.

Dealing with bruises and cuts is different, though, and Ryan doesn't even know where to start. Picking up a roll of bandages, he puts it back, and looks at Spencer who's lowered himself to the ground. He's sitting in the patch of ground illuminated by the cab lights and looking so washed out and pale that Ryan's frozen in place, his doubts overwhelming, because what if he does something wrong? What if he makes things worse?

"Let me help with that, it's awkward for one person to wrap an ankle."

Ryan can only look at Bob, who's dropped an armful of candy and chips on the ground.

"Here, hold his leg up while I take off his shoe." Somehow, Bob's moved so that he's kneeling next to Spencer. With a curt nod, Ryan does the same, looking at Spencer, who's propped up on his elbows, his eyes half closed. Gently, Ryan cradles Spencer's lower leg in his hands, feeling how warm and swollen it is the closer it gets to the ankle.

"Hey, kid, I'm going to take your shoe off. Hang in there." Movements sure, Bob pulls at Spencer's sneaker, easing it off his foot, and then does the same for his sock. Ryan forces himself to stay still, not to haul Bob away when Spencer tries to suppress his cries of pain -- and fails.

"I'll bandage this up, you keep holding on," Bob says, glancing at Ryan before efficiently wrapping a bandage around Spencer's ankle. When he's done, he secures it with tape and then climbs back into the truck, coming back with a pillow that he sets on the ground. "You can rest his foot on here."

"Yeah, sure." Ryan lowers Spencer's leg onto the cushion, and then stands, watching, as Bob opens a see-through box with multiple small bottles of medication inside. Rummaging through them, he eventually takes out a bottle of Tylenol and one of Ibuprofen, shaking pills from both.

"Here, take these, they're painkillers and anti-inflammatories." He hands them to Spencer, who swallows them dry, then offers the boxes to Ryan. "You want?"

Ryan does want. He wants something to take the edge off the pain in his chest, or tame the headache that's a constant background throb. Still, he shakes his head, because he needs to be alert, especially when Spencer is half-asleep.

"Fair enough," Bob puts the box on the dashboard of the cab. "They're there if you change your mind." He looks at Ryan then, and immediately Ryan feels defensive, like he's been judged somehow and coming up lacking. But when Bob does speak again, all he says is, "You should get yourself cleaned up, those cuts could get infected."

"I'm fine," Ryan says, and takes a step closer to Spencer.

"You're being an idiot." Spencer emphasizes his point by poking his finger at Ryan's leg. "You need to get those cleaned out, and take some pain-killers for fuck's sake."

"But what...."

"Look, kid, if it helps, I've got someone waiting for me at home, and have no desire to get near either of your under-aged asses. Get cleaned up, don't. I don't fucking care."

Which is obviously untrue. It's there in the way Bob looks at them, the concern evident in his actions of gathering blankets and water and food. Still, Ryan appreciates the sentiment. "Fine."

Ryan starts cleaning out the cuts on his own, methodically pouring water over his arms, watching the dirt be washed away. It would be easier to do in the bathroom but he's not about to leave Spencer, and so makes do with the bottled water as he scrubs at each cut and scratch with sterile squares of cloth from the kit, adding antiseptic and then moving onto the next. Up his arms, across his shoulders, over his chest – the one across his rib-cage is one of the worst, deep and hot to the touch. Ryan's hands shake as he tucks his t-shirt up under his chin, cleaning and applying cream, smoothing it into the ragged groove. He's taking in shallow breaths, panting for air, but he grits his teeth and keeps going.

"You're not breathing too well."

Ryan rounds on Bob, letting pain fuel his impatience. "You try walking around with busted ribs and see how well you breathe."

"They're probably just cracked."

"They still fucking hurt."

"Never said they wouldn't," Bob says, not reacting to Ryan's anger at all. "It would help to wrap them."

"I know that." Ryan takes another bandage, using his teeth to pull apart the plastic wrapping. Tucking the end of the bandage under his arm, he pulls his t-shirt under his chin again and starts to wrap across his chest. He doesn't even get to under his other arm before he has to stop. It's impossible to hold up his t-shirt and cross his arm and get the bandage behind his back. Not that he doesn't try -- again and again. Until finally, Bob steps forward and takes hold of the bandage. Ryan's so tired, so fucking done, that all he can do is let him.

"Stay still," Bob orders, and while he sounds rough, his touch is gentle as he carefully wraps the bandage, checking the tightness often, never asking but assessing Ryan's comfort in the way he reacts. "There, done."

Ryan lets his t-shirt drop and takes a tentative deep breath. It still hurts, a lot, but the bandages help.

"Are you going to take these now?"

Ryan turns to Bob, who's leaning against the steps of the cab, holding out the bottles of pills. Despite his reservations, Ryan holds out his hand.

"You're welcome," Bob says, handing them over. Ryan opens both bottles, shakes out the pills and dry swallows them all. When he's done Bob takes back the bottles, and starts to pick up the packets and used sterile squares, crumpling them all together before going to pitch them in the trash cans.

"I can do that," Ryan says, keeping a hand against his ribs as he bends to pick up a stray wrapper.

"You could, and then you'd end up fainting and then I'd have to haul your ass into my truck."

"I don't faint," Ryan protests, because he doesn't. He's never fainted, ever.

"Sorry tough guy, my mistake."

While Bob isn't smiling, Ryan gets the feeling that he's laughing at him somehow, which he doesn't like at all, but he's distracted by the fact Bob's also opening a plastic box filled with sandwiches and setting a giant red plaid flask on the ground.

"More plaid, seriously?" Ryan says without thinking.

Bob looks up. "I like plaid."

"I can see that."

"You're one to talk," Bob says, gesturing toward Ryan.

"He calls it boho chic," Spencer says unexpectedly, and yawns as he rubs at his eyes with one hand. "That’s food, non-trash food."

"It is," Bob says, sitting down far enough from Spencer that Ryan can relax, but close enough that he's in the patch of light. "And that's not boho chic, that's dirt."

"At least I'm not wearing plaid." Easing himself down, Ryan sits next to Spencer. He grunts, "What?" when he's poked in the thigh. For almost a minute he engages in a silent conversation with Spencer, one involving eyebrow raises, shoulder shrugs and fierce frowns. Eventually, though, Ryan looks at Bob. "Not that you look bad in plaid."

"I'll sleep easier knowing that." Bob takes the box of sandwiches and holds them out to Spencer and Ryan. "Help yourself."

They do, both taking a sandwich -- thick doughy bread, with copious slices of roast beef. Ryan chews his slowly, favouring one side of his mouth, and by the time he's finished, both Spencer and Bob have eaten two sandwiches and are starting on cups of coffee, the steam rising into the cool of the night as they wrap their hands around the plastic thermos-topper cups.

"Here," Spencer holds out his cup and Ryan takes it. Resisting the urge to gulp at the coffee, he sips instead, enjoying the warmth in his mouth and belly. Combined with the lessening pain as the pills kick in, right now Ryan feels better than he has in a while.

"Are you going somewhere specific?"

It's not an unexpected question. Ryan knew Bob would ask sometime, he's just taken off-guard, and it's Spencer that replies.

"We're going to Chicago."

"Figures," Bob says, at least that's what Ryan thinks he said, because Bob's taking another drink, his mouth mostly concealed by the white cup. "Is someone expecting you there?"

"My uncle," Ryan says immediately. "He's letting us stay for a while."

"Right," Bob says, drawing out the word and obviously not believing Ryan at all. Surprisingly, he doesn't press for details, just drains his cup before shaking it over the ground, getting rid of any last drops. "I've paperwork I was planning to do tonight, so I'll just stay up in the front of the cab, you two can sleep in back."

Ryan sets down the cup, his heart starting to race as he looks at Bob, because he was beginning to trust him, and now he wants them in his bed. "We're staying out here."

Bob shrugs. "It's your choice, but there's a bed going empty. If you'd rather stay out here, I'm not going to stop you." He stands then, and starts to gather the remains of the sandwiches, sealing the lid of the box.

Reaching out, Spencer grabs Ryan's arm and pulls him close, enough so that he can talk in Ryan's ear. "It's stupid staying here when there's a bed in there."

"And what happens if he comes in the back? It's not like we can fight him off."

"Kid, if I wanted I could take you two here. You're in no condition to fight me off." Bob screws the cups back on top of the thermos, not appearing ashamed of listening in at all.

"No way would you be able to take us," Ryan spits, bitter and fierce. He pointedly turns his back, looking only at Spencer, taking in how he's barely keeping himself awake, and how despite the painkillers, he's shifting uncomfortably on the ground. "Fine, okay, we'll sleep in there."

Ryan pushes himself up, ignoring Bob, who's moved close, ready to help if needed. Holding out his hand, Ryan helps Spencer to stand, letting him lean against him, despite the resulting flash of pain.

Getting into the truck is awkward. The steps are high and Spencer has to haul himself up, clinging onto the door as best he can. All the time Ryan stands behind him, ready to help. Thankfully, Spencer manages on his own. Ryan's honestly not sure he can get himself in, never mind help someone else.

Looking over his shoulder, Ryan checks that Bob's moved away, because Ryan can do this on his own, even if reaching up hurts and pulling himself up hurts even more. He still does it, stepping inside and behind the front seats, to the bed area where Spencer is already lying down.

Bob's quilt is red, and there's a pile of pillows at one end of the sleeping area. He's got a small TV on a shallow shelf and a laptop tucked between the bed and the wall. There’s a pair of battered slippers and what looks like a sketchbook jammed behind the clothes carefully piled in one corner. It's cosy and comfortable and if Ryan wasn't so nervous he'd be enjoying settling down in the pile of pillows. As it is, he's jumping at every noise, so tense that his shoulders feel brittle and tight as he sits, his back against the wall.

"You should lie down," Spencer says. He's got his foot elevated on two pillows, and he twists around so he can rest his head against Ryan's thigh. "We can trust him, Ryan. I've spent my life having to judge people, I know."

"You didn't know about Si," Ryan says, and hates himself for it after, because none of this is Spencer's fault. Maybe he didn't know Si was some kind of pervert, but it's not like Ryan did, either.

"He's not like Si."

"How do you know?" Ryan rubs his hand over Spencer's shoulder, looking toward the door, where Bob's still moving around outside.

"I don't," Spencer admits. He turns even more, enough so he can rest his arm over Ryan's legs. "But we need sleep, and he hasn't tried anything."

"And I'm not going to." The truck dips slightly when Bob climbs on board. Sitting in the passenger seat, he turns so he can see in back. "Can you pass my laptop?"

Ryan does, watching as Bob opens it and settles down, turning off the cab lights, his feet on the dashboard, the glow of his laptop bleaching his face white. Back against the wall, Ryan pulls up the quilt so it covers Spencer. "I'm not going to sleep."

"Up to you," Bob says.

It's nearly midnight when Ryan gives in and sleeps. He remains sitting up, Spencer a heavy weight on his legs, the sound of Bob typing the background noise of his dreams.

~*~*~*~

Hands against the counter, Brendon leans in, trying his best smile. "Please, I'll be able to pay tomorrow. Promise."

"You pay upfront, or no room." The woman behind the counter glances up then, taking a moment from watching Oprah to actually look at who's standing at the desk. "Have any money?"

Brendon's smile fades, because all he's got is change, and no way will that pay for the room. "No."

"No money, no room, you need to be out by ten." She goes back to watching TV then, something about healthy eating, a chef chopping vegetables, Oprah looking intent as she explains about obesity figures.

