When Day is Night Alone 3

[turps]

"I'm telling you, no." Determined, Ryan grabs hold of Spencer's hand and tugs him away from Brendon, who's still curled up on the mattress. He’s under Spencer's spare clothes as a kind of a makeshift blanket, and is seemingly still fast asleep. "I'm not leaving you alone."

"I won't be alone," Spencer says, jerking his hand out of Ryan's grasp. "Brendon will be here, and it's not like I do much anyway. You do all the singing and playing."

"Brendon won't be able to help if anyone comes, and you do plenty. I need you there."

"No, you don't." Spencer looks over his shoulder at Brendon. "But he does. Someone needs to stay with him."

"So we'll both stay." It's something Ryan refuses to compromise on, because no way are they splitting up.

"Fine," Spencer says, and Ryan will take that agreement, even if Spencer doesn't look happy at all.

The thing is, though, staying here means there's nothing to do. Spencer's not talking, just sitting, resting against an interior wall, his eyes closed and Ryan doesn't know if he's napping or just making a point. The silence leaves Ryan to play his guitar. He's concentrating on something that's more randomly strung together notes than an actual song, when Brendon wakes.

At the gasp of pain, Ryan looks up, setting his guitar aside. Brendon whimpers, his face pressed against the mattress. "Hey, Brendon, hold on. I'll get you some pills."

Moving so that he's kneeling next to the mattress, Ryan tips the paper bag from the clinic upside down, spilling the contents on the floor. Rummaging through the variety of pills, he selects the pain-killers, popping them out of the blister packs and then looks around for Spencer's bag, and the bottle of water inside.

"Here." Spencer holds out the bottle, and Ryan takes it, nodding his thanks.

"Brendon, I've got your pills. You'll need to turn over so you can take them."

At first Brendon doesn't move, just lies still, shoulders drawn in, each breath a shudder. On the verge of suggesting that they need to move him themselves, Ryan remains silent when Brendon finally shifts, slowly, each tiny turn an obvious effort. When he does get on his side, Spencer puts his hands on Brendon's shoulders, easing him down onto his back, which exposes how ashen Brendon is, with dark bruises that creep from under the dressing on his cheek.

"Brendon, open your mouth, I'll do the rest." Relieved when Brendon does as he's asked, Ryan slips the pills into Brendon's mouth, and then pours in a small amount of water. "That's good, now swallow. You'll feel better soon, promise."

"Thank you." The words are almost formless, sounds lost in swollen flesh and lingering sleep, but Ryan understands, says, "You're welcome."

It takes a while for the pills to take effect --too long --and Ryan finds himself noticing every pained sound and restless shift as Brendon tries to get comfortable. But finally, he starts to relax, the tension easing, his hand uncurling as he slips back into sleep. When Ryan's sure that Brendon is sleeping and not keeping his eyes shut to ward off the world, Ryan stands, and sees that Spencer has gathered all the pills together, setting them next to the water, safely inside Spencer's bag.

Spencer himself is over on the other side of the room, looking out of the window and obviously watching something from the way he moves his head, how it looks like he's on guard. Then he takes a step back and turns so he can see Ryan. "Mikey's coming."

It's not what Ryan expected, and he walks over to Spencer, looking outside to where Mikey's locking the van door. There's a pile of stuff at his feet, Ryan can't see what exactly, not from here, but it takes Mikey a few tries before he can pick it all up, and when he does all Ryan can see is his glasses over the top of the pile.

"I'll go and give him a hand." Spencer walks away, leaving Ryan to go back to Brendon, standing close as he waits for Spencer to return. When he does, he's carrying a large cardboard box and Ryan sees Mikey is carrying blankets, a Starbucks bag hanging from one wrist.

"You weren't outside the station so I came here."

"We were sleeping," Ryan says, and then looks away, the feeling of resentment lingering. Surely Mikey could have taken Brendon in somehow, surely that's what he's meant to do.

Spencer sets the box on the floor. "You were there at the usual time? Did you even sleep?"

"I drop people off at school, that can't change because I've had a late night."

It's then that Ryan looks closely, taking in the shadows under Mikey's eyes and the fact that he's clearly wearing the same clothes as yesterday, his eye makeup even more smeared than usual. Despite himself, he asks, "Couldn't someone else do it?"

"I guess." Mikey lets the blankets drop to the floor and opens the bag, taking out the three cups that have been carefully balanced inside. "I didn't know what you liked so I got plain drip." Handing over the cups, Mikey takes a drink of his own coffee then yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. "I've brought blankets, there's food in the box, sandwiches and shit, Gerard made them this morning so God knows what's in them. There's water, too." Mikey stops then and looks at Brendon. "It's not our choice to have him here, to have any of you here. If we had our way, you’d all be under our roof."

Ryan believes him, it's there in the way Mikey is watching Brendon and the way he looks around, taking in the stained mattress and concrete floors, his expression set, except for the misery apparent in his eyes.

"Thanks, for the food and stuff," Spencer says, he's holding the cup of coffee close to his face, inhaling the steam. Ryan understands, the warmth is a comfort and he wraps his hands around his own cup, holding it tight.

"No worries." Mikey takes another drink, and then looks at his watch. "I need to go. Tell Brendon...well, tell him I'll come see him soon. Oh, and there's stuff to read in the box, too. I figured you'd be bored." He leaves then, drinking his coffee as he walks.

"Want to join me for breakfast?" Spencer has unfolded a blanket and draped it over Brendon, making sure his whole body is covered. He leaves the second one on the ground, and then opens the box, looking inside. "Looks like we've got peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, there's fruit too. Apples and bananas."

"Sounds good." Ryan sits, back against the wall but still close to Brendon as Spencer takes out two sandwiches and a red apple. Handing them over, he sits next to Ryan and unfolds a third blanket, putting it over both of their knees.

"It's no blanket fort, but it's the best I can do."

"It's perfect," Ryan says, and he rests his head against Spencer's shoulder. "I'm sorry for not going."

Spencer keeps looking forward, says, "No, you're right, splitting up would be stupid. It's just, I worry about money. I hate it here, Ryan. I want our own place."

The quiet admission is hard to hear and all Ryan wants to do is say things will be okay. He doesn't, because Spencer deserves more than meaningless platitudes, no matter how well intentioned they may be.

~~~~

Waking up the second time is easier, in the way that at least this time Brendon knows he's not alone. He still hurts, so much so that all he can do is lie still and try to keep the pained sounds trapped inside. It's a losing battle. So when he hears voices and turns his head to see who's there, Brendon can't help a groan.

"Brendon, hey." One of the people from before steps into view, and Brendon tries to pull a name out from the foggy mess that’s pretending to be his mind, because names are important, that's something Brendon's learnt -- one of his main strategies for making friends.

"Spencer."

"You remember; good." Spencer smiles and then reaches for a bag, pulling it close. "You'll be wanting painkillers I bet, and you need to take the antibiotics."

"Please."

Popping out the pills, Spencer places them in Brendon's mouth, and then opens a bottle of water. Placing his hand under Brendon's head, he carefully lifts, allowing Brendon to drink. "They should kick in soon."

Brendon hopes so, because right now he feels terrible, and also helpless, flat on his back and only able to see the stained-white panels of the ceiling. Despite cringing at the thought of moving, he asks, "Can you help me sit up?"

Spencer frowns. "I can, but we'll need to pull the mattress to the wall so there’s something for you to lean against." He looks past Brendon, then nods slightly, as if he's made a decision. "You sure you want to do this? Sitting up won't be fun."

"Lying down isn't, either."

Spencer stands then, and Brendon hears footsteps and he turns his head slightly to see the other boy walking toward them.

"You're awake," the boy -- Ryan -- says, and he stares down at Brendon, like he's something on display.

"Brendon wants to sit up. We need to pull the mattress so it's against the wall, then he can lean against it."

"Is that a good idea?" Ryan asks, not sounding sure of that at all.

"It shouldn't do any more damage, and it can't be comfortable lying like that."

"It's not," Brendon says. "And the ceiling isn't very interesting to look at."

Ryan looks up and studies the tiles for a bit. "I see your point."

It doesn't take long to move the mattress, Ryan and Spencer grabbing hold at the top and sliding it along the ground. When they do so a terrible smell fills the air, dirt and sweat and what smells suspiciously like old blood. Brendon's gags as they settle it against the wall.

When he's finally able to breathe easier, Brendon signals that he's okay, readying himself as Ryan and Spencer take hold under his arms and ease him up, until Brendon's back is against the wall.

Immediately Brendon feels dizzy. He concentrates on the blanket as he waits for the world to stop spinning, always aware that Ryan and Spencer are standing close, ready to help if needed. They're not, but it's a close thing.

Spencer squats down so he's at Brendon's level. "Is that better?"

Brendon considers. Sitting up has made pain blaze in his stomach and hips, his chest is hurting and that's without considering the constant ache in his cheek and wrist. Still, he was hurting when he was lying down, and at least when he's like this he can actually see --to an extent, anyway. "It’s better, thanks."

There's silence then, as if now that they've dealt with immediate issues they've realised Brendon is a stranger, someone they've never talked to at all. Normally, Brendon has questions on hand for awkward silences, ready to show how friendly he is, how he could be an interesting potential friend, but right now all of those questions are beyond him; all he can do is lie heavily against the wall. Not that anyone else is speaking, either. Ryan seems to be inspecting his nails while Spencer is rummaging through a box.

"You should eat." Spencer holds up a sandwich and banana. "There's apples, but this should be easier."

"That's fine." The truth is, Brendon's not hungry at all, but he picks up the sandwich Spencer has placed on his lap. Taking a small bite, Brendon chews slowly, feeling the stitches in his cheek pull each time. He keeps eating, managing half the sandwich and all of the banana.

After, when Brendon is full, the painkillers dialing down his pain to a dull roar, Brendon dozes, listening as Spencer selects a magazine and starts to read aloud, even after Ryan is fast asleep, resting his head in Spencer's lap.

