turps

Ryan likes Lindsey’s reverse clothes drives, they remind him of going shopping when he was younger. Except then he visited shops with his dad, or even at times, Spencer’s family, while now it’s one big room and trestle tables piled high with donations.

Each table is stacked high with clothes, shoes in line on the floor, while bedding and blankets have their own piles. Ryan’s itching to get in, but slows down to say hello to Lindsey, who picks up two large cloth bags and hands them over to Spencer and Ryan.

“Same deal as always, five dollars a bag, put in whatever you can shove in.”

Ryan’s well aware she could get more money by selling each item individually, but Lindsey always refuses, and Ryan’s glad. This way he gets clothes for the fall and winter, and hopefully warm bedding for when the weather turns cold.

Looping a bag over his shoulder, Ryan tries to see what’s on the tables as Spencer’s pays for their bags. He jumps when Lindsey suddenly yells, “Hey, Jon. Show Ryan your sweaters.”

A man standing at the back of the room waves, and starts to rummage through the clothes on a table.

“Go on,” Lindsey urges, and she’s smiling in a way that makes Ryan feel a little uneasy, like she’s enjoying a private joke. But even so, Ryan knows that Lindsey wouldn’t be mean, and with a look at Spencer, he heads for the back of the room.

“You’re looking for a sweater?” Jon says, and holds up one that looks soft and warm, but has snow flakes as part of the pattern. “Lindsey think it’s ugly.”

Ryan has to agree. He can’t even tell himself he likes it in an ironic way, because it’s just plain wrong. But it does look fuzzy and inviting, and Ryan finds himself reaching out, running his fingers over a sleeve. Still, he has to say, “She’s right, it is ugly.”

Jon smiles, slow, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “The ugliest. It’s why I bought it.”

“You donated it?” Ryan doesn’t know if he should say that he’s sorry, or was joking, and he wishes Spencer were here to help deflect attention, even if it would end up with him laughing at Ryan in private.

“I did,” Jon says, and he’s carefully folding the sweater, adding it back to the pile. “But I bought more and there’s only so many sweaters a person should have.”

“You bought more ugly sweaters?” Ryan could bite his own tongue, the question slipping out, but all Jon does is keep smiling.

“Ugly sweaters are awesome, and look nothing like scrubs. So, bonus.”

Ryan pretends to rummage through a stack of clothes, but keeps glancing at Jon, taking in the shadows under his eyes, and the way he yawns, hiding his mouth with his hand. Eventually, Ryan asks, “You’re a doctor?”

“A nurse,” Jon says, and he’s sorting clothes too, picking through a pile at the opposite end of the table to Ryan. “I haven’t got the brains or the money for med school. I am working on condescension and power trips though, so I can pretend.”

“You should start with sweaters,” Ryan says, and he’s got hold of the snowflake sweater, wondering if he can ignore the pattern for the resulting warmth. “Tell people they’re too stupid to see the appeal of snowflakes in knitted form.”

“Temping,” Jon says, and he holds up another sweater, this one burgundy with dark stripes. “I think this is more you, and will actually fit.”

Surprised, Ryan stares directly at Jon, because when people see Ryan they see tight t-shirts and pants, the eye make-up and wild hair, the defeated look in his eyes that to Ryan always screams, hooker. “You think I’m a burgundy stripe kind of person?”

“I think you could make it look good,” Jon says, and he holds out that sweater to Ryan. “Try it on, if you don’t like it put it back.”

Ryan shakes his head and takes the sweater, dropping it in his bag, says, “No. I like it.”

Flustered, he leaves without a thank you, hurrying away to find Spencer, who’s kneeling down, holding a pair of sneakers in each hand.

“I have a pair for you in my bag,” Spencer says, without looking up. “You’ll hate them but they’re your size and you need some.”

“You got me shoes that I’ll hate?” Ryan says, and then, “I like the blue ones better.”

Spencer turns the blue sneakers, checking both sides. “I looked, but Lindsey seems to be out of ridiculously pointed winklepickers. So I got you sneakers and we’re going to pretend that we actually had the conversation where you turned up your nose and had to be reminded your feet turned blue last winter.”

“It was only my toes,” Ryan says, trying to see into Spencer’s bag to see what he picked. “And they’re all still attached.”

“Not helping.” Seemingly making a decision, Spencer drops the blue sneakers into his bag and puts the red ones back in the line. Then he stands, looking around the rest of the room. “I’m going to see what Brendon’s offering.”

As far as Ryan knew, Spencer didn’t even know of Brendon, never mind know him well enough to spot him amongst all these tables and people. Scanning the room, Ryan’s attention is caught by someone at one of the other tables, almost hidden behind the piles as he talks. “Is that him talking to Alicia?”

