(no subject)
I Want Out of the Circus
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Brendon's curiosity builds to a point where he just can't stand not knowing where William sneaks off to. The very next time William slips out the back door with a bundle of cloth under his arm, Brendon is hot on his heels. Not too hot, for fear of being discovered, but close enough to see which dingy alley William ducks into. Brendon's worried; Pete warned his boys about freelancing. A boy can get killed freelancing, even in the big city.
A figure emerges suddenly from the gloom of the alley, straightening its dress. It takes Brendon a moment to realize that the figure is William. He blinks back surprise; the boys often dress in skirts for the live show or for a particular kind of customer. William must have stolen one of the nicer dresses, Brendon thinks, although he can't remember seeing it before.
Must be another one of William's secrets, Brendon mutters to himself.
Brendon follows William past the breadline that Ryan hates and the abandoned restaurant they all stayed in before they joined the pornocircus. He follows William into the park and past the better-dressed couples. William sits on a park bench, legs crossed primly at the ankles. Brendon crouches in the nearby shrubbery, praying that no one sees him.
William looks up as a strange man jogs across the grass.
Hey, babe!
Brendon's close enough to hear William's delighted little laugh as the stranger twirls Will in his arms. William's dress flares out on the draft and Brendon can almost believe William is a real woman.
Tommy! William shrieks, batting playfully at the man's--Tom's --shoulders. Tom laughs and brings William in close for a smacking kiss.
Let's go, dollface, Tom suggests fondly.
Brendon could follow them, and he wants to. The glimpse Brendon catches of William's face as he walks daintily down the path with his arm threaded through Tom's makes Brendon feel irrationally guilty, guiltier than he's felt in a long time. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his threadbare jacket and strides quickly out of the park and back the way he came.
Brendon is so preoccupied with trying to puzzle out all the how's, why's, when's, and does-he-know's of Tom and William's relationship that he makes a wrong turn and ends up facing a gaggle of large, scruffy men lounging around an abandoned house. It had never been a pretty house, with the tacked-on porch and the hideous paint job, but ruin has made it downright ugly. The men have taken up positions around the dilapidated porch and are taking turns tossing bits of rock and glass at a particular hollow in the porch floor.
Brendon, lost in his musings, makes a more entertaining target for some of the men. They shift their focus to him and Brendon is quickly jerked from his reverie by a light hail of urban detritus aimed at his head. He throws up his arms to protect himself and quickens his pace, hoping to get past the men with no further trouble. The men laugh and return their attention to the hole in the porch floor. Brendon lowers his arms, trembling in relief.
It's not until he passes directly in front of the late-addition porch that he hears the whimpering from underneath each time one of the men's targets lands in the hole. Brendon's blood freezes. Before he realizes what he's doing, he has already turned to face the men. Words spill out of his mouth without authorization from his brain:
What are you doing? Brendon hears himself demand. Internally, he cringes. Surely this is when he gets beaten to death and dies like the dog of a boy-whore he is.
It's nothing you need be concerned about, boy, one of the men answers gruffly. You just keep moving. He tosses the broken neck of a bottle into the porch. It clatters against the wood and rolls jerkily into the hole. There is a distinct 'thunk' and a high voice wails out a brief note of pain.
What's under the porch? Brendon asks, anger overriding fear.
A dirty little nigger baby, another man sneers. Brendon's stomach ices over. And unless you'd like to join it, I suggest you get moving.
Brendon forces himself back to the sidewalk and bites his lip as he continues down the sidewalk in measured, careful steps.
Brendon walks all the way around the block, still counting his careful steps, until he's reasonably certain he is in front of the house that backs up onto the one with the child under the porch. He takes a deep breath and creeps around the side of the house facing him. He spots the men from his position between the houses and ducks through the back door of the abandoned house as quickly as he can. He searches the first floor, trying to stay away from the windows, until he finds the door to the cellar.
He forces himself not to thunder down the rickety steps; he knows he'll need them unbroken to get back up. It takes him a minute of blind groping to find the wall, but by then his eyes have adjusted and he's spotted which grubby window opens onto the underside of the porch.
It's a tense struggle and a long one, but eventually Brendon manages to wrestle the shutter off. He drags a barrel over to serve as a stool and hops up onto it, peering into the filthy crawl space beneath the porch. A dark-skinned boy is curled up in the far corner. In the light streaming in from the hole in the porch floor Brendon can see a slow ooze of blood and pus from a would on the boy's forehead. Every rib is visible in the rapidly heaving little chest, and a corner of Brendon's heart breaks there and then.
Hello, little fella, Brendon says softly. The child stares at him with terrified eyes staring out of a dirty, starved face. Brendon reaches out slowly, trying his damndest to keep from making sudden moves, and scoops the child out of the depths of the porch and into his arms. The little boy can't seem to stop shaking and whimpering. Brendon bounces him a little, clucking his tongue and making other nonsense noises he hopes will be soothing.