Brendon turns away, the sight of food making him feel nauseated. It's been hours since he last threw up, and he feels shaky from dehydration and exhaustion. What he wants is to go back to the room and curl up in bed, but it's pointless, he'd only have to leave in ten minutes, and it's not as if he's got anything to go back for. Never looking back, Brendon leaves the hotel.

It's bright outside, cold, and Brendon shivers and screws up his eyes. Walking slowly, he looks around, taking in the shops and the people who hurry by. None of them look Brendon's way.

He tries to remember his lessons from school, when they were told what to do in an emergency, but none of those situations apply now. It's a terrifying situation, and Brendon crosses his arms across his chest, hugging himself as he watches people walk past. When he sees an older woman he steps forward, about to ask about the nearest park, anything as long as someone sees him and will look his way. He calls, "Excuse me." She doesn't slow down at all.

He tries again and again; each time they duck their heads, look away, and Brendon's left standing alone. Before he'd have gone to the church, but now the thought makes him feel sick, and he begins to walk, never looking where he's going, just knowing he needs to move.

He stops when he notices a library. It's in an old building, a wooden ramp built over the stone stairs that lead to the heavy doors. Walking inside, Brendon heads for the stacks, wandering until he finds a chair. Sitting, he takes a moment to rest, then reaches out and grabs the nearest book, opening it and holding it in his hands. He grips the pages, forces himself to loosen his grip when the paper crumples -- he doesn't try to read. It's pointless when all the words will do is dance in front of his eyes. Instead Brendon pretends, that he's supposed to be here, tucked up small, book in hands. He pretends to be a boy with somewhere to go.

~~~~~~

The problem is, he isn’t that boy. The library closes at eight, and Brendon has to leave. He smiles at the woman who's ushering people out, keeps acting -- he's got someplace to go, really, he's going to walk out here and go home. What he does instead is walk out and start walking again.

Brendon's hungry, thirsty, and all he has is a few coins in his pocket. It's dark, cold, and he shivers, curling his hands as he hurries through the emptying streets, until, finally, he finds himself outside of the club again. This time there's no line outside, just locked doors and dim lights and Brendon walks up to the doors, rests his hands on the sparkling surface and imagines he can feel the beat of music that's contained within.

Which is stupid and pointless, but Brendon focuses on the songs, the melodies that he keeps safe in his head. Things that have never turned on him, have never expected more than he can give. If he imagines those he doesn't have to remember how his stomach is growling and his throat is dry, how he's freezing and so tired he's swaying in place. Lost in those sounds, those songs, Brendon jumps when someone suddenly walks close, stops in front of Brendon and clears his throat.

"You're new around here, aren't you?" The man is older, around Brendon's dad's age. He's wearing a tan overcoat, a striped scarf and black pants. He smiles at Brendon, reaches out and runs his fingers down Brendon's face. "Did you just arrive?"

Brendon nods and then remembers his manners, smiling as he holds out his hand. "I'm Brendon."

The man seems surprised and shakes hands briefly, looking Brendon up and down. "Even with the bruise you're a pretty one."

Flushing, Brendon wonders what to say. He eventually settles on, "Thanks."

"You're welcome." The man's still staring at Brendon, assessing him. "I take it this is your first day?"

"I'm not..." Brendon's unsure what he's supposed to say, but the man looks pleased with his confusion, like Brendon's pleased him somehow.

"Oh, you really are green." He steps forward, so close that Brendon has to look up at him. "I'll give you ten dollars if you blow me."

It's not what Brendon expected at all, and he's about to refuse, hurry away when he thinks what the money will get him. It could easily buy something hot to drink, something to settle his stomach, to warm him; something plain, because despite the constant nausea, Brendon’s starving. And even if he hasn't done this before, there's no reason why he can't, a blow job can't be that difficult. He's tainted anyway, that’s why his parents couldn’t keep him.

“Come on, pretty. A few minutes for ten dollars, that’s a good rate. I’m being generous here.” The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, taking out a ten; he holds it in front of Brendon’s face.

Brendon wants the money, but more than that, he needs it. He has a momentary dream of hot soup, tea with sugar, even an apple would do. Stomach grumbling, he reaches out, placing his palm flat against the wall of the club, steadying himself as he suddenly sways.

“You using, pretty?”

Brendon’s not sure what that means, but, “Just hungry.” He blinks away the spots that float in front of his eyes. He concentrates on the rough feel of the wall, the brick digging into the scabbed cuts on his palms, the sidewalk, so solid under his feet, how he’s cold, exposed skin chilled, anything to keep him rooted in the here and now.

The man nods, opens his wallet again. “Tell you what, I like to think of myself as a kind man and I like you. So I’m going to make it fifteen – that’s a solid meal.”

It’s an offer Brendon can’t refuse. He takes a deep breath and pushes back the part of him that’s screaming wrong wrong wrong . “Okay.”

"Excellent." The man smiles and starts to walk, looking cursorily back at Brendon. "Well come on, we can't do it here."

The end up in an alley behind the club, the floor littered with used condoms, broken glass and take-out cartons. It smells of decay, urine, the sour taint of old vomit. Brendon begins to regret saying yes; he's out of his depth and each decision he makes seems to make things worse. He looks back at the entrance to the alley and thinks about running, but that would take energy he doesn't have, and he makes himself remember Alan's face. How close he came to dying, and all because of Brendon. Would-be murderers deserve to be punished: there's a reason Brendon's here.

Nervous, Brendon takes a step back, looks down and digs the toe of his sneaker into the ground. "I haven't. I mean. I haven't done this before."

"It's easy." The man opens his coat, runs his hands through Brendon's hair, his touch gentle. He urges Brendon down, pressing on his head until he drops to his knees. "You need to open my pants first."

Brendon's palms are still criss-crossed with scrapes, and he feels clumsy as he fumbles at the button of the man's pants --they're made of some kind of plastic, tiny buttons arranged in a pair. It takes a while to unbutton each one, and Brendon listens to the man breathe, so relaxed in comparison to the way Brendon is almost hyperventilating as he bites at his bottom lip and finally undoes the buttons. He figures out to pull down the zipper all on his own.

"That's it, pretty, take them down. My underwear too."

Brendon does, his hands shaking as he eases the man's pants past his hips, then hooks his fingers in the waistband of his underwear and tugs. The man sighs, and Brendon doesn't know where to look. He's never been this close to someone else's cock before, and he's got no idea what to do. He's read books, checked out web sites, seen all the movies that Alan used to show, but none of that helps at all. Not when he's kneeling on the hard ground and the man's cock is right there, hard and red and already glistening at the end.

"Come on, pretty. I haven't got all night."

The man sounds impatient now, and instead of stroking Brendon's hair, he grabs hold of it, his grip tight. Wincing, Brendon tentatively moves in, opening his mouth, intending to go slow. It doesn't happen like that at all. As soon as Brendon's close, the man thrusts forward, shoving his cock into Brendon's mouth. It hits the back of his throat and Brendon gags at the taste and sensation, hating how his mouth is full, how he has to open his mouth wide to get it all in. He tries to pull back but the man tightens his hold and starts to thrust, pulling his hips back slightly before slamming back in.

Eyes streaming, Brendon chokes with each thrust, fighting for breath as spit oozes from his mouth, sliding down his chin. Desperate, he brings up his hands and grabs hold of the man's hips, trying to keep him back, but that doesn't work. Brendon yelps when the man just thrusts harder while pulling on Brendon's hair.

"Come on. Jesus, you said I could do this."

Brendon closes his eyes and fights for air, choking on the man's cock, pushing too far into his throat, the rhythm brutal, and only getting faster, more insistent.

"That's it. You can take it. Such a good boy. If I didn't have to get home I'd fuck you, too. I bet you'd be tight. Would you want that, pretty? My cock in your ass?"

There's no way Brendon can reply, not that the man seems to expect him to, he just grunts and slams his hips forward, and Brendon has no warning before he's forced to swallow when the man comes, retching at the thick warm fluid that slides down his throat. The man pulls back then, sliding his softening cock over Brendon's bottom lip, leaving behind a trail of fluid. Brendon wipes at his mouth with his hand, keeps looking at the ground as the man pulls up his underwear and pants, fastens his coat.

"Here you go, pretty."

Two bills float to the ground, and Brendon reaches out for them, crumpling them in his hand. He stays on his knees, breathing hard as the man fastens his coat, and then goes. As soon as he's gone Brendon falls forward, hands against the ground as he throws up, bile mixed with the remains of the man's come -- evidence of just how disgusting Brendon has become.

~*~*~*~

"I'll be stopping for breakfast soon." It's the first time Bob's addressed them since they set off almost two hours earlier, when they drove away in the silvery-light of pre-dawn. Since then he's mostly driven in silence, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to songs on the radio and occasionally talking on the CB, short conversations with people with handles like Zombie and BMonkey, not that Ryan understands any of what they say.

"Okay," Spencer says. He's lying down and reading one of Bob's books, his foot propped on a pile of pillows. He looks better now, less strain apparent around his mouth. Seeing that helps Ryan relax, too, helps him believe that maybe this will turn out okay.

"I'll wash our clothes while we're there, there has to be a sink." Ryan looks down at his t-shirt, grimacing at how stained it is. All their clothes are.

"Good idea," Spencer says. "I'll help." He pats the space next to him then, urging Ryan to come closer. "Come lie next to me until we get there."

With a look at Bob, Ryan does so, stretching out as best he can. While he still doesn't trust Bob completely, the man hasn't done anything that could be taken the wrong way, and Ryan's content to lie close to Spencer, listening to the swish of the road.

"I was thinking. We should get a place with a tub and a shower." Spencer puts down the book and props himself up on one elbow, looking down at Ryan. "Maybe our own towels. You can have blue and I'll have green."

"You've got issues about sharing?"

"Not really." Spencer shrugs. "It's just, I shared for so long at the home it would be nice to have something totally mine. But I don't mind sharing, not with you."

"We'll get separate towels," Ryan says. "I'll stitch our names on the corners, like rich people do."

"You can stitch?" Spencer smiles, and rests his hand on Ryan's side. "When did you learn that?"

"I'm a man of mystery." Ryan tries for mysterious, but suspects all he looks is constipated when Spencer bursts out laughing.

"Okay mystery man, you can stitch our towels."

Ryan holds up his hand for a high five. "It's a deal." They slap hands and it's then that Ryan remembers that Bob can easily overhear, and that some things he doesn't need to know. Inclining his head, he says, "Shush."

"Shushing," Spencer says, and while he's not smiling anymore, it's easy to see that he's amused.

Bob parks almost twenty minutes later. Ryan's expecting a truck stop, but they've pulled up at the side of the road, where a large silver van is set on the grass. There's a sign on the side, Marge's Eats, a long hatch in the side, and Bob turns around, his arm over the back of his seat.

"It's take out only, so what do you guys want? I can recommend the egg sandwiches."

"We don't have any money," Spencer says, and he pushes himself up so he can see Bob better.

"I know." Bob keeps looking at them. "Well?"

Spencer looks unsure, and exchanges a glance with Ryan before saying. "I'll have the egg sandwich. Bacon, too, if they have it."

"Good choice, Ryan?"

"I'll have the same."

"Right," Bob says, and doesn't move, just sits still as if he's thinking of something. Wondering if he expects them to get out, Ryan's about to stand up when Bob suddenly shuffles along to the passenger seat, and then steps into the sleeping area.

"Don't freak out, I'm just getting something," Bob says, looking down at Ryan before he starts rummaging on a high shelf that's set above the bed. Eventually, after he's searched through piles of something, Bob pulls out two sweatshirts and drops them on the bed. "I don't need these, you should wear them. It's cold out."

He leaves then, jumping down to the ground.

"We don't need his cast offs." Ryan pushes aside the clothes and starts to get up, but remains on his knees when he sees Spencer reach for one of the sweatshirts, shaking it out so he can take a look. "You're not wearing that are you? We don't want to be in his debt."

"I think it's too late for that, and he's right, it'll be cold out there." Spencer opens the second sweatshirt and lays it out next to the first, then looks at Ryan. "Before, I made a vow, that one day I'd never wear anything second hand again. I'd pick my own clothes, stuff I like and that fits, no more growing into things or making do. But that's something for the future, right now we need to take what we can get."

Which is something Ryan can understand, but he just wishes the sweatshirts weren't so plain. Both of them are black, with a front pocket and a hood. Still, it could be worse -- they could be plaid. Ryan takes one of the sweatshirts and carefully eases it over his head. Of course it's too big, the sleeves falling over his hands and the hem reaching to mid thigh. Still, it is warm and smells slightly of what Ryan's coming to think of as Bob, coffee and cigarettes and somehow, dog.

"Now we're dressed, can we go eat?"

Busy rolling up his sleeves, Spencer says, "Go ahead."

After lying still for so long, walking isn't pleasant. Ryan has to hold onto the back of the passenger seat with one hand and getting to the ground is an exercise in patience, careful footing and many curse words as he eases himself down. When he does he sees that Bob is standing at the counter of the van, talking to the woman inside. She's busy frying eggs on a griddle and laughing at something Bob is saying. Which is surprising, because Ryan wouldn't have pegged Bob as a funny guy, yet there he is, making the woman laugh as she gathers bread and splashes oil over the eggs.

"You know, if you stopped spying I could get down."

Ryan looks up at Spencer who's sitting on the passenger seat, waiting to get down. He's got his bandaged foot raised off the ground and Ryan can't resist tickling over his exposed toes.

"Bastard," Spencer says, pulling back his foot.

Unrepentant, Ryan steps to one side, ready to help Spencer down when Bob turns to look their way. "Wait there, Spencer. I'll get you a chair."

Disappearing around the back of the trailer, Bob comes back carrying three plastic chairs which he brings over to the truck. Setting them down, he moves next to Ryan, watching as Spencer climbs down, then hops to one of the chairs.

"Put your foot on here," Bob says, and moves one of the other chairs so it's in front of Spencer.

"Thank you." Obediently, Spencer rests his foot on the chair, and settles back, eyes half closed as he tips his head back, enjoying the early morning sun.

"Ryan, get over here."

Ryan frowns in Bob's direction, because Ryan's not some dog who can be ordered around, but Bob isn't even looking, has turned back to the woman who's spooning sugar into mugs. With ill-grace, Ryan walks over, kicking at the ground so that the dust swirls around his feet.

The first thing he notices is there's a whole small kitchen inside the van, a fridge and stove and a counter with a coffee machine and an urn for hot water. There are miss-matched mugs stacked along one wall, plates in haphazard piles and trays of sandwiches and chocolate bars covered with plastic domes.

"This is Ada, she makes the best tea in the area."

"Oh hush." Ada smiles and pours water into the mugs, stirring them so the string from the tea bag swirls in circles. "Here you go, sweetie, three teas with extra sugar."

She pushes the mugs close, and Ryan doesn't mention he's not keen on tea. He takes two of the mugs, the one with the yellow duck and the one with multi-coloured spots. Eyeing the third, he's wondering if he can manage two in one hand when Bob picks up the mug and takes a sip.

"Go take those back to Spencer, I'll bring the rest."

Ryan goes. Sitting in the spare chair, he hands a mug to Spencer, and then takes a sip of his own tea. It's sickly sweet and strong, but Ryan keeps drinking, enjoying the heat and the way the mug is warm and solid in his hands.

"What do you think?" Somehow Bob's managed to carry his mug of tea as well as three plates, all stacked on top of one another, a sandwich on each one. When Ryan starts to stand, offering the chair, Bob shakes his head no and sits on the ground, resting against the tire of his truck.

"So, the tea. It's enough to put hairs on your chest, yeah?"

"It's different." Spencer's looking down into his mug, as if there's something fascinating contained in the almost black liquid. "I'd rather have a hot chocolate, though."

"Coffee’s my drug of choice." Bob hands over plates and sets his own in his lap, picks up his sandwich and takes a bite.

"So why stop here?" Spencer's pulling back the top layer of his bread, looking at what's inside. Picking up a slice of crispy bacon, he puts it in his mouth and starts to chew. He swallows. ""There has to be other places to stop."

"There are," Bob says. "But Ada runs this place herself and she needs the trade. It was her mom's van and she took it over."

"Marge, right?" Spencer says.

Bob grins around a mouthful of sandwich, swallows and says, "She was called Fiona, no one's really sure who Marge was."

Spencer looks over at the van, and then at Bob. "Whatever, she makes good sandwiches."

"She does," Ryan agrees, and to prove just how good they are, he sets to eating his in record time.

