Every Word Not Spoken To You 1/8

[turps]

Frank’s asleep when Mikey says, "I'm leaving tomorrow."

Deliberate, Mikey's keeps his voice low, a whisper of sound against Frank’s deep, regular, breathing.

Frank’s got his arm pushed under the pillow and the blanket they’re sharing has slipped down, exposing Frank’s bare shoulder. All Mikey wants to do is reach out and touch. He craves the reassurance of contact, but at the same time, this is a confession that needs distance, Mikey making this first move toward leaving.

Mikey curls his fingers into a tight fist, staring into the darkness as he finally admits, “I’ve tried, but I can’t. Not anymore.”

Which is selfish, Mikey knows that. But if he does stay, when Gerard goes down he’s going to pull Mikey along with him, and Mikey can’t allow that to happen. He won’t let it happen, even if it feels like his heart’s breaking.

“I can’t watch him die.” The words catch, thoughts made brutally real, and Mikey’s all too aware that finally, he’s been pushed past his limit.

“He’s not going to die.” Frank’s reply is unexpected, and he sounds fierce, too much so for someone that should have been sleeping. It’s too much for right now, the softness of night cut through by Frank’s barely controlled fear. “You don’t have to go. Fucked up doesn’t mean dead.”

Frank’s turning to face Mikey, and Mikey’s inching away, needing the distance as his carefully constructed convictions threaten to crumble.

“Not always.” That’s something Mikey has to admit, but he remembers Gerard’s hands shaking when he first wakes, the incoherence and self-hatred, the way over time Gerard as a person has been eroded and replaced and defined by dependence. Which is the main issue. Mikey can deal with the clean-ups and bodily hauling Gerard from harm, it’s the blankness that gets him. The fact when he looks at Gerard he knows he’s already lost his big brother. “But this time, yeah.”

Frank’s staring at Mikey, as if assessing what he’s not saying, and then says blankly, “So you’re leaving.”

“I have to.” Right now it’s all Mikey can say, reality crushing as he tries to think how to explain, condensing weeks worth of internal debate so they fit into this moment. When Mikey finally admits his last hope. “I keep picking him up when he falls, and if I do that he’s never going to stop. If I go now he might see what he’s doing, he might finally wake up.”

Frank props himself up on his elbow. “That’s a fucking big risk.”

“I know.” And Mikey does know. He knows that he’s kidding himself by thinking his leaving will get through to Gerard, but it’s a hope Mikey holds onto, no matter how flimsy. “I can’t stay Frank. I don’t want to hate him, and I will if I don’t go.”

“That’s... No. Fuck.” Frank grips hold of Mikey's arm, like he can physically stop him from ever leaving this bed. "You don't have to, you can stay here. Mom will let you. We have room."

More than anything Mikey wants to say yes, grabbing hold of this compromise that would let him stay in a place that he knows, with people who’ve been there for him always. Except, it’s a solution that would also include Gerard, who’d be just there, too close for Mikey to make the break that he needs -- that they both need. “I need to get away. I can’t.”

For a long moment Frank remains silent, as if he’s thinking what to say. Then he brings up his hand, his fingers brushing against the sweat-damp hair at the nape of Mikey's neck. Frank takes a deep breath and says, "Then I'm coming with you."

"What? No." Mikey pulls back, his eyes opening wide as he stares at Frank, guilt hitting already. "You've got school, and your mom needs you."

"So do you," Frank says, as if stating a simple fact. "We can go tomorrow night, when mom goes to work."

Relief mixes with the still building guilt, Mikey knowing he should be telling Frank no, that he needs to stay here. What Mikey does is say, “Yeah.”



They empty their bank accounts and leave less than twenty-four hours later.

Frank's carrying his backpack and leaves a long letter for his mom.

Mikey takes a backpack too. His note for Gerard says simply I'm sorry.




The first weeks are hard.

It takes five days of living in a crappy hotel and walking the streets until they find jobs willing to take them on with no references or without need of permanent addresses. Even longer to find a place to live where the deposit is something they can actually afford with the money they’ve saved up between them.

They end in a one room apartment containing a hot-plate, a rickety sofa-bed and a tiny bathroom shoe-horned into a corner. It’s an apartment paid by the week and Mikey's all too aware of the money they need -- rent and food and bills -- and each day they seem to give up more. Magazines and music and eventually, when their scant joined savings are gone, anything that's in any way considered a luxury; like fresh fruit or vegetables, an icy cold soda at the end of a hot day.