Oh, now, Brendon croons under his breath. He bends his head close to the child's, hoping to lessen the chance that the men outside will hear him, all while blindly and awkwardly clambering down off the barrel. Shh, now, little fella. I'm not gonna hurt you. Shh, now. I'm not gonna hurt you.
Eventually, the child quiets. Brendon can't help but grin. Attaboy. Say, do you have a name? Hmm? He bounces the little boy again. Can you talk yet, little fella?
No, the child says. His tiny fists are wound so tight in the material of Brendon's shirt that the little knuckles are turning white. He won't allow himself to be held flush to Brendon's chest, but he doesn't want to be put down, either. By some miracle Brendon manages to sneak them both back out of the abandoned house and far away from the men without incident.
Brendon detours to the pump by the park and rinses the little boy off, brushing the dirt and filth out of his scrapes and cuts. He won't let Brendon get water on his head or face, but when Brendon picks him back up the child allows himself to fall asleep with his little head lolling on Brendon's shoulder.
Brendon grins the whole way back to the Kinetic Playhouse, utterly thrilled to have his own secret cradled safe against his chest.
-----
Tom pulls out of William and tucks his dick back into his trousers. He tugs William's skirts back down, turns William around. He presses kisses to William's temple, William's cheek, William's mouth. Will molds himself to Tom's contours and threads his arms around Tom's neck, smiling into the kisses.
Gotta go soon, dollface, Tom reminds William.
I know, I know. Do you have it? Tom hands William the drugs.
You got the graft? William hands Tom the money. You're aces, dollface.
They part ways with a lingering kiss. William thinks Tom's mouth is his favorite taste in the world.
-----
You're not keeping that in here, Ryan says when Brendon carries the child into the stall. And I'm not helping you hide it.
He is sleeping, so I'll thank you to be quiet, Brendon says. And I wasn't going to keep him in the stalls, he adds defensively.
Where are you going to keep him, then? Ryan asks, putting down the paper Spencer had stolen for him. Brendon shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.
I was hoping you'd help me with that, he says.
No. Ryan turns back to his paper.
Please? Brendon says.
No.
What's going on? Spencer calls down the hallway. He's lugging a large bag of scraps with both arms. And could you open the stall?
Ryan's already on his feet and unlocking the half-door. Spencer sets the bag down with a satisfied noise. He dusts his hands off and steps back, noticing the boy in Brendon's arms.
Jesus! Where'd you get that? He nods at the boy.
It's not important. But Spence! Ryan won't let him stay with us. He throws a dark glare at Ryan. Tell Ryan that he can stay.
He can't, Brendon, Ryan says.
Do you even know his name? Spencer asks. Brendon shakes his head.
He wouldn't tell me. I don't know if he even knows what his own name is.
Name it Hobo, Ryan suggests flippantly.
Stop calling him an 'it'! Brendon snarls at Ryan. Ryan folds his arms across his chest.
You woke your baby up, he says. Sure enough, the boy is stirring in Brendon's grip, scrubbing at his sleepy eyes with a little fist. When he sees Ryan and Spencer, he clings to Brendon in sudden fear, shaking and wailing. It takes several minutes for Brendon to calm him down. During this time, Spencer studies them.
You know, Spencer says once Brendon has the boy under control, I think there might be some things in the scrap bag we can use to make a crib for him. Spencer leans in and grasps the tiny hand. Pleased to meet you, Hobo. I'm Spencer.
-----
Hobo, bedtime! Brendon chirps cheerfully. He barricades Hobo into a corner of their stall with all the clothing they have. He wraps Hobo up and triple-checks that Hobo can't be seen from the hallway and rocks Hobo in his tiny makeshift cradle until the little boy falls asleep. Brendon smiles down at Hobo for a full minute before Ryan leans over the stall wall and hisses the ten-minute warning until showtime.
Brendon nods absently, still lost in Hobo's trusting, slow breaths, so he starts violently when the stall door bangs shut behind him. All of a sudden Ryan's there, handing Brendon his costume and tugging on one of the shawls Ryan had stolen down at the train station.
You can see his whole arm from the door, Ryan mutters, tucking the shawl in and fiddling with the hem.
Ryan--
You should go change. We're on in ten minutes.
For the first time ever, Brendon doesn't stumble offstage at the end of the night with shame biting into his throat and discomfort gnawing at his ass and insides. He cleans himself off without the usual frantic, numb scrubbing and settles down beside Hobo's crib.
He thinks he might get a little of what Ryan was talking about, working a job.
-----
William's favorite taste is the inside of Tom's mouth, so it makes him feel sicker than it should have when he tastes someone else on Tom's tongue. He stays silent through the sex and doesn't answer when Tom asks what's wrong.
He wants badly to ask Tom what the hell's going on, to demand that Tom stop messing around, but William's learned a lot of things in the circus that stick a little too deep to ignore, even for Tom.