~~~~~~

Traveling with Bob is easy. He buys them food without comment and is content to drive as Ryan and Spencer stretch out in his bed, napping and reading his books and magazines. Late in the afternoon Spencer climbs in front, foot up on the dashboard, resting it on one of Bob's hoodies as they become involved in a spirited discussion of music, discovering a mutual love of drumming. It seems Bob plays in his spare time and Spencer used to play to play, and they debate bands as Ryan sits in back and pretends he's not feeling left out. He could get up front and join in, he knows lots about music and has an opinion about it all. It's just, he doesn't want to. Bob hasn't asked for payback yet, but he still could and Ryan needs to be ready, and he won't be if he starts to see Bob as safe. He's not; no one is.

"We'll be arriving in Chicago soon." Bob reaches out and turns down the radio slightly, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he keeps looking forward. "Where does your uncle live? I need to deliver this cargo but I'll drop you off as close as I can."

Ryan tries to think of a place to say, but his mind is blank and he knows the silence is stretching too long. "You can drop us off near the bus station, we'll find our way."

"Right." Bob keeps looking forward, then seems to makes some kind of decision as he takes a deep breath and glances at Spencer, who looks wary, his back against the door and turned slightly to the side so he can look easily between Bob and Ryan. "Look, if you've nowhere to go, I can tell you some places, safe places. Or take you somewhere else."

"We've got somewhere to go," Ryan says, and he pulls Spencer's bag close, sets it on his guitar. "Just let us out near the station, we'll find our way, we don't need your help."

"Fair enough." Bob doesn't seem convinced, but he says nothing more.

They finally pull up on a wet Wednesday evening, when the sidewalks glisten grey and the clouds seem to press down from the sky. Bob doesn't get out of the cab, just watches as Spencer and Ryan climb outside.

"Wait. Take this," Bob says suddenly, sliding across the seats and holding out a business card that Spencer reaches up and takes. He holds it up, showing Ryan what it says -- Clan House, with a phone number and, ask for Mikey or Pete scrawled on the back. Spencer tucks it in his pocket as they stand side by side on the sidewalk, watching Bob drive away.

~*~*~*~

Brendon spends his fifteen dollars on a cup of hot chocolate – he adds an extra sugar, just like his mom used to do, and when the man behind the counter isn’t looking, shoves a handful of packets into his pocket – a bag of gummy worms, two apples and a muffin. Change in his pocket, he takes the bag with the food and holds his cocoa as he steps outside of the store.

It’s late, almost midnight, and the simple fact is, Brendon’s scared. He’s got nowhere to go, only a few dollars to his name and is faced with yet another night alone. Brendon hates that, being alone has always felt wrong, he needs contact, hugs and touching and before, when he was always surrounded by family he got that, until suddenly, he didn't at all. Taking a sip of cocoa, he swills the liquid around his mouth, hoping the sweetness will mask the lingering taste of the man’s cock and come. It doesn’t, no matter how many packets of sugar Brendon rips open and pours in his mouth.

Dropping the open packets into the trash, Brendon begins to walk, looking around for a place to spend the night. He passes alleys and benches. He hunches in on himself when he has to walk past an all night café where a group of people stand in the parking lot, laughing. Brendon reminds himself it’s not at him, they don’t even see him. It doesn’t stop him almost running past, head down and eyes toward the ground.

The plastic bag bumps against Brendon’s thigh as he walks and his cocoa is cold when he finally finishes drinking, making it last with small sips. Throwing the cup in the trash, Brendon sees a bench nearby, one at the side of the road, close to a bus stop. He sits down, placing the bag next to him.

If anyone asks, he’ll say that he’s waiting for a bus. He looks at the sign and imagines that he’s off to visit his sister, that he’s missed the last bus and when he gets there in the morning she’ll be waiting, wrapped in a robe, her hair a mess as she yawns and shakes her head before pulling him in for a hug. She’ll steer him to the kitchen for orange juice and bagels. No, not bagels. Brendon opens the bag, tears at the plastic wrapping of the muffin and pulls off a piece, putting it in his mouth. She’ll have made pancakes, with syrup and blueberries, and they’ll listen to the radio as he tells her how he missed the last bus, and she’ll tsk and laugh before sliding a pancake onto his plate. Yeah, that’s exactly what would happen.

Brendon eats more of the muffin, chewing slowly, back straight, feet on the floor as he waits for morning to come.

~~

When the sun begins to rise, Brendon stands. He’s exhausted and he shivers as he shoves the gummy worms in his back pocket, drops the bag, apple cores and muffin wrapper into the trash.

Already a few people are walking past, stride determined, bundled up in coats and scarves, ear buds pushed in their ears. Brendon smiles at each one and tries to pretend he’s not cold that he’s okay, he’s fine, but that’s hard when his hands are shaking, no matter how hard he wills them to stop. Crossing his arms, he jams his hands under his armpits and keeps looking for a shop, somewhere he can get a warm drink, because that’s what he needs. A drink and some of his candy and his hands will stop shaking and he won’t feel so clammy and sick. Brendon’s sure of that.

It’s why he spends the last of his money on another hot chocolate, hissing when he takes his drink from the machine and spills some onto his hand. Blowing on the sore spot, Brendon sets down the cup and adds extra sugar and then tries to put on the plastic lid, but it must be defective somehow, because no matter how hard he tries, it doesn’t seem to fit.

Eventually, when Brendon’s tried multiple times, he leaves it loose and sets the cup on the counter, the lid hanging off one side.

“That’s three dollars, please,” the assistant says, and she leans forward and deftly fits the lid onto the cup. “There you go.”

“Thank you.” Brendon smiles and looks at the coins in his hand. He picks out three dollars, hands them over and takes his hot chocolate.

Both hands wrapped around the cup, Brendon reluctantly goes back outside, where it’s still cold despite the rising sun. Knowing the only thing he can do is to keep moving, he begins to walk.

~*~*~*~

“So, what am I supposed to do, chair dance?”

Ryan flexes his fingers and then goes back to tuning his guitar, pointedly ignoring Spencer, who’s on an ornate metal bench, knee bent and sitting slightly sideways so that his bad foot is off the ground.

“Because I know we said you’d busk, but I thought I’d be doing something, too, not just sitting here.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Ryan says, and he looks up at Spencer. “Not right now.”

“Great, so that’s what you think, I’m useless.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Ryan tries to find the right words, but it’s hard, because Spencer’s supposed to understand what Ryan means, even when he’s not saying things right.