~~~~~

Mikey's been visiting each day, but no matter how much food or how many magazines he brings -- always just enough for a day, swapping new magazines for old, as if somehow he knows they can't keep things, can only have what will fit in Spencer's bag -- Ryan's on the verge of going crazy with needing to go outside. He knows Spencer's feeling antsy too. It's in the way he wanders around the building, exploring areas he's seen countless times before.

As soon as Brendon can finally stand without wanting to fall right back down, they go back to the bus station, needing to busk. Leaving Brendon behind isn't an option, he's too weak to protect himself, so he comes along too, walking slowly, steadied between Ryan and Spencer. He doesn't talk on the way, just puts one foot in front of the other, grimly determined, and when they settle him on the bench, Brendon's hoodie is soaked through at the back, under his arms. Head down, his casted wrist held to his chest Brendon finally looks up, forces a smile and says he's fine. Ryan doesn't contradict him -- he can give Brendon that much.

It's in the afternoon when everything changes, flurries of snow filling the air and Ryan's fingers freeze, blue with cold as he plays his guitar. The people who do pass aren't stopping no matter what he sings. Ryan's frustrated enough that he stumbles over the words of a song, and it just gets worse, whole verses slipping from his brain.

He's cold and tired and hungry. He wants a long shower, a bath, clean clothes, but all he can do is keep playing, saving for a dream that feels more out of reach than ever. Which is when Brendon pushes himself to his feet, hand braced against the back of the bench, and says, "I can sing."

"Do you know REM?" Ryan asks, so tired he's ready to concede his place, even if he expects Brendon to say no.

Brendon hesitates a moment. “Mostly I listened to hymns, except when my parents weren’t around.” He shrugs a little, looking sheepish. “I heard them a few times, the famous ones, anyway."

Ryan nods and blows on his hands, keeps blowing until they're tingling and he can actually feel the strings. He starts to play, Everybody Hurts, and Brendon sings.

He's half standing, half sitting, propped against the arm of the bench, and his voice is rough, both from lack of use and the careful way he has to sing, taking care not to open his mouth too wide, or take in too deep a breath. But, within that roughness is the promise of something good -- better than good.

He keeps singing for two more songs, The Beatles and Coldplay, and by the end Brendon's smiling, even when he's obviously struggling to stay upright, listing over until Spencer pulls him down onto the bench. "I usually sound better."

"Once you're healed you'll sound fantastic," Ryan says, and Brendon keeps smiling, happiness there for all to see.

"I like singing, I used to be in the choir back in..." Brendon's smile fades, morphs into something for show, rather than genuine happiness. "Well, before."

"Ryan used to be in the choir,” Spencer informs Brendon. “He was kicked out for protesting the inclusion of Beyonce as a pop cultural icon in the end of term showcase."

Ryan kicks at Spencer's ankle. "I wasn't kicked out, I chose to leave. There's a difference."

Spencer doesn't even try to hide his smile. "Keep telling yourself that."

"I will," Ryan says. He can't help noticing how Brendon is watching them intently, as if he's taking in every scrap of information. Normally, Ryan's careful with what he says -- it's easier that way, safer -- but he's been with Brendon for days now, slept at his side, helped him eat and piss, drink and walk. Ryan can give him something of importance. "After the choir we decided to form a band, me and Spencer. We were going to be rock stars."

"Did you form one?"

Spencer takes over, then, sounding amused. "We did, and we sucked. Like, seriously bad."

"You got better though," Brendon says. "At least Ryan did, because he sounds great now."

"Well, thanks." Spencer's more amused than annoyed – Ryan can tell. Brendon obviously can't, so Spencer reassures him, saying, "You've never heard me, so you wouldn't know. I used to play drums, and maybe I would have gotten better, but things happened and I didn't get a chance to find out."

"There's no maybe about it, if you'd have been able to keep your kit you'd have been amazing," Ryan says fiercely. "You still will be, one day."

"There's going to be room for a full kit in our apartment?"

Ryan considers the question. "We'll make room."

"You're going to get an apartment together?" It's the first personal question Brendon's asked, and Ryan looks at Spencer, waiting for his okay before he shares their dream.

He gets it -- the slightest incline of Spencer's head. "Eventually. We need to save enough money and other stuff, but one day."

"Ryan's going to paint the walls yellow."

"In the kitchen. I'm thinking purple for the main room."

"Purple is good," Brendon says, and then, "It sounds nice."

"It will be." Ryan imagines their apartment, a place he's pictured so often it feels like home.

"Yeah," Brendon says, and there's no sign of his smile at all now, all previous happiness drained away.

Suddenly, Spencer stands. "I think we should celebrate: earning money and Brendon getting back on his feet."

Technically, Brendon isn't on his feet at all right now, in fact, he looks more ready to lie down than anything. Still, Ryan stands and holds out his hand to Brendon, pulling him upright.

"Hot chocolate?"

Spencer nods. "You know it."

The hot chocolate they buy from a nearby shop isn't the good stuff, not by a long shot, but by the time they pour in packets of sugar it tastes fine, and it's hot, something that's always a plus. As simultaneously walking and drinking isn't an option right now, they end up back at their bench, Brendon in the middle as they sip at their drinks and watch the people walk past, everyone bundled up against the snow.

Said bundling is why Ryan doesn't recognise Mikey at first. He's wearing an over-sized parka, the hood pulled up to conceal his face, snowflakes caught in the fur lining. He’s just another body in the crowds until he gets close, and Ryan recognises the way he walks, how he peers out of the depths of his hood. Mostly, though, he recognizes Pete, walking close, talking animatedly, smiling widely -- at that moment, Mikey is his whole world. When they get to the bench they stop walking, standing like a living shelter against the snow.

Mikey pulls down his hood, his knitted hat soon flecked white. "Brendon, it's good to see you up and around."

Brendon wiggles his fingers in Mikey's direction. "I'll be good as new soon."

"You're looking better than when I last saw you," Pete says, looking at Brendon. "Impressive bruising."

Brendon touches his face, running his fingers over the dressing. "Cool, yeah? Think they make me look tough?"

"Not at all," Pete replies cheerfully, because the truth is, Brendon doesn't look even close to tough. He looks battered, bruised, and so vulnerable that Ryan has to remind himself Brendon is tough -- he has to be, because he's still standing.

"Tough's bad, anyway," Spencer says. "It stops people giving us money."

Pete pushes his hands into his pockets, looking relieved. "So you're busking again? Good. Now I won't have to listen to Mikey bitch about the glockenspiel."

Mikey shudders. "He was playing Crazy in Love, Pete. Repeatedly. On a glockenspiel. It was terrible."

"That's inhuman," Ryan says, and can't help shuddering himself at the thought.

"I know, right? It was brainwashing by glockenspiel.” Mikey nearly frowned, nearly.

Pete shakes his head, looks at Mikey. "And yet, you could have stepped out of the Starbucks line at any time."

"Not an option. You get to do the paperwork at home, I do drop offs and get coffee. Thinking of, we'd best get going if we're going to catch that movie."

"You're not at the soup kitchen tonight?" Spencer asks.

"Not tonight. Gerard and Frank are there," Pete says, and he reaches for Mikey's hands, holding onto them both. "We're off on a date, dinner and a movie and hopefully he'll put out."

Mikey smiles, the slightest curl of his lips. "You might get lucky."

Stretching up, Pete presses a kiss against Mikey's mouth, lingering slightly, eyes closed and tightly holding onto Mikey's hands. "I'm already lucky."

If Ryan knew them better he'd make some remark about being sappy, but he hasn't that right, not yet. So all he does is watch. He’s surprised when Brendon suddenly jumps to his feet, his hot chocolate falling to the ground.

"What are you doing?” His voice is shaky, as shaky as he is on two feet, but he doesn’t sound pained, he sounds…scared. “There's people around, children, you can't do that here, it's wrong and people will see."

"Brendon. The hell?" Spencer is standing too, pulling Brendon back, but he stands his ground, pointing at Pete and Mikey.

"You can't. Don't you know how wrong it is? And you're...in public." Now the fear has something else filtered in, something that Ryan can’t quite identify, but he thinks it’s uncertainty, as if Brendon doesn’t even know how he feels.

"Let them see." Pete keeps hold of Mikey's hand, also standing his ground as Brendon stares, wide-eyed and shaking. "There’s nothing about us that needs to be or should be hidden. I'm going to take my hot boyfriend to the movies, where I'll try my best to get my hand into his pants." He looks at Brendon, considering. "I don't think you mean any of this, not really, so we're going to go now, before you say something I can't forgive."

They walk away then, still holding hands. Mikey looks over his shoulder to call, "Look after him," with a glance in Brendon's direction.

All Ryan wants to do is grab Brendon and shake him, demand to know what he was thinking. He doesn't. There's no way he can when Brendon looks so distraught. Spencer takes Brendon's arm and gently pulls him forward. "Let's go back, I think you need to talk."

