118
and I, kind sir, am a professional
McFly (gen/preslash)
5,662 words, r, third person. This is, honestly, a whore!au. Because I was asked by evolia and stjarna1984 to write it, and I - well. I'm weak in the face of crack. This is actually relatively serious in tone, and I'd like to just put forward that my knowledge of how the prostitution system works is rudimentary at best. So just. Keep that in mind, please.
“Hey, Tom!” he calls across the street. He can see his breath puff white in the half-light. “What’s your count?”
Danny sighs; he hates Tuesdays. Tuesdays are slow - the kind of night filled with freaky regulars and half-assed blowjobs for wearied businessmen. Tuesdays in winter are worse, December evenings filled with dry, frigid cold and wind that slices across his cheeks and ears. He leans back against the brick behind him, letting his hair fall over one of his eyes.
“Hey, Tom!” he calls across the street. He can see his breath puff white in the half-light. “What’s your count?”
Tom glances over from where he’d been staring off down the street.
“Do I ever answer that question, Danny?” His voice is exasperated, but Tom’s exasperated most of the time. Danny likes being able to count on that.
“I’m bored, and you’re here,” he says with a shrug. He can see Tom roll his eyes, and Danny grins widely, the kind he knows the johns like - big and happy and just the slightest bit dirty.
“I’m sure someone will be around soon to entertain you,” Tom says. Danny’s smile has never worked on Tom, not even back at the beginning. After all, Tom’s been here longer than he has. Tom’s the reason he’s not in a gutter somewhere with his pants around his ankles and his throat slit.
Danny shrugs, and raises his eyebrows as a brown Buick station wagon pulls up in front of him. The window rolls down, and the man inside gives him a quick gesture.
“Well, then, Tom,” Danny says, “I guess you were right.”
+
Danny’s room is small - about the size of a refrigerator, and just as warm. It’s his, though, or as close to his as he can have, with Charlie taking about eighty percent of his take every week. They get a room when they move in, and it stays theirs to do what they will with, at least as long as they can keep shelling out the right amount. The only things in the room that are actually his are the clothes he has with him, the four posters on the wall, and his guitar. That is the extent of his worldly possessions.
Danny has barely closed the door before he starts stripping off his clothes. He stuffs the work jeans and shirt in his hamper, scowling at the stains the last john had gotten on his shirt. Fucking bastard, he couldn't just wipe his come on the sheets? He sighs, and knows that he’s going to have to spend tomorrow doing laundry. He supposes he’s lucky they even get Wednesdays off.
He’s standing by his mattress in his boxers when someone knocks on the door.
“Danny?” It’s Tom’s voice, and so Danny rifles through his drawers, looking for a pair of sweats and a non-work shirt.
“Come in,” he says, and looks over his shoulder as Tom enters.
“Wow,” Tom says, “you could put on some clothes first, you know. I wouldn’t mind waiting the extra thirty seconds.”
“More people have seen me in less,” Danny says, truthfully. And besides, he doesn’t say, Tom is safe. Tom just sits on his mattress, his movements almost hesitant. “You okay?”
“Yeah, fine. Last guy had a belt, nothing too bad. And, anyway -” Tom cuts himself off, and shrugs.
“No blood,” Danny finishes for him. Tom nods, and flops down on his stomach. Danny remembers the first month he was here, how Tom had grabbed his wrist and said, you get anyone who wants to hurt you, you send them to me, okay? and he hadn’t let go until Danny agreed. Danny had had a bruise there for days afterward, and he’s never forgotten. Things aren’t that simple anymore - it’s all a measure of degree. But Danny knows that Tom can take more pain than he can - he’s better at it. He gets more money for taking that kind of trick, true, but Danny’s not entirely certain that the tradeoff is worth it. “You sure know how to pick ‘em,” he says, finally. Tom only smiles wryly at him in response.
+
Dougie’s only been around a few months, yet, but he’s good - or so Harry says. They’ve got neighboring corners, a few streets over from Tom and Danny, and while all Danny really sees of Dougie is how he acts on the hall, Harry assures him that Dougie’s got a mouth on him pretty much made for a backstreet blowjob or five.
Whenever they talk about it in his presence - which Danny tends to do, if only to rib the kid a little - Dougie just tucks a thumb to the corner of his mouth and wipes at the skin there. His grin belies the mime, and Danny can’t help but laugh. No one ever does that in real life.
“What,” Dougie had said a few weeks ago, when they were all sitting on the floor of Harry’s room, “is it so hard to believe that I can give a good blowjob? It’s not like I wasn’t blowing the jocks behind the bleachers during lunch hour. Why do you think I thought I’d make a good whore?”
Tom had laughed from where he was lying next to Harry on the mattress, scribbling in his notebook, and only half paying them any attention. Danny had shrugged and grinned. He’d almost wanted to ask, and why’d you leave, Dougs?, but that’s not the kind of question any of them ask. Don’t ask a question you don’t want to answer yourself.
“Fine, fine,” Harry’d said, placating, “we’ll leave you alone about it.”
Later that week, Dougie turned seventeen, but the rest of them don’t find out until a few weeks later.
+
Harry arrived about a week and a half after Danny, and Danny’s not even sure how to compare what he was then to what he is now.
The first time they met, Harry laughed right to his face, full of bravado and anger, and said,
“Well, aren’t you a pretty one,” his voice near a hiss on the word pretty, as if it was some kind of curse. Danny had just held his hands in front of him and said,
“Whoa there. What did I ever do to you?” Harry hadn’t bothered to reply, he’d just stalked off, scowling. It had taken almost a month before Danny even found out what his name was - and only, then, because he asked Tom.
Most of a year later, Harry shaved off all his hair and flushed it down the toilet. He’d held out his hand the next time they met in the bathroom, his face just as full of bravado as before, if much less anger.
“Truce?” he’d said, and Danny, not one to hold grudges, had replied,
“Fine.” They’d shaken hands, and that had been that.
Danny’s never asked Harry what happened, what changed, just like he’s never asked him about the scar on the side of his head. Danny doesn’t ask many questions. Things tend to work out better for him that way.
The closest he’s ever gotten is the a few months later when, out of the blue, Harry had said, “I didn’t hate you, you know. Well, not you specifically. I just hated everyone.” They’d been sitting in Harry’s room, talking about nothing - the last movies they’d gotten to see, how much they missed good Indian food. Danny was trying not to talk about how much he missed his sister, and Harry, well. He had no idea what Harry was avoiding, until he’d interrupted himself.
“I know,” Danny had replied, nudging Harry with his shoulder, and then catching Harry’s wrist with his hand. He rubbed at the soft skin lightly with his thumb. “I know that part.” He wanted, almost desperately, at that moment, to ask why? Why did you hate everyone?, but as much as he wanted to know the answer, wants to know, he knew that he wasn’t allowed to ask. But he will always want to know.
+
Danny spits into the trashcan to the left side of the alley, and wipes the back of his hand across his lips. He stuffs the crumpled bills in his shoe, and looks down toward the mouth of the alley, making sure the john has left. Just because he’s a whore doesn’t mean he has to swallow. If they ask him to, yeah, but he doesn’t particularly like the taste of semen, and while, sure, he’s gotten used to it, he doesn’t exactly enjoy the thought of it all roiling about in his stomach.
