I don't have so much time to work on this today so take a section that right now feels completely atonal and at odds with everything else going on here. Lots of sex talk in this bit, including a very strange conversation about Spider-Man

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The projection quality at the El Royale on sixty fifth street ain't shit, but it's right next to the place Freddy has decided is his favourite comic shop in the whole city based on the five minutes he's found time to spend in there, so here he is. The velvet of the seat is worn through and the base of his spine aches within minutes of sitting down. It's fractionally more full than he would like, leaving very little room for privacy. If the nervous, shuffling gaze of the other men in the theatre is anything to go by, he's not the only one that's noticed. Fundamentally, porno movies are a dumb business to get in to. Everyone's who makes use of this business wants privacy, not a fucking public airing.

Blurry bodies move against each other on the screen, showing the vague outline of a breast, a cock caught at half mast in the shadows through a sheet hung out to dry. It's all interspersed with shots of flowers, horses running, badly chopped together to make the thing feel less dirty than it is, as if the director had no fucking idea why people would turn out to see this shit in cinemas. Maybe they have to do that shit for the censors, but Freddy doesn't know why they don't just cut it right out again once it's time to let the thing be shown.

The vague intention of nausea has settled itself neatly below his stomach, possibly biding it's time or possibly on its way out. Freddy walked in here prepared to puke his guts up in the aisle but it turns out his stomach's stronger than that. Like handing a wad of bills over to Sport exorcised the whole sordid affair right out of him.

Through a filter of deep reds that's supposed to invoke passion but just muddles the film so bad it's impossible to see which of the four paper thin characters is supposed to be speaking, a woman cries out. The actress can't fake this shit, she sounds more annoyed than horny. Freddy's heard that real girls have to do that too sometimes, pretend like they're getting off so as to make their boyfriends feel better. He hopes that no girl ever has to feel that way with him.

There's too many people in here for the film to feel erotic, and the guy up at the back noisily jerking off doesn't do shit to change that. Freddy lets the poor lighting and ill defined images wash over him, his heartbeat steadying by the second. Maybe soon he can find himself a nice girl and finally get round to having some sex of his own.

---------

It's still mid-afternoon when Freddy leaves the theatre, and though the skies are grey they still feel all too bright having just come out of a dark room. He takes off round the corner, looking for Wacko Comics and trying to muster up some kind of sales pitch on his nonexistent experience as someone who the owner maybe wants to hire to help out.

Wacko is laid out like a record store, with boxes upon boxes of comics sorted into vague genre brackets that you have to scout through alphabetically in search of what you want. Like any good comic shop, the new releases are kept behind the counter, held back for regular customers, and you have to be one lucky sonofabitch to persuade him to give it to you.

First, you have to get the guy's attention.

"I'm telling you man." The owner drawls down the phone. He's tall, with an overdone dark quiff and too much chin. "Spider-Man's all about sex. Kinky sex. Sexual awakening gone dark. No, listen, kid starts getting hot under the collar for Gwen Stacy and then the spider bite is supposed to be that magic moment that you realise that sex can happen to you. So he puts on a fucking gimp suit and runs around saving people, only saving people is a metaphor for fucking. I'm telling you! How does Spider-Man save people? He gets them with those web shooters of his. I know that he makes the web shooters himself, what do you-? Doesn't matter. He saves them with the web shooters and I don't gotta tell you that those things look like cum. Yes they do! Kid's fucking nutting out of his wrists to save people, that's what he does. But it doesn't satisfy him, because he doesn't want to fuck any of the people he's saving, he wants t fuck the got girl at school, but really he wants her to know that he's the one who fucked her, the one who fucked the entire damn city. So later on when he's taking of his mask for MJ that's what he's doing, he's proving to her that he's a regular fuck machine. Because he doesn't get off on anonymity, he gets off on exclusivity, you see? I'm telling you man, think about it."

"'Scuse me." Freddy waves to get the guy's attention.

The owner roles his eyes. "Hold up, I got a customer. Yeah kid, what do you want?"

"I was wondering if you had the new Iron Man in."

"Maybe I do, what's it to you?"

"I wanna buy it."

The owner snorts. "Whole lotta people wanna buy that comic. I got regulars asking for it way ahead of you. Come back next week some time."

"I could become a regular." Freddy insists, inching closer to the counter.

The owner waves the phone around like this information means absolutely nothing to him. "So become a fucking regular. Come back next week."

He buries himself back in his phone conversation about Spider-Man and Freddy doesn't move a muscle. He can see the stupid Iron Man issue sat on a chair just behind the counter. He's behind on Fantastic Four and cares enough to catch up but his interest in Iron Man only comes round so often, he has to make the most of it while it lasts.

The shop is hardly big, and though it's not busy it's also not empty. Freddy doesn't think that the kind of sex talk the owner is spouting would fly in any sort of business place back in Bakersfield.

"Hey! Mister, excuse me!" Freddy tries again. The owner turns back to him with murder in his eyes and he keeps talking before he can be talked over. "You know, if Spider-Man saving people means that he's fucking him, that means the reason he's so cut up about his Uncle Ben all the time is that he never got to fuck him."

The owner sneers. "I don't remember asking your opinion."

"I'm just saying, that's pretty fucked up to want to fuck your uncle like that."

"So what? He's a kinky, uncle fucking freak. Scram!"

"But if he wants to fuck his uncle so bad, why is he so happy when he gets to fuck the hot girl."

"Yeah, sorry Bill. Kid here won't shut up. He is not talking sense!" The owner snaps into the receiver before setting it down on the counter and rounding on Freddy. "He wants to fuck his uncle for fucked up reasons, he wants to fuck the hot girl because that's what teenage boys want. You get it? You wanna fuck a hot girl?"

Freddy shrugs. It's supposed to make him look cool and carefree but he just feels awkward. "Wouldn't say no."

"So you get it. If you wanted to fuck your uncle but you also wanted to fuck a hot girl, and you got to fuck the hot girl, wouldn't you feel relieved?"

"Maybe, but then what's stopping me from giving up on fucking other people? Ya know? If it's all a story about some guy trying to get over his perversion, isn't the part where he gets to date MJ the bit where he can finally stop worrying about all that shit?"

The owner strokes his chin, thoughtfully. Freddy realises with a giddy sort of shock that he's gone from vaguely pissed off to interested very quickly. "Maybe. I gotta think about it. You wanted Iron Man, right?"

"Yeah." Freddy grins, watching the owner reach back for the issue.

"That's a dollar. What's you're name kid?"

"Why d'you wanna know?" Freddy pulls the money from his pocket and presses it in to the guy's hand.

"You said you could become a regular. I gotta know all my regular's names or what's the point."

Fair. Freddy holds out his hands to accept the comic. "I'm Freddy."

"Nice to meet you Freddy. You can call me Mr Brown." Mr Brown smiles and it all gets lost in the weird angles of his face. His eyes are small and sharp but his tongue seems stuck an inch from tripping over itself.

"Cool." Freddy nods. "I guess I'll see you around then, Mr Brown."

"You better had! Come back when you got a minute next time. You think Spider-Man's kinky? He ain't got nothing on Batman."

The couch dips like a hollowed out balloon animal when Freddy settles on it, looking around the tight skinned walls of Brown's place and pretending he doesn't see the damp mould growing in the far corner, or the cigarette burns in the carpet. "Thanks for putting me up, man."

"Enough with that shit." Brown looks up from the fridge on the far side of the room, holding up a beer in offering that Freddy rejects out of hand. "I'm not putting up with you, you're fucking paying me. Quid pro quo only. I'm not trying to get caught up in no debt scam here."

He pops the cap off his own beer and leans up against the open archway through to the lose collection of cupboards and a stove that could be called a kitchen, taking a long sip. He's so fucking paranoid, thinks everyone is trying to get one up on him at all times.

Stale cigarette smells are baked into the concrete of this town, but when Freddy shifts his ass, trying to get comfortable, he still gets a lungfull of last year's Malboroughs.

Brown gestures round the room, his eyes finding the most egregious stains without even trying. "So, what do you do for fun?"

"Comics, mostly." Freddy shrugs. "Go out to the movies. I tried skateboarding for a while back home but my dad sold my board after I nearly broke my arm trying to run up a halfpipe."

"Bastard." Brown clicks his tongue. "Fucking fathers, they ain't worth shit."

Freddy's agreement lands exactly halfway to his mouth and he doesn't force the issue.

"Seriously though." Brown continues. "That all you do? You don't go out to clubs, don't try to get any pussy?"

The air stings with his lack of irony. Old men aren't supposed to go talking to the next generation like they're on the same level. Not that Brown is old, just older. You can see it in the stubble forming across his cheeks. Freddy couldn't grow a beard if he tried.