The problem is, they’re both cold and tired after spending the night in the bus station, Ryan sitting propped up against Spencer, sharing the last of the sandwiches and the sodas and chocolate Bob had somehow shoved into their bag. At one point Ryan had seen Spencer look at the card Bob had given him, but then he’d put it safely back in the bag, and neither have mentioned it. Even at four am when it began to rain and they had to shelter in a shop doorway, curled up tight and pressed in as far as they could physically go.

Now they’re damp and irritable and Spencer doesn’t understand that the most important thing he can do is be here, at Ryan’s side. Picking up his guitar, Ryan winces at the pull in his chest as he puts the strap over his shoulder, and then stands. “You’re not useless, I need you here.”

“Why?” Spencer asks.

“You need to keep an eye on any money, and clap when I finish singing, even if no one else does, and if anyone boos you have to glare.”

Spencer smiles, slightly, but still, it’s there. “What, so I’m your official number one fan?”

“Basically,” Ryan says, hiding his own smile. He brushes his fingers over the strings then, looking around at the people hurrying past. “What happens if they hate me or no one gives me any money?”

“Then you’d have to take off your shirt, that's worked before.” Spencer reaches out, covering Ryan’s hand with his own. “They’ll love you, and if they don’t I’ll scowl at them until they do.”

“You’re good at scowling.”

“I know,” Spencer says. “So go on, make us some money.”

It’s not that simple, of course. Ryan’s so nervous that it takes a while before he can even start to sing, and when he does, his voice is croaky, rough with disuse and the careful breaths he has to take due to his healing ribs. The few people who do look his way walk straight past, some laughing and shaking their heads, and Spencer’s arms are crossed as he glares at each one, before clapping enthusiastically after each song.

Ryan keeps playing. The Beatles, some Backstreet, and eventually he feels more confident, singing louder, especially when the first person stops, throwing in a coin when he gets to the end of I Want It That Way.

It’s when he’s singing Blur’s Song Two, Spencer joining in with the woo hoos, that Ryan sees the man. He’s sitting on the bench next to Spencer’s, hat pulled down almost to his glasses, coat buttoned to his chin and wearing fingerless gloves as he texts furiously. There’s a giant Starbucks cup next to him, steam escaping from the hole in the top and he’s got his legs crossed, one foot tapping in the air to the beat of the song. When Ryan stops singing, he looks up, seemingly waiting, and despite the fact he doesn’t smile or his expression change really at all, he seems approving as Ryan begins to sing Don’t Look Back in Anger.

When Ryan’s half way through the song, the man stops texting and shoves his phone into his pocket, and Ryan’s expecting him to go. He doesn’t, instead he sits and keeps listening, only standing when Ryan gets to the end of the song. Pulling out his wallet, the man takes out a ten and hands it over to Ryan. “Great songs, it makes a change from the crap you hear every day.”

“Thank you,” Ryan says, and tucks the money into the pocket of his hoodie.

“You’re welcome.” Holding up the coffee cup in some kind of salute, the man walks away, and Ryan turns to Spencer.

“He gave me a ten.”

“I know. I saw. He liked your singing.”

“How can you tell?” Ryan takes the money out of his pocket and hands it to Spencer. “It’s not like he was smiling or anything.”

“I know,” Spencer says. “He still enjoyed it, I could tell.”

Which is enough for Ryan, and he nods before he begins to sing Dancing Queen, Spencer laughing and tapping out the beat on the arm of the bench.

**

By the time Ryan stops singing, they’ve made almost forty dollars. The money is safely in the bag, mostly coins with a small amount of dollars, all carefully bundled in one of Spencer’s socks.

It’s been a long day, and Ryan stumbles slightly as he stands, needing food and rest, but they still need to find somewhere to spend the night. Preferably somewhere that’s not this bench, because Ryan’s aching and cold and the thought of another night spent sleeping sitting up isn’t appealing at all.

“I think we should book a cheap hotel room for tonight,” Ryan says, half expecting Spencer to disagree. He doesn’t, just pushes himself to his feet with a harsh intake of air when he puts his foot on the ground and stands.

“I’ll go ask in the shop, they should know the cheap hotels.”

About to say he’ll go, Ryan stops himself when he sees the determination in Spencer’s face, the way he hop-walks toward the small newsagents where Ryan bought bottles of water earlier that day, as if he’s trying to prove he can do something. Which Ryan can understand, and despite his urge to make Spencer sit down he waits on the bench, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket.

“There’s a cheap hotel on the other side of the park. She didn’t seem keen on giving directions, saying bad kinds go there, but I told her we didn’t have much money, so.” Spencer shrugs, and then holds up a candy bar. “She gave me this, too.”

“You’re a charmer, Spencer.” Ryan picks up his guitar and stands, taking the half of candy bar that Spencer hands over. “Did she tell you where the park is?”

“Two blocks in that direction,” Spencer says, pointing. “She said to keep out of the north end, though.”

“More bad kinds?”

“Apparently.”

With Spencer limping badly it takes a while to get to the park, never mind the hotel. When they reach the gates the sun has already set, and only a few late joggers are running along the wide well-lit paths. None slow as they pass, and Ryan keeps to the very edge of the path, his feet brushing against the flowers that grow along the side.

“After we get a room we should go get something to eat.”

Ryan slows, matching his pace to Spencer’s. “Or you could stay in and I’ll get us something.”

“I’ve done nothing all day,” Spencer protests. “And it’s not like you’re not hurt, too.”

“I can walk at least.”

“So can I.” Spencer stops walking completely and turns so he can see Ryan. “I can look after myself; I don’t need anyone else to do it.”

“I know you can, but you need to rest your foot. You can’t do that running around for food.”

For a long time, Spencer doesn’t reply, but then he says. “I guess I could stay in, for tonight anyway.”

“Good, you can warm the bed.”

“Now I see your plan, get me lying in bed, warming the sheets for you.”

“You know it,” Ryan says. “Come on, we’ll have no bed at all if we don’t get moving.” It’s a valid concern, it’s fully dark now and most people have gone home to their warm houses, comfortable beds and hot food. The only person in sight is a girl who’s hurrying along the path behind them, her heels clicking against the ground. When she gets close she slows a little, and Ryan sees that her legs are bare, white and goose-bumped under her short-skirt and she’s got her arms crossed over her chest.

“You’ll have to hurry if you want the good stuff; they always run out of the soft rolls after the first ten minutes.”

“Rolls?” Ryan says, and looks at Spencer, suspecting some kind of drug terminology he doesn’t know, some reference to a deal that’s going down at the north end of the park.

The girl rolls her eyes. “Like, bread. From the soup kitchen.” She purses her lips then, taps a red-nailed finger against her mouth. “Though it’s Thursday, they have better stuff on a Thursday. I think it must be delivery day.”

“You’re saying there’s a soup kitchen in the park, where we can get food for free?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” She rolls her eyes.

“No, what you said was the soft rolls would run out,” Spencer replies.

“Whatever.” The girls shrugs and hurries off. “Come eat, don’t. I don’t care.”

She heads toward the far end of the park, and Ryan looks at Spencer. “Well?”

“I think we should go. We don’t know how much a room will cost; we mightn’t have anything left for food.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “So we go see the bad kinds.”

“We do.” Within a short walk they start to smell the scent of bread, around a corner and they see clouds of steam rising into the air, hear people chatting and the faint sound of music. Around another corner, past a white-painted bandstand and they see the soup kitchen.

It’s arranged close to a black van that’s parked on an expanse of concrete next to the entrance to the park, a long row of trestle tables set in front. Three of the tables hold large silver vats and the last holds a big basket of rolls and piles of large plastic cups.

Two men stand behind the tables, both chatting as they serve soup and hand out rolls to the long line of people who pick up a cup, take a roll from the man with the tattoos on his hands and then walk in a line until their bowl is filled by the second man, the one with the wide smile and hoodie hood pulled up over his head.

“Hey, come over here.”

Ryan looks around, and sees the girl beckoning them from the end of the line. She’s stepping from foot to foot and rubbing at her arms when they come close. “If you stand staring like that they’ll know you’re fresh off the bus.”

“Truck,” Spencer says. “We got off a truck, and it was yesterday.”

“Bus, truck. Doesn’t matter. They’ll still be on you.”

Spencer straightens his shoulders and brings himself up to his full height. “We can look after ourselves.”

“Sure you can, limpy. You and stick boy, here.”

“You’re funny,” Spencer says. “What do you do for your day job, comedian?”

“Hooker, actually.” She looks between them both when neither Spencer nor Ryan reply. “See, this is what I mean. Fresh meat.”

“Well, what did you expect us to say? That’s nice.”

“Better than gaping at me.” The girl pokes a finger at Spencer’s chest. “You won’t meet many office workers around here, princess.”

“Don’t call me princess, and we’re not staying around here, we’re getting an apartment together.”

“Sure you are, princess.” She smiles then, the heavy shadow around her eyes creasing into dark lines. “I’m Lisa, and you are?”

“Spencer, and that’s Ryan.”

“So, Princess and Ryan, nice to meet you.” Stepping out of the line, Lisa looks toward the tables, then steps back. “I think we might get lucky and get a soft roll. That is if Frankie doesn’t start giving out two to the hard luck cases.”

“Frankie?” Ryan says, stretching up so he can look toward the man giving out rolls.

“Small, tattooed, handing out rolls. That’s Frank. He helps out sometimes, when Pete or Mikey isn’t here.”

“You do realise we don’t know anyone you’re talking about,” Spencer says.

“That’s because you’re fresh meat, Princess.” Lisa bumps Spencer with her elbow, and then holds up her hand, three fingers extended. “One, Frankie. Small, tattooed, rolls. We’ve gone over this, keep up. Pete: also small, also tattooed, giving out soup in that ugly hoodie. This is his gig, well his and Mikey’s but he’s not here, so.”

“Wait,” Ryan says. “Mikey and Pete, do they run something called Clan House?”

Lisa narrows her eyes and looks at Ryan. “Not so new after all. They do, but you won’t get in. They never kick anyone out; just let them stay until they get set up with homes and jobs. It’s a sweet place, but the turnover is low.”

“Turnover of what?”

“Really, Princess, keep up. Clan House is a shelter, for people like us, homeless with nowhere to go.”

“Like you maybe, we’re getting a home. Ryan’s going to busk and save money for our own place.”

Expecting some sarcastic comment, Ryan’s surprised when Lisa just shrugs one bony shoulder. “I hope you do.”

She says nothing else, and they stand in silence, shuffling forward until finally they’re at the first table. Taking a cup, Lisa grins when she’s in front of Frank. “Hey gorgeous, got something soft for me?”

“Hey kid, you’re lucky, there’s a few of the soft ones left.” He takes a roll out of the basket and hands it over with a wink. “How you doing?”

“Not bad, you know how it is; you do what you have to.” Lisa smiles, but Ryan sees how tightly she’s holding onto the roll and the way she licks her bottom lip, a flash of tongue as she glances at the vats of soup.

“It’s vegetable today, I made it myself.”

“Yeah, right. From a packet maybe.” Lisa starts to step along the line, then stops, looking back. “Watch these two, they’re new. Ryan and Princess.”

“Ryan and Princess, so which is which?” Frank looks at them both, keeps smiling despite the way Ryan is staring at him without a word, shocked into silence after finding himself in a crowd of people and faced with someone so obviously alive, his energy an almost tangible thing.

