Every Word Not Spoken To You 3/8

[turps33]

When Ryan arrives at Fifth he finds Pete already waiting.

He’s sitting on the curb, legs outstretched and hands on the sidewalk. He’s bundled inside an oversized hoodie, and wearing pink sneakers, the laces woven through with silver strands. Looking like that he shouldn’t get any trade at all, but somehow Pete always does, luring in the johns with his wide smile and disarming chatter.

The fact is, Pete’s good at what he does, too good at times, and sometimes Ryan isn’t sure if he’s talking to Pete himself or the alter ego he presents to the world.

That Ryan even knows there’s a distinction is something that took months to discover. Time when Ryan and Pete talked, about surviving and music and the books they both loved. Until one day Ryan looked up and realized the Pete he knew wasn’t the one seen by the world around them.

It was a jarring realization, and even now Ryan’s aware that in some ways Pete is still hiding. Like tonight, when he looks up at Ryan, grins and announces, “I decided I needed a new area.”

“Walt’s going to be pissed,” Ryan says, not that he actually cares. Having Pete here is a good thing, both as a friend and having someone to watch and make sure Ryan doesn’t end up bleeding out in the back alley.

“Sucks to be him.” Pete stands, wrapping an arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “How’s the ribs?”

“Fine,” Ryan says, and pulls up his t-shirt, showing off the bruising before Pete does it himself. “Who’s been talking?”

Pete whistles, says, “Who hasn’t? Brendon told Alicia, who told William, who told Gabe, who told me.”

Ryan follows the chain of names, all familiar apart from the first. “Brendon?”

“Short, cute, killer voice,” Pete says, and keeps his arm around Ryan as they walk back from the road, taking positions close to the wall. “He’s volunteering at Phoenix House, some kind of extra credit for his school.”

“One of those.” They’re the people Ryan likes least, the do-gooders who arrive and stick their noses in, patting themselves on their backs while looking around with obvious pity. “He needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

“He will,” Pete says, and when he steps away from Ryan he pulls his hands up into the sleeves of his hoodie. “But you know nothing’s a secret around here anyway.”

Which explains Pete moving his area, and why it is him and not one of the others who’re all tied to Walt in some way. It’s why Ryan says, “Walt’s going to kill you one day, if you keep defying him.”

Pete shrugs. “He never told me I couldn’t come here so I’m not defying anyone.”

“That’s not how he’ll see it,” Ryan says, all too aware that no matter how Pete spins this, Walt won’t agree. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I know.” Pete turns, looking at the graffiti that covers the wall. “But I like it here, it has atmosphere.”

“You’re crazy,” Ryan says, watching as Pete steps sideways, grinning as he reads the bad puns and obscene messages.

Pete takes another step, says, “So I’ve been told.”




If Frank wasn’t so sick, Mikey knows there’s no way he’d get away with his lies. Each time Mikey leaves and says he’s going to work he feels guilty for taking advantage, when Frank still spends half of his time sleeping and the rest trying to pretend he’s not actually ill.

If Frank’s concentrating on the most basic of things, like breathing or taking a drink or managing to turn over the TV, he’s not questioning Mikey, who slips away each morning with a kiss and a promise to be back after his shift. A shift that right now is being worked by some other person, something Mikey found out when he did finally call work, and was told his position had been terminated the day after he didn’t show up.

It’s not a surprise, and Mikey can’t regret his decision to stick close to Frank. It’s just, he has to find something else, and fast. And Mikey’s looking, heading out from the hospital during the hours Frank think he’s at work. Instead Mikey’s walking the streets, checking out any possible job openings no matter how menial or unlikely.

But he hasn’t managed to get one. Not even an interview, and Mikey’s getting desperate, locked in a vicious circle where exhaustion, hunger and hygiene are an ongoing battle. If it wasn’t for the hospital Mikey wouldn’t be sleeping or eating at all. Instead he’s become used to sharing Frank’s food, including the extras that always seem to appear on his tray, and sleeping while slumped forward, half on the chair and half against Frank’s nest of pillows.

It’s no way to live, but it’s all Mikey’s got right now, and he looks into yet another shop window, hoping that this time there’ll be a notice about possible work.

There’s not, and Mikey’s about to walk off when someone touches his arm and says, “Mikey, hi.”

Seeing Jon away from the hospital is weird, and he seems out of place here, wearing different clothes, a messenger bag slung over his chest. Still, he reminds Mikey of sickness, bland food and antiseptic and he says, “Hey,” and starts to move away.

Jon holds out his hand, stopping Mikey from moving. “If you have time we’re about to have lunch. You should join us, I’m buying.”