Freddy clears his throat, trying to avoid eye contact but not knowing what to do with his face if it's not pointed right at his new flatmate. His fucking boss. "Uh. I can't drink yet, so..."

"You need a fake ID? I know a guy, I can hook you up."

"No, thank you."

Brown's eyes narrow, his mouth twisted up under that stupid chin of his. "I'm gonna get you one anyway, in case you change your mind. Christmas present."

There are two other guys that live here, who have real names that Freddy apparently only ever needs to use for tax purposes but who are known by stupid nicknames that feel like they were picked out by Brown.

"This is Blue." Brown snickers, nodding towards the old guy who gets through the door around nine at night. "Works for the city, running waste management contracts."

Blue holds out his hand to be shaken, but barely says a word. He grabs himself a beer and settles down the other end of the couch from Freddy, interjecting only when Brown's ceaseless diatribe leans a little too far into his obsession with perversions.

He's really fucking old. Sat next to him, Freddy can smell cheap cologne that mimics the good stuff his grandpa used to bring out on high days and holidays and his hair is a shock of pale grey. Thick set, more wrinkles than you could count and with a cigarette in his hand as soon as he sat down. He looks at people when they're talking though, even if Freddy barely gets more than five seconds to say his piece.

The group is completed by the arrival of Pink, a man who looks exactly like a weasel and hates his name. "Shut the fuck up! Seriously, enough with the Mr Pink shit."

"I wouldn't call you Mr Pink if you weren't such a faggot."

"I'm the faggot? That's pretty fucking rich coming from the guy who never found a cartoon dick he couldn't suck."

Pink marches into the living room, skips the beer and heads straight for the bourbon tucked up on the top of the fridge. It would be kind of sly as a hiding place if he weren't a clean two inches shorter than Brown. A glass is poured and he turns back to the room at large, doing a double take when he sees Freddy. "Who's the kid."

"This is Freddy." Brown tells him, as Freddy waves hello. "The new guy, gonna be helping us with the rent."

"This is the kid you found?" Pink squawks, incredulous? "Jesus, he's fucking twelve. You shoulda left him where you found him, he ain't got no business hanging about with you."

"He likes comics, I got a comic book store! He needs a place to stay, I got a couch. We have a good relationship going on here."

Pink curls his lips in disgust and looks past Brown to Freddy. "So where's his stupid colour name?"

Brown's eyes light up, looking Freddy over with manic glee. Blue starts chuckling, deep in his chest and hard enough to shake the sofa. "I knew I was missing something. Whaddaya think, Blue? He look like any kind of colour to you?"

Blue shrugs. "White?"

"No shit he's fucking white. We're all fucking white. And we can't go calling him Mr Black or those half brained darkies down the road'll go apeshit if they catch us at it." Brown scratches at his neck. "What about Red?"

"He ain't cool enough to be Red." Blue disagrees.

"Oh my god." Pink's face seems to be permanently screwed up in consternation. "Pick a colour, any fucking colour."

Brown waves him down. "I mean, if he ain't cool enough to be Red he might as well be Orange."

"Works for me." Blue agrees.

"Do I got any say in the matter?" Freddy asks, looking towards Pink who shakes his head so carefully you'd be forgiven for thinking he didn't do shit.

Brown titters, high pitched and a long way off feminine. "Welcome home, Mr Orange."

----------------

The back office at Wacko Comics is Freddy Newandyke's fucking kingdom, his Taj Mahal, his own personal little piece of heaven. Comics come in, comics get put into some kind of order, no one else comes in here but him. Stuff gets delivered on a Tuesday afternoon so by Wednesday morning it's ready for his attention, and in three weeks it hasn't taken him more than two days to sort all the stock for the week.

What remains is time, and no obligation to do anything with it but browse the merchandise. Everything he could ever want a fair few stories he couldn't give less of a shit about. It's kinda fun keeping up with Archie Comics at the same time as literally getting paid t bone up on the current state of Marvel.

When he does have to leave, it's generally for lunch. "Gonna grab something from the deli down the way, you want anything?"

Brown doesn't answer immediately, which isn't particularly unusual, he's usually got his head shoved so far up his own ass that he's functionally deaf. Either that or watching porn out back with the sound turned off.

But today there's a good reason for him to be silent. There's a guy at the counter, built like a linebacker, staring Brown down. He smiles, unfriendly and threatening. "But I'm sure, you gotta go have lunch. I'll be seeing you."

Freddy stays rooted to the spot as the big guy leaves. When the door swings closed, Brown is still tensed against the counter, looking worryingly sober.

"Who the fuck was that guy?" Freddy asks.

Brown shakes his head. "He was fucking nobody. Get me a hoagie or something. No mayo, you know the drill."

"He didn't look like nobody." Freddy prompts.

Brown flips on a time, launching himself upright and bellowing Freddy out of the shop. "I said get me a fucking sandwich, Orange!"

It's pretty easy to leave without a word after that. Freddy might even take a walk around the block, come back lightly dappled from the rain and technically late, like he has anything to do with his time. Up ahead, the guy who had been threatening Brown is getting into his car. It's a nice vehicle, a yellow Cadillac without a scratch on her. As he ducks in out of the rain he catches sight of Freddy and pauses just long enough to wink at him.

Freddy doesn't like that one bit. He cuts his speed in half and dawdles along like he's not in a rush to get anywhere till the car has pulled away.

It's taking me forever to get to the point with this. I promise, there is a point

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It ain't none of his business, but Freddy's dad always did say that he was nosy in more ways than one, right before pinching the bridge of Freddy's oversized honker and laughing in his face.

His mom would get pissy every time she caught him at it. Apparently the nose was a family heirloom, passed down from his great great grandmother, but it had managed to skip her out entirely.

It's clear that Brown really does give half a shit about comic books, but once that shit runs out this business is more or less a dead weight to him. Freddy starts finding more excuses to get out of the stock room, getting an idea of how many customers actually bother to come through the doors. It ain't much, and newbies tend to be kids with or without parents who get freaked out by Brown's inability to keep from swearing for more than five seconds.

But Brown's always got enough money in the bank to pay Freddy, and order more stock. A couple of guys have pull lists but it's not all that impressive. The odd bits and bobs he sells here and there don't seem to have much to do with the bottom line.

"You wanna man the front, Orange? I got some business I gotta attend to." Brown asks.

Freddy looks up from the busywork he's assigned himself, putting the stash of Incredible Hulk comics they have in a box by the back wall in some sort of usable order. Everything in the shop has its own box, but the boxes themselves are all out of wack. "What kind of business?"

"It don't fucking matter what kind of business. What matters is I need someone to take money for a couple of hours. Can you handle that shit?"

Freddy looks round the shop. No one else is in by the two of them. He nods, and fishes a particularly gratuitous cover out of the box in front of him. Bruce Banner is all gone, wrapped in green skin and purple trousers that never seem to tear as his thighs expand. He holds it up for Brown to see as he grabs his coat. "How many sizes too big do you reckon Doctor Banner has to wear his clothes to stop himself ripping everything when he hulks out?"

Brown giggles. "Fuckin' ten, twenty or some shit. You know his dick's gotta get like a coke bottle, you need plenty of give to account for that."

Freddy supposes he's right, but gets away without saying anything as Brown swans out the door and leaves him be.

For five minutes, Freddy keeps sorting comics. The walls in New York are universally thin and without the thrum of Brown's restless energy to take the edge off, he can hear everything happening outside. From the drone of cars cruising down the block to feet hitting the sidewalk. That's all there is, the box full of comics and the sounds coming in from outside.

And Brown doesn't come back, doesn't change his mind about leaving Freddy be. Maybe he really does have business to attend to, maybe he just wanted to go catch a dirty film.

Maybe he pays for girls to come back to the apartment with him and fucks them while no one else is about. He doesn't seem to get any action on his own, even if he does spend the weekends staying out as late as possible, coming home with stories of bright lights and warm bodies in downtown clubs.

The mental picture doesn't work. Freddy can't believe that Brown has ever had an honest lay. He conjures up the image of money changing hand, the cursory pretense at romance before he's standing to attention, ready to go and her legs are spread and her eyes are closed. Freddy should feel something about that more than pervasive numbness.

Everything he knows about sex, Freddy learned from pornography. When he slips up behind the counter, the first thing he clocks is that the television Brown uses to watch girls wail and groan like they're having a good time is off. He fixes it with a long, steady look before deciding not to turn it on.

Behind the counter itself, there's nothing more than the till, more or less empty save a scattering of change, and a few stacks of particularly popular comics. Freddy leaves them be, and moves forward into the back office proper.