Spencer looks over his shoulder. “Yeah. He came by one night, brought hot drinks for everyone.”

Ryan can’t understand why anyone would do that, at least, not without wanting something in return. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It was the night that john gave you a kicking, I was too busy cleaning you up,” Spencer says, keeping tight hold of his bag. “He turned up close to midnight. Just walked up with a tray of coffees and handed them out.”

“And people actually took them?” While it’s easy to think now, when he’s warm and sheltered, Ryan wouldn’t have done so. People just don’t do things like that, and if they do it’s for their own self interest. A set up to some scene with drugs in the coffee, or yet another person who wants to give themselves a pat on the back for helping the needy.

“Eventually,” Spencer says, and at the sound of Brendon’s laughter he looks over in that direction. “He means well.”

“He sounds like an asshole,” Ryan announces, and is about to look through the clothes on the table when Spencer grabs hold of Ryan’s bag and pulls him toward Brendon and Alicia.

“He’s not,” Spencer says, and when they get close, adds, “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.” At Spencer’s answering snort, Ryan amends, “I’m always nice to you.”

“And now you can extend that to someone you don’t actually know,” Spencer says, and stands next to Alicia. “Hi.”

“Spencer.” Alicia’s smiling as she turns and grabs Spencer in a hug that lifts him off of his feet. With a last squeeze she sets him down and takes a step toward Ryan, who pats her back awkwardly as she grabs on and lifts. “I got a job. A real one. Brendon’s helping me pick out work appropriate clothes.”

“Congratulations.” Genuinely pleased, Ryan swaps the back patting for a quick hug of his own as he says, “Doing what?”

Still smiling, Alicia lets go of Ryan. “Working at the museum, it’s not much, just taking money at first, but they said I could train up to take tours, and they don’t care about my ink.”

“It sounds perfect for you,” Spencer says, and after months sharing an area with Alicia, Ryan has to agree.

“It’s a start.” Alicia’s smile fades, and while the happiness is still there, her body language relaxed in a way Ryan’s not used to seeing, she’s also serious. “Lindsey says I can keep living at the unit as long as I need. Then I’m getting my own place, I’m done with the streets.”

It’s something Ryan’s heard before. From people who’ve left and returned weeks later, shame-faced and beaten down even further, but also, on rare occasions, from people who have made it. And Ryan has to hope that Alicia’s one of the latter.

“I was telling Alicia she should celebrate somehow. Like have a party for you all.”

Ryan looks at Brendon over the piles of clothes. “We couldn’t afford it, and don’t usually do stuff like that anyway.”

Brendon’s face falls, like Ryan’s comment is some kind of verbal smack-down. Which it’s not. Just a fact. If Brendon wasn’t an asshole trying to force his own celebrations on something he knows nothing about, Ryan would feel bad.

“He’s right,” Alicia says, stepping hard on Ryan’s toe. “I couldn’t afford a party, but I guess celebrating somehow would be good.”

“You could use the common room,” Brendon suggests. “I’m sure Lindsey won’t mind.”

“I’ll ask her.” Alicia’s grinning again, and she puts her bag on her shoulder and starts to walk toward Lindsey who’s still manning the door. “If she says yes you’d all better come.”

Brendon grins. “I’ll be there.”

“We all will,” Spencer says, giving Ryan a long look. “Won’t we?”

Reluctantly, Ryan says, “Yeah.”

Frank is getting better, Mikey knows that, but it seems to be taking forever.

Each step forward is tortuously slow, and as much as Frank complains and says he’s well enough to go home, it’s obvious he can’t. Not when the slightest exertion leaves him breathless and he spends most of his time lying in bed.

Frank’s in the place that he needs, but that leads to a problem. In that Mikey’s got no way to pay. Even the charitable status of the hospital doesn’t help completely, a sliding scale no use when you’re starting with nothing. It’s why, even with the offer of rock bottom contributions and deferred payments, Mikey’s avoiding the main lobby, where the man who deals with finances always seems to be lurking.

Despite being sure Frank’s not about to be thrown on the street for non-payment, Mikey’s got no desire for yet another meeting filled with lies and miss-truths. It’s why Mikey’s getting to know the back corridors of the hospital, finding tucked away stairwells and exits that lead to out of the way places.

Which is where Mikey is now, slipping out of a service door and hurrying towards the hospital gates. With Jon on a later shift, Mikey’s had no breakfast and his stomach growls as he walks, hand over his pocket and the few coins he’s got left.