Saturdays are a flurry of blowjobs, which, honestly, make up the staple of their income anyway, and a mixture of rich kids who pay for sex just because they have the money, and assholes that can’t get it anywhere else. There are fewer freaky bastards who get off on cigarette burns and choking and humiliation, and this is why Danny prefers Saturdays to, say, Tuesdays.
Tom’s not back when he gets out to his corner, but this isn’t so weird. Tom’s regular johns sometimes take him for hours at a time, and Danny knows that he has a few regulars on Saturday. Danny has one on Fridays who sometimes buys him for the whole evening - he likes having someone with him while he sleeps, likes to be woken up with a mouth on the side of his neck, and while Danny thinks it’s a little weird, hey, he’s getting paid, he can’t much complain. At least the guy isn’t tying him to the bed - he’d had one of those once who hadn’t known shit about what he was doing, and Danny’d had robe burns around his wrists for a least a week and a half.
Danny will be glad when this night is over. He keeps an eye out for Tom, and fidgets on his corner, trying to keep his blood flowing. When a beat-up red Camry slides up to him slow on the street, Danny just shrugs, and climbs into the passenger seat.
+
The john doesn’t look like much - he’s scrawny, almost, with hair that falls in his eyes, and, from Danny’s reckoning, a pretty face. Almost feminine, with full lips and high cheekbones. He’s wearing baggy jeans, a t-shirt, and there’s a backpack slung over his shoulder. Danny’s pretty sure he’s going to be finding out what’s in it before too long.
He waits for Danny to enter the hotel room, and then shuts the door, locking it with the deadbolt. Danny smiles, not showing any uneasiness - he knew this going in, he did - and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.
“So,” he says amiably, “what can I do for you, this fine evening?” He knows that most johns don’t really appreciate whores that have a mouth on them - they appreciate having a whore’s mouth on them, sure, they just don’t normally like dealing with the snark. Danny’s usually on that line between just too amiable to be heartfelt, and relatively easygoing - he mostly gets away with it.
“Strip,” the john says, gruffly, and Danny almost wants to ask, so, what is it you’re paying me for, exactly?, but that question’s just as likely to earn him a slap in the face as an answer, and as long as he pays for the slap, there’s nothing Danny can do about it.
He starts with his shirt, shucking off his thin jacket, and then pulling the t-shirt underneath over his head. He toes off his shoes, and bends over to pull off his socks, before popping the button on his jeans, and pushing them and his underwear down over his hips to puddle on the floor.
“Good,” the john says, “now, on the bed. On your back.” Danny does as he’s told, lying back, but keeping an eye on the john. He just hopes that this guy pays for what he’s planning on doing. Danny doubts he’s going to enjoy it very much - considering where he’s pretty sure this is going. “Now,” the john says, unzipping his backpack, “let’s get down to business.”
+
Danny hits the pavement hard with head and shoulder, when the john pushes him out of the car.
“Urgh,” he says, curling up on his side. He can hear the car speed away, and he knows, he knows he should check to make sure he was paid - paid enough - but right now even thinking about moving hurts. Everything fucking hurts.
“Danny?” Tom’s voice, as if from far away, and Danny knows he’s should say, yeah, I’m alive, but his mouth is filled with molasses and tastes like blood. Like maybe he bit his tongue at some point. “Danny!”
Tom’s hands on the side of his neck - he can tell, because they feel just like they should, callused in the right places, and Danny groans as Tom rolls him onto his back. “Oh, fuck,” Tom says. “Danny? Can you hear me?”
“I -” Danny manages, “yeah.” His voice sounds rough and scratchy, like maybe he’s been screaming - and, yes, he has. He licks his lips and tastes copper. That’s probably a bad sign.
“Okay,” Tom says, and his voice is all forced calm and suppressed worry, and Danny wonders what he looks like, right now. He wonders, vaguely, how many places he’s bleeding from. “Did they pay you, Dan? Dan. Did they pay you?”
“I think - so,” Danny says, and he can feel Tom checking his pockets - he doesn’t remember putting the money in his shoe, but - he doesn’t remember much about the last twenty minutes or so, either. Fuck. “Tom?”
“Yeah, Dan, we’re fine. It’s fine. I’m going to get you home now.” Danny hisses as Tom’s arm goes around his waist.
“Tom,” he says, and fucking hates the weakness in his voice, and Tom presses a quick kiss to his forehead.
“You’re fine,” he says. Danny chooses to believe him.
+
“Harry!” Danny hears Tom yell. They must be home, maybe. “Harry! Some fucking help here, if you fucking please!” Danny can hear the note of urgency in his voice, something close to panic, and he doesn’t want to think about what that means. He hurts, on fire all over, and every time he bites his lip he tastes his own blood.
“Tom, what the fuck -” Harry starts, sticking his head out of his room. His eyes widen, and Danny can feel his head lolling against Tom’s shoulder. It’s not what it looks like, he wants to say, I’m fine, but, of course, both things are lies. “Oh, shit. Okay. Lets get him into the bathroom.”
The bathroom has three toilets and three showers, and Danny can feel the cold tile against his arms and neck as Tom lets him slump to the floor. Harry kneels next to him, and starts pushing up the fabric of his shirt. Tom starts on his shoes, tugging them off without bothering to unlace them, and then popping the button on his jeans. Danny tries to push them away with his hands, tries to sit up, because he doesn’t want them to see, he can do it himself, but they just shove his hands out of the way. Danny stares at the ceiling as Tom pulls his jeans over his hips and down to calves, tugging them all the way off.
“Dougie!” Harry yells. “Here, please!” Danny looks up to Tom’s face, and his lips are pursed together into a thin line. They’ve done this enough times, the three of them, except it’s usually Tom on the floor, bleeding everywhere - he’s got the scars to prove it. Danny’s pretty sure that Tom would rather it be that way now.
Dougie bursts through the door, and Danny only has to register the shocked expression on his face to remember that this hasn’t happened since he’s been here. Too new.
“Danny,” he says, and his voice trails off.
“Get the first aid kit from my room,” Tom says, less gently than maybe he should. “It’s under the bed, near the foot, to the left.”
“Okay, okay,” Dougie says, taking a huge breath and darts back out of the bathroom.
Harry’s pressing thick wads of toilet paper against the deeper cuts across Danny’s chest, and the pressure hurts, but it’s a clean hurt. A safe hurt. Harry’s eyes meet Tom’s and Danny is pretty sure they’re saying the same things, I hate this, and what if, next time, but neither of them say anything out loud. Danny looks away, down at his body, assessing the damage. There are a few scars of previous cuts, healed and visible only in the contrasting darkness of the skin there, but - not as many as some people have. Not as many as Tom has. The new cuts are long and thin, not overly deep - he probably won’t need stitches - and they slice randomly across his chest and down his torso. There are only a few on his legs, but they’re all around the inside of his thighs, and Danny - remembers that part, and he doesn’t want to. Memories of - screaming -
“Knife, Danny?” Tom asks, interrupting Danny’s train of thought. He nods. He’d bet that Tom can tell by the cleanness of the line, and he - knows what Tom is thinking. He’s wondering how easy it would have been just to kill him, just to slice through something important, an artery, and watch him bleed out. Danny knows. He’s thought it every time it was Tom down here.