It’s an unexpected invitation, even if Mikey and Jon talk at the hospital it’s not like they’re actually friends. Mostly it feels like an extension of the extra tubs of jello and sandwiches that tend to appear on Frank’s tray, and Mikey’s about to make his excuses when his stomach growls, He shakes his head, says, “Sorry, I have to get back.”

“You’ve got time for a hot dog,” Jon says, and indicates the stand that’s over the road, where, under the shade of a bright striped umbrella, a man is peering at the menu that’s been chalked on a board. “Come on, Brendon will be there forever if I don’t hurry him up.”

While Mikey’s still at a point where pride is important, so is getting to eat. It’s why he says, “He won’t mind me crashing your plans?”

Jon smiles, seemingly genuinely pleased that Mikey’s agreed. “More like he’ll be thrilled about having someone new to talk to.”

When he’d left the hospital hours before, Mikey hadn’t planned on eating hot dogs and talking to some stranger, but he’s willing to embrace the change. Following Jon across the road, he takes his own place under the umbrella, standing a little back as Jon makes introductions.

“Brendon, this is Mikey, Mikey, Brendon.”

It seems to be the only introduction Jon’s going to give, like him turning up with a stranger is something Brendon’s perfectly used to. Maybe it is, because all Brendon does is grin, and says, “Hi. Mixing sweet onion and chili, what do you think?”

“That you’re asking for food poisoning,” Mikey replies, grossed out as he imagines what the mixture would look like.

“Awesome,” Brendon says, and looks over at Jon. “That’s what I’m having, a chili dog with extra chili and sweet onion, with pickles on top.”

“It’s your digestive system,” Jon says easily, and he nudges Brendon to one side so he’s not blocking the menu. “What about you, Mikey?”

Quickly, Mikey scans the board, looking for something that’s not too expensive. “I’ll have the original with ketchup and mustard.”

“Sticking with the classics, a good plan.” Jon pulls out his wallet and within minutes has ordered, and is handing over hot dogs to both Brendon and Mikey. Then, without asking he pays for three sodas, and passes a cup over to Mikey. “You like Coke, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says, and he keeps tight hold of the cup and hot dog, his fingers starting to tear through the napkin that’s already soaking though with ketchup.

Brendon takes a bite of hot dog and bun, chewing as he says, “We usually eat over there.”

He leads Mikey toward a bench in a small park that’s nestled between the surrounding buildings. Stepping through the gates it feels like they’re cut off from the world, the traffic noise fading as they follow a path to the nearest empty bench. Mikey sits, taking in the people who’re also eating their lunches, either sitting on benches or sprawled on the grass.

Taking a drink of his soda, Mikey shuffles along making room for Jon. For a while they eat and drink in companionable silence, then Jon looks over at Brendon, says, “Any news about the grant yet?”

Brendon shakes his head and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “Not yet, Lindsey keeps calling but they say they haven’t made a decision.”

“Fucking bureaucrats.” Jon crumples up his used napkins and throws them into the trashcan as he explains. “Brendon’s volunteering at Phoenix House, the outreach center I was telling you about. It’s how we met.”

“He patched me up when I fell off a shelf,” Brendon says, and pushes back his hair to show a tiny scar on his forehead. “I got hit by a mop.”

“Mops can be mean like that,” Mikey says, and can’t help his own small smile when Brendon grins in response.

“That’s what I keep saying, and that one was like, a ninja mop.”

“Apparently it was an epic battle,” Jon says dryly. “One that ended in bloodshed.”

Brendon stretches out his legs and sighs, long and tragic. “I suffer for my work and no one understands that.”

“I understand that you’re full of shit.” Jon takes a long drink of his soda, looking at Mikey over the brim of the cup. “He follows Lindsey around like a puppy, and loves what he does.”

Brendon brings his finger up to his mouth, “Shush, you’re giving away my secrets.”

“Because you keep your worshiping on the down-low,” Jon says, but still changes the subject, slightly at least. “Lindsey’s in charge of the outreach center, the residential building is her baby. I try and volunteer there on my days off.”

“You actually get days off?” Mikey asks, and while he’s mostly joking, each day Frank’s been in the hospital, Mikey’s seen Jon there too.

“Technically.” Jon slurps at his drink, then pitches the cup, making it bounce off the rim of the trashcan. “I do a lot of overtime.”

“And volunteer too,” Mikey says, and then adds, “Do you give the homeless the clothes off your back?”

Brendon laughs, looking between Mikey and Jon. “Have you seen what he wears? They wouldn’t want them.”

Jon checks his watch and then stands. “You’re just jealous, and I need to get back.”

“Yeah, me too,” Mikey says, swallowing the last bite of his hot dog and keeping hold of his soda. “Lunch hour’s nearly over.”

