Fic: Blue Plate Special, 1/4
Title: Blue Plate Special
Author: arsenicjade
Fandom/pairing(s): bandom, Brendon/Spencer, Ryan/Jon/Mikey
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~29k
Warnings: prostitution, violence, rape/object-penetration
Summary: Brendon loses his scholarship. Ryan loses his dad. Spencer won't lose Ryan. They've all got nowhere to go. Mikey and Gerard own the greasy spoon on the corner. (Do the math.)
AN/Thanks: Thank you, roadmarks for the thorough beta, despite not really even knowing me. She's seriously the greatest. All mistakes still remaining are because I am recalcitrant. Additionally, it should be known that I have owed harriet_vane this story for NEARLY A YEAR. The original idea was comment-ficced out in her journal and is really largely to her credit. Also, because she is awesome, she is allowing me to use it as a fill for my "hookers" slot on my hc_bingo card.
November 7, 2005
Professor Stump looked up from his computer screen and said, "Oh, hey Brendon, c'mon in."
Brendon smiled at his academic advisor more out of reflex than the actual desire to smile. "Hi, Professor."
He shut the door behind himself and sat down in one of the chairs available for students. Dr. Stump flashed him a smile and asked, "How're you?"
Brendon shrugged. "I'm good. Yourself?"
"Brendon, I-- I think you know what this meeting is about."
Brendon knew. "I know my grades are bad, sir--"
"You're flunking two of four classes. And you need a 3.0 to maintain your scholarship."
"Right, I know, but I still have another month of classes--"
"Barely, Brendon, and I've spoken with your professors in the problem classes. Even with extra credit, they're not sure you can make it up."
"There has to be something--"
"You're work-study, right?"
Brendon nodded. "The scholarship's only for tuition. The work-study covers room and board."
Something flashed behind Dr. Stump's eyes. "You have a second job?"
Brendon shrugged. "Books. And instrument upkeep."
"So, basically, studying happens when you're not working or in class?"
"I prioritize practice sessions. I can get studying done on the train to and from work, and it's a host job at a restaurant, so sometimes I can get more done while I'm at the podium, if it's not a busy night. I swear, sir, I can do better. It was just the first couple of months, I had to find my feet."
"Julliard doesn't want to lose you, Brendon. We don't give full-ride scholarships to just anyone. You've amazing talent in a number of areas, and all your fellow students enjoy having you in class."
"Like I said, I can make it work, I just have to--"
"But for the moment, the deans think it would be best if you took a semester, went home, maybe tried to save up some, so that you're only working one job?"
"I--" Brendon closed his mouth. Then he straightened his spine as best he could, chin up. "It was Julliard or home, sir."
"Oh. I'm-- I'm sorry."
"So, if you could just see fit to give me a second chance--"
"Until the end of the semester, Brendon." Dr. Stump looked apologetic, but he said, "That's really all we can do. Anything else, and well-- If we let one person ignore the rules of a full ride when there are thousands we turned down for one, what kind of example would that set?"
Brendon wanted to know how the fuck anyone would know, when grades were protected, but all he said was, "I understand, of course." Then he stood, and got the fuck out of there before he cried in front of one of his lifelong idols.
*
January 18, 2006
Spencer sat next to where Ryan was kneeling on the ground, the knees of his--only--suit, mired in the dirt. Thirty, forty feet off a bulldozer was beeping to warn others that it was moving backward. In a moment, it would move forward again, heaping more dirt on Ryan's father's grave. They were the only two people in attendance. Ryan had left college when he'd heard, taken the money he'd had for books and room and board and everything not covered by his scholarship for second semester and used it to make sure his father was buried. He couldn't afford a headstone or a funeral, not with what was left of the estate, but he'd managed a coffin and a grave.
Ryan was looking at the half-filled grave, but Spencer didn't think he was really seeing it. They'd been sitting there for nearly ten minutes when Ryan said, "I have to get out of here."
"I can drive," Spencer offered. Ryan had sold his dad's car to help pay for the coffin. He'd been taking the bus and walking places for the last week. "Mom let me borrow the car."
Ryan looked confused for a second, then he said, "No, I meant--"
"Oh," Spencer said. "Out."
Ryan nodded, not looking at Spencer. "I'm sorry. I know we said-- I know we promised that we'd go to school together and all, but I can't. School's not on the table anymore and I can't stay here and, what? The house is being sold by the bank, since evidently they pretty much own it anyway, and it's not like there are a ton of jobs here, not unless I wanna deal at a casino, and just-- If I'm gonna be poor and uneducated, I have to do that somewhere else, y'know?"
Spencer wondered if Ryan even knew that his voice had caught at the end of that. Spencer hadn't seen Ryan cry over his dad, but he knew Ryan had. He had bruises on the edges of his cheekbones, like he'd swiped too hard, dug his fists in a little too deep in an effort to stop himself. Spencer asked, "Okay. Where're we going?"
*
February 3, 2006
Brendon was currently unamused by the irony of life. There was a good six inches of snow on the ground, and while it wasn't snowing anymore--small favors--Brendon's beat up Reeboks weren't really doing much to keep his feet from falling off. He'd thought to himself at least ten times in the hour that he'd been on the street about the fact that he'd wanted to see snow so badly as a kid, but the thought just wasn't helping that much anymore. If he made anything today--unshockingly, there weren't a lot of people out and about, standing around listening to buskers--he was going straight to the Goodwill store and getting himself some boots, and a warmer coat. The one he had from back in Vegas just wasn't cutting it.
He wished he still had some stuff to sell. When he'd been kicked out of the dorms, he'd sold everything he couldn't fit into his suitcase, and some of the stuff he could. By this point, though, all he had was a couple pairs of clothing and his guitar, which was his livelihood. He was still trying to get jobs, on and off. He made sure to clean up at the Y, and occasionally find enough change to hit the laundromat before going and filling out applications, but everywhere wanted an address and a phone number. Brendon didn't have either of those.
In late December and early January it had actually been a little all right. He'd found places where people wanted to hear holiday standards, and so long as Brendon didn't think about a thing while he sang them, he was really good at reworking those, making them fun and new. And Brendon could smile on command, so nobody had to know that he was racking up years of therapy while strumming along.
But then the holidays had ended, and people had disappeared inside, and everybody was very busy hibernating for the winter. Brendon had found himself a couple of good doorways in alleys, an abandoned building here and there to spend the nights in--something to keep the wind away, if nothing else. He'd hit up the Goodwill for some blankets and stuffed them in the suitcase where he kept his clothes and toothbrush, right where the books and cds that he'd brought to college and sold off had been before. Most days he could make enough for a couple of meals, at least one. If not, then he could usually scrape by with a cup of coffee. McDonald's had the Dollar Menu, and Brendon had learned some of the tricks of dumpster diving through practice and a few hard-knock lessons in food poisoning.
It was cold enough now, though, that his throat hurt, and he knew he was probably destroying his voice-which was, of course, his most marketable quality. He couldn't feel his fingers, either. He had on fingerless gloves that he'd also brought from back home, but back home they'd made sense. Here they were good for not keeping him from playing, but they didn't actually keep his fingers warm enough that he wasn't mildly concerned by the fact that he might lose them to frostbite. In an effort to make sure he didn't, he was resting between each song, shoving his hands into his armpits, getting the circulation flowing again.
Mikey, one of the brothers who owned the diner Brendon liked to play in front of, came out mid-morning. He offered Brendon a coffee. Brendon said, "Morning," but shook his head at the coffee. His earnings were going toward boots, dammit. He looked down at said earnings. So far, a dollar and thirty-five cents. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Mikey said, "On us. Seriously, Gee's been on all morning imagining how you're going to freeze to death and we'll have to explain to the cops and then, somehow get your body into cryogenic storage so you can be reanimated when we have the technology."
Put that way, Brendon reached out and took the coffee. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Also, Ray would totally come get you before it got to that point."
"Good to know."
"Not that I'm not enjoying what I can hear from inside, but maybe you should see if you can find some space at the train station? Just get inside for today?"
Brendon never made good money at the train station. Too many competing buskers, some of them just on the edge of violent about their territory. Still, "Maybe, yeah."
