Every Word Not Spoken To You 5/8

[turps]

“This is a stupid idea.” Spencer’s holding a stack of leaflets, crumpling them in his hand as he goes to the nearest trash can, dropping them in. “What am I even thinking? I can’t take a class.”

“Of course you can,” Ryan says, and he pushes Spencer aside, grabbing the leaflets back out. “You can do anything. You’d ace these classes.”

It’s something Ryan believes, that Spencer’s smart and more than capable of taking this step. The problem is, getting Spencer to believe that too. Right now Ryan wants to shake him, and demand Spencer picks a class, but instead he brushes off the leaflets and hands them back over.

Reluctantly, Spencer takes them, holding them against his chest as he says, “What if I fail? People would laugh.”

“I’d punch anyone that thought about laughing,” Ryan says, fierce as he imagines anyone daring to mock Spencer. “Right in the face.”

“And then what, I get to save you when they punch back and then patch you up later,” Spencer says, and for the first time in hours he smiles at he looks over at Ryan. “As distractions go I can think of better ones.”

“I’ve got slick moves, I could knock them out first time.” Ryan brings up his fists as he tries to look fierce. “One punch and they’re out.”

“And then the flying pig would swoop down and carry you off to Wonderland,” Spencer says, and bumps shoulders with Ryan. “You don’t need to punch anyone.”

“Good,” Ryan says, and drops his hands. “Because I suck at punching, but you do need to pick a class.”

Spencer looks at the leaflets, scanning through each one yet again. Stopping at the one describing the math class he says casually, “If I join this you should go to the Poetry Slam.”

“You’re blackmailing me now?” Ryan asks, because this isn’t fair, Spencer knows how much Ryan misses words, and how now they’ve got no part in this life.

“No,” Spencer says. “I wouldn’t do that, but you’d enjoy it. You love that pretentious shit.”

“Did love,” Ryan says, and when Spencer starts to walk, Ryan automatically follows, heading for the entrance to Phoenix House.

Inside it’s busy, a line of people waiting to be seen in the clinic. Bypassing those, Ryan and Spencer take another turning, toward the community area of the building. They end up in the common room, where most of the couches are taken, Alicia sitting with her feet in Bob’s lap while Brendon’s pouring coffee from the urn in the corner.

When he sees Ryan and Spencer he grins, and holds up his mug. “You want some? It’s as disgusting as always but it’s hot.”

About to refuse, Ryan sighs when Spencer says, “Yeah, two sugars in both, and heads over toward Brendon, meaning Ryan’s got no choice but to follow.

Brendon grabs a mug from the selection on the table, fills one up and hands it over to Ryan. “I figure you’re a Big Bird kind of guy.”

Ryan takes the mug, his fingers wrapped around and covering Big Bird. “Well you thought wrong.”

“Ryan has issues with Big Bird, he says his feet freak him out,” Spencer says, waiting as Brendon fills him a mug too.

“Because they’re wrong.” This is a conversation Ryan’s had often with Spencer, enough that he easily slips into old protests and can forget that Brendon’s standing there listening. “He shouldn’t be able to walk with feet like that, and those legs....”

“Too spindly, too long, I know.” Spencer takes the mug Brendon hands over, and takes a drink, his grin visible behind the rim. “Basically the legs of your brother from another mother.”

“I can see it.” Brendon’s smiling wide, looking between Spencer and Ryan. “I always wanted to be the cookie monster, but mom said I had to eat other food too.”

“They can be mean like that,” Spencer says, and then, hesitantly, he holds up the leaflets. “I’ve been thinking of taking a class.”

“Yeah, which one?” Brendon asks, and he puts down his own mug, giving Spencer his total attention. “

“Math. I think. Yeah,” Spencer says, and he glances at Brendon. “I didn’t graduate, and I figure math is a good start.”

“It is.” Brendon looks to the side, craning his head so he can see out of the open door toward the corridor. “Do you want to go sign up now? Lindsey’s got the forms in her office, and while we do that you can tell me about your plans.”

It feels like time stretches as Ryan wills Spencer on, sending silent support as he teeters toward taking this first step. It’s also gives Ryan time to observe Brendon, surprised that he’s taking exactly the right tone, encouraging, but not in a wildly excessive way, like Spencer’s someone who needs to be coddled.

Eventually, Spencer turns to Ryan. “I think. I want to do this.”

“Good.” Relieved, Ryan smiles as he says, “Want me to come with?”

Spencer shakes his head. “So you can tell me that words are better than numbers?”

“Well they are,” Ryan says, and even if he and words are on the outs just now, that’s one thing he’ll always know. “Go with Brendon, I’m going to hang with Alicia and Bob.”

