turps

It gets colder and all they can do is struggle to survive. It's been weeks since Brendon's outburst, and it's obvious he's trying to understand, to see things differently, even though he sometimes fails. Like when he sees Pete kiss Mikey's cheek and Brendon can’t stop watching, his hands curled up tight; or when he sees Spencer pull Ryan close, holding him as the wind howls outside. Which is fine, because he is trying, and Ryan knows he's talked to both Mikey and Pete. Not that Ryan knows what was said -- he won't ask; some things aren't meant to be shared.

While Brendon looks mostly healed and doesn't complain, Ryan knows he must ache. It's there in the way it takes Brendon time to stretch out his muscles enough so that he can walk without hunching over, his hand pressed against his side. It’s there in how he winces as he sits or stands, or does anything but lie down.

They're all wearing layers of clothes, sweatshirts that mysteriously appeared after one of Mikey's visits, woollen hats as provided by Pete, even Jamia turned up one day, holding hands with Frank and smiling as she handed over a bag of gloves and scarves that she said had been left at the clinic. Considering that most of it didn't match, maybe that was true.

Still, no matter how many clothes they wear, it's never enough. The cold cuts through each layer and Ryan's fingers are constantly blue. It makes playing his guitar difficult, even when he's swapping with Brendon, who one day, apropos of nothing, admitted he could play. They've had to cut down the hours they busk -- it's impossible to sing and play when you're so cold your teeth chatter and your fingers are numb against the strings. Instead they go back to the office building as soon as the sun begins to set. At least there they're sheltered from the snow. It's the only plus. It's freezing in there, the concrete holding onto the cold and the wind whistling through each open space and crack.

The only way they can sleep is huddled together, and Ryan's become used to feeling Spencer shiver and Brendon huddle in close, making himself as small as he can. Ryan doesn't know how long he can stick it out, except, he's got no choice. None of them do.

It's early one afternoon when Ryan sees Pete. He's talking on his cell, bundled up in a hoodie and a coat, a yellow scarf wound around his neck. When he sees Ryan and Spencer he smiles, and then ends his call, putting his cell in his pocket.

"I was hoping you'd still be here." He looks around then, asks, "Where's Brendon?"

"He went for a walk," Spencer says. "He stiffens up after a while."

Pete looks at his watch. "I can't really stay, we're having a leaving party for Sean and Jenny. They've got their own place."

Ryan tries not to be jealous, but it's a losing battle, because, though they have money, they’re still nowhere near having enough for a deposit for the apartment he’s planned with Spencer. Even if they were, none of them have ID. Still, he tries. "Have a good time."

"You don't get it." Pete is beaming now, unable to stand still as he looks from Ryan to Spencer. "They're going, which means from tomorrow we've got two empty spaces, and we want you to move in."

"But don't you have waiting lists? Spencer sounds calm but his knuckles are white from where he's gripping his bag. "Compared to some, we've hardly lived rough at all."

"Clan House doesn't work like that. Our offer comes with conditions. If you stay you have to go to school or look for work. It's not so much a shelter but a home, somewhere people can stay while they find their feet in the world. It means if we see someone who we think will do well, we can ask them to stay."

"And you want us to stay?" Ryan asks, needing confirmation, because this feels like a dream. "At Clan House, with you and Mikey?"

"We do."

"And we get our own room, with walls and a door?"

"We even throw in beds, two of them."

It's then that reality hits, and Ryan feels sick as he asks, "There's three of us, what about Brendon?"

Pete's smile falters. "There's only two places, legally we can't have more. If we could..."

"I know, you would." Ryan's heard it all before, from Mikey who couldn't take Brendon in that first time, and Ryan understands, he does. It's just, he doesn't know if he can leave Brendon behind. He looks at Spencer, because this is his decision too, but this time Spencer has no answers, just stands still, looking stricken. "Can we tell you our decision tomorrow?"

"Sure," Pete says, "but it'll have to be tomorrow, we only get funded for the places we have filled." He steps away then, already reaching for his cell. "I know it's a hard decision, but don't decide without talking it over." A last smile, smaller this time, and Pete walks away. Ryan starts to put away his guitar, knowing there's no way he'll be able to sing again today.

"I think we should blow some money on a burger."

It's an unexpected suggestion, but Ryan can see the sense in getting out of the cold, having something hot to eat, and actually being able to talk. He nods. "Let's get Brendon."

They eat at McDonald's, taking a table under a heater. Ryan peels off his sweatshirt and lies it over the back of his chair, rubbing his hands together as Spencer buys burgers from the dollar menu and small hot chocolates, glaring at the girl serving when she comments on him paying with all coins. When he comes back he sets down the tray and sits down, wrapping his hands around his hot cup.

"So, want to tell me why we're here?"

Brendon looks suspicious, has since they found him standing next to the bakery vents and announced they were eating out, because they never do -- it's money they can't spare. Stomach churning, Ryan takes a sip of his own hot chocolate, then sets it down, next to the untouched burgers. "While you were away Pete came. There's places going at Clan House."

For a moment Brendon lights up. Then he deflates. "And? There has to be a catch if we're here."

Ryan swallows hard. "There're only two places."

"Oh, right." At that moment Brendon looks impossibly small, and Ryan hates how he forces a smile, like he's fooling anyone. "Well, I'll still see you I guess, and it means I get the whole mattress to myself."

"Who says we're going?" It's not what Ryan expected to say, but the words slip out despite himself, which is bad, because he shouldn't be speaking for Spencer. Spencer reaches out then, though, taking Ryan's hand under the table and holding on.

"You're our friend, we're not leaving you."

Brendon starts to unwrap his burger, the paper crinkling under his fingers. "You haven't even known me that long."

"We've known you long enough that you matter, that we're not letting you go." Ryan reaches his free hand over the table, resting it on Brendon's. "We'll tell them no tomorrow."

“No, you can’t,” Brendon says. “You have to take those places. You’ll have a place to stay, somewhere warm. You’ll have beds. You can’t give those up for me.”

“Says who?” Ryan asks fiercely. “We go together or not at all.”

Brendon starts to protest again, the stops, smiles and says, "Okay."

