By the time Freddy wakes, the sun is setting and the dull glow of recently ignited street lamps casts his room in eerie shadows. He stretches out, yawning, trying not to open his eyes any more than necessary. He could sleep for another hour or two, he's sure of it, just so long as he doesn't let himself wake up.
The floorboards outside creak under the weight of warm bodies, someone carrying Iris back to bed. It's gotta be seven or later, they really went all out on that fucking party.
Through the walls, Freddy can just about catch the steady rumble of Sport's voice, coaxing her to drink some water and crawl into bed. If there's anything left to crawl. Poor kid, she's gonna feel all kinds of rough in the morning.
It doesn't take long after Sport finishes up down the hall for a soft knock to come through Freddy's door.
He could lie, and pretend to be asleep, and Sport would probably come in anyway just to check up on him. "Come in."
The door slides open almost soundlessly and Sport comes in after it. His shirt is stained with spilled drinks and sweat, and something that may or may not be puke. Freddy wrinkles his nose and Sport laughs.
"How ta doing, princess?"
"Better." Freddy leans up on his elbows. "Could use some coffee."
"I got it."
Sport hustles through to the kitchen and mercifully doesn't turn any lights on. He returns with two cups of coffee, passing one to Freddy and perching on the end of the bed. "You been awake long?"
Freddy shakes his head. "Slept all day."
"Poor baby. You musta really needed it."
"I guess."
The choker Sport wore to the party is lined with shark's teeth. In the muddles light it looks like a lace ruff, carefully separating his head from the rest of him. He reaches out and sets a hand on Freddy's knee through the duvet, rubbing his thumb gently over the bottom of Freddy's thigh.
He smiles, and Freddy can see how dog tired he is. "You mind if I stay here tonight?"
"No." With Sport here, Freddy won't have to work. He can't imagine anything worse than having to work right now. Here, in bed, the precise repercussions of his debauchery feel far off, but he knows as soon as he tries to move, to do anything, it's all going to come crashing down. The headache he doesn't have just yet is a disaster waiting to happen.
He takes a sip of his coffee and both loves and hates how much more alive it makes him feel. He has a stack of new comics he picked up the week before that he hasn't had time to work through just yet, and taking the rest of the evening, for however long he feels like being awake, to just read through those sounds amazing.
So he gets the comics, and Sport strips down and crawls into the other side of the bed. Table lamp on and the guy's asleep in five minutes, an arm slung loosely over Freddy's waist. Dead weight, pinning him down. It's not like he has anywhere else to be.
The deep red walls of Freddy's room echo the light from the streetlamps and the light from Freddy's bedside. The deep mat red of Daredevil, of Superman's cape. Sport's hair fans out on the pillow, his mouth hanging open and his face perfectly relaxed. To his credit, he's a graceful sleeper.
All painted red. Freddy blinks and sees his corpse on the inside of his eyelids. Put there by Larry, he can only imagine, and oh what a picture that would make.
To no one's surprise, Iris is off the books on Monday. Freddy wakes up early and eats his breakfast sat on the stoop. Over-rested and underfed, everything looks hyper real, the sharp edges of a pavement he's spent hours staring at suddenly unfamiliar and in need of remapping.
The work comes and goes steadily throughout the day. Sometime between Freddy waking up and his first customer, Sport vanishes into Iris's room and he hears not a peep out of them for the rest of the day. Just how it's supposed to be.
"You have a good time this weekend?" Gemima asks. It's closing in on lunch time and the two of them are scanning for a good opening to duck out and find themselves something to eat. They've been playing pimp for each other for most of the morning, trying their luck and trying to wrack up each other's prices to ridiculous heights.
She's jealous, clearly. Even if she would have fucking hated the party, and Freddy doubts she would have, it's a nice change of scenery. And most of the people coming back from it have gotten a day off, which is something of a luxury in their profession.
Freddy shrugs. "Yeah. Don't remember most of it though."
"Musta been pretty epic."
