Every Word Not Spoken To You 2/8

[turps]

Ryan hates late afternoons, when the night looms close and he's all too aware of the inevitability of more time on the street. At this hour time is everything, seeming to slow as Ryan washes and applies his make-up. Subtle now as opposed to before, but still enough that Ryan can pretend he's another person as he lines his eyes and darkens his lashes.

In the other room Spencer's lying on the bed. Ryan can see him in the cracked mirror, Spencer's knees bent and head on the pillow, his eyes closed as he does his own routine of slipping behind his own defences. Ryan's used to it now, but each time it hurts to see Spencer becoming sharp-edged, his smile still there but obviously fake.

Ryan looks away, carefully places the liner on the back of the sink and then wets his hands, running them through his hair. At first, when Ryan was still new he'd spend time styling his hair. He doesn't now, there's no point when any style is destroyed. It's another lesson he learned fast and Ryan shakes his hands, rubbing his red fingers against the threadbare towel. When they're dry he tugs at his pants, his fingers cold against the rise of his hip bone, checking he can show off the right amount of skin. It's a deliberate look, and sometimes when Ryan catches glances of himself shown in full length he wants to laugh at how clichéd it is.

Tight clothes and exposed skin, his face painted and hair unruly. It's like Ryan's catching glimpses of himself back in his old bedroom, except now, while he's still showing himself off to the world, this display comes along with desperation.

Ryan wanted attention back then, now he needs it. His body and looks used in exchange for money and to get that he'll embrace the cliche, even as he hates everything about it. He rests his hand on his stomach, looks at himself in the mirror and starts to shut down. Not completely, Ryan still needs to talk and interact, but the things that matter he fights to keep protected.

"We should get going." Spencer sits up on the bed, and while he doesn't look like Ryan -- he never does, he can't, and Ryan tries not to think about what kind of person would pick someone just to see their smile falter -- Spencer's jumped his own line and is ready to go. Still sitting, he slips the key to the apartment into his shoe, wiggling it into place and then stands.

Ryan looks away from the mirror, inevitability sitting heavy as he leaves the safety of the small room and then outside. The door slamming shut behind them.

~~~~~

Fifth is still dead and Ryan doesn't understand why Walt's so insistent he stays.

It's been hours and all Ryan's done is one blow job, a first-timer with shaking hands and a guilty expression. Someone who threw down the twenty when Ryan was done and then ran. Ryan's got that twenty tucked into his shoe, hidden under the arch of his foot. He imagines he can feel it as he walks, a thin piece of paper from which he'll get half if he's lucky. He suspects that tonight he won't be. This area is too deserted, the nearby shops with their shutters pulled down, the night clubs and restaurants blocks away in the wrong direction.

It means this area is Ryan’s alone to claim, but claiming means nothing when the results are so poor. Trying to understand why it's so important he's here, Ryan walks a short distance, forward and then back, fifty-two steps each time. Ensuring he's always close to the corner, and the alley that runs off behind it. When he hears the sound of a car approaching Ryan turns, drops his arms that he's had crossed over his chest and moves close to the road, waiting until he sees the first glow of headlights When he does Ryan modifies his walk, using his hips and slinking forward, forcing a smile as the car slows and then stops.

The guy inside opens the window, his upper arm resting against the edge as he says casually, "200 and I get to hobble and mark you."

"250 and nothing permanent," Ryan says, and the pieces are fitting together, why he's been told to stay here where it's so deserted, with no one to hear or care at the sound of a scream. it's cold realization, and Ryan approaches the car. "Here or inside somewhere else?"

"Back there," the guy says, and he's looking Ryan over, accessing, his eyes narrowed until he adds, "You'll do."

It's a remark that Ryan takes in but doesn't let stick. Used to being judged, he simply stands still, says, "You can park here, no one comes past."

"So I've been told." Turning off the engine, the man exits the car and locks the doors. He takes a step next to Ryan, leans down so they're staring face-to-face and says, "Run. Now."

It's been a while since Ryan's had a john who gets off on something like this. But time hasn't dulled his memories and he does run, heading for the alley and the covering darkness. His heart thumping, he wants to keep running straight on, keeping on the sidewalk and the safety of light, but this is what Ryan does, what he has to do, and he takes a right turn. Within seconds he can hear footsteps behind him, getting closer as Ryan runs deeper, past the dumpsters and shuttered up gateways, trash piled on the ground and the rats that Ryan always hears as he waits.