The hardest lesson he's had to learn is that boys like William aren't allowed to have nice things, and when some mistake of Providence means nice things happen anyway, boys like William are never allowed to keep them for long.
Tom isn't the first nice thing to get taken away, and William resigns himself to knowing that Tom won't be, can't be the last.
-----
Pete, what the hell was that?
Pete leans back in his chair and cracks his knuckles.
Pattyc--Patrick, don't worry so much. It was nothing. Patrick slams his fist down on the desk.
Mason just walked out your door, Pete, and I know you know he's one of Johnny Lee's top boys in the whole Chicago area. You had better tell me what the hell you were doing, or I swear I'll run back and ask him. So tell me.
It's nothing, Patrick. Pete's gaze is cool and earnest. Just a little business on the side. It'll be all fine. I've got a hold of it. We're going to come out aces.
Patrick leans in and very carefully grasps Pete by the lapels, hauling him forward in his seat. Pete doesn't resist at all.
Trust me, Patrick.
Listen to me very, very carefully, Patrick says with his face not two inches from Pete's. I trust you. God help me, but I trust you. Do not make me regret this.
Have I ever, yet?
Not yet.
And never will. Pete plants a kiss on Patrick's nose and grins hugely. Patrick goes downstairs and shouts at people until he feels normal again.
-----
Brendon comes back from his turn in the kitchen to find Ryan settling Hobo down for a nap in a large, new crib.
Oh! Ryan starts as when he hears the creak of the stall door.
What are you doing?
I found this crib, Ryan explains defensively. He folds his arms over his chest. There's a house, it's not very far-- I think the baby died, because there were a lot of things-- He cuts himself off and straightens up, a behavior Brendon has learned is a nervous habit.
Thank you, Brendon says. Ryan nods tightly. They stand side by side and watch Hobo fall asleep. Ryan shifts his weight so his arm rests against Brendon's. Brendon smiles broadly.
-----
Hello, police? William says into the telephone. Yes, I'd like to report a crime. He gives the street address, Tom's description, and the description of the young woman Tom's fucking against the alley wall. William watches through the glass of the telephone booth as she clutches at Tom's shoulders and arches her back. A drug deal, William continues, eyeing the dope peeking out of the pocket of Tom's discarded trousers.
Even across the street, William can see the passion with which Tom kisses her as he pumps in and out of her.
William's voice is perfectly steady. I think he's associated with one of those gangs.
-----
Give it back! Brent howls, swiping at Mike dances out of reach, agile as any boxer, still reading snippets aloud in a high falsetto.
What's going on here? Ryan demands,
He's taken--
Brent got a letter from his giiiirl, Mike taunts, waving the letter. There's a bruise, fresh and shiny on his exposed collarbone.
What's on your shoulder, Mike? Brendon's query is ignored.
You still send letters to that fuss of yours? Spencer says to Brent.
Yeah, Brent replies, defensive.
Where d'you get money for the stamps? Brendon chimes in. His eyes widen and he answers his own question with another. Oh, is that why you never go to the movies with us anymore?
I bet you don't tell her what you're doing here, do you, Mike says, still scanning the letter. I bet you tell her you're working on some project, if you tell her anything at all. Am I right, pally? Hmm?
Brent, crimson and shaking, manages to snatch the letter back. He clutches it to his chest with one hand and winds up with the other, dealing Mike such a blow that Mike stumbles and falls backward out of the stall.
You better make tracks right now, Brent spits. You better keep your trap shut, too, or I'll bump you off, I swear I will.
Mike holds up his hands in mock surrender.
No need to get hostile, Mike says. Just having a bit of fun. More fun than I bet you're getting from your fuss, too--
Brent lunges at Mike, but Mike darts away before Brent gets his hands on him. Breathing erratically, Brent shuffles back into the stall and carefully smooths out the letter, pressing it against the half-door and running his palm across it reverently.
-----
William leaves before the police get there, but he stops in his tracks three blocks from the alley-- he's just heard gunshots. The sick feeling that's been growing in his gut blossoms and it's a pale and troubled William that slips back into the Kinetic Playhouse.
-----
They lie awake listening to grunts and moans as the other boys entertain or try to fall asleep. Brendon has taken to covering Hobo's crib with a makeshift canopy to try and block out some of the obscenity as the boy sleeps.
Brent abruptly ceases his tossing and turning. He sits up and he blurts, I need a way out. I can't do this anymore. He pulls the letter out from under his pillow and unfolds it with reverence. She--her brother found a job in the northwest. They've got a lot of new jobs up there, clearing brush in the forests to make a park, I think. She says he gets five cents a day--
We get more than that in half an hour, Ryan reminds him. Don't be stupid.
I wouldn't be a whore, Brent snaps. At least clearing trees in a forest for chickenfeed is clean. At least it's better than this. Brent puts his head in his hands. Anything's better than this.
Ryan's face shuts down. Is starving better than this? Is digging through garbage better than this?