“Going.” Clutching his leaflets, in one hand, a mug in the other, Spencer starts to follow Brendon, then stops and says, “Thanks.”

Ryan holds up his mug in reply.



“Are you sure you want to do this?” It’s a question Mikey’s asked multiple times, but he can’t help feeling nervous. It’s feels like forever since he’s seen Frank standing up, and looking at him now, he still looks too ill to be attempting to walk.

Frank inches forward, so he’s sitting on the side of his bed, one hand clutching the stand of his IV. “Positive. I haven’t seen outside of this room for days.”

Technically it’s been well over a week, just, Frank wasn’t awake for a lot of that time, and Mikey’s not about to remind him. What he does do is crouch down, and fit a pair of slippers onto Frank’s feet.

“Stylish,” Frank says, and holds up his leg, looking at the navy slipper. “Where did you say you got these, off an old granddad’s corpse?”

“I stole them myself.” Mikey straightens, and stands so his legs are pressed against Frank’s. “If you get tired....”

“I’ll tell you and you can carry me on your back,” Frank says, and he takes hold of Mikey’s hands, holding on tight. “I’ll be fine, promise. Now pull me up.”

Despite his reservations, Mikey tightens his own grip, careful of the IV in the back of Frank’s hand, then pulls, steadying Frank as he stands.

“Whoa.” Frank wobbles, then steadies, grinning as he says, “That was a head rush.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Mikey says, and when he’s sure Frank’s got his balance, he steps to the side, and offers his arm.

Together, they walk for the door, Frank holding onto both his IV stand and Mikey. When they get close, Frank slows, says, “Is my dress closed? I’m not giving a free show.”

Frank’s wearing his hospital gown. It falls to mid-thigh and is tied at the back, small gaps showing patches of skin and the white of Frank’s boxers. Deliberately, Mikey looks down at Frank’s ass. “It’s shut.”

“Are you checking me out?” Frank sounds delighted, and wiggles his ass for a moment. “Let’s blow this joint. I want to take you somewhere private.”

By now Mikey knows this floor well. He’s come to know the out of the way rooms and common areas where people can gather. But none of those are private, or really within easy reach for Frank, who’s already wheezing slightly but trying to hide it.

Mikey’s tempted to turn around and insist they go back, but Frank’s expression is set, and Mikey knows they’re going somewhere, just so Frank can prove that he can.

Making a quick decision, Mikey turns right, says, “This way.”

They’re heading toward the elevators, and the small room beside them, where there are chairs and most important, a window that looks to the back of the hospital. It’s a place Mikey’s used when he couldn’t stand another moment in Frank’s room, when it was too hot and too quiet and Frank was unconscious and struggling for breath.

A walk that should be less than a minute takes much longer, Mikey keeping Frank upright as they slowly walk the corridor. On the way they pass people that Mikey’s come to know, the custodial staff, nurses and doctors that he now knows by name. Most smile as they pass, some saying a few words, and by the time they reach where they’re going, Frank’s own smile has returned.

“Typical, while I’ve been sick you’ve been charming the hospital,” Frank says, and carefully lowers himself down onto the chair that’s next to the window. “You’ll break Jon’s heart, he thinks he’s special.”

“Not all the hospital,” Mikey says, and thinks about the people he’s still trying to avoid, and a bill that keeps going up. “And Jon knows that he’s special, he brings me coffee.”

Frank rests his arm on the windowsill, looking outside to the street and says fondly, “You’re easily bought, Mikeyway.”

It’s a casual comment that catches Mikey off-guard. Glad that Frank’s turned away, Mikey takes a moment to school his expression, hiding how his stomach is churning, his skin prickling with remembered touches.

“I want to go outside, or take a shower.” Frank sounds plaintive and he rests his forehead against the glass.

“Soon.” Mikey circles the low table in the middle of the room and moves to stand next to Frank. “Want me to ask if I can wash your hair later?”

“God yes.” There’s a squeak as Frank turns his head, skin against glass, as he looks up at Mikey. “It feels disgusting.”

Mikey reaches out, touching Frank’s hair. Admittedly, it’s dirty right now, greasy and lank, and Mikey knows Frank must hate how that feels. “I’ll ask as soon as we get back.”

“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” Frank grabs hold of Mikey’s t-shirt and pulls as he says, “Get over here.”

Mikey goes easily, dropping to his knees and fitting himself between Frank’s spread legs. It’s a position that could easily be sexual, but right now all Mikey’s doing is clinging to Frank. He holds tight, forehead against Frank’s shoulder, and while in some ways Frank appears fragile, underneath the veneer of illness he’s solid and there.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” Frank says, and he’s got his hands against Mikey’s back, his fingers digging in.