It's more surviving than living, but even then Mikey's happy -- happier. He's got a job waiting tables at a local diner, a place to sleep, and while he's mourning the loss of his brother he doesn't miss the man Gerard had become. Mostly though, Mikey's got Frank, and that makes up for the cold nights and long days, the way they're constantly struggling for money.

Until Mikey begins to lose Frank too.

It's little things at first. Frank comes home from his job at the bakery and collapses on the sofa, his mouth open against the ratty material, the spring that sticks out of one side dangerously close to his cheek as he sleeps. Each time it happens, Mikey covers him with a blanket and sits on the floor, reading one of the newspapers that always get left behind at the diner.

Days pass and Mikey gets used to sleeping on the floor, his body stiff and Frank still exhausted when Mikey wakes him with coffee and dry toast. There’s nothing Mikey can do but watch, worried as Frank slowly sits up, his hand against his chest as he takes a few bites and then pushes the toast to one side.

Mikey's worried out of his mind and he begs Frank to call his mom, but he always replies no, that he'll be fine with rest and some sleep. Frank promises Mikey that he'll be okay, and Mikey forces himself to believe him. It's the only reason he leaves the apartment when Frank calls in sick and ends up huddled on the sofa under a blanket and all of their clothes, white-faced and shivering as Mikey reluctantly puts on his uniform.

Mikey's gone for ten hours. When he gets back he finds Frank collapsed on the floor.



"You should go home, he'll be sleeping for a while."

The nurse checking Frank's IV adjusts the flow and notes down some figures on a chart which he hangs over the end of the bed. When he's done he looks over at Mikey, and Mikey sees that he's got a name tag attached to his tunic. It says, Jon, there's a sticker of a ginger cat at the end of the name.

Mikey's been sitting in this same chair for nearly six hours. His back's throbbing and his head feels like it's going to explode. He curls his fingers around Frank's hand, hoping that this time Frank will respond. He doesn't, and Mikey's eyes are burning.

"Seriously, you'll feel better if you go home and get some sleep," Jon says, looking at Mikey. "We'll look after him, promise."

It's not that Mikey thinks they won't. It's just, he left Frank and Frank nearly died. Gasping for breath as Mikey served burgers and fries, took his break and sent messages that never received a reply. Mikey can't leave him now and he tightens his grip, ready to plead. "I can't leave him."

There's a silence, Jon looking between Mikey and Frank. Then he glances at the watch that hangs next to his badge. "I'm on shift until six. I'll bring you a blanket."

"Thank you," Mikey says, and keeps staring at Frank's face, hoping to see some indication that he's about to wake. So far there's been nothing and it's almost like Mikey's watching a stranger, Frank's skin deathly pale and his features so still. Which is wrong, because Frank's made for easy grins and amusement. Not this, caught in a state between living and death. Teeth digging into his bottom lip, Mikey reminds himself that Frank isn't dead, that Mikey got him here in time.

"Here." A blanket is settled over Mikey's shoulders and Jon crouches down, one hand on Frank's bed as he looks over at Mikey. "There's some leftovers in the break room, they're not up to much but if you're hungry."

Mikey shakes his head, even the thought of food making him feel sick.

"Okay." Jon stands and rests his hand on Mikey's shoulder. "I'll be back later."