Though there's a door to this room, it's never closed, and though he's never been specifically told not to come in here, Freddy's never seen it save from the outside. The TV sits on a table that's not big enough for anything else, and the chair sat opposite it looks fragile enough to fall apart as soon as its sat on. Shelves groan with the weight of various stock books and receipt files that mostly don't look like they've been here since the war. Everything wreaks of dust, caked in an unwelcome layer of grey, like an attic left too long unattended.

Tucked away in one corner, are five books that look like someone's written in them some time in the past decade. All bound in navy blue and stuck up with strips peppered in Brown's barely legible handwriting. Freddy grabs the one labelled nineteen seventy four onwards and flips open at the begining. Orders and purchases have been marked up meticulously, accounting for every individual sale and keeping a running total of everything left in stock at the end of each month. At first, Freddy can't see anything wrong with it, save for some rather strange consumer trends about six months ago.

He catches the problem when he starts looking for the record of the Iron Man comic he bought when he first came in. It doesn't take him long, given that he can more or less remember the date and he was one of the first to buy the comic here, according to the log.

Which is fucking weird, because it had been out for long enough that Freddy had heard kids talking about it in the street. He had really wanted that comic, and when he skips to the end of October he can see Brown only had five left in stock from an order of a hundred.

His eyes flick over to the price column and his stomach drops. Two dollars sixty five, it says he paid for the thing, and the single dollar hole it burned in his pocket lights up. Freddy starts counting in numbers from the last week, seeing fifty plus purchases made on a day they can't have had more than fifteen customers in all told, and everything at a significant mark up from what Brown would ever actually sell it at, usually coming out as more than double.

Freddy slams the book shut, and dust dances in the air in front of his eyes, the room thick with it whether its settled or not. he sets it back as best he can, hoping that Brown's typical laissez faire attitude to organisation will keep him from noticing any disturbed lines in the grime coating the floor. Maybe it's a tax thing, but settling more product surely means you have to pay more tax. Could be an insurance scam though, Brown trying to make the business look more profitable than it is before he burns the whole thing down.

The click of the door opening pulls Freddy sharply back into the room. His heart jumps up into his mouth, and decides immediately that if Brown is back early, his excuse for walking off the shop floor was to turn the TV on. Brown seems convinced that Freddy's age means he doesn't stop thinking about sex, he'll buy it.

It's not Brown. Freddy brushes dust off his shoulders as he approaches the counter with a smile that this place probably doesn't deserve. It's not like any of the other customers ever get that kind of treatment.

"Hey." Freddy nods towards the guy. He opens his mouth to say something stupid like 'can I help you?' before changing his mind. If the guy needs help, he can ask.

The guy is huge, wearing rough denim jeans and a button down with the sleeves buttoned tight around his wrists. Not a shred of muscle visible and yet he looks like he could knock clean through a wall if the mood took him. Everything is a size or two too big and Freddy's hackles raise like the guy's about to go full hulk in front of him.

The guy looks up, and Freddy recognises him as the man who had been threatening Brown a couple of weeks back. His dark hair is gelled back off his face, which is disarmingly open, curiosity knitting itself into his eyes when he's not met by the familiar face of the business. "Where's Mr Brown?"

"He had some business to attend to." Freddy says, very quickly. His eyes dart to the comic the guy has picked up. Supergirl. Odd choice for someone who looks like him.

"That's pretty unusual, I gotta say." The guy scratches his head. "Shame, I had some stuff to discuss with him."

"I work here too, ya know. I might be able to help." Freddy wishes he were able to keep his stupid mouth shut.

The guy looks at him long and hard, like he's having a hard time weight up his options. Eventually he shakes his head. "Nah, this ain't for you to get caught up in." He slides the Supergirl comic on to the counter and starts reaching for his wallet. "Just let him know that Vic Vega stopped by, and I'd really appreciate it if he could be in this time tomorrow."

His voice is so soft it's kinda hard to hear what he's saying. With the counter in between the two of them, the effect is no doubt lessened by the guy's gotta be a full foot taller than Freddy. He thumbs three dollar bills from his wallet.

Freddy hesitates to take the money. "Sir, this comic only costs a dollar."

Vega's eyes narrow as he smiles, laughing ever so slightly under his breath. "You're a good kid, ya know? Keep the other two dollars for yourself if you like, for being so good."

And that's the thrilling story of how Freddy Newandyke had two extra dollars in his pocket by the end of the day. Vega leaves with his comic, and the store is more or less silent till it comes time to close up.

---------

Brown makes it back to the flat several hours after Freddy falls in, having fed himself and spent his shiny new dollars in a penny arcade. His face is flushed, his arms floppy and uncoordinated at his side. One way or another, he definitely got laid.

"Thanks for looking after the store for me." He says, absent minded as he pushes through to the kitchen to grab a glass of water to go with the burger he's got wrapped up under one arm.

"S'fine." Freddy shrugs. He's got the New York Post open on his lap, looking through an article on some art exhibition he has no intent to go to in a million years.

"Anything funny happen?"

"This guy stopped by, Vic Vega. Said he had something he wanted to talk to you about. He's planning on coming by again tomorrow afternoon."

Brown tenses up, shooting a warning look back towards Freddy. "Shit. You didn't say shit to Pink or Blue did you?"

Freddy shakes his head.

"Good." Brown breathes. "Shit. Forgot he was supposed to come by today. Fuck. Ok, thanks for telling me."

He grabs his glass of water and runs off towards his bedroom without bothering to ask Freddy whether he managed to move any stock throughout the day.

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I made a bunch of spelling and syntax errors in the last section. These were mistakes. Eventually this will be tidied up and put on ao3 and probably more people will see it there though so I guess I shouldn't stress too much

Also Blue surprised me in this chunk by being a pretty cool dude. Nice personality you got there, Blue. Also this is a Christmas episode I never meant to write?????

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The blank page stares up at Freddy, accusing and impassive. If he could put the thing back in his notebook, he would, but the frayed edges from where it was pried from the binding won't have it. He has to use it or waste it, or pretend that if he leaves it be today there's a snowball's chance in hell that he'll ever get back to it.

The pen he's borrowing off Blue is mostly out of ink, he couldn't say much if he wanted to. When it hits the paper and he starts sketching out the over-familiar letters of his parents' address he's surprised at how smoothly he can hold the thing. He hasn't really written anything in weeks.

He's missed the last post that could have gotten anything to California in time for Christmas, but he still starts out with a hesitant wish that the two of them didn't hate the holiday season. The family home, dressed in pine branches dragged down from upstate, not a drop of snow in sight but all the carols still sing themselves like the climate has an obligation towards freezing at this time of year. His grandparents will probably be there, minus Pop on his dad's side who bit the dust when Freddy was very small. Maybe an aunt or an uncle, a cousin or too.

Just not him. A hole where he used to be. Too much Christmas dinner on the table because he's not there to eat half his bodyweight in turkey, no fighting over which channel to flip too when everyone collapses in a food coma when they're done, because dad will pick and no one will challenge him. Presents under the tree, unopened, or not there at all.

The pen skips and Freddy's breath catches as he considers, for the first time, that they might miss him, or that Christmas might be too painful to look full in the face without him there. Curled up on the sofa in Brown's apartment, at three in the afternoon on a Monday, and they have a scraggly little pot plant from Pink's room out with some string draped over it and a picture cut fresh from the back of a porn rag stuck to the top in place of an angel. It's happening here, whether it's happening anywhere else or not.

"Where are you going for the holidays, kid?" Blue asks when he bustles in later that evening to start stirring tomatoes and herbs together into pasta sauce. The mostly blank piece of paper is tucked between the pages of the Fantastic Four comic Freddy's been reading for the past ten minutes and there it's likely to stay.

Freddy shrugs. "Ain't got anywhere else to be."

"Here?" Blue shakes his head, pity practically dripping into his dinner. "That's not right kid. This is a miserable place to stay for the holidays."

"Pink and Brown'll be here."

"Pink will hold out till Christmas eve then drag his ass up to the Bronx to see his mother like she wants him to. Brown'll get drunk enough to pass out first thing and then you're on you're own."

It's just another day in the year, it doesn't mean shit. Freddy can stay at home and do nothing. Or get his ass at least a little bit in gear and try to scrounge up something to cook. It would probably suck, but it's not like his mom ever managed much with food beyond cooking a whole fucking bunch with it.

He doesn't look up at Blue, painfully ware he's being watched. "What are you doing?"

"Friend of mine has a bunch of us old guys over together each year. Guys who don't really got other places to be, you know?" Blue leans towards Freddy. "That kinda sounds like you."

"I could head back to California." Freddy counters, like that's a real fucking possibility.

"So go back to California." Blue huffs. "Or come with me. Sling me twenty dollars and I'll make sure you show up with a nice bottle of whiskey in hand. You should always bring a gift when you visit someone, but especially on Christmas."