Brendon nods and begins to walk slowly, dependent on Spencer for each step.

~~~~~

Brendon's overdue for painkillers and his head is throbbing, made worse by the strained silence that no one will break. Brendon wishes he could, he wishes a lot of things.

When they get back to the abandoned office building, Spencer helps Brendon squeeze through the broken front door, steadies him until Brendon can sit on the mattress, his back against the wall as Spencer opens his bag, takes out pills and water and a blanket that he unfurls with a flick of his wrists.

Ryan stands apart, shoulders pulled in, staring at Brendon like he's a stranger, the tentative friendship of the last few days ripped apart. Brendon wishes he could turn back time, give himself a chance to fix things, to plaster on a smile and pretend seeing Mikey and Pete like that didn't bother him at all. Wishes are meaningless, though, and Brendon curls in on himself, his misery bone deep.

When he's settled and warmer, the pills start kicking in, and Brendon tries to think what to say, how to explain. He can't say that he didn't mean it, because he did: being a sodomite is disgusting, wrong, a sin.

“Are you feeling better?" Spencer asks, and when Brendon nods he stands closer and snaps, "Good, because I want to know what the fuck you were thinking?"

Brendon worries at a thread of the blanket, anything so that doesn’t have to look at Spencer. "They were kissing."

"So?"

"So it's…it’s wrong, it's a sin against God. A—a perversion." Brendon closes his eyes, remembering the feel of Alan's hands on his body, the movies, all his time alone. Words that were yelled at him echo in his ear: Brendon's disgusting, corrupt, wrong. "They-- They can't do things like that, they're so good, but what they're doing is wrong, they'll burn in hell and they can't and you don't understand...." Brendon’s voice gets quicker, his breathing less even with each word.

"Brendon, stop." Spencer pushes his hair out of his eyes and looks at Ryan, having some silent conversation that Brendon has no chance of understanding. "Do you think me and Ryan are disgusting?"

"No," Brendon says immediately.

Ryan almost runs to Spencer then, grabbing hold and kissing him hard. It’s a long lingering kiss, but sweet, tender in a way that nothing Brendon saw at the camp was. Ryan's are fingers curled against Spencer's back, sometimes stroking, and he smiles against Spencer’s mouth just before he pulls away, looking at Brendon, defiant. He asks quietly, "What about now?"

The difference between the movies he was forced to watch and what Brendon's seeing now is huge, so large he can scarcely comprehend that any of the actions are the same. Those deliberately staged scenes had none of the ease with which Ryan touches Spencer. The professionals – actors? – with their hard cocks and cum-smeared mouths told Brendon nothing about the way Spencer would curl his fingers around Ryan's wrist. The two scenes are worlds apart and logically, Brendon knows what Ryan and Spencer have is okay, that they haven't changed just because they've admitted they're together. That doesn't stop him feeling sick with fear.

Hands clenched tight, Brendon says, "I know you haven't changed, I know. You're both so good but you can't do that. It's a sin and you can't... people will see, they’ll know. They'll hurt you. Maybe...maybe you can just do that stuff here, I won't look and ..."

"We're not hiding anything," Ryan says then, cutting Brendon off. "That's not going to happen. Not everyone thinks like that. Not everyone’s ashamed of love." He links his fingers with Spencer's. "We're going to the soup kitchen for something to eat, you can come or stay here, it's your choice."

Brendon takes in the set of Ryan's shoulders, the way his chin is tilted up and his eyes are slightly narrowed, like he's ready to take on the world. It scares Brendon, his fear almost a live thing inside of him as he imagines Ryan and Spencer being beaten, going down under a shower of fists. "Please, you don't have to do that because of me."

"We're not doing anything because of you." Ryan starts to walk then, pulling Spencer with him, but Spencer hesitates, standing still as he looks at Brendon.

"If you're staying, try to get some sleep. We'll be fine, promise."

Brendon nods, waits until he hears the sound of the broken door be pushed aside and then carefully replaced. He waits a little longer, then begins to sing, only songs from movies this time. He uses the lyrics used as shields against the memories pressing close, made worse by being alone.

~~~~

It's fully dark when Spencer and Ryan return. Curled up on the mattress, Brendon lies perfectly still until he's sure it's actually them. Only then can he finally breathe. Pulling at the blanket, he tugs it higher until only the top of his head is exposed, listening as they come near. Spencer's talking quietly, Ryan replying so softly that Brendon can't distinguish actual words. Not that he has to, it's all too easy to hear how much they care. It's there in the soft way Spencer says Ryan's name as they walk close together, how Ryan smiles around his reply.

Right now Brendon's so lonely he could cry, and he squeezes shut his eyes as Ryan unfolds the second blanket and Spencer walks over to the mattress.

"Brendon?" Spencer crouches and rests his hand against Brendon's forehead, the briefest of touches before he steps away.

"He asleep?"

The sound of footsteps is muffled by the blanket, but Spencer and Ryan are clearly settling down for the night, usually lying close to Brendon, always touching him. Tonight they're lying down further away, and the distance cuts deep.

"What if he doesn't come around?" The question is hesitant, like it's something Spencer doesn't want to ask. Maybe it's something Ryan doesn't want to answer, because it takes him a long time to reply. Enough time passes, that Brendon is able to steel himself, readying his goodbyes because they're bound to tell him to go, that's just how it is.

"We'll give him time to deal, but I'm not hiding anything. I'm not hiding you."