He leaves the room and Mikey clutches the blanket closed in one hand, preparing to wait.

~~~~~

"You're still awake?" Jon glances over at Mikey as he begins to check Frank yet again. Oxygen flow, temperature, blood pressure, they're things Mikey's watched him do all night and Jon yawns as he writes down this latest set of figures. "Sorry, I haven't been on nights long, it still catches up with me at times."

"Do you like it?" Mikey asks, not for any real desire to know, just he wants to keep Jon talking, listen to something other than the beep of monitors and Frank's laboured breathing.

Outside the sun is starting to rise and Jon stands close to the window, looks out at the darkened buildings that stretch into the distance. Eventually he says, "I like helping people."

It's not a real answer to the question, not really, but Mikey lets it go, too tired to think about hidden meanings or any ambiguity from someone he doesn't even know. He looks at his watch seeing it's a few hours until the start of his shift at the diner. Mikey knows there's no way he's going in today.

Jon's still standing close to the window and he turns to Mikey and says, "Are you sure there's no one you want to call?"

Truthfully, Mikey wants nothing more than to call Gerard, and he knows he should call Frank's mom. He's came close a few times, finger held over the call button but each time he remembers Frank making him promise not to. But that was then and Mikey can't help thinking that Linda should know. It's yet another thing to worry about and Mikey's about done, so exhausted that all he wants is for someone to lie and say things will be okay.

Seeing that Jon's watching, his expression worried, Mikey takes a deep breath and curls his hands, fingernails digging into his palms. "There's no one. I'm okay."

Jon doesn't look convinced, but he heads for the door. "I'll be going off shift soon. I'll get you some breakfast first."

"I'm not...."

"Not hungry, I know," Jon says, cutting Mikey off. "But you need to eat something or you'll be in the bed next to Frank."

He leaves then, and Mikey tries not to think how good an actual bed sounds.



Getting involved with a pimp was never part of Ryan's plans, especially one as controlling as Walt.

In fact, nothing about his present situation was part of Ryan's plans. He'd intended to become a famous writer or some kind of rock star, his thoughts full of dreams about leaving school and making his mark on the world -- and he has. The problem is, the mark he's made is one that comes with a helping of shame. Ryan’s learned that dreams are for other people, and sometimes you just have to do what you can in order to survive. Which is fine, Ryan can rationalise his choices always, it's just, he'll never be able to forgive himself for dragging Spencer down with him.

"Wake up, we need to go soon," Spencer says, and tugs at Ryan's hair. They're lying on the bed they share in their rented room and all Ryan wants to do is close his eyes and sleep.

Sighing, he rolls onto his side and then pushes himself up, bare feet on the worn carpet. "You suck."

"You know it," Spencer says, moving into the warm space Ryan left behind. Head resting on his arm he watches as Ryan starts to pull on his shoes. "Walt still making you work Fifth tonight?"

"Yeah." Ryan fastens one sneaker, ensuring the lace is tight. He's not looking forward to tonight, Fifth Street is part of an unknown area and the thought of being away from the others is troubling. Not that Ryan can protest, he has to do what Walt says, and that means going out and taking on the new territory.

Spencer's frowning as he looks at Ryan. "I'm going to ask Walt if I can go with you."

"I'll be fine," Ryan says, because the last thing he wants is Spencer to approach Walt. There's no point rocking the boat and Ryan will be fine, he's worked alone before and will do so again, especially if it means Spencer gets to stay on familiar territory with people who'll watch his back. Second sneaker fastened Ryan falls back, landing heavily on Spencer. "It could be a gold mine night, full of johns with deep pockets and vanilla tastes."

"It could," Spencer agrees, and if Ryan didn't know him so long he'd think Spencer actually believed what he was saying.

Ryan turns, his head against Spencer's. "I'll be okay."

"I know," Spencer says in reply.

~~~~

The new street isn't a gold mine, in fact, Ryan's beginning to think it's a total bust. Two hours and he hasn't had a second look, any people that are walking past do so with their eyes averted and steps hurried. It's making Ryan worry, if he goes back with no money he'll be in trouble, but there's no way he can leave this spot either. All he can do is hang on and hope that someone comes along, anyone who actually wants what Ryan can offer.

It doesn't help that being alone allows Ryan time to think. Usually he's distracted by the others but now all he's got are his own thoughts, a drafty corner and graffiti that he's already read at least twenty times. Ryan looks at a particular section, where black painted words bleed onto the wall. He thinks they're supposed to be part of some witty slogan or a tortured poem, Ryan isn't sure which one, but what he does know is they make no sense. Checking no one's around he rubs at his arms and stares at the words, mentally swapping and making additions until it's reading in a way that he likes. He swings around when he hears footsteps and someone clearing their throat.

"Do you know what time it is?" The guy asking isn't as old as Ryan's usuals, is dressed in a heavy winter coat and a scarf tied neatly around his neck. On first glance Ryan would think it was an innocent inquiry, except the guy's making no attempt to look at Ryan's face, just staring at his body and Ryan falls into his act, hip pushed forward and forcing a smile, desperate to land some money at last.

"Sorry, no watch," Ryan says, and holds out his arm. He rests his fingers against the man's sleeve. "But I know how to give you a good time."

The line is as clichéd as fuck, but Ryan knows that it'll work. He knows everything about the johns that hunt this city. The tells and aborted questions, the ones that want a quickie in a back alley and the ones that want more. This guy is one of those, it's there in the way he's breathing harshly, his whole body tense and still not looking at Ryan at all. To him Ryan's nothing, a body only, and it's no surprise when he says, "Come with me."

Ryan goes, following the man to a station wagon parked a little way up the road. Before he gets inside Ryan checks for weapons. It's a perfunctory check at best, limited to what Ryan can actually see, but it's better than nothing, and he only opens the door when the worst he sees is a candy wrapper and a plastic water pistol lying on the back seat.