Jon looks directly at Mikey. “Burgers to serve and milkshakes to make, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says, and can’t shake off the unsettling feeling that Jon doesn’t believe a word.




Ryan meets Spencer in the parking lot of Denny’s. It’s where they usually meet up if apart on a night, somewhere that’s always open, and with lights and nearby people that provide an element of safety.

Tonight Spencer’s waiting close to the lobby, a take out cup cradled in both hands, the steam from the vent curling up in a thin stream. When Ryan walks close, Spencer holds out the cup and says, “It’s hot chocolate. Penny’s working, she added whipped cream.”

“With chocolate sprinkles?” Ryan asks, and tries to peer through the small hole into the cup.

“Of course,” Spencer says, as if having a hot chocolate with sprinkles goes without question. He looks Ryan from head to toes, says, “I can’t see any new bruises.”

“Haven’t got any.” Ryan takes a drink, his tongue and throat burning as he swallows. As always the hot chocolate is extra sweet, and the sugar rush hits hard, rolling over old aches and the cold. Hands wrapped around the cup, Ryan says, “It was a quiet night, and Pete was there.”

Spencer takes the cup, and takes a sip before handing it back. “Was he wearing his cat ears?”

“He had to leave them behind in some motel room.” Which is sad because Ryan wanted to see them, but he knows anything left behind will never be found. “He’s going to make some more.”

Spencer gives Ryan a long look. “Tell me he’s only making one pair. You’re enough of a target without presenting yourself as some furry bullshit.”

Ryan takes a drink and starts to walk, his steps hurried and looking away from Spencer. “He doesn’t wear them for that, and no, I didn’t. I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not, but....”

“But nothing,” Ryan interrupts, and reminds himself that this is just one of Spencer’s things, that he’s looking out for Ryan and doesn’t actually think that Ryan’s not capable of taking care of himself. Because Ryan can, he has been for a long time, and if sometimes that looking after himself if in a different way to how others would do it. Well, that’s fine.

“I know you’re not stupid.” It’s almost two blocks before Spencer speaks again, and when he does he sounds tired, like he’s deliberating over each word. “I just worry.”

And that’s the thing, Spencer does worry, obsessing over the little things he can actually change. Like getting Ryan to go to the clinic and making sure he doesn’t stick out more than he already does. It’s something Ryan’s known for a long time, and why Spencer’s such a good friend.

Ryan waits a few beats, then says, “I’d have wanted fox ears.”

“Of course you would,” Spencer says, and though he still sounds tired he’s also smiling as he takes a step to the side, bumping Ryan with his hip. “I supposed you’d want a tail too.”

“Of course.” Ryan can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t have a matching tail if they had fox ears, just the thought is all wrong. “That’s like peanut butter without jelly, or ketchup without bread.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and takes back the now tepid hot chocolate. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s okay,” Ryan says, magnanimous now that Spencer’s realized his mistake. “I forgive you.”

“And here I was worried about sleeping tonight.” Spencer drains the hot chocolate and then takes the top off the cup. “Here.”

Ryan takes the offered cup, and wipes his finger around the sides, scooping up the left over whipped cream. There’s not much, and it’s more foam that actual substance, but it’s still sweet, and it’s still food. Comforting as Ryan sucks his fingers and then throws the cup in the trash.

“Impressive,” Spencer says, when the cup drops in at the end of a perfect arc. “You’ve been practicing.”

Ryan holds his hands in the air, celebrating victory as he says, “Always, it’s what I do, suck cock, get fucked, practice making baskets in trash cans.”

Spencer sticks up his two thumbs. “You’re a super star.”

“You know it,” Ryan says, and drops his arms, wrapping them around his body as they keep walking toward home.




“Mom makes the best soup when I’m sick.” Frank’s lying back in his nest of pillows, his hand on his chest, the line from his IV stretching over the bed. The tape around the cannula is curling, and he plays with the edges, running it under his fingers. “Remember, she made some for you that time you had the flu. It had extra garlic.”

Mikey remembers Frank turning up in his bedroom, a container of soup held in his arms, how he’d eaten some too and talked about vampires and an immunity to Way germs before starting on a quest to kiss Mikey better.

“She makes awesome soup,” Mikey says, and stretches his neck, to one side than the other. This early his whole body feels stiff, his legs cramped after sitting so long and his back aching. When he’s gathered the energy he’ll make a stealth run for the staff room and the coffee maker Jon pointed out. But right now Mikey’s too tired, and he keeps still, lying draped on the bed, his head resting on Frank’s stomach.

“The best,” Frank agrees, and he starts to stroke Mikey’s hair, pushing his hand through the tangles. “You should go home early, hit the shower.”