Suddenly, Ryan's falling, propelled forward as his feet are abruptly pulled together and then yanked from under him. Hitting hard, Ryan gasps, trying to break his fall with his hands, but he's being pulled back, his t-shirt pulled up and gravel scraping across his stomach and chest as he's dragged across the rough ground.

"Caught you little piggy," the john says, laughing as Ryan's pulled closer. "You didn't get far, not that I expect you would, a little runt like you."

"You never paid for a race," Ryan manages to say, his head held up and away from the ground.

The john laughs again. "No, I paid for a hunt and caught me a piggy."

Another yank and Ryan's feet hit against something firm. Twisting to his side he looks behind him, and sees the john, standing holding a rope that he's got looped in his hands. He's also carrying a branding iron, and Ryan swallows hard, his stomach churning. "Nothing permanent remember."

"I remember pigs don't talk," the john says, and he kneels, and starts to wind the rope around Ryan's ankles, tying them tightly together. "They also need to be taught a lesson."

The words are what Ryan expected, being caught and tied too, but what Ryan won't allow is a permanent mark, and he's prepared to fight for escape when the john picks up the branding iron, the end already darkened with what Ryan has to hope is black ink. Ryan brings up his arm, but he can't see any evidence of heat, and he's taking yet another risk, that this whole situation is part of the scene.

"Stay still," the john demands, and he positions the brand so it's barely above Ryan's cheek. This close there's still no heat and Ryan's fighting to remain still, reminding himself that this has to be play acting only, but that doesn't help with the fear. Ryan's panting for breath, his whole body twisted, then the brand is against his skin, the hard edge jabbed against Ryan's cheekbone. There's no heat, no sizzle of burning flesh, just a dull pain, the john breathing harshly as he keeps the brand pressed down firmly. "It better not be smudged." The john pulls back his arm, the metal bar hitting the ground with a clang as he grabs hold of Ryan's jaw, his fingers digging in as he turns his head to the side. "Good."

Ryan remains still, lies quietly, his cheek aching and stomach burning. He imagines how he must look with his t-shirt pulled up and legs tied together, how undignified a picture it must be. Not that Ryan feels that lack of dignity, not at this moment, and he braces himself when he's pushed onto his back, and the john straddles him, using his body weight to keep Ryan in place.

"You're going to be punished for running, little piggy," the john says, and his hands are bunched into tight fists, his mouth a snarl as he brings back his right hand.

No matter how much Ryan prepares the first hit is always a surprise. It takes his breath as he struggles to cope with the pain, how it seems frozen at first, concentrated on the site of impact, then radiates out in burning waves. Which is when the second hit lands, on the other side this time, knuckles against Ryan's ribs and he's barely got time to bite back a cry before it happens again and again, the john alternating fists until all Ryan can do is bring his arms and hands up, trying to protect his face.

"Learned your lesson yet?" The john says, but it's no kind of question that needs an answer, and Ryan tells himself this is close to being over, that he can hold on for a few minutes as the john starts to unbuckle his belt and pants. Ryan drops his hands, intending to unfasten his own pants.

"I can't reach," Ryan says, blood from his split lip spilling as he touches the thigh of the john. "You'll have to sit up."

The john shakes his head, his face screwed up as if Ryan's said something horrific. "Did I say I wanted that? I'm not some kind of pervert who likes that shit."

It's the kind of hypocrisy Ryan's come to expect, and he'd laugh if he wasn't so relieved. Instead he says, "sorry," and then remains still, eyes always open, watching as the john starts to jerk himself off.

It doesn't take long. A few strokes, the john kneeling up at the last minute as he aims for Ryan's face, grunting, "Now you know little piggy."

And Ryan does know, that tonight he'll be going back with enough money for food, to help toward the rent for this week. It's that he concentrates on, as come mixes with blood, sliding down Ryan's cheek.



People keep saying that Frank will eventually wake up, which is great, fantastic even, but Mikey wants to know when. Already it feels like he's been living in this room forever, surviving on snatched food and sleep, his throat dry from conversations that are always one-sided. It's like this space is cut off from the world, a place where time still moves but at its own sluggish pace, and Mikey's about out of his mind.