Inside it's warm and the air smells of some kind of flower -- sunshine melody according to the label on the air freshener hanging from the mirror.

"I can have anything, right, as long as I pay?"

"Yeah," Ryan says, and he sits to the side on his seat, his back against the door. Outside he can see one of Walt's men, casually checking his phone like he's not really watching Ryan's every movement. Tempted to flip him off Ryan turns his attention to the john, watching and evaluating as the john fastens his seat belt and starts the car. Even over the sound of the engine Ryan can hear him breathe, harsh sounds that scream nerves and Ryan knows this is going to be a bad one. He rests his head against the window and looks outside, says nothing when the john reaches out and grabs hold of Ryan's crotch and squeezes.



"How's he doing?"

"Isn't it your job to tell me?" Mikey says, and he's clutching the blanket closed with one hand, cold despite the dry heat of the room.

"Yeah, but you know him better than me." As opposed to how Mikey saw him last, Jon looks refreshed, his smile easy as he picks up Frank's chart from the end of the bed. "You've been here all day?"

"Yeah," Mikey says, and he watches Jon's face, taking in every micro change in expression as he reads. Not that there's many, Jon's smile changing into a mask of professional detachment that Mikey wouldn't be able to read even if he was running at his best. Which Mikey isn't right now, not by a long shot. "He hasn't woken up yet."

"It’s taking him a lot of energy to fight this, his body needs the down time." Jon sets down the chart, his attention on Frank as he checks his IV and oxygen levels. Then he turns to Mikey, says, "Not the answer you wanted, huh?"

What Mikey wants is a reassurance that Frank will be fine. That he's going to wake up and tell Mikey that he wants to go home. But Mikey's not stupid, he knows that's not going to happen, and he looks at Jon, pushing past the weight in his chest as he tries to focus on the positives, the small changes he's noticed during the day.

"He's breathing a little easier." Not that it's a huge change, Frank's breathing is still painful to hear, but at least he's still not fighting for air. Even that small change is a relief, and Mikey tightens his hold on Frank's hand as he adds, "His lips aren't blue."

"That's good," Jon says, and unclips a pen from the pocket of his scrubs. Picking up the chart he writes something down and asks, "Anything else you've noticed?"

Surprised, Mikey looks away from Frank. "You're writing that shit down?"

"We're the only ones conscious in the room right now and I'm not asking myself," Jon says, and he taps his pen against the chart. "Like I said, you know him best."

Mikey thinks a moment, then says, "He moved a few hours ago, like he was dreaming. I thought...." Momentarily, Mikey tightens his hold on Frank's lax hand even further, then loosens his grip, afraid of crushing his fingers. "I thought he was waking up."

Jon writes again, and then sets down the chart, sliding the pen back onto his pocket. "His sats are better since this morning. Not by much, but they're moving in the right direction."

As reassurances go it's slim, but it's more than Mikey's had for close to a day, and for the first time in hours he widens his focus. Sitting back in the chair, Mikey looks at the clock that's positioned over the door to the room, noticing that already he's missed hours of his shift. "I should be serving burgers right now."

"You want to call your work?" Jon asks, and stands at the end of the bed, his attention turned from Frank to Mikey. "There's a pay phone at the end of the corridor, or I'll look away while you call from here."

"You're encouraging rule breaking?" Mikey asks, and the blanket falls off one shoulder as he rubs at his face and remembers the frantic dash to the ER. "And I couldn't call anyway, I left my phone at home."

Jon looks toward the door. "It's not a cast iron rule, more to keep things peaceful around here."

"It's too fucking peaceful," Mikey says, and he's anticipating each drip of the IV, each of Frank’s laboured breaths. Against those sounds Jon's voice is loud, bright and something new as he circles the bed and stands so he's close to Mikey.

"If you know the number you can use my phone. I'll go and get it."

Mikey does know the number, and he knows he should call. But if he doesn't there's no chance he'll be told he has to go in. If he doesn't he can stay in this room, taking time before dealing with money or worrying about calling Linda. If he doesn't he can stay here and keep on watching Frank breathe.

"Thank you," Mikey says, "But it's okay. I'll call later."

"If you change your mind," Jon says, and briefly he touches Mikey's shoulder before leaving the room.