“That’s Ryan, I’m Spencer.” Spencer picks up a cup and hands it to Ryan, then takes one for himself.

“Nice to meet you,” Frank says, and he puts down a roll and holds out his hand across the table. Ryan looks at his hand, at the letters across his knuckles, the ends of other tattoos that snake from under the cuffs of his sweatshirt. Frank wraps his hand around Spencer’s and shakes, and does the same to Ryan, even when Ryan lets his hand hang limp.

“You’re looking a little beaten up; you know there’s free clinics if you need them.”

“No,” Ryan says immediately, not ready to face yet more new people. Frank doesn’t seem to mind the brusque reply, just holds up his hands before picking up two rolls, handing them over to Ryan and Spencer.

“No worries, but if you change your mind, just ask.”

They move on then, holding out their cups to Pete, who fills each one to almost overflowing while grinning at them both. “Hey, you’re new, right? Welcome.”

“Thanks,” Spencer says. He’s holding his cup tightly, keeping it level so none spills and Ryan does the same, his roll held securely in his mouth as he carries his soup and guitar.

The immediate area is full of people sitting on the benches and on the ground, some talking in small groups, most on their own as they quickly inhale their food before melting off into the night. None of them look homeless, not like Ryan expected, anyway. He sees a woman pulling a shopping cart full of junk, a man with matted hair and two odd shoes, but most look like ordinary people bundled in their layers of clothes. That is, until Ryan looks closer, when he sees sharp cheekbones and ragged nails, outfits that don't fit and are far from clean. Mostly though, it's their expressions, as if the world has turned against them somehow. Ryan knows that expression; he's seen it often in Spencer's eyes.

Needing distraction, he looks around and sees that Lisa’s found a place on a low wall, her cup balanced on her lap as she soaks pieces of her roll and stuffs them in her mouth.

Swallowing, she looks up and indicates the wall next to her. “Come pull up some wall.”

They do, Ryan sitting next to Lisa and the wall is slightly damp, mossy in parts and the back of Ryan's thighs press against the blunt edge as he dips the roll in the soup, watching the bread become soaked through and turn orange. Before Ryan’s halfway through his cup Lisa’s is empty, and she drags her finger over the plastic, getting the last drops. Watching her, Spencer holds out his cup. “Here.”

“Princess, you can’t be giving away food, not if you want to survive.” But Ryan can see how much Lisa wants the soup, and Spencer doesn't pull back his hand.

“I’m full, I don’t need any more."

It sounds like the truth, and obviously Lisa thinks so too as she grabs the cup from Spencer, looking at him over the rim as she tips it to her mouth. When she finishes drinking, there's a red lip-print on the rim of the cup and a piece of carrot stuck to the corner of her mouth.

"You've got...." Spencer points at his own lip and Lisa sticks out her tongue, using it to pull the piece of carrot into her mouth. "Thanks, Princess."

"Spencer," Spencer corrects, and he looks at Ryan, asking if he's finished through a series of eyebrow lifts and quirks of his mouth that Ryan answers with a slight nod. "Well, I'd say it's been good, but I'd be lying."

"Whatever," Lisa says, and she slides to the ground, her heels hitting the concrete with a click. She starts to walk away then, takes one step, two, three, then stops and turns. "Look, normally I wouldn't, but you've been decent to me. Where are you planning on sleeping tonight?"

Ryan glances at Spencer and shrugs, the slightest movement of his shoulders. "We're heading for a hotel, the one on the other side of the park."

"The Weston? You really don't want to be there. They eat fresh meat like you for breakfast. Save your money, I'll show you a place."

"Why?" Spencer asks.

Lisa begins to walk, doesn't look back and says. "Call it my good deed for the day."

"Well?" Spencer asks, his voice low.

"I think we should go with her. We'll save money and I doubt she'll jump us for our stuff."

Ryan stands, picking up his guitar and waits for Spencer to get down and steady himself before they follow. Taking a short detour to throw away the cups, they soon catch up, and Ryan knows Lisa's deliberately going slowly, especially when she looks at him when they get close.

"Second lesson: I could be after your stuff. How do you know I don't have an accomplice waiting to jump you?"

"Do you?" Spencer asks, suspiciously.

"It’s not like I’d tell you if I did, but no. I live alone, work alone, well, mostly."

"So why help us now?"

"Don't get me wrong, this is no student-mentor thing, I'm gonna show you a safe place to stay and then I'm outta here."

"That's fine by me," Spencer says, almost bristling as he moves so that he's walking closer to Ryan.

"Simmer down, Princess. I'm making no moves on what's yours."

"Good." They walk in silence a while, Spencer eyeing Lisa, as if he's weighing up the truth of her words, then visually relaxes and takes a half step to the side, deciding she can be trusted for now. "So, this place, where is it?"

Lisa looks at Spencer and while she's not smiling, she's not looking away either. "Two blocks over. It's an office block marked for demolition, kinda scuzzy, but at least it's dry -- and free."

It sounds good to Ryan -- after spending time sleeping in the open, anywhere with a roof sounds good. Still, when he first sees where they're going, he begins to change his mind. While the office block is still standing, all the windows have been smashed and the main door is hanging loose, the wood splintered around the lock. When they squeeze inside it's light next to the windows, broken glass glinting in the moonlight, but further in it's dark, and all Ryan can see are looming shadows. Feeling uneasy, he moves so he's close to Spencer, enough that their hands are brushing together.

They keep going, picking their way through piles of trash, and Ryan wants to put his hand over his nose and mouth, because the smell is terrible. Unwashed bodies and mold underlain with something sweet, like somewhere there's something rotting, and Ryan can't help thinking of brittle bones and liquefying flesh.

When they're close to the back of the building, close to a staircase where the treads are broken, most lying on the floor in a dirt-covered pile, Lisa stops and toes at a mattress on the floor. Springs are sticking through the fabric at one end and even in the dim light Ryan can see a huge stain that covers over half of the surface.

"You can stay here, no one will bother you as long as you keep out of their way. If Jon turns up …but he probably won’t. He hasn’t since Tom started running with Jake -- tell him I said it's okay."

"We will, thank you," Spencer says, and he drops his bag next to the mattress, remaining standing as Lisa turns and walks away.

"We could go, get a room somewhere," Ryan says. He can see better now, blurred lines forming into actual things in the dark, but that doesn't help how his heart is thumping or how out of his depth he feels.

"We should stay, she's right we need to save our money." Spencer sounds determined as he grabs for Ryan's hand, squeezing it once. "Think about our apartment, we'll get a deposit faster this way."

"Right, our apartment." Reluctantly, Ryan allows Spencer to pull back his hand, and then sits on the mattress. It sags under his weight and the surface feels damp to the touch, but right now he's too tired to care, just eases himself down and curls onto his side, his arm over Spencer when he lies down, too.

It takes a while to get comfortable, Ryan's chest is aching and he has to move so that his mouth isn't touching the mattress. Despite the way he sounded -- confident, sure that this was the right thing -- Spencer's tense, his muscles tight under Ryan's touch.

"It does make me wonder why no one took this already," Spencer says unexpectedly.

"What?"

Spencer turns, his face a white blur as he leans in close. "The mattress, you'd think it would have been taken."

"Maybe it belonged to that Jon, and he's a hard ass. He could have murdered someone on here, and the mattress is soaked with blood and bad emotion. Anyone that lies on it could be tainted, pulled in by bad memories, dream of silent screams and cut throats."

"Ryan," Spencer says. "Shut up and tell me your decorating plans instead. I want to sleep tonight."

"Who says I have any?" Indignant, Ryan pokes Spencer in the thigh, jabbing hard. He keeps silent for almost five minutes after that, the building quiet except for Spencer’s breathing and rustles from other parts of the room. Then he says, "Okay, so I had some ideas. I was thinking of rust colors in the bathroom."

Ryan falls asleep in the middle of explaining how fabric flowers glued to the wall are a good idea. The reality of a damp, foul-smelling mattress is replaced by dreams of a home.

~*~*~*~

They stay at the offices and over the next few weeks they fall into a routine: Ryan busks at the bus station, and Spencer stays close, the smile to Ryan's song. Each morning the skinny guy with the coffee stops to listen. He always takes the same bench, coffee cup and phone at hand, and each morning he gives Ryan a ten before slipping away.

All day Ryan keeps singing, until his throat is dry, his voice little more than a rasp. Sometimes Spencer joins in, singing at times but more often drumming two sticks against the metal arm of the bench. He also searches for left behind newspapers, brow furrowed as he reads the property pages. Ryan never asks for the details of what he's reading, he doesn't think he's ready to know how far away their dream actually is.

When people start to go home, the street emptying as the sun begins to set, they pack up and go to the soup kitchen. They've seen Lisa there once, Frank and Pete every time, but tonight, as they get in line, Ryan realizes that Frank's missing, and in his place is the guy who stops each morning. He looks different now -- more awake for one thing -- and when Ryan gets closer he sees that he's wearing eye makeup, tight pants and a dark jacket, complete with a unicorn pin. It seems like he should look out of place in this setting, but he doesn't at all. He’s obviously comfortable as he serves rolls and greets each person who steps in front of him, most of them by name.

They move closer, almost to the table, and Spencer turns from where he's been talking to the woman behind them in line, and finally notices who's serving. "Hey, it's Coffee Guy."

"Well, my friends call me Mikey, but I suppose Coffee Guy fits." Coffee Guy – Mikey -- picks up a roll and holds it out to Ryan. "You're a good wake up call."

"Er, thanks," Ryan says, unsure if that's supposed to be a compliment.

"What Mikey means is," Pete says, bounding over and brandishing a dripping ladle at Ryan. You're a good singer who knows fantastic songs, at least that's what he says when he comes in every morning. You should have told me you knew Mikey."

"That's because I didn't know I knew him." Ryan takes the roll off Mikey. "So, you're the Mikey from Pete and Mikey?"

"That's him." Suddenly, Pete pounces, soup splattering from the ladle as he grabs Mikey and dips him down so he can kiss him solidly on the lips. "The love of my life, the wind beneath my wings, the peanut butter on my jelly, my love puppy, my sweetums."

In an impressive move, considering he's still bent backwards by Pete, Mikey reaches out and grabs a roll. "I swear, I'll shove this down your throat."

"No wasting stock, Mikey. You'll upset Ray."

"He'll understand, now let me up, people want to eat."

Which is true, the line stretches back almost to the bandstand, but no one seems that worried about waiting, which suggest this display happens often. Not that Ryan's about to ask. Upright once more, Mikey tugs at his hat and pushes his glasses up his nose, his mouth curled into the smallest of smiles when Pete brushes against him, running his hand over Mikey's hip.

"You do have good taste in songs," Mikey says, and he takes a roll, handing it to Spencer. "Do you like those groups or is it just a busking thing?"

"I like them."

"Good, you should like what you sing." Looking past Spencer, Mikey picks up another roll. "Tomorrow, you should tell me about your favourite bands."

"I can do that," Ryan says, smiling briefly before moving along the line, grabbing a cup and getting it filled by Pete, who greets him with a beaming smile, as if he hadn't seen Ryan only seconds before.

When they've moved away from the serving area and settled under a tree, the guitar and bag between their feet, Spencer grins. "Has little Ryan got a play date?"

Ryan dips his roll into the soup -- tomato today. "Jealous?"

"Of you meeting hot guys to talk music? Not at all."

"Good." Ryan grins down at his soup, enjoying that they can tease like this, have a moment when they're not thinking about getting clean in public bathrooms or making money or having to spend another night in the cold of the abandoned building. These moments that don't happen often, especially now, but this one seems to stretch, the easy feeling remaining as they eat their soup and then start for their temporary home.