There’s enough for a small coffee, or a muffin, or half a carton of soup, or a tiny drop against the amount that they owe for Frank’s medical care. There’s enough for an anonymous call from a phone box, for Mikey to call home.

He’s thought about that lately. Picking up the phone and telling Linda that Frank is so ill. She’d come out and take over, take the responsibilities onto her shoulders and Mikey could leave, get away from a situation that seems more hopeless each day.

Mikey hasn’t made that call yet, but he’s close.

Nearby, the bells of a church ring, and Mikey looks at his watch. It’s early still, the city still waking as Mikey left for his pretend early shift. Even now, after walking a few blocks, the streets remain empty, and Mikey knows it’s pointless going into the main city.

He keeps moving, trying to ignore how hungry he is, and the fact that soon he has to make a decision. Run yet again, or admit everything, how he managed to lose both his job and their apartment.

Mikey doesn’t want to do either, and his stomach twists, his heart beating painfully fast. Panic pressing close, all Mikey wants is to hide, to get away from the curious looks of the few people he’s passing -- but he doesn’t have anywhere to go.

Instead Mikey keeps walking, head down, focus on the floor, and when he looks up again he’s approaching the park. The one from before.

It’s not a place he’s consciously made for. Even from here, when the bathroom is hidden behind the crumbling stone wall, Mikey feels grimy. His skin itching and mouth sour, Mikey wants to keep on going, but ahead there’s a group of school kids, a woman pushing a stroller. Their focus is on each other, and they’re not even looking at Mikey, but the thought of walking past is too much.

Mikey changes direction, needing the solitude of the park. Inside he looks for the closest bench needing to sit before his legs buckle beneath him.

Mikey sits, folds himself forward and reminds himself to keep breathing.

~~~~~

Hours of sitting have shown Mikey just how deserted this park actually is.

Hunger pushed to the back of his mind, but thirst making itself known, he’s got his arms wrapped around his body, trying to keep warm. What he should do is get up and walk to the storage locker, make up some story about checking their stuff. But that’s going to take more energy than Mikey’s got to give at the moment.

He bites at his thumbnail, pulling at already torn skin and tries to think what to do. Which would be easier if Mikey’s head wasn’t thumping and his eyes dry, feeling gritty each time he blinks. It’s impossible to hold onto a solid thought, all Mikey has are circling worries, about money and Frank, the constant lack of a place to live and a job.

More than anything he wishes he could dampen those down, even just for a while -- but he can’t. Mikey’s tried, and keeps failing. All he can think of is if he gets some money, enough that he can buy Frank what he wants, at least Mikey’ll have achieved something. No matter how little that actually is.

Mikey stands and heads for the bathroom.

It’s just as seedy today, stinking and stained, and Mikey doesn’t know what he’s doing. Just that he needs the money, and getting it this way makes sense. Just one more time so he can buy something to eat and stop feeling so shaky, so he can take Frank back more soup.

Just one more time. That’s all.

~~~~~

“Most people don’t come in so early.”

Mikey’s been caught dozing while standing. Startling awake, he sees a man standing in the doorway, but this one looks nothing like the one from before. This man is wearing a hoodie, bright sneakers and tight pants, and he’s moving directly toward Mikey, like he’s planning to touch.

Mikey tries to take a step back and bumps into the wall, frantically wondering what he’s supposed to say, or do if this guy is carrying a knife. He holds up his hand, says, “Don’t stab me, and if you doesn’t have a knife, I can blow you.”

The man stops moving, says, “As a matter of interest, what would you do if I did have a knife?”

“I know kung fu,” Mikey says, and technically it’s true, Mikey’s watched enough bad movies with Frank and Gerard that he’d be able to attempt the moves. Truthfully though, he has to admit, “I’d probably try and punch you and then get stabbed to death.”

“That’s not a good thing to admit,” the man says. “You can’t look weak if you’re working the streets.”

Mikey shakes his head, understanding the misconception but needing to put it to rest. “I’m not doing that. The street thing.”

“So what, you’re hanging around bathrooms and offering to blow people for kicks?” the man says, sounding skeptical. Delving in the pocket of his hoodie, he pulls out a candy bar and throws it toward Mikey. “Here, I’m Pete and I’m buying you lunch.”

Mikey fumbles the catch, the candy bar dropping to the ground. He scoops it up, says, “I have to stay here.”

“What you have to do is come with me,” Pete says, and takes a backward step toward the door. “I’ve been watching you, and I think you need to talk.”

Mikey doesn’t move, just remains in his place close to the wall. “To a stranger who’s just admitted watching me and could carve out my heart. No fucking way.”

Pete shrugs and pats his pocket, making it rustle. “Your choice, but I’m not about to stab you, and I have chips and soda.”