When it's so quiet he can't help but worry, about making rent for the week, about his job that he's sure to have lost now, if he should forget everything Frank's ever said and go and call Linda. Mikey grips hold of Frank's hand, needing the contact as he tries to think through each worry. Not that it helps, they're all tangled together and all Mikey wants to do is say stop. He wants someone to come and take over, to talk with the doctors and fill in the forms with half-truths and believable lies. Mostly he wants someone to squeeze his hand back, warmth and contact in a world that's increasingly bleak.

Mikey wants Frank. His mom and dad. He wants Gerard to stand at his back and give his support.

But all Mikey has is himself. It's why he keeps on filling in the forms, keeps going when he's ready to drop, why he picks up the book he's been reading to Frank, scrubbing at his eyes and then clears his throat.

"I hope you weren't planning to start without me." Like he's been lying in wait, Jon peers around the side of the door, frowning when he sees the book Mikey's holding. "I need to know what happens to Harry."

"He shouts a lot," Mikey says, and awkwardly, he opens the book with one hand, the paper towel he used as a bookmark fluttering to the ground. "I can't believe you haven't read these."

"I've seen the movies," Jon says, and he pulls a chair up next to Mikey and rests his feet on the side of the bed, grinning as he says, "You better use the snake voice."

"Fuck off, you love my snake voice," Mikey says, blinking as he scans the page, trying to find the stopping point from the last time he read.

Jon's grins widens and he says, "It's very, snakey," then his smile fades, the mood abruptly changing and Jon's looking at his knees, anywhere but Mikey.

"What's wrong?" Mikey says, because he knows this kind of silence, the kind that always comes along with bad things. Mikey lets the book close over his fingers. "Jon? Is there something wrong with Frank?"

"Not physically," Jon says, and then amends, "Well, not anything worse than before. It's the paperwork."

"We're legally adults," Mikey says instantly, and that's one thing that is true. "And I'm Frank's next of kin." Which technically isn't, not that Mikey's about to say.

"It's not that," Jon says, and he drops his feet to the floor, turning so he can look directly at Mikey. "They're starting to mention payment, even a place like this needs something."

Paying for Frank's stay is one of Mikey's main worries, but right now it's diminished by the initial rush of relief that Frank hasn't got any worse. Mikey rests the book on his lap, says, "I'll pay it."

"They'll give you time to pay." Jon's trying to sound sure, but Mikey can see through the words, false assurances given as Jon tries to soften the blow. "And there are charities that'll help. There's one partnered with this place, they'll hook you up."

It's good information to know, but right now Mikey can't even think about approaching more people, having to explain what happened to Frank yet again. Mikey looks away from the book, seeing how Jon seems genuinely concerned. It's something Mikey's noticed for days now, how Jon remains a professional always, but the kind that comes along with a feeling of friendship. After years of being surrounded by friends it's something Mikey is missing, but he doesn't understand why it's happening now. When Mikey's got nothing to offer in return. Needing to know, Mikey says, "Do you always care this much?"

Jon seems surprised, and replies, "I'm a nurse, we all care."

"In theory." That's something Mikey knows first hand, after his run in with a night nurse who ordered him to leave, and the one who tended to Frank like an object and not an actual person. Mikey pictures them both, and while most of the nurses do care, they're nothing like Jon. "You're different. You're good to Frank."

"He's a good patient," Jon's gaze is focused on Frank, and he's quiet for so long that Mikey thinks Jon's going to sidestep the question. Then, he turns to Mikey, says, "I decided I wanted to be a nurse when I was a kid. My family said I should try for a doctor, but I'd my heart set on nursing. I had this idealized view I'd be making a difference where it was needed, and that meant being there for the people."

"And?" Mikey prompts, when Jon trails off again.

"And sometimes the people don't want me, or the system gets in the way," Jon says. "And I want to walk away and never look back. Until I do make a difference again."

Mikey remembers all the times Jon's arrived with spare food, the blanket that somehow remains in the corner, the jug of water that's always refilled. "By sneaking in food and blankets?"

"If that's what it takes," Jon says, and he looks at the clock on the wall. "So yeah, I care."

It's an answer that rings true, and Mikey squeezes Frank's hand and then opens the book. "Does that caring extend to some snake voice still?"

Jon grins, says, "Bring it on."



With Spencer's help, Ryan lies on the bed, biting back a groan when he pulls up his legs. Closing his eyes and relieved to be home, Ryan tries to relax, listening as Spencer paces the room. Ryan can tell he's still angry, the faucet squealing as its yanked hard and water splashing against the bowl of the sink.