~*~*~*~

Brendon sucks his second cock early on a Thursday evening, when the moon is low in the sky and his breath clouds with every panicked exhale. The grass is cold under his knees and he still feels sick to his stomach, the ground swaying beneath him. He puts out his hand, fingers curling in mulch and brittle leaves, steadying himself because once he does this he can get something to eat, maybe something hot and he'll eat that and find somewhere to sleep. Food and sleep and he'll feel better, get his energy back so he can start to regain control of his life. All he has to do is get through this, become the person this man wants to see.

Smiling wide, Brendon looks up and reaches out, rests his hand against the man's hips, waiting for direction. The man doesn't say anything, though, hasn't since he came to Brendon almost ten minutes before and held out too much cash to turn down.

"You ready?" Brendon asks. He's still not sure how this is supposed to go -- if he's supposed to take the lead or just wait.

"Jesus Christ, do I have to do everything myself?" The man brushes away Brendon's hand, unfastens his belt and unzips his pants, pushing them down with his boxers. "Now suck me, whore."

"Right. Right," Brendon says, and curls his hands into fists, trying to stop them from shaking as he knee-walks forward, swallowing and licking at his lips to get moisture in his mouth.

"God, come on, I'd have gone to my regular if I'd known you'd be this pathetic."

"Sorry." Reminding himself of the money, Brendon leans in and licks over the head of the man's cock, tasting salt and sweat. He hides his grimace, sucking lower, harder, listening for a reaction. Which he gets -- a low groan and Brendon has the slightest of warnings before the man slams his hips forward, hitting the back of Brendon's throat. Gagging, he tries to pull back but the man grabs handfuls of his hair, holding on painfully tight as he starts to fuck Brendon's mouth.

"You love this, don't you? You love my cock in my mouth, you get off on having it rammed in, loving it like the dirty slut that you are. Take it, I know you want it, I could tell when I saw you, that you were a cock-sucker, someone who loves to take it like this."

Eyes streaming, Brendon holds himself still and concentrates on breathing. He closes his eyes and lets the words become blurred, each one running together and shaped around the rhythm of thrusts. He can feel saliva drip from his mouth, and he rakes his nails across the scabs on his palms, breaking them open.

"I bet you're getting off on this, whore." A last thrust and the man pulls back and Brendon feels something hot hit his face, running down his cheek and onto his mouth. Using the back of his hand, Brendon wipes across his mouth, smearing come and saliva. He opens his eyes, just in time to see the man pulling up his pants and taking out his wallet.

"Twenty, right?" He peels off a bill from the wad in his wallet and hands it to Brendon, who holds it between two fingers, worried about getting it bloody. "I'd have given you more if you'd actually done something instead of making me do all the work."

"Sorry," Brendon says, and forces himself to shut up about the fact that he didn't get the chance to do anything -- all he could do was stay upright and take it. That's not what the man wants to hear, and the sooner he goes the sooner Brendon can go and buy some food.

"Whatever." The man shrugs and puts away his wallet, smoothing down the front of his shirt and pants so he looks tidy before walking away without a backward glance. He's just disappearing around a corner when a group of people walk into view. Most of the group are men, but there's a few women, their high heels sinking into the grass as they walk. Expecting them to go past, Brendon gets to his feet, tensing when they come closer, circling around him.

One of the men steps so he's standing in front of Brendon. "Jake wants to talk to you."

"Right, I can do that." Trying to appear casual, like he's been surrounded like this before, Brendon hooks his thumbs in his pockets as someone steps forward. Despite the cold, this guy is wearing dark pants and a neatly pressed white shirt, a cigarette held between two fingers, his dress and bearing markedly different to the others that surround him.

"You'll have to forgive Bryce, he tends to forget about pleasantries." The man transfers the cigarette and holds out his hand. "I'm Jake, and you are?"

Brendon shakes Jake's hand and smiles. "I'm Brendon."

"Brendon, you may not be aware, but this is my park, my territory," Jake says, his voice low, even friendly. "You can't be here, not without my say so."

Brendon begins to back away, hearing the unspoken threat. "I didn't know. I'll go now, you'll never see me again."

"It's not that easy, I'm afraid. See, you trespassed on what's mine. I can't let that happen." Jake smiles and looks directly at Brendon. "You have to understand, if I allow people to do what they want it reflects badly on my ability to control my territory, and that money you have? That should be mine. It should have gone to my people, and it didn't. It went to you."

Glancing around at the surrounding group, Brendon pulls the money out of his pocket and holds it out. "Take it. I'll just go."

Jake takes the money, and for a moment Brendon thinks he's going to get out of this, especially when Jake smiles. "Thank you, Brendon. The gesture is appreciated. However, too little too late I'm afraid." Jake steps back then, and says, "He’s all yours."

Brendon tries to run, but he's brought to his knees and then to the ground, pushed down by an onslaught of people, mostly people bigger than himself. He can’t see any way to escape and instead curls up, trying to protect his head with his hands. Brendon cries out at the first kick to his side, which is followed by another, another, until each one bleeds into the next. He gasps when one kick hits higher, catching him under the chin, forcing his head back. Terrified, he looks up at the ring of faces hovering menacingly above him, some snarling as the kicks land. Some are laughing, which is even scarier. A few have scornful expressions to go with their careful aim.

When he sees one of the girls push through the crowd, Brendon tries to plead for help, but all she does is pull her foot back. Brendon brings his arms up, trying to protect his face. The move deflects her kick enough that the pointed heel of her shoe only rakes across his cheek and mouth, blood flowing immediately.

"Now, that's not nice, denying the lady," one of the men says, and Brendon screams when he's kicked again, the man's boot hitting his defensively held arm at full force. Brendon hears something snap, and the resultant pain in his arm is literally blinding.

"Stop, please," Brendon says, his mouth slick as he forces out the words, his vision still only spots of bright light. Thankfully, this time they listen. Brendon lies still, tears mixing with his blood as it drips to the ground.

"Take this as a lesson on what happens to people who trespass on my territory."

Eyes closed, Brendon listens to Jake. The man’s voice fades in and out. Brendon whimpers when something hits his side. Forcing open his eyes, Brendon sees Jake, who's crouching over him, still with that slight smile as he runs his fingers through the blood on Brendon's face. "This park belongs to me. You should have remembered that." He wipes his fingers on Brendon's chest and stands, dropping his cigarette so that it lands near Brendon's face. "Jon, Chris, finish him."

For a moment Brendon thinks about just lying still and letting things happen. It's not like he'd be missed if he died, and anything is better than the life he's living right now. He hurts; he was hurting well before now. It would be so easy to stop fighting, to give in. Except, Brendon can't. Buried beneath the constant thrumming of the pain, and his fear, and even the loneliness, is a love of life that has no interest in going anywhere. Struggling to push himself up on one hand, he looks at the men who have been left behind. One is smirking and holding up a small knife, the other is looking after Jake, watching as he walks away with the rest of the group.

“How’d you like to wear my design, kid?” The man with the knife is poised and ready to push right into skin and muscle. Brendon's still struggling to get upright when the other man steps in front of him, shielding him from view.

"I'm not going to let you kill him."

"You can't stop me." The man drops his arms and twists the knife nervously around in his hand. "Face it, Jon, this is going to happen whatever you say."

"No, it's not." Jon holds out his hands, appearing relaxed despite the blade that's so close to his hands. "Jake's gone too far, he’s been bathshit for a long time now and I've gone along with it to keep Tom safe, but that's not an issue now, so no. You’re not gonna kill the kid for being in the wrong place, wrong time."

"You’ve got a lot of balls,” Chris says, shaking his head. “Jake won't like you going against his orders."

"I know." Jon shrugs. "I haven't been back to the offices for a while, he won't find me."

For a long while there's a stand-off, Chris staring at Jon. Then he drops his hand, the knife held laxly at his side. "I don’t know about that, but… I guess this means you're running?"

"I'm running."

"I should kill you both," Chris says, looking down at Brendon, then up again at Jon.

"It would be better for you," Jon agrees, and if Brendon could talk or move he'd be telling Jon he's an idiot. All he can do is remain in a collapsed huddle, arm cradled against his chest. He’s so, so tired. Closing his eyes, he lets himself drift.

"Damn, wake up, kid." Brendon blinks up at Jon, who has kneeled down next to him. Jon spares a glance for Chris. "Look, either do it, or get out of here."

"I hope you know what you're doing." Chris crouches so he's next to Jon, and they clasp hands before Chris stands and begins to walk away. Relieved, Brendon lets his eyes close again, opening them when Jon leans in so he's close to Brendon's face.

"No sleeping. I'm not doing this just for you to die anyway." He rests his hand against Brendon's cheek, then, the one without the deep cut. His touch is gentle. Brendon can't help trying to push into it, taking the first comfort he's been offered since…the last time his mother hugged him. He can’t remember how long ago that was. He can barely remember how it felt.

"That's it, no giving up."

Brendon tries to reply, but it's taking all his effort just to breathe. Jon seems to get that, smiling reassuringly at him before he looking around. "I need to find some help, get you to the free clinic."

"No." Brendon forces out the word, because he can't go to the clinic, he can't.

"It's not negotiable," Jon says firmly, then suddenly stands when he hears voices. "Hey! Hey, whoever’s there, I need help!"