No. But if I'm on the streets and in a hard spot, I can go to a food line.
The food line is for stupid, worthless bastards who aren't man enough to earn pay! Ryan rails, suddenly heated. If you've got to go to the food line, you might as well do the hemp dance and end yourself with a little damned dignity. At least we're working, here. At least we have a job. We're earning what we get. Do you really think getting oatmeal in the food line like some hopeless, useless whoreson is better than this?
We're not whoresons, Brent counters bitterly. He looks up, meeting Ryan's glittering glare with a mutinous look. We're whores. And I want to stop.
-----
Hobo's favorite thing is to draw with a little finger on the dirt floor of the stall. He can usually manipulate Ryan into drawing with him. Hobo's second favorite thing is to go outside. On most afternoons, Brendon will take Hobo up to the roof of the Playhouse to let the boy play in the open air. Hobo's third favorite thing is to go up onto the stage, even though he's only ever done that once. His fourth favorite thing is to nap between Ryan and Brendon.
-----
Joe, you gotta get Pete a job. Something to get him out of here, Patrick pleads.
I don't know. Joe rubs his palm over the stubble on his jaw. His fingers catch on the long scab under his chin. I mean, the kike mob ain't exactly dizzy with me at the moment, ever since the Evansville thing.
Don't feed me that line, Patrick snaps. I know you got a trunk full of goods and graft you're taking into Detroit this weekend. Can't you take Pete along?
I'm sorry, pally. I just can't help you. I'm not a big enough man to get you in on a job.
It's not for me; it's for Pete, Patrick stresses.
Ish kabibble. You know I'm just asking for a tommy gun in my mug just for talking to you about this, right?
Oh, and that's stopped you so many times before. Look, if the cops don't raid this joint any day now, it's going to be because we've all been shot and the place went up in flames because of Pete's stupid under-the-table deals. He's gotten mixed up in something, I don't know what. I want to get us cleared out, Patrick snarls. This is not negotiable. You pick up the telephone and call your Purple Gang fellas and see what you can do.
All right, all right. Joe throws his hands up in exaggerated submission. Jeepers, Patrick. I'll make the call. Joe pulls a cigarette case form his jacket and slides one out. He brings it to his lips and lights it, inhaling deeply. Care for a ciggy? No? He tucks the case back into his jacket and takes another deep drag off the cigarette. Say, Patrick, could I borrow your telephone?
-----
Brendon hides inside the folds of the dirty curtain and listens to the one-sided argument raging in Pete's office.
You're in deep, Pete. Too deep, Patrick hisses. People are starting to come around.
People are always coming around. What do you think of this tie?
Pete, for God's sake, listen to me! Patrick shouts. He slams his fists down on Pete's desk. Pete doesn't look up from his tie. You can't try and make up the losses by double-crossing! You're dealing with Johnny Lee's men, for God's sake! Luciano's men will find out; they always find out! We're better off closing down tonight; at least that way we might live to get another racket.
This is the last pornocircus in the country, Pete counters. Luciano's men won't let this fold. Besides, we're the biggest boys' market in the whole tri-state area, if not the whole midwest. We've got a good thing going on.
It's not good enough! Patrick yells, leaning in until he's mere inches from Pete's face. Have you been listening to a word I've been saying in the last six months?
No, Pete admits, grinning charmingly. He leans forward to place a quick peck on the tip of Patrick's nose. You worry too much.
-----
Pete's good to them, mostly. When Pete's having a bad day, or during the middle of the summer when the heat wave hits and more jobs are lost and people stop coming by the circus as often, when he's short on his bribe money or when Patrick, the co-owner, is away for too long, though, Pete has a tendency to take it out on the boys.
Pete sometimes smacks people and sometimes he cuffs people, but his favorite thing to do when he's angry is to start flinging sharp and bitter words at everyone in the vicinity.
What do you mean, Brent's missing?
-----
It is up to the younger generation of anarchists to carry on their work untiringly, to restore the movement to that place it held some years ago and carry it forward to its revolutionary goal. Through activity and a proper realization of the problems of our movement, the youth can rebuild the meager forces which have been left to us, Andy concludes, folding up the pamphlet. The assembled boys, all twenty-odd pornocircus workers, all listen raptly. Did you like that, then?
The boys erupt into approving chatter.
Jesus, did I!
That was something!
Where do I sign up?
Andy seizes on the last question.
You want to sign up? Do you? Well, there's no real sign-up, but there is a little protest that will be happening in a couple of days. Andy waits. The boys don't disappoint.
Let's go!
Where is it?
When is it?
Will you take us?
Sure, I'll take you, Andy promises. The boys cheer again, flushed with revolutionary excitement.
-----
No news of Brent, Spencer says, back from spying near Pete's office.
Maybe he really made it out, Brendon says cheerfully, bouncing Hobo on his leg.
Maybe, Ryan agrees. Brendon grins at him. Ryan smiles back.