“Is that some kind of hint?” Mikey turns his head and looks along Frank’s chest, over the white sheet and hospital gown and up to Frank’s face. “Because you need to work on your subtlety.”

Frank keeps stroking Mikey’s hair, his mouth curled into a smile. “There’s nothing subtle about it. You need to go shower, you could wring your hair out and use the grease to cook burgers.”

“It’s a style choice, not grease,” Mikey says, and this is a conversation they’ve had countless times, except this time Frank won’t end up pulling Mikey into the bathroom, using a combination of bribed blow jobs and force.

“I wish....” Frank starts to say, and then he starts coughing, hacking coughs that leave him trembling, his face bright red as Mikey pushes himself up and supports Frank with one arm, grabbing a cardboard bowl with the other. Holding it in place, Mikey feels helpless, able to do nothing as Frank fights to bring up the crud that stubbornly remains on his chest.

When he’s finished, Mikey eases Frank down, ensuring he’s settled and his oxygen cannula hasn’t slipped out of place. When he’s sure, Mikey puts the bowl to one side, covering it with a paper towel.

Frank looks exhausted, his eyes closed and breathing heavily. His voice rough as he says weakly, “Kermit or Slimer?”

Mikey’s standing at the foot of the bed, gripping the side bars and needing the support. He takes a step forward, thigh brushing against the blanket until he can sit, propped on the edge and looking at Frank. “Something in-between, like Kermit was put in a blender.”

“Awesome,” Frank says, and he opens his eyes the slightest amount. “I’m tired. If you wanted to go now’s a good time.”

“And you say you don’t do subtle.” Mikey leans forward, and brushes a kiss against Frank’s cheek, feeling the heat that still radiates out from his skin. “I’ll be back after work.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Frank’s eyes close again, and he says, almost inaudible. “And if you wanted to make me some soup....”

“I’ll bring you some back,” Mikey says, and he will. Somehow.




When Lindsey sees Ryan and Spencer approach she puts her hands on her hips and says, “Admit it, you’re after the record.”

Thrown, Ryan shoots Spencer a look, because the only record he’s talked about lately is the one he discussed with the others before having to move his spot, and Ryan’s sure Lindsey’s got no need to know who can blow a john the fastest.

Lindsey’s holding an armful of posters, and she thrusts them at Spencer, her attention on Ryan. “I meant the record for most clinic visits in a week, and if you’re thinking times I don’t want to know.”

“Times? And no, I’m okay, I mean, mostly.” As always being around Lindsey has thrown Ryan off kilter and he stares over her shoulder, the corner of his vision filled with dark hair and a bright lipsticked smile. “We’ve come for condoms.”

“Brendon’s giving them out today, he’s in the usual place,” Lindsey says, and she takes out a roll of tape from the pocket of her overalls. “But if you have time I could use a hand for a few minutes.”

Spencer juggles the posters he’s carrying, tucking most under his arm as he unrolls one, reading what it says. “You’re having the reverse clothes drive already?”

“The stock room is almost full,” Lindsey says. “And fall’s moving in fast. I need to get the clothes out as soon as possible.”

“You’re telling me it’s coming in fast, I was freezing last night,” Spencer says, and he rolls up the poster, tucking it safe with the others. “Have you got any sneakers in that stock room? Mine are worn through.”

Lindsey grins, and slips the roll of tape over her wrist. “I persuaded a sports store to donate. They were surprisingly generous.”

“I bet they were.” Spencer’s grinning too, and Ryan envies him the easy way he can talk to Lindsey. It’s something Ryan’s tried but simply can’t do, always too aware of how he has to appear.

“I’ll have you know I was perfectly polite,” Lindsey says, and she takes a poster as she walks to the noticeboard that’s by the door into the clinic. “I even said thank you.”

“Impressive.” Spencer hands most of the posters to Ryan, then rolls one out, holding it against the notice board as Lindsey secures the corners. “Miss Manners would be proud.”

Lindsey pulls out a length of tape, tearing it off with her teeth. “Well you know, running this place, helping people, maintaining a baseline of etiquette, it’s all in a days work.”

“If I had any I’d give you a gold star.” Spencer slides his hand down the poster, weighing down the bottom. “Ryan needs a sweater before fall, blue isn’t his color.”

Head tilted to one side, Lindsey checks the positioning of the poster and then nods her approval before looking toward Ryan. “How’d you feel about snowflakes?”

Before Ryan could have said that they’re pretty, second hand knowledge coming from pictures and books, but a winter of experiencing actual snow has destroyed that notion. Now all he can say is, “They’re cold.”