He leaves, and eventually, Mikey follows.

The car pulls to a stop and Ryan lets himself out, the towel on the seat crumpling beneath him. Maliciously he hopes it’s soaked with his blood, enough that the car seat has been ruined, but realistically knows that it hasn’t. Ryan knows his own body, and he’s nowhere near that amount of significant blood loss.

At most Ryan’s got minor cuts and bruises, the john being overly cautious, to the extent that Ryan suspects it was never an issue with blood at all. More about Ryan himself touching the car, which is ridiculous considering what they’ve just done.

The car pulls away and Ryan says, “Fucking asshole.”

Compared to the previous week, Fifth is crowded, and Pete looks over from where he’s talking to Ray and Bob. “Freak, fanatic or fetid?”

“Fanatic,” Ryan says, rubbing at the abraded skin on his wrists. “He fucked me then made me sit on a towel in his car, I should have rubbed my dick over the upholstery when he wasn’t looking.”

“I’ve wiped off on the back seat before,” Bob says casually. “And pissed in a footwell once.”

Ray snaps his fingers and points at Bob. “Yeah, that guy who made you bark like a dog, right?”

Bob scowls. “He wanted a dog, I gave him one.”

They’re stories Ryan’s heard before, but he’ll never tire of hearing them. They’re his own bond of belonging, where if Bob’s made to bark like a dog or Gabe give head in a restaurant, Ryan doesn’t feel so alone. Which is a little fucked up, but Ryan rationalises to himself if he knows that he’s doing okay.

“Speaking of dogs,” Pete says, and takes a position so he can talk to them all. “I met someone today.”

It’s the start of a story that could go anywhere, especially with Pete. It’s also a story he seems in no hurry to finish, and Ryan prompts, “And, what? He took you shopping at Rodeo Drive? Invited you home to see his collection of fur suits? What?”

Pete grins. “I’ve told you before, that only happens in fantasies. No, I met a guy in Draper Park, he was staking out the bathroom for johns, so I told him to come here.”

The story still feels too flimsy, even Pete wouldn’t ask some random stranger to come work this area, even if he was hanging around the park bathroom. When the others ask no more questions, it’s left to Ryan to say, “Why?”

“If I hadn’t he’d have ended up dead in a bush,” Pete says, his hand pressed close to his side. “You know the kind of johns that go there. First timers and freaks.”

That’s one thing that Ryan doesn’t know first hand, but he has heard the stories, still, as friendly as Pete can be, he takes time to get close. That he’s invited this person here is unusual, that he obviously cares at all is even more so.

Not that Bob and Ray seem to see that. And again it’s Ryan who asks the question. “You don’t normally warn fresh meat. Why him?”

“He looked like he needed a friendly face,” Pete says, and then, “And he’s not fresh meat. It was an impulse thing him being there, I doubt he’ll actually turn up.”

“So your story is you talked to some stranger that you’ll never see again,” Bob says, giving Pete a long look.

“Basically,” Pete says, seemingly uncaring when Bob rolls his eyes. “We hung for the afternoon. Then he had to go.”

Bob holds up his hand, says, “You need to stop. I can’t take the excitement.”

Head tilted, Pete’s mouth quirks into a smile as he stares at Bob. “Then I won’t tell you we shared a candy bar. I’d hate for you to die on the job.”

“Good choice,” Bob says, and then, at the sound of an engine they all look up, instantly snapping into work mode as a car slows and pulls to a stop.

It’s an interesting thing to observe, like suddenly they’re all that slightly bit different, casual talk left to one side as they take their positions and wait for the john. Ryan even feels different, still himself, but with his edges filed down, so he feels blank, numb, as he tries to physically appeal.

It’s something Ryan does without thinking now, his walk changing as he approaches the roadside, how he stands with his hip cocked and looking through his eyelashes, embracing his cliché.

Car window down, the john looks at Ryan, and dismisses him with a glance, turning his attention to Pete, and then Ray and Bob. For a while he looks between them both, and then says, “How much for you both?”

“Depends what you want us to do,” Ray says, looking at Bob.

The john hesitates, and then says, “If I wanted to watch you two fuck.”

“Three hundred,” Bob says. “And no recording it.”

At first Ryan’s sure the john’s going to say no, especially to a price that’s pushed so high. Then he nods, looking straight ahead as he says, “Deal,” and closes the car window.

“Fucking Spielberg wannabes,” Bob mutters, his back to the car as he scowls. “If he brings out props I’ll make him eat them.”

“You know there’ll be props,” Ray says, his voice pitched low. “There’s always props.”