Part 5
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Brendon's curiosity builds to a point where he just can't stand not knowing where William sneaks off to. The very next time William slips out the back door with a bundle of cloth under his arm, Brendon is hot on his heels. Not too hot, for fear of being discovered, but close enough to see which dingy alley William ducks into. Brendon's worried; Pete warned his boys about freelancing. A boy can get killed freelancing, even in the big city.
A figure emerges suddenly from the gloom of the alley, straightening its dress. It takes Brendon a moment to realize that the figure is William. He blinks back surprise; the boys often dress in skirts for the live show or for a particular kind of customer. William must have stolen one of the nicer dresses, Brendon thinks, although he can't remember seeing it before.
Must be another one of William's secrets, Brendon mutters to himself.
Brendon follows William past the breadline that Ryan hates and the abandoned restaurant they all stayed in before they joined the pornocircus. He follows William into the park and past the better-dressed couples. William sits on a park bench, legs crossed primly at the ankles. Brendon crouches in the nearby shrubbery, praying that no one sees him.
William looks up as a strange man jogs across the grass.
Hey, babe!
Brendon's close enough to hear William's delighted little laugh as the stranger twirls Will in his arms. William's dress flares out on the draft and Brendon can almost believe William is a real woman.
Tommy! William shrieks, batting playfully at the man's--Tom's --shoulders. Tom laughs and brings William in close for a smacking kiss.
Let's go, dollface, Tom suggests fondly.
Brendon could follow them, and he wants to. The glimpse Brendon catches of William's face as he walks daintily down the path with his arm threaded through Tom's makes Brendon feel irrationally guilty, guiltier than he's felt in a long time. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his threadbare jacket and strides quickly out of the park and back the way he came.
Brendon is so preoccupied with trying to puzzle out all the how's, why's, when's, and does-he-know's of Tom and William's relationship that he makes a wrong turn and ends up facing a gaggle of large, scruffy men lounging around an abandoned house. It had never been a pretty house, with the tacked-on porch and the hideous paint job, but ruin has made it downright ugly. The men have taken up positions around the dilapidated porch and are taking turns tossing bits of rock and glass at a particular hollow in the porch floor.
Brendon, lost in his musings, makes a more entertaining target for some of the men. They shift their focus to him and Brendon is quickly jerked from his reverie by a light hail of urban detritus aimed at his head. He throws up his arms to protect himself and quickens his pace, hoping to get past the men with no further trouble. The men laugh and return their attention to the hole in the porch floor. Brendon lowers his arms, trembling in relief.
It's not until he passes directly in front of the late-addition porch that he hears the whimpering from underneath each time one of the men's targets lands in the hole. Brendon's blood freezes. Before he realizes what he's doing, he has already turned to face the men. Words spill out of his mouth without authorization from his brain:
What are you doing? Brendon hears himself demand. Internally, he cringes. Surely this is when he gets beaten to death and dies like the dog of a boy-whore he is.
It's nothing you need be concerned about, boy, one of the men answers gruffly. You just keep moving. He tosses the broken neck of a bottle into the porch. It clatters against the wood and rolls jerkily into the hole. There is a distinct 'thunk' and a high voice wails out a brief note of pain.
What's under the porch? Brendon asks, anger overriding fear.
A dirty little nigger baby, another man sneers. Brendon's stomach ices over. And unless you'd like to join it, I suggest you get moving.
Brendon forces himself back to the sidewalk and bites his lip as he continues down the sidewalk in measured, careful steps.
Brendon walks all the way around the block, still counting his careful steps, until he's reasonably certain he is in front of the house that backs up onto the one with the child under the porch. He takes a deep breath and creeps around the side of the house facing him. He spots the men from his position between the houses and ducks through the back door of the abandoned house as quickly as he can. He searches the first floor, trying to stay away from the windows, until he finds the door to the cellar.
He forces himself not to thunder down the rickety steps; he knows he'll need them unbroken to get back up. It takes him a minute of blind groping to find the wall, but by then his eyes have adjusted and he's spotted which grubby window opens onto the underside of the porch.
It's a tense struggle and a long one, but eventually Brendon manages to wrestle the shutter off. He drags a barrel over to serve as a stool and hops up onto it, peering into the filthy crawl space beneath the porch. A dark-skinned boy is curled up in the far corner. In the light streaming in from the hole in the porch floor Brendon can see a slow ooze of blood and pus from a would on the boy's forehead. Every rib is visible in the rapidly heaving little chest, and a corner of Brendon's heart breaks there and then.
Hello, little fella, Brendon says softly. The child stares at him with terrified eyes staring out of a dirty, starved face. Brendon reaches out slowly, trying his damndest to keep from making sudden moves, and scoops the child out of the depths of the porch and into his arms. The little boy can't seem to stop shaking and whimpering. Brendon bounces him a little, clucking his tongue and making other nonsense noises he hopes will be soothing.