"You'll break if off again," Ryan says, trying to talk without moving his mouth. "I'm not sacrificing another sock to deal with a flood."

"Considering it was your fault last time..." Spencer says, and the bed dips as he sits. "I'm putting the towel on, keep still."

Ryan would make some remark about not planning to move any time soon, but his whole face is throbbing, and he takes a deep breath as Spencer positions the damp towel.

"I'm going to kill him one day." Spencer voice is steel, as opposed to the careful way he runs his hands over Ryan's ribs and stomach, skimming over the forming bruises. "If I'd have been there that fucker wouldn't have done this."

Which is the whole point, and if Ryan didn't hate him so much he'd have to admire how neatly Walt set up the whole situation. As it is, even if Ryan's whole body is hurting, at least it resulted in money for rent. If Ryan has to take some hits to keep them both safe, well, that's exactly what he's going to do. Not that Spencer seems to agree, and the bed moves again when he stands and starts to pace once again.

"I mean it Ryan, I'm going to kill the fucker. And every piece of shit that pays to hurt you."

Ryan pulls at the towel, exposing one eye. "I made enough for rent."

"I don't... for fuck's sake." Spencer stops pacing, standing in the middle of the room, his back toward Ryan. "I don't care. He could have given you a hundred times that and it wouldn't have been worth it."

"It's happened before," Ryan reminds Spencer, and he needs him to understand that when it comes to keeping them safe Ryan will do anything that's needed. "And it'll happen again, because I’ll agree to it, and that means I've got the power."

Spencer's shoulders slump, his anger draining away as he says, "No, it means you think it's okay for people to fuck you over, and it's not. It never is."

"It's different when I let them," Ryan says again, but he knows that Spencer will never agree. Ryan closes his eye and readjusts the towel. "How did your night go?"

"Fine," Spencer says shortly, and there's a click of the light-switch before the room goes dark, footsteps then Spencer's easing into the bed, being careful as he folds himself down next to Ryan and then pulls the blankets over them both. "Nothing that unusual, one shower but I told him only if he got a room, he wasn't going to piss on my clothes."

"Did you tell someone you were going?" Usually when Spencer goes off with a john Ryan keeps watch, ready to raise the alarm if he doesn't come back within a certain time. Now Ryan's too far away, and he hates that.

Spencer rolls onto his side, his head next to Ryan's. "Your weird friend Pete was there."

Ryan relaxes a little because if Pete's there it means Spencer leaving was noted. "Pete's not weird."

"Compared to you, maybe," Spencer says, and then, "He was wearing cat ears tonight."

Ryan tries to imagine how Pete will look in the ears, but needs more details to create the full picture. "Were they big ears? And black to match his hair?"

"They were cat ears," Spencer states simply. "And stop thinking about getting some."

Sometimes, it's frustrating that Spencer knows Ryan so well, especially when Ryan would look fantastic with cat ears. Blindly, he jabs at Spencer's side. "Spoilsport."

"Weirdo," Spencer shoots back. "Go to sleep."

"Trying." Ryan moves the towel, dropping it to the floor. This late he should be exhausted, but the adrenalin rush is lingering, enough that he's just that side of awake, and all too aware of the aches and pains that'll only get worse before they get better. Gingerly, Ryan moves his head, Spencer becoming a close shadow, his eyes gleaming as he stares back at Ryan.

"You need anything?" Spencer says softly. "I can go to the gas station and get some painkillers"

"It'll wait until tomorrow," Ryan says, not that he's not tempted, but he's not about to make Spencer get out of bed and walk to the store. "I'm going to need to stock up."

"Not if I can help it," Spencer says, and his hand is a warm weight against Ryan's side.

Ryan closes his eyes, pretending he didn't hear. It's just easier that way.



It's early morning when Frank first starts to wake up.

Mikey's trying to sleep, his legs curled underneath his chair, body resting against the side of the bed and head next to Frank's pillow. In this position, tucked back, away from any direct look from anyone from outside of the door, Mikey's been able to stay over without announcing his presence. Not that he's under any illusion that people don't know. But if Mikey keeps quiet they seem willing to let him stay, and being able to do that is worth the cramped position. It’s also why, when Frank starts to move, Mikey's aware within seconds. It's only a little at first, then Frank's eyes are moving, slowly, as if he's having trouble getting them open.