Mikey’s missed Frank too, that part of him that’s separate from this hospital and a battle to get well. Mikey’s missed waking up in their own bed and Frank singing as he makes breakfast, the way he makes no attempt to hide his tears each time they watch sad movies on TV. Mikey’s missed a thousand little things that bind them together, and he tilts up his head and presses his mouth against Frank’s.

As kisses go it’s not one of their best. Frank’s mouth tastes sour and Mikey’s all too aware of the time that they’re taking, as Frank struggles to breathe through his nose. None of that matters, and right now, Mikey couldn’t be happier.

Which lasts for all of a few seconds. Frank’s moves his hand, stroking upwards, and over the dressing on Mikey’s back. Frank stills his hand, then traces the dressing, pulls back and says, “What’s that?”

“I scratched my back,” Mikey says, and shows Frank his palms. “I told you I slipped. Jon put a dressing on it.”

Frank doesn’t look convinced, and tugs at Mikey’s t-shirt, pulling it up so he can see himself. “That has to be a big scratch. Did Jon disinfect it?”

“He did,” Mikey says, hating that he’s lying to Frank. Not that he’s got any choice. “I’m fine. It’s you that I’m worried about.”

“Well don’t,” Frank says, and he lets Mikey’s t-shirt drop and kisses him briefly. “Because I’m fine too, and I’ll be coming home soon.”

“I hope so,” Mikey says, and that’s not a lie, because he does need Frank to come home. The problem is, getting him a home to come back to.



Ryan’s on his hands and knees, dry heaving, his eyes streaming. On the floor beside him there’s a handful of ten dollar bills, and he reaches out, grabbing them before they blow away, or end up in the pool of vomit.

“Do you want a hand up?”

At first Ryan doesn’t recognize who’s speaking, then he looks up, and sees Mikey standing at the end of the alley. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, his hair wild and glasses pushed high up his nose. He’s not someone Ryan want to see right now, and Ryan snarls, “What, you’re not going to ask if I’m okay?”

“No point, you’re obviously not.” Mikey takes a few steps closer, and then asks. “Was it... Did a john do that to you?”

In Mikey’s mouth the terminology sounds clumsy, and Ryan’s in no mood to deal with someone so clueless. He starts to struggle to his feet and says, “It’s nothing I wasn’t paid for.”

Mikey shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you don’t need help.”

“Lots of people would disagree.” By now Ryan’s on his knees only and he wipes at his face, surprised when Mikey comes close and holds out his hand. Ryan stares, says, “I’m covered in puke.”

Mikey keeps his hand outstretched. “It’s not going to hurt me, unless you’re some kind of alien hybrid and throwing up acid.”

It’s a kind of conversation Ryan’s had before, but only with Spencer, when they were lying on his bed, comics between them and the sound of Spencer’s family downstairs. Back then it was perfectly normal, right now it’s surreal. When Ryan feels like hell and that it actually is possible that acid is eating its way through his insides.

Finally, when it’s obvious Mikey’s not about to drop his hand, Ryan holds out his own, allowing Mikey to help pull him upright. “Pete’s not here.”

“Oh.” Mikey seems thrown, and he asks, “Will he turn up later?”

Mikey’s hand is cold, and Ryan pulls back his own, his fingers curled to take away the chill. “How am I supposed to know? I’m not his keeper.”

Mikey’s expression is unchanged, but Ryan’s an expert of seeing the little things. A john about to run, a hitch in breath that means to relax into a punch, the fact that underneath the stoicism Mikey’s plainly out of his depth.

It makes Ryan regret his snapped response. “Pete’s Pete. He goes where he wants when he wants.” Which should be enough, but Ryan finds himself saying, “But you can wait with me if you want.”

It’s an offer Ryan shouldn’t make. Physically Mikey is a close match to Ryan, enough it could be an issue with the johns having to choose. Which in turn would make it an issue with Walt, who’d be losing money if they pick Mikey over Ryan.

The previous day Mikey being there was resting on Pete, someone who defies Walt always. Tonight it’s Ryan sticking out his own neck, and that’s a mistake. It’s why he’s regretting the offer as soon as he says it, and would take it back if it wasn’t for the flash of relief as Mikey says, “Thank you.”

Ryan takes a moment to hide his money and make sure he looks the best that he can, and then starts to walk out into view. When he’s back on the street he checks for approaching cars, and seeing none, leans heavily against the wall, allowing himself a moment to relax.