Oh, now, Brendon croons under his breath. He bends his head close to the child's, hoping to lessen the chance that the men outside will hear him, all while blindly and awkwardly clambering down off the barrel. Shh, now, little fella. I'm not gonna hurt you. Shh, now. I'm not gonna hurt you.
Eventually, the child quiets. Brendon can't help but grin. Attaboy. Say, do you have a name? Hmm? He bounces the little boy again. Can you talk yet, little fella?
No, the child says. His tiny fists are wound so tight in the material of Brendon's shirt that the little knuckles are turning white. He won't allow himself to be held flush to Brendon's chest, but he doesn't want to be put down, either. By some miracle Brendon manages to sneak them both back out of the abandoned house and far away from the men without incident.
Brendon detours to the pump by the park and rinses the little boy off, brushing the dirt and filth out of his scrapes and cuts. He won't let Brendon get water on his head or face, but when Brendon picks him back up the child allows himself to fall asleep with his little head lolling on Brendon's shoulder.
Brendon grins the whole way back to the Kinetic Playhouse, utterly thrilled to have his own secret cradled safe against his chest.
-----
Tom pulls out of William and tucks his dick back into his trousers. He tugs William's skirts back down, turns William around. He presses kisses to William's temple, William's cheek, William's mouth. Will molds himself to Tom's contours and threads his arms around Tom's neck, smiling into the kisses.
Gotta go soon, dollface, Tom reminds William.
I know, I know. Do you have it? Tom hands William the drugs.
You got the graft? William hands Tom the money. You're aces, dollface.
They part ways with a lingering kiss. William thinks Tom's mouth is his favorite taste in the world.
-----
You're not keeping that in here, Ryan says when Brendon carries the child into the stall. And I'm not helping you hide it.
He is sleeping, so I'll thank you to be quiet, Brendon says. And I wasn't going to keep him in the stalls, he adds defensively.
Where are you going to keep him, then? Ryan asks, putting down the paper Spencer had stolen for him. Brendon shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.
I was hoping you'd help me with that, he says.
No. Ryan turns back to his paper.
Please? Brendon says.
No.
What's going on? Spencer calls down the hallway. He's lugging a large bag of scraps with both arms. And could you open the stall?
Ryan's already on his feet and unlocking the half-door. Spencer sets the bag down with a satisfied noise. He dusts his hands off and steps back, noticing the boy in Brendon's arms.
Jesus! Where'd you get that? He nods at the boy.
It's not important. But Spence! Ryan won't let him stay with us. He throws a dark glare at Ryan. Tell Ryan that he can stay.
He can't, Brendon, Ryan says.
Do you even know his name? Spencer asks. Brendon shakes his head.
He wouldn't tell me. I don't know if he even knows what his own name is.
Name it Hobo, Ryan suggests flippantly.
Stop calling him an 'it'! Brendon snarls at Ryan. Ryan folds his arms across his chest.
You woke your baby up, he says. Sure enough, the boy is stirring in Brendon's grip, scrubbing at his sleepy eyes with a little fist. When he sees Ryan and Spencer, he clings to Brendon in sudden fear, shaking and wailing. It takes several minutes for Brendon to calm him down. During this time, Spencer studies them.
You know, Spencer says once Brendon has the boy under control, I think there might be some things in the scrap bag we can use to make a crib for him. Spencer leans in and grasps the tiny hand. Pleased to meet you, Hobo. I'm Spencer.
-----
Hobo, bedtime! Brendon chirps cheerfully. He barricades Hobo into a corner of their stall with all the clothing they have. He wraps Hobo up and triple-checks that Hobo can't be seen from the hallway and rocks Hobo in his tiny makeshift cradle until the little boy falls asleep. Brendon smiles down at Hobo for a full minute before Ryan leans over the stall wall and hisses the ten-minute warning until showtime.
Brendon nods absently, still lost in Hobo's trusting, slow breaths, so he starts violently when the stall door bangs shut behind him. All of a sudden Ryan's there, handing Brendon his costume and tugging on one of the shawls Ryan had stolen down at the train station.
You can see his whole arm from the door, Ryan mutters, tucking the shawl in and fiddling with the hem.
Ryan--
You should go change. We're on in ten minutes.
For the first time ever, Brendon doesn't stumble offstage at the end of the night with shame biting into his throat and discomfort gnawing at his ass and insides. He cleans himself off without the usual frantic, numb scrubbing and settles down beside Hobo's crib.
He thinks he might get a little of what Ryan was talking about, working a job.
-----
William's favorite taste is the inside of Tom's mouth, so it makes him feel sicker than it should have when he tastes someone else on Tom's tongue. He stays silent through the sex and doesn't answer when Tom asks what's wrong.
He wants badly to ask Tom what the hell's going on, to demand that Tom stop messing around, but William's learned a lot of things in the circus that stick a little too deep to ignore, even for Tom.