Mikey's barely able to breathe, caught between willing Frank on and leaving him to get more rest if he needs it. Selfishly, it's the former Mikey wants to do more, and when Frank's eyes remain open, Mikey says, "Frank, hey."

"Mikey?" Frank's voice is rough, barely audible despite Mikey leaning in close. "Where..."

"You're in hospital, I had to bring you in." Mikey's half standing, hands on the side of the bed and looking directly at Frank, who looks too pale, his skin pulled dry and tight, his cheeks fever-bright. Mikey moves even closer, his knees braced and weight propped on his hands, the room around him becoming distant as he presses a kiss against Frank's mouth. It's a kiss meant for reassurance, that Frank is alive and still breathing, is trying to track Mikey's movements as he pulls back and reaches for the call button. "I need to call for the nurses."

Frank nods, the tiniest amount, and already his eyes are closing again. Then he opens them wide, his mouth moving without any actual words. Not that it matters. Mikey stands at the side of the bed and takes hold of Frank's hand, says as a nurse enters the room, "I'm not going anywhere. Promise."

It's a promise Mikey keeps, especially a few minutes later, when Doctor Jane finally appears. Giving her room, Mikey takes a position close to the window, his back against the wall, watching as Frank is checked over. Technically he knows he's got no legal right to stay. He's not Frank's next of kin, but it was Mikey who signed him in, and Mikey that's been here every day since. That has to stand for something, and Mikey keeps his position, watching at the doctor sits at Frank's side.

"It's good to see you awake," Doctor Jane says, and she checks Frank's chart, reading through all the pages. "We were starting to get worried about you."

Starting is an understatement as far as Mikey's concerned. Taking a step to the side he slides down, sitting on the window ledge, but never looking away as the doctor does basic checks, ending by listening to Frank's chest. Not that Frank notices, already sleeping again as she pulls up the blanket then turns toward Mikey. "How are you doing?"

Mikey likes Doctor Jane, she's turned a blind eye the times she's found him sleeping in Frank's room, and is always willing to talk, something that extends to Frank as she explains what she's doing. This time though, she's got the wrong focus, and Mikey says, "I'm fine."

Doctor Jane doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't press the issues, just notes something down on the chart and then says, "It's good that he woke up. But I don't like that his lungs still aren't starting too clear."

Mikey's spent every moment possible with Frank, so it's not like he doesn't know that any improvements have been minuscule at best, but he'd hoped him waking was the start of an upturn. To be told otherwise is a hard thing to hear, and Mikey's glad that he's sitting. He takes a moment to look outside, at the streets that are just starting to get busy. The people going about their daily lives, ones who have no idea that up here Mikey feels like he's drowning. Not that he can allow that feeling to take over, and he forces himself to focus and asks, "So what happens now?"

"I'm going to order a med change," Doctor Jane says, and she stands, hooking the chart over the end of the bed. "We'll make him better, it may just take some time."

"Right. Thank you," Mikey says, and he remains in place until Doctor Jane's left the room. Once she's gone Mikey reclaims his former place, leans forward so he can rest his head against Frank's chest. "Hear that, they're changing your meds again, this lot will have to work better."

Mikey hopes so, and he lets his eyes close, and listens to Frank breathe.



Due to a combination of pretending to sleep, actual sleep and flat out ignoring, Ryan manages to last almost five hours before giving in and agreeing to go to the clinic. It’s at the stage where Spencer’s threatening violence when Ryan pushes back the blankets and says, “Fine, but just so you know, threatening to punch me if I don’t go get checked over makes no sense.”

“You make no sense,” Spencer says, and waits until Ryan is upright before taking a ten dollar bill from under the mattress. “We’ll go in, they’ll make sure you haven’t punctured a lung, and then we’ll leave.”

“My lungs are hole free,” Ryan says, glaring, his back curved as he heads for the door. “If they were punctured I’d know about it.”

“Because there’s no history of you not mentioning shit like that,” Spencer snaps back. Locking the door he puts the key in his pocket, slowing his steps so they’re matching with Ryan’s. “You’re an asshole.”

“Consider it noted.” Ryan keeps walking, focus pulled tight as he pushes away the ache of his ribs, and the fact that soon he’ll have to be going back out. It doesn’t help that Spencer’s using anger to hide his own fear. Which Ryan understands, but right now he needs his best friend and has no idea how to reach him.