“He’s right, there is always props,” Pete says, and stands next to Ryan, watching as Bob and Ray get into the back of the car. “I like the edible ones, but now cucumbers don’t taste right unless they taste of rubber.”

Ryan stares at Pete.” Has anyone told you you’re weird?”

“Pot, kettle,” Pete says, grinning at Ryan. “It’s not like I eat the ones I’ve used. Not when I’ve bought them anyway.”

“Seriously, weird.” Ryan rubs at his arms, and then looks at his watch, working out how long he has to stay out before he can go home. It’s a long time, and needing some kind of distraction from the cold, he says, “You didn’t finish your story.”

“There’s nothing more to say.” Pete turns, his hair blowing into his eyes as he puts his back to the wind. “I saw him there, we talked, I told him the best place to sell his ass.”

As a shorthand it makes sense, but it’s the bare bones to the story and Ryan’s still curious about just what attracted Pete’s attention. “You didn’t tell me or Spencer that.”

“You were already in deep with Walt,” Pete says. “And I told you other stuff.”

Ryan remembers the first times he saw Pete. When he pulled him out of an alley, broken and bleeding, and got him back to an unknowing Spencer. The times after when Pete gave tips about reading a john, sharing them casually, like he was discussing the weather and not how to pick out the shape of a knife.

They’re tips that have helped keep Ryan alive, and he says, “You really think he’ll stay away?”

“He’s not one of us,” Pete says, and there’s no hint of any humor or smile. “So I hope so, but he’s desperate.”

“We were all desperate once,” Ryan says, and it’s true. It’s desperation that’s brought Ryan to where he is now, brought Spencer, brought every-one who’s forced to work on the streets.

Ryan hopes this new guy doesn’t turn up. But one thing he knows for sure, desperation is cruel, and tends to hold on tight.

Hours after talking to Pete and Mikey’s head is still in a mess.

It feels like an impossible task to make sense of his thoughts, as Mikey tries to think what to do. Selling his body should be a no-brainer, especially after hearing Pete’s warnings and stories, but at the same time, it also means money.

Which Mikey hasn’t got right now, and as he approaches Frank’s room he takes a moment to himself. Standing still and staring at the notice board as he pulls up his defences, hiding away his confusion and fear.

“See something interesting?” Jon appears from a nearby room, and peers past Mikey, reading the notices pinned onto the board. “I don’t think you need to worry about being pregnant.”

“Is that your considered opinion as a medical professional?” Mikey asks, taking refuge in casual conversation. “Because many movies would suggest you’re wrong.”

“If by movies you mean those sci fi horrors you and Frank watch in the middle of the night. I’ll stand corrected,” Jon says, and clasps Mikey’s shoulder. “And request that I’m allowed to watch when you lay your lizard/human hybrid.”

Mikey forces a smile. “Deal, as long as you’ll be god father to Logan Han Rorschach Iero-Way.”

“You’re a cruel man, Mikey,” Jon says. “But again, deal. I’ll be there to patch up tiny Logan’s scales when he’s beaten up for having nerd dads.”

“As opposed to him not being beaten up for being a lizard hybrid,” Mikey says, and starts to walk, heading toward Frank. “How’s he been today?”

Instantly, Jon changes, the joking of before replaced with seriousness as he says, “Dr Jane said he could get up out of bed for a while, so better.”

“Yeah?” This time Mikey’s smile is real, this step forward something to celebrate. He goes into Frank’s room, says, “I hear you got out of bed at last.”

Frank’s in his usual place, propped up on his pillows, a magazine open on his lap. When he sees Mikey he grins. “All the way to the chair, and stayed there for five minutes. And I flashed my ass at Jon.”

“No lie, it was the highlight of my day,” Jon says, from where he’s standing in the doorway. “I need to go do some work, I’ll be back later.”

“We’ll be here.” Ignoring the chair, Mikey sits on the side of the bed, leaning on one elbow as he looks directly at Frank. “So, five minutes.”

“I was aiming for six,” Frank says, and scratches under the oxygen tube the runs over his cheek. “But coughing up a lung stopped that. Apparently they’re better off inside my body”

“So I’ve heard.” Mikey lowers himself down even further, his head on Frank’s pillows. From here he can pretend Frank’s actually healthy, the close up view concealing the tubes and IV, how Frank’s cheeks are hollowed, and the skin of his lips dry and cracked in one corner.

Mikey moves in for a kiss, careful of both the oxygen line and time, experience showing Frank can only kiss for so long without it badly affecting his breathing.

When Mikey pulls back, Frank’s eyes are bright and he rests his hand on Mikey’s hip, holding him close. “I want to go home, Mikey.”