“The ones I’m thinking of aren’t,” Lindsey says, and starts walking again, following the side of the building. “They may be a little big though.”

“You want me to dress as a snowflake?” Ryan tries to understand how that could even happen, if some theatre had donated old costumes or even a fancy dress store. Not that Ryan would actually be opposed to a situation like that, but he would like to get through the cold days without freezing, and a snowflake doesn’t seem to cut it.

Lindsey’s mouth twitches, like she’s trying to hide a smile. “No, but I have some donated sweaters that are heavy on the snowflakes, and reindeer.”

“Like we don’t go through enough doing what we do,” Spencer says, and slides another poster from the stack. “Where’s this one going?”

“In the lobby of the residential unit,” Lindsey says, and when they reach the door into the unit she punches in the code on the lock, letting them all in.

Inside is a riot of color, the walls painted bright blue and the doors trimmed with yellow. On the wall next to the stairs, a notice board dominates. It’s already covered in posters, hand written notes and printed out rules for the unit. Ryan takes a step forward, reading about fire safety and people giving away furniture, about meet ups in the common room and cheap places to buy food.

“It’s one of the residents who arranged the poetry slam,” Lindsey says, busy taping up a poster in one corner of the board. “She was an English lit major before.”

It’s a conversational opening Ryan could jump on to. But even the thought of the classes he used to attend and love, and the future he thought he held in his hands makes him feel anxious. Ryan looks toward the exit, hoping Spencer will be ready to go, but Spencer’s too interested in their surroundings, looking at this part of the building they’ve never been into before.

“It’s bigger than it looks from outside,” Spencer says, from where he’s looking upstairs.

“I wish it could be bigger.” Lindsey sticks a final piece of tape, and says, “We’ve already added as many rooms as possible, it means they’re not very big, but they’re warm and safe.”

“A place to call home,” Ryan says, and somewhere close there’s the sound of laughter, footsteps as someone walks on the floor above.

“More like a place to rest before you go on,” Lindsey corrects, and her expression is soft, her love for this place obvious. “But until then, yeah, it’s a home.”

That it’s not one for Ryan and Spencer is unstated. They all hear it anyway.




Right now Mikey has to keep moving. The only thing that matters is the sound of his feet hitting the sidewalk. The beat urges him on, around corners taken at random, and along streets that are starting to empty, the early morning commuters left behind.

The tight focus is comforting, Mikey needing the rest of not thinking. Until he does stop, his legs aching and so thirsty that his tongue feels like it’s furred. Close by there’s a coffee shop, one that seems to be independent from any chain, with checked curtains in the window and the two metal tables outside chained to the wall. Mikey stares, watching as inside, customers line up and get served.

There’s an older woman behind the counter and she smiles at each customer, handing over cups and mugs, plates that hold pastries and sandwiches, and Mikey wants each one. It’s self inflicted torture to stand here and keep watching, and Mikey tells himself to walk away -- but he doesn’t.

Instead he thinks about walking in and saying he’s forgotten his wallet, asking if he can have some water to drink. That’s easy, simple, but Mikey can’t. Which is ridiculous, and Mikey would laugh that it’s water and soup that’s causing these problems. The thing is though, if he does laugh Mikey knows he won’t stop.

His control slipping, Mikey starts walking again, but his focus is lost. All Mikey can think of is his thirst, once he’s dealt with that he’ll be able to tackle Frank’s soup. Go to his old work maybe and beg a favor, finally find a job that’ll pay cash in hand. Anything. But first Mikey needs that drink.

Which he can hopefully finally get, when he approaches a park, and sees a public bathroom inside. A public bathroom that has to have a sink.

It’s a small park, and one Mikey’s never seen before. Which isn’t surprising, Mikey really isn’t a park kind of person, at least he wasn’t. Now he’s learned to appreciate a place to sit in solitude, away from the stares of the people around him. He especially appreciates the ones that come with bathrooms, even if this one doesn’t look the best.

The brick building is built close to the park walls, and is surrounded by rusted iron bars, the tops of each rail bright with raw metal, like the points have been sheered off in a rush. Stepping over the trash that litters the path, Mikey goes inside, and tries to breathe through his mouth at the stench of old piss.

If it wasn’t for the sink in the corner, the faucet rusted but dripping, Mikey would turn and walk out. But the sink is there, and that dribble of water is enough that he ignores the stained walls and stall with no door, the cracked urinals and a floor that feels slimy.

Up close the sink looks no better, the bowl more brown than the original white, and the plug long gone. Mikey puts his hand under the water, then licks at the drips as he turns the faucet, forcing it around with a screech. At first no more water appears, then the stream starts to sputter and Mikey collects the water in his cupped hands.