Walking home from Fifth takes a long time. Not that Ryan cares. As nights go it's one of the good ones, not too cold and the moon is almost full, casting the sidewalk in a silvery light. Hands pushed into his pockets, Ryan keeps his fingers curled around the few bills he's allowed to keep and steps over the shadow of a trash-can, ensuring he clears it by inches. It's something that reminds him of another time, except then he was jumping shadows in the sunlight, and instead of crumpled ten dollar bills he had coins in his pocket, and Spencer close at his side.

Unlike now, when Spencer should be here but isn't. Ryan misses him, and especially misses knowing Spencer's as safe as he can be in their situation, which admittedly, isn't that safe at all. But if Ryan's there Spencer's safer, and that's an important distinction.

Thinking of Spencer being alone, Ryan hurries his steps, stopping jumping shadows and concentrating on getting home fast, anxiety hitting hard as he allows his emotions to rise to the surface. It's something Ryan tries not to do. If you don't think you don't hurt, but right now Ryan can't help imagining every worst case scenario. The horror stories that he's seen or heard or lived through, and he's given up any pretence of walking now. Instead Ryan runs headlong for home.

Where he finds Spencer safe, sitting up in their bed, the blankets pulled up to his waist and reading a newspaper with a headline from two days before.

The newspaper falls to one side as Spencer kicks back the blankets and swings his legs out of the bed, reacting instantly as Ryan throws open the door. Reaching between the mattress and the wall, Spencer grabs hold of the length of pipe they keep there as he demands, "What's wrong?"

Doubled over, his hands braced on his knees, Ryan tries to steady his breathing, taking in enough air to ease his aching lungs as he looks through the veil of his hair and reassures himself that Spencer's okay, that he's fine. Still, Ryan needs to say the words, and he manages to ask, "You okay?"

"I'm not the one who's just raced in here like I was being chased by hell hounds," Spencer says, and he's gripping the pipe in one hand, hefting it as if he's still expecting someone to come bursting through the still-open door. Sitting on the side of the bed, Spencer pushes back Ryan's hair, his head tilted to one side as he looks at Ryan's face. "Is someone chasing you?"

"No." Ryan holds Spencer's gaze, concentrating on how tired he looks, the shadows under Spencer eyes. They're details that push past the feeling of shame, for allowing himself to be taken over by anxiety like some newbie fresh onto the streets, and Ryan's fingertips dig into his thighs as he straightens and goes to shut the door. "How did things go tonight?"

A pause, and then Spencer pulls back his hand and sets down the pipe onto the bed. "The usual Sunday trade. Mostly bjs, some fucker wanted to bareback but I told him no dice, even for what he was offering."

Personally, Ryan doesn't get the appeal of going without a rubber, but it's something they're asked to do often. It's also something neither Spencer or Ryan will do, no matter how much they need the money. Blatantly, he stares at Spencer from head to toe, checking for new bruises. "He didn't try to force you?"

Spencer frowns and shakes his head. "If he'd have tried I'd have punched him in the dick."

"A knee's more effective," Ryan says, and he sits next to Spencer, the pipe nestled between them. "I made thirty tonight, Fifth was a wasteland."

"Fuck," Spencer says bleakly, and then, "It's okay, we'll make it up tomorrow, and if we don't we can cut back on stuff."

Ryan wants to ask what. They're already cut back to bare basics on anything that counts. Surviving on the least amount of food possible and when needed taking things from dumpsters to eat or to read. It's that or losing this room, and as degrading as Ryan finds it to live how he does, at least this way they have a safe place to sleep.

The only thing he can think to do is plead his case to Walt, to get moved back to Spencer, or at least, to somewhere where he can actually make his usual amount of money. Ryan starts to unfasten his belt, pushing the prong through the self-made holes Ryan was forced to add. "I'll go see Walt in the morning. Ask to be moved."

"So I don't get to see him and you do?" Spencer's whole body is tense as he looks toward Ryan. "He wanted you there, if you ask to be moved he'll count it as a favor."

And another thing that Ryan owes Walt, the latest in a list that never seems to get any shorter. Pulling off his t-shirt, Ryan carefully folds it up and lays it on the chair at the side of the bed. "If I don't ask to be moved we could be down every night."

"And if you do you're in even deeper with that bastard." For a moment Spencer's anger flairs before he hides it away, taking a deep breath as he rests his fingers over the bruise on Ryan's side, one that bleeds out from his hip in a variety of colors. "We'll manage, even if you are down every night."

Ryan stands and takes off his pants, folds them up on top of his t-shirt and takes comfort in Spencer’s confidence, that despite this new set back they will be able to manage. Which they will, they always do.