The day draws on and on, slow to finish, but ain't that always the way with Mondays? Freddy keeps catching himself staring up at Iris's bedroom window, dark and lifeless, and he wishes she were down here with them. The desperation catches him off guard, like they're on a timer here and she needs to get down here before the rest of their lives run out.
The rest of their fucking lives.
"What did you wanna be when you grew up?" Dolores needles Gemima.
Gemima wrinkles her nose. "When I was real little I wanted to be a mom. Can you imagine?"
Everyone laughs, even Freddy. He can't imagine that shit, he never once wanted to be a dad.
Some of the girls wanted to be nurses, or teachers. Once sincerely wanted to be President till she hit high school and worked out she was thick as a plank of wood.
"And you, Orange?"
He had wanted to get out of Bakersfield. So full marks to him, right? Or he had wanted to be a Superhero. He had wanted shit to be easy.
"I wanted to be a cop."
Everyone laughs, loud enough to earn them funny looks from the guys walking by on the other side of the road. Cops ain't good for shit. Who the hell would want to be a cop?
Tuesday morning and Iris comes down but she's not awake enough to eat breakfast with Freddy. She hides behind her thickest pair of sunglasses and says nothing for more or less the whole day. Freddy leaves her to it and pretends he ain't a little pissy that she doesn't want to talk to him. Fuck it, they all do this job feeling rough sometimes.
She's thirteen years old, he reminds himself. Officially. Sport still sells her like she's twelve though, but her sullen attitude and messy skin tone don't make her much money that day.
Leaving more for Freddy to do. The cloud cover is thick but New York is still hot as hell, raising the stink of the garbage left behind by a union that still refuses to play ball with city hall, leaving the whole place wreaking. Sport's lost his contact with the people who were moving the crap away from ninety second street and everyone is in silent agreement that they're not gonna bother asking about what the fuck that means for the rest of them.
"How you feeling?" Freddy prompts Iris, when it's five pm and she ain't eaten all day.
"I'll be good." She mumbles. "Sport's gotta big client for me to see tonight, just trying to psyche myself up for it."
And she falls silent. There's about fifty questions on the tip of Freddy's tongue, starting with how much she remembers of the party and taking a few detours via what exactly did the two of them wind up doing on the dance floor. They all wind up in her room the day before though, trying to be sure she's ok.
She'll be fine. Sport dismisses her and Freddy early, and she retreats to her room while Freddy decides he's going to go for a stroll. He can do that now, take himself round the block, maybe visit an arcade. See the girls on the other corners round here. Most of them are Sport's, so there's no issue with him trying to be friends with them.
He's seeing Larry in the morning. The thought leaves a happy sort of heat in his chest, he likes it. Likes it a whole lot more than the lukewarm recognition he runs though every time Nice Guy walks through the door.
Nice Guy and Vic Vega, he just about remembers that. He supposes he won't be seeing Nice Guy no more.
As the sunset hits, the bottom layer of clouds burns off, leaving a fiery red strip for the sun to peak up at them from. Two blocks away, Freddy has to catch his breath when he first spots it, heading back home at a pace, to reassure himself that his home isn't on fire all over again.
Re: Sport/Orange - shady skeevey stuff - 30/?
--------------------------------------------------------------
"What now?"
"I gotta go to bed, man. I'm dead on my feet here."
"You ain't on your feet."
"Yeah, well, you ain't as comfy as my mattress."
"Jesus..."
"Forreal, Larry, I gotta go."
"Ok. Ok. Shit."
"What's wrong?"
"Nuthin'. I just...I'm just thinkin' maybe I shouldn't have done that."
"Done what?"
"You know."
"Hey, cut that shit out. If the cops wanna ask you about it you can tell 'em it was all my idea."
"That's not fuckin' funny."
"It's kinda funny. C'mon, I gotta go."
"Let me walk you up."
"I ain't a teenage girl, I can get myself home."
"No, you're a teenage boy."
"Allegedly. Anyway, you can't come up unless you pay."
"I got money."
"For fuck's sake, Larry. You ain't one of my Johns."