Dougie comes back, then, first aid in hand, and Danny decides not to think about it. It won’t do him any good.
+
When Danny wakes up again, he’s in his own bed, with the covers pulled up over his chest. He aches from neck to knees, and he’s pretty sure he cut his head on the sidewalk when he fell - was pushed - out of the car, but he’s warm, and he doesn’t much care. Tom’s curled up on one side of him, and Harry’s on the other, with Dougie’s seated at the end, by his feet. The mattress is really only made for one, but Danny doesn’t mind being a little crowded. He yawns, wincing at the pull of muscle in his chest, and Tom looks up. His expression isn’t angry, precisely - he’s worried, and there’s nothing he can do.
“That was really stupid, Dan,” he says. “You should’ve come and got me. You should’ve - I mean, I -”
“You were gone,” Danny says, reasonably. That’s not the reason he did it, but. Tom won’t really listen to anything else. “And you shouldn’t have to take all the crazy ones, Tom.”
“I’m better at it than you,” Tom says, vehement, “And I’d rather -”
“Yeah, well, I would too,” Danny replies, cutting him off. Better to be the hurt one, he thinks, than them. Tom purses his lips, stubborn. It’s true of the both of them, though.
“Hazard of the workplace,” Harry says - and where he’d normally make a joke, there isn’t one. He runs a hand over his buzzed scalp. “It’ll happen to all of us.”
“I’ve got enough money to take off until Tuesday,” Danny says, firmly, “I’ll be fine.”
Dougie shifts restlessly at the end of the bed, and when Danny looks over at him, he’s biting his lip.
“One day,” he says, “we’ll get out of here. And we won’t have to do this anymore, hurt ourselves for this. And we’ll - turn Tom’s scribblings into songs, Danny can write the music, and we’ll tell the world what it’s like to be us. We won’t be here anymore.”
He pulls his knees up to his chest, and it’s a testament to how short a time he’s been here, to how new he really is, that he still thinks in terms of after this, and one day. Danny hasn’t known anyone to leave this life who hasn’t been found dead or disappeared mysteriously - there is no after. There is no one day. Not for them.
He won’t be the one to tell Dougie, though.
+
Tom spends his extra moments sleeping and writing in his notebook - Danny’s never asked him what he writes about, but he desperately wants to, sometimes. He figures, though, that they get little enough privacy as it is, and he isn’t going to violate Tom’s.
Danny still has the guitar he had with him when he left home. It’s beaten up, but still sounds like music, and the times when he has a few spare hours, he’ll tune and strum and match the melodies in his head with the ones his fingers play. He’s not sure if he remembers how to read music or not. He’s not sure he wants to know. He spends Sunday and Monday sleeping, cleaning the cuts, and writing music. Sometimes, he’s tempted to say to himself, if I weren’t here, I could be doing this, but it’s a useless thought, and he tries to push it away as much as possible.
Harry sits with him most often, lying back on his bed and listening, tapping along with his feet and his hands beating out the rhythm on his thighs. They don’t talk about the new marks around his wrists - rope burn, or leather, or worse, metal. They don’t have to. They just sit without talking, and every once in awhile Harry will say,
“No, not that. Go up a note. Yeah.” And Danny laughs, says,
“Oh, know-it-all Mr. Judd,” but Harry’s usually right. And enjoys telling him so at every plausible moment.
+
They celebrate Dougie’s birthday on the Wednesday after Danny goes back to work. It still hurts a little when he breathes in too much, but it’s fine. He’s fine.
“We all pitched in,” Harry says, and holds out the plastic bag he has looped over one wrist.
“Er,” Tom says.
“Happy belated, Dougs,” Danny finishes for him.
It’s not much - a box of his favorite chocolate covered donuts, the newest issue of Rolling Stone, and a blink-182 poster to replace the one Harry’d accidentally ripped the month before. Dougie had actually almost cried at the time, but wouldn’t tell them why. He’d just pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and shrugged off their hands on his shoulders. Danny figured his parents got it for him - Harry hadn’t known exactly how to apologize, but Dougie was never really angry with him. Upset, yes, but Harry’d done his best to tape it up, and that was about that.
“Sweet,” Dougie says, smiling. “You guys’re awesome.”
They stick a candle in one of the donuts, and use Harry’s lighter to light it. Tom says,
“You have to make a wish. And make it a good one.” Dougie closes his eyes, and then blows out the candle. Then he takes a bite of his donut.
“What’d you wish for?” Danny asks, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him.
“I can’t tell you, Dan, that way I’ll never come true,” Dougie says, rolling his eyes. “Duh.”
“Yeah, Dan, what were you thinking?” Harry asks leaning back against the end of the mattress with a grin, taking a big bite of his own donut.
“Well now,” Danny says, “I do so apologize for my lack of manners.” Harry snorts.
It’s not hard to tell that Harry’s from a well-to-do family - his accent and mannerisms give him away every time. It’s about as easy as it is to tell that Danny’s from up north. It’s not something they ever talk about or share freely - most of the time, Danny wishes that he could erase the record from his voice, so that no one would know even that much about him.
The truth is, he has no extreme tragic past - he left home when he couldn’t take his parents fighting anymore, and ended up here. End of story.
It’s still not something he particularly wants to share.
+
It’s Friday, and Danny’s glad he brought gloves. He presses his fingers against the still-healing cuts through the cotton of his shirt, and waits. Friday’s are made up mostly of businessmen blowing their weekly paychecks on booze and whores. Not so bad, really, just repetitive.
“Hey, Tom!” he calls across the street. Tom is leaning back with his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
“What?” he asks, looking up from the toes of his shoes.
“I’m bored. What’re you thinking about?”
“How many more blowjobs until the end of the night,” Tom says. “And music.”
“Blowjobs and music?” Danny asks, laughing. “Don’t strain yourself.”
“Oh, like you’re one to talk. You learn all your witty retorts from Harry, when he uses them on you,” Tom says, a clear eye-roll in his voice. Danny just grins.
+
Later that night - or, rather, early the next morning - Danny’s about to fall asleep, when Dougie knocks on his door.
“Yeah?” Danny asks, sleepily. Dougie sits on the bed next to him, and smiles.
“Do you really want to know what I wished for?” Dougie asks, flopping his head down on the pillow next to Danny’s.
“Sure, if you want to tell me. But aren’t you worried it won’t come true?” Danny knows that Dougie’s only a year or so younger than him, but he’s still green in some of the ways that matter most and - Danny doesn’t want to ruin that too fast. This life will do it to him, anyway, given the time.
“Nah,” Dougie says, shrugging one shoulder, slightly awkwardly, given his position. “This isn’t the kind of wish that can just come true.”