Holding onto that thought, Ryan heads for the bathroom and a much needed shower, then stops in the doorway to say, “No stealing the blanket.”

“Like I’d do that,” Spencer says, and slides down in the bed, the blanket pulled up to his chin. “I’m warming it up for you.”

“Of course you are,” Ryan says, and then smiles.




"You haven't left here for over twenty-four hours now," Jon says, and he steps into the room, standing close to the doorway as he looks over to Mikey. "If you don't come with me I'm going to carry you out bodily."

Unimpressed, Mikey glances at Jon. "I could take you."

Jon puts up his fists, dancing from foot to foot. "I may be short but I'm scrappy."

"Also, insane," Mikey says, surprised when he feels himself smiling as Jon continues punching the air. It's a feeling that's welcome in some ways, but in most Mikey feels like it's wrong, like he's betraying Frank in some way. "And I've been out of the room."

Jon drops his hands, suddenly serious. "A few minutes to run to the bathroom doesn't count."

"I left the room," Mikey says again, because no matter what Jon says, Mikey has left Frank's side. "I also ate."

"At the risk of channeling my mom, a few slices of pizza isn't a meal." Jon looks at the clock over the door, and then checks the watched pinned to his scrubs, checking the time on that too. He waits, then says, "As of a few seconds ago I'm officially on my break. So I'm going to tell you look like shit and the last thing we need is to end up admitting you too. We have a bed shortage as it is."

Automatically, Mikey says, "I'm fine."

Jon takes hold of the blanket that Mikey's got wrapped around his shoulders. "Tell that to someone without a nursing degree."

"I thought you said you were a student," Mikey says, and grips hold of the edges of the blanket.

"I am." Jon tugs at the blanket, pulling it from Mikey's hand. "I also know what I'm talking about. Which is why you're coming down to the cafeteria with me and I'm going to buy you breakfast."

Mikey considers refusing, but he can tell that Jon's determined, and the last thing he wants is some physical scuffle. Especially when it's one he suspects he'd lose. There's also the fact that Mikey's hungry, his stomach growling as he thinks about actual hot food. Not that he's going to give in too easily, which could set some kind of precedent where Jon can order him around. "Frank needs me here."

"Frank's quite capable of lying still and being unconscious on his own," Jon says, and steps past Mikey to look at the machines that are clustered at the head of Frank's bed. "His readings are holding steady and if anything changes people will know."

"You're saying you're not the only nurse in this place?" Mikey says, but he's standing, his whole body aching from sitting so long.

Jon grins, says easily, "The only one that matters," as he heads toward the door. "Come on, if you wait too long the eggs turn into rubber."

"I might like them rubbery," Mikey says, and he leans over the side rail of the bed, talking directly at Frank. "I'm going for breakfast. If you die when I'm gone I'm going to be fucking annoyed."

Already in the corridor, Jon comes back inside. "You know he's not actually going to die?"

"I know he's a stubborn fucker who'd wait to die until I was gone," Mikey says, and while that's true what he doesn't say is, even if he's been told that Frank's getting better, that even the doctors are confident of an eventual recovery, that means nothing. It can't when Mikey knows all too well that life isn't fair and things can change in an instant. "He needs to know if he goes I'll just follow."

Jon runs his hand through his hair, his mouth opening then closing before he finally says, "I want to pretend I didn't hear that. Or that it's the exhaustion talking and you don't mean what you said."

Mikey shrugs one shoulder, because right now he means every word. "If it makes it easier...."

"It doesn't," Jon says, and for once there's no hint of his usual smile or professional detachment. "I'm going to buy you breakfast now, food and as much coffee as you can drink, then we're going to talk."

"Works for me," Mikey says, because no matter what Jon says, it doesn't mean Mikey will reply, or even listen.



Ryan's eyeing a display of magazines at the news-stand, reading the cover pages as the owner hovers, enough that Ryan's neck is prickling from having someone standing so close.

Despite the early hour and lack of sleep, Ryan's wide awake, too keyed up to stay in one place, and he's about to move on when he hears footsteps behind him and someone says, "Ryan, hi."

Ryan turns, and when he sees Lindsey his first reaction is to makes some kind of excuse and hurry away. It's the reaction he has always, because while Ryan doesn't dislike Lindsey, he finds her unnerving. She's too tied into the system for his comfort, and Ryan takes a step to the side, getting ready to go.