Mikey bent down and tucked a five in Brendon's case. "For the 'Don't Stop Believing' cover. I can't believe you made it into a jazz song. You own Bob's soul."
Brendon wondered how much he could sell it for. Still, six dollars and thirty-five cents was better than nothing. "Thanks, man."
Mikey nodded. "Come in later and get another coffee. On the house."
Brendon smiled, tired and cold but real, just for a moment. "Got any requests?"
*
Ryan and Spencer hadn't exactly meant to go to New Jersey, but that was about the farthest their compiled savings got them if they wanted to have anything over for, say, food. Spencer's savings, really, which Ryan had pitched a fit about, but Spencer had stood firm and asked, "How else are you going to get out of here?" and Ryan hadn't really had an answer to that.
It took less than a week for Ryan to want to put Spencer right back on a bus and send him home. The train station was okay during the day, if a little less than upscale, but at night it was creepy and Ryan had already heard two violent crimes go down, if not seen them directly. They liked to find alcoves or places behind phone booths. They fit, and they could watch what was coming at them that way. Also, cops generally avoided the dark corners: they really only bothered the people who slept on benches, or where the "paying customers" could see and be bothered.
In the mornings they would try and clean up in the bathroom as best possible and go out to find jobs. They split up for that, since going in anywhere together seemed likely to just lessen both their chances. So far, neither of them had run into anything even resembling luck.
Money for food wasn't going to last much longer. They weren't eating more than once a day as it was, but even doing so, the funds were drying up. Ryan had mentioned calling Ginger collect, telling her to come get Spencer, but Spencer had just said, "Not unless you're getting in the car, too."
The train station was cold, and creepy, and Ryan really, really wanted a meal that left him full, but even for all that, he couldn't go back to Nevada. He wasn't sure what he would do even if he did. Live with Spencer? Camp out in parks and alleys until he found himself a job and saved up enough for an apartment? It wasn't as though there offered anything that here didn't, except maybe warmer temperatures. The thought of going back to nothing made Ryan's chest and back ache so much he had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound.
Ryan was completely willing to take an under-the-table job washing dishes or as a courier, but he wasn't entirely sure of where to find those jobs. Ryan had taken care of himself for a long while, but he'd done so in the suburbs. He'd be the first to admit that he wasn't exactly street.
In the meantime, he kept going into any place that had a help wanted sign, any place at all, and turning in an application. He had decided that the number to the payphone on the southeast corner of the station would be his number. He was never there to actually answer it during the day, but at least it was a number to put down. He was putting the station's address, hoping nobody noticed. He sensed people were noticing. Sometimes he put an apartment number, to make it seem like maybe he lived above the station, or something, but he didn't think that was fooling anybody, either. It was better than nothing.
At night, when they were both exhausted from walking around all day without much to eat and without any decent winter clothing, Spencer would wrap himself around Ryan and say, "I've got more insulation."
Ryan didn't tell Spencer he was pretty sure that was a metaphor for their friendship.
*
Something was up with Ryan. Spencer couldn't say what--which bothered him more than he wanted to admit--but definitely something. For one thing, he'd brought food back from his job searches for three days now. Not a ton of food, but enough for both of them not to go to bed completely starving, which was more than they'd had for about a week after the money ran out.
He'd said he'd gotten some kind of courier job, under-the-table, and Spencer wanted to believe him. But Ryan had a curve to his voice when he lied, and Spencer could just hear the tail end of it whenever Ryan mentioned the job. Spencer knew what kind of under-the-table jobs Ryan could get in this city that he wouldn't want to mention, and whatever the hell Ryan was doing, Spencer really fucking hoped it wasn't illegal. Spencer wouldn't have been terribly surprised to find out "courier" was trade for "drug delivery dude." Ryan had the worst penchant for getting in over his head.
The worst part was, Spencer really appreciated the food. He couldn't track Ryan down and find out the truth, because if he did, he'd have to stop Ryan (most likely) and then they'd be freezing and starving, again, and one at a time was enough. It wasn't as if they were being gluttonous. One meal a day, light on actual nutrients, was hardly greedy, Spencer thought. And yet, if he let himself think about what Ryan might be doing for it, well, it felt a little like it was.
Instead, Spencer did things like try to find himself a job that would help them save for an apartment, or even just a few nights at a hostel. Spencer honestly wasn't picky at this point. He knew he should just call his parents and ask for money, but if he did that, he was pretty sure his parents would come and drag him back and Ryan wouldn't go. If there was one thing Spencer knew with absolute certainty, it was that Ryan wasn't going back to Nevada, even if he died staying here. Spencer wasn't even sure he could really blame Ryan. There just wasn't anything for him to go back to.
Spencer was tired, though, of managers at fast-food restaurants looking at him doubtfully because his hair wasn't as clean as he would have preferred, or retail clerks lying and saying positions had been filled when there was still a "Help Wanted" sign on the window. He had kind of been looking forward to going to college, falling for older boys who were way out of his league and having stupid, awkward sex with someone, finally, maybe. Possibly going to a few parties and even drinking a few beers. And he thought he might have enjoyed some of the classes. He'd liked math, had been good enough at it to finish a GED so he could head out with Ryan.
Every time Spencer thought about getting mad at Ryan, even ruminated, working up to it all day, Ryan would come back around again, looking worn and drained and defeated, and Spencer wouldn't be able to consider leaving him here on his own. Maybe once he was settled, and had some friends, maybe then. Spencer wasn't sure. He hadn't really left Ryan since he was five. He didn't know what it felt like to be without Ryan. He didn't know that he wanted to know. For all Ryan was a pain in the ass, he was also the guy who made Spencer look at the world in ways nobody else seem to see. Ryan was a pessimist, sure, but he was a creative, funny, and basically goodhearted one. And he was Spencer's pessimist, was the thing. Spencer wasn't great at letting things go, not when they mattered.
Spencer turned in a final application to a drugstore--overloaded with pink and red in preparation for Valentine's Day; the intensity of it was making Spencer's head spin--and made his way back to the train station. Ryan wasn't in their meetup spot yet, so he waited, and sure enough, Ryan came around the corner, carrying a McDonald's bag.
*
The clerks at the Goodwill store liked Brendon. Brendon had totally sworn off G-d and all that, but he had to admit, having people who put the best stuff aside for you when they knew you needed something was definitely a blessing. And while Gabe's idea of "best stuff" could always be a little questionable, Victoria, Alex, Ryland and Nate all had taste ranging from really amazingly good to solidly normal.
That said, it was Gabe who came through on the winter coat. Oh, the thing was a total monstrosity of neon blue and black, but it was the warmest thing Brendon had ever wrapped around himself, and they sold it to him for $7. (Brendon knew that was the employee rate, but when he tried to thank them, they just blew him off, like it wasn't a big deal. Alex kept trying to actually get him a job, but the organization was in a hiring freeze.)
Victoria found him boots he could actually stand in all day and only partially lose feeling in his toes. He told her, with utter sincerity, "If it were possible, things like this would make me straight."
"That's okay," she told him. "I evidently only date crazy people."
From somewhere else in the store, Gabe called, "I heard that."
She called back, "Meant you to."
A woman flipping through a clothes rack snickered. Victoria gave Brendon her most beatific grin. Brendon smiled back and spent as much time as he could inside the heated store before having to go back out. The sun had set by the time they closed up. Ryland said, "I'm meeting up with some people at a sandwich shop, if you wanna come."
Brendon said, "Nah, I appreciate it, but I should-- Go get things done."
He still had a place to find for the night, and needed to check his regular dumpsters, see if he was having dinner. He'd skipped meals until he could afford the clothes and he wasn't regretting it. The warmth of the coat was the nicest thing he'd felt since September, and the last of the truly warm days.
Brendon walked from the store to the place where he could usually find a spot for the night. He rescued a mostly-eaten salad in a plastic tub and some bread still inside the plastic bag. Mold could be picked off. When he actually found a spot in one of the abandoned warehouses, Brendon gave the day a gold star and didn't think about how pathetic that might be.
He pulled the hood of the coat up and curled over his guitar. The wind was rattling, screaming through the building. It had scared the everloving shit out of Brendon the first few times he had tried this, but now he tried to think of it in terms of melody. He'd always been good at converting things other people called noise into sound. He made himself keep taking deep breaths, despite the sharpness of the air, and that was sound, too, echoing in his own ears.