Mikey doesn’t talk. Which is something Ryan appreciates, except for the way that the quiet allows Ryan’s thoughts to crowd close, and he’s missing the filter of nose. It’s why he says, “Why an alien hybrid and not a full alien?”

“If you were a full alien you wouldn’t be doing this,” Mikey says, and takes a position next to Ryan. “You’d be out taking over the world.”

“I could be taking over the world from the bottom up,” Ryan says, tracking a car that starts to slow then speeds past. “No one ever suspects the little man.”

“So you’d be a ninja alien hooker. Awesome.”

“Sex worker,” Ryan automatically corrects, and turns his head, seeing the tail end of a smile. In that brief moment Mikey looks different, younger, and Ryan hates the inevitability that this lifestyle will erode that away.

It makes Ryan want to ask why Mikey’s doing this, but as a question it’s taboo. Despite that, the urge to ask remains and Ryan’s glad when the same car from before drives past again, slows, and then reverses.

“We’re up.” Ryan stands straight, slipping personas and working his hips as he walks. When Mikey doesn’t follow, and seems to be allowing Ryan to approach the car first, Ryan takes a moment to look back. “I know Pete would have told you it’s dog eat dog here, don’t give up a chance to make money.”

“Okay,” Mikey says, and Ryan looks away, his attention fully on the john who’s winding down his car window.

Ryan smiles, says, “Hey handsome, you want a good time.”

The man in the car leers, says, “Yes.”

~~~~~~

That night Pete never turns up. Or Bob, or for a long time, Ray.

It means between johns Ryan spends his time talking to Mikey. Casual conversations that steer clear of real life. They’re also conversations that instantly break off when the johns appear, and Ryan’s relived that tonight business is steady, leading to money for them both.

It’s weighted toward Ryan, who knows and utilizes all the tricks to get johns looking his way, but Mikey gets his share too. Each time he walks away slowly, projecting a calm that barely holds up, and each time Ryan stays close to the mouth of the alley. It’s Ryan’s form of standing guard, and he tries not to listen, looking away when the johns hurry away, and Mikey stumbles past minutes after.

It’s what Ryan’s doing when Ray comes running. Panting for breath as he doubles over, hands on his knees as he manages to say, “It’s Spencer. The clinic....”

Ryan sees the blood on Ray’s t-shirt, how his hands are stained. Dread hits, hard and sudden, and Ryan’s running.

~~~~~~~

“Spencer!” Ryan’s yelling as he runs up the steps to Phoenix House and through the main doors. His feet skidding against the linoleum as he turns the corner to the clinic and keeps running, and is caught and brought to a halt by Bob, who’s standing close to the door.

“Calm down.” Bob’s got his arms around Ryan, holding on as Ryan tries to get free. “Spencer’s in there with Lindsey, and the last thing they need is you charging in.”

Ryan starts to struggle even harder. “I need to get in there.”

“No.” Bob tightens his grip, pulling Ryan so he’s held tight against Bob’s body. “Not until you’ve calmed down.”

Ryan takes a deep breath, knowing he’s going nowhere right at this minute. He says, “Spencer. I need to see him.”

“I know,” Bob says, and he’s still holding on. “And you will as soon as you stop freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Ryan says, and to prove that he fights to keep still, and resists the urge to punch Bob hard in the face to make him let go. “See. I’m calm.”

“No, what you are is a good actor.” Still, Bob waits a few moments and then loosens his grip. “Tell Spencer I kicked that fucker in the teeth.”

“I will,” Ryan promises, and he steps away from Bob, his heart thumping as he knocks, entering the room before anyone gets the chance to reply.

“Ryan, hi.” Lindsey’s standing next to the examination table, where Spencer’s lying, partially blocked by Jon, who’s sitting on a low stool, hunched over at Spencer’s side.

Ryan walks closer, and sees that Jon’s working on Spencer’s arm, painstakingly stitching up a cut that stretches from wrist to elbow. Already Jon’s closed half of the cut, and he looks up at Ryan, smiles and says, “Hey.”

“What happened?” Ryan stands frozen, not wanting to bump Jon, but also needing to touch Spencer. Compromising, he reaches out and rests his hand against Spencer’s shoulder, a brief touch to show that he’s there.

“A fucking runner,” Spencer says, slurring slightly as he blinks, staring over at Ryan. “I chased him down and he broke a bottle, the bastard went for my face.”

Fury hits hard, and all Ryan wants to do is find the john and take revenge on Spencer’s behalf. Remembering Bob’s message, he says, “Bob said to say he kicked the fucker in the teeth. Tell me he means the bastard that glassed you.”