"My Grammy says the same exact shit." Freddy smiles ever so slightly. Still not looking at Blue, but no opposed to changing that attitude sometime soon.

"Smart lady." Blue grins.


----------


A nudey pen for Brown, who think's it's hysterical, and a book on free market economics for Pink, bought as a joke but received with enthusiastic thanks. Freddy gets a quarter ounce of marijuana and a Stealers Wheel record from the two of them respectively and worries that he didn't spend enough on them.

Blue insisted he didn't want shit from Freddy and that he probably wouldn't give anything in return and that more or less seems true. By the time he and Freddy are gearing up to leave, Brown is half way through a bottle of bourbon and Pink is rushing to the Bronx as fast as his legs will carry him.

Freddy bought himself a thick woolly jumper at the start of advent and combined with his leather jacket he'll have a job getting cold. His breath forms neat little puffs in front of his face as he steps out, like he's been smoking and the dirty snow crunches under the heel of his boots. The girls that are out, on today of all days, are allowed to throw a coat and a santa hat on over their usual ensembles but they still must be freezing. They pass a gaggle as they turn off down twelfth avenue and they don't even have the energy to proposition the Johns walking past. They huddle, like penguins in those pictures of the antarctic, trying to keep their eggs from freezing.

Blue shakes his head. "It's no time of year to be a hooker."

"Not sure it's ever a good time of year to be a hooker."

"Eh, when you look at the way some of the restaurants and the offices treat their girls, I ain't so sure. At least if you're a hooker, the guys trying to fuck you are kinda the point, and it pays properly. If you get a good pimp it can be a pretty decent life."

"That's a pretty big if." Freddy hunches down into his jacket, feeling the weight of the bottle of whiskey he has tucked up inside settling and swaying in his hand as he walks.

Blue's buddy lives about ten blocks down and two floors up, in a place that its notably nicer than Brown's. It's been so long since Freddy saw a clean carpet he's half scared to step over it as he gets ushered into the room by a red faced Polish man named Ruddy.

"Good to see you, my friend." Ruddy drags Blue into an bear hug. "And you have brought us new meat? Ah, he is so young, when I saw him on the doorstep I thought he was a woman."

"Nice to meet you, sir." Freddy unzips his coat and passes over the whiskey.

Ruddy claps him on the shoulder and bellows out a laugh. "I think it was a good idea for you to come. You are called Orange, right?"

"Freddy's fine." Freddy cocks an eyebrow in Blue's direction.

Blue shrugs. "Eh, I ain't ever called you Freddy. Probably ain't gonna start tonight."

The house is thick with cigarette smoke worse than Brown's but the smell of something in the oven cuts through that in a heartbeat. Freddy is led through to the sitting room where four other old guys are sitting. Save for Ruddy, who has a shock of dark hair and mustache, everyone is some flavour of grey. Freddy's already been advised that for one reason or another, no one in the room has a wife and he would be wise to not imply there's anything unseemly in that.

"This is Gerry." Ruddy points to a tiny old man with a few whisps of hair and oversized glasses. "Tomasz, or Tommy." A tall, stern looking fellow with an overhanging brow. "Eli." Straight backed and pot bellied. "Alex." Also small, but without the glasses. "And Larry."

Freddy's grinning as soon as he catches sight of the cab driver, decked out in a white button down with the sleeves rolled up. He reaches for Larry's hand. "Long time, no see."

"You can say that again." Larry leaps up, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. "Jeez, Freddy! How ya been?"

"You two know each other?" Blue asks.

"Sure. Freddy ran our switchboard down on fifty seventh street for a while when Jeannie had that little accident." Larry says and everyone nods somewhat somberly.

Blue levels a very careful look at Larry which is resolutely ignored.

"C'mon." Larry nods for Freddy to join him on the sofa. "Tell me what's going on with you."

"Uh, I'm working in a comic book shop." Freddy says, stupidly, like the guy's going to care.

But Larry does care, leaning in and letting his arm fall casual over the back of the sofa. "Yeah? How's the work? They pay you properly?"

"Pay's better than with the cab company but fewer hours. I'm living right above the shop though, so I ain't gotta walk all over town."

"That's good." Larry frowns ever so slightly. "Wait, you're living with Blue and Brown and that lot."

"And Pink, yeah."

"Fucking Pink..."

"You know 'em?" Freddy clears his throat. "I mean, most people call 'em by their real names."

Larry rolls his eyes. "Those stupid fucking colours. I shouldn't use 'em but I do. Sue me. I was in that house for five minutes about three years ago, before I pulled my shit together and straightened myself out. Hey, I got a colour and everything."

"No shit!" Freddy laughs. "Which one are you."

"White." Larry holds out his hand like he's introducing himself all over again. "You."

"Orange." Freddy shakes. He skims Larry's face and can see the slur of his lips, the slight waver in his posture. He's had a few to drink, a long way off blackout but still. No wonder he's so happy to see Freddy.

He's warm though. Warm and friendly and that's nice. Freddy leans back up against the arm on the back of the couch and just knows that if he were sober, Larry would take that as his cue to rearrange himself. Their conversation pitters out pretty fast, having little to say for itself beyond running through the checklist of all the ways that their lives have diverged, which are monumental and tiny in the same breath.

But Larry sticks to him like a limpet for the rest of the dday. Freddy thinks of the group of cab drivers crowded together at the back of a Mexican restaurant and how no one really wanted to eat their except Larry. And the dude doesn't have a wife, and works a job that eats up almost every waking hour carting strangers from place to place. Then going home to an empty apartment.

It sounds like an awful lonely way to live. At the church he was so often dragged along to back in Bakersfield, there were these ads that went up around Christmas encouraging people to sign up to spend the say with lonely old folk. If Larry weren't here, maybe he'd be on a list somewhere, waiting for a stranger to show up and convince him not to be sad.

Not that Larry's old. The grey isn't even that pronounced in amongst the mahogany, but it's hard not to feel like a kid in company like this.

"You old enough to drink?" Eli asks, moving to open up the bottle Freddy brought with him.

He's never had whiskey, only bourbon. He hated it, but it was kinda fun. Freddy grins sheepishly, inviting leniency.

"He ain't. But if you don't tell, I won't." Blue clarifies.

"That's the motto! That's the fuckin' motto!" Larry bellows. He ushers the small splash that Eli grants Freddy into his mouth and gives him a hefty slap on the back. "You drink to that, kid, and you'll never set a foot wrong in your life."

It's the weirdest Christmas Freddy has ever been involved in, not least because Ruddy and Tommy are Orthodox and don't really celebrate Christmas till the New Year and Larry, Eli and Alex are Jewish. The thing in the oven is a Polish fish roast that is eaten with the potatoes unroasted and the cabbage leaves stuffed.

"I didn't know you were a Jew." Freddy says, watching Larry pass over the cabbage leaves after establishing that they're packed with pork.

"Yeah, the city's lousy with us." Larry snorts. "But hey, I get the day off anyway and Chanukkah's already wrapped up. Being here's more fun than sitting at home alone."

There's no TV, dinner happens when it happens, no one suggests charades. Freddy hears stories from the war and complaints about customers and no one even dares suggest that there might be a mass somewhere in the city that they should make an appearance at. Gerry, who speaks in a borderline unintelligible squeak, gently ribs and Blue and Freddy for wasting the say with them.

"No place better to be, right?" Freddy raises an eyebrow at Blue.

Blue laughs, takes a sip of whiskey and starts up another story.

"Right?" Sport replies, voice all quiet like they're the only two people in the room.

"Right." Freddy's tongue wets his lips, searching for the next line. "So she's got most of the same powers as Superman, only she's a girl. Like a teenager. She saves the world and tries to stay hopeful."

Sport's smile is so small and private. Freddy wishes he would ratchet up his bravado again, stop the shop from shrinking around them until he has nowhere to go but down. "That sounds pretty good to me. You got another copy kicking around?"

"I can check." Brown cuts in.

"Wow now!" Sport steadies him with a hand on an arm. "He's the stock guy, right? Ain't he supposed to check the stock?"

Freddy doesn't wait for permission. He sets the boxes down at his feet and walks over to the boxes just opposite from the counter. He flips through for ten seconds before he finds an issue from the start of a two year old run that he remembers being pretty good. "Here, start with this one."

When Sport reaches out to take it from him, his fingers slip over the top of Freddy's and he grips tight for all the time it takes to blink before taking the comic to the counter.

Freddy's hand feels like it's been dipped in hot wax.

Letting out a low whistle, Sport reaches for his wallet. "This one must be popular. She's sexy."

"She's a kid." Vega says, flatly.

Sport shrugs. "Age is just a number, my friend."

"I ain't your friend."