~*~*~*~

It's three twenty-seven on a Tuesday morning when Brendon runs, his breath misting in the freezing air as Ryan and Spencer lie tangled together in sleep.

Taking a risk, Brendon rests his hand against Spencer's back, runs his fingers over Ryan's cheek, needing these last moments to say goodbye to people who have fast become good friends. When he steps outside, shivering in the cold, he wipes his hands over his face, and tells himself the wetness he feels is melted snow, nothing else. Lying to himself is one thing he can do well.

~*~*~*~

Ryan should have known better. Brendon agreed too easily, he should have protested and attempted to change their minds, but he didn't. He said nothing, and now he's gone.

It doesn't help that Ryan's second guessing himself, wondering if he didn't see because he didn't want to, that he somehow knew Brendon would run, allowing them to take their places at Clan House. Which is something that makes Ryan feel sick, because Brendon is a friend, and the people whom Ryan does let close mean everything. Still, his doubt remains as they run toward Clan House, their feet cruching in the snow. They're hoping that Brendon went there to talk on their behalf, and if he is there, Ryan intends to shake him, hard.

"We couldn't have known," Spencer says suddenly. "Right?"

"He seemed fine last night. He knows he can talk to us." Frustrated, Ryan kicks at a stone, sending it into the road. "We stayed, we stayed for him and he goes off to be all self-sacrificing. Like we'll just forget about him and go live someplace warm."

"You know how he is."

Ryan does know. He knows how Brendon will do anything he can to help, putting effort into everything he does, how hard Brendon tries to be a good friend who listens and talks and tries to get past issues that have burrowed in deep. Ryan knows all that, and he hates that Brendon obviously doesn't see how important he's become to them. If he did, he never would have gone.

It should take thirty minutes to get to Clan House; it takes them fifteen. Looking from the business card that Spencer holds to the unfamiliar street names, they slow when they see what has to be Clan House. It's big -- three floors and surrounded by a garden and a black iron fence. When they push open the gate it squeaks a little, and they hurry up the path, to the double doors painted a glossy black. Ryan knocks, enough that his knuckles ache, not so much that he doesn't keep it up. Impatient, he rocks from foot to foot as he waits for someone to answer, because someone should. It’s too early for Mikey to have left, and even if he has, there're the others. Still, no one is coming, and Ryan knocks again, banging as hard as he can.

"Coming!" Someone yells from inside, and finally the door opens, and they're faced by a stranger. It’s a man holding a cup of coffee, his hair tousled. He’s seemingly still half asleep.

"Sorry, I was getting coffee." He indicates a direction with a jerk of his hand and coffee slops onto his wrist, dripping to the floor. Standing on the spill, he rubs it into the floor with his foot. "Don't tell anyone. Not that they'll care, but you know."

Ryan doesn't know, and he doesn't have time for this. "Is Mikey here? Or Pete?"

"Mikey's doing his hair, he'll be a while yet. I think Pete's feeding the dogs. Hold on, I'll go get him." He steps back then, says, "Come in and wait."

They do, standing next to the radiator as Ryan looks around, taking in the coats hanging on hooks and the framed posters on the walls. There's a well-chewed dog's pull toy on the floor and a life sized Chewbacca stand-up propped in a corner, a striped scarf wrapped around its neck. What Ryan notices the most, though, is how clean it is, how warm. Reaching behind himself he rests his hands on the radiator, curling his fingers over the top.

"Ryan, Spencer, hi." Pete's followed by three dogs, the last a pug wearing a grey sweater, and if Ryan wasn't so frantic he'd already be on his knees. As it is, he ignores them, just gives himself a moment to reach down, petting a silky head. "We weren't sure if you'd come."

"We haven't," Spencer says. "Brendon ran away last night, we hoped he was here."

"Not that I've seen." Smile gone, Pete yells. "Gerard!"

The man with the coffee comes back into the hall. "Yeah?"

"Has anyone else been here this morning? Like someone small with a big smile and brown hair?"

"Sorry, no."

Despite knowing it was a faint hope, Ryan can't help being disappointed and he starts to leave. "Okay, thanks."

"Wait." Pete moves so he's in front of the door and doesn't move, even when Ryan glares. "What are you going to do, walk the city looking for him?"

"That's exactly what we're going to do," Spencer says.

"That's stupid, he could be anywhere."

Which Ryan knows, but at this moment he hates Pete for pointing it out. "We'll keep looking until we find him."

"I have a better idea: wait a while and Mikey'll drive you around. I've got meetings today, but I can do drop offs and Gerard can stay here."

Ryan wants to go now, is about to say no, when Spencer says, "That's great, thank you."

Pete nods slightly and heads for the stairs. "I'll go tell Mikey. Gerard, can you get them breakfast?"

"Sure," Gerard says and he looks at Ryan and Spencer. "This way."

At first Ryan's about to refuse, but Spencer takes hold of his arm, holding on as he leans in. "We can cover more ground in the van."

"But he could be getting on a bus right now."

"Not without money, and he didn't take any. He should have, too, he earned some." Spencer tugs Ryan forward, following Gerard into the kitchen. "We'll find him, and this is the best way."

Ryan nods, and starts moving. The kitchen is one of the biggest Ryan has ever seen. There's a pine table in the middle, the chairs that surround it mismatched, some cushioned, some not; there's even one painted orange with green spots.

"That's Frank's chair, he insisted on decorating it last Halloween." Gerard's dropping thick slices of bread into an over-sized silver toaster. Pushing down the handle he takes two glasses and sets them next to one of the three different coffee machines that are sitting on a bench. They're surrounded by canisters, with a hand written label attached to the shelf: Mikey's Shrine penned in red.

"Juice and toast okay? I'd make you more but I suspect you won't wait."

"We wouldn't," Spencer says, watching as Gerard puts butter and peanut butter, jelly and a plate of already sliced cheese on the table.

Seeing Ryan watching, Gerard smiles again and sets a plate next to the toaster. "I figured you'd be hungry."

Ryan is; he's also desperate to leave. But he makes himself sit down and take a glass of orange juice from Gerard, drinking almost half as Gerard slides a plate full of golden brown toast onto the table. "Help yourself, there's plenty."