He contemplated trying to apply for jobs again tomorrow, while he was feeling decently optimistic. It helped when he actually felt like smiling, or at least something close to it. But Valentine's Day was in two days, and Brendon was pretty sure he was going to get the best market for busking the winter would show him in that time. After the holiday, when he had some money again, he'd try then.
In the meantime, he was willing to bet if he took requests off the kitchen crew, he could at least earn himself hot drinks for the next couple of days. That would be enough, Brendon decided. He would make it be.
*
Ryan hadn’t meant for it to happen. He hadn’t gone out to some street corner and offered himself to some dude in a car, okay? It wasn’t like that.
The guy had offered. Ryan had been taking a break after his last attempt to get an application, when the kid in the grocery store had actually laughed at him. Ryan knew he looked dirty, but it had been well below freezing the entire week and the water in the sinks wouldn’t warm up no matter how long he and Spencer left them running. It was hard enough to force himself to wash his face and brush his teeth, let alone take off his shirt and get his hair wet.
Ryan had sat down on a stoop in an alley. It was hardly as if he’d been advertising, or anything. But the guy had come up and said, “Ten for a handjob,” and Ryan had said, “Fuck you,” a little bit listlessly.
The guy had said, “Whatever,” and started to walk off, and Ryan should have let him go, he should have, but his stomach had chosen that moment to rumble. And just-ten dollars was a meal for him and Spencer.
“Okay. Wait, um. Okay.”
Ryan had done this before, once, with a guy at college. It wasn’t a big deal, just his hand, and the guy didn’t seem to expect anything else out of him, so whatever. And Spencer looked so fucking happy to be eating something that hadn’t come out of a garbage can.
Still, Ryan hadn’t just gone back to it. He’d made himself scrub the next morning, hugging himself through the icicles that formed in his hair. Spencer looked at him oddly, especially when Ryan washed his hands again for the fifth time since they’d woken up, but he didn’t say anything.
Ryan had taken his newly scrubbed self to the street with determination, walking further, filling out more applications than even when they’d first arrived. It was another week-and a full three days without food for either of them-when Ryan figured out that he could make fifteen if he talked a little dirty while he was doing a handjob. That time he maybe went to a place where he thought someone might find him, but he didn’t offer, or anything. He just…waited.
Spencer asked more questions that time, but Ryan just said something about delivering messages. He’d seen the bike couriers, fast and reckless in the traffic. He didn’t know if anyone actually did that on foot, but it didn’t seem completely implausible that he could pick up that kind of job here and there. Spencer didn’t seem completely convinced, but he didn’t try too hard to poke holes in the story, and that was all Ryan needed. Ryan had grown up lying to his dad about all sorts of things, and while Spencer was harder because he actually knew Ryan and paid attention, the underlying theory was the same.
It was like that for months, handjobs in alleys, every now and again, when they really needed the money. Then Spencer got a cough. At first it was a small thing, more of a clearing of his throat. But it was cold out and Spencer was diligent about keeping clean and pretty soon it was the kind of thing that made people scurry out of the way in the station.
There was a clinic, Ryan knew, at the pharmacy a couple of blocks over. Fifteen dollar copay, then whatever was needed in drugs. Ryan tried to find a couple of handjobs in one day-did offer-but the second guy who actually answered said, “Your mouth, twenty.”
“I-“ don’t know how to do that.
The guy rolled his eyes. “I’m not into the whole stuttering virgin thing. Make it good, you can have twenty-five.”
Ryan had the copay. Twenty-five was enough to cover over the counter meds, maybe some soup or something, to make Spencer’s throat feel better. Ryan didn’t even say okay, he just made himself go to his knees. It couldn’t be that complicated. One of his girlfriends had done it, once, and okay, her teeth had kinda hurt, so he probably should be careful about that. She had used her tongue a lot. That had been good. Ryan took a breath and undid the guy’s jeans. He wasn’t huge or anything. It would be fine.
That thought lasted about as long as the time it took Ryan’s tongue to touch the head of the guy’s cock. Then the guy said, “Are you fucking kidding me?” and pulled Ryan’s mouth on his cock. Ryan tried to breathe, tried not to gag, but neither worked. Before he knew what was happening, he was on his hands and knees, being kicked in the stomach.
“Watch your fucking teeth! Jesus, you would think I wasn’t paying.”
Ryan didn’t want to get up, wanted to stay there until the guy left, when Ryan could go and find someone who would let him use his hand. Instead, he said softly, “Sorry,” and tried again.
It didn’t go much better the second time around, but Ryan managed to keep his teeth covered. He gagged at every down thrust, his eyes watering, throat screaming, but he just kept his lips in their place. Finally, after a literal expanse of forever, the guy came, half down Ryan’s throat, half all over his face.
The guy tucked himself back in and pulled out a twenty. He leaned down and stuffed it into the waistband of Ryan’s jeans, then strolled off.
Ryan found the nearest public bathroom, vomited in the toilet and scrubbed his face until one of his cheeks bled. He gargled hot water long past when he’d burnt both his throat and his tongue. Then he put his thirty-five dollars together in his front pocket and went to go take Spencer to the clinic.
*
By the time Ryan came up with the money to help Spencer feel better, Spencer was too guilty about how hard he’d been contemplating calling his parents and asking for a one way trip home to even ask how Ryan had managed. Also, it was getting hard to speak-it just caused more coughing.
The doctor at the clinic didn’t seem too worried. She prescribed some antibiotics Spencer was able to fill at the clinic’s five dollar price and an over-the-counter cough-suppressant. Then she said, “Try and find somewhere warm to sleep, okay?” without any judgment in her tone and Spencer’s sob thankfully broke off into a coughing jag. He pretended not to notice how Ryan looked away.
The next day, when Ryan returned to the station later in the afternoon with forty-five dollars and took them to the nearest fleabag motel, Spencer didn’t ask a thing. He took the hottest shower the place could manage and tucked himself into bed. When he woke up, Ryan was gone and he fell back asleep before he could think about it. In the morning, Ryan had returned, hot tea and an orange waiting for Spencer.
At that point, Spencer was feeling well enough to ask, “Did you eat?”
Spencer could have been wrong, but he swore Ryan blushed. “Yeah, I had something.”
“Ry-“
“Promise, Spence. I had something.”
Ryan wasn’t lying, except how he was. Spencer couldn’t put his finger on it, which made him feel itchy inside. But another coughing spat left him doubled over, and when Ryan came and put hot towels on his chest and made him take some more medication, he let it go. Instead he asked, “What time we have to get out of here?”
“I got us another night.”
Spencer did look at Ryan then. “Lots of things to deliver, huh?”
“Guess it’s the busy season.” Ryan shrugged. “I’m getting a rep. People recommend me, or something. I don’t know. There’s been more jobs. It’s a good thing.”
Ryan was never particularly expressive, but that didn’t mean all his words were consistently terse. They were now. Spencer wished he could think more clearly. “Um. You must be good. At, like, running.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, and there was definitely something off about that. “Must be.”
“Ryan-“
“Get some sleep.”
Spencer wanted to stay up, wanted to figure out what was going on, but his eyes were shutting of their own accord, the medication and illness winning this particular battle.
“Okay,” he mumbled. “But when I wake up, we’re talking.”
The last thing Spencer felt was Ryan smoothing the comforter out, not saying a word.
*
The middle of March brought a series of days in the forties, when people emerged from their habitats like it was tropical out. Compared to February and early March, it kind of was.
Brendon made some good money on people just being happy to be outside and see the sun. He got himself some spare strings for emergencies, having long since run out, and managed a non-dumpster-derived meal a day for a few days in a row. He even pulled enough together for a night at the Y, which meant an actual shower and laundering facilities.
He tried to keep a dollar back a day, if he could, in the likelihood that this was some kind of Indian Summer, and the brutal cold was just biding its time, waiting to return. And sure enough, there was a snowstorm on March 28 that sent everyone fleeing back indoors.
Brendon had sixteen dollars to his name, and he planned to use every penny of it on soup and coffee. He could bum matches off Gerard or Bob so that he could have fires if he found a metal trash can that hadn’t already been claimed. (Brendon didn’t mind sharing, but he’d learned the hard way other people did.)