"Sure you're not." Sport grins at him. "How much?"

"A dollar." Brown takes the cash, and all the while Freddy is standing there, his hand clutched against his stomach and the stock box waiting to head into the backroom.

On his way out the door, Sport turns back to them all to doff the air where his hat should be. His eyes linger on Freddy, warm and deep and Freddy could swear the affection in his face is real. "Y'know, if this guy ain't paying you enough, I got ways to fix that."

"Stop trying to poach my staff!" Brown sneers. Sport slips out the door without another word.

The long beat of silence between the three of them is deeply uncomfortable. Freddy is the one to break it, rushing over to his box and trying to get the door open to vanish into the backroom.

"What a creep." Brown hisses, under his breath.

Vega nods. "Orange, stay away from him."

"I'll try." Freddy replies, meekly. It's the first time he's spoken to the guy directly since the afternoon he came in when Brown wasn't around.

The backroom is even colder than the main floor, but there's no one around to see Freddy sink to the floor, clutching the box to his chest and trying to slow his heartbeat down.

The Cabots, Sport. Fucking New York City. He can't breathe. He has to get out. There's nowhere else to go.

Distantly, the sound of Brown and Vega's continued negotiations permeate the thin wooden door. They go back and forth and back and forth and it doesn't do Brown any good. He still gets saddled with the same proportion of the agreed sum he has to launder as any other week. Like they're gonna get a single legit customer when the place stinks and the street stinks and everything stinks.

Freddy stays in the backroom till he moves past shivering and decides he needs to move before he gets frozen in place. As he rises to his feet, the faint static building at the back of his mind becomes a real world sound, peppering the windows as the rain comes down, ready to flood the drains.

I reiterate - Freddy's age is not going to be locked down in the text of this fic at any point. It's safe to assume he's between sixteen and twenty but exactly where he falls within that rage is kind of unimportant and kind of up to you. What you need to remember is that most people peg him as being a minor. Point being - this section contains a sliver of Freddy taking control of his own sexuality a character who is definitely a much older adult likes it, and if that sounds at all uncomfortable to you then you might wanna skip this chunk.

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The clock on the back wall says it's two thirty in the morning and that Larry is late. Freddy's hands won't stay still, jumping through his hair and skipping rhythms out on his knees. He wants to sleep, but even silk sheets couldn't get him under tonight. The garage is nowhere near as frigid as the streets but it's a far sight off war, and his rain soaked jeans have him shivering, wondering when the hell they're supposed to dry off.

At least his feet are dry. He'll take wet legs over wet feet any day of the week. every now and then he thinks he catches a whiff of smoke and has to remind himself that he never got within a hundred metres of the fire, and the rain will have washed any trace of it down the street with the rest of the sewage.

Every second thought starts with him envisioning what he's going to say when he gets back to the apartment. Blue shaking his head, letting them all know that much as he doesn't like how it turned out, Brown sealed his own fate. Pink whinging about the smell of smoke now baked into the walls along with everything else. Brown shrugging and insisting that he meant for everything to go down the way it is, that he doesn't have anything resembling regrets. It's a physical effort to remind himself that none of that exists anymore, it can't. He stood up off that awful fucking sofa that morning and he will never sit back down.

A car comes rumbling into the garage, windscreen wipers still working a mile a minute. Freddy sits up, blinking fast to clear his head and get a read on who's driving as it pulls into an empty spot and the engine cuts.

"Fucking traffic." Larry hisses, slamming the door as he steps out of the car. "Whole city's backed up worse than a smackhead sailor."

Joe holds out a hand for the tin of cash that every cabbie carries with them. "That the rain?"

"Nah, it ain't the fucking rain. I know what rain traffic looks like. There's cop cars everywhere and you got crooks running scared up and down the island. I was having to play it real careful with who I picked up. Looks like some kinda bust."

"Who'd they bust? The blacks?"

"Nah, if it was Harlem it wouldn't have been a problem for me. Everyone I saw looking to head on the lamb was white."

Joe nods. "You reckon you picked up any crooks?"

Larry shakes his head. "Once I saw what was happening, I stayed away from white guys. Easy." His eyes flicker around the room, clocking which cars are in and out, the time, the girl on the switchboard, before finally settling on Freddy. "What the fuck?"

"Kid's been here for hours." Joe tells him. "Said he needs to speak to you."

Larry approaches cautiously, hunching over slightly even as Freddy rises to his feet to greet him. It's weird, seeing him compromise his posture like that. Not that Freddy knows him well enough to tell ass from elbow about how this guy looks on most of his days off.

"Hey, Freddy." Larry's brow is furrowed, the sweeping bow of his lips as flat as it ever gets. "What's up?"

This is possibly a very bad idea. Freddy smiles and can see by the apprehension that crosses Larry's face that it's weak at best. "Hey, Larry. Um...can we talk somewhere?"

"Uh..." Larry looks round at the clock again. It's late, he doesn't wanna be here. He never asked to have Freddy show up and demand some kind of mercy, but he's one of the few pieces of this city that seems capable of granting it. "Sure. Lemme get my coat."

The two of them scurry through the rain to a late night diner where Larry buys Freddy a milkshake and hustles him off to a far table at the back. They sit, and Freddy is uncomfortably aware of the dark circles under Larry's eyes and the slump of his shoulders. He's exhausted, he should be at home.

"Wish I could say it was good to see you, kid." Larry smiles a wry smile. "But I got this feeling that you ain't got no good news for me."

Freddy tries to laugh and a strangled sort of sound comes out of his mouth instead. He takes a gulp of milkshake and tries to focus on the sweet thud of milk against his tongue. "You know how you said that the cops were busting a whole lotta folk tonight?"

The fear that crosses Larry's face is momentary but it's profound. "You caught up in that?"

"I..." Freddy stops, clears his throat, breathes in deep and tries not to let the warmth of the diner have him thinking that he could start napping. "I think they went after the Cabots. And like...everyone who worked for them."

A long, slow exhale and Larry collapses back in his chair. "Yeah, I was kinda thinking the same thing."

"You know about the Cabots?"

"Know about the Cabots...sheesh, listen you yourself, kid. If you're below a certain pay grade in this town, you've heard of the Cabots, that's just how it is. They're always hiring, number one employers of the white working class in New York city. How were you involved?"

"I was working for this guy, and sleeping on his couch. He ran a comic shop. Thought it was all pretty normal but one time he left me in there alone and I found the log books out back and-"

"And those log books didn't have shit to do with the amount of product actually shifted." Larry finishes. "Fuck. You know who the main point of contact was, between your boss and the Cabots I mean."

"A guy called Vic Vega. Big, kinda quiet. He-" Freddy stops talking. Larry's mouth has gone very tight and his face very pale. He knows exactly who Vic Vega is.

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"So what happened?"

"So, the place this guy lived, where I was living with Blue, was right over this comic shop. I went out to get some stuff done before heading home this evening. When I left the shop everything was fine but when I got back..."

"Fire?" Larry raises an eyebrow. Freddy nods. "Yeah, that's how they work. The raids started sometime this afternoon, best as I can tell. So they send round guys scorching as much earth as possible before the cops arrive. Gives them an easier day in court."

Freddy takes a deep breath and hates how it shudders against his lungs. He tries another sip of his milkshake but it comes out tacky and gross. "I...um...I got there when they were arresting the guy I was working for. And everything was on fire. I figured...I don't know if my name was on anything official. I just..."

"You got out of there." Larry says, quietly. He leans in over the table, folding his arms in front of him and it feels so fucking kind. He's not yelling, not angry, not a bone of judgement in his body. Freddy once handed in a piece of homework late and his parents didn't speak to him for the rest of the day when he got back from detention. "That's smart. You don't wanna go to jail for that shit. Bet you didn't even realise what you were getting into when you took the job."

Freddy shakes his head. "I just...I really needed the money."

"Hey, I've been there. You know what they say, don't look a gift horse in the mouth." Larry's voice drops even lower, and the care he's taking makes Freddy's stomach start flip flopping. "So, why'd you come to see me?"

And there's the kicker. There should be friends, contacts, other places he could go. But there's something about the guy you first meet when you come to the big city, how he keeps cropping up in your life through no effort of your own. Freddy could have tried any number of different people, he could have tried to track down Travis fucking Bickle if the mood had taken him, and it would have felt like he was dragging the universe out of wack.

Freddy wants to tell Larry that he feels safe and stable in a way no one else in this city does to him, not even Blue. Instead he shrugs with one shoulder. "I don't got many friends here."

Larry hums. "I dunno why you decided to come to New York, Freddy, but I'm not sure if it's the right place for you."

It's the right place for anyone, it has to be. Freddy's eyes sting and air doesn't seem to be making it to his lungs properly. On the first sob, he panics, cramming his fist into his mouth for fear of doing it again.