Spencer’s remained opposed to Ryan going out on his own, which is something Ryan doesn’t understand. Spencer knows that Ryan hasn’t got any choice. Going against Walt would be suicide, and it’s not like what Ryan’s doing is so bad.

“We could move on,” Spencer says. “Hitch to a new city and get real jobs.”

To Ryan the suggestion is as far fetched as any miracle. Which is something Ryan needs before he’ll ever manage to escape. Ryan crosses his hands across his chest, says, “You should take all the money and buy a ticket. As far as you can go.”

“Fuck you, Ryan.” Spencer increases his speed, walking away from Ryan, and then abruptly turns. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

“You could get away from here.” It’s a conversation they’ve had multiple times, but no matter what Ryan says, how he twists his words, the result never changes. “You don’t owe Walt a thing.”

“Neither do you,” Spencer says, and he keeps on talking, cutting Ryan off when he tries to reply. “Any debt you had to him should have been wiped out months ago.”

“Should doesn’t cut it,” Ryan says. He’s seen what happens to people who owe Walt. It’s why he keeps on paying the debt, handing over the cash preferable to his own or Spencer’s life. “You’re stupid for sticking around.”

“So you keep saying.” Spencer stands still, waiting for Ryan to catch up. “But I’m not going anywhere, so suck it up and deal.”

Ryan keeps moving forward, intent on getting one foot in front of the other. When he reaches Spencer he says, “Pretend I made a witty remark about sucking just then.”

“I don’t know if my imagination’s that good.” Spencer falls into step with Ryan once more and for a while they walk in silence, the sound of Ryan’s breathing loud in his own ears. Then, still looking forward, Spencer says, “I hate him, Ryan.”

“I know,” Ryan says, and then, “I hate him too.”



Assured that Frank will probably stay sleeping, Mikey’s bowed to Jon’s pressure and taken an hour to go home and change clothes.

Always aware of the time, Mikey runs up the stairs of his building, gripping the banister for balance, his hand sliding over the smooth metal. Reaching their floor, Mikey stops, panting a little as he heads for his apartment, and then stops dead, seeing the note that’s pinned on the door.

Mikey knows what it is. He’s seen them issued for late payment of rent and minor infractions, the owner of the building knowing there’s always people desperate to move in to somewhere so cheap.

And now there’s a notice for Mikey and Frank. Mikey takes slow steps forward, his teeth clenched as he reads the scrawled words under the official type. That Mikey and Frank have lost their apartment, that their belongings have been gathered up and left with the superintendent. That they have a day to reclaim them before they’re thrown out.

Mikey doesn’t know how he stays standing. It feels like everything he loves is being ripped from under his feet and he stares at the new lock, the wood around it raw and splintered. But he does stay standing, he’s got no choice.

Numb, Mikey turns away and heads for the stairs. He doesn’t look back, there’s no point. Just keeps walking, down the stairs, his steps careful, taking account of how the world is fading around him.

“Mikey. I’m sorry. You know how it is.”

Mikey blinks, surprised to find himself in front of the superintendent’s apartment, his door open and bags piled in the hall. Mikey recognizes them, the backpack he brought from home, Frank’s bags, the ones they’ve gathered together, including the ugly green cloth bag Frank insists on taking to the store.

Each one is bulging, stuffed with clothes and bedding, one of Frank’s books fallen out on the floor.

“I told the owner Frank was sick, and that you’d always paid the rent on time, but no go.” The super is still talking, sympathetic even as he starts to gather the bags, putting them close to the door. “All the personal stuff’s in there. If you want I can escort you to get the rest, otherwise it’ll be scraped.”

Mikey shakes his head. As much as it hurts to say no, there’s no way he can take all their belongings, as meager as they are. He’s got no place to store the table they fixed up together, or to keep the miss-matched plates. Mikey hasn’t even got anywhere to keep the things in the bags, but he’s not about to let them go.

He picks up a bag, says, “I should go.”

The super starts to reach out, and then drops his hand, taking a step back into his own apartment. “I’m sorry.”

And the thing is, Mikey believes him. But being sorry means nothing when Mikey’s carrying multiple bags and has nowhere to go. “It’s not your fault,” Mikey says, and he balances the bags and turns, walking away without looking back.