"Thank you," Spencer says, and he takes a slice, adding butter and after a moments hesitation, a slice of cheese. Liking that idea, Ryan does the same, and it's not like he's spent a lifetime being hungry, but it's enough that having plentiful food in front of him is a novelty. Before he knows it Ryan's eaten almost three slices of toast, each one topped with cheese. It's only when he's full, stomach aching, that Ryan realizes how fast he has eaten, how he's sucking the butter from his fingers. Embarrassed, he drops his hands, looking anywhere but at Gerard who's standing at the toaster, loaf of bread held in one hand.

"You want more? There's plenty. Or there's fruit, we have apples and bananas and these, whatever the fuck they are." There's a bowl on the counter, yellow and red striped and for some reason, a plastic batman sitting on top of the fruit. Gerard pushes him to one side with his finger, and picks up something brown and knobbly and vaguely sinister looking. "Mikey got them from the morning market, he says they taste good."

Gerard doesn't sound convinced and Ryan doesn't blame him, says. "I'll have an apple, please."

Expecting Gerard to throw one over, Ryan watches as instead Gerard swaps the mystery fruit for a shiny green apple and cuts it into slices which he piles on a plate. "Spencer, you want?"

"I'll share."

"Good plan." Gerard sets the plate between Ryan and Spencer then sits, coffee mug in hand. "They should be down soon, it doesn't take Mikey long to get ready when he needs to, and he was at the putting shit in his hair stage when I came down."

"You live here?" Spencer asks, reaching out to take an apple slice. He bites into it with a crunch.

"I share the top floor with Mikey and Pete. I've my own suite, thank god.

Spencer takes another apple slice, his fingertips white as he bites, chewing hard. "Right, I remember Mikey telling Brendon that, that you own this place together."

Gerard shrugs. "Own, yeah, but it's their baby. I just stick around for a place to stay."

"Yeah, right." Mikey steps into the room then, already wearing his coat and surrounded by four other people, all appearing to be around Ryan's age. They're all staring and Ryan can't help feeling self-conscious about his dirty clothes and how he desperately needs a shower. Seeming to sense that, Mikey turns and says, "Go, Pete's waiting."

They do, and Ryan sets his mug down on the table before standing. "We need to find him."

"We'll do our best," Mikey says, and he walks up to Gerard, stealing the coffee out of his hand and taking a long drink. "Thanks."

"Yeah yeah," Gerard says, but he also grabs a slice of toast, already spread with peanut butter. "Eat."

Mikey takes it. "Thanks, mom."

"Disturbing, being as that would make you my son."

"Whatever." Unconcerned, Mikey bites into his toast. "Come on, we'll take my car."

Mikey's car is purple. It's also got a plastic dinosaur hanging from the mirror and electrically heated seats. Putting his guitar in the back seat, Ryan picks up the CDs that are scattered on the front passenger seat, then gets inside. Spencer sits behind Mikey, so they can look out of both sides.

When Mikey gets in he checks the mirror, adjusts his seat and fastens his seat-belt, looking to check that Ryan and Spencer have done the same. "I'm going to check the main roads first; he's probably hitching."

"Right," Ryan says, and sits back as they move, always watching the sidewalks, always hoping that around the next corner they'll see Brendon.

~~~~

They never do. Fourteen hours, one stop for food and one for the bathroom later, there's no trace of Brendon at all. Even then Ryan would keep looking, but Mikey insists they go home, that they can't see anything in the dark and snow. Ryan knows that he's right, but that doesn't help, not when Brendon's out there somewhere, cold, hungry and alone.

~~~~

Mikey straight up refuses to take them back to the office, at least not to stay. Demonstrating an impressive ability to tune out all protests, he keeps driving toward Clan House, ignoring the strained silence as Ryan deliberately turns away and Spencer slumps in the backseat, head turned and pressed against the glass so he can see outside. Not that there's much to see -- just snow and pools of light that cut through the dark at regular intervals. When they reach home, Mikey parks, taking a spot next to the van, and stepping outside, his feet crunching in the snow.

Ryan doesn't move, just stares forward until Mikey crouches down, looking inside. "I live with Pete and Gerard; I've seen every kind of drama from silence to full out war. You can either come inside where it's warm or stay here, your choice."

He leaves then, shoulders hunched against the snow, heading for the house and its brightly lit windows, the area around the door made warm by two lights attached to the wall, welcoming people home.

Spencer leans forward, arms over the chair back, his head resting against Ryan's. "We'll go out again at first light. Brendon wouldn't want us staying in a car."

"As soon as the sun rises, we go."

"Promise," Spencer says and sits back, getting out of the car. He picks up his bag and Ryan's guitar, and they head for the house, kicking their shoes against the step. Ryan's about to knock when he sees that the door's been left open. They go inside.

"Mikey's gone to get changed. I'm making hot chocolate, you want?" Pete asks from where he's been waiting, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. He doesn't wait for an answer, just goes into the kitchen before he gets a reply.

They follow and find Pete already looking into a unicorn shaped cookie barrel, examining the choices inside. There's a boy standing at the stove, one of the ones from this morning -- tall and thin, his hair caught back with a red elastic band. He's stirring something in a pan, and when he hears Spencer and Ryan he looks over his shoulder and gives a shy smile.

"Trey. This is Spencer and Ryan. Think you've got enough milk for them too?"

"I can make do." Trey pours chocolate power into the pan and keeps stirring as he turns to the side, hip against the counter, so he can see. "You want marshmallows?"

"Please," Spencer says. Tired, Ryan sits, resting his head in his hands as Trey and Pete talk softly. Their laughter is slight, melodic as they pour out hot chocolate and put cookies on a plate. When he hands over two mugs, Trey smiles again and this close Ryan can see the scar that runs down his neck on one side, wrapping around.

Looking away, Ryan nods his thanks and takes a sip, hoping it'll calm him down, because it feels wrong to be here, where it's warm and dry. All Ryan wants to do is go back out, keep looking, even though he knows the idea is insane.

"Any left for me?" Mikey's changed into pyjama pants and a worn t-shirt. He’s wearing knitted red socks that are obviously homemade. He looks comfortable and warm, but when he walks past, Ryan can sense the lingering cold, there in the way Mikey's hair is damp and his fingers are white.