It tastes bad, there’s no getting around that, stale, like its been collecting in a tank somewhere and became stagnant. That doesn’t stop Mikey drinking again, water dripping from his mouth and nose as he waits for enough to collect in his hands.

The third handful Mikey uses to splash his face, tepid water running down his neck as he takes another drink, and then finally straightens, drying his hands on his thighs. Damp, his thirst slackened for now, Mikey looks at himself in the metal mirror attached to the wall. Even with the distortions he can see the shadows under his eyes, how his cheeks are hollowed and hair slicked back and dirty. Mikey isn’t even close to looking his best, to looking okay even, and he’s all too aware that the chance of him finding any kind of work is remote.

Facing that hurts. Mikey’s chest is tight and his head aches and the urge to say, enough, I give, and go and phone Linda or Gerard is immense. The only things that’s stopping him is Frank, who’s belief in Mikey has never faltered, and the knowledge that one conversation with Gerard will tear open barriers that Mikey’s fought to put up.

And Mikey isn’t the person he was back then. He got out, carved a life with Frank, and if he’s done it once he can do it again. It’s just a case of staying strong now. Of going out and doing what needs to be done.

“I can do this,” Mikey says to himself, trying to bolster his own self-belief. “For me and for Frank.”

“You know, talking to yourself is a sign of insanity.”

Mikey turns, and sees a man standing in the doorway to the bathroom. He’s wearing a suit, a white shirt, a striped tie that’s tied in a small knot. Elsewhere Mikey wouldn’t give him a second glance, but here he’s out of place, jarringly so as he stands in one place.

“I was just....” Mikey trails off, he was talking to himself, there’s no explaining that away. But he’s not about to explain why, especially not to some guy who’s blatantly staring. “I was just going.”

“Shame.” The man makes no attempt to move away from the door, and he looks Mikey from head to toe, then abruptly says, “How much for a blow job?”

The proposition is unexpected, and momentarily Mikey’s lost for words, then he says, “I’m not. I don’t do that shit,” and goes to push his way outside.

The man stands his ground, his hand on the door frame, blocking the exit. “Don’t bullshit me, I was told this is a place to find a hooker. So tell me the price already.”

Rationally, Mikey knows he needs to leave; now. It’s the sensible option, and he takes a step forward, then stops, caught in his own thoughts. The insane idea that if he stays and does this he’ll get the money he needs, so he can go out and get Frank what he wants. Maybe pay a visit to a laundromat and buy a real cup of coffee. They’re little things that Mikey misses, and it’s not like he hasn’t done this before, in the time before dating Frank. Just, then it was in the backseats of cars or in the bathrooms of clubs, sex used as a distraction.

Unlike now, when it would be used only for money, and as the idea takes root, Mikey justifies to himself it isn’t that different. That he’ll only do it this once. That having some cash in his pocket will calm down his worries. Impulsively, he says, “Thirty.”

“Twenty-five,” the man says, “And if you’re good you’ll get thirty.”

Before, Mikey would have made some quip about always being good, now, all he does is nod, and then drops to his knees and says, “Come here, away from the door.”

Already moisture is seeping through the knees of Mikey’s pants, and at this level he can see discarded condoms thrown into the corner. Looking away he reminds himself this means money, a few minutes and he’ll have what he needs.

It’s something he repeats to himself as the man stands close and says, “Well, get to it.”

Mikey reaches out, unfastening the man’s belt, and within seconds knows he’s been kidding himself. This is nothing like the times before, where even if Mikey didn’t know names he knew faces. This is a total unknown and Mikey fumbles at the belt buckle and buttons.

“Jesus Christ, it’s good that you’re pretty,” the man says, and he takes hold of his own pants, unfastening them and pushing them down to his thighs, along with his boxers. “If they touch the floor you get nothing.”

It’s an unfair condition that means Mikey has to angle his body, his hands on the man’s pants, fingers against the folds of material and the pale skin of his thighs. He tilts up his head, swallowing, trying to get moisture into his mouth.

Without the additions of thumping music, dark lights and attraction, all Mikey’s left with is cold, clinical fact. If he could he’d take off his glasses, blurring the reality of damp pubes and veins, how the man is already hard, pre come glistening at the head of his cock as he demands, “Suck me, already.”

Mikey swallows again, and he feels cold, disconnected from himself at the first hesitant touch of his tongue. He licks over the man’s cock, tasting sweat and a background hint of soap. It’s a combination that rolls Mikey’s stomach, and he suppresses a dry heave as he swallows the man down, his lips mouth held tight and spit trailing over his bottom lip as he pulls out and back in.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the man says, and he’s making no attempt to touch Mikey, just thrusts his hips increasingly harder, short, sharp thrusts that hit at the back of Mikey’s throat.