“Yeah?” Danny asks, turning his head to look Dougie in the eyes.
“Yeah,” Dougie says. “This kind of wish you have to make true.”
“Hmm.” Danny lets his eyes slide back up to the ceiling. He can feel Dougie’s breath on the side of his face. “Okay,” he says, eventually.
“Still want to know?” Dougie asks, sitting up. He runs one finger over the skin where Danny’s shirt has slipped up, just touching the knitting tissue of the shallowest of the cuts. Danny shivers, and shakes his head; he trusts Dougie to see it. “Okay,” Dougie says, and stands. He walks to the door, but before he leaves, he says,
“Hey, Danny?” Danny looks up at him, eyebrows raised. “Ask Tom if you can see his book, okay?” He leaves before Danny can respond, but. Yeah, Dougie’s not really a kid anymore. If he ever was.
+
There’s a lull halfway through Saturday, and Danny takes the opportunity to cross the street, into Tom’s corner. He won’t have to worry about his own spot unless he stays long enough - some of the other boys are ruthless when it comes to territory, and Danny’s got a good corner.
“Hey, Tom,” he says, and Tom looks at him, half surprised and half skeptical.
“Danny?” he asks. His voice says, and what would you be doing over here?, and the truth is that he wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to shout it for everyone to hear. He really does value Tom’s privacy.
“If I asked to look at your book,” Danny says, “would you let me?”
“What?” Tom asks, and then shakes his head, as if clearing it. “Of course, sure. Why?”
“’Cause I want to,” Danny says, and shrugs. It’s not exactly as easy as that - he wants to know that Tom trusts him, and, well, it should be obvious. It is obvious, in some ways, but this is tangible. Touchable.
“That all?” Tom asks, arching his eyebrows. Danny grins.
+
The last john that evening wants to lick his scars, the ones that are pink with new skin, just barely joined at the edges, and the idea makes Danny want to puke, but he says yes. Of course he does. The man’s meaty hand in the small of his back, flat tongue running over the joint of new flesh, digging in, and Danny’s just hoping that his gasps are closer to orgasmic than they are to disgusted.
“Fuck,” he says, when the man’s free hand presses against the scar high up on his inner thigh. The john just groans.
The first thing Danny does when he gets back is shower. The water’s cold, but he doesn’t care; he just scrubs his hands down over his skin, and hopes he’ll forget the probing, violated feeling soon.
+
Tom’s actually sleeping when Danny creeps into his room that night. He doesn’t want to wake him, precisely; he just can’t be alone in his room at the moment.
“Mm?” Tom asks, more a sleepy mumble than anything else.
“Tom?” Danny asks, sitting on the edge of his mattress. It creaks under his weight, old springs protesting the shift in balance. Tom sits up, rubbing his eyes, and Danny can see he’s not wearing a shirt. The star tattoo on his chest stands out, but not as much as the jagged scar running across his belly - it crosses his belly button, deforming the shape, pulling it sharp at the top and bottom. It’s nothing Danny hasn’t seen more than once, but he doesn’t know the story behind it; Tom’s had it since before Danny arrived, and he’s never offered the information.
“I got it my third week here,” Tom says, sounding mostly awake - his voice is still scratchy, but his eyes are alert when they meet Danny’s. “Charlie did it. With a coat hanger.” He runs a hand over his chest and stomach, and Danny can’t see the thin white lines scattered there, but he knows where they are. So many scars. “I was under, just a little, and I got mouthy, and - they had to take me to the hospital, after.” Danny’s not sure what he’s supposed to say, exactly, so he just nods. He’d never expected to know - never expected to be told. “Here,” Tom says, and hands him his notebook. “You wanted to see it?”
“Yeah,” Danny says, and slides back until he’s sitting next to Tom, back against the wall. Tom curls up on his side, and proceeds to go back to sleep. Danny opens the notebook to the first page, and starts reading.
+
Harry finds him a few days later, sitting on the floor with his guitar, Tom’s notebook open in front of him. He hums a few bars, strums the riff; he adds the words as an afterthought, and then hears,
“Wow, Jones, you can really sing.” Harry’s leaning against the doorframe, watching him. Danny smiles slightly sheepishly.
“Thanks?”
“No, I mean it,” Harry says, and Harry being sincere is always surprisingly meaningful to Danny. Maybe because it happens so rarely.
“I - thanks.” He sighs. “It’s not like there’s a point to it, really, though.” He just hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it all week. That’s all.
“Whatever,” Harry says, sitting on the floor in front of him. “Can you - play it again.” Danny does, singing along louder this time. He will never not love the feel of his fingers on the strings. “Again,” Harry says when he stops. After the third time, Harry props his chin on one knee and purses his lips. “There’s something - not quite right. In the chorus.”
“Sounds more like a harmony that a melody,” Tom says from the doorway. Danny hadn’t even known he was there.
“Sing it again,” Dougie says from behind him; he moves to sit against the wall, and his face - black eye, lip scabbed over in the corner, and Danny sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“Dougie -” he starts, but Dougie cuts him off with a quick shake of his head.
“Sing, Danny. I’m fine,” Dougie says, and Danny manages a curt nod.
He starts over at the beginning, fingers careful on the strings. This time, Tom comes in, a third down, and sings along, which sounds -
“Better,” Harry says. Danny nods again.
“Better,” he says.
“See, Danny,” Dougie says, “I didn’t even have to tell you.”
But you did tell me, Danny wants to say as he places his guitar gently on the ground. You did tell me and it came true anyway. The thing is, he knows that if he says it, Dougie will just look at him straight in the eye and say, well, if that part came true, why not the rest of it?, and Danny has no answer to that. He has nothing except that the possibility of escape is so much slimmer than anything else, and it’s easier just to assume impossibility. Except - Except. Leaving is the only way to make the hurting stop. The only way. Danny tries not to think about the scars across Tom’s chest, the bruises on Dougie’s face, the marks wrapping Harry’s wrists. He tries not to, and he fails.
“One day,” Dougie says, with the certainty of someone who knows no such thing, but wants it badly enough to pretend, “we’ll get out of here. We will.”
“Another song?” Danny asks, instead of replying. It’s easier that way.
+
They fall asleep curled up on the floor. Harry is pressed up against Danny’s back, one arm draped over his stomach, touching the scarred skin there. Tom is curved facing them, knees pulled up to his chest. Danny can feel Tom’s breath against his face and neck, Tom’s hair on his lips. Dougie, he thinks, is behind Harry, head propped on the curve of his hip - Danny can just see the blond of his hair if he looks over his shoulder.
Maybe, he thinks, letting his eyes fall closed, surrounded in the only definition of safety he knows anymore, maybe, if -
Tomorrow he will wake up, and it will start over again. Tomorrow he’ll be back to blowjobs in back alleys, quick fucks in pay-by-the-hour hotel rooms, cigarette burns and belts and bondage. Tomorrow.
Tonight he has his own songs in his head, melodies on the tips of his fingers, harmonies like hard marbles in his mouth. He has safety at his back. Tonight, tonight he thinks that maybe, maybe they can make it. Maybe if they try.