It's not the reaction Larry was expecting. "Wow, kid. Slow down, it's alright, it's alright." He reaches over to lay a hand on Freddy's wrist, slowly prying his hand away from his face. Larry's hand are so big and so warm. Freddy wishes he wouldn't let go.

"I got...I lost all my shit, all my money." Freddy gasps. "I don't got no place to go. I...I can't go back to California."

Larry watches him, lips slightly parted as he breathes deep. He just looks solid, safe. He holds out his arms and beckons Freddy over. "C'mere, kid."

Freddy practically launches himself over the table, falling into Larry's arms and burying his face in the older man's shoulder. The terror of the night smacks him hard over the head and before he can reach for a handhold he's over the cliff and crying for things lost to the fire, for whatever shit he's going to have to do tomorrow to pull himself back into shape.

Larry doesn't tell him to stop, a kindness he's not used to. He pulls Freddy down to sit in his lap and doesn't complain when handfuls of his shirt start to stretch around the fists balled up in them. "It's alright. I got you. It's all gonna be alright."

The last person who properly hugged Freddy was his grandmother, some two weeks before he got the hell out of Bakersfield. He hadn't even realised he'd been missing human contact, but it rushes up at him so fast as to knock the wind out of him, as if he wasn't having enough trouble working out how to breathe.

He calms down in increments, and when he finally finds it in himself to stop his efforts to burrow into Larry's chest, he becomes uncomfortably aware that the attention of the diner is largely directed at the two of them. He tries to pull away from himself, imagining what the picture must look like, and he has too admit that it's close to damning.

"There, that better?" Larry fishes a handkerchief out of a pocket and starts wiping tears off Freddy's face. He's still got one arm looped loosely around Freddy's middle, and regardless of what anyone else might think is going on between the two of them, it feels nice.

Freddy nods. "I'm so fucked."

"We're gonna work this out." Larry's all business, deadly serious. No room for meaningless platitudes here. "I'm guessing you came to me to find out if I could put you up."

"Yeah."

"Well, you gotta let me level with you, alright?" Larry finishes up with the handkerchief and Freddy takes it as the signal to stand himself up and return to his own chair. "I got a history with the Cabot's myself, and it's a little stickier than yours."

Freddy's eyes widen. Larry's so straight edge it hurts, he can't imagine him putting a toe out of line without good cause. "No shit? Why?"

"I needed money, and I needed friends." Larry's mouth quirks, not quite a smile. "Sound familiar at all?"

"Yeah."

"Well, there you go. That's how I met your pal Blue, which is how I wound up living in that shitty apartment that you're running from. Honestly, if the two of youse weren't still trying to live out of that litter tray, I'd say it was a good riddance."

"Wait, Blue worked for the Cabots?" Freddy frowns.

"Oh yeah." Larry's eyes go wide and Freddy's almost sorry he asked. "Yeah...Blue's worked for all sorts of folks. He's good people, but he's done some shit, y'know?"

Freddy has no idea. "Sure."

"Anyway, me and him did a couple of jobs together, nothing I'm proud of. He snuck me out of the organisation through a back door and I've been home free since."

"That's pretty good luck."

"Eh, you can only use guy's so many times before the police learn to recognise you. I had maybe one good run left in me and the Cabots had enough people to not waste too much time on me. I paid my dues."

"You didn't ever think about getting out of town?" Freddy's learned a lot these past few months. Most importantly, what New York folk sound like. Larry's not from round these parts, he has something he could go back to, or something to keep running from.

Larry levels a stare at Freddy. "You thinking about getting out of town just now?"

That's all there is to it. Once you've got to New York, everything else feels like a downgrade. Freddy could go anywhere, but his mind was made up before he so much as saw the burning effigy of Wacko Comics. He's staying, he's gonna keep trying to swim no matter how many times he sinks.

"No." He replies in a quiet voice. He sucks on the straw of his milkshake and the thick gloop mixes with the seemingly endless quantities of snot that a good cry always gets out of him. His dad always said that was because his nose was too big.

Larry's eyes zero in on him, and that stupid uncomfortable giddiness that Freddy doesn't know what to do with strikes once again. He pretends he doesn't notice as he makes a big show of swallowing, wiping up a spare drop from his lips and sucking hard on the finger he uses for it.

"What I'm getting at here." Larry says, slowly. "Is that I'm not the best person for you to be staying with just now. I don't know how deep the cops have broken in with the Cabots and I don't know if my name would be on any pieces of paper. Right now you wanna stay away from anyone with any link to the Cabots. Vic Vega's got a reputation for not squealing, but if the whole organisation has gone down then all bets are off. Brown might have kept you off the books but Vega still knows who you are."

The calm that had started to settle over Freddy vanishes in an instant. He looks up sharply at Larry and anger starts to colour the hazy, mismatched fog of his brain. What the fuck are they doing here of Larry can't help him?

"What the fuck am I supposed to do?" Freddy snaps

Larry flips to a frown in an instant. "You know, I don't gotta talk this shit through with you at all if I don't want to. I should be at home, asleep right now."

"Ah yeah, that home you're not gonna let me in to."

Squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw, Larry's wide enough to blot out the fucking sun if he wanted to. He keeps his voice light, but for the first time Freddy can see how he might have made a decent criminal. "You wanna try that again?"

Chewing on his tongue, Freddy casts his eyes sideways. "Sorry, man."

"S'alright. You're in a tight spot. A guy can say shit he don't mean in the moment, but you gotta remember who's on your side here, kid."

He's right. The number of people Freddy has on his side are pretty minimal. even if Larry was a Grade A scumbag, he's not in a position to turn down his help, let alone sniff at it. Assuming Pink and Blue are out for the count for the time being, Joe will tolerate him and not much more, Travis is a fucking psycho who probably doesn't know how to help someone if he tried, Yolanda only helped him when he paid her and Iris is powerless to do shit, the bottom of his barrel of friends is starting to look pretty clear.

A voice in his head suggests that he might have other options. It sounds like Sport, it sounds like Shaundra. He doesn't want it.

"So, who else have you got apart from me?" Larry asks. "And I want you to be really sure that these folk don't have shit to do with the Cabots."

From the way Larry's been talking, that's ruling out half of New York City. Even the girls who work for Sport who might recognise him are caught up in Cabot shit, because Sport evidently had beef with them before they got taken down. He lets out a huff of laughter.

I'm conscious that I have completely hecked up the Taxi Driver timeline across this fic. This is all very raw though and I fully intend to tidy it all up when it comes time to edit. This whole story is likely to look VERY different once properly edited tbh.....

Homelessness in this part. Nothing overly grim but plenty of sleeping on the streets.

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The film of frost covering the cardboard cracks as Freddy stretches himself out, muscles stiff from the cold. You can wrap yourself up as tight as you please but you've still gotta sleep on the ground. If you're smart, you get yourself some time in one of the bigger bins that are properly covered over by their lids and get yourself some proper shuteye. The trouble is, that in addition to being smart, you have to be strong enough to stand your ground.

He lies there, savouring the dark for as long as he can stand. The scarf, fished out from under a seat at the bus station, holds in his breath, warming his nose but forcing him to smell the stink of the past two weeks without a toothbrush.

It's supposed to start getting warmer soon. This is all going to be easier when it's warmer. Freddy pushes aside the disassembled boxes he's been sleeping under and meets the day.

The sky is a dim shade of violet, fading towards white in the distance, heralding the sun. He looks around the alley and, seeing that he's still alone, goes to take a leak against the far wall. He's not gonna get lucky like this for much longer, it's been two days since the last crop of rain came down and there's only so long they can go before it comes again. The trash has been piling up this past week, and while that's great news for anyone trying to find a spot to sleep it leaves behind the stains and filth that bring disease. It could all do with washing away, even if the cardboard disintegrates with the rain.

He can't for the life of him remember which part of town he's in. There's nothing to do with his time but walk, wander, people watch. Sometimes he stops in somewhere and asks for a job, but after a few days he started to stink too bad to make a good go of it. Soon he'll know this place better than any taxi driver, and all without trying.

Maybe he should get his license. Freddy laughs and stumbles out of the alley, his legs taking time to warm up, leaden and useless underneath his jeans. At least they've mostly dried out. The second morning he woke up with them frozen solid, had to use an old plywood board to smash them free before he could go anywhere.

It's early, early enough that the bus routes are the only stream of traffic that's properly occupied, but the campaign men are already out and about. A gaggle of them, down the street, putting up posters for Palantine. It's a thankless task without end. Essential to have the city wallpapered with the choice candidate's face but hard to keep up when opponents and stupid kids will tear it all down as soon as look at them. Freddy watches them creep up the road, smiling and handing out campaign badges to anyone who will listen.