Brendon didn’t go out the day of the storm, it wasn’t worth it. He’d found a fairly nice alcove in a relatively well shut-up building, and it was the closest thing to warm he was likely to get. The day after, though, he made himself get up and do jumping jacks until he could feel all his parts again, then slung his guitar case over his shoulder and headed out. Coffee first, then a decision of where he could play that might pay off, even though the snow was still swirling, sharp and frigid.
The diner wasn’t open yet when he arrived, so Brendon took shelter in the alleyway between it and the auto parts store in the next building over. He kept moving, it was too cold not to. He paced a little, his hands tucked tightly into his coat pockets. He had just pivoted toward the middle of the alley when he was jumped.
“Ow, fuck,” was what he said when the first hit came. It hit the back of his head and he wasn’t even sure what had happened, thought maybe an icicle had fallen, or something. Only then he saw the movement from the corner of his eye, and the second hit was to his stomach.
He tried to fight back. He had a guitar player’s strength and he was small and quick and he’d grown up with older brothers. Evidently his older brothers had always taken it easy on him, though, because Brendon sucked at fighting. Every punch he landed was almost as painful as the ones they were landing-there were at least two of them-and if they were so much as grunting, he couldn’t hear it over his own reactionary moans.
It didn’t occur to him to scream until they started taking his guitar case, but then he did. “No! No, you fucking bas-“
The punch that cut him off felt like it broke his jaw. Another one followed immediately and Brendon’s cheek exploded with something more intense than pain. His vision blacked out for a second, and when it came back there was something wrong, like it was only in one eye. He opened his mouth to shout again, stumbling after them as they took off. One came back and said, “Jesus, stay down.”
He punctuated the words with a couple more punches to Brendon’s midriff, and when Brendon doubled over, used the opportunity to aim a couple of kicks. Something cracked, unusually loud in Brendon’s ears and he threw up. He wished he hadn’t-it hurt more than burning alive, Brendon was certain.
His attacker said, “Ugh, fuck,” and kicked him again in retaliation, right where the pain was worst. Brendon had no idea what happened after that.
*
When the snowstorm hit, and Spencer came stumbling back to the station, his fingers and face raw and red, Ryan made a decision: no more moonlighting. He was going to make enough to send Spencer back home, and then, well, he had a full-time job, evidently. He could take care of himself.
Ignoring the level of cliché, Ryan bought himself a banana, and used it to practice. He was pretty sure he could charge twenty-five straight up if he could deep-throat. When he had checked the day before, one Greyhound ticket back to Nevada was seventy-nine dollars: three solid blowjobs and a handjob, plus maybe a few more, so Spencer could have snacks on his way back.
He’d been offered forty to fuck, but he’d turned it down. Maybe after Spencer left, maybe he’d do that, get himself somewhere to sleep. If he was staying at a motel indefinitely, he could use that as a street address, maybe actually find employment that didn’t involve being a living glory hole.
It was a good plan, solid, and Ryan was a fast learner. The deep-throating took a while, but he was getting tips by the end of his first week for creative use of his tongue and, no shit, “sexy noises, baby.”
There’d been one guy who’d wanted to jerk Ryan off. Ryan had said yes, because what the hell, but he didn’t think he’d do that again, not unless he had to. There was nothing sexy in Ryan’s mind about some old guy putting his wrinkled hand on Ryan’s dick in a cold alley. Ryan had had to find a fantasy, and even then it had taken him a while. The guy’d seemed frustrated after a bit, had started pulling way harder than was comfortable, calling Ryan names, and then it had been even harder.
Still, Ryan had the money soon enough. He waited a little bit, so it would seem like he’d saved up and Spencer wouldn’t get suspicious about where it was coming from-or at least no more suspicious than he already was. Ryan bought the ticket, though, because they weren’t refundable and Spencer wasn’t one to waste money. He also bought two apples, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bag of chips.
He turned the whole stash over to Spencer in a brown paper bag and said, “Leaves tomorrow at six.”
Spencer rooted around in the bag, looking tired. He pulled up an apple, took a bite and asked, “What does?”
“Your bus. Ticket’s in there. Oh, and some cash, to call home, tell’em you’re coming.”
Spencer choked on the second bite of apple he’d taken. Ryan got apple bits on his cheek, but honestly, he’d had worse from Spencer, and he’d definitely had worse from other people. That was kind of his job now.
When he could speak, Spencer said, “What?”
Ryan took the bag from him, fished around in it for a bit until he found the ticket. Then he held it out to Spencer. “Home, Spence.”
Spencer looked at the ticket for a long moment. Then, without looking up, he bit out, “You. Are. Such. An. Asshole.”
“Yeah, but-“
“I’m not going home, Ryan. Not without you, and I know you’re not going-“
“I’ve got this courier thing, Spence. It’ll do. I can take care-“
“I’m not going, and that’s final.” Spencer held out the second apple to Ryan like it was a proxy for punching him.
Ryan didn’t take it. “The ticket’s non-refundable.”
“Then I guess you’re a total fucking moron for buying it.”
“Spencer.” It was Ryan’s most serious pleading voice, the one that always made Spencer cave.
Spencer just shook his head, though, not even looking terribly angry. “No, Ry. I’m not leaving you here alone. I’m just not. You can buy yourself a ticket, or we can let this one go to waste, but those are the options.”
Ryan knew when he was losing. It invariably made him fight dirty. “I’m not going to spend my money feeding you. I’m done supporting your ass.”
Spencer just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, Ry.”
Ryan turned on his heel and stomped off. Spencer called, “See you when you get back!”
*
Brendon couldn’t breathe when he woke up. He took a breath in, like he did normally, like he was just alive, was all, and it hurt so badly he stopped, held the breath until it wouldn’t hold any longer. Exhaling hurt even worse.
He knew he should open his eyes, but that thought hurt, too. He thought he fell asleep again, maybe, for a bit, because the next time he woke there were voices, soft and indistinct.
He tried not to panic. He couldn’t remember where he was, or how he’d gotten here. He remembered the alley and the mugging and that he didn’t have a guitar any longer, but had he actually walked somewhere? Was he in the hospital? This time, Brendon forced his eyes open.
He blinked a couple of times, but no, the guys standing near to where he was lying were definitely Mikey and Gerard, from the diner. He tried saying, “Mikey?” but his jaw wouldn’t cooperate at all.
He must have made some noise, because they both turned and Gerard said, “Are you awake? Please be awake.”
Brendon made what he hoped was an awake noise. Mikey said, “He should drink something. Help me get him sitting.”
Lying down was painful enough, but being moved into sitting position was enough to make Brendon wretch. He was indecently glad he hadn’t had anything to eat in a while. Throwing up on guys who took you in off the street was bad manners, probably.
The glass hurt against his lips, but the water was good. Mikey took it away fairly quickly, and yeah, if Brendon had almost just been thrown up on, he probably would too. Still, he wouldn’t have minded some more.
“We really should take him to a hospital,” Gerard fretted.
Brendon’s breathing picked up which hurt like a motherfucking bitch. Luckily, Mikey asked, “Who’s gonna pay the bill, Gee?”
Gerard sighed. “He could be bleeding internally.”
“He’s been asleep for over thirteen hours. If he had a concussion or internal damage, I’m pretty sure he’d be brain damaged or dead by now.” Mikey didn’t sound one hundred percent sure, but Brendon sure as shit couldn’t afford a doctor and the logic seemed pretty solid, so Brendon decided he was sure as sure could be.
“Well, he’s at least staying here, for now. Understand?” Gerard asked. “You’re staying here until-“ Gerard frowned.
“Until we say so,” Mikey supplied.
Brendon wasn’t in any shape to argue. If it gave him a few days to consider his options-hitchhiking home and trying to get taken back in, or following the lead of the guys who worked under the bridge and off the main streets at night-then he’d take them. He thought he kind of deserved a break, just this once.