Mikey clutches the man’s pants, fingers curled under the leather of his belt and tries to brace himself, his knees sliding on the wet floor. He breathes through his nose and makes sure his lips keep a tight seal, needing this to be over.

“Use your tongue too,” the man demands between pants. “Over my dick.”

Mikey does, licking in long stripes with each thrust, and wishes he’d done it sooner when soon, the man gasps, and comes without warning.

Silently, he pulls out, trailing come over Mikey’s bottom lip and over his chin. He wipes it away when the man grabs hold of his pants, pulling them up as Mikey drags the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Here.” The man takes out his wallet and hands over three tens. “Go buy yourself a sandwich or something.”

The words themselves are dismissive, but the way he doesn’t look at Mikey at all are even more so. Mikey takes the money, clutching it in one hand as the man adjusts his tie and then leaves.

Mikey waits, his knees aching and throat sore. Wipes at his eyes with his hands and then stands and walks for the door.




When Ryan arrives at Fifth it’s no surprise to see Pete. But it is a surprise to see that he’s talking to Ray, someone that should be back at the old spot with all of the others. It makes no sense that he’s here, and Ryan all but runs toward them, skidding to a halt as he says, “What’s the matter? Is it Spencer?”

“Is it exhausting to be so pessimistic?” Ray asks, and then adds, “Spencer’s fine.”

“It is exhausting,” Pete says, before Ryan gets a chance to reply, and he leans back against the wall, as if too tired to keep himself upright. “But sometimes it’s the only thing that fits.”

“A pessimist is never disappointed, yeah?” Ryan says, and doesn’t ask if Pete’s had a bad night, because the fact that he has is obvious, from the way he’s both pulled in tight on himself and his grin that’s just too big and too bright.

“Think the worst and you still get the worst,” Pete says, and then, like he’s thrown some kind of internal switch, he visibly relaxes. “Ray was telling me Walt’s expanding his area again.”

Ray nods. “He sent me here, said it’s my new regular spot.”

“That makes no sense.” Ryan looks from Pete to Ray, trying to work out what Walt is doing. It feels like every time Ryan thinks he understands this new set up it changes under his feet, and now he’s left in a spot with very little through traffic and worked by three people. Something Walt will be aware of, even if he doesn’t own Pete. “Did he say why?”

“Does he ever explain anything?” Ray says with a shrug. ”I just go where I’m told.”

“He’s pulling a Field of Dreams.” Pete’s walked to the curbside, and looks along the road in each direction. “If you build it they’ll come. Just instead of baseball it’s hookers and johns.”

Automatically, Ryan says, “Sex workers,” but he’s thinking about what Pete said and how it makes sense. “He’s putting the word out, for the johns to come here.”

Pete sits, settling himself on the side of the road, his chin resting on his bent knees. “And he’s providing the goods when they get here.”

“Fucking slimy bastard,” Ray says, and he turns his attention to Ryan. “How bad is this really? I need the money.”

“It’s getting better.” It’s all Ryan can say, because even with the johns sent his way, trade is still down compared from before he was moved. “Think your regulars will come here?”

“Bob said he’d tell them,” Ray says, and he rubs at his forearms, his back against a sudden gust of wind. “I hope so, most arrive in cars.”

Ryan’s sure that they will. He’s spent a long time watching Ray, taking hints from someone who’s been in the business for so long. It’s how Ryan knows Ray’s regulars are steady, and mostly the good kind, who take without hurting.

With the area deserted, and Pete needing space, Ryan stays close to Ray. He’s someone Ryan’s known for a while, and the silence is comfortable between then. Enough that when Ray says, “How’s Spencer?” Ryan actually gives more than a one word reply.

“He’s thinking of taking a class, one of the ones offered at Lindsey’s.” It’s more than Ryan intended to share, but Ray’s listening carefully, giving Ryan his full attention, and most importantly, doesn’t look scornful, like Spencer taking a class would be pointless.

“He should,” Ray says. “Education is important.” It’s a statement that could easily be condescending, but Ray sounds like he believes what he’s saying. Something that’s proved as he continues with, “I’m a few credits away from getting my GED. Once I get that I’m out of here.”

“I didn’t know,” Ryan says. He tries to imagine the scene without Ray, but when he does it feels wrong. Ray’s always been here, since the first day Ryan and Spencer arrived, cold, afraid and alone. Not that it means Ryan wants him to stay, because if people can get out, they should. As far away as possible.

“Not many people do.” Ray glances at Pete, and then at Ryan, utterly serious. “I’ve been saving up to buy myself out and if Walt finds out I’m fucked. You can tell Spencer but nobody else.”