“When I yelled Bob came running,” Spencer says, his eyes sliding closed. “He pulled him away, and then Ray brought me here.”

His last words barely audible, Spencer’s eyes close fully. Panicked, Ryan looks toward Lindsey, who steps past Jon and slips her arm around Ryan. “Blood loss and painkillers, you know how it goes.”

Ryan does know how it goes, but living through it and it happening to Spencer are two very different things. Ryan feels helpless, his anger draining away and exposing his exhaustion and fear.

“He’s going to be fine,” Lindsey says, and gives Ryan a one-armed squeeze. “Come and sit down, I’ve got soda and Jon’s going to be a while yet.”

“You’re not going to supervise?” Ryan says, reluctant to move, his gaze changing between studying Spencer’s face and watching Jon’s precise stitching. “He could hit an artery or something.”

Lindsey’s not holding on hard enough to hurt, but she is holding on, and steers Ryan to a chair and says, “Jon’s not going to hit an artery, now sit before you fall down. I don’t want to have to patch you up too.”

As soon as Ryan’s sitting Lindsey opens a cupboard, and takes out a can of Pepsi which she opens and hands over. “It’s warm, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Ryan says, and takes a sip, gripping the can with both hands. He’s still watching Spencer and Jon, seeing how Spencer’s unmoving and Jon so intent. It’s reassuring to see, and Ryan tries to focus on the rise of Spencer’s chest, and how Jon’s hair curls at the nape of his neck. But each times he loses that focus Ryan imagines glass slashing through Spencer’s face or thrust into his heart, picking through each tragic outcome if Spencer hadn’t raised his arm in time or if Bob hadn't been told to work that spot.

Ryan’s hands shake, soda spilling as the dark thoughts take hold, and he vows whatever it takes, he’s going to ensure Spencer leaves here and goes back to his home -- his real home.

“Have I shown you pictures of my dog?” Lindsey drapes a blanket around Ryan’s shoulders and drags over her own chair, sitting so they’re close. She points at a photograph of a golden dog that’s pinned to a noticeboard that’s next to her computer. “That’s Battle Cat, she lives with my parents.”

“She’s beautiful,” Ryan says, his attention divided between the scent of blood and this too bright, sterile room, and a dog lying in the sun, its fur gleaming and tongue hanging out.

“I miss her but it wouldn’t be fair for her to live here.” Lindsey smiles at the photograph, wistful as she says, “I used to volunteer at the animal shelter, get some kitten and puppy therapy, then things got too busy.”

“The last puppy play I had didn’t involve any animals.” The words slip out before Ryan can think, and he feels himself blushing and looking away.

“So, how did that work out for you?”

Surprised, Ryan looks up. He was expecting the usual insincere sympathy or for Lindsey to ignore his remark, but not this casual question, like she thinks Ryan’s got nothing to be ashamed of.

“The john brought a collar, one of the nice ones from Walmart,” Ryan says, and remembers the feel of carpet against his hands and knees as he was taken for walks, a lead attached to his collar. “I got to eat steak from a bowl before I fucked him, doggy style of course.”

“Of course,” Lindsey says, as if the thought of any other position is unthinkable. “When I first set up Phoenix House I imagined murals painted on the walls and a cat sleeping on the front step. Then I found out animals would break hygiene rules for the clinic.”

“At least you got the murals,” Ryan says. “And cats aren’t as good as dogs anyway.”

“Cats are awesome.” Jon stops working on Spencer and looks back toward Ryan and Lindsey. “This place should have a cat, hundreds of cats.”

“If you want to deal with the paperwork and make the clinic cat-proof, be my guest.” Lindsey turns to Ryan and says, mock serious, “Jon’s in training to be a crazy cat lady. He works, volunteers here and then goes home to his cats. I’ve told him he’s becoming a cliché but he never listens.”

Jon goes back to his stitching. “Because I’m embracing the cliché, that and the sex-pot nurse. Both work.”

“You know, one day I’m going to call you on that,” Lindsey says, laughing as she adds. “The whole thing, nurses cap, short skirt and stockings.”

“Make sure they’re the right size,” Jon says, and the atmosphere in the room is easy, this joke apparently one that’s long running. Ryan starts to relax, sure that what Lindsey’s saying isn’t meant to belittle.

“That cut still coming together okay?” Lindsey asks, her tone changing to sound more professional as she stands, touching Ryan’s shoulder as she walks past and goes to check on Jon and Spencer. “Nice stitching, you’ve kept the edges together perfectly.”

“Thanks.” Jon sounds pleased, but after that he falls silent. The relaxed feel of before still remaining, but even quieter now, as Lindsey starts gathering supplies, leaving Jon to finish alone.