"Good morning, sir! Can I ask how you'll be voting?" An overly perky young man comes bounding up to Freddy, pre-prepared speech on the tip of his tongue.

Freddy takes his time eyeing him up, trying to set his teeth on edge. "That ain't till November, man."

"It's never too early to start thinking about how to cast your vote!" The guy continues. His smile is too wide, his skin too smooth. His glasses make his eyes bug and bulge, far too eager for this cursory little win.

One of the others comes up behind him, flinching ever so slightly when she gets a good look at Freddy. "C'mon, Dan. He's not old enough to vote."

The party continues on down the road, and Freddy keeps watching till he can no longer hear the gentle lilt of their conversation over the crowds and the cars. New York wakes up around him, earlier than most towns, but anyone who thinks this place doesn't sleep is fooling themselves.

-----------------

Breakfast is pilfered from the bins outback of a Chinese place. Tepid noodles congealing in a soy sauce concoction that's salty enough to leave him craving water for the rest of the day. The sun burns through the frost by mid-morning but standing at the Battery Freddy can see the clouds rolling in off the Atlantic, thick and dark. Lady Liberty's flame catches the sun real nice for now though, and Freddy returns to fantasies of what he'd do if he had the money and the time to go see her.

He had the money and the time and he wasted it all dicking around mid Manhattan. He wasted it not talking to Holdaway and not making any fucking friends outside of the four walls he was living in. Stupid. He's made more friends in two weeks on the streets than he did in three months of living with a roof over his head. Cursory, passing friendships, but friendships nonetheless.

A quarter rattles into his cup, thrown down by a guy in a sharp suit who spares Freddy the same bewildered look of pity he's starting get used to from anyone with real money. The people who know what it's like to be poor, they tend to drop off what they can and move on, just trying to do what they can for the little guy.

What this country needs is a candidate for the little guy. And maybe that's Palantine but how the fuck is Freddy supposed to know? The posters bearing his face that litter the town don't have a single thing to say about his policies. Freddy's slept under the guy on more than one occasion and couldn't tell you shit about his political leanings if you stuck his feet in the fire.

Money trickles into his cup, slowly slowly but enough that he can probably afford something hot for dinner. He's hungry now, he's hungry almost permanently from the work his body has to put in to keep him warm, but he'll wait. He needs to start investing in cigarettes, they're supposed to dampen your appetite.

So's smack. He's a little way off that yet.

The best spots for begging are supposed to be up near Central Park. Everyone knows this, so everyone heads over there and the place is overcrowded as shit, enough to bring the cops down semi-regularly. Local legend says there was once a tent city in the park, big enough for all the down and outs in New York. But whatever collective spirit infected the homeless in the thirties is gone now, or it's weakened to the point where it's useless. People know each other, sure, but that's not gonna stop anyone from wailing on you if they've got something you want.

The meeting date he agreed with Larry is still three weeks off. In all likelihood, Freddy won't make his way to Central Park before then. He had been past the cab company three days after Larry bought him breakfast and let him cry himself out, but he was gone. Joe, shrugging apologetically, had made it clear that his contract was terminated, that he had said something about having to get out of town and bolted.

The police are still out on the prowl, picking up the tail ends of the Cabot operation. Freddy knows that the big guy - Joe Cabot - is under lock and key and is likely gonna die there. There ain't no lawyers good enough to get him out of the bed he made himself to lie in. His son, Eddie, is still out and about though. The guys on the street talk about it with excitement, like one lone gangster with most of his contacts down the drain is gonna do shit for them.

"Hey, employment's employment." Shaq had grinned. Shaq is kinda old, and his name probably isn't Shaq. He makes the most of the Time Square pickings and he never recognises Freddy when they run into each other but he pretends to as soon as Freddy makes it clear that he's seen him before.

The cold is supposed to start fading soon. Soon. It has to. Its unfair that it hasn't yet. Freddy can't even sit too long in one spot without his legs seizing up.

The girls outside the cinemas, and on the street corners, no longer bother him. Guys are only useful to them as long as they have money, and Freddy doesn't have any of that shit. Freddy has coins in a paper cup and fuck all else to show for himself. He has a thick, effective rain coat and a jumper underneath that's nice enough folk have tried to jump him for it three times. He has a mental block on ninety second and sixty fourth street. He's fucking useless.

A gaggle of kids start to creep across from the other side of the battery, their eyes on Freddy. Kids, it turns out, are fucking psychopaths. All of them. Nine times out of ten, when you hear of a guy getting beat up for sleeping in the streets, it's kids that are to blame. The other one time is police.

Freddy lets them get around half way round to him before he moves, carefully and calmly tucking his cup into the inside of his jacket and walking on. Walking anywhere. He spends so much of his time in this town just walking.

--------------------------------

And sometimes he thinks he sees a mustache that could only belong to Blue, here's a high whining voice that reminds him of Pink, sees a guy towering over the crowds and imagines that it's brown. Sometimes he sees the top of a grey trimmed Afro and goes running after it, just in case it turns out to be Holdaway, and he's always wrong.

He doesn't really remember where Ruddy lives, and after a morning spent knocking on doors and getting nowhere he gives up the ghost. What would he really expect Ruddy to do for him anyway? For all he knows, the guy was as wrapped up with the Cabots as Larry or Blue. For all he knows he was higher up. For all he knows the guy got taken away.

All he's got is there here and now, in front of him. The rain comes down and Freddy wonders, dully, where he's going to sleep that night. The streets stink with the mounting weight of all that trash, crammed together too tight. He would work as a trash man, if the union didn't have the city in a choke hold someone would probably wanna hire him for that shit. No one leaves out the kind of thing that a guy like him might be able to sleep under though. Not unless you're really lucky. Anyone who finds a sheet of tarpaulin grabs hold of that shit and doesn't let go till he's beaten bloody and it's forcibly removed from his hands.

Freddy imagines that he wouldn't let go even then. He's always been scrawny, and even a propensity towards being a scrappy little shit has never saved him from a good beating. Standing up to his father was an act of inevitable self sabotage.

So Freddy keeps walking, as the night turns dark and the puddles soak the bottoms of his jeans. He's wearing his boots too hard, they won't be waterproof much longer. He keeps going till exhaustion is too much to manage, and he curls himself up at the foot of a building and sleeps despite the wet and the cold and the hopelessness of everything.

Finally. I'm getting to the point here. Sport is here to coerce and groom and be awful. Iris is here and Freddy has a moment of clarify about the exact nature of her work - not graphic or even particularly descriptive but still, underage sex of dubious consent is happening offscreen.

---------------------------------------------------

Some of the rules come easy to him, the way they come easy to just about anyone who's ever had to risk sleeping rough. You keep your head down, you don't make a habit of sleeping in the same place every night and if you do you're damn quiet about it. You don't own anything, because the shit you own can be stolen right off your back. You don't make friends with anyone who's not also on the street. If you can possibly help it, you don't make friends at all. The closest thing Freddy sees to a functioning relationship out here is the pimps coming by to check on their girls.

The days are slipping away from him fast. Soon he'll have to start hanging around Central Park in the mornings, just in case he's hit the day when Larry shows up. Maybe the guy will finally let Freddy into his house. Maybe this time it will be easy.

Freddy remembers Larry's eyes, hot on him as he slurped his milkshake. He wants more of that, more conversations over dinners, more easy platitudes. More of Larry's attention.

What he would do with that attention, he doesn't know. He always smiles extra wide when a pretty girl deems him worthy of a coin or two. He figures it's worth a shot. If any of them were down to fool around with a street rat, he's about the best looking of the bunch.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" Freddy looks up from the stoop of the squat he's perched on. You have to be in with the head of the residents' not quite cult to get in, and he's not, but they let him hang out here, off the road some evenings.

The guys coming up the path though, don't live here. There's two of them, both stick thin but bulked up with layers and layers of clothing that they don't look to have taken off in months. In the half light of the setting sun, they look like little more than vaguely green blobs with legs sticking out of the bottom.

And they're looking right at him. Freddy flinches on instinct, he doesn't want them anywhere near him, you don't have to live on the streets to know that fights can break out in the time it takes to blink in New York.

He ducks his head and tries to pretend they're not talking to him. It's not like he's got space to run, backed up towards the door of the squat.

The smell of the rain rises up hard and sharp beneath his nose. Normally, he doesn't notice it, but it hits him so hard he doesn't know how he's been missing it. Beneath the smog and the filth and whatever smell if rising off the two guys coming up the garden path, there is something clean and honest.

It rains everywhere. New York's not special.

"I said." A foot makes gentle contact with Freddy's shoulder, the threat that it could do more hanging over his head with the clouds. "What have we here?"