The hardest lesson he's had to learn is that boys like William aren't allowed to have nice things, and when some mistake of Providence means nice things happen anyway, boys like William are never allowed to keep them for long.
Tom isn't the first nice thing to get taken away, and William resigns himself to knowing that Tom won't be, can't be the last.
-----
Pete, what the hell was that?
Pete leans back in his chair and cracks his knuckles.
Pattyc--Patrick, don't worry so much. It was nothing. Patrick slams his fist down on the desk.
Mason just walked out your door, Pete, and I know you know he's one of Johnny Lee's top boys in the whole Chicago area. You had better tell me what the hell you were doing, or I swear I'll run back and ask him. So tell me.
It's nothing, Patrick. Pete's gaze is cool and earnest. Just a little business on the side. It'll be all fine. I've got a hold of it. We're going to come out aces.
Patrick leans in and very carefully grasps Pete by the lapels, hauling him forward in his seat. Pete doesn't resist at all.
Trust me, Patrick.
Listen to me very, very carefully, Patrick says with his face not two inches from Pete's. I trust you. God help me, but I trust you. Do not make me regret this.
Have I ever, yet?
Not yet.
And never will. Pete plants a kiss on Patrick's nose and grins hugely. Patrick goes downstairs and shouts at people until he feels normal again.
-----
Brendon comes back from his turn in the kitchen to find Ryan settling Hobo down for a nap in a large, new crib.
Oh! Ryan starts as when he hears the creak of the stall door.
What are you doing?
I found this crib, Ryan explains defensively. He folds his arms over his chest. There's a house, it's not very far-- I think the baby died, because there were a lot of things-- He cuts himself off and straightens up, a behavior Brendon has learned is a nervous habit.
Thank you, Brendon says. Ryan nods tightly. They stand side by side and watch Hobo fall asleep. Ryan shifts his weight so his arm rests against Brendon's. Brendon smiles broadly.
-----
Hello, police? William says into the telephone. Yes, I'd like to report a crime. He gives the street address, Tom's description, and the description of the young woman Tom's fucking against the alley wall. William watches through the glass of the telephone booth as she clutches at Tom's shoulders and arches her back. A drug deal, William continues, eyeing the dope peeking out of the pocket of Tom's discarded trousers.
Even across the street, William can see the passion with which Tom kisses her as he pumps in and out of her.
William's voice is perfectly steady. I think he's associated with one of those gangs.
-----
Give it back! Brent howls, swiping at Mike dances out of reach, agile as any boxer, still reading snippets aloud in a high falsetto.
What's going on here? Ryan demands,
He's taken--
Brent got a letter from his giiiirl, Mike taunts, waving the letter. There's a bruise, fresh and shiny on his exposed collarbone.
What's on your shoulder, Mike? Brendon's query is ignored.
You still send letters to that fuss of yours? Spencer says to Brent.
Yeah, Brent replies, defensive.
Where d'you get money for the stamps? Brendon chimes in. His eyes widen and he answers his own question with another. Oh, is that why you never go to the movies with us anymore?
I bet you don't tell her what you're doing here, do you, Mike says, still scanning the letter. I bet you tell her you're working on some project, if you tell her anything at all. Am I right, pally? Hmm?
Brent, crimson and shaking, manages to snatch the letter back. He clutches it to his chest with one hand and winds up with the other, dealing Mike such a blow that Mike stumbles and falls backward out of the stall.
You better make tracks right now, Brent spits. You better keep your trap shut, too, or I'll bump you off, I swear I will.
Mike holds up his hands in mock surrender.
No need to get hostile, Mike says. Just having a bit of fun. More fun than I bet you're getting from your fuss, too--
Brent lunges at Mike, but Mike darts away before Brent gets his hands on him. Breathing erratically, Brent shuffles back into the stall and carefully smooths out the letter, pressing it against the half-door and running his palm across it reverently.
-----
William leaves before the police get there, but he stops in his tracks three blocks from the alley-- he's just heard gunshots. The sick feeling that's been growing in his gut blossoms and it's a pale and troubled William that slips back into the Kinetic Playhouse.
-----
They lie awake listening to grunts and moans as the other boys entertain or try to fall asleep. Brendon has taken to covering Hobo's crib with a makeshift canopy to try and block out some of the obscenity as the boy sleeps.
Brent abruptly ceases his tossing and turning. He sits up and he blurts, I need a way out. I can't do this anymore. He pulls the letter out from under his pillow and unfolds it with reverence. She--her brother found a job in the northwest. They've got a lot of new jobs up there, clearing brush in the forests to make a park, I think. She says he gets five cents a day--
We get more than that in half an hour, Ryan reminds him. Don't be stupid.
I wouldn't be a whore, Brent snaps. At least clearing trees in a forest for chickenfeed is clean. At least it's better than this. Brent puts his head in his hands. Anything's better than this.
Ryan's face shuts down. Is starving better than this? Is digging through garbage better than this?