Brendon relaxes then, because time is good. Time gives him a chance to deal, to become the person who's allowed to stay.

~~~~~

"Brendon, wake up, there's someone here to see you."

Waking is never fun, even less so when Brendon opens his eyes at Spencer's urging, and the first thing he sees is Pete standing close, his expression set, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Come on, take your pills and you'll feel better." There's the crinkle of plastic and then Spencer's dropping the tablets in Brendon's open mouth, slipping his arm under Brendon's head, and supporting him until he's taken a drink of water.

"I missed breakfast this morning, could you go get me coffee? Something for you all too." Pete pulls his wallet out of his pocket, taking out a twenty which he hands to Ryan.

"I’m not sure,” Ryan says, and he takes a half step so he's between Brendon and Pete. "I mean, I know he was an ass, but I’m not leaving you here with him if you’re going to, like, yell.”

"No yelling," Pete says seriously, taking note of Ryan's barely hidden fears. "I just want to talk."

Ryan doesn't move, says, "You promise."

"I promise." Pete makes a cross over his heart before putting his hands in his hoodie pocket.

Ryan still looks a little unsure, and Brendon wants to tell him to stay. He's actually not afraid that Pete will yell -- he's used to that -- but Brendon doesn't want this talk, aware that the words are bound to hurt as much if not more than any beating. Except he owes Pete this, so Brendon dregs up a smile and says, "Go on. I'll be fine."

"Right. We won't be long." With a last look, Ryan walks away with Spencer, leaving Brendon alone with Pete. It feels wrong lying on his back, Pete standing above him and Brendon slowly pushes himself up with his elbow and uncasted hand. Pete doesn't try to help, just stands close, allowing Brendon the time to settle himself as comfortably as he can. When he's sitting upright, his back against the wall, hand cradled against his chest, Pete sits too, legs crossed Indian style, seemingly uncaring that the floor is filthy.

He looks at his nails then, using his thumb nail to pick at the chipped polish and Brendon's gotten to wondering if he's supposed to start this conversation when Pete looks up. "I meant what I said: I'm not going to yell, but no one gets to make Mikey feel like you did last night. He goes through that shit enough without getting it from someone he actually likes, and it's not going to happen again. I won't let it."

"I didn't mean to, I'm sorry."

Head tilted slightly to the side, Pete looks at Brendon, as if examining the truth of his words. "I believe that you’re sorry. The thing is, what for? For making Mikey feel bad or for what you actually said? Those are two different things."

Which is true, and Brendon has to be honest, "The first."

"I thought so." Pete begins to pick at another nail, his index finger this time, flaking away tiny flecks of polish. "We're been running Clan House and the soup kitchen for a while now, and in that time we've been cursed out hundreds of times. What you said wasn't new. We've had people try and save our souls and others who went the direct route and bricked the windows. Point being, they can try all they like, they can throw bricks or words or poison-tipped arrows, we're not going to change."

Brendon wants to say that's fine, that they can do what they like because it's not like he's got any hold on them, but all he can think about is Pete laughing as he ladles out soup. His mind flashes to Mikey gently wiping Brendon's face when he felt sweaty and sick and disgusting.

Those are just two instances amongst so many others of kindness from Pete and Mikey, and Brendon doesn't want them to go to hell, or be hurt, and they will. Drawing up his knees he runs his fingers over the criss-crossed scar tissue. "They'll hurt you. If you do things like that, they’ll—they’ll hurt you."

"Who'll hurt us?"

Brendon doesn't reply, just presses his mouth against his knees and hopes that Pete won't press for an answer. He doesn't, either -- not about that, anyway. "Before you said it was a sin, and we've heard that too. But there's not a thing you could say that I couldn't refute."

"No, no, the bible is the word of God, it tells us the divine truths." The protest is instinctive, brought forward by years of study, and it pours earnestly from Brendon’s mouth. All Pete does is shake his head.

"The bible is a book of words and stories. It's only got as much power as you give it."

Pete's disregard is shocking in its casualness, so different to the way Brendon's been taught that the bible is to be revered, worshipped, followed at all costs. "You-- You can't say things like that."

"I just did," Pete says, but he doesn't sound mean, only calm, matter of fact. "If you've got to have to have faith, fine, but not everyone shares the same kind."

Ryan’s words of the night before came back to him, that not everybody believed the way he did, not everybody was taught those things. Then Pete’s words caught up to him: "Did you just mangle a George Michael lyric to make a point?" Brendon asks, and he can't help smiling back a little when Pete grins.

"I did. The point stands, though." Pete's grin fades then, and for a moment he looks unsure. After a moment, he asks, "There's more though, with you, isn’t there? That reaction, it came out of nowhere. Those behaviors, they’re learned, they’re…sometimes they’re drilled into a person. Did someone hurt you?"

Brendon laughs then, bitter as he indicates his body with his hand. "What do you think?"

"Okay, point," Pete concedes, but he's still looking at Brendon, watching his reactions.

"Before, at home. Did someone try something on--? Your dad or...."

"No!" Brendon cuts Pete off before he can say more. "My dad did nothing like that, he loves-- He loved me."

"I believe you, but there's something else." Pete reaches out, as if he wants to touch Brendon, but then thinks better and pulls his hand back. "When I was a kid, my parents sent me away to a boot camp. It was supposed to straighten out my head but all it did was mess it up. All the dark thoughts I’d had, the ones I never would have acted on, they twisted together with the harsh reality that my parents had sent me away. They thought they were helping, but in reality they fucked me up so badly it took years before I'd let anyone close, allow anything to help me."

"I'm sorry. They shouldn't have done that."

"No, they shouldn't’ve," Pete agrees. "But they did. Sometimes parents don't make the right choices."

It's something Brendon hadn't considered, because he's been brought up to respect and obey his parents always, and he until this moment, imagining them being wrong was about as easy as imagining the world being run by chimpanzees. Except, they sent him away and he was hurt, and…how can that be right? There's one thing Brendon is still sure of, though. "My parents, they. They loved me."

"Loving someone doesn't mean you can't make mistakes, can’t treat them badly." Pete waits a moment. "What happened, Brendon?"

Brendon doesn't intend to talk. It's not a story he wants to share, except suddenly the words are pushing to get out, and Pete is sitting, ready to listen.

"My mom, she caught me jerking off to a magazine, a Playgirl that I'd taken from the store." Brendon looks up and checks Pete's reaction, or lack of one, because he doesn't seem shocked at all. "A few days later, this bus came and I was sent to this house in the middle of nowhere. While mom packed my stuff I had to read all these booklets, about how I was being sent on a church youth program focusing on sexuality and orientation. They wanted to anti-gay me."

"Anti-gay. Fuck," Pete says, anger quickly hidden away. "You were sent away with other kids?"

"There were others there, I guess. I didn't really see them that much, not to talk to anyway. I had to stay in my room or go to the activities with my caseworker."

"Activities like?" Pete prompts.

Brendon remembers the feel of hard plastic digging into his legs, how hot the movie room was, how closed in, how Alan always sat so close, breathing hard as he watched, the calm before he began to yell. He hears how loud the yelling was, always directly in Brendon's face, words made physical things. "We used to watch movies, except, they weren't real movies. They were porn, with extras, like, extra scenes, different stuff. Before I went there I'd never even seen stuff like that," Brendon says, and hopes that Pete doesn't ask about the extras, because already they're solid in his mind, to talk about them will just make his nightmares worse. "He, um, my caseworker, he used to shout, always the same things. How it was a sin against God and that sodomites would be cast into hell. How disgusting it was, how disgusting I was."

Pete frowns, and reaches out so his hand is barely touching the end of Brendon's blanket-covered toes. "So, you were sent away from your family, left alone, yelled at and forced to watch pornography, just because they thought you were gay?"

"Yeah."

"And are you?"

It's the first time Brendon's been asked outright, and he looks at Pete, who looks right back, waiting for an answer. The thing is, it's an answer Brendon doesn't have to give. "I don't know."

"You and millions of other people out there," Pete says. "Welcome to reality, kid."

What Brendon wants is sympathy, someone to say it's possible to be straight as long as he tries, but Pete isn't giving him that at all. "What if I don't want to be?"

"That's not a choice you get. You do get to chose if you hide or not, but believe me, hiding isn't fun."

"Spencer and Ryan were hiding."

Pete shakes his head. "I think it's more that you weren't seeing."

"No, no. They didn't kiss or make out or display inappropriate sexual behavior."

"They didn't have to. People don't have a check list of behaviors they follow or don’t. Now, me and Mikey? Another matter." Pete holds up his hand then. "Sorry, I shouldn't joke about that."

"No, you can do what you like," Brendon says. He's not looking at Pete, more remembering the night before, how happy Pete had looked when he was with Mikey. "You love him?"

"I do," Pete says simply.

Brendon believes him, and he wishes it was enough for him to change his mind, but he can't, not yet. It does, however give him something to think about, so he says, "Thank you."

Pete smiles in reply. Ten minutes later, when Pete and Brendon are debating the differences between the live action and cartoon Peter Pan, there's the sound of the door being pushed open, and then footsteps, as Ryan and Spencer appear. Spencer's carrying a cardboard holder filled with Starbucks cups and he pulls one out, handing it over to Pete. "Here you go. I'll get your change."

"Keep it," Pete says, taking a sip of coffee. "I need to go. Meeting with the planners in an hour." He waves then, already heading toward outside. "I'll see you all later."

Brendon waves, and then looks at Ryan who's staring down at him. "He didn't yell."

Ryan shrugs one thin shoulder and takes a cup from the tray. "We got you hot chocolate. With lots of sugar."

"Thanks." Brendon takes the cup and takes a drink, enjoying the sweet taste. "You got added cream."

"We did." Spencer sits on the end of the mattress, taking care not to sit on Brendon's feet. "Ill-advised outbursts aside, you deserve a treat."

He doesn't ask what Pete said, and Brendon knows he won't, it's why he takes another drink and says, "I told Pete stuff, about why I said what I did."

Ryan sits next to Spencer, says, "Good, talking helps."

Which makes Spencer laugh and Ryan frown as Brendon chews at the corner of his thumb nail, watching the way Spencer and Ryan move so easily together, existing easily in the same space.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask, it doesn't mean we'll answer," Ryan says.

Brendon nods, because that's fair. "I didn't even realize you were together. How long has it been?"

"We've been friends forever," Spencer says. "But I don't think that’s what you're asking." He looks at Ryan, questioning, and Ryan nods slightly. "My family died and I've been living in various foster and group homes. Ryan was always there, at the end of the phone or visiting when he could, it was one of those unspoken things, that we’d always be together somehow.”

Brendon smiles. “Like Snow White, how she loses her family and is sent away but her handsome prince comes to save her.”

“Well, if I was a girl, which I’m not, and Ryan a prince, I guess,” Spencer says, elbowing Ryan in the side when he laughs.

“No, you’re not a girl.” Brendon’s smile fades, replaced by embarrassment as he realizes what he’s said, or more importantly, what he hasn’t. “And your family, I didn’t say sorry."

“It’s okay; it was a long time ago.”

“And he does kind of look like a girl,” Ryan remarks, evading Spencer’s retaliatory elbow to his side.

The teasing helps Brendon relax and he risks another question. “So…you’re not really together like that, that was Ryan making a point last night?”

Spencer grins at Ryan. “That was Ryan making a grand gesture. He doesn’t do many, but they’re always worth waiting for. And we’re as together as we can be right now.”

“Is that going to bother you?” While it’s Ryan that asks the question, Spencer’s watching keenly too, and Brendon knows a lot rests on his answer.

"Pete gave me a lot to think about. Give me time?"

Ryan nods, says. "Time we can do."

~*~*~*~

It's been a few days, and Brendon hasn't seen Mikey at all. He's beginning to get worried that he's chased him away, except he's seen Pete and Frank and neither of them seem concerned.

Still, it's a relief when he finally sees Mikey again. Ryan and Spencer have gone to the public bathroom and Brendon's sitting on the bench, left in charge of the guitar.

He's strumming the strings softly, attention totally on the quiet notes. He only looks up when someone steps into his light. Mikey's wearing a dark coat and fingerless gloves, has a hat pulled low on his head, the wet droplets on his glasses glistening as he sits and takes them off, rubbing the lenses against his sleeve.

"You going solo today?"

"Ryan and Spencer are at the bathroom." Brendon stills his hand, fingers pressed against the strings. "You haven't been around lately."

"There was a thing with one of the residents, I stayed with her at the hospital."

"She's going to be okay?"

"She'll be fine." Mikey yawns then, his mouth wide, exposing his back teeth. "Ever notice how the bad shit tends to go down at night? Or maybe it just feels worse then."

Brendon moves his fingers, casually producing a melancholy series of notes. "It's probably a combination of both."

"Probably." Mikey watches as Brendon keeps playing, a mournful tune that's immediately absorbed by the cold. "You're good at that."

"I get by," Brendon says, and remembers the hint of calluses on Mikey's fingers. "You play?"

"Sometimes. God knows why, but Frank likes me to play with his band. When I get time off I go play with them sometimes, only bass, though."

"I'd like to see you one time," Brendon says, and then abruptly stops playing, sure he's pushed too far.

"Next time I'll take you. Just don't expect much, I'm not that good."

"I can't believe that." Brendon looks up then, taking in the way Mikey's still watching Brendon's fingers against the strings. "You want to play? I'm sure Ryan won't mind."

"I only know the bass."

Brendon grins. "Well, that's an awesome start, here, I'll help."

Handing over the guitar, Brendon waits until Mikey has hold before moving Mikey's fingers slightly to the correct placing. It's nothing Brendon's done before, his music has all been solo or learning something in a group, never one-on-one with someone who actually listens and believes Brendon knows what he's doing. Brendon feels better than he has for a long time as he loses himself in the music and helps Mikey do the same.

It's when their heads are close together, both concentrating on the simple song that Brendon says, "I'm sorry."

Still playing, Mikey looks up, and says, "It's okay."

The miracle is, Brendon believes him.

~*~*~*~

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."

~~~~

The plan was, come here, say goodbye and go, but something that seemed so logical at four in the morning is now full of flaws, because Brendon doesn't know if he can leave. He should have never listened to Jon, because all this goodbye is going to do is break his heart -- again.

"Come in and have a look."

Pulled from his thoughts, Brendon steps in to the room with Mikey, and can only slowly look around. Two of the walls are completely covered with shelves, and each shelf is packed tight with clothes and supplies: jeans and t-shirts and boxes of underwear still in the packet; deodorant and sponges and hairbrushes, all lined up neatly. On the floor, there were even shoes -- sneakers and boots, flip-flops and high heels all tangled together.

"People donate to us, mostly scene people so some of it's a bit out there." Mikey picks up a skirt that's more mesh than material, holding it up to demonstrate. "There's all kinds, though. I was thinking maybe this for you." Putting back the skirt he moves two shelves over and selects a soft lavender hoodie, handing it over. "You like?"

"I do," Brendon says. He runs his hand over the soft material and holds it against his chest, if he wasn't so filthy he'd slip it on right now. Instead he looks around at the shelves, attracted to the piles of jeans. "People just give you this stuff? It looks brand new."