McFly (gen/preslash)
5,662 words, r, third person. This is, honestly, a whore!au. Because I was asked by evolia and stjarna1984 to write it, and I - well. I'm weak in the face of crack. This is actually relatively serious in tone, and I'd like to just put forward that my knowledge of how the prostitution system works is rudimentary at best. So just. Keep that in mind, please.
“Hey, Tom!” he calls across the street. He can see his breath puff white in the half-light. “What’s your count?”
Danny sighs; he hates Tuesdays. Tuesdays are slow - the kind of night filled with freaky regulars and half-assed blowjobs for wearied businessmen. Tuesdays in winter are worse, December evenings filled with dry, frigid cold and wind that slices across his cheeks and ears. He leans back against the brick behind him, letting his hair fall over one of his eyes.
“Hey, Tom!” he calls across the street. He can see his breath puff white in the half-light. “What’s your count?”
Tom glances over from where he’d been staring off down the street.
“Do I ever answer that question, Danny?” His voice is exasperated, but Tom’s exasperated most of the time. Danny likes being able to count on that.
“I’m bored, and you’re here,” he says with a shrug. He can see Tom roll his eyes, and Danny grins widely, the kind he knows the johns like - big and happy and just the slightest bit dirty.
“I’m sure someone will be around soon to entertain you,” Tom says. Danny’s smile has never worked on Tom, not even back at the beginning. After all, Tom’s been here longer than he has. Tom’s the reason he’s not in a gutter somewhere with his pants around his ankles and his throat slit.
Danny shrugs, and raises his eyebrows as a brown Buick station wagon pulls up in front of him. The window rolls down, and the man inside gives him a quick gesture.
“Well, then, Tom,” Danny says, “I guess you were right.”
+
Danny’s room is small - about the size of a refrigerator, and just as warm. It’s his, though, or as close to his as he can have, with Charlie taking about eighty percent of his take every week. They get a room when they move in, and it stays theirs to do what they will with, at least as long as they can keep shelling out the right amount. The only things in the room that are actually his are the clothes he has with him, the four posters on the wall, and his guitar. That is the extent of his worldly possessions.
Danny has barely closed the door before he starts stripping off his clothes. He stuffs the work jeans and shirt in his hamper, scowling at the stains the last john had gotten on his shirt. Fucking bastard, he couldn't just wipe his come on the sheets? He sighs, and knows that he’s going to have to spend tomorrow doing laundry. He supposes he’s lucky they even get Wednesdays off.
He’s standing by his mattress in his boxers when someone knocks on the door.
“Danny?” It’s Tom’s voice, and so Danny rifles through his drawers, looking for a pair of sweats and a non-work shirt.
“Come in,” he says, and looks over his shoulder as Tom enters.
“Wow,” Tom says, “you could put on some clothes first, you know. I wouldn’t mind waiting the extra thirty seconds.”
“More people have seen me in less,” Danny says, truthfully. And besides, he doesn’t say, Tom is safe. Tom just sits on his mattress, his movements almost hesitant. “You okay?”
“Yeah, fine. Last guy had a belt, nothing too bad. And, anyway -” Tom cuts himself off, and shrugs.
“No blood,” Danny finishes for him. Tom nods, and flops down on his stomach. Danny remembers the first month he was here, how Tom had grabbed his wrist and said, you get anyone who wants to hurt you, you send them to me, okay? and he hadn’t let go until Danny agreed. Danny had had a bruise there for days afterward, and he’s never forgotten. Things aren’t that simple anymore - it’s all a measure of degree. But Danny knows that Tom can take more pain than he can - he’s better at it. He gets more money for taking that kind of trick, true, but Danny’s not entirely certain that the tradeoff is worth it. “You sure know how to pick ‘em,” he says, finally. Tom only smiles wryly at him in response.
+
Dougie’s only been around a few months, yet, but he’s good - or so Harry says. They’ve got neighboring corners, a few streets over from Tom and Danny, and while all Danny really sees of Dougie is how he acts on the hall, Harry assures him that Dougie’s got a mouth on him pretty much made for a backstreet blowjob or five.
Whenever they talk about it in his presence - which Danny tends to do, if only to rib the kid a little - Dougie just tucks a thumb to the corner of his mouth and wipes at the skin there. His grin belies the mime, and Danny can’t help but laugh. No one ever does that in real life.
“What,” Dougie had said a few weeks ago, when they were all sitting on the floor of Harry’s room, “is it so hard to believe that I can give a good blowjob? It’s not like I wasn’t blowing the jocks behind the bleachers during lunch hour. Why do you think I thought I’d make a good whore?”
Tom had laughed from where he was lying next to Harry on the mattress, scribbling in his notebook, and only half paying them any attention. Danny had shrugged and grinned. He’d almost wanted to ask, and why’d you leave, Dougs?, but that’s not the kind of question any of them ask. Don’t ask a question you don’t want to answer yourself.
“Fine, fine,” Harry’d said, placating, “we’ll leave you alone about it.”
Later that week, Dougie turned seventeen, but the rest of them don’t find out until a few weeks later.
+
Harry arrived about a week and a half after Danny, and Danny’s not even sure how to compare what he was then to what he is now.
The first time they met, Harry laughed right to his face, full of bravado and anger, and said,
“Well, aren’t you a pretty one,” his voice near a hiss on the word pretty, as if it was some kind of curse. Danny had just held his hands in front of him and said,
“Whoa there. What did I ever do to you?” Harry hadn’t bothered to reply, he’d just stalked off, scowling. It had taken almost a month before Danny even found out what his name was - and only, then, because he asked Tom.
Most of a year later, Harry shaved off all his hair and flushed it down the toilet. He’d held out his hand the next time they met in the bathroom, his face just as full of bravado as before, if much less anger.
“Truce?” he’d said, and Danny, not one to hold grudges, had replied,
“Fine.” They’d shaken hands, and that had been that.
Danny’s never asked Harry what happened, what changed, just like he’s never asked him about the scar on the side of his head. Danny doesn’t ask many questions. Things tend to work out better for him that way.
The closest he’s ever gotten is the a few months later when, out of the blue, Harry had said, “I didn’t hate you, you know. Well, not you specifically. I just hated everyone.” They’d been sitting in Harry’s room, talking about nothing - the last movies they’d gotten to see, how much they missed good Indian food. Danny was trying not to talk about how much he missed his sister, and Harry, well. He had no idea what Harry was avoiding, until he’d interrupted himself.
“I know,” Danny had replied, nudging Harry with his shoulder, and then catching Harry’s wrist with his hand. He rubbed at the soft skin lightly with his thumb. “I know that part.” He wanted, almost desperately, at that moment, to ask why? Why did you hate everyone?, but as much as he wanted to know the answer, wants to know, he knew that he wasn’t allowed to ask. But he will always want to know.
+
Danny spits into the trashcan to the left side of the alley, and wipes the back of his hand across his lips. He stuffs the crumpled bills in his shoe, and looks down toward the mouth of the alley, making sure the john has left. Just because he’s a whore doesn’t mean he has to swallow. If they ask him to, yeah, but he doesn’t particularly like the taste of semen, and while, sure, he’s gotten used to it, he doesn’t exactly enjoy the thought of it all roiling about in his stomach.