Brendon hopes no one will come, because a nap and Brendon will be fine. He'll get up and out of here; he just needs a moment to rest. Only someone does come -- two someones. As they come closer, Brendon can't hang on anymore, and he lets the darkness take him away.

~~~~

Ryan's first instinct is to run, to not get involved with issues that don't concern Spencer and him at all. But he can't turn his back on someone that so obviously needs help, no matter how much he wishes he could.

Hurrying across the grass, he pulls ahead of Spencer and stops close to the man who was shouting. He's bent over another man, one who's curled up and covered in blood and bruises, obviously badly hurt. It's a sight that provokes bad memories, and Ryan looks back, thinks Spencer, but Spencer's fine. He’s limping as quickly as he can to get to them.

"I need help getting him to the doctor." The man looks up, taking in the sight of Spencer, with his limp, and Ryan, who's got his hand pressed against his chest, obviously winded. "You couldn't have been bigger?"

"Sorry," Ryan says, with an edge. No good deed, jeez. "I'll try and grow for you."

"You do that." Something snaps and the man smiles a little then, something slow and easy despite the tension apparent in his body. He runs his hand through his hair. "Sorry, sorry. Let me start again. Hi, I'm Jon, and he-- he needs help and no offense, I doubt any of us could carry him safely."

"You need to go get Pete and Mikey, they should be able to help," Spencer says and he kneels next to the unconscious man. "I'll stay here and do, um, something."

"Right," Ryan says, but he doesn't go immediately, worried about leaving Spencer alone.

Seeming to understand, Spencer looks up and reaches out, squeezing Ryan's hand. "Go on. I'll be fine, and he needs help."

Ryan goes then, hurrying as best he can back to the soup kitchen. When he gets there, Pete and Mikey are packing up, putting the urns and the tables in the black van. When they see Ryan, Pete grins. "Hey, Ryan. Hope you're not here for seconds -- there's nothing left."

"No." Ryan waves his hand as he regains his breath. "There's a man -- a, a boy. He's been beaten up, um, there's someone with him. Jon. Jon, and I left Spencer, and we can't carry him, and I shouldn't have left him. I need to go, now."

Ryan turns, about to run back, when Mikey comes over and stands in front of him. He stops Ryan with a hand to his chest, the lightest of touches.

"Ryan, stop. We'll drive there,” Mikey says. He keeps his voice level and looks directly at Ryan, soothing with his tone. “But we’ll need you for directions."

Ryan closed his eyes, made himself slow down. "Okay. Okay, I can do that."

"Good," Mikey says, and he starts back toward the van, where Pete is working feverishly to pack up the last table. When that's done Pete jumps in the driving seat, and Mikey gets in the passenger side, squeezing himself into the middle so Ryan can sit too. Ryan's wedged against the door when he finally pulls it closed, all of them packed in tight. He waits impatiently for Pete to start the engine and drive.

It takes Pete prompting for directions to get them back to Spencer. Ryan's unable to answer anything but yes or no to each question because all he can think of is Spencer, how there was so much blood, how the boy's wrist was bent at a wrong angle. Ryan breathes deeply, drawing air through his nose and pushing it out of his mouth, trying to hold on to control.

"It'll be okay," Mikey says suddenly. He makes no attempt to touch Ryan, just keeps scrolling through his phone before quickly typing out a message.

Ryan keeps looking forward, hanging off the far end of the seat, his side pressed against the door. "You can't promise that."

"True." Mikey lifts himself up and pushes his phone in his pocket after reading a reply. "I still believe it."

Ryan would argue, but they're pulling up next to where they left Spencer, and Ryan looks out the side window, his nose pushed against the glass. He can't see them at first, just the dark expanse of grass surrounded by trees, but eventually the shadows take shape, and he can make out two people kneeling, both of them bent forward. Before the van even stops, Ryan throws open the door and jumps out, running as he hits the ground. Taking the direct route, he runs through a flower bed, his feet slipping from under him, too anxious to slow down. When he reaches Spencer, Ryan falls to his knees. Spencer's fingers are bloody, red against the white of the material that he's holding to the boy's cheek.

"Did you find them?" Spencer looks up through his hair that's fallen in front of his face, but even through that mask, Ryan can see the fear he's trying to hide, and all he can think is that they're too late.

"He did." Pete kneels next to Jon and hands him a flashlight. "Shine this so I can see." Jon does, holding up the flashlight so they're in their own small circle of light, exposing details Ryan doesn't want to see. There are footprints on the boy's t-shirt and jeans, a lump of what has to be bone bulging under the skin of his wrist, and his jeans are wet through, dark from crotch to knee.

"Someone's done a number on you, haven't they?" Pete talks softly as he pulls off his hoodie and uses it to cover the boy. He moves then, crawling so he's at the boy's head which he carefully straightens to be in line with his neck and body, using his hands for stabilization. "We need to get him to the clinic."

"I've been in contact, she'll be ready." Mikey bends over and gently brushes the boy's hair from his forehead. "I take it carrying him's not a good idea."

Pete shakes his head. "We shouldn't move him at all, really."

"Well, you can't leave him here," Spencer snaps, looking between Mikey and Pete.

"We wouldn't do that," Mikey says. "Jon, give the flashlight to Ryan and come help me with a table."

"Taking the offered flashlight, Ryan holds it as steady as he can.

"Do any of you know him?" Pete asks.

Spencer shakes his head. "No, but Jon said he's called Brendon. They found out he'd been hooking independently in someone else’s territory. Jon was supposed to kill him."

It's like Spencer is reading out a shopping list, his voice level, controled. Concerned, Ryan tries to move so he can see Spencer's face.

"I'm fine, Ryan." Spencer pushes the hair out of his eyes with one hand, his expression so blank that Ryan's sure something is wrong. "He's only a kid."

"He looks the same age as you," Pete says, but Spencer shakes his head.

"I'm not a kid."

"No, I bet you're not." Pete looks like he's going to say more, but Mikey and Jon come back then. They're holding one of the trestle tables, the legs folded up. Ryan moves out of the way, and they set it on the ground next to Brendon.

"Pete, you keep supporting his head, Jon, you take his left side, Ryan, the right. I'll take his legs. You can probably stop with the pressure now, the bleeding should have stopped."

Obeying Mikey's quiet orders, they slide Brendon onto the table. He never moves, doesn't even twitch as they settle him on his back and ensure he's covered with Pete's hoodie.

"Has everyone got hold?" Mikey asks. "On three we'll lift. One. Two. Three."

They all lift, and despite the twinge in his ribs, Ryan can’t help thinking how small this kid looks, how his clothes do nothing to hide how thin he is, or how he weighs so little. Slowly, they walk back to the van, over the smashed down flowers in the flower bed, and then stop, waiting as Mikey uses one hand to open the van's back doors. Inside it smells strongly of tomato and the space is packed full of urns and other tables, empty baskets and boxes full of plastic cups. There's barely enough room to load Brendon inside, and Pete ends up squashed against the front seats, crouching forward, his knees either side of Brendon's head. It looks like an uncomfortable position, but he doesn’t complain, just keeps talking quietly to Brendon as Mikey waits for Ryan to run back for his guitar. He shuts the doors when Ryan gets back and heads to the front.

"One of you will have to sit on someone else's knee." Mikey twirls a set of keys around his finger and gets into the driver’s seat. "Unless you've got some kind of spidey powers -- then you're welcome to the roof."

"I'll sit on Spencer's knee," Ryan says, but Jon shakes his head.

"No, you don't need to. I'm not coming."

"I thought you said Jake would come for you," Spencer says.

"He will, which is why I'm going now."

Jon sounds unconcerned, but Ryan knows how to look beyond the surface and when he does so, Jon's nervousness is obvious. It's why Ryan has to try his own protest, despite knowing nothing about the situation at all. "You should come with us. Don't you want to know if he'll be okay?"

For a moment, it looks like Jon's wavering. Then he turns and starts to walk away. "I do, but I can't stay."

Sitting half in, half out of the van, Mikey pulls a business card out of his pocket, a match to the one Bob gave Spencer so many weeks before, except this one is creased, molded to the shape of Mikey's body. "Take this, phone us any time," Mikey says, and then glances at the back of the van. "If you two are coming, get in now. We need to go."

This time Ryan gets in first, leaving Spencer to sit next to the door. When Mikey starts to drive, passing Jon who waves once, Ryan expects him to talk, more platitudes or reassurances, but Mikey says nothing at all. Ryan finds himself listening to Pete, letting his constant stream of words wash over him, stories including dogs and best friends and frequent reassurances that Brendon will be okay. Which is something Ryan clings to, even if he can't bring himself to believe, because Brendon still hasn't moved, opened his eyes, done anything to show that he's still in there. If it weren't for the shallow way his chest moves, Ryan would think he was already dead.

Despite the lack of traffic on the roads, it takes ten minutes to drive to the clinic. Ryan watches the numbers change on the dashboard clock, ticking toward nine, coming toward another new day when he's still tired and dirty and afraid.

"We're here." It's the first thing Mikey's said since they left the park, and Ryan looks at the building where they've arrived. It's small, one window lit up on the first floor and a small plaque attached near the door. As they step outside, the front door opens revealing a young woman. Her hair is pulled back and she’s wearing pale yellow scrubs.

"Hey Mikey." She smiles, wide and genuine, as she looks at Spencer and Ryan. "Are these my patients?"

"We're fine," Ryan says, before Mikey has a chance to reply.

"Like he said, they're fine," Mikey says, and despite the lack of inflection, it's obvious he doesn't believe that at all. Still, he doesn't press the point, just walks to the back of the van and opens the doors. "We picked him up in the park. Didn’t see what actually happened, but they didn’t go easy on him."

As soon as she looks inside, the woman's demeanor changes. Her smile fades and is replaced with efficient professionalism as she takes charge. "Help me carry him inside. It's pointless disturbing him too much so we'll use the table. Pete, keep holding his head, me and Mikey will carry."

Ryan thinks about protesting that he can help, but everything is happening so fast that all he can do is stand and watch as Brendon is carried out of the van and into the clinic. Shutting the van doors, Ryan and Spencer follow and find themselves in a long corridor, orange plastic chairs that look like they somehow were left when the seventies came and went lining the wall. The only sign of the others is a closing door, Staff Only in red letters across the front.

"I guess we stay here," Spencer says, and he sits in one of the chairs, leaning forward and resting his head on his bunched fists. He looks exhausted, wrung out, and Ryan rests his hand against the nape of Spencer's neck before sitting too. He leans back, the edge of the plastic chair diging into his spine, the silence after the chaos of the last hour making his ears ring.

"While you were gone I talked to Jon. Jake, his like, I dunno, boss, or something, he told him to kill Brendon, knife him because he was in the wrong place." Spencer sits up then and looks at his hands, at the blood that's dried on his fingers. "I thought that I'd gotten away from that, that this would be better, but it's not."

"It will be." Ryan tries to find the right words, aware of how close Spencer is to the edge, because Ryan's walking that edge too, it's just, there's no way he's going to let Spencer fall. "We'll get our apartment and jobs."

"How? I've been looking and there's nothing we can afford. Even if we get enough for a deposit we've got no references, no paperwork, we’re not even of legal age to rent. We should just go back, at least you had a home."

"And I still have. It sucks and if I had a choice I'd never squat in an abandoned building, sleeping on a disgusting mattress, but I do and it's my home. Whenever I'm with you I'm home and we're not going back, we're staying here and we'll sort something out even if I have to write the references myself."

"I'd say that was touching if it wasn't so cheesy." Spencer smiles, a small curl of his lip as he rubs at his eyes. "I am impressed with the forgery plan. Think you can make us some IDs while you're at it?"

"You know it," Ryan says, and it feels good to smile, even for a moment, but he can't help looking at the shut door, wondering what's going on behind it. "You think he'll be okay?"

"I hope so."It's all Spencer says, and Ryan understands -- he doesn't know either.

Mikey reappears forty minutes later. Spencer's asleep, curled up in his chair while Ryan stares at the wall, at the posters he's already read multiple times, touting useful facts about sexual diseases and nutritional advice. Despite the way his eyes burn, Ryan can't look away. Everything feels too much -- even the air is stuffy, thick with artificial heat. He's beyond exhaustion and all he can do is keep sitting, the world blurring in front of his eyes.

"Hey." Mikey sits two seats away from Ryan, turning so he can look his way. Taking off his glasses, he rubs under his eyes, smudging the liner, then puts his glasses back on. "Sorry for leaving you, it got a bit frantic for a while."

"How's he doing?"

"He'll be okay, it'll just take a while, but Jamia's fixing him up. When she's done she's going to look you two over."

"We're fine, and Jamia?" Ryan asks, and normally he wouldn't even care, but right now he needs to hear someone talk, words to push back the silence that's otherwise too heavy.

"You saw her when we arrived, she's Frank's wife. You should know him from the soup kitchen, small guy that's not Pete? And if you’re fine, it won't hurt to be looked over."

"Says you," Ryan says, needing to protest despite knowing this is a fight he doesn't have to win. "So, this is her clinic?"

"Sort of, she lives upstairs with Frank. He'd be here, but the lucky bastard is playing tonight."

Ryan keeps looking at the posters about pregnancy advice, HIV tests, so long as he doesn’t have to look around, see Mikey. "What happens now? Will he stay here?"

"He can stay a few hours, enough to get some fluids into him, then he has to go."

Ryan does turn then, stares at Mikey, not believing what he's heard. "He wasn't even conscious! She can't just throw him out."

"She's got no choice," Mikey says simply. "It sucks, I know that, but legally she shouldn't even be seeing him at this hour. The clinic’s not open and it operates on a federal budget. She takes risks, but she can't push too much."

"But you'll take him in, right? You and Pete, you've got a place."

"We can't, we've no room."

"So make some."

"It's not that simple." Mikey sits back in his seat, never looking away despite Ryan's anger. "You don't know what we went through to open Clan House, the hoops we jumped through to get funding and insurance. There's ten people living there now, if we get closed down, they'll lose their home."

"And what about Brendon? Doesn't he deserve a home?" Too angry to sit still, Ryan jumps to his feet and paces the corridor, unsure why he even cares so much. He doesn’t know Brendon and just taking care of himself and Spencer is hard enough. But somehow, he does care, he just doesn’t know why. Each time he turns he sees Mikey watching him, calm and unruffled, waiting for Ryan to settle. Which Ryan does, eventually, when he's paced the small space at least twenty times. He stops near Spencer and looks down at him, asking quietly, "Don't we deserve a home?"

"If I could, I'd give you all a place." There's truth in Mikey's words, but it doesn't help, it can't, not when Ryan knows he has to go back to the abandoned office building, the days ahead stretching endlessly with little chance of change.

But Ryan can do one thing. "He can come back with us."

"I didn't think you knew Brendon."

"We don't," Ryan says, and he doesn't even know why he's doing this, because he should at least talk it over with Spencer, but somehow making the offer feels right.

"He'll need looking after for a while," Mikey warns, but the slight smile he gives Ryan is all approval. "We can get you stuff, blankets and food."

"That'll be good." Ryan sits then, shaking Spencer’s shoulder gently and saying, "Spencer, we're taking Brendon back with us."

Eyes still closed, Spencer says, "Good."