"Here," Pete says, passing over his own mug. He jumps up onto the counter then, close to the coffee shrine, Mikey moving to stand between his spread legs.

"Is Ray here yet?" Mikey asks, when he's finished sharing the hot chocolate with Pete.

"He's with Gerard, apparently there may be a loophole we can exploit." Pete wraps his arms around Mikey's shoulders and tucks his head against Mikey's neck. "I'll have to go up soon, they'll need someone to sign."

"You don't need me?"

"Not yet, maybe later."

A kiss against Mikey's cheek and Pete slides down, putting the mug in the sink when Gerard appears. He's wearing paint-splashed jeans, and for some reason, a red plaid shirt over his t-shirt. He's also talking to another man, one wearing dress pants and an open-necked white shirt, an outfit at odds with the tangled curls of his hair.

"I was just coming up."

"Well you can wait a while, Ray's got the munchies."

Ray shakes his head. "It wasn't me craving cereal."

"I was hungry," Gerard says, and opens a cupboard, pulling out a box. He pours cereal into a bowl, adds milk and eats standing up, shoveling the cereal in as fast as he can.

"Seriously. Fucking gross," Mikey says and he reaches out, taking a floating marshmallow out of the bowl to put it in his own mouth. Not that Gerard seems to care, he just offers the bowl and Mikey takes another marshmallow, a white one this time.

It's then that Ray steps forward, holding out his hand. "As no one is going to bother, hi, I'm Ray."

Ryan takes his hand, shaking briefly, says, "Ryan."

"Spencer," Spencer says.

"Ray's our lawyer," Gerard says around a mouthful of cereal.

Ryan looks at the clock on the wall. "Isn't it a bit late to be working?"

"You'd think. They bribe me with offers of food and then don't follow through."

"I made you a coffee," Gerard protests.

"If you mean you poured me some from the brew you made for yourself, yes, you did," Ray says.

Gerard holds out his bowl, more pink-tinged milk than anything now. "You want?"

"I'll pass." Ray looks at Ryan and Spencer, says, "See what I put up with?"

"You're life. So hard." Gerard drains the last of the milk by tipping it into his mouth and puts his bowl in the sink. "Come on, let's go look at legal shit."

"Your professionalism astounds me," Ray says. They leave then, Pete going with a last smacking kiss to Mikey's jaw.

Without their noise and teasing chatter, the silence weighs heavily, letting briefly pushed-aside thoughts be heard once more. Standing, Ryan looks out of the window, hoping he'll be able to see the road. He can't, all that's out there is a big garden, strings of what have to be leftover Halloween lights wrapped around a large tree.

"If you want," Mikey says suddenly. "You can go get a shower. There's normally a line earlier in the evening but it'll be empty now. We've plenty of spare clothes too, in case you want to get changed."

Spencer's tempted, Ryan can see it in the way he runs his hands through his hair and looks down at his dirty clothes. Catching his eye, Ryan says, "Go."

"You sure? I can stay."

"I can survive without you for a short while," Ryan says, hoping that's actually true.

"Okay, then, yes. Please."

"I'll show you to the bathroom, and the closet with the spare clothes, we'll find you something," Mikey says. "Your bag will be safe here, but if you'd rather take it--"

Spencer hesitates a moment, then picks it up, handing it to Ryan. "Ryan will watch it"

"That works." Mikey touches Spencer's arm. "Come on, let's find you stuff."

"No plaid." The words slip out before Ryan can think what he's saying, but Mikey doesn't seem to mind.

"I'm not that cruel." He smiles then, a bigger smile than Ryan's ever seen him use. "Usually Gee's not a plaid guy either, but his boyfriend left the shirt here last week. It's like a reminder thing, and sadly that reminder's plaid."

"That's sweet."

Mikey laughs then. "It's not often he's called sweet, either of them." Still laughing, he leaves, Spencer trailing behind him, and Ryan's left alone.

Standing next to the window he looks outside and tries to remember the last time he was totally alone. He can't. For the last months he's always been with Spencer, and then Spencer and Brendon, and now he's here, in a strange place, and Brendon is lost somewhere -- lost and alone and no doubt freezing. It's an all-too-easy scenario to imagine, and Ryan grips the edge of the counter and bites at his lower lip, feeling the ridge of scar tissue as he tries to breathe past the lump that's lodged in his throat.

"Spencer'll be down soon."

Ryan's unsure how long he's been standing at the window, long enough that Mikey's come back down, has moved so that he's standing close, and Ryan looks at their reflections in the window. Mikey is scrubbed clean, Ryan still dirty and it's such a contrast that he can't bear to look. Blinking hard, he looks away.

"There's nothing to see here," Mikey says then. "But the TV room overlooks the main road." He wraps his fingers around Ryan's wrist. "Come on, I'll show you."

The TV room is full of couches and easy chairs, crammed together around a big TV. There's a magazine left on a side table, a lamp shining in a corner and one of the dogs is sleeping on a beanbag, her ears pricking up when they appear.

"Hey Piglet." Mikey crouches down and rubs Piglet's head. "You're getting some company tonight." He stands then, taking a blanket that's been thrown over one of the sofas. "That chair's good for thinking in."

Mikey's pointing at a chair that's positioned near the window. It's a deep blue and has soft cushions that Ryan sinks into when he sits down. When he does, he finds it's in the perfect place to see outside, to the road and sidewalk. Ryan takes the blanket Mikey offers, preparing for a night waiting, because if he can't be out there looking for Brendon, he can do this.

"Mind if you have some company?"

Ryan looks up briefly. "You don't need my permission, it's your home."

"Yeah, I do," Mikey says, and sits on the nearest couch, knees bent and feet tucked up. Together they watch and wait.

~*~*~*~

Brendon meets Jon for the second time on a freezing cold night, when the city is sleeping and snow has started to freeze on the ground. He's been sheltering under a bridge for almost a day now, keeping away from the snow but, more importantly, hiding from Ryan and Spencer. He knows they'll be looking, and Brendon can't be found. His blanket is wet through, soggy and cold, but Brendon stays huddled under it, sitting propped up by the rough wall, hands tucked under his armpits and head down, hoping desperately for sleep. Instead he hears a thud, and looks up to see that someone has fallen on the road that runs alongside the bridge.