Mikey brought the glass back to Brendon’s lips, and Brendon took another few sips. Then Gerard and Mikey laid Brendon down again, and when the world had cleared up from the haze of pure pain it had become for a moment, Brendon drifted back off into sleep, where at least shit was just black.
part two
part three
part four
Author: arsenicjade
Fandom/pairing(s): bandom, Brendon/Spencer, Ryan/Jon/Mikey
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~29k
Warnings: prostitution, violence, rape/object-penetration
Summary: Brendon loses his scholarship. Ryan loses his dad. Spencer won't lose Ryan. They've all got nowhere to go. Mikey and Gerard own the greasy spoon on the corner. (Do the math.)
AN/Thanks: Thank you, roadmarks for the thorough beta, despite not really even knowing me. She's seriously the greatest. All mistakes still remaining are because I am recalcitrant. Additionally, it should be known that I have owed harriet_vane this story for NEARLY A YEAR. The original idea was comment-ficced out in her journal and is really largely to her credit. Also, because she is awesome, she is allowing me to use it as a fill for my "hookers" slot on my hc_bingo card.
November 7, 2005
Professor Stump looked up from his computer screen and said, "Oh, hey Brendon, c'mon in."
Brendon smiled at his academic advisor more out of reflex than the actual desire to smile. "Hi, Professor."
He shut the door behind himself and sat down in one of the chairs available for students. Dr. Stump flashed him a smile and asked, "How're you?"
Brendon shrugged. "I'm good. Yourself?"
"Brendon, I-- I think you know what this meeting is about."
Brendon knew. "I know my grades are bad, sir--"
"You're flunking two of four classes. And you need a 3.0 to maintain your scholarship."
"Right, I know, but I still have another month of classes--"
"Barely, Brendon, and I've spoken with your professors in the problem classes. Even with extra credit, they're not sure you can make it up."
"There has to be something--"
"You're work-study, right?"
Brendon nodded. "The scholarship's only for tuition. The work-study covers room and board."
Something flashed behind Dr. Stump's eyes. "You have a second job?"
Brendon shrugged. "Books. And instrument upkeep."
"So, basically, studying happens when you're not working or in class?"
"I prioritize practice sessions. I can get studying done on the train to and from work, and it's a host job at a restaurant, so sometimes I can get more done while I'm at the podium, if it's not a busy night. I swear, sir, I can do better. It was just the first couple of months, I had to find my feet."
"Julliard doesn't want to lose you, Brendon. We don't give full-ride scholarships to just anyone. You've amazing talent in a number of areas, and all your fellow students enjoy having you in class."
"Like I said, I can make it work, I just have to--"
"But for the moment, the deans think it would be best if you took a semester, went home, maybe tried to save up some, so that you're only working one job?"
"I--" Brendon closed his mouth. Then he straightened his spine as best he could, chin up. "It was Julliard or home, sir."
"Oh. I'm-- I'm sorry."
"So, if you could just see fit to give me a second chance--"
"Until the end of the semester, Brendon." Dr. Stump looked apologetic, but he said, "That's really all we can do. Anything else, and well-- If we let one person ignore the rules of a full ride when there are thousands we turned down for one, what kind of example would that set?"
Brendon wanted to know how the fuck anyone would know, when grades were protected, but all he said was, "I understand, of course." Then he stood, and got the fuck out of there before he cried in front of one of his lifelong idols.
*
January 18, 2006
Spencer sat next to where Ryan was kneeling on the ground, the knees of his--only--suit, mired in the dirt. Thirty, forty feet off a bulldozer was beeping to warn others that it was moving backward. In a moment, it would move forward again, heaping more dirt on Ryan's father's grave. They were the only two people in attendance. Ryan had left college when he'd heard, taken the money he'd had for books and room and board and everything not covered by his scholarship for second semester and used it to make sure his father was buried. He couldn't afford a headstone or a funeral, not with what was left of the estate, but he'd managed a coffin and a grave.
Ryan was looking at the half-filled grave, but Spencer didn't think he was really seeing it. They'd been sitting there for nearly ten minutes when Ryan said, "I have to get out of here."
"I can drive," Spencer offered. Ryan had sold his dad's car to help pay for the coffin. He'd been taking the bus and walking places for the last week. "Mom let me borrow the car."
Ryan looked confused for a second, then he said, "No, I meant--"
"Oh," Spencer said. "Out."
Ryan nodded, not looking at Spencer. "I'm sorry. I know we said-- I know we promised that we'd go to school together and all, but I can't. School's not on the table anymore and I can't stay here and, what? The house is being sold by the bank, since evidently they pretty much own it anyway, and it's not like there are a ton of jobs here, not unless I wanna deal at a casino, and just-- If I'm gonna be poor and uneducated, I have to do that somewhere else, y'know?"
Spencer wondered if Ryan even knew that his voice had caught at the end of that. Spencer hadn't seen Ryan cry over his dad, but he knew Ryan had. He had bruises on the edges of his cheekbones, like he'd swiped too hard, dug his fists in a little too deep in an effort to stop himself. Spencer asked, "Okay. Where're we going?"
*
February 3, 2006
Brendon was currently unamused by the irony of life. There was a good six inches of snow on the ground, and while it wasn't snowing anymore--small favors--Brendon's beat up Reeboks weren't really doing much to keep his feet from falling off. He'd thought to himself at least ten times in the hour that he'd been on the street about the fact that he'd wanted to see snow so badly as a kid, but the thought just wasn't helping that much anymore. If he made anything today--unshockingly, there weren't a lot of people out and about, standing around listening to buskers--he was going straight to the Goodwill store and getting himself some boots, and a warmer coat. The one he had from back in Vegas just wasn't cutting it.
He wished he still had some stuff to sell. When he'd been kicked out of the dorms, he'd sold everything he couldn't fit into his suitcase, and some of the stuff he could. By this point, though, all he had was a couple pairs of clothing and his guitar, which was his livelihood. He was still trying to get jobs, on and off. He made sure to clean up at the Y, and occasionally find enough change to hit the laundromat before going and filling out applications, but everywhere wanted an address and a phone number. Brendon didn't have either of those.
In late December and early January it had actually been a little all right. He'd found places where people wanted to hear holiday standards, and so long as Brendon didn't think about a thing while he sang them, he was really good at reworking those, making them fun and new. And Brendon could smile on command, so nobody had to know that he was racking up years of therapy while strumming along.
But then the holidays had ended, and people had disappeared inside, and everybody was very busy hibernating for the winter. Brendon had found himself a couple of good doorways in alleys, an abandoned building here and there to spend the nights in--something to keep the wind away, if nothing else. He'd hit up the Goodwill for some blankets and stuffed them in the suitcase where he kept his clothes and toothbrush, right where the books and cds that he'd brought to college and sold off had been before. Most days he could make enough for a couple of meals, at least one. If not, then he could usually scrape by with a cup of coffee. McDonald's had the Dollar Menu, and Brendon had learned some of the tricks of dumpster diving through practice and a few hard-knock lessons in food poisoning.
It was cold enough now, though, that his throat hurt, and he knew he was probably destroying his voice-which was, of course, his most marketable quality. He couldn't feel his fingers, either. He had on fingerless gloves that he'd also brought from back home, but back home they'd made sense. Here they were good for not keeping him from playing, but they didn't actually keep his fingers warm enough that he wasn't mildly concerned by the fact that he might lose them to frostbite. In an effort to make sure he didn't, he was resting between each song, shoving his hands into his armpits, getting the circulation flowing again.
Mikey, one of the brothers who owned the diner Brendon liked to play in front of, came out mid-morning. He offered Brendon a coffee. Brendon said, "Morning," but shook his head at the coffee. His earnings were going toward boots, dammit. He looked down at said earnings. So far, a dollar and thirty-five cents. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Mikey said, "On us. Seriously, Gee's been on all morning imagining how you're going to freeze to death and we'll have to explain to the cops and then, somehow get your body into cryogenic storage so you can be reanimated when we have the technology."
Put that way, Brendon reached out and took the coffee. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Also, Ray would totally come get you before it got to that point."
"Good to know."
"Not that I'm not enjoying what I can hear from inside, but maybe you should see if you can find some space at the train station? Just get inside for today?"
Brendon never made good money at the train station. Too many competing buskers, some of them just on the edge of violent about their territory. Still, "Maybe, yeah."
Mikey bent down and tucked a five in Brendon's case. "For the 'Don't Stop Believing' cover. I can't believe you made it into a jazz song. You own Bob's soul."