When she’s got a small pile of dressings, bandages and sample packs of antibiotics, Lindsey sits back down next to Ryan. “I know you’ve heard this before, but indulge me.”

Ryan’s used to this too, except usually it’s him lying down and listening as Lindsey explains wound care to Spencer. Ryan says, “Go for it.”

Lindsey points at the stack of dressings. “Keep the wound covered with those. Normally I’d say you could leave them off during the day but there’s too much risk of infection, especially at night. He needs to take all of the antibiotics, one tablet four times a day, even if that means hiding one to take when he’s out. If the wound becomes red or smelly, or if there’s any pus or Spencer seems unwell, bring him back in.”

“I’ll make sure he does,” Ryan says, and even if he’s got a tendency to forget his own antibiotics, that’s not going to happen with Spencer. “Promise.”

Lindsey leans back in her chair, her own tiredness showing as she says, “If I could I’d keep him here overnight. But we’re full up, even the box room in the residential unit.”

“It’s okay, we’ll manage.” Truthfully Ryan’s glad that there’s no excuse to stay over. Getting Spencer home means Ryan can put him to bed and make sure that he’s safe. Unlike here, where too many things are out of his control.

“I know you will,” Lindsey says.” But you’re not walking home. I’ll pay for a cab.”

“No you won’t,” Jon says, his hands stilling as he looks over his shoulder. “I’ll drive them home. I don’t mind.”

It sounds like a good solution, but Lindsey still says, “That okay with you, Ryan?”

Ryan considers Jon, and then says, “That’s fine.”



While waking up in a chair has become usual by now, that doesn’t mean it gets any easier.

His whole body aching, Mikey opens his eyes, and all he can see is the blue blur of the bed cover. Groaning, he keeps his upper body still, the bed rails digging into his chest as he gropes for his glasses.

“Here.”

The glasses are pressed against Mikey’s hand, and he takes them, and says to Frank, “Thanks.”

Frank doesn’t reply, or touch Mikey, or do anything at all. Which is something that feels wrong, and Mikey rubs at his eyes then puts on his glasses before pushing himself upright.

“When were you going to tell me?” Frank’s sitting in bed, his legs pulled up and so still that immediately Mikey feels himself tense.

His head thumping and mouth dry, Mikey needs to fully wake up, he needs coffee, and knows he could easily leave the room and go get it. He doesn’t. Instead Mikey says, “Tell you what?”

“That you got fired.” Frank’s still not moving, and it’s that stillness that’s showing his anger so clearly. Mikey’s used to a fury expressed in curses and action, and knows how to deal with that. This is something else entirely, and Mikey feels lost as he tries to explain.

“I didn’t want you to worry. You were so sick, and weren’t even awake at first.”

“I get that part,” Frank says, and outside there’s the sound of talking, the rattle of a trolley as it’s pushed past. “What I don’t get is why you didn’t tell me later, or why you pretended to go to work.”

“I was sure I’d get something else, I have in the past.” Frank still isn’t moving, and it makes Mikey feel sick, as he’s forced to face up to the result of his deception. Which is what this is, because no matter what’s happened between them, what Frank and Mikey have kept sacred is trust. “I was going to tell you.”

“When?” Frank says, icy cold. “When I got discharged, and found someone new living in our apartment?”

Glad that he’s sitting, Mikey says quietly, “I didn’t want you to know.”

“Well I do.” Finally Frank moves, causing his IV to sway as he jerks up his hand. “They told me this could come out today. I wanted to celebrate so called the diner to tell you to bring stuff for breakfast. And they told me you hadn’t worked there for weeks. So then I called the super at our building, and he said he couldn’t go see if you were home because it wasn’t our home any-more.”

“Frank, I....”

Frank cuts Mikey off, his cool of before disappearing. “Our fucking home Mikey. And it’s not even that that’s pissing me off. It’s that you didn’t tell me, that you’ve been walking out of here every day and not saying a fucking word.”

Mikey fumbles for words to explain how desperate he’s been feeling, that even though Frank’s right, Mikey had reasons for doing what he did. He doesn’t get the chance, Frank’s anger building even further.

“I waited for you last night. Sat here and watched some shitty movie while I waited for you to come back and tell me where you’d been. Then I fell asleep, and when I woke up you were already back and sleeping.”

Mikey isn’t sure what he should be saying. He wants to say sorry, but he isn’t even sure what for. Just, he hates seeing Frank so angry, knowing he’s the cause. About to apologize, Mikey closes his mouth when Frank draws in a breath and keeps going.