"Hey, are you okay?" Brendon asks. He peels off his blanket, holding on to a wet corner, his body stiff and protesting painfully as he stands and goes to see if he can help. He backs away, preparing to run when he sees who it is -- one of the men who was running with Jake. In fact, it’s the one who was left to make sure Brendon was dead.

The man has stayed on the ground, rubbing at his knee. He's wearing a coat that's wet through, jeans that are dark from ankle to knee, a knit cap pulled low on his head. He looks exhausted, eyes shadowed too dark, even allowing for the poor light. He holds up one hand, looking at the graze that runs along the fleshy part of his palm, then rubs it against his coat, before finally looking at Brendon, obviously shocked. "You're alive! I thought..." He hesitates then, squeezing his eyes shut, then opening them again. "It doesn't matter what I thought. You're alive."

"I am," Brendon says, and he takes a wary step forward, always looking for the flash of a knife. "Are you okay?"

"Define ‘okay’." The man laughs then, a bitter, tired sound that contains no humour at all. "No, sorry, I'm fine, just probably the last person you want to see." He stands then, wincing a little when he kneels and pushes himself up, taking care on the slippery ground. He starts to walk, slowly, looking forward, head bowed against the snow. He stops after a few steps and looks back. "For what it's worth. I'm sorry."

Brendon can't actually remember much about the night he was attacked, mostly just pain and fear and faces in the dark. He was lying on the cold grass, Spencer's hands against his cheek, and someone else, someone telling him to keep breathing, that help was coming -- to fucking hold on. "You stayed with me."

“I was told to."

"No," Brendon says, and while most memories are hazy, the flash of knife isn't at all. "You stopped him, you saved me."

"If I’d saved you, I would have stopped them attacking you at all." The man’s voice is thick with self-disgust.

"One man against a group,” Brendon shakes his head. “That's not a fair fight."

The man shrugs, and starts to walk again. "Maybe."

Brendon watches him go, the way he walks so slowly, as if exhaustion is dragging him down. In a split-second decision, Brendon says, "Wait! If you want shelter, well-- There's plenty under the bridge."

"It's your space."

"My name's not on it, and anyway, I can share."

No one speaks for a long moment, but then the man turns and starts toward the bridge. "I'm Jon."

Brendon smiles. "Brendon."

It doesn't take long to get settled. Brendon slides down the wall, tucking up his legs, draping the wet blanket over his lap. Hands stuffed in the pocket of his hoodie, Brendon watches as Jon sits too, picking a spot where he's close, but still an arm’s length away. They're sitting in the middle of the bridge, where it's mostly dry and only the occasional snowflake is blown inside. It's still freezing cold, yet another reason that Brendon has to go. Tomorrow he plans on hitching, going anywhere but here -- hopefully someplace warm.

"I have donuts," Jon says suddenly. He pulls out a bag that he's had stuffed under his coat, and peels back the wet paper, exposing two donuts, both covered in pink sprinkles. "They throw them out after a certain time. I fought a dog for these."

Jon's smiling, and Brendon would think that he's joking, but Brendon's done his share of dumpster diving, and donuts are a good prize. "I take it you won."

"Sort of." Jon holds up his hand, shaking it so the cuff of his coat falls back, exposing the bloody fabric wrapped around his forearm.

"Nasty," Brendon says.

"Worth it." Jon shakes his coat back into place and holds out a donut. "Enjoy."

If he were a better person, Brendon would say no, because this is Jon's food, paid for with his own blood. He takes it anyway, too tired and cold to say no, especially when he's so hungry and daylight seems to be taking forever to come again. "Thank you."

Jon takes a bite of his own donut, eating slowly, and Brendon would do the same, but he's too hungry for that, and soon he's sucking at his fingers, tasting icing mixed with dirt.

"Not bad, yeah? The sprinkles help disguise how stale they are."

"The sprinkles made the difference," Brendon agrees, and he can't help noticing how Jon's worrying at the fabric around his arm, rubbing at the skin below it. "You really should go to the clinic, Jamia's cool, she'll fix you up."

"I washed it out, it'll be fine, and anyway, I'm keeping away from that side of the city."

Brendon knows the rules, that he's not supposed to ask, but he's wide awake now and needs the distraction. "Why?"

Thankfully, Jon doesn't seem to mind the question at all, just settles himself against the wall and pulls his hands into his coat sleeves. "You remember Jake? He's used to be being obeyed."

"And because of me you had to run."

"Considering I was with a group who beat you up, I'd say any guilt is misplaced."

"I didn't see you kicking. Not that I remember everything, but I'd like to think not.”

"I didn't," Jon says. "I never did anything like that. I think that's why Jake told me to stay. He was forcing the issue."

"So why stay with them at all?"

At first Brendon thinks it's one question too far. Jon picks at a hangnail, worrying at it until the side of his nail is raw before he replies. "Mostly I ended up with them due to my best friend. You know how it goes.” He shrugs. “You come looking for fame and fortune, and instead you end up sleeping rough and doing what you can to survive."

Brendon nods, that he does know. "Where is he? Still with Jake?"

Jon winces. "I wish I knew. He-- He got himself into some heavy shit, drugs mainly, and the more he got into the more he had to repay. He always blamed himself for us losing our place and having to run with Jake's gang.” He shakes his head. “Last time I saw Tom he was going on collection for Jake. I waited, but…well, he never came back." Jon looks up then, directly at Brendon. "I've no idea where he is, if he’s even alive or dead. I just-- I knew I had to get out."

"I'm sorry," Brendon says, even though he knows the words won't help at all.

"Me too." Jon shifts, pulling up his knees. "So, turnabout and all that, what about you?"

It's a question Brendon could answer in multiple ways but he decides on the shortest. "The two people from before, from the park? I stayed with them. They got offered these places in a shelter, but there wasn't room for me, so I got myself outta there."

"The kid who held your cheek together and the one with the guitar?"

"Yeah."

"You knew them?" Jon says, sounding surprised.

"Not then," Brendon says. "But after, they took me in and looked after me."

"That’s…wow. I mean, good." Jon sounds genuinely pleased, but there's something else, some underlying tone that Brendon can't quite grasp, Then Jon asks, "They became your friends?"