"We can be persuasive," Mikey says, and he nods approvingly when Brendon picks up a pair of jeans. "Nice choice, but you need a belt, hold on." He stretches up to the top shelf and pulls down a box, setting it on the floor. It's full of belts of all colors and styles. "Help yourself."

Brendon's knees twinge when he kneels. He starts to look through the belts, then stops, fingers wrapped tight around something black and studded. "I don't. I mean, there's no need to have a belt on the streets. I don't have to look good."

"Doesn't mean you can't." Mikey kneels too, taking the belt from Brendon's hand. "I don't think studs are you. How about this?"

He's holding something thin, bright red and Brendon nods. "Thank you."

Mikey smiles slightly, stands and puts the box back. "I doubt they'll be out any time soon, so grab yourself some underwear and a t-shirt, you can use our bathroom this time."

Brendon does, taking a moment to check sizes before following Mikey back to the stairs.

"It's supposed to be staff only , but you need to warm up so." Mikey looks down at Brendon. "If you see Ray, hide."

Brendon's unsure if Mikey's joking. He thinks so, but Mikey's a hard read and it doesn't help that Brendon's running on fumes now -- fighting to keep functioning while knowing his time here is ticking down. There's a wide landing at the top of the stairs, framed artwork hanging on the walls, and Brendon can hear the faint sound of voices coming from behind one of the three closed doors.

"That's Gerard's suite, then mine and Pete's, and we share the bathroom." Mikey points to each door, and at the last he pushes it open. "Help yourself to anything in there and just throw your clothes outside, I'll get them."

It’s then that Brendon realizes he has a problem, because no matter what he does, he doesn't think he can go inside.

"Brendon?"

Brendon tightens his hold on the doorframe, and all he can think of is cold, tiled floors and Alan's body on top of him and then blood -- blood spreading on the floor, red and slick. Brendon is finding it hard to breathe. "I don't think I can go in."

"Bad memories?" Mikey's moved close, is standing patiently, waiting, watching as Brendon gasps for air. Brendon nods.

"Sometimes it helps if you share." Mikey doesn't attempt to touch, just keeps watching, still patient. "Or I could go get Spencer and Ryan."

"No," Brendon says, hating the thought of them being interrupted to deal with Brendon yet again. The memories are just there, though, swimming in Brendon's head, and he knows Mikey will listen. What Brendon doesn't know, is if he can say the actual words. He takes a deep breath, reminds himself of his vow that he won't be afraid, and begins to talk. "I told Pete I was sent to Shepard House, the, uh, the ex-gay place? Did he—“ At Mikey’s nod Brendon says, “Yeah, okay. What I didn't tell you was that I-- My caseworker, he, um.” Brendon closes his eyes and says quickly, “I was attacked. In-- In a bathroom. He tried to burn the sin out of me, said I was, said he had to boil it out of me with, um, the shower. Turned it on really hot and pushed me in and he was bigger, like, really bigger, and I kinda freaked and then he-- He tried…. Um, he said he had to teach me, I think, I don’t remember, he was on top of me and I had to fight him and he was trying...." The words lodge in Brendon's throat, shame burning deep.

"It's okay," Mikey says.

"No! No it's fucking not!" Brendon yells, and he pulls away, stepping back from the door, feeling the tears in his eyes but unwilling to let them fall. "Don’t you-- It’s not--I want to feel clean, and I-- There’s no way. He-- I can’t."

Mikey lets silence sit between them for a few seconds before saying calmly, confidently, "You will. It’ll probably take a while, you’re right, but you will."

Brendon wants Mikey’s faith, but right now it's beyond him, just one more thing outside of his reach.

"How about we start small?” Mikey pushes open the bathroom door. "If showers come attached with memories, well, we have an excellent tub and bubbles."

"I don't know if I can," Brendon admits, his voice small.

"I do,” Mikey says. "If you want, I'll stay. I won't look, I’ll just tell you about the time Frank made tomato soup without tomatoes."

It's a tempting offer; Brendon has always loved stories. Brendon looks at the tub, and imagines being clean, even if it's only his skin, only for a short time. He thinks of Ryan and Spencer downstairs, how they've gone through so much but never given up. He even thinks of Jon, who continues to wait for Tom. And Mikey, who could have left but didn't, sticking around so he could be Brendon's friend. None of them has ever given up, and Brendon won't either. "You'll stay?"

"I'll tell you my best stories."

"And I get to have bubbles?"

"As many as you want."

"I'll try. I can’t promise-- I might have to get out."

Mikey shrugs. "We've got plenty of sinks not in bathrooms and a hose in the garden."

Brendon grips the doorframe, fingers digging in. "I'd take the sink."

"Wise choice," Mikey says. "If it doesn't work out this time, it's okay, no one's died for a lack of showers."

Brendon looks away from the bathroom, at the floor and Mikey's feet. "Maybe not, but it's so stupid."

"Everyone has issues, and we've plenty of people qualified to listen if you want to talk."

"Even if I'm not here?" Brendon looks up then, watching Mikey's face.

"Even then. You have friends here, Brendon, and friends listen."

"Will friends look away if I run screaming when I hear the water running?"

"No," Mikey says. "Friends will run after you and then bring a bowl of warm water to a private room."

It's not what Brendon expected, but the talk of friends makes him feel good, warm inside. Gathering his courage, he steps into the bathroom, knowing Mikey will be right behind.

~~~~~~

It's late afternoon, and the air is filled with loud conversation. Lasagnas are cooking in the oven as Pete comes into the kitchen and pulls Mikey into a hug. He holds on and starts to talk, words whispered directly into Mikey's ear. Then he turns and says, "Ryan, Spencer, Brendon, Jon, can you come with?"

It's what Brendon's expected for hours, because Clan House isn't their home, they're visitors, nothing more. Smiling at the people around the table, Brendon stands, following Pete and Mikey to a room at the back of the house. Inside, there's a battered desk, a computer and shelves of books and files, a dog bed where a bulldog is sleeping. There's also a low coffee table and a couch against the wall, where Gerard and Ray are sitting, both holding thin files.

"Take a seat if you can find one," Pete says, and he sits on the edge of the desk as Mikey squashes himself between Gerard and Ray. This leaves one easy chair and two chairs in front of the desk. Jon and Spencer take those while Brendon sits in the easy chair with Ryan, jammed together, preparing for goodbye.

It's Ray that speaks first. He sits forward and taps the file on his knee. "When Mikey and Pete applied for a license for Clan House it was for ten residents. A few weeks ago they asked me about adding more."

"We've been thinking of expanding for a while," Pete says, kicking his heels against the front of the desk. "The situation with Brendon just pushed up the timeline."

"They said no at first," Ray continues. "But Gerard did his best youth worker spiel, and well, an hour ago Clan House was officially granted permission for another two residents."

"We're converting my office," Mikey says. "I'll share with Pete."

"That's great." Brendon smiles, enjoying how happy Pete seems, the way Mikey and Gerard are smiling as Ray sets down the file.

"The room won't be done for a few weeks, until then the new residents will have to share with someone," Ray says, and he looks significantly at Brendon. "Hopefully they won't mind."

It's then that Brendon realizes Ryan's on the verge of a grin -- not quite there but close -- and that Spencer is glancing at the titles on the files. Putting things together, Brendon pushes his hands into the pocket of his hoodie to hide how they're shaking, and asks quietly. "Are you offering me a place?"

All out beaming now, Pete jumps off the desk. "We're offering all of four of you places." He holds out his hand then, heading off the replies. "Before you say yes, there're still conditions. There're no free rides here. We expect you to go to school or to look for work. There's legal issues, too. I'm assuming you're all under-aged, which means that Ray and Gerard are going to have to work so you're officially under our care. But it means we need honesty, about everything, and also patience, because I’m warning you now, it’ll be a complicated and long process."

"I don't think--"

Brendon doesn't get to finish before Ryan's turning to him, his expression fierce. "You've got nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing. And you belong with us."

Jon rubs at his face, looking lost. "That’s all, I mean, sure, Brendon, but, um. You don't even know me."

"You're right, we don't," Pete says, slowly. "But our first experience with you was when you refused to hurt Brendon despite intense peer pressure, possibly even of the dangerous sort. And you brought him back today. Your actions suggest that you're someone who deserves a chance."

Wiggling from between Gerard and Ray, Mikey spreads out the files on the coffee table. Spencer. Ryan. Brendon. Jon. Each one is empty right now, but ready to be filled out. "Well, are you part of Clan House?"

In reply Brendon jumps up, launches himself over the table and grabs hold of Mikey, clinging on as he listens to Ryan, Spencer and Jon, each one saying yes.

~~~~~

Ryan's head is thumping, dull pain a steady bass line against the quiet of the room. It's been a chaotic half hour, Gerard and Pete taking basic information and already Ryan's done. All he wants to do is lie down but instead he's stuck here, squashed on the sofa between Spencer and Brendon. Not that it's a bad place to be, it's comforting having them so close, and Ryan's warm, pleasantly full from the lasagna that Mikey insisted they eat. The problem is, it feels too much like a dream, and Ryan can't help think it'll be taken away. Someone will surely come in and say it's a mistake, and they'll all be back out in the cold. It's why Ryan's sitting upright, paying careful attention so he's not caught off guard, not again.

"Sorry we took so long." Mikey's holding an armful of pillows, and he keeps the door open with his hip as he looks inside. "It took all of a minute for word to get out and we've been fielding questions."

"They don't want us here?" Brendon asks, his expression resigned.

"No. There was this whole deal about rooms. Ben and Connor offered to share with Andrew and Zack."

Pete looks up from his phone call, pen held over a form. "You didn't say yes, did you?"

"I told them I wasn't born yesterday." Shifting the pillows a little, Mikey looks toward the sofa. "Trey offered to share too, he's got a single and it'll be a squash getting two in there but it's an option."

"No," Brendon says immediately. "I mean, I'd rather share the double."