It’s something that Frank’s said often, but this is more of an actual statement, Frank getting close to the end of his patience with lying in bed and being so ill.

“Once you get better.” Cold, Mikey fights against shivers as he says, “I don’t want to carry you again, my back’s just started to feel better.”

“Fuck off,” Frank says, amusement taking over from the impatience of before. “When I get home I’ll carry you, straight into the bedroom.”

“Only if you don’t drop me this time,” Mikey says, his chest tight as he thinks about Frank fighting to get well, and then having nowhere to go when he does. It’s why Mikey makes an impulsive decision. “I swapped my shift today. I have to go in tonight.”

His eyes closing, Frank rests his head against Mikey’s. “As long as you come back after.”

“Always,” Mikey replies.

With Bob and Ray still gone, and Pete in the alley with a john, it’s quiet on Fifth.

It’s also cold, enough that Ryan’s pacing, trying to keep warm when he sees someone approach. Usually the johns arrive in their cars, but walk-ups aren’t unheard of, and Ryan keeps watch, accessing to see if this is someone he needs to proposition.

Within seconds Ryan’s sure that he’s not. The man who’s approaching is too young, dressed too light, is looking anywhere but at Ryan. Individually they’re signs Ryan could overlook, but together they result in someone just passing, or someone who wants to be here for whole other reasons. Especially when the man finally looks at Ryan and says, “Pete. He said to come here.”

Ryan’s staring, trying to see what stood out as so special to Pete. “You’re the person from the park.”

“Mikey, and I guess.”

“Pete’s blowing a john,” Ryan says, and starts to pace again, except this time he’s also putting himself on display, showing Mikey how confident he is, how he knows what he’s doing. If Spencer were here he’d call Ryan out, and attempt to talk to Mikey, who looks painfully tense as he wordlessly stands still. But Ryan can’t do that. He gives Mikey one last look and then Ryan steps away. Keeping moving, he repeatedly covers the same short stretch of sidewalk, in an attempt to distract from the lurking memories of his own first night.

They’re ones Ryan doesn’t want to revisit, and he should be telling Mikey to go before he gets in too deep. But Ryan doesn’t have that right, and wouldn’t want it anyway. What Ryan can do though, is warn Pete, who’s walking out of the alley wiping his mouth with his hand.

Ryan walks close, says, “Park guy’s here.”

Pete looks past Ryan toward Mikey, who’s got his back to them right now, staring off along the road. “Fuck.”

“Walt’s going to be pissed if he stays,” Ryan points out.

“It’s a free country.” Like always, Pete seems unconcerned at the threat, brazen, his grin wide. Which lasts for all of a few seconds, and he lets the act slip as he says, “He could get the money he needs and never come back.”

Ryan doesn’t bother replying to Pete’s statement, there’s no point, they both know the reality of taking this first step. An inevitability that was established as soon as Mikey turned up on this street. It’s why Ryan says, “Go get him to relax, no one will want him looking like that.”

Tersely, Pete nods, and starts to walk toward Mikey. As he does so, Ryan hears him say softly to himself, “I’m sorry.”

~~~~~~

Mikey goes off with his first john at twelve fifteen.

He’s gone for almost thirty minutes, and when he comes back he walks slowly, his hands clenched into fists and his expression blank.

It’s control pulled in tight, enough that it’s choking.

Ryan looks away and goes to stand with the newly returned Ray and Bob. All three turn away, the only privacy they can give as Pete says, “Put your money in your shoe, then no one can take it.”

He doesn’t ask if Mikey’s okay.

They all know he’s not.

~~~~~~

Ryan sits on the side of the bed, his legs crossed and carefully drying his feet. He’s dressed in thick sweats, warm and ready for sleep as soon as Spencer finishes washing and gets into bed.

This is one of the times Ryan likes best, when he’s home after a night on the street, and can sit and decompress. Listening to Spencer talk about his own night, his voice hushed as he describes the people he saw and things that he’s done. It’s changing harsh reality to shared stories, where the actual telling puts them back in the past.

His feet dry Ryan hangs up the towel and gets into bed, pulling up the cover as he watches Spencer wrap a towel around his waist and put his pants in the sink, leaving them to soak overnight.

“Then the fucker asked if he could come in my hair.” Spencer pushes his pants underwater and grabs his own sweats. “The second one this week. I don’t get the attraction.”

Ryan lies down, his hands pulled up into his sleeves. “People are weird, you know that.”

“Weird is an understatement,” Spencer says. Taking off the towel he shivers and briskly dries himself off, still mostly damp as he stands on one foot and pulls on his sweats. “Was Pete there tonight?”