"In time." It’s a simplistic answer, because there's no easy way to explain how Ryan and Spencer stuck around while he was healing, body and then mind, how the three of them formed a bond through long, late night conversations and banding together to survive.

"And you just…left?"

This time the tone is unmistakable -- disbelief so apparent that Brendon has to explain. "If I'd stayed they wouldn't have taken their places. This was the only way. They've got somewhere to go now, okay? They’ve got a home."

"And a friend that walked out on them." Jon's not raising his voice, is just sitting looking at Brendon, and Brendon doesn't even know him, his opinion shouldn't matter. Somehow it does.

"I had to. You-- You don't understand."

"I understand that I woke one morning and Tom was gone. I understand that I looked for him for days and each time I expected to find his corpse. I understand that he was my best friend and losing him fucking hurt, hasn’t stopped hurting, feels like it never will." Jon’s tone picks up urgency and pointedness as he speaks.

"I have to leave," Brendon almost-shouts in response. He had to. No way was he going to deny Ryan and Spencer this chance, no fucking way.

"You could have said goodbye at least, not just left them, probably thinking the worst. You still could. I mean, you know where this shelter is, right?"

Brendon is about to spout an automatic denial when the words catch up to him. Grudgingly, he says, “I'll think about it." He can give Ryan and Spencer that consideration. In his heart, he knows he should.

~~~~~

Eventually, Brendon sleeps, but it's a sleep filled with dreams, shadowy figures and grasping hands -- so much so that he's relieved to wake. Blinking, he screws shut his eyes against the light and tells himself he's not hungry, not tired, not cold, not in pain. It doesn't work, it never does, and Brendon presses his mouth tightly closed, trapping in the whimpers as he forces his fingers to bend, his knees and back to straighten as he looks at Jon.

"Morning." Jon smiles slow and easy, a contradiction to the way he's huddled up, knees bent and hand tucked inside his coat.

"Morning," Brendon says, when he can finally form the words. When his joints are as loose as they're going to get, he struggles to his feet, blowing on his fingers as he looks out onto the road outside the bridge. They're so out of the way that no footprints disturb the fresh snow and despite himself, Brendon has to admire how pretty it is, how serene. The thought prompts a reminder of a time before, when he was at home in the nearly ever-present heat, wishing to see snow.

He tries not to think of those times now, they’re only painful memories buried deep, but this one won't be pushed aside. "'I said I'd do this one day," Brendon says to himself. It's a stupid idea, Brendon knows that, but it's not like he can get colder and he's already wet through. He steps forward, lies down on his back and as he scrapes his arms and legs along the ground he can't help laughing, enjoying this one thing for him, something that's purely for fun.

"Enjoying yourself?" Jon looks amused as he watches Brendon, then holds out his hand. "I'll pull you up so it won't spoil."

Brendon takes hold, allowing himself to be pulled up and then looking down at his snow angel. "It's my first one."

"Well congratulations," Jon says, and while he is smiling, there's no mockery at all. "If you've finished, we can go get breakfast. There's a dumpster a few blocks over that always has good pickings."

Brendon looks at his snow angel one last time, committing it to memory, and says, "Lead on."

~~~~

The dumpster is set behind a row of shops, its lid still covered in snow which falls on Brendon's arms as he pushes it open. On his tiptoes he looks inside, at the plastic bags full of trash and the collapsed cardboard boxes pushed to one side. Hooking them with one hand, he pushes the boxes aside, rummaging underneath until finally something catches his eye. Leaning in even further, Brendon tugs at the bag, nose wrinkling at the smell of rotting food but he keeps pulling, eventually dropping to the ground, the bag held tightly in one hand.

"You got something?"

Brendon holds up the bag. "Cold pizza, it must have come from the Dominos."

Digging in with his fingers, Brendon splits the bag, exposing the crusts and scraps of pizza, but there's also some slices that are almost whole and he gathers them together, checking over each one for mold.

"Nice find," Jon says. "A beer and we'd be living the typical student lifestyle."

"Well, there's no beer, but we have melted snow." Brendon looks around, toeing at the snow. "Just maybe not here, it's a little yellow for my taste."

"We should go eat out front, there's a wall."

It's a good plan and Brendon follows Jon out of the alley toward the low wall that runs alongside the parade of shops. Sweeping himself a clear space, he sits, the pizza slices on his lap. Sorting through them, he holds two up. "There's pepperoni or vegetable."

"I'll take the pepperoni." Jon takes the slice, looking at the bite that's been taken out of the side. "One bite and they threw it away.” His eyes are a little angry. “Some people don't know what they've got."

Brendon takes a bite of his own slice, the slight taste of plastic nothing compared to how hungry he is. He chews, swallows, and repeats the process until he's finished. "I used to throw away food. I never thought of people going without."

"It's not like you could go out and hand out your half-eaten sandwiches."

"I could have tried."

"And done what? Gone downtown with bags of leftovers?"

Jon starts to eat another slice, this one stained with some kind of sauce. He grimaces once, but keeps eating, chewing until it's all gone then eases his fingers up the sleeve of his coat, rubbing at his arm.

"You really should go to the clinic," Brendon says, seeing how the skin at Jon's wrist has turned red, puffy.

"It'll be fine." Jon pulls at his coat sleeve until his wrist is covered. "Are you still heading out today?"

"Soon as I can."

"You should try the truck-stop to the north, lots of truckers go there."

Brendon watches as Jon examines the slices on his lap before putting them in the pocket of his coat. "You could come with."

Surprised, Jon looks up. "No. Thanks for the offer, but I need to stay here."

Brendon doesn't understand that at all. "Why? You're being chased by Jake and your friend's gone."

"But he could come back," Jon says fiercely. "And when he does, I'll be waiting. He's my friend, I'm not abandoning him."

It's not a slam against Brendon, he knows it's not. It hurts all the same, and he can't help thinking…what if? What if he did go back, just to say goodbye?

"You're a good friend," Brendon says. He thinks of Ryan and Spencer, how they were good friends, too, good friends to him, far better than he’d ever had before. The realization is shocking in its intensity. He needs this goodbye.