Waiting is something Ryan does well. Mostly he escapes into his head, attention divided between reality and a comforting blankness. It’s why he’s zoned out now, able to forget any discomfort as Spencer flicks through a magazine that has to be years out of date.

He keeps reading as the door to the clinic is pushed open and Lindsey appears, peering around the frame as she says, “I didn’t peg you for a Cosmo man.”

Spencer tilts the magazine in her direction. “I was checking out 101 tips for keeping your man.”

“Ninety-nine of which are bullshit,” Lindsey says with a grin. “Get your asses in here.”

She disappears back into the room, and Ryan stands, pointedly not using the wall for support.

“Give it up, you’re no actor,” Spencer says, and drops the magazine back onto a chair. “Your face gets all scrunchy, like you’re constipated.”

“Scrunchy? Really?” Ryan says, and while Spencer’s right about most things, in this he isn’t at all. Because Ryan’s a brilliant actor, that’s something he proves daily.

“Right here.” Spencer points at his own mouth and glances over at Ryan. “And I don’t mean the shit you do at night. I mean the stuff that matters.”

Ryan would protest the difference, but Lindsey’s waiting, watching as they walk into the room. When they’re inside she shuts the door and says, “Tell me you weren’t hurt when I saw you yesterday, because if you were I’m going to kick your ass.”

Ryan shakes his head and sits on the examination table, the paper laid across it crumpling beneath him. “It happened last night.”

“He was punched in the ribs, probably kicked too,” Spencer cuts in, like he’s sure Ryan isn’t going to give the full details. “I cleaned him up but his breathing was off, especially lying down.”

“I’m talking aren’t I? My breathing’s just fine.” To demonstrate that, Ryan takes a deep breath, and then stops, coughing as his ribs protest the movement.

“Obviously you’re fine,” Spencer says, and he stays close, watching everything Lindsey does as she sits next to Ryan.

“That’s not the best way to show me you’re fine,” Lindsey says, and she’s got her hand on Ryan’s back, gently rubbing as he rides out the coughing fit.

Finally able to breathe easier, Ryan rubs under his eyes, and takes the tissues Lindsey pulls from out of a box. “Told you they’re okay.”

“That’s my call, kid.” Lindsey’s still got her hand on Ryan’s back, and he tries to breathe easy, slow and steady as she turns to the side, her foot bumping against Ryan’s. “You do know I’ve met you before.”

“Not by choice,” Ryan says, all too aware of how ungrateful he sounds. Which isn’t fair, because Lindsey and Phoenix House are important, to Ryan and the countless others struggling to survive. It’s just. Ryan hates being here, forced to accept charity and a kindness he’s sure he doesn’t deserve.

“You say that like I don’t enjoy patching you up.” Standing, Lindsey flashes a smile as she adjusts the head of the bed so it’s on a half recline. “Lie back, I’ll check you over.”

Resigned, Ryan pulls up his feet, lying back and watching as Lindsey washes her hands at the sink, soaping them over her wrists, bubbles sliding down her fingers, shimmering white against her black painted nails.

Holding both hands under the stream of water, Lindsey says, “We’re low on gloves, so I’m trying not to use them if it’s not necessary, but if you’re worried....”

“You think I’d be worried about catching something off you?” If Ryan’s chest wasn’t hurting so much he’d laugh at the very idea of something so stupid. “You know who you’re touching.”

“Yeah. I do,” Lindsey says simply, and she dries her hands on a paper towel and then walks over to Ryan. Bending forward, she eases up his t-shirt, and then takes hold of Ryan’s hand, putting it on top of the bunched up material. “Sorry if my hands are cold.”

Ryan waves off the apology and lies still as Lindsey checks his ribs, her touch gentle but sure, always careful of the deep bruising. When she reaches for a stethoscope Ryan follows her directions, breathing as deeply as possible and sitting forward, his arm against his chest as she moves to his back.

“Has he cracked them?” Spencer asks, still standing as close as he can without getting in the way.

“Not this time,” Lindsey says, sounding serious as she puts the stethoscope back on the counter, and pulls Ryan’s t-shirt back into place. “But that bruising’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“Told you.” Ryan starts to push himself up, but then eases back down at Lindsey’s look.

“Coming in was the right thing to do,” Lindsey says, and she takes hold of the end of one of her pigtails, winding the hair around her finger. “I should tell you not to go out tonight.”

It’s something Ryan would ignore, but he still asks, “Will you?”