“I saw what you did there,” Ryan says, and turns on his side, curling up as Spencer checks the door, ensuring the chain is in place. “But yeah, and he brought someone with him.”

“He’s found himself another stray?” Spencer turns off the light and crawls into bed, immediately sticking his cold feet onto Ryan’s. “What does he do, patrol the city and pick them up?”

“Some people would say you’re one of his strays too,” Ryan says, kicking at Spencer’s feet.

Spencer kicks back, then rests his legs over Ryan’s, pinning them down. “And they’d be wrong, you’re the stray he picked up, I just came along for the ride.”

Ryan would protest, except he knows that it’s true. He also knows that no matter how many comments Spencer makes about Pete being weird, they’re not made to be mocking or mean. Ryan lies still and looks up at the dark expanse of the ceiling, says, “Pete found him in the park, and I don’t get why he stood out, why him and why Pete talked to him for so long, and especially why Pete had to say where we all go.”

Spencer stares at Ryan, his face ghostly pale, his eyes dark, smudges at the side of Ryan’s vision. Eventually Ryan turns his head and snaps, “What?”

“I was translating the Ryan shorthand into something usable.” Spencer grabs his pillow, thumping it and turning it over. “What you’re telling me is Pete saw this new guy in a park and something about him attracted Pete’s attention. Then they talked, and Pete told the new guy he could come do his stuff at Fifth, and he did and you got jealous.”

“Close, but I’m not jealous,” Ryan says, and pictures Mikey standing at the side of the road, Pete crowding in close and explaining things that he’d previously told Ryan. “I don’t even know why he caught Pete’s attention, he never smiles and his hair sucks and ....” Ryan stops talking realizing what he’s actually saying when Spencer begins to laugh. “I’m going to shut up now.”

“No, keep going, I want to see how deep you dig that hole,” Spencer says, and he’s still smiling as he pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, creating a cocoon over him and Ryan. “Is he going to stick it out, park boy?”

Ryan thinks about Mikey’s face as he walked out of the alley, those fleeting seconds when shock was etched deep, evidence of a line that had clearly been crossed. More than anything Ryan wants to say no, that one night was enough.

Ryan nods his head, says, “He’ll be back.”

Getting back to the hospital takes longer than usual. Deliberately so, as Mikey walks slowly, following the route he’s come to know far too well. In the darkness everything is changed, shop fronts shuttered and roads empty, and Mikey can feel the money that’s tucked in his shoe, yet another reminder of what he’s just done.

At the sound of a siren, Mikey finally looks up. Despite his slow pace he’s approaching the hospital, and he heads for a crossing, then waits as an ambulance speeds past. Its lights turning the immediate area red and then blue as it speeds around the corner. Seconds later Mikey does the same.

Faced with brightly lit windows, Mikey slows even further, and searches the facade of the hospital for the window which he knows to be Frank’s. When he finds it Mikey sees it’s dimly lit, and he hopes that inside Frank is deeply asleep.

In many ways it’s a selfish hope, one that means he can sneak in and fall asleep without talking. Or have to face Frank at all, when right now Mikey feels so unstable and needing to wash, to scrub the other men from his body.

Outwardly Mikey thinks there’s nothing to see, but he can remember, and his skin crawls at the memories of hands on his body. The ache of his knees hitting the hard floor and after, how the bricks scraped at his palms as he braced himself, pants around his ankles and a stranger at his back.

It had hurt that first time, circumstances and a lack of prep combining as Mikey bit at his lip and fought off blind panic. Later it got better, a little, physically at least. But Mikey’s got the money he needed. He tells himself that’s all that matters.

All he needs now is to get cleaned up. If he’s clean Mikey knows he won’t feel so shaky, will be able to go find coffee and food and then curl up next to Frank and then sleep. All he has to do is get inside first. Mikey heads for one of the side entrances, needing to avoid the lobby with its lights and the people who linger all through the night.

Mikey gets to the stairwell, on the floor below Frank’s before being seen. Mikey’s gripping the banister, his palm burning as he drags himself up, one step at a time. When he hears a door open he considers heading back down, but it’s too late, and as Mikey reaches the last step he sees that it’s Jon.

And of course it’s Jon. It’s always Jon, who never seems to go home and always seems to be hanging around wherever Mikey goes. He’d make a glib remark about Jon loving the hospital, but it would take too much effort to speak. Right now it’s taking all of Mikey’s concentration to keep moving, when his body feels weightless and somehow the ground still manages to sway under his feet.

“Mikey.” Jon hurries toward Mikey, and takes hold of his arm, providing support. “What happened?”