"I was just thinking of you," Lindsey says, and you makes no indication that she's noticed how Ryan's tensed up, pulled in on himself as she smiles, keeping space between them. "We're having a poetry slam, fund-raising for the center. I figured it would be your speed."

And that’s something else that makes Ryan uneasy, how Lindsey always seems to know things about the people she's trying to help. That Ryan would like poetry, that Spencer's favorite cupcake is chocolate. They're little things that mean nothing, apart from how Lindsey shouldn't know them at all. Ryan takes another step away, says, "I'm busy."

"It starts early afternoon, you could leave before six," Lindsey says, and doesn't call Ryan on the fact she hasn't even given a date. "There'll be coffee and shit, free for the taking."

"You fund-raise by giving stuff away?" Ryan asks, trying to understand how that would even work.

Lindsey smiles, tapping her fingers against the messenger bag she's got slung across her chest. "It gets us publicity and brings in the sponsors. Coffee and cookies are a fair trade for more funding."

Momentarily Ryan considers actually attending, temped by free food and an opportunity to lose himself in words. Which is exactly why Ryan won't go, because if he does he'll be blending two worlds. The one from before, when Ryan held onto his dreams, and now, when all that matters is surviving. "I have to go, I left Spencer sleeping."

Ryan makes his escape, his head held high and steps unhurried, keeping that pace until he turns the corner, then stops, back against the wall as he takes a moment to just breathe.

~~~~

Spencer's angry, that's apparent as soon as Ryan walks into the room. It's also something Ryan expected, and he holds out his peace offering, says, "I got breakfast."

Spencer doesn't look around from where he's making the bed, pulling the covers straight and tucking them in tight. He picks up the pillow, thumps it hard in the middle and then sets it back down. "You think offering food makes up for me waking up and finding you gone?"

"I left a note," Ryan says, and he crushing the bag in his hand, paper crumpled under his fingers. "I went to that bakery you like, I got you a cinnamon sugar bagel."

"Two words aren't a note," Spencer says, and finally he turns, looking at Ryan. "You couldn't have said where you were going? I thought you'd gone to see Walt."

"It's too early for him to be awake," Ryan says, and knows he's made a mistake when Spencer's expression hardens, his mouth a thin line. Ryan drops his hand, backtracking as he finds the words to explain. "I woke up and couldn't sleep. So I went for a walk."

Spencer relaxes a little, and sits on the edge of the bed. "You could have woken me up."

"I guess." Ryan sits too, looks down at his lap and the bag containing the bagel. "You needed the sleep."

"I need not to worry you've gone and done something stupid even more," Spencer says, and he takes the bag, ripping it open. Tearing the bagel, he gives Ryan his half. "This is fresh."

Ryan pulls off a chunk of bagel, eating it slowly then licks off the sugar that clings to his fingers. "They throw the old ones away. I was about to go out back when the counter lady offered me this."

"She just handed it over," Spencer says, and he's stopped eating, his mouth twitching at one corner. "You didn't stand there looking pathetic and like some kind of lost, starving waif?"

"No," Ryan says, because all he'd done was go in the shop and be himself. "All I did was ask."

Spencer allows his smile to slip free, says, "I guess it was your charming personality."

"It gets them every time," Ryan says, and he makes no attempt to hide his own smile as he keeps eating his breakfast.



It's been close to two days when Mikey finally goes home.

Intending a fleeting visit, he hurries inside, stepping over the junk mail and flyers that are piled up in the main entrance and takes a moment to look at the mail boxes that are attached to one wall. The one for their apartment is marked by a number, the slot for names a mess of black lines and scribbles, old occupants from years before erased and consigned to time. The actual mailbox itself is empty, dust in the corners and the door lock broken. Mikey swings it shut, metal clanging against metal, and heads for the stairs.

Taking them slowly, it's an effort to keep going, his hand gripping the banister and pulling himself upwards, past landing A, where as usual Mrs Walvin's welcome mat is pushed flush against her front door. Landing B where Spot barks from behind the door of apartment two B. Landing C where Mikey knows no one at all, and then, finally, their own. Apartment four D. It's Mikey and Frank's bolt hole from the world, small and shitty with windows that don't close and a door that needs three locks. But it's also their home, and Mikey's hands shake as he tries to fit keys to locks, so tired that all he wants to do is go inside and fall into bed.

Instead he lets himself in and remains standing, his chest aching as he sees the blanket abandoned on the couch and the stains on the floor. His eyes prickling, Mikey pushes open the window, and goes into the bedroom, needing to change clothes. Less than a minute and he's out of his uniform that he's worn for three days. Throwing the shirt and cargo pants in a heap on the floor.

Mikey doesn't have to check his messages to know he won't wear them again. There are too many people chasing his job, people who're available when needed. Mikey's already had his first chance, given time off when Frank became sick. He's had his second chance too, swapping shifts and leaving early as Frank only got worse. Mikey won't get a third, but he's not sorry. As scary as it is right now, when he's all too aware of a lack of both money and support, Mikey wouldn't change what he did. Frank comes first always, that's just how it is.

Kicking at the clothes piled close to the bed, Mikey pulls on some clean pants, fastens his belt before reaching for a t-shirt, and at the last minute changes his mind, picking one of Frank's instead. Pulling it over his head, Mikey keeps hold of the hem, fingers over the words Frank wrote on the inside. Fuck the world in black Sharpie, and Mikey wishes he had the energy to do just that.

Instead he pushes his hand through his hair, slicking it back and takes off his glasses, letting the world slip out of focus. It's better this way, the grime blurred and sharp lines made soft. His hand outstretched, Mikey walks to the sink and takes a moment to wash his face, shuddering at the feel of cold water against his hot skin.

His glasses back on, Mikey takes a look at his watch and heads for the door and the walk back to Saint Mary’s. He leaves the window open, there's no point closing it. There's nothing left to protect.