Saturdays are a flurry of blowjobs, which, honestly, make up the staple of their income anyway, and a mixture of rich kids who pay for sex just because they have the money, and assholes that can’t get it anywhere else. There are fewer freaky bastards who get off on cigarette burns and choking and humiliation, and this is why Danny prefers Saturdays to, say, Tuesdays.
Tom’s not back when he gets out to his corner, but this isn’t so weird. Tom’s regular johns sometimes take him for hours at a time, and Danny knows that he has a few regulars on Saturday. Danny has one on Fridays who sometimes buys him for the whole evening - he likes having someone with him while he sleeps, likes to be woken up with a mouth on the side of his neck, and while Danny thinks it’s a little weird, hey, he’s getting paid, he can’t much complain. At least the guy isn’t tying him to the bed - he’d had one of those once who hadn’t known shit about what he was doing, and Danny’d had robe burns around his wrists for a least a week and a half.
Danny will be glad when this night is over. He keeps an eye out for Tom, and fidgets on his corner, trying to keep his blood flowing. When a beat-up red Camry slides up to him slow on the street, Danny just shrugs, and climbs into the passenger seat.
+
The john doesn’t look like much - he’s scrawny, almost, with hair that falls in his eyes, and, from Danny’s reckoning, a pretty face. Almost feminine, with full lips and high cheekbones. He’s wearing baggy jeans, a t-shirt, and there’s a backpack slung over his shoulder. Danny’s pretty sure he’s going to be finding out what’s in it before too long.
He waits for Danny to enter the hotel room, and then shuts the door, locking it with the deadbolt. Danny smiles, not showing any uneasiness - he knew this going in, he did - and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.
“So,” he says amiably, “what can I do for you, this fine evening?” He knows that most johns don’t really appreciate whores that have a mouth on them - they appreciate having a whore’s mouth on them, sure, they just don’t normally like dealing with the snark. Danny’s usually on that line between just too amiable to be heartfelt, and relatively easygoing - he mostly gets away with it.
“Strip,” the john says, gruffly, and Danny almost wants to ask, so, what is it you’re paying me for, exactly?, but that question’s just as likely to earn him a slap in the face as an answer, and as long as he pays for the slap, there’s nothing Danny can do about it.
He starts with his shirt, shucking off his thin jacket, and then pulling the t-shirt underneath over his head. He toes off his shoes, and bends over to pull off his socks, before popping the button on his jeans, and pushing them and his underwear down over his hips to puddle on the floor.
“Good,” the john says, “now, on the bed. On your back.” Danny does as he’s told, lying back, but keeping an eye on the john. He just hopes that this guy pays for what he’s planning on doing. Danny doubts he’s going to enjoy it very much - considering where he’s pretty sure this is going. “Now,” the john says, unzipping his backpack, “let’s get down to business.”
+
Danny hits the pavement hard with head and shoulder, when the john pushes him out of the car.
“Urgh,” he says, curling up on his side. He can hear the car speed away, and he knows, he knows he should check to make sure he was paid - paid enough - but right now even thinking about moving hurts. Everything fucking hurts.
“Danny?” Tom’s voice, as if from far away, and Danny knows he’s should say, yeah, I’m alive, but his mouth is filled with molasses and tastes like blood. Like maybe he bit his tongue at some point. “Danny!”
Tom’s hands on the side of his neck - he can tell, because they feel just like they should, callused in the right places, and Danny groans as Tom rolls him onto his back. “Oh, fuck,” Tom says. “Danny? Can you hear me?”
“I -” Danny manages, “yeah.” His voice sounds rough and scratchy, like maybe he’s been screaming - and, yes, he has. He licks his lips and tastes copper. That’s probably a bad sign.
“Okay,” Tom says, and his voice is all forced calm and suppressed worry, and Danny wonders what he looks like, right now. He wonders, vaguely, how many places he’s bleeding from. “Did they pay you, Dan? Dan. Did they pay you?”
“I think - so,” Danny says, and he can feel Tom checking his pockets - he doesn’t remember putting the money in his shoe, but - he doesn’t remember much about the last twenty minutes or so, either. Fuck. “Tom?”
“Yeah, Dan, we’re fine. It’s fine. I’m going to get you home now.” Danny hisses as Tom’s arm goes around his waist.
“Tom,” he says, and fucking hates the weakness in his voice, and Tom presses a quick kiss to his forehead.
“You’re fine,” he says. Danny chooses to believe him.
+
“Harry!” Danny hears Tom yell. They must be home, maybe. “Harry! Some fucking help here, if you fucking please!” Danny can hear the note of urgency in his voice, something close to panic, and he doesn’t want to think about what that means. He hurts, on fire all over, and every time he bites his lip he tastes his own blood.
“Tom, what the fuck -” Harry starts, sticking his head out of his room. His eyes widen, and Danny can feel his head lolling against Tom’s shoulder. It’s not what it looks like, he wants to say, I’m fine, but, of course, both things are lies. “Oh, shit. Okay. Lets get him into the bathroom.”
The bathroom has three toilets and three showers, and Danny can feel the cold tile against his arms and neck as Tom lets him slump to the floor. Harry kneels next to him, and starts pushing up the fabric of his shirt. Tom starts on his shoes, tugging them off without bothering to unlace them, and then popping the button on his jeans. Danny tries to push them away with his hands, tries to sit up, because he doesn’t want them to see, he can do it himself, but they just shove his hands out of the way. Danny stares at the ceiling as Tom pulls his jeans over his hips and down to calves, tugging them all the way off.
“Dougie!” Harry yells. “Here, please!” Danny looks up to Tom’s face, and his lips are pursed together into a thin line. They’ve done this enough times, the three of them, except it’s usually Tom on the floor, bleeding everywhere - he’s got the scars to prove it. Danny’s pretty sure that Tom would rather it be that way now.
Dougie bursts through the door, and Danny only has to register the shocked expression on his face to remember that this hasn’t happened since he’s been here. Too new.
“Danny,” he says, and his voice trails off.
“Get the first aid kit from my room,” Tom says, less gently than maybe he should. “It’s under the bed, near the foot, to the left.”
“Okay, okay,” Dougie says, taking a huge breath and darts back out of the bathroom.
Harry’s pressing thick wads of toilet paper against the deeper cuts across Danny’s chest, and the pressure hurts, but it’s a clean hurt. A safe hurt. Harry’s eyes meet Tom’s and Danny is pretty sure they’re saying the same things, I hate this, and what if, next time, but neither of them say anything out loud. Danny looks away, down at his body, assessing the damage. There are a few scars of previous cuts, healed and visible only in the contrasting darkness of the skin there, but - not as many as some people have. Not as many as Tom has. The new cuts are long and thin, not overly deep - he probably won’t need stitches - and they slice randomly across his chest and down his torso. There are only a few on his legs, but they’re all around the inside of his thighs, and Danny - remembers that part, and he doesn’t want to. Memories of - screaming -
“Knife, Danny?” Tom asks, interrupting Danny’s train of thought. He nods. He’d bet that Tom can tell by the cleanness of the line, and he - knows what Tom is thinking. He’s wondering how easy it would have been just to kill him, just to slice through something important, an artery, and watch him bleed out. Danny knows. He’s thought it every time it was Tom down here.