Ryan would too, even if he doesn't know Jon, who looks shell-shocked and unsure as he looks at them all. "I should take the single. I mean, you don’t really know me. That way you guys can have Brendon in the double, and nothing’s too much of a squeeze."

"I guess. If that’s the way you want it. I say we could get to know a guy who saved our best friend’s life twice." Spencer sits forward, his hand resting against Ryan's knee.

"But...."

"But nothing," Spencer says, cutting Jon off. "You brought him back."

"You did," Brendon says.

Jon's gripping the arm of his chair, and Ryan takes note of how nervous he seems, how he swallows hard. Jon says, "I don't know."

"What would Tom want?" Brendon asks then.

Jon hesitates, his knuckles white. "I can't stop looking."

"You don't have to, but there’s no reason for you not to rest a while,” Brendon points out. “Who knows, maybe the people here can help.”

"I guess," Jon says, and there are all kinds of conversations going on that Ryan doesn't understand, but Brendon obviously does, and he waits, never looking away. "Gaining three more friends doesn't diminish what he is to you. Give us a chance."

Jon loosens his hold on the chair. "I'll try."

"In that case," Mikey says. "Your room awaits."

They all stand, no one speaking as they follow Mikey along the corridor to the empty room. Using his elbow, he pushes at the handle and opens the door before stepping aside.

There's a confused moment when no one wants to go in first. Then Spencer pushes at Ryan's back, propelling him inside. He moves in enough that they can all fit, four people in one small room -- their room. It includes two single beds, striped duvets on them both, and two cots folded against a wall. There’s a large desk and empty shelves against blue-painted walls. The curtains are beige, pulled to keep the night darkness of the outside from creeping, and there're two lamps on the bedside tables, both turned on so the room is cast in gentle light. It's warm and cozy and Ryan thinks he should be excited, but all he can do is stand frozen in place, so numb that he barely feels the touch of Spencer's hand.

"It's not an apartment." He wraps his fingers around Ryan's, holding on. "But we're safe now."

Ryan manages a nod, stepping to one side as Mikey squeezes into the room and drops the pile of pillows onto one of the beds. "Is there anything you need?"

Ryan needs many things, most of which he'll never ask for. He shakes his head. "I'm fine."

The others all say no, too, and Mikey gives them all once last considering glance. "Okay, I'll leave you to it. Just get up whenever tomorrow, there's no rush. There's always one of us around and Pete tends to be up most of the night if you need anything." He starts to leave then, stopping and turning back. "I'm glad you decided to stay."

"Me too," Spencer says, answering for them all.

That night Ryan and Spencer sleep in the same bed, Brendon on the cot in the middle while Jon takes the other single, setting himself that slight touch away from the group. There's no talking as they climb under the covers, none of them taking off their clothes. Within a minute they’re all asleep.

~~~~~

When Ryan wakes, the duvet is crumpled at the bottom of the bed. Turning his head, he sees that Spencer is still fast asleep, curled up so that his chin is tucked against Ryan's shoulder. He can't see Brendon, and Jon's nothing but a lump and dark strands of hair visible at the top of his own duvet. Needing to pee, Ryan carefully moves and Spencer opens his eyes, as if he's been waiting for Ryan to wake.

"Morning," Spencer whispers and he tilts his head so he can press a kiss against Ryan's chin.

"I think it may be afternoon," Brendon says unexpectedly, appearring in Ryan's line of sight, leaning heavily on the desk as he pulls back the curtains and looks outside. "Yeah, definitely missed morning."

Spencer squints when Brendon pulls open the curtains, making light flood into the room. "Fuck, warn a person."

"Sorry, sorry." Brendon starts to close the curtains, but Spencer reaches out, groping for his hand.

"No, I'm getting up anyway."

He does, sitting upright. Ryan does the same, both of them moving slowly, one night’s sleep in a real bed unable to touch bone-deep aches. Doing so shows Ryan that Brendon's t-shirt is dark with sweat, his hair damp and he pushes it back off his forehead with a grimace.

Sitting on the side of the bed, feet against the floor, Ryan can examine the room in the natural light, taking in the wooden shelving unit on one wall, the mirror attached to the back of the door and what could be used as a small bookshelf, empty right now, but Ryan can easily imagine it filled with books.

"We could spend some of the money," Spencer says, looking at the bookshelf. "There has to be a bookshop close by."

It's tempting, but Ryan shakes his head. "That's our safety money."

"Right." Spencer stands, using Ryan's shoulder for support, the suggestion put aside for now. "I'm going to find food. You coming with?"

"I am," Brendon says.

"Yeah," Ryan agrees.

"Coming."

The last is from Jon, who kicks at his duvet, wincing as he moves his arm, tucking it against his chest. When he's finally standing upright, steady on his feet, they each make their beds, working around one another, tugging at corners and straightening sheets until everything is perfect. When they're finished, Ryan automatically reaches for his guitar, then uncurls his fingers and steps back.

"It'll be safe, right?"

Spencer's holding his bag, about to sling it over his shoulder, but he stops, letting his arm drop. "I could leave this, too."

"Only if you're sure, but take the money," Ryan says. They're talking about a battered guitar, a bag stuffed with clothes Spencer’s outgrown -- things that are worth little to nothing, but mean everything. Spencer rummages in the bag and takes the sock full of money, shoving it in his pocket, then bends and pushes his bag under the bed. "I'm sure."

A last look at his guitar and Ryan says, "Me too."

Only then do they leave the room. It's quiet when they step into the corridor, the house seemingly deserted. Then there's a series of frantic barks and Piglet comes running forward, brushing against Ryan's legs. He crouches, running his hand over her fur, making her pant and nuzzle at his hand, dog drool sliding over his fingers, and for what feels like the first time in forever, Ryan's laughing.

"I think she likes you." Pete's holding three leashes, Hemmy and Winston at his feet. "You've missed their walk, but if you want you can go with us later, Winston loves to play fetch."

"Doesn't he sink in the snow?" Ryan asks, worried about Winston's short legs. "He'll get cold."

"He's got a coat." Pete holds up his hand without the leashes, showing a small dog coat, the collar made of fluffy golden fur.

"That's the same as Mikey's," Ryan says, remembering nights in the bitter cold, Mikey bundled inside his coat as he ladled out soup.

Pete grins wide. "It is, I bought them for an anniversary present."

"Good choice," Spencer says.

"I thought so." Hanging the leashes and coat on a hook, Pete heads toward the stairs. "Can't stop, sorry. People to charm and money to beg for, but Mikey and Gerard are in the kitchen. Bob too."

Jon looks puzzled. "Can you remember a Bob?"

Ryan shakes his head, they'd been briefly introduced to the others the day before, but the only Bob he knows is the one who brought them here; the one who comes back to someone in the city and has a fondness for plaid. Ryan looks at Spencer. "You don't think?"

They both move together, not running, not really, but they still push the door open to the kitchen that little bit too hard, and then stand, staring at Bob, who's sitting close to Gerard. Bob looks back. "I thought I'd see you here."

Spencer takes a step forward. "You're... The person you come back to is Gerard?

"It is."

"And that's your ugly shirt that Gerard's wearing." The words slip out and too late, Ryan clamps shut his mouth, but Bob just smooths the front of his own plaid shirt down.

"Yep." He stands then, pushing back his chair. "Aren't you going to say hello?"

"Hi," Spencer says, and then he's running forward, pulling Bob into a hug, holding on until they both break apart. "I thought we'd never see you again."

"You would have, one way or another." Bob looks over his shoulder at Gerard. "There's not many people we don't know around here. The ones that matter anyway."

He doesn't make any moves to indicate Ryan should come close, does nothing but stand still and Ryan knows Bob's trustworthy, he does. The same way he knows it's time he started acting on that knowledge. He moves next to Spencer and Bob, and then stops, unsure of how to go on, but Bob does, gathering Ryan in a hug. He doesn't hold on, or cling close, just rests his hands against Ryan's back, saying quietly, "I'm glad to see you, kid," then steps away, looking at Brendon and Jon. "You seem to have picked up more people."

Spencer makes the introductions. "Bob, this is Brendon and Jon. They're our friends."

Bob smiles slightly, says, "Any friends of these two."

"You've found Bob." Mikey appears from a room at the back of the kitchen. He's wearing his usual outfit, tight jeans and a t-shirt, hair gelled straight, eye make-up perfect, but he's also wearing an apron, one with a black skull print on the front that ties at his neck and has strings that wrap around his waist twice. "We've eaten but there's stuff in the fridge for sandwiches."

"Thanks," Ryan says, but stays standing where he is, until Bob sighs.

"You'll have to get it yourself, they only wait on guests. I worked that out the day Gee left me sitting for nearly an hour while he colored in. I about gnawed off my arm."

"You can't be a guest when you class Clan House as your home," Gerard says, and he moves to stand next to Bob, wrapping his arm around his waist. "And I wasn't coloring in, but he is right about serving yourself. We do only wait on guests."

Ryan smiles, he can't help it. Lunch consists of thick sandwiches and slices of cake. This time Ryan stops before he's stuffed full, stomach aching from too much food, but only after he's reminded himself that it's okay, that there'll always be enough to eat. It's why he says nothing when he sees Jon slip half a sandwich in his pocket, just turns away when Jon catches him looking, his expression ashamed.

"I forgot," Jon says, and he puts the sandwich back on his plate before turning to Mikey, still flustered as he asks. "Is it okay if I take a shower?"

Mikey's busy scrubbing at a counter and when he turns he pushes his glasses back up his nose. "You don't have to ask, there's more official stuff to sort out later, but you've plenty of time. You all have. Just shove your plates in the dishwasher first."

"I call second shower," Spencer says then. Ryan doesn't try for third, there's no point -- he'll be sharing with Spencer anyway. He does expect Brendon to call third, because it has to be uncomfortable in his damp clothes, but Brendon just keeps picking at the remains of his cake, looking down at his plate.

"Before you shower you should pick out some more clothes, you need more than one set," Mikey says. He drops the sponge he's using in the sink and hooks the spray bottle of cleaner on the waistband of his jeans. "I need to clean our bathroom, Brendon, can you give me a hand?"

Brendon looks up then. "I'm good at polishing."

Mikey smiles. "Good."