~*~*~*~

Ryan wakes with a stiff neck and the blanket wrapped around his legs. Blinking against the sunshine streaming into the room, he kicks himself free and sits upright so he can look outside. He’s presented with the picture of some kind of winter wonderland, with crisp white snow, except for on the drive, where Mikey's car is missing. There’s a snowman built to the side of the van, a sombrero perched on its head.

"Someone donated it a few years back, it gets brought out for parties sometimes."

Jumping, Ryan turns and sees Gerard, who's sitting on the couch, surrounded by papers and books.

"Sorry, I thought you knew I was here." Setting aside a stack of papers, Gerard sits forward, so he's on the edge of the couch. "Mikey's doing drop-offs, and Pete's got a meeting with one of our sponsors. Spencer's helping out in the kitchen. He wasn't going to go, but I promised I'd stay here."

"Okay," Ryan says, trying to keep up. He stretches, carefully working out the kinks in his back. "Someone should have woken me up, we need to search."

"Not until Mikey gets back, it's freezing out there."

"That’s why we need to go now."

"No, it's why you need to get something to eat, wait for Mikey and then go. You can't be walking around in this."

Angry, Ryan says, "We did before."

"You didn't have any choices then." Gerard keeps looking at Ryan, but doesn't approach. "Mikey'll be back in ten minutes. You can wait that long."

Ryan doesn't want to wait that long, but he's not stupid, he knows waiting is the sensible thing to do. Still, he doesn't have to like it. "If we miss him because I waited--"

"You can curse me all you want." Gerard gathers up all the papers, placing them in a file. "I need to get these to Ray. Tell Frank I'll be back soon."

"I thought Frank lived at the clinic?"

Gerard smiles then, indicating Ryan should go first. "He does, I think he just comes here to eat our food."

Given that information, it’s only appropriate that when Ryan walks into the kitchen he sees Frank sitting on his orange and green chair, eating his way through a plateful of toast. Spencer's sitting next to him, looking clean in clothes that actually fit, his hair glossy. For the first time in forever there's color in his cheeks that's not due to the cold.

"Ryan, it's good to see you."

Ryan's trying to get to Spencer, but Frank grabs hold, pulling him into a hug, which makes Ryan stiffen, all too aware of how dirty he is, how his clothes smell. Frank doesn't seem to care at all, just holds on tight before letting go. "Here, sit. Have some toast."

Ryan does, taking a slice and nibbling at a corner, feeling out of place in this kitchen with its bright blue walls and shining appliances. With Spencer being clean, the contrast is even more acute and all Ryan wants to do is leave. Instead, he mentally retreats, nods slightly at a girl who waves a hello, gives one word answers to Spencer, who looks concerned as he divides his attention between Ryan and Frank. Finally there's the sound of a car, and Ryan stands, making the chair legs scrape across the tiles. It takes all his willpower to stay in the kitchen until Mikey appears, but as soon as he does, Ryan grabs his guitar. "Let's go."

Mikey shrugs his shoulders, the movement almost hidden under his coat and holds out his hand, taking the slice of toast Frank hands over, then starts to leave the room, wet footprints overlapping with those from his entrance. It’s then that Ryan hears the sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs and Pete yelling as he pulls open the front door. "Brendon!"

Ryan runs, Spencer too, arriving together to see Pete standing in the doorway, Brendon just behind. Brendon looks frozen, huddled inside his hoodie, the hood pulled up and his cheeks and nose frostbite-red.

"I'm sorry, Brendon says.

"You should be." Spencer steps forward then, past Pete -- who's moved to the side -- and pulls Brendon into a hug, holding on. Before he even knows he's moving, Ryan is joining in, his arms around them both.

"Don't you ever leave again, you idiot, you fucking idiot," Ryan says, and Brendon pulls back then, his smile fading away.

"I don't-- Um, I mean, I didn’t come to stay. I just, uh, just wanted to say goodbye, is all."

"Yeah, that's not happening," Ryan says, and he's holding onto Brendon, as if he can physically stop him from going.

"No,” Brendon says, sounding quite sure of himself. “I didn't come for that. Jon just said some stuff and…and I need to go. I can't stay."

"How about you come in to talk? Standing on the step is a bitch on the heating." Pete pushes past then, looking outside. "You can come in too, have something to eat."

It's only then that Ryan realizes there's someone else there. He looks over Brendon's head and sees Jon, the guy who helped them save Brendon. That night seems like a lifetime ago.

Jon looks back at them all, smiling slightly. "Thanks for the offer, but no."

"Jon was bitten by a dog. I think it's infected," Brendon says then, looking utterly unrepentant despite the look Jon sends his way.

"In that case, the invitation is compulsory." Pete steps outside, and in the process pushes Brendon so that he's herded into the hall. "Jon, in here before I have to come get you."

Truthfully, Ryan thinks Jon could maybe take Pete, but there's a lot of them standing here, and Jon seems to understand that he's outnumbered as he starts to walk inside. "I'm not staying."

"Seems to be lots of that going around," Pete says, shutting the door. For a moment, there's chaos, as too many people cluster together. Then Mikey steps forward, efficiently taking charge.

"Frank, check over Jon's bite. Spencer, show Brendon to the bathroom and get him some clothes -- he needs to warm up. Ryan, go with them. Pete, go finish charming Mrs. Wilson and if you see him, tell Gee we need a decision, and fast."

A chorus of acknowledgments, and they all separate, heading for different areas of the house. When he gets upstairs, Ryan sees a long corridor, doors on either side, all but one with attached homemade name plates.

"The end one's the bathroom, the one next to it's for storage." Spencer pushes open the door with the giant sharp-toothed squid on its name plate, attached at eye level. Inside there's a cubical shower and tub, two sinks against the far wall, and shelves holding towels of all different colors, each one folded into messy piles. "The shower is awesome, it has different settings and the water's hot."

Spencer goes into the bathroom, sounding awed, and Ryan loves how happy he looks as he points out the toiletries in a cupboard and how the towel rail is heated. Little things that make Spencer's eyes shine, and Ryan doesn't know how they'll be able to leave. Which is when he's reminded of Brendon, and Ryan turns, sees that he's still standing in the corridor, looking pale as he looks inside.

"Are you okay?"

Brendon forces a smile. "I'm fine, honestly. You should go get showered."