“And I sat and watched you sleep, because that’s how pathetic I am. Thinking about that shit-hole of an apartment we fixed up and how we worked so fucking hard to keep it going, and I thought you had to have a good explanation. You wouldn’t lie for no reason, then I saw those.”

Frank leans forward and takes hold of Mikey’s t-shirt, pulling it up at one side to expose a cluster of small bruises that are visible above the waist band of his pants. They’re obviously made by fingers, the bruises dark, stark against Mikey's skin. They're evidence of multiple hands over two nights and Mikey feels cold, shivering as he realizes what Frank thinks that he’s seeing.

Frank lies back, his anger suddenly cut off. “I could have got past you lying about the other shit, but not this.”

“No.” Mikey’s sitting at the edge of his chair, needing to get close, and for Frank to understand, because Mikey wouldn’t do that. Even the thought makes him feel ill. “I haven’t been cheating.”

“So what, you’ve been grappling with an octopus or are you going to tell me you fell again?” Frank’s staring past Mikey, as if he can’t bear to look at him directly. “I’m not stupid, I know what those mean.”

Mikey grips the bed rail, needing the support. “It’s not what you think.”

“So you haven’t been fucking someone else while I’ve been stuck in here,” Frank says, and the way he says it, with no emotion at all, is more painful than any anger.

“No.” Mikey drops his head onto his arm. It feels like everything is collapsing at once and he’s telling yet more lies when all Frank’s said was the truth. Guilt striking hard, Mikey changes his answer and says, “Yes.”

“Yes.” Frank sounds stunned, and there’s a long pause before he says, “So what, you were so desperate for a fuck you couldn’t wait for me to get well, or is it you didn’t want damaged goods?”

“It wasn’t like that.” Mikey keeps his head down, his breath wet against his arm as he fights for control. “I had nowhere to go, and no money, and the bill for here kept going up. I didn’t know what to do.”

“So you decided to revisit old times and fuck for distractions.”

It’s a comment designed to hurt, and right now Mikey’s never felt so exposed, Frank’s remark striking harder than any john’s. It’s a remark that proves that Mikey’s fucked up and already lost Frank completely, a last straw as Mikey looks up, stands and says, “No, I was fucking for money.”

“What?” Frank’s staring at Mikey. “What do you mean fucking for money?”

“I had to, Frank, I had no choice.”

"No choice about what? Fuck you, Mikey, explain what you mean or get out."

Mikey’s too tired to keep trying to explain. He already knows Frank’s angry and has lost all trust, Mikey doesn’t want to see his disgust too. It’s why Mikey says simply, “I mean I whored myself out to pay your hospital bills.”

Then Mikey turns and walks away.



“You’ve got a choice,” Ryan says, and holds up two packets of noodles. “Chicken or chicken?”

Spencer puts down his book, resting it on his lap as he pretends to consider. “I’m thinking... chicken.”

“Good choice.” Ryan puts down both packets on the table, checking the heat of the kettle by touching the side.

“You know it goes off when it boils,” Spencer says, and picks up his book, holding it in one hand. “If you’re trying to make me worry about burns it’s not going to work. You’re still making dinner.”

Ryan rummages through their kitchen supplies, finding two plastic bowls, and gives Spencer a sideways look. “I am making it, and if the water boils it spoils the taste of the noodles, you know that.”

Spencer doesn’t look convinced, he never does, no matter how often Ryan tells him the perfect way to make noodles. “I know your weird noodle idiosyncrasies make no sense.”

“The weird is redundant.” Ryan rips open a packet with his teeth, and drops the block of noodles into a bowl. When he’s sure that they’re central, he looks over at Spencer. “The idiosyncrasy thing, the peculiar is already stated.”

“And some,” Spencer stresses, and at a knock at the door, swings himself around and stands. “I’ll get that, it might be the noodle police.”

“And you say I make no sense.” Ryan opens the second packet, gripping the wrapper with his teeth when Spencer opens the door, revealing Jon standing outside.

“I’ve been buying pizza.” To demonstrate Jon holds up a large pizza box, a white plastic bag swinging from where it’s looped over his wrist. “And wondered if you wanted to share?”

Instantly, Ryan’s suspicious. He doesn’t know where Jon lives, but he suspects it’s not close by. He also knows the hospital where he works is on the other side of the city. Which is why it makes no sense that Jon’s here now.

Still, Spencer’s inviting Jon in, giving the bed a cursory sweep with his hand to straighten the covers. “Sit down, unless you want to pull up some floor.”

Jon sits, pizza on his knee, and for a moment there’s an awkward silence, then Ryan swears, making a dive for the kettle when he sees that it’s boiling.