Brendon wondered how much he could sell it for. Still, six dollars and thirty-five cents was better than nothing. "Thanks, man."
Mikey nodded. "Come in later and get another coffee. On the house."
Brendon smiled, tired and cold but real, just for a moment. "Got any requests?"
*
Ryan and Spencer hadn't exactly meant to go to New Jersey, but that was about the farthest their compiled savings got them if they wanted to have anything over for, say, food. Spencer's savings, really, which Ryan had pitched a fit about, but Spencer had stood firm and asked, "How else are you going to get out of here?" and Ryan hadn't really had an answer to that.
It took less than a week for Ryan to want to put Spencer right back on a bus and send him home. The train station was okay during the day, if a little less than upscale, but at night it was creepy and Ryan had already heard two violent crimes go down, if not seen them directly. They liked to find alcoves or places behind phone booths. They fit, and they could watch what was coming at them that way. Also, cops generally avoided the dark corners: they really only bothered the people who slept on benches, or where the "paying customers" could see and be bothered.
In the mornings they would try and clean up in the bathroom as best possible and go out to find jobs. They split up for that, since going in anywhere together seemed likely to just lessen both their chances. So far, neither of them had run into anything even resembling luck.
Money for food wasn't going to last much longer. They weren't eating more than once a day as it was, but even doing so, the funds were drying up. Ryan had mentioned calling Ginger collect, telling her to come get Spencer, but Spencer had just said, "Not unless you're getting in the car, too."
The train station was cold, and creepy, and Ryan really, really wanted a meal that left him full, but even for all that, he couldn't go back to Nevada. He wasn't sure what he would do even if he did. Live with Spencer? Camp out in parks and alleys until he found himself a job and saved up enough for an apartment? It wasn't as though there offered anything that here didn't, except maybe warmer temperatures. The thought of going back to nothing made Ryan's chest and back ache so much he had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound.
Ryan was completely willing to take an under-the-table job washing dishes or as a courier, but he wasn't entirely sure of where to find those jobs. Ryan had taken care of himself for a long while, but he'd done so in the suburbs. He'd be the first to admit that he wasn't exactly street.
In the meantime, he kept going into any place that had a help wanted sign, any place at all, and turning in an application. He had decided that the number to the payphone on the southeast corner of the station would be his number. He was never there to actually answer it during the day, but at least it was a number to put down. He was putting the station's address, hoping nobody noticed. He sensed people were noticing. Sometimes he put an apartment number, to make it seem like maybe he lived above the station, or something, but he didn't think that was fooling anybody, either. It was better than nothing.
At night, when they were both exhausted from walking around all day without much to eat and without any decent winter clothing, Spencer would wrap himself around Ryan and say, "I've got more insulation."
Ryan didn't tell Spencer he was pretty sure that was a metaphor for their friendship.
*
Something was up with Ryan. Spencer couldn't say what--which bothered him more than he wanted to admit--but definitely something. For one thing, he'd brought food back from his job searches for three days now. Not a ton of food, but enough for both of them not to go to bed completely starving, which was more than they'd had for about a week after the money ran out.
He'd said he'd gotten some kind of courier job, under-the-table, and Spencer wanted to believe him. But Ryan had a curve to his voice when he lied, and Spencer could just hear the tail end of it whenever Ryan mentioned the job. Spencer knew what kind of under-the-table jobs Ryan could get in this city that he wouldn't want to mention, and whatever the hell Ryan was doing, Spencer really fucking hoped it wasn't illegal. Spencer wouldn't have been terribly surprised to find out "courier" was trade for "drug delivery dude." Ryan had the worst penchant for getting in over his head.
The worst part was, Spencer really appreciated the food. He couldn't track Ryan down and find out the truth, because if he did, he'd have to stop Ryan (most likely) and then they'd be freezing and starving, again, and one at a time was enough. It wasn't as if they were being gluttonous. One meal a day, light on actual nutrients, was hardly greedy, Spencer thought. And yet, if he let himself think about what Ryan might be doing for it, well, it felt a little like it was.
Instead, Spencer did things like try to find himself a job that would help them save for an apartment, or even just a few nights at a hostel. Spencer honestly wasn't picky at this point. He knew he should just call his parents and ask for money, but if he did that, he was pretty sure his parents would come and drag him back and Ryan wouldn't go. If there was one thing Spencer knew with absolute certainty, it was that Ryan wasn't going back to Nevada, even if he died staying here. Spencer wasn't even sure he could really blame Ryan. There just wasn't anything for him to go back to.
Spencer was tired, though, of managers at fast-food restaurants looking at him doubtfully because his hair wasn't as clean as he would have preferred, or retail clerks lying and saying positions had been filled when there was still a "Help Wanted" sign on the window. He had kind of been looking forward to going to college, falling for older boys who were way out of his league and having stupid, awkward sex with someone, finally, maybe. Possibly going to a few parties and even drinking a few beers. And he thought he might have enjoyed some of the classes. He'd liked math, had been good enough at it to finish a GED so he could head out with Ryan.
Every time Spencer thought about getting mad at Ryan, even ruminated, working up to it all day, Ryan would come back around again, looking worn and drained and defeated, and Spencer wouldn't be able to consider leaving him here on his own. Maybe once he was settled, and had some friends, maybe then. Spencer wasn't sure. He hadn't really left Ryan since he was five. He didn't know what it felt like to be without Ryan. He didn't know that he wanted to know. For all Ryan was a pain in the ass, he was also the guy who made Spencer look at the world in ways nobody else seem to see. Ryan was a pessimist, sure, but he was a creative, funny, and basically goodhearted one. And he was Spencer's pessimist, was the thing. Spencer wasn't great at letting things go, not when they mattered.
Spencer turned in a final application to a drugstore--overloaded with pink and red in preparation for Valentine's Day; the intensity of it was making Spencer's head spin--and made his way back to the train station. Ryan wasn't in their meetup spot yet, so he waited, and sure enough, Ryan came around the corner, carrying a McDonald's bag.
*
The clerks at the Goodwill store liked Brendon. Brendon had totally sworn off G-d and all that, but he had to admit, having people who put the best stuff aside for you when they knew you needed something was definitely a blessing. And while Gabe's idea of "best stuff" could always be a little questionable, Victoria, Alex, Ryland and Nate all had taste ranging from really amazingly good to solidly normal.
That said, it was Gabe who came through on the winter coat. Oh, the thing was a total monstrosity of neon blue and black, but it was the warmest thing Brendon had ever wrapped around himself, and they sold it to him for $7. (Brendon knew that was the employee rate, but when he tried to thank them, they just blew him off, like it wasn't a big deal. Alex kept trying to actually get him a job, but the organization was in a hiring freeze.)
Victoria found him boots he could actually stand in all day and only partially lose feeling in his toes. He told her, with utter sincerity, "If it were possible, things like this would make me straight."
"That's okay," she told him. "I evidently only date crazy people."
From somewhere else in the store, Gabe called, "I heard that."
She called back, "Meant you to."
A woman flipping through a clothes rack snickered. Victoria gave Brendon her most beatific grin. Brendon smiled back and spent as much time as he could inside the heated store before having to go back out. The sun had set by the time they closed up. Ryland said, "I'm meeting up with some people at a sandwich shop, if you wanna come."
Brendon said, "Nah, I appreciate it, but I should-- Go get things done."
He still had a place to find for the night, and needed to check his regular dumpsters, see if he was having dinner. He'd skipped meals until he could afford the clothes and he wasn't regretting it. The warmth of the coat was the nicest thing he'd felt since September, and the last of the truly warm days.
Brendon walked from the store to the place where he could usually find a spot for the night. He rescued a mostly-eaten salad in a plastic tub and some bread still inside the plastic bag. Mold could be picked off. When he actually found a spot in one of the abandoned warehouses, Brendon gave the day a gold star and didn't think about how pathetic that might be.
He pulled the hood of the coat up and curled over his guitar. The wind was rattling, screaming through the building. It had scared the everloving shit out of Brendon the first few times he had tried this, but now he tried to think of it in terms of melody. He'd always been good at converting things other people called noise into sound. He made himself keep taking deep breaths, despite the sharpness of the air, and that was sound, too, echoing in his own ears.