"Jesus."
"Aw, man, please don't start freaking out on me."
"I'm not! I'm not. Jus'...you sure you won't come back with me?"
"Larry, if I don't get to bed in the next ten minutes I'm gonna expire on you. C'mon, let me go."
"I'm still gonna kill that bastard."
"Larry..."
"I fuckin' mean it."
"Just don't. Ok? Please?"
"I'm not about to make a promise like that."
"God fucking dammit. Alright, I'm going. Here's the money for the ride."
"You don't gotta-"
"Yes I do gotta fucking pay. Take my money."
"Shit. Ok. When can I see you again?"
"Whatchu doin' Wednesday morning?"
"What time?"
"Like, ten."
"I could do ten."
"Meet me for breakfast at the place just round the corner. Jeannie's."
"Sure, kid. It's a date."
------------------------------------------------------
By the time Freddy wakes, the sun is setting and the dull glow of recently ignited street lamps casts his room in eerie shadows. He stretches out, yawning, trying not to open his eyes any more than necessary. He could sleep for another hour or two, he's sure of it, just so long as he doesn't let himself wake up.
The floorboards outside creak under the weight of warm bodies, someone carrying Iris back to bed. It's gotta be seven or later, they really went all out on that fucking party.
Through the walls, Freddy can just about catch the steady rumble of Sport's voice, coaxing her to drink some water and crawl into bed. If there's anything left to crawl. Poor kid, she's gonna feel all kinds of rough in the morning.
It doesn't take long after Sport finishes up down the hall for a soft knock to come through Freddy's door.
He could lie, and pretend to be asleep, and Sport would probably come in anyway just to check up on him. "Come in."
The door slides open almost soundlessly and Sport comes in after it. His shirt is stained with spilled drinks and sweat, and something that may or may not be puke. Freddy wrinkles his nose and Sport laughs.
"How ta doing, princess?"
"Better." Freddy leans up on his elbows. "Could use some coffee."
"I got it."
Sport hustles through to the kitchen and mercifully doesn't turn any lights on. He returns with two cups of coffee, passing one to Freddy and perching on the end of the bed. "You been awake long?"
Freddy shakes his head. "Slept all day."
"Poor baby. You musta really needed it."
"I guess."
The choker Sport wore to the party is lined with shark's teeth. In the muddles light it looks like a lace ruff, carefully separating his head from the rest of him. He reaches out and sets a hand on Freddy's knee through the duvet, rubbing his thumb gently over the bottom of Freddy's thigh.
He smiles, and Freddy can see how dog tired he is. "You mind if I stay here tonight?"
"No." With Sport here, Freddy won't have to work. He can't imagine anything worse than having to work right now. Here, in bed, the precise repercussions of his debauchery feel far off, but he knows as soon as he tries to move, to do anything, it's all going to come crashing down. The headache he doesn't have just yet is a disaster waiting to happen.
He takes a sip of his coffee and both loves and hates how much more alive it makes him feel. He has a stack of new comics he picked up the week before that he hasn't had time to work through just yet, and taking the rest of the evening, for however long he feels like being awake, to just read through those sounds amazing.
So he gets the comics, and Sport strips down and crawls into the other side of the bed. Table lamp on and the guy's asleep in five minutes, an arm slung loosely over Freddy's waist. Dead weight, pinning him down. It's not like he has anywhere else to be.
The deep red walls of Freddy's room echo the light from the streetlamps and the light from Freddy's bedside. The deep mat red of Daredevil, of Superman's cape. Sport's hair fans out on the pillow, his mouth hanging open and his face perfectly relaxed. To his credit, he's a graceful sleeper.
All painted red. Freddy blinks and sees his corpse on the inside of his eyelids. Put there by Larry, he can only imagine, and oh what a picture that would make.
--------------------------------------------------------
To no one's surprise, Iris is off the books on Monday. Freddy wakes up early and eats his breakfast sat on the stoop. Over-rested and underfed, everything looks hyper real, the sharp edges of a pavement he's spent hours staring at suddenly unfamiliar and in need of remapping.