~~~~

When Brendon wakes, it feels like he's floating, his body connected to nothing at all. He keeps his eyes closed, confused memories of being attacked jumbled in his head, the realization he was about to die. It's why he's scared to open his eyes, suspecting when he does so he'll find he's been cast into hell. That's inevitable, it's the only place people like Brendon go.

"Brendon, hey, I know you're waking up. Stay with us."

The voice is pleasant, light, but Brendon pretends he can't hear, keeping reality pushed back as long as he can.

"Open your eyes for me, Brendon. Show me you're in there."

There's a touch against Brendon's arm, and he knows something is close, the problem is, what?

"Come on, kid. For me."

"You could be the devil." The words feel rough in Brendon's mouth, scraping over his throat and making him cough, each one revealing new hurts. Wrist, ribs, stomach, legs, face, the pain bleeding through until Brendon's screwing shut his eyes, panting for breath.

"I know it's hard, but just breathe, listen to me. In and out, that's it. You're doing great."

Brendon follows the voice, slows down his breathing and tries to ride out the pain. Finally, when he's breathing evenly, he opens his eyes, or eye, as one refuses to open, just stays swollen shut.

"There you are, hi." A woman moves into view. She's smiling and she rests her hand against Brendon's shoulder. "I'm Jamia, you're at my clinic, and I know it's scary right now and you’re probably not feeling great, but you'll be okay, promise."

Heart racing, Brendon feels sick as his memories become more vivid, images coming together, jeering faces and boots kicking at his body, a knife blade glinting in the moonlight. The recalled fear is almost overwhelming.

Jamia strokes along Brendon's shoulder, keeping up a steady rhythm until he's back in control. "No one can hurt you here. Keep telling yourself that."

When he's feeling calmer, Brendon nods, says, "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for." With a last pat of his shoulder, Jamia steps away. "I'll just be over here, collecting some samples you can have -- pain-killers and antibiotics, stuff like that."

Hearing Jamia walk away, Brendon looks around, taking in the IV in the back of his hand, and the dressings on his palms, the bright white cast wrapped around his left wrist. He's covered with a soft red blanket but he can feel bandages wrapped around his chest and when he cautiously brings a hand to his face, he feels a dressing that covers nearly all of his cheek, going from just under his eye to the corner of his mouth.

"No touching."

Caught, Brendon brings his hand down, resting it on top of the blanket. "Sorry."

"You need to stop saying that." Jamia looks at the bag that's attached to the IV, checking how much is left inside. "This should be done soon, until then, you should rest."

Which is something Brendon can do easily, because despite how much pain he’s in, for the first time in weeks he feels warm, is starting to feel safe, and he lets himself drift, listening to Jamia putter around the room. It's some time later when Brendon fully wakes. The machine attached to his IV is beeping, but it's not that that wakes him, it's the man who's now standing in the room. He appears jarring in this clean soothing space, smelling of cold and sweat and his movements are quick-fire, abrupt, like he's reigning himself in somehow. He's also got his arm around Jamia's waist, and he leans in to give her a kiss before looking at Brendon with a smile. "Hi."

Brendon starts to smile too, but stops when the movement makes something tug in his cheek. He lifts his casted hand instead, wiggles his fingers, says, "Hi."

"Brendon, this is Frank." Stepping away from Frank, Jamia presses buttons on the machine, stopping the beeping and leans in, as if she's sharing a secret. "He started following me around one day and never stopped."

"Can you blame me? You're beautiful."

"And you're a flatterer," Jamia says, her smile widening even further. "Can you go get Brendon's clothes? Pete was running them through the laundry."

"You let Pete go upstairs alone?" Frank almost runs for the door.

When he's gone the energy in the room seems to drop and Brendon lies still, nervous when Jamia pulls on latex gloves. "I need to take out the IV, it won't hurt."

Still, Brendon can't help tensing up, but Jamia keeps talking, distracting. "The last time Pete was alone in our apartment he changed the wallpaper on Frank's computer. They've had this thing ever since. Frank sends pictures to Pete's phone, he sends them back, it's all kinds of stupid." She shakes her head slightly, laughing as she eases out the needle, dropping it into a sharps container. "I told him to just give it up already. I mean, I love Frank but he's no internet expert, and against Mikey and Pete? Some of the things they find are just scarring." Taping a cotton ball on Brendon's hand, Jamia peels off her gloves and drops them in the trash. "There, all done. As soon as Frank comes back you can get dressed."

"I need to go?" It's not that Brendon didn't expect that, all he can do lately is move on, he'd just thought he'd have more time. A few more hours of staying somewhere clean and where the memories can be pushed back by drugs and the warmth of Jamia's smile.

"I'm sorry, if I could let you, believe me, kid. Believe me."

Jamia isn't smiling now, she just looks sad as she takes Brendon's hand, carefully curling her fingers around his. He looks at her nails, how they're short and painted navy blue and hates himself for making her feel bad. Squeezing her fingers with his own, Brendon swallows around the lump in his throat. "It's okay. You fixed me up. I can look after myself."

"I'm sure you can. You're tough."

Brendon doesn't feel tough, he feels anything but. Still, Jamia doesn't need to know that, and Brendon manages a smile, says, "Yeah."

"Are you making a move on my woman?"

Brendon jumps when Frank abruptly enters the room. He's carrying a pile of clothes, grinning over the top of them as he looks at Brendon and Jamia's joined hands.

"No, I'm..." Brendon tries to pull his hand away, but Jamia holds on.

"He's teasing, ignore him." Still holding on, Jamia turns to Frank. "So, did Pete change anything?"

Setting the clothes on the computer chair, Frank shakes his head. "Not that I could see. He’s with Mikey now, waiting with those other two kids."

"They're still awake?"

"Mikey's talking to Gee, Pete's texting. I think one of the kids was asleep."

"At least someone is," Jamia says, and gently uncurls her hand. "Let's get you dressed."

Brendon grips the top of the blanket. "I can dress myself."

"Normally, sure, but let me help today."

"I can manage, honestly," Brendon protests, but Jamia takes no notice, just pulls the blanket down so it's around Brendon's waist.

"We'll go slow, but let me do the work, okay?"

Getting upright is harder than Brendon could ever imagine. Dizzy, he grips Jamia's arm, holding on as she eases him up and then around, each movement resulting in renewed pain until Brendon can feel sweat break out on his forehead, his neckline, and he's swallowing hard, determined that he's not going to throw up.

"Nearly there, you're doing great." Jamia keeps talking, always encouraging and when Brendon's finally sitting with his legs over the side of the bed, she rubs circles on his back, staying close until he says, "I'm okay."

"Sure," Jamia says, crouching so she can see Brendon's face. What she sees must satisfy her as she turns to Frank, holding out her hand. "Pass me his boxers."

It should be humiliating being dressed, but Brendon can't bring himself to care. He stands when ordered, lifts his feet and arms and only protests when Jamia begins to pull a hoodie over his head.

"No, that's not mine."

"It is now." Jamia pulls the hoodie down, threading the sleeves over her own hand so she can ease Brendon's arms into place. "There, that's better than just one hoodie"

"I can't take someone's clothes."

"Pete won't mind, he probably stole it from someone anyway." Pulling the hoodie straight, Jamia examines the design. "Wasn't this Mikey's?"

"Yeah," Frank says. He tilts his head, looking at Brendon. "It looks good on you."

"Thank you," Brendon says, the response automatic. When he's fully dressed, bundled inside the dryer-warm hoodies, Brendon sits on the bed and takes the paper bag Jamia hands over.

"There're painkillers and antibiotics in there, take them. You need to drink lots of fluids and rest, too. Which I know, it's not easy. But you have to try."

"I will," Brendon promises, and he grips the bag hard, holding on tight as he stands. Even with Jamia's help, walking sucks. Each step takes an effort Brendon's not sure he can give. His whole body is throbbing and the thought of having to go outside, find someplace to sleep almost brings him to his knees. But he keeps walking, one step after another, surprised when he shuffles out of the room and finds four people waiting, all looking his way.

“You're looking a bit better." One of them steps forward, smiling wide. "I'm Pete. That's Mikey, Spencer and Ryan."

"Hi," Brendon says, hoping they're not expecting conversation, but none of them speaks, and he starts to walk again. "It was nice meeting you."

"Wait!" One of the younger men, Spencer, Brendon thinks, steps forward. "You can't go, you're coming with us."

Confused, Brendon says nothing, trying to understand what's going on.

"We haven't got much but you can stay with us, we'll find room," Ryan says.

If he was less exhausted, less hurt, Brendon would take time to figure things out, wonder what they want in return, but right now all he needs is somewhere to lie down. He doesn't care where. Arm held against his chest, he nods. "Thank you."

Jamia steps forward then. “Remember, if anything changes, you think you’re getting an infection, anything, come straight back. I'll squeeze you in.” She gently pats Brendon’s arm then turns to Ryan and Spencer. “Same for you two, neither of you are particularly healthy, so no being heroes.”

Ryan nods, says, “Okay.”

It takes a long time to get to Ryan and Spencer's place. Helped into the van by Jamia, Brendon slumps against the door, his forehead against the glass as Mikey climbs over the driving seat to get to the middle. Pete drives, Spencer and Ryan riding in the back.

The actual journey seems never ending, each bump in the road making Brendon gasp, and by the time they arrive he's almost carried inside, held upright by Mikey and Pete. Past the point where he can help at all, Brendon lets them steer him through the darkness and then carefully lie him down. Curling around, Brendon brings up his knees and moves his head -- which feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, his cheek and eye throbbing in protest, getting as comfortable as he can get -- which isn't all that comfortable at all.

It's three am on a cold night when Brendon closes his eyes, head to the side, his hands pulled inside his sleeves, tears seeping into the mattress as he sleeps.

~*~*~*~

Part 3