Jon being there helps. He’s a solid anchor to hold onto, enough that Mikey starts to gather himself and says, “Nothing. I’m just tired. It was a busy shift.”

“Of course it was,” Jon says, and instead of heading for the next set of stairs he steers Mikey toward the doors to this floor. Pushing them open, Jon stands still for a moment and then turns right. “Come with me.”

“Frank’s room is the next floor up,” Mikey says, trying to understand why Jon’s going this way. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“Probably,” Jon says, which makes no sense, especially when he uses his keycard to access a room and leads Mikey inside. “Sit down.”

Mikey shakes his head as he looks around, taking in the small room, an examination table positioned against the far wall. “Frank will be waiting.”

“Frank’s asleep.” For a long moment Jon stares past Mikey, as if having some internal debate, then he pushes shut the door, and says, “You don’t have to tell me what happened, but you look like shit right now. You’ve got two choices. You either let me check you over or I go get the nearest doctor, and I’m warning you, the chances are you’ll be admitted overnight at least.”

That’s something Mikey can’t let happen, but he can tell Jon means what he says. Which is frustrating, and Mikey can’t help feeling angry that Jon’s interfering, just when Mikey’s found a way to sort out their problems. “I told you, I’m fine.”

For a moment Jon’s reserve seems to flicker, as if he’s doubting what he’s seeing. Then he says, “Your choice, Mikey. The doctor or me.”

Mikey wants to call his bluff, but the risk is too great. He spits out, “Fuck you, Jon, why can’t you just let me go and sleep,” and sits on the examination table, trying his best not to wince.

“Because I’m a nurse, it’s what I do,” Jon says, and pulls a pair of gloves out of the wall-mounted box. “And I try not to make a habit of letting people I like collapse in a stairwell.”

“I wasn’t going to collapse.” Sitting down is a relief, and Mikey’s able to protest, sure he’d have made it to Frank’s room just fine. “You’re over reacting.”

“Maybe.” Jon pulls on the gloves, and then sits next to Mikey, taking hold of his hand and turning it so he can look at his palm. “But I’d bet you’re hypoglycemic, add in dehydration, exhaustion and the fact you look like you’ve been worked over and I’m not taking a chance.”

“I haven’t been worked over.” That’s one thing Mikey can truthfully say, and in the quiet of the room he fights to keep his eyes open as Jon examines the grazes on Mikey’s palm, then efficiently gather supplies before carefully cleaning the scrapes with soaked gauze pads.

A last swipe, and Jon drops the used pad in a bowl, then says, “Take your t-shirt off, I want to check your back.”

“My back’s fine,” Mikey says, but at Jon’s pointed look he pulls off his t-shirt, and notices it’s stained in a few places, small patches of blood spotting the fabric.

Jon takes a clean pad, soaking it through, and gently wipes it over at spot under Mikey’s shoulder blade. “That’s a nasty scratch.”

Jon’s question is unstated, but Mikey still replies, “One of the chefs slipped.”

“And I suppose they clawed your back and knocked you against a brick wall,” Jon says. There’s no judgement in his tone, just scepticism mixed with a calmness that soothes, enough that for the first time in hours Mikey’s thoughts are starting to settle. On the verge of zoning out he keeps still as Jon applies a dressing.

Mikey rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, surprised when Jon drops the back of the dressing into the bowl and then peels off his gloves. “Is that it?”

“I should be hooking you up to an IV at least, but there’s more chance of that being discovered and you getting admitted,” Jon says, and he takes his former place, sitting on the bed so he can look directly at Mikey. “Unless there’s something else you want to tell me about.”

Momentarily Mikey’s tempted. If he tells Jon his problems maybe some of the weight will be gone from his shoulders. It’s what Elena always said, a trouble shared is a trouble halved. But even if Mikey halved his troubles he’d still be left with half of hopeless.

It’s why he says, “It’s just been a long night.”

Jon looks unsure, but eventually he says, “You know you can talk to me, right? As a nurse or a friend.”

“I know,” Mikey says, and he pulls on his t-shirt. “But I’m okay, concentrate on looking after Frank.”

Jon reaches out, and rests his hand on Mikey’s knee. “I can do that and look after you too. I’m skilled like that.”

“You’re a superstar,” Mikey says, and as tempting as the idea of being looked after is, that’s not how this works. Mikey’s job is to offer support and take the action that’s needed. That’s just how it is -- how it always has been.

“My scrubs conceal my wings of steel,” Jon says, and then, “I’m buying you breakfast before you go up. That’s non-negotiable.”

Mikey curls his toes, feeling the money he’s got hidden. “Throw in coffee and it’s a deal.”

Jon stands and holds out his hand, says, “Deal.”

Part Five
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