Ryan isn't so sure. On one hand there's Spencer, already adjusting the controls, on the other, Brendon, who looks small and tired as he backs away.

"Have you found everything?"

Brendon turns and Ryan looks out the door, seeing Mikey, who's taken off his coat and is walking toward them.

"We're good" Brendon says, and Ryan looks past him, hoping that Mikey gets that Brendon isn't good at all. It's a faint hope, because Mikey isn't Spencer, except in the way that he must be some sort of expert in talking without words, because he rests his hand against Brendon's back and gently turns him toward the storage room.

"There's an outfit in there with your name on it. Come on, I'll show you."

Brendon goes, and Ryan smiles his thanks, along with a soft, “Take care of him."

"Always," Mikey replies.

When he's sure Brendon is safe in Mikey's care, Ryan closes the door. Already tendrils of steam are slinking along the ceiling and he sees that Spencer has his hand under the spray of water, looking thoughtful as he adjusts the temperature.

"I've turned it up hot." Spencer takes his hand out of the water, and looks uncertainly at Ryan when he makes no reply. "Do you want me to go?"

Ryan doesn't, but it also feels weird taking off his clothes when Spencer is just standing there. It shouldn't be an issue, they've slept close and dressed each other's wounds, but this is different, the years of being together are of no use when there has been such distance at times. After almost a minute, when Ryan still hasn't replied, Spencer begins to walk to the door.

"Stay."

Spencer hesitates, then turns back. "Want me to wash your hair?"

Ryan runs his hands through his hair, feeling the lank strands, the dirt that he could never wash out. "Please."

Looking pleased, Spencer starts to gather bottles and Ryan slips out of his clothes, the ingrained smell of body odor and dirt so apparent in this clean room that he can't help feeling ashamed. It just gets worse when he strips to his boxer briefs and sees himself in the mirror, the sharpness of his hip bones, the bumps of his ribs and prominent ridges of his collar bones. He's all angles and bruised, scarred skin, and he's got no idea what Spencer sees, but it must be something different, because he's looking at Ryan like he's something precious, and when he says, you're beautiful, it's in such a way that Ryan believes him.

"Come on, in."

Surprised, Ryan watches as Spencer kicks off his clothes, and then steps into the shower, seemingly not embarrassed at all. Immediately his hair is flattened by the water and he scrunches shut his eyes as he tips back his head, letting the water run over his face, droplets making rivulets over his cheeks and chin, then steps back, leaving room. Hooking his thumbs into the elastic, Ryan pulls off his briefs and joins Spencer.

The water feels amazing, hot with just the right amount of pressure and Ryan can't help a satisfied sigh as he leans forward, hands against the tiles, and lets his hair be soaked, the dirty water swirling around his feet.

"Tip your head back."

Ryan does so, eyes shut against the spray as Spencer works in the shampoo. He takes his time, fingers kneading against Ryan's scalp, ensuring all his hair is clean, then directs Ryan to put his head back under the water, the suds washing down Ryan's body and into the drain. Switching bottles, Spencer squirts conditioner into his hand and works it into Ryan's hair, making sure every strand is covered before picking up a clean sponge.

"I can wash your back."

Ryan nods, and Spencer squeezes shower gel onto the sponge and starts to run it over Ryan's back, long methodical stripes from his neck to ass that feel fantastic and make Ryan's breath quicken, especially when Spencer doesn't stop, changes his focus so he's working the sponge over Ryan's side, across his chest and belly. They're standing so close it's easy to tell that Spencer's turned on. It’s a strange feeling, because it's been forever since their clumsy explorations in Spencer's bedroom, but it’s also just to right. Ryan starts to turn.

"Not yet," Spencer says. "I need to finish washing you."

It's frustrating, but Ryan's not about to say no to anything Spencer wants, and he stands still, eyes fluttering closed at the feel of the sponge being dragged across his inner thighs and over his knees to his feet.

"Up."

Spencer taps Ryan's toes, and he obediently lifts his foot, hand braced against the wall as he looks down at Spencer, how he's crouched down, back arched, exposing the line of his spine. Ryan wants to touch, but that's not what's needed yet, and he contents himself with just watching. He takes in how Spencer's shoulder muscles move as he carefully washes Ryan's ankles, how his skin gleams with the water, but most of all, how he's so intent on Ryan, insistent on getting every inch of him clean.

"Nearly done," Spencer says, and he drops the sponge to the floor. "I just need to rinse your hair, head back."

Ryan obeys, keeping still as Spencer uses his hand to shield Ryan's eyes, until finally he seems satisfied and takes his hand away.

"Thank you."

"No problem." Spencer steps back then, enough he can look Ryan up and down. "You look better."

"I look like a drowned rat."

"A very hot drowned rat."

There's a veil of water running between them, and the room is full of steam, but Ryan can still easily see Spencer, he thinks even if his eyes were closed he could see him and know what he needs. "Want to redo our first kiss?"

"Cheating, but I think we have grounds."

This kiss is better, much better. Spencer pulls Ryan close so they're out of the direct area of the spray. Still, Ryan can feel hot water running down his back and Spencer's slippery wet under Ryan's wrinkled fingers. After so long, after the false start he initiated, Ryan's determined to make this good. He keeps his hands against Spencer's back, ensuring that they stay pressed close. He shivers at the feel of Spencer's tongue against his mouth, especially when Spencer runs it over the scar tissue on Ryan's lip, the area still hyper-sensitive.

"Okay?" Spencer asks.

"Fine," Ryan says, and to prove it he deepens the kiss, slow and steady at first until they're both needing more. Spencer rubs himself against Ryan's body and Ryan knows he's not going to last long. There's no way he can against the dual assault of Spencer licking at the water on Ryan's neck and rubbing his dick against the crease of Ryan's groin, a slick drag of movement that urges Ryan to do the same, his rhythm falling in with Spencer's until they're both breathing hard and Ryan's balanced on the edge of climax, plummeting over when Spencer works a hand between their bodies and brings Ryan off with a couple of strong strokes.

Ryan rests his head against Spencer's shoulder. "You cheated."

"Really?" Spencer doesn’t sounding concerned at all.

"Really. I didn't get to touch you." Ryan is not pouting, not really.

Spencer grins. "There's always next time."

Part Ten