He contemplated trying to apply for jobs again tomorrow, while he was feeling decently optimistic. It helped when he actually felt like smiling, or at least something close to it. But Valentine's Day was in two days, and Brendon was pretty sure he was going to get the best market for busking the winter would show him in that time. After the holiday, when he had some money again, he'd try then.
In the meantime, he was willing to bet if he took requests off the kitchen crew, he could at least earn himself hot drinks for the next couple of days. That would be enough, Brendon decided. He would make it be.
*
Ryan hadn’t meant for it to happen. He hadn’t gone out to some street corner and offered himself to some dude in a car, okay? It wasn’t like that.
The guy had offered. Ryan had been taking a break after his last attempt to get an application, when the kid in the grocery store had actually laughed at him. Ryan knew he looked dirty, but it had been well below freezing the entire week and the water in the sinks wouldn’t warm up no matter how long he and Spencer left them running. It was hard enough to force himself to wash his face and brush his teeth, let alone take off his shirt and get his hair wet.
Ryan had sat down on a stoop in an alley. It was hardly as if he’d been advertising, or anything. But the guy had come up and said, “Ten for a handjob,” and Ryan had said, “Fuck you,” a little bit listlessly.
The guy had said, “Whatever,” and started to walk off, and Ryan should have let him go, he should have, but his stomach had chosen that moment to rumble. And just-ten dollars was a meal for him and Spencer.
“Okay. Wait, um. Okay.”
Ryan had done this before, once, with a guy at college. It wasn’t a big deal, just his hand, and the guy didn’t seem to expect anything else out of him, so whatever. And Spencer looked so fucking happy to be eating something that hadn’t come out of a garbage can.
Still, Ryan hadn’t just gone back to it. He’d made himself scrub the next morning, hugging himself through the icicles that formed in his hair. Spencer looked at him oddly, especially when Ryan washed his hands again for the fifth time since they’d woken up, but he didn’t say anything.
Ryan had taken his newly scrubbed self to the street with determination, walking further, filling out more applications than even when they’d first arrived. It was another week-and a full three days without food for either of them-when Ryan figured out that he could make fifteen if he talked a little dirty while he was doing a handjob. That time he maybe went to a place where he thought someone might find him, but he didn’t offer, or anything. He just…waited.
Spencer asked more questions that time, but Ryan just said something about delivering messages. He’d seen the bike couriers, fast and reckless in the traffic. He didn’t know if anyone actually did that on foot, but it didn’t seem completely implausible that he could pick up that kind of job here and there. Spencer didn’t seem completely convinced, but he didn’t try too hard to poke holes in the story, and that was all Ryan needed. Ryan had grown up lying to his dad about all sorts of things, and while Spencer was harder because he actually knew Ryan and paid attention, the underlying theory was the same.
It was like that for months, handjobs in alleys, every now and again, when they really needed the money. Then Spencer got a cough. At first it was a small thing, more of a clearing of his throat. But it was cold out and Spencer was diligent about keeping clean and pretty soon it was the kind of thing that made people scurry out of the way in the station.
There was a clinic, Ryan knew, at the pharmacy a couple of blocks over. Fifteen dollar copay, then whatever was needed in drugs. Ryan tried to find a couple of handjobs in one day-did offer-but the second guy who actually answered said, “Your mouth, twenty.”
“I-“ don’t know how to do that.
The guy rolled his eyes. “I’m not into the whole stuttering virgin thing. Make it good, you can have twenty-five.”
Ryan had the copay. Twenty-five was enough to cover over the counter meds, maybe some soup or something, to make Spencer’s throat feel better. Ryan didn’t even say okay, he just made himself go to his knees. It couldn’t be that complicated. One of his girlfriends had done it, once, and okay, her teeth had kinda hurt, so he probably should be careful about that. She had used her tongue a lot. That had been good. Ryan took a breath and undid the guy’s jeans. He wasn’t huge or anything. It would be fine.
That thought lasted about as long as the time it took Ryan’s tongue to touch the head of the guy’s cock. Then the guy said, “Are you fucking kidding me?” and pulled Ryan’s mouth on his cock. Ryan tried to breathe, tried not to gag, but neither worked. Before he knew what was happening, he was on his hands and knees, being kicked in the stomach.
“Watch your fucking teeth! Jesus, you would think I wasn’t paying.”
Ryan didn’t want to get up, wanted to stay there until the guy left, when Ryan could go and find someone who would let him use his hand. Instead, he said softly, “Sorry,” and tried again.
It didn’t go much better the second time around, but Ryan managed to keep his teeth covered. He gagged at every down thrust, his eyes watering, throat screaming, but he just kept his lips in their place. Finally, after a literal expanse of forever, the guy came, half down Ryan’s throat, half all over his face.
The guy tucked himself back in and pulled out a twenty. He leaned down and stuffed it into the waistband of Ryan’s jeans, then strolled off.
Ryan found the nearest public bathroom, vomited in the toilet and scrubbed his face until one of his cheeks bled. He gargled hot water long past when he’d burnt both his throat and his tongue. Then he put his thirty-five dollars together in his front pocket and went to go take Spencer to the clinic.
*
By the time Ryan came up with the money to help Spencer feel better, Spencer was too guilty about how hard he’d been contemplating calling his parents and asking for a one way trip home to even ask how Ryan had managed. Also, it was getting hard to speak-it just caused more coughing.
The doctor at the clinic didn’t seem too worried. She prescribed some antibiotics Spencer was able to fill at the clinic’s five dollar price and an over-the-counter cough-suppressant. Then she said, “Try and find somewhere warm to sleep, okay?” without any judgment in her tone and Spencer’s sob thankfully broke off into a coughing jag. He pretended not to notice how Ryan looked away.
The next day, when Ryan returned to the station later in the afternoon with forty-five dollars and took them to the nearest fleabag motel, Spencer didn’t ask a thing. He took the hottest shower the place could manage and tucked himself into bed. When he woke up, Ryan was gone and he fell back asleep before he could think about it. In the morning, Ryan had returned, hot tea and an orange waiting for Spencer.
At that point, Spencer was feeling well enough to ask, “Did you eat?”
Spencer could have been wrong, but he swore Ryan blushed. “Yeah, I had something.”
“Ry-“
“Promise, Spence. I had something.”
Ryan wasn’t lying, except how he was. Spencer couldn’t put his finger on it, which made him feel itchy inside. But another coughing spat left him doubled over, and when Ryan came and put hot towels on his chest and made him take some more medication, he let it go. Instead he asked, “What time we have to get out of here?”
“I got us another night.”
Spencer did look at Ryan then. “Lots of things to deliver, huh?”
“Guess it’s the busy season.” Ryan shrugged. “I’m getting a rep. People recommend me, or something. I don’t know. There’s been more jobs. It’s a good thing.”
Ryan was never particularly expressive, but that didn’t mean all his words were consistently terse. They were now. Spencer wished he could think more clearly. “Um. You must be good. At, like, running.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, and there was definitely something off about that. “Must be.”
“Ryan-“
“Get some sleep.”
Spencer wanted to stay up, wanted to figure out what was going on, but his eyes were shutting of their own accord, the medication and illness winning this particular battle.
“Okay,” he mumbled. “But when I wake up, we’re talking.”
The last thing Spencer felt was Ryan smoothing the comforter out, not saying a word.
*
The middle of March brought a series of days in the forties, when people emerged from their habitats like it was tropical out. Compared to February and early March, it kind of was.
Brendon made some good money on people just being happy to be outside and see the sun. He got himself some spare strings for emergencies, having long since run out, and managed a non-dumpster-derived meal a day for a few days in a row. He even pulled enough together for a night at the Y, which meant an actual shower and laundering facilities.
He tried to keep a dollar back a day, if he could, in the likelihood that this was some kind of Indian Summer, and the brutal cold was just biding its time, waiting to return. And sure enough, there was a snowstorm on March 28 that sent everyone fleeing back indoors.
Brendon had sixteen dollars to his name, and he planned to use every penny of it on soup and coffee. He could bum matches off Gerard or Bob so that he could have fires if he found a metal trash can that hadn’t already been claimed. (Brendon didn’t mind sharing, but he’d learned the hard way other people did.)