Dougie comes back, then, first aid in hand, and Danny decides not to think about it. It won’t do him any good.
+
When Danny wakes up again, he’s in his own bed, with the covers pulled up over his chest. He aches from neck to knees, and he’s pretty sure he cut his head on the sidewalk when he fell - was pushed - out of the car, but he’s warm, and he doesn’t much care. Tom’s curled up on one side of him, and Harry’s on the other, with Dougie’s seated at the end, by his feet. The mattress is really only made for one, but Danny doesn’t mind being a little crowded. He yawns, wincing at the pull of muscle in his chest, and Tom looks up. His expression isn’t angry, precisely - he’s worried, and there’s nothing he can do.
“That was really stupid, Dan,” he says. “You should’ve come and got me. You should’ve - I mean, I -”
“You were gone,” Danny says, reasonably. That’s not the reason he did it, but. Tom won’t really listen to anything else. “And you shouldn’t have to take all the crazy ones, Tom.”
“I’m better at it than you,” Tom says, vehement, “And I’d rather -”
“Yeah, well, I would too,” Danny replies, cutting him off. Better to be the hurt one, he thinks, than them. Tom purses his lips, stubborn. It’s true of the both of them, though.
“Hazard of the workplace,” Harry says - and where he’d normally make a joke, there isn’t one. He runs a hand over his buzzed scalp. “It’ll happen to all of us.”
“I’ve got enough money to take off until Tuesday,” Danny says, firmly, “I’ll be fine.”
Dougie shifts restlessly at the end of the bed, and when Danny looks over at him, he’s biting his lip.
“One day,” he says, “we’ll get out of here. And we won’t have to do this anymore, hurt ourselves for this. And we’ll - turn Tom’s scribblings into songs, Danny can write the music, and we’ll tell the world what it’s like to be us. We won’t be here anymore.”
He pulls his knees up to his chest, and it’s a testament to how short a time he’s been here, to how new he really is, that he still thinks in terms of after this, and one day. Danny hasn’t known anyone to leave this life who hasn’t been found dead or disappeared mysteriously - there is no after. There is no one day. Not for them.
He won’t be the one to tell Dougie, though.
+
Tom spends his extra moments sleeping and writing in his notebook - Danny’s never asked him what he writes about, but he desperately wants to, sometimes. He figures, though, that they get little enough privacy as it is, and he isn’t going to violate Tom’s.
Danny still has the guitar he had with him when he left home. It’s beaten up, but still sounds like music, and the times when he has a few spare hours, he’ll tune and strum and match the melodies in his head with the ones his fingers play. He’s not sure if he remembers how to read music or not. He’s not sure he wants to know. He spends Sunday and Monday sleeping, cleaning the cuts, and writing music. Sometimes, he’s tempted to say to himself, if I weren’t here, I could be doing this, but it’s a useless thought, and he tries to push it away as much as possible.
Harry sits with him most often, lying back on his bed and listening, tapping along with his feet and his hands beating out the rhythm on his thighs. They don’t talk about the new marks around his wrists - rope burn, or leather, or worse, metal. They don’t have to. They just sit without talking, and every once in awhile Harry will say,
“No, not that. Go up a note. Yeah.” And Danny laughs, says,
“Oh, know-it-all Mr. Judd,” but Harry’s usually right. And enjoys telling him so at every plausible moment.
+
They celebrate Dougie’s birthday on the Wednesday after Danny goes back to work. It still hurts a little when he breathes in too much, but it’s fine. He’s fine.
“We all pitched in,” Harry says, and holds out the plastic bag he has looped over one wrist.
“Er,” Tom says.
“Happy belated, Dougs,” Danny finishes for him.
It’s not much - a box of his favorite chocolate covered donuts, the newest issue of Rolling Stone, and a blink-182 poster to replace the one Harry’d accidentally ripped the month before. Dougie had actually almost cried at the time, but wouldn’t tell them why. He’d just pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and shrugged off their hands on his shoulders. Danny figured his parents got it for him - Harry hadn’t known exactly how to apologize, but Dougie was never really angry with him. Upset, yes, but Harry’d done his best to tape it up, and that was about that.
“Sweet,” Dougie says, smiling. “You guys’re awesome.”
They stick a candle in one of the donuts, and use Harry’s lighter to light it. Tom says,
“You have to make a wish. And make it a good one.” Dougie closes his eyes, and then blows out the candle. Then he takes a bite of his donut.
“What’d you wish for?” Danny asks, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him.
“I can’t tell you, Dan, that way I’ll never come true,” Dougie says, rolling his eyes. “Duh.”
“Yeah, Dan, what were you thinking?” Harry asks leaning back against the end of the mattress with a grin, taking a big bite of his own donut.
“Well now,” Danny says, “I do so apologize for my lack of manners.” Harry snorts.
It’s not hard to tell that Harry’s from a well-to-do family - his accent and mannerisms give him away every time. It’s about as easy as it is to tell that Danny’s from up north. It’s not something they ever talk about or share freely - most of the time, Danny wishes that he could erase the record from his voice, so that no one would know even that much about him.
The truth is, he has no extreme tragic past - he left home when he couldn’t take his parents fighting anymore, and ended up here. End of story.
It’s still not something he particularly wants to share.
+
It’s Friday, and Danny’s glad he brought gloves. He presses his fingers against the still-healing cuts through the cotton of his shirt, and waits. Friday’s are made up mostly of businessmen blowing their weekly paychecks on booze and whores. Not so bad, really, just repetitive.
“Hey, Tom!” he calls across the street. Tom is leaning back with his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
“What?” he asks, looking up from the toes of his shoes.
“I’m bored. What’re you thinking about?”
“How many more blowjobs until the end of the night,” Tom says. “And music.”
“Blowjobs and music?” Danny asks, laughing. “Don’t strain yourself.”
“Oh, like you’re one to talk. You learn all your witty retorts from Harry, when he uses them on you,” Tom says, a clear eye-roll in his voice. Danny just grins.
+
Later that night - or, rather, early the next morning - Danny’s about to fall asleep, when Dougie knocks on his door.
“Yeah?” Danny asks, sleepily. Dougie sits on the bed next to him, and smiles.
“Do you really want to know what I wished for?” Dougie asks, flopping his head down on the pillow next to Danny’s.
“Sure, if you want to tell me. But aren’t you worried it won’t come true?” Danny knows that Dougie’s only a year or so younger than him, but he’s still green in some of the ways that matter most and - Danny doesn’t want to ruin that too fast. This life will do it to him, anyway, given the time.
“Nah,” Dougie says, shrugging one shoulder, slightly awkwardly, given his position. “This isn’t the kind of wish that can just come true.”