~~~~~

Brendon wakes with a muffled yell. Mouth tightly closed against more panicked shouts he looks around and reassures himself that he's in his own bed. He's safe. He's warm. He really is okay. That doesn't help rid the lingering affects of his nightmare, tendrils of fear still wrapped tight. Rubbing at his wrist, his face, he wiggles out of his blankets keeping hold and trailing one behind him as he crawls to the bottom of the cot then stands. He looks back then, at Spencer and Ryan curled up tight together, Jon almost completely concealed by his quilt.

They're Brendon's friends and he knows he could wake them up and they wouldn't mind. But that's not what he needs right now. He needs space to breathe, space and light. Wrapping the blanket securely around his shoulders he heads for the door, walking as quietly as possible as he steps out of the room. Pulling the door open, he stands still a moment, his bare toes curled against the wood floor. All houses have their own feel and right now Clan House is quiet. Not silent because it's full of life still, the sound of snores coming from one room, the clatter of a keyboard from upstairs, and also the sound of someone moving in the kitchen.

The blanket swishes against the floor as Brendon walks past Hemmy, who lifts his head and snuffles a greeting, and into the kitchen, where Gerard is leaning against the counter, watching the kettle on the stove.

"It won't boil any faster doing that."

Gerard jumps his hand flat against his chest. "Fuck, you scared me."

"Sorry."

"No, no. I was in my own dream world." Gerard widens his eyes. "I didn't wake you did I?"

Brendon shakes his head and pulls the blanket closed in front of him. "I couldn't sleep."

"Sucks." Gerard reaches out and taps his fingers against a mug. "I'm making herbal tea, you want?"

"Not coffee?"

"I'd kill for a coffee, but I need to get up in the morning." Opening a cupboard door, Gerard exposes multiple small boxes, each one a different colour. "Bob keeps bringing me back new kinds, most of which taste like shit, like fucking bramble and elderflower. It was like drinking water used to steep sticks." Gerard hesitates then, smiles. "I'm not selling this well am I?"

"Not especially," Brendon says. "But I will have tea, just not the bramble."

"Good choice." Gerard grabs a box and places two tea bags into mugs, their tabs hanging over the side. He snatches at the kettle, taking it off the heat as it starts to whistle. Pouring out the water, he puts back the kettle then sits, pushing a mug toward Brendon. "Come, sit. It's apple and black-current, this one actually tastes good."

Brendon's willing to take Gerard's word, and he sits and cradles the mug in his hands, enjoying the quiet as they both drink.

"Have you all had a look around yet? Or did Mikey con you into doing his cleaning all day?"

"He didn't make me," Brendon protests. "I liked helping."

"It starts that way then next thing you know you're left in charge of reattaching all the heads of your GI Joes or knocking down walls with a hammer and a prayer." Gerard takes a sip of his tea, says, "That kid," love obvious in every word.

"I helped sort out some donated clothes," Brendon says, remembering sitting in the store room with Mikey, the easy silence as they pulled apart bags and revealed the clothes inside.

"Yeah? Was there anything good?"

"Jeans mostly, lots of t-shirts and a few dresses."

"Good, we've been short of those." Draining his tea, Gerard sets down his mug, says, "Are you feeling better?"

Brendon's about to protest that he wasn't feeling bad, that he can't sleep is all, but Gerard's watching him keenly, like he's waiting for any lie. "A little."

"Enough that you could go back to sleep?"

The right answer should be yes, show that Brendon isn't afraid of his own thoughts and memories, but the fact is that he is. He shakes his head. "Not yet."

"You know, talking usually helps."

Brendon remembers Ryan saying the same thing, and still Brendon can't understand why talking is seen as so good. He doesn't want people to know how disgusting he feels, the things he had to do to survive. Those are things he wants to keep hidden, where no one can see at all. He pulls at the blanket, holding it so he's covered from shoulders to knees. "There's nothing to tell."

Gerard pushes the hair out of his eyes, seeming to accept that as he starts talking in another direction. "It's funny. We've got official rooms for counseling but more secrets have been discussed over this table than anywhere else in the house, especially at night. I told Bob about my past here. Half past two in the morning and he'd just come in from a week-long trip. He was about dead on his feet but still listened as I told him the sordid details." Gerard laughs slightly, gaze slightly unfocused as he’s caught in his own memories. "We hadn't been dating long but I knew I had to tell him before we got serious. Give him the chance to ditch the ex-alcoholic junkie."

It's not what Brendon expected to hear, but he leans forward slightly, the edge of the table digging into his stomach. "He stayed?"

"He did, which was good because Mikey was hiding behind the door waiting to kick his ass if he didn't."

"He was going to take on Bob?" Brendon cringes slightly, imagining Mikey being hit by Bob, but Gerard doesn't seem concerned at all.

"Mikey's vicious when he's fighting for something he cares about. This house, Pete, me. There's not a fight he wouldn't take on." Gerard directs his attention on Brendon then. "He's fighting for you, too. We all are."

It should be good to hear, it is, except in the way it makes Brendon feel worse, because they're fighting over something that isn't worth saving. "You should save your energy. I'm not worth fighting for."

"That's bullshit," Gerard says. "Everyone in this house is worth fighting for. We fight together. We're a fucking army, and no one gets left behind."

"You don't understand," Brendon says, already exhausted by this conversation.

"I understand not wanting to live another day," Gerard says, sounding calm despite what he's saying. "How it feels to be covered in piss, shit and blood and not care because all I wanted was another drink. How it's possible to feel so disgusting that you want everyone to look away. But I'm lucky -- I've got people who wouldn't do that, who were there for me whatever happened."

Brendon looks down at the tabletop -- battered by time and hundreds of hands -- and says quietly. "I just feel so ashamed."

"Then why don't we work on changing that?"

"I don't know if I can." Brendon looks up then, sees that Gerard is waiting patiently, looking nothing but sympathetic. Brendon doesn't want to tell, but he's so tired, he doesn't think he can keep carrying the memories alone. Before he even knows he's going to do so, he starts to talk. "Before, when I first came here? The city? I ran out of money, and…and there with this man. He offered...y’know, he, he said he'd give me money. If I blew him.” Despite having cooled, the tea burns when Brendon takes a sip. “I wouldn't have, I really wouldn’t have, but I was so hungry. I was just-- I hadn't done it before, never, but he must have thought I had? I don't know why but he asked and we went to this alley and I wouldn't have said yes, I wouldn't but I needed to eat so badly and there was glass on the ground and he made me suck him and I got apples and a hot drink but it didn't help because I felt so disgusting, like people could see and then I did it again, like once wasn’t bad enough and I was so weak, I was so – all those things they said, they were true, they must be, because I did it, I gave in, because I needed the food, just, like, some soup or something, I hadn’t heard about the kitchen, or else I—Well, I was stupid, and all the time I was doing it I felt like them, the people in the videos and I was so dirty and ashamed and it hurt, they hurt me." A droplet of water lands on the table and Brendon puts up his hand, surprised to find his cheek is wet. "I'm a whore. I—a whore, selling myself for money."

"I'd say you were a survivor," Gerard replies after a bit, when Brendon is surprised to find that he can actually listen. "Doing what you needed to live. There's a difference between that, and someone who sells himself for love of the job. That’s fine, too, just different.." He stands then, pulling Brendon into a quick one-armed hug. "Want more tea? I have a stash of strawberry hidden at the back. It's excellent for conversations like these."

Brendon wipes at his face, says, "Please."

~*~*~*~

Ryan watches as Spencer shifts in place and tries not to look at the closed door to his side. He's got his thumbs hooked in his jeans pocket and is trying for a casualness that he's utterly failing to achieve. It's making Ryan antsy just watching him, and he jumps when the door is suddenly pulled open and Pete looks outside.

"Spencer, you can come in now."

"Right," Spencer says, but he doesn't actually move, just stands in the same place, his carefully crafted calm fracturing even more.

Ryan steps forward so he's between Spencer and Pete, determined that Spencer won't have to do this alone. "I'll come in with you."

"Sorry little dude. I know he'll tell you everything anyway but these meetings have to go solo." Pete steps into view fully then. "There's nothing to worry about, promise. Just we need things to be legal."

"And what if you contact the home and they want me to come back?"

It's the first time Spencer's actually verbalised that worry, and hearing how unsure he sounds strengthens Ryan's determination that that's something that will never happen. But it's not Ryan who speaks out.

"Then we'll go somewhere else," Brendon says, stepping forward and taking his place next to Ryan and Spencer, then after a hesitation, as if he's still unsure of his place, Jon.

Pete puts his hands over his ears. "I never heard that." He lets his hands drop then, says, "You've nothing to worry about. We've done this a lot and haven't lost anyone yet. Ray and Gerard make a mean team."

It's something Ryan wants to believe, but that means trusting someone to look after Spencer, and he doesn't know if he can do that. Not yet. "I'm still coming in."

"Hold on." Pete holds up his hand and looks back into the room. "Let me talk to Gee and Ray, we could sort something out."

Ryan nods, satisfied that Pete's trying at least, which is when Spencer turns to him. "I'll be fine, you should go explore with Brendon."

For the briefest of moments Ryan feels the sting of rejection but Spencer does look slightly calmer, like he's ready to face any issues head-on, and Ryan knows Pete won't do anything to deliberately hurt him. "You'll come find us when you're done?"

"Promise."

Which is enough that Ryan can remain in place, watching as Spencer follows Pete into the room.

"There's supposed to be more rooms at the back of the house," Brendon says. "Want to check them out?"