No. But if I'm on the streets and in a hard spot, I can go to a food line.
The food line is for stupid, worthless bastards who aren't man enough to earn pay! Ryan rails, suddenly heated. If you've got to go to the food line, you might as well do the hemp dance and end yourself with a little damned dignity. At least we're working, here. At least we have a job. We're earning what we get. Do you really think getting oatmeal in the food line like some hopeless, useless whoreson is better than this?
We're not whoresons, Brent counters bitterly. He looks up, meeting Ryan's glittering glare with a mutinous look. We're whores. And I want to stop.
-----
Hobo's favorite thing is to draw with a little finger on the dirt floor of the stall. He can usually manipulate Ryan into drawing with him. Hobo's second favorite thing is to go outside. On most afternoons, Brendon will take Hobo up to the roof of the Playhouse to let the boy play in the open air. Hobo's third favorite thing is to go up onto the stage, even though he's only ever done that once. His fourth favorite thing is to nap between Ryan and Brendon.
-----
Joe, you gotta get Pete a job. Something to get him out of here, Patrick pleads.
I don't know. Joe rubs his palm over the stubble on his jaw. His fingers catch on the long scab under his chin. I mean, the kike mob ain't exactly dizzy with me at the moment, ever since the Evansville thing.
Don't feed me that line, Patrick snaps. I know you got a trunk full of goods and graft you're taking into Detroit this weekend. Can't you take Pete along?
I'm sorry, pally. I just can't help you. I'm not a big enough man to get you in on a job.
It's not for me; it's for Pete, Patrick stresses.
Ish kabibble. You know I'm just asking for a tommy gun in my mug just for talking to you about this, right?
Oh, and that's stopped you so many times before. Look, if the cops don't raid this joint any day now, it's going to be because we've all been shot and the place went up in flames because of Pete's stupid under-the-table deals. He's gotten mixed up in something, I don't know what. I want to get us cleared out, Patrick snarls. This is not negotiable. You pick up the telephone and call your Purple Gang fellas and see what you can do.
All right, all right. Joe throws his hands up in exaggerated submission. Jeepers, Patrick. I'll make the call. Joe pulls a cigarette case form his jacket and slides one out. He brings it to his lips and lights it, inhaling deeply. Care for a ciggy? No? He tucks the case back into his jacket and takes another deep drag off the cigarette. Say, Patrick, could I borrow your telephone?
-----
Brendon hides inside the folds of the dirty curtain and listens to the one-sided argument raging in Pete's office.
You're in deep, Pete. Too deep, Patrick hisses. People are starting to come around.
People are always coming around. What do you think of this tie?
Pete, for God's sake, listen to me! Patrick shouts. He slams his fists down on Pete's desk. Pete doesn't look up from his tie. You can't try and make up the losses by double-crossing! You're dealing with Johnny Lee's men, for God's sake! Luciano's men will find out; they always find out! We're better off closing down tonight; at least that way we might live to get another racket.
This is the last pornocircus in the country, Pete counters. Luciano's men won't let this fold. Besides, we're the biggest boys' market in the whole tri-state area, if not the whole midwest. We've got a good thing going on.
It's not good enough! Patrick yells, leaning in until he's mere inches from Pete's face. Have you been listening to a word I've been saying in the last six months?
No, Pete admits, grinning charmingly. He leans forward to place a quick peck on the tip of Patrick's nose. You worry too much.
-----
Pete's good to them, mostly. When Pete's having a bad day, or during the middle of the summer when the heat wave hits and more jobs are lost and people stop coming by the circus as often, when he's short on his bribe money or when Patrick, the co-owner, is away for too long, though, Pete has a tendency to take it out on the boys.
Pete sometimes smacks people and sometimes he cuffs people, but his favorite thing to do when he's angry is to start flinging sharp and bitter words at everyone in the vicinity.
What do you mean, Brent's missing?
-----
It is up to the younger generation of anarchists to carry on their work untiringly, to restore the movement to that place it held some years ago and carry it forward to its revolutionary goal. Through activity and a proper realization of the problems of our movement, the youth can rebuild the meager forces which have been left to us, Andy concludes, folding up the pamphlet. The assembled boys, all twenty-odd pornocircus workers, all listen raptly. Did you like that, then?
The boys erupt into approving chatter.
Jesus, did I!
That was something!
Where do I sign up?
Andy seizes on the last question.
You want to sign up? Do you? Well, there's no real sign-up, but there is a little protest that will be happening in a couple of days. Andy waits. The boys don't disappoint.
Let's go!
Where is it?
When is it?
Will you take us?
Sure, I'll take you, Andy promises. The boys cheer again, flushed with revolutionary excitement.
-----
No news of Brent, Spencer says, back from spying near Pete's office.
Maybe he really made it out, Brendon says cheerfully, bouncing Hobo on his leg.
Maybe, Ryan agrees. Brendon grins at him. Ryan smiles back.
Part 5