“Yeah?” Danny asks, turning his head to look Dougie in the eyes.
“Yeah,” Dougie says. “This kind of wish you have to make true.”
“Hmm.” Danny lets his eyes slide back up to the ceiling. He can feel Dougie’s breath on the side of his face. “Okay,” he says, eventually.
“Still want to know?” Dougie asks, sitting up. He runs one finger over the skin where Danny’s shirt has slipped up, just touching the knitting tissue of the shallowest of the cuts. Danny shivers, and shakes his head; he trusts Dougie to see it. “Okay,” Dougie says, and stands. He walks to the door, but before he leaves, he says,
“Hey, Danny?” Danny looks up at him, eyebrows raised. “Ask Tom if you can see his book, okay?” He leaves before Danny can respond, but. Yeah, Dougie’s not really a kid anymore. If he ever was.
+
There’s a lull halfway through Saturday, and Danny takes the opportunity to cross the street, into Tom’s corner. He won’t have to worry about his own spot unless he stays long enough - some of the other boys are ruthless when it comes to territory, and Danny’s got a good corner.
“Hey, Tom,” he says, and Tom looks at him, half surprised and half skeptical.
“Danny?” he asks. His voice says, and what would you be doing over here?, and the truth is that he wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to shout it for everyone to hear. He really does value Tom’s privacy.
“If I asked to look at your book,” Danny says, “would you let me?”
“What?” Tom asks, and then shakes his head, as if clearing it. “Of course, sure. Why?”
“’Cause I want to,” Danny says, and shrugs. It’s not exactly as easy as that - he wants to know that Tom trusts him, and, well, it should be obvious. It is obvious, in some ways, but this is tangible. Touchable.
“That all?” Tom asks, arching his eyebrows. Danny grins.
+
The last john that evening wants to lick his scars, the ones that are pink with new skin, just barely joined at the edges, and the idea makes Danny want to puke, but he says yes. Of course he does. The man’s meaty hand in the small of his back, flat tongue running over the joint of new flesh, digging in, and Danny’s just hoping that his gasps are closer to orgasmic than they are to disgusted.
“Fuck,” he says, when the man’s free hand presses against the scar high up on his inner thigh. The john just groans.
The first thing Danny does when he gets back is shower. The water’s cold, but he doesn’t care; he just scrubs his hands down over his skin, and hopes he’ll forget the probing, violated feeling soon.
+
Tom’s actually sleeping when Danny creeps into his room that night. He doesn’t want to wake him, precisely; he just can’t be alone in his room at the moment.
“Mm?” Tom asks, more a sleepy mumble than anything else.
“Tom?” Danny asks, sitting on the edge of his mattress. It creaks under his weight, old springs protesting the shift in balance. Tom sits up, rubbing his eyes, and Danny can see he’s not wearing a shirt. The star tattoo on his chest stands out, but not as much as the jagged scar running across his belly - it crosses his belly button, deforming the shape, pulling it sharp at the top and bottom. It’s nothing Danny hasn’t seen more than once, but he doesn’t know the story behind it; Tom’s had it since before Danny arrived, and he’s never offered the information.
“I got it my third week here,” Tom says, sounding mostly awake - his voice is still scratchy, but his eyes are alert when they meet Danny’s. “Charlie did it. With a coat hanger.” He runs a hand over his chest and stomach, and Danny can’t see the thin white lines scattered there, but he knows where they are. So many scars. “I was under, just a little, and I got mouthy, and - they had to take me to the hospital, after.” Danny’s not sure what he’s supposed to say, exactly, so he just nods. He’d never expected to know - never expected to be told. “Here,” Tom says, and hands him his notebook. “You wanted to see it?”
“Yeah,” Danny says, and slides back until he’s sitting next to Tom, back against the wall. Tom curls up on his side, and proceeds to go back to sleep. Danny opens the notebook to the first page, and starts reading.
+
Harry finds him a few days later, sitting on the floor with his guitar, Tom’s notebook open in front of him. He hums a few bars, strums the riff; he adds the words as an afterthought, and then hears,
“Wow, Jones, you can really sing.” Harry’s leaning against the doorframe, watching him. Danny smiles slightly sheepishly.
“Thanks?”
“No, I mean it,” Harry says, and Harry being sincere is always surprisingly meaningful to Danny. Maybe because it happens so rarely.
“I - thanks.” He sighs. “It’s not like there’s a point to it, really, though.” He just hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it all week. That’s all.
“Whatever,” Harry says, sitting on the floor in front of him. “Can you - play it again.” Danny does, singing along louder this time. He will never not love the feel of his fingers on the strings. “Again,” Harry says when he stops. After the third time, Harry props his chin on one knee and purses his lips. “There’s something - not quite right. In the chorus.”
“Sounds more like a harmony that a melody,” Tom says from the doorway. Danny hadn’t even known he was there.
“Sing it again,” Dougie says from behind him; he moves to sit against the wall, and his face - black eye, lip scabbed over in the corner, and Danny sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“Dougie -” he starts, but Dougie cuts him off with a quick shake of his head.
“Sing, Danny. I’m fine,” Dougie says, and Danny manages a curt nod.
He starts over at the beginning, fingers careful on the strings. This time, Tom comes in, a third down, and sings along, which sounds -
“Better,” Harry says. Danny nods again.
“Better,” he says.
“See, Danny,” Dougie says, “I didn’t even have to tell you.”
But you did tell me, Danny wants to say as he places his guitar gently on the ground. You did tell me and it came true anyway. The thing is, he knows that if he says it, Dougie will just look at him straight in the eye and say, well, if that part came true, why not the rest of it?, and Danny has no answer to that. He has nothing except that the possibility of escape is so much slimmer than anything else, and it’s easier just to assume impossibility. Except - Except. Leaving is the only way to make the hurting stop. The only way. Danny tries not to think about the scars across Tom’s chest, the bruises on Dougie’s face, the marks wrapping Harry’s wrists. He tries not to, and he fails.
“One day,” Dougie says, with the certainty of someone who knows no such thing, but wants it badly enough to pretend, “we’ll get out of here. We will.”
“Another song?” Danny asks, instead of replying. It’s easier that way.
+
They fall asleep curled up on the floor. Harry is pressed up against Danny’s back, one arm draped over his stomach, touching the scarred skin there. Tom is curved facing them, knees pulled up to his chest. Danny can feel Tom’s breath against his face and neck, Tom’s hair on his lips. Dougie, he thinks, is behind Harry, head propped on the curve of his hip - Danny can just see the blond of his hair if he looks over his shoulder.
Maybe, he thinks, letting his eyes fall closed, surrounded in the only definition of safety he knows anymore, maybe, if -
Tomorrow he will wake up, and it will start over again. Tomorrow he’ll be back to blowjobs in back alleys, quick fucks in pay-by-the-hour hotel rooms, cigarette burns and belts and bondage. Tomorrow.
Tonight he has his own songs in his head, melodies on the tips of his fingers, harmonies like hard marbles in his mouth. He has safety at his back. Tonight, tonight he thinks that maybe, maybe they can make it. Maybe if they try.