“Ryan has noodle issues,” Spencer explains with a grin. He plucks the packet from between Ryan’s teeth and places it on top of the opened block. “They’ll keep for tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Jon says, seemingly accepting the answer at face value. “How’s your arm?”

“Still attached.” While Jon’s no Lindsey, who can receive the answers she wants at one pointed look, he does have the non-verbal prompt down. Spencer sighs, looking at Jon. “It hurts, but I’ve been taking my antibiotics and painkillers.”

“He has,” Ryan agrees, gathering two plates and the random saucer that’s been in the room since the day they moved in. “I woke him up to make sure.”

Jon puts the bag on the floor and opens the pizza box. “No feeling light-headed or faint?”

Before Spencer gets the chance to open his mouth, Ryan replies. “He got a bit wobbly this morning. I made him go back to bed with a cup of sweet tea.”

Spencer sits on the bed, careful not to jostle Jon. “He broke out an emergency teabag, it was impressive.”

“Ryan’s got teabag issues, too?” Jon says, and starts to pull the pizza apart.

Ryan shakes his head. “It’s just it’s usually me drinking them.”

It’s all Ryan says, and Jon lets the comment go, holding out his hand for a plate. Taking it, he slides on a slice and hands it over to Spencer. “I got pepperoni, I figured it was a safe choice.”

That Jon considered choices at all is another indication that coming here wasn’t an impulsive idea. Tempted to ask why, Ryan pushes that aside, reminding himself that Jon’s done nothing to warrant thinking that he wants to hurt or use them in any way. Holding onto that thought, Ryan sits on the floor and watches as, for the first time in a while, Spencer takes a first bite of food that’s both hot and not previously dehydrated.

Jon continues dividing the pizza, handing a slice to Ryan, and then, after a brief hesitation, putting his own onto the saucer.

Spencer swallows, says, “You could have just eaten out of the box.”

Jon grins, “My mom would never forgive me.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Spencer says, and as always, Ryan can tell when he’s thinking of Ginger. It’s something that doesn’t happen so often now, but Spencer’s obvious sadness is enough that Ryan uses it to strengthen his resolve that Spencer has to go home, even if that means leaving Ryan behind.

Not that it’s something Ryan’s about to bring up now. That conversation isn’t one to have in front of guests, even if Jon does know what they do.

“Have you decided what class to take yet?” Jon’s holding his half eaten slice of pizza, a circle of pepperoni sliding off and onto the saucer. At Spencer’s questioning look he adds, “Brendon told me you’d been talking.”

“Brendon needs to learn to shut the hell up,” Ryan says, his opinion of Brendon sinking again.

Lindsey’s given him control of the program, he’s excited about people signing up,” Jon says, and it should be him making excuses, but from Jon, it doesn’t sound like that at all. Jon’s mouth quirks up into a smile as he adds, “It’s good he’s not volunteering full time yet or he’d be lobbying for school status.”

Ryan tries to reconcile the Brendon’s he knows in his head. The one who goes to school and is using Phoenix House for his own needs, and the one Ryan keeps actually seeing, who’s friendly and enthusiastic, working hard for Lindsey even if he does have a big mouth. “He’s going to volunteer full time?”

“He’s planning on taking a gap year, says he can learn more working than he can at school,” Jon says. “You should ask him about his plans one day. I think you’d get along.”

As pointed remarks go it’s gentle, but enough that Ryan has a flash of guilt that his annoyance with Brendon has been so apparent. Not that he’s been making any effort to hide what he thinks. Eventually, Ryan says, “I will.”

“Good.” Jon looks at his watch, the hastily eats the remainder of his slice. “I need to get going. I’ll be late for my shift.”

“You’ve only been here for a few minutes,” Spencer points out. “You haven’t even touched most of the pizza.”

“My own fault for picking a place with a long line,” Jon says, and hands the pizza box over to Ryan. “There’s sodas in the bag.”

Box on his lap, Ryan says, “You could take those.”

“I could,” Jon says in reply, and heads for the door. Once there he hesitates a moment, as if he’s about to say more. Then waves, and simply says, “Bye.”


Part Six
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Comments

[arsenicjade.livejournal.com]

Oh Frank, sweetheart. Maybe the benefit of the doubt? Ouch.

Hee, Ryan, listen to other people about Brendon. For reals.

[turps33.livejournal.com]

Ouch is right. When I wrote that scene, and every time reading after, I got so angry at Frank. Like, wanting to punch him angry. Which is illogical as I know why he reacted as he did, but still.

Ryan is too set in his own views at times :(