“It’s not a battle I’d pick,” Lindsey says, and for a moment defeat leaks through as she turns away and opens a locked cupboard. Rummaging through the contents she picks up a handful of painkillers, strips of them, all in small boxes. “They won’t make you drowsy, so take them.”

It’s Spencer that takes the boxes, pushing them into his pockets and then giving Lindsey the ten dollar bill as he says, “He will.”

All Ryan can do is agree, and say, “I will.”



Making friends is easy for Mikey. The problem is a lack of time and money mean the kind he’s made here haven’t moved past being acquaintances to actual close friends. They’re perfect for passing the time of day, or discussing movies and music, even attending gigs when they could spare the money to go out. Beyond that though, there’s no one.

It’s why Mikey’s standing here now. Bags at his feet and phone in his pocket, but with no one he can actually call.

Fear pushes close, raw and relentless, trying to ooze past Mikey’s defences as he tries to think what to do. He needs to get back to the hospital, but can’t when he’s carrying the bags, because one thing Mikey does know is that Frank can’t discover what’s happened. He needs to heal, and that means being able to rest and not worry. If that means Mikey has to do this alone, that’s exactly what he’s going to do, and he flexes his fingers, easing the ache before he picks up the bags once again.

He’s heading toward a storage unit, one he used to pass daily on the way into work. It doesn’t look the most secure of places, but then again, nothing does in this area. Plus, Mikey’s desperate, and willing to take the chance.

~~~~~

Mikey rents one of the smallest lockers for a period of two weeks. That’ll be enough to sort out his job and get more money, to find a place that they’ll call their new home.

When Mikey hands over the money he’s left with a few dollars.

Which is fine. He’ll cope.

~~~~~

“Mikey. Hey.”

At the sound of Frank’s voice, Mikey can’t help smiling. Dropping the backpack he’s carrying, he hurries over to the bed, which has been raised, propping Frank up so he’s half sitting.


“I wanted to be back when you woke up,” Mikey says, and he leans over the rails of the bed, gathering Frank into a hug, careful of the tubes and wires that snake from his body.

“That nurse said you’d be back soon, the guy.” Frank’s voice is still rough, his words slightly slurred as if he fighting through sleep. He brings his hand to Mikey’s back, his fingers curling into Mikey’s t-shirt. “You were at work? How’s things?”

“Fine,” Mikey says instantly, and he’s got his eyes closed, his face against Frank’s neck, needing this reassurance that Frank is okay, that he’s alive.

Frank moves his head, brushing a kiss against Mikey’s forehead. “I must smell rank.”

“The fucking worst,” Mikey agrees, making no attempt to move. “You look like shit, too.”

Frank laughs, says, “I look like Adonis and you know it.”

“If he’d died, been buried and resurrected as a zombie maybe.” Mikey straightens, breaking the hug and takes a small step back before the urge to crawl into bed with Frank gets too much. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve died and been resurrected.” Frank’s lying back against his pile of pillows, his eyes sliding closed, as if the effort of giving a hug was exhausting. “Did you call anyone?”

Mikey hooks the chair leg with his foot, pulling it forward. Sitting, he rests his arms on the bed rail and looks over at Frank, trying to decide if this is Frank’s hint that Mikey should have called his mom. “Did you want me to?”



It takes Frank a long time to reply, enough that Mikey’s kicking himself for not calling Linda as soon as Frank became sick. Then Frank shakes his head, says, “She’d just worry.”

Relieved, Mikey props his chin on his arms. Frank not wanting to contact Linda one less worry, allowing Mikey to stop second guessing his decisions. For this at least. He says, “I didn’t call her.”

Again Frank hesitates, and then he says, “What about Gerard?”

It’s been months since Mikey’s heard Gerard’s name, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think of him often. There’s no way Mikey couldn’t, because Gerard’s a huge part of his life -- was a huge part -- and even now Mikey’s every instinct is to forgive.

He doesn’t by remembering the bad times, which helps, a little. Until the times when it doesn’t at all, and all Mikey wants to do is call his brother and say that he needs him.

“He wouldn’t have come,” Mikey says, and he tries his best to believe his own lie.

“So just us,” Frank says, and he reaches out his hand so he can touch Mikey’s face. “Just how I like it.”

Mikey tries to believe that lie too.

Part Three
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