What Ryan wants to do is stay here and wait for Spencer to come back out. What he does is turn and start to walk toward the back of the house, Brendon and Jon staying close by his side.

Passing the kitchen, they keep going, past offices and storage rooms and down a small flight of stairs that lead to a whole new area of the house, a part they still haven't explored due to sticking close to the familiar, the spaces that have begun to be home.

It's cool, the light coming from a window that looks out at ground level, snow pressed up against the glass. The walls are painted a bright blue, the floors polished wood; framed art and pictures hang on the walls. There’s a painting of a fantasy scene, a blown-up photo of Pete and Mikey standing in front of Clan house with Pete grinning widely, Mikey smiling slightly as they hold up a key. Ryan's examining that photo, taking note of how blissfully happy they look when Brendon touches his arm. "Come see."

Ryan turns, following Brendon into a room filled with art supplies, easels and canvases stacked in piles while every inch of the walls is covered in drawings and paintings, some gaudy with bright paint, others stark pencil sketches that portray everything from scribbled, mashed-up lines to elaborate landscapes. Attracted by the crates stuffed with materials and the boxes full of shiny-handled scissors and fat tubs of glue, Ryan's tempted to linger, but Brendon's already moving on, urging Jon to follow.

Ryan's looking through small tubs full of what looks like liquid glitter, putting his finger into a tub and drawing a stripe of golden glitter along the back of his hand when Brendon yells, "Ryan, come here."

Brendon sounds excited, and he almost runs back into the art room before urging Ryan into the next, which is a small library, bookshelves against two walls, each one completely filled.

"You like books, right? You said, before," Brendon says, but Ryan doesn't reply, just keeps looking around. There are bean bags in one corner, a chair with the scuffed arms that's positioned next to a tall lamp, a red dragon painted on its shade. The books themselves look slightly battered, obviously well read, but that doesn't matter. All Ryan sees is the possibilities, stories to discover and words to read. Running his fingers along the spines, he's tempted to pull out a book and curl up in the chair, but Brendon and Jon are already on the way out, and it's not like Ryan can't come back. One last look, and Ryan follows, ready to discover more.

What they find is a room containing a piano, and Ryan knows leaving the books behind was the right thing to do when he sees how delighted Brendon looks, the easy, genuine way he smiles as he sits at the piano bench and runs his fingers over the keys. He looks back over his shoulders, hands still resting in place. "Do you think I can play this?"

"I don't see why not." Jon walks close and then folds himself down to the floor, back against the wall. "Well, we're waiting."

"I haven't played for a long time, I'll be rusty," Brendon warns, but he's still smiling, looking more relaxed than he has for a long time when he looks over at Ryan. "Everybody Hurts?"

Ryan smiles, sitting down next to Jon. "Sure."

Brendon begins to play.

~*~*~*~

Waking up screaming is starting to get old. Brendon's sure it is for the others too. It's only a matter of time before they tell him to go, maybe sleep in the TV room or even the half-finished new bedroom. It's why when he wakes he automatically stifles his cries and tries to calm down as he slides to the bottom of the cot, always soaked through with sweat, his heart pounding from the dreams that just won't go away.

Most nights he ends up in the kitchen, and somehow there's always someone there. Pete or Mikey usually, but sometimes Gerard, and -- on one occasion -- Bob, dressed in a too-small robe and baggy cargo shorts as he rummaged in the fridge. Brendon nearly went and hid elsewhere that night, but all Bob did was make tea and open his laptop, showing off his collection of favorited Youtube clips until Brendon was yawning and ready for bed. He dreamt of prat falls and blinking lights that night. It was a nice change.

Tonight though, Brendon doesn't get halfway down the cot when someone reaches out and grabs his arm. Heart beating even faster he peers through the darkness and sees that both Ryan and Spencer are awake, and it's Ryan that's got tight hold of Brendon's arm. "Sorry I woke you, I'll go."

"No you won't," Ryan says, whisper soft. "We've watched you go off for over a week now, we've given you space and it's not working. Tonight we're trying something else."

"You're right." Brendon starts to gather his blankets. "I'll go sleep in the TV room."

Spencer pushes himself up on one elbow, looking over Ryan's body. "We're not telling you to go, we're telling you to come here."

"In your bed?"

"No, in our intergalactic spaceship." Ryan pulls back the covers and rolls over, squashing Spencer against the wall. "Get in, and Jon, you sleep in the cot, I don't think we could fit four into the bed but this way you're close."

Brendon hadn't even known Jon was awake, but he makes a muffled sound of assent as Brendon climbs into Ryan and Spencer's bed, lying balanced on the edge as Jon rolls out of his bed onto the cot, pulling his blankets with him, says, "Is he always this bossy?" his words slightly slurred with sleep.

"You don't know the half of it," Spencer says, then laughs when Ryan tries to elbow him in the side.

Despite the lack of space Brendon's comfortable, especially when Ryan rolls his eyes and pulls Brendon away from the edge. "You won't catch gay cooties."

For a long while Brendon lies still, his cheek resting against the soft pillow, warm and comfortable and feeling safe. It's why, finally, he says, "I think I already have."

"Is that your big coming out scene?" Ryan asks, protesting indignantly when Spencer pushes himself back up again and puts his hand over Ryan's mouth.

"Shush, everyone doesn't have to come out with the aid of metaphors and teaching aids." Moving his hand, Spencer drapes himself over Ryan, looking at Brendon. "Is that what you're dreaming about?"

"Sometimes." Brendon's wide awake now, staring up at the ceiling. "There's other stuff too."

Jon reaches up and touches Brendon's side through the blankets. "So tell us, we're listening."

It's two forty-five on a freezing Sunday morning when Brendon shares his secrets, the wind rattling against the window and three people listening as he reveals painful, hidden secrets that hurt coming off his tongue. They are each there for him until finally he runs out of words. His friends around him, he falls into sleep.

~*~*~*~

School isn't easy for Brendon. The actual work is simple, but the crowds make him nervous, and he can't help thinking people are watching, seeing the secrets he holds close. It's why he keeps smiling, so much that his face aches at the end of each day, when he meets Jon, Spencer and Ryan at the gates, and can finally go home.

It's not a long walk, not when you've somewhere to walk to, and Brendon shoves his mitten-covered hands in his coat pocket, head down against the snow. They talk about home or work, what they had for lunch, or Ryan's plans for them to join the band -- ordinary things that help soothe the scars they all hold. When they get back to Clan House the lights are lit next to the door, and Brendon can't help smiling again, except this time it's for real.

Inside it's chaos. Dogs are running wild and the hall is crowded with people coming home from school. Waving a greeting, Brendon starts to pull off his coat and heads for their room, still shared for now, but that doesn't matter at all. Despite the small space they fit perfectly, and Brendon can't imagine waking without Jon on one side, Ryan and Spencer the other.

Getting closer, Brendon sees something pinned on their door, next to their name plate -- a picture of them dressed as carnival performers, as drawn by Gerard -- and he plucks it free, handing it to Ryan.

"It's for you."

Ryan opens the note, quickly reading before folding it up. "Dad called."

"Are you calling him back?" Spencer asks, sounding wary, and Brendon can't blame him. The last time Ryan was encouraged to call his dad still fresh in his mind.

"I think so, yeah. He's trying; I can meet him halfway," Ryan says.

For a moment Brendon feels a burning jealousy for Ryan's careful hope, because Brendon doesn't even have that -- his family refuses to take his calls. Any brooding he might be working up to is cut off by Spencer bumping him with his hip, edging him toward the door.

"Come on, I think Mikey was going to make cookies."

"Mikey makes terrible cookies, he always burns them," Brendon says.

Spencer grins wide. "I know, I like to watch Pete eat them and say they're delicious."

"Mean, Spencer." Ryan steps in the room and sets his bag on the desk, taking out his school books and setting them on the shelf. "But also valid."

It doesn't take long to get settled. They hang their coats on waiting hooks, take their medications, and, in Jon's case, remove shoes and tuck them under the bed. That done, they head for the kitchen, stepping inside to be greeted by a cheer.

Everyone is there: Mikey and Pete, Gerard and Bob, Ray, Jamia and Frank, Trey, Ben and Connor, Andrew and Zack, Zoe, Aaron and Beth. A homemade banner stretches along the wall, Welcome Home written in sparkling letters, and on the table lies a huge cake. It is lopsided with yellow icing, the most perfect thing Brendon's ever seen.

"We would have done this before, but we had to cut through all the official bullshit." Mikey steps forward and holds up four pieces of paper. "As of this morning, you're all officially in the care of Clan House."

"God help you," Pete says, but he's grinning widely as everyone starts to whistle and clap and cheer.

Comments

flabbergasted

[quatre-k.livejournal.com]

this was painful and beautiful and so real I loved it. It was just amazing a sequel would be amazing maybe just an epilogue so we could see how they end up though if you don't ever write one I will just write one in my head.

Re: flabbergasted

[turps]

Thank you so much!

I'm playing around with something dealing with Jon and Tom, which of course would involve all the others too. I've no idea when that'll be done, but it will happen.

Though a sequel in your head is also fantastic. I love that you enjoyed the story so much that you felt the need to do that. That's such a compliment.

[mandlebars.livejournal.com]

wow, that was amazing. It felt real, with such thought behind the story.I appreciate that you didn't shy away from the realities of what someone in Brendon'ssituation would've gone through- yet it wasn't dealt width in a clinical manner.

[turps]

Thank you so much.

It was a delicate line to walk at times in terms of showing what he did go through and not get too graphic or detached, so I'm thrilled it worked for you.

[jadedpen]

Wow. I just sobbed through most of this. This is amazing -- almost too real. I love everything you did here, the details and the realities and the careful way you made them all so believable and honest, in so much pain and yet so hopeful still.

::stands up, cheering::

[turps]

Thank you, so very much.

There was a lot of pain in the story, but you're right, there's hope too. I'm so glad that shone through.

*beams*