When Day is Night Alone 7/10

[turps]

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 Eight

Comments

[crowgirl13.livejournal.com]

OF COURSE THE COFFEE GUY IS MIKEY!
[Though actually I was voting for Patrick. But then you added 'skinny' to the description... *shrugs*]

"Well, my friends call me Mikey, but I suppose Coffee Guy fits."
Yeah, that might fit a little bit. Hee.

Pete says, bounding over and brandishing a dripping ladle at Ryan.
This strikes me as one of the tidiest snip of characterization I've seen, re: Pete. 'Bounding' and 'brandishing' are very Pete words. Add ladle for the necessary bit of ridiculousness.

Granted, the next whole *scene* is Pete to the *core*. *makes hearteyes at the Pete and Mikey shenanigans*

This scene is lovely - you can feel the possibilities slot into place, just a bit more, here. And the interplay between both couples is marvelous - I was grinning so hard, reading that bit at the soup kitchen.

~~~
Then there's Brendon. :(
The first paragraph is so clear and fraught with detail - that's a definite snapshot [though more of a crime scene photo if anything].

Yikes! Brendon cannot catch a break!
Hang on...
Yay Jon?
[Now I'm all nervous...]
Oh, definitely yay! Ryan and Spencer to the rescue!
[Well, kinda.]
Oh whew!

Wow, Pete and Mikey are an impressive team.

The pacing on that whole scene - from Jon's initial involvement to carrying Brendon into the clinic, still on a table - is taut, full of tension and had me on the edge of my seat. Dude!

This is excellent: 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. What a great depiction of the aftermath of an emergency, plied on top of all the other trauma.

OH MAN! They're so close... BUT THERE'S NO ROOM!
But hey, three wounded runaways is better than being alone?
[ARGH!]
But yay for Ryan stepping up like that.

Back out into the cold for the boys - and Jon's on his own! *flails*

I love the two glimpses of established relationships that we get here. They lend a solidity and layer of promise in the midst of the rough stuff that's a true respite. Right now, it still feels like the Panic boys have their faces pressed up against the glass, watching but separate from Good Things, but in the light cast from those moments of teasing and connectness, it's easy [for the reader at least] to see how all these lives are meshing together.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

The coffee man is so Mikey! When I was writing this I got very excited when I could first write him in. Sadly there was no place for Patrick. Which is a shame.

Granted, the next whole *scene* is Pete to the *core*. *makes hearteyes at the Pete and Mikey shenanigans*

♥

My tin hat, let me show you it.

The pacing on that whole scene - from Jon's initial involvement to carrying Brendon into the clinic, still on a table - is taut, full of tension and had me on the edge of my seat. Dude!

I've a few scenes I particularly like and this one is one of them, from when Ryan goes to help until Brendon leaves with them all at the end. It's him going through one of the worst times of his life, so badly hurt and afraid, but finally getting that scrap of comfort he's craving. It's a pivotal point really, if they hadn't come along then he was screwed. Simple as.

BUT THERE'S NO ROOM!

I KNOW! *pets the Brendon*

[halighanawfulie.livejournal.com]

Mikey is the coffee guy. That's... perfect. down to the unciron pin. I love those little details. :)

Frankie, jamia, Pete, Mikey, Jon... Bob may be the awesomest but all of those come close second.

and way to fuck us. we're all giggly reading cute and less depressing things with Ryan and Spencer and so on, and then next part begins witrh Brendon having to blow someone. It's like a skip in the record and we're brought back to reality.

He can't get a break, can't he? poor kid. What was completly sickening was that some people were laughing. he is in excruciating pain and there's actual people with actual brains and heart and eyes and arms and legs and hair who think it's funny. who actually enjoy that someone is being treated like that. that's enfuriating.

And finnaly. We've been reading two different stories. to different povs. and they finnaly came together. this is when the two lines finnaly cross.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Mikey <3 I was so looking forward to working him in.

I'm beyond thrilled that people liked Bob so much, and Jamia. I've never written her before and I was a little worried.

He can't get a break, can't he? poor kid.

He can't. It's like every step he takes is making things worse, until finally he hits rock bottom.

At least the others are there now.

[nimmy.livejournal.com]

omg ... this far in and my heart is aching hard

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Yeah, I know how you feel. My heart used to ache writing them, and I knew what was going to happen.

[littleladypunk.livejournal.com]

Oh yay, someone's finally took car of Brendon. And Ryan, he's such a good person - he doesn't have almost anything, but still he is willing to share.

Pete and Mikey, Jamia and Frank - they want to help everyone, but there's no room :( That sucks.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

When I was writing this I was itching to get to a part where Brendon could have someone take care of him.

It does suck there's no room. Poor them.