The work comes and goes steadily throughout the day. Sometime between Freddy waking up and his first customer, Sport vanishes into Iris's room and he hears not a peep out of them for the rest of the day. Just how it's supposed to be.
"You have a good time this weekend?" Gemima asks. It's closing in on lunch time and the two of them are scanning for a good opening to duck out and find themselves something to eat. They've been playing pimp for each other for most of the morning, trying their luck and trying to wrack up each other's prices to ridiculous heights.
She's jealous, clearly. Even if she would have fucking hated the party, and Freddy doubts she would have, it's a nice change of scenery. And most of the people coming back from it have gotten a day off, which is something of a luxury in their profession.
Freddy shrugs. "Yeah. Don't remember most of it though."
"Musta been pretty epic."
The day draws on and on, slow to finish, but ain't that always the way with Mondays? Freddy keeps catching himself staring up at Iris's bedroom window, dark and lifeless, and he wishes she were down here with them. The desperation catches him off guard, like they're on a timer here and she needs to get down here before the rest of their lives run out.
The rest of their fucking lives.
"What did you wanna be when you grew up?" Dolores needles Gemima.
Gemima wrinkles her nose. "When I was real little I wanted to be a mom. Can you imagine?"
Everyone laughs, even Freddy. He can't imagine that shit, he never once wanted to be a dad.
Some of the girls wanted to be nurses, or teachers. Once sincerely wanted to be President till she hit high school and worked out she was thick as a plank of wood.
"And you, Orange?"
He had wanted to get out of Bakersfield. So full marks to him, right? Or he had wanted to be a Superhero. He had wanted shit to be easy.
"I wanted to be a cop."
Everyone laughs, loud enough to earn them funny looks from the guys walking by on the other side of the road. Cops ain't good for shit. Who the hell would want to be a cop?
-----------------------------------------------------
Tuesday morning and Iris comes down but she's not awake enough to eat breakfast with Freddy. She hides behind her thickest pair of sunglasses and says nothing for more or less the whole day. Freddy leaves her to it and pretends he ain't a little pissy that she doesn't want to talk to him. Fuck it, they all do this job feeling rough sometimes.
She's thirteen years old, he reminds himself. Officially. Sport still sells her like she's twelve though, but her sullen attitude and messy skin tone don't make her much money that day.
Leaving more for Freddy to do. The cloud cover is thick but New York is still hot as hell, raising the stink of the garbage left behind by a union that still refuses to play ball with city hall, leaving the whole place wreaking. Sport's lost his contact with the people who were moving the crap away from ninety second street and everyone is in silent agreement that they're not gonna bother asking about what the fuck that means for the rest of them.
"How you feeling?" Freddy prompts Iris, when it's five pm and she ain't eaten all day.
"I'll be good." She mumbles. "Sport's gotta big client for me to see tonight, just trying to psyche myself up for it."
And she falls silent. There's about fifty questions on the tip of Freddy's tongue, starting with how much she remembers of the party and taking a few detours via what exactly did the two of them wind up doing on the dance floor. They all wind up in her room the day before though, trying to be sure she's ok.
She'll be fine. Sport dismisses her and Freddy early, and she retreats to her room while Freddy decides he's going to go for a stroll. He can do that now, take himself round the block, maybe visit an arcade. See the girls on the other corners round here. Most of them are Sport's, so there's no issue with him trying to be friends with them.
He's seeing Larry in the morning. The thought leaves a happy sort of heat in his chest, he likes it. Likes it a whole lot more than the lukewarm recognition he runs though every time Nice Guy walks through the door.
Nice Guy and Vic Vega, he just about remembers that. He supposes he won't be seeing Nice Guy no more.
As the sunset hits, the bottom layer of clouds burns off, leaving a fiery red strip for the sun to peak up at them from. Two blocks away, Freddy has to catch his breath when he first spots it, heading back home at a pace, to reassure himself that his home isn't on fire all over again.