~~~~

"I thought you'd gone home for some sleep." Jon's sitting on a low wall outside of the hospital. He's got a t-shirt pulled over his scrubs and a large cup of coffee close to his side, his hand shading his eyes as he looks up at Mikey. "You've been gone less than an hour."

Mikey sits, his feet aching and t-shirt clinging under his arms and at the small of his back. He stretches out his legs, heels planted amongst the cigarette butts that litter the ground. "Are you supposed to be undercover? Because the pink pants give you away."

"They're salmon," Jon says, and he takes a drink of his coffee before holding it out to Mikey. "If people see my scrubs they think I'm a doctor. I want to take my break not diagnose corns."

Mikey takes the cup, grimacing at the taste of sugary sweet coffee. He drinks again, asks, "People really think you're a doctor?"

Jon nods and stretches out his own legs. "I saved someone's life once, re-inflated their lung with a straw, a condom and a roll of packing tape."

Jon sounds sincere, but Mikey's spent his life around people who can lie without thinking, telling miss-truths for good reasons and bad. He takes another drink, and looks at Jon over the lid of the cup, says, "Really? A condom."

"It's what I had at hand," Jon says, and then spoils the pretence with a grin. "No, not really, but it makes for a good story."

"Asshole," Mikey says, and right now Jon feels like more of an equal, someone Mikey can talk to without second guessing each word. "Next time make it more dramatic. Someone bleeding out at least."

"Needs more blood," Jon says easily, and he's still smiling, sounding amused. "I'll remember for next time. But people do ask for advice if they see the scrubs. When I first started I was asked about someone's rash. I had to tell them I barely knew how to change a bed never mind diagnose."

"So last week then," Mikey drains the last of the coffee before realising what he's actually doing. Apologetically, he says, "I drank all your coffee."

"Doesn't matter." Jon takes his watch out of his pocket, checking the time before standing. "And it was months ago, I'm a real nurse now, registered and everything."

Mikey stands too, walking away from Jon so he can throw the cup in the trash. Dropping it in, he says, "You're a good nurse. Frank likes you."

"He's talked to you?" Jon says, sounding surprised. "It wasn't on his chart."

Mikey's wishing he could take back his words, because Frank hasn't woken up and he hasn't talked, but Mikey still knows. He says, "No, but I can tell."

Which is something Jon seems to take in stride. "I'll tell him thanks when we get back. You, me, Frank and another round of IV antibiotics."

"Sounds like a party," Mikey says, and he lengthens his stride, needing to get back.

"You know it," Jon says, and he matches Mikey step for step.

Part Two
Back to Master Post

Comments

[arsenicjade.livejournal.com]

It makes me happy that I can still love this Jon.

BAGELS!! I am just saying, okay?

UGH. IT IS NEARLY ONE O' CLOCK HERE. AND I HAVE COURT AT NINE. OTHERWISE, I WOULD NOT BE STOPPING.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I'm very happy that you can love this Jon.

This is the Jon I want to love too. Where he cares always.

[arsenicjade.livejournal.com]

Exactly. We like the caring.

[onthehill]

LOVED ♥ this story! \o/

[turps33.livejournal.com]

I'm glad you enjoyed it.

Thanks for letting me know ♥