Brendon didn’t go out the day of the storm, it wasn’t worth it. He’d found a fairly nice alcove in a relatively well shut-up building, and it was the closest thing to warm he was likely to get. The day after, though, he made himself get up and do jumping jacks until he could feel all his parts again, then slung his guitar case over his shoulder and headed out. Coffee first, then a decision of where he could play that might pay off, even though the snow was still swirling, sharp and frigid.
The diner wasn’t open yet when he arrived, so Brendon took shelter in the alleyway between it and the auto parts store in the next building over. He kept moving, it was too cold not to. He paced a little, his hands tucked tightly into his coat pockets. He had just pivoted toward the middle of the alley when he was jumped.
“Ow, fuck,” was what he said when the first hit came. It hit the back of his head and he wasn’t even sure what had happened, thought maybe an icicle had fallen, or something. Only then he saw the movement from the corner of his eye, and the second hit was to his stomach.
He tried to fight back. He had a guitar player’s strength and he was small and quick and he’d grown up with older brothers. Evidently his older brothers had always taken it easy on him, though, because Brendon sucked at fighting. Every punch he landed was almost as painful as the ones they were landing-there were at least two of them-and if they were so much as grunting, he couldn’t hear it over his own reactionary moans.
It didn’t occur to him to scream until they started taking his guitar case, but then he did. “No! No, you fucking bas-“
The punch that cut him off felt like it broke his jaw. Another one followed immediately and Brendon’s cheek exploded with something more intense than pain. His vision blacked out for a second, and when it came back there was something wrong, like it was only in one eye. He opened his mouth to shout again, stumbling after them as they took off. One came back and said, “Jesus, stay down.”
He punctuated the words with a couple more punches to Brendon’s midriff, and when Brendon doubled over, used the opportunity to aim a couple of kicks. Something cracked, unusually loud in Brendon’s ears and he threw up. He wished he hadn’t-it hurt more than burning alive, Brendon was certain.
His attacker said, “Ugh, fuck,” and kicked him again in retaliation, right where the pain was worst. Brendon had no idea what happened after that.
*
When the snowstorm hit, and Spencer came stumbling back to the station, his fingers and face raw and red, Ryan made a decision: no more moonlighting. He was going to make enough to send Spencer back home, and then, well, he had a full-time job, evidently. He could take care of himself.
Ignoring the level of cliché, Ryan bought himself a banana, and used it to practice. He was pretty sure he could charge twenty-five straight up if he could deep-throat. When he had checked the day before, one Greyhound ticket back to Nevada was seventy-nine dollars: three solid blowjobs and a handjob, plus maybe a few more, so Spencer could have snacks on his way back.
He’d been offered forty to fuck, but he’d turned it down. Maybe after Spencer left, maybe he’d do that, get himself somewhere to sleep. If he was staying at a motel indefinitely, he could use that as a street address, maybe actually find employment that didn’t involve being a living glory hole.
It was a good plan, solid, and Ryan was a fast learner. The deep-throating took a while, but he was getting tips by the end of his first week for creative use of his tongue and, no shit, “sexy noises, baby.”
There’d been one guy who’d wanted to jerk Ryan off. Ryan had said yes, because what the hell, but he didn’t think he’d do that again, not unless he had to. There was nothing sexy in Ryan’s mind about some old guy putting his wrinkled hand on Ryan’s dick in a cold alley. Ryan had had to find a fantasy, and even then it had taken him a while. The guy’d seemed frustrated after a bit, had started pulling way harder than was comfortable, calling Ryan names, and then it had been even harder.
Still, Ryan had the money soon enough. He waited a little bit, so it would seem like he’d saved up and Spencer wouldn’t get suspicious about where it was coming from-or at least no more suspicious than he already was. Ryan bought the ticket, though, because they weren’t refundable and Spencer wasn’t one to waste money. He also bought two apples, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bag of chips.
He turned the whole stash over to Spencer in a brown paper bag and said, “Leaves tomorrow at six.”
Spencer rooted around in the bag, looking tired. He pulled up an apple, took a bite and asked, “What does?”
“Your bus. Ticket’s in there. Oh, and some cash, to call home, tell’em you’re coming.”
Spencer choked on the second bite of apple he’d taken. Ryan got apple bits on his cheek, but honestly, he’d had worse from Spencer, and he’d definitely had worse from other people. That was kind of his job now.
When he could speak, Spencer said, “What?”
Ryan took the bag from him, fished around in it for a bit until he found the ticket. Then he held it out to Spencer. “Home, Spence.”
Spencer looked at the ticket for a long moment. Then, without looking up, he bit out, “You. Are. Such. An. Asshole.”
“Yeah, but-“
“I’m not going home, Ryan. Not without you, and I know you’re not going-“
“I’ve got this courier thing, Spence. It’ll do. I can take care-“
“I’m not going, and that’s final.” Spencer held out the second apple to Ryan like it was a proxy for punching him.
Ryan didn’t take it. “The ticket’s non-refundable.”
“Then I guess you’re a total fucking moron for buying it.”
“Spencer.” It was Ryan’s most serious pleading voice, the one that always made Spencer cave.
Spencer just shook his head, though, not even looking terribly angry. “No, Ry. I’m not leaving you here alone. I’m just not. You can buy yourself a ticket, or we can let this one go to waste, but those are the options.”
Ryan knew when he was losing. It invariably made him fight dirty. “I’m not going to spend my money feeding you. I’m done supporting your ass.”
Spencer just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, Ry.”
Ryan turned on his heel and stomped off. Spencer called, “See you when you get back!”
*
Brendon couldn’t breathe when he woke up. He took a breath in, like he did normally, like he was just alive, was all, and it hurt so badly he stopped, held the breath until it wouldn’t hold any longer. Exhaling hurt even worse.
He knew he should open his eyes, but that thought hurt, too. He thought he fell asleep again, maybe, for a bit, because the next time he woke there were voices, soft and indistinct.
He tried not to panic. He couldn’t remember where he was, or how he’d gotten here. He remembered the alley and the mugging and that he didn’t have a guitar any longer, but had he actually walked somewhere? Was he in the hospital? This time, Brendon forced his eyes open.
He blinked a couple of times, but no, the guys standing near to where he was lying were definitely Mikey and Gerard, from the diner. He tried saying, “Mikey?” but his jaw wouldn’t cooperate at all.
He must have made some noise, because they both turned and Gerard said, “Are you awake? Please be awake.”
Brendon made what he hoped was an awake noise. Mikey said, “He should drink something. Help me get him sitting.”
Lying down was painful enough, but being moved into sitting position was enough to make Brendon wretch. He was indecently glad he hadn’t had anything to eat in a while. Throwing up on guys who took you in off the street was bad manners, probably.
The glass hurt against his lips, but the water was good. Mikey took it away fairly quickly, and yeah, if Brendon had almost just been thrown up on, he probably would too. Still, he wouldn’t have minded some more.
“We really should take him to a hospital,” Gerard fretted.
Brendon’s breathing picked up which hurt like a motherfucking bitch. Luckily, Mikey asked, “Who’s gonna pay the bill, Gee?”
Gerard sighed. “He could be bleeding internally.”
“He’s been asleep for over thirteen hours. If he had a concussion or internal damage, I’m pretty sure he’d be brain damaged or dead by now.” Mikey didn’t sound one hundred percent sure, but Brendon sure as shit couldn’t afford a doctor and the logic seemed pretty solid, so Brendon decided he was sure as sure could be.
“Well, he’s at least staying here, for now. Understand?” Gerard asked. “You’re staying here until-“ Gerard frowned.
“Until we say so,” Mikey supplied.
Brendon wasn’t in any shape to argue. If it gave him a few days to consider his options-hitchhiking home and trying to get taken back in, or following the lead of the guys who worked under the bridge and off the main streets at night-then he’d take them. He thought he kind of deserved a break, just this once.
Mikey brought the glass back to Brendon’s lips, and Brendon took another few sips. Then Gerard and Mikey laid Brendon down again, and when the world had cleared up from the haze of pure pain it had become for a moment, Brendon drifted back off into sleep, where at least shit was just black.
part two
part three
part four