When it comes to his friends, promises are things that Ryan casts in stone, and he says, “I promise.”

Ray reaches out and grabs Ryan in a hug, squeezing tight, his head buried against Ryan’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

Ryan pats Ray’s shoulder, then stands still, enjoying the hug, except for one thing, a concern that takes root and won't leave. As Ray starts to pull back, Ryan says, “When you go, will you say goodbye?”

“If I can,” Ray says. “If I can, I will. That’s a promise.”

It’s not what Ryan wanted. The possibility of yet another person leaving without saying goodbye. But he understands why it could happen, it’s why, the promise of trying has to be enough.




While he’s tempted by other things, like food or a soda, the first thing Mikey buys is more time at the storage unit, making sure their belongings are safe while he gets back onto his feet.

The second is a more of a frivolous purchase: Mikey buys a magazine, something glossy and new, that Frank can browse through at leisure. Then he goes to a deli located next to the hospital, where he buys a carton of blended vegetable soup, complete with added garlic. He also buys a small drip coffee to go and a tube of mints, and alternates eating them and drinking the coffee on the walk back.

Despite that, Mikey’s mouth still feels rank, and when he reaches the lobby, he goes into the bathroom and takes a long drink of water. He takes another when his teeth still feel coated, his tongue and throat raw.

His stomach full and feeling queasy, Mikey checks the soup and magazine are safe on the counter, and turns on the faucet, pumps soap onto his palm and rubs his hands together under the hot water. He washes his hands and forearms, over his mouth and face, then dries off with paper towels.

When he’s perfectly dry, Mikey looks into the mirror, and sees the same person he was hours before. Which is good, because Mikey needs to look the same, even if he doesn’t feel it.

~~~~

“You got me soup,” Frank says, and turns his head on his pillows as he smiles a greeting. “And a magazine, is it payday already?”

“They fronted some money,” Mikey says, and grabs the rolling table, positioning it so it’s over Frank’s bed. “I got you vegetable, the guy said it’s got magical healing powers. That or it would put hairs on your chest, I couldn’t really tell.”

“Hopefully it was the first,” Frank says, wincing as he pushes the button to raise the head of the bed even more. “I couldn’t pull off a chest rug.”

“I don’t like hair in my teeth, anyway” Mikey says, and takes off the lid of the soup.

“Another vote for magic then, awesome.” Frank takes the carton, holding it in both hands, and takes a sip. “It’s good, garlickly.”

Mikey pulls the chair close to the top of the bed and then sits, his feet against the wheels of the table. “I tried to remember what was in Linda’s recipe, and asked for extra garlic.”

Frank takes another sip, and then holds the carton against his chest, so the steam flows past his face. “It’s close to hers, but not as good. You know...”

“She’s your mom, of course hers is best,” Mikey says, and he lets his eyes close and sits quietly, basking in the sunlight that floods into the room.

“You’re a fucking tease.”

At Frank’s words Mikey opens his eyes, and sees Frank’s staring, the soup carton still cradled to his chest. Confused, Mikey says, “What?”

“I’ve got a tube stuck up my dick and you’re sitting like that.”

“Oh,” Mikey says, and even though he feels sorry for Frank’s situation he can’t help being pleased that, even now, Frank looks and sees something he wants. “How about a rain-check, for when it’s gone?”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Frank takes another sip of soup, but as he swallows he starts to cough, the carton tilting and beginning to spill.

MIkey grabs it, and sets it to one side, pushing away the table as he helps Frank to sit up and reaches for a cardboard bowl from the stack on Frank’s locker. Propped against the edge of the bed, Frank’s body resting against him, Mikey rubs Frank’s back, comforting as much as he’s able as Frank brings up more crud from his lungs, mixed with the little bit of soup he’s managed to eat.

His eyes streaming and in-between coughs, Frank gasps out, “Sorry.”

“For what?” Mikey says softly, and he keeps rubbing, pushing back Frank’s hair when it sticks to his face.

Finally, when Frank’s breathing easier, Mikey lowers the head of his bed slightly and uses a tissue to wipe away the sweat from Frank’s brow, the vomit and phlegm that’s collected at the sides of his mouth. Dropping the tissue into the bowl, Mikey picks up a plastic cup filled with water, guiding the straw into Frank’s mouth, then holds it steady until he manages a drink.

That done, Frank closes his eyes, exhausted and barely audible as he says, “I threw up your soup.”

Mikey wipes at flecks of vegetables on his t-shirt and sits back in the chair. Taking hold of Frank’s hand, he wraps his fingers around Frank’s and says, “It’s okay, I can get more.”

Frank curls up his fingers, says, “Thank you.”

Part Four
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