Freddy looks up at the two of them, trying to straighten out his spine, making himself look bigger. "Man, I'm just trying to stay out of the rain."

"What d'you gotta stay outta the rain for? Y'don't need it, not with a coat like that." One of the pair, his face hidden behind a tangle of facial hair that rises till it meets his hat, gets his fingers under the hood of Freddy's jacket, testing the material.

Not good. Not good at all. Freddy catches sight of a hand slipped into a pocket and moves without thinking.

He barrels forward, but there's no meat on his bones and no momentum behind him. Still, the second guy stumbles and he thinks he might have an opening, till the hand in the back of his hood tightens, drawing him back towards the stoop before latching onto his hair and threatening to brain him on the grimy old flagstones.

"Lemme go!" Freddy hisses, kicking out his legs and hitting nothing. He reaches up, ready to scratch or maim a face as much as necessary. Two fingers lose themselves in someone's beard and he thinks he's got a hold to work with till the sharp sting of teeth crunching down over the first knuckle has him squealing and backing up.

They've come prepared, two knives staring Freddy down once he recovers. Too rusty to shimmer in any kind of light but in many ways that's worse. If he puts his mind to it, a guy can do some damage with pretty much anything. At least when the blade is clean, so is the cut.

The first guy grins. "See, we've taken a liking to your coat."

"Right." Second nods. "We want it. Hand it over."

"How the fuck am I supposed to hand over my coat when you've got me on my back?" Freddy spits.

"Ah, a real wise guy."

"Fucking Einstein out here."

"Fuck you!" Freddy tries, somewhat feebly, to twist out of their grip and gets nowhere save five centimeters closer to having his eye pocked out with a pocket knife.

"Listen." The first guy says, holding his knife steady while the second gets to work on Freddy's zip. "We're gonna take the coat. Looks real nice, like it really keeps the water off. You can fight it if you like, but you're just gonna get cut up."

Boots nearly worn through, no coat. Freddy will freeze inside of a week. With his hood pulled back, he can feel the rain on his face, pooling in the hollows of his eyes. He needs the fucking coat, he can't get by without it.

Ten minutes later, Freddy is two blocks away, preemptively shivering with the cold he's gonna feel in the morning and nursing a gash in the palm of his left hand. He needs to clean it, probably. It stings like a bitch, and when he cups his hand the blood pools dramatically in the creases of his loose fist. Rain peppers the pavements, hard enough that he knows it's going to soak through his shirt before the cloud cover clears. Darkness is creeping up the skyline, soon to be replaced with the blistering neon of the night.

He dips into a corner store and starts browsing, mindlessly, hoping he can fool the owner into thinking he might be a real customer for long enough to catch his breath. His arms feel strange, moving freely without the trappings of his coat to hone them in. He doesn't like it. Fuck. He doesn't like it at all.

"You ok there, pal?" A short guy with dark hair, stocking up on tinned tomato soup casts Freddy a worried look, holding out a hand to catch him if he falls but unwilling to commit to laying a hand on him.

Freddy nods, way too quickly. "Yeah. Fine."

"You're shaking like a leaf."

"I'm fine."

The guy's eyes dart down and too late, Freddy follows them. The first splatters of blood have pulled themselves free and dashed themselves on the grubby linoleum floor.

Freddy doesn't wait around for the advice that he should go see a doctor or the apparition of the owner, inevitably furious that some layabout was stinking up his store. He stumbles back out on to the streets and resolves then and there that he can't go anywhere until he's stopped bleeding.

Blood, pouring off and out of him, into the drain. Scabbing over. Where it all belongs. Freddy takes a deep breath and waits for his head to stop spinning. His heart doesn't know whether its speeding up or slowing down and though he knows he knows this area, he can't place it in his head.

He does what he always does when the going gets rough in this town. He starts walking. If he goes far enough eventually he'll hit the ocean, or at least run out of stamina. Run yourself ragged enough and you might get to fall down, unconscious in the streets. Wonderfully, gloriously, asleep.

The lights fade and bubble in front of his eyes, the blood in his hand forever damp but turning tacky and thick where it pours over his fingers. Freddy looks down and sees the gooseflesh rising off his skin, the train of blood skimming down the side of his jeans like a racing stripe. When he was a kid he loved watching the Nascar races that sometimes wound their way on to his television, his dad laughing good natured at the kid who just wanted to watch the cars go round and round and round.

A sharp honk from a dark Chevvie drags him out of his head. He didn't mean to cross the road. Freddy offers up his bloody hand by way of apology and sees the driver's face twist in shocked disgust.

Shock. It's all just shock. He's in shock. And he's cold. The lights are wrong. He's not supposed to track by lights. Just another block along, and another. he's got nowhere to be.

"Freddy?"

He doesn't know that voice, or he does but he doesn't. It's been a while since he heard it. This particular run of tourist tat shops could be anywhere in the city, but the owners have collectively invested in some real awnings, and sure as shit there's a gaggle of girls waiting under here for some poor schmuck to come in and scoop them up off the street.

She takes a moment to come into focus, looking for a moment like an angel, the way her hat flares out behind her in a wonderfully unchic halo. She's been allowed to wear a long coat tonight, but it's not particularly thick. She must be freezing.

Freddy's teeth stop chattering just long enough to get her name out. "Iris...hey..."

Her face is tight with cautious worry. She's scared, he thinks, of what will happen if she spends too long talking to him rather than doing her job.

A horrifically graphic image of what it is exactly that Iris does for a living suggests itself to him and Freddy has to grab the wall to keep himself from puking.

"You know this guy?" One of the other girls asks. She's noticeably older than Iris, but her hair is the same shade of blonde, running all the way to her ass, decked out in glittering hippy finery.

Iris nods. "I'm gonna go get Sport."

"No!" Freddy hisses. "I don't...I don't need to see him...I don't want to see him."

"Yeah, well, tough shit. He's the only guy I know who can fix you up."

She's gone, ducking round the corner and Freddy tries to will his feet to move, to run. Keep walking, play it like a fucking shark, don't let the water stop flowing over your gills or you're suffocate and die. Go! Go you fucking idiot!

Sport can't have left more than thirty seconds before Freddy arrived. He swears he can hear the pimp cussing Iris out, saying some shit about how she wasn't supposed to get her outfit wet, how he paid good money for that.

They come back together, arm in arm and all smiles. Sport has ditched the hat for the evening and his long dark hair is stuck down to the sides of his head, combined with the length of rope he's wrapped around his neck he makes for a rather eerie sight.

The smile, just too wide to be genuine, softens as he approaches Freddy, before morphing into something that looks worryingly like real concern. "Oh no. Oh my sweet boy, what happened to you."

"I...I don't..." Freddy tries to pull away from him, but Sport gets a hand on the back of his neck and he's so, so warm. And sturdy. And he's looking at Freddy like he's the most important thing in the world.

"You poor baby. Look at your fucking hand." Sport curses, reaching down to tear a strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt and wrapping it around the gash in Freddy's palm. The fabric stains red almost immediately but the pressure feels good against the open wound. "What happened? You get mugged? If you know who did it, you let me know, ok? I'll fuck them up real good for you, baby, I promise."

"I don't..." Freddy insists all over again. He can shake his head all he fucking wants, his legs aren't going to move.

The hand at his neck slips round to cradle his face, thumb clearing away the rain on his cheek and Freddy doesn't know what to do with such a bold expression of affection. His eyes prickle and he can't catch his breath for long enough to keep from crying.

And once the first sob has worked its way out of him, the rest can only follow. Freddy collapses in against Sport and warm arms come round to cradle him, a hand running up and down his back, nose buried in his hair, telling him that everything's going to be ok.

For the first time since he can remember, he almost believes it.

"We're gonna get you home, ok?" Sport mumbles into Freddy's hair. "Gonna take you home, sweet boy. Sweet, sweet Freddy. And you can eat and sleep and we'll fix up that hand. Does that sound good?"

Freddy pulls back just far enough to meet Sport's eyes, so sad and so angry for him, but so happy to see him alive. And what the fuck, honestly. He's just some kid on the street.

He tries again, deep breath and all. "I don't..."

"C'mon now." Sport wipes away a stray tear from Freddy's cheek. "C'mon. You've done enough running. Let me take care of you, please. I just wanna make this easy for you."

Freddy glances over to the girls huddled behind Sport. He can see them more clearly now, his heart rate having evened. Their clothes are clean, they smile on the job, they never look like they don't know where their next meal is coming from.

Tentatively, Freddy reaches for the parts of himself that remember how to move his skull. It's a stupid thing to do, but the smartest thing he can think to, under the circumstances. He nods, just once, and the relief that flushes through him is divine. It's over. The night and the wet and the running. He's here, he's been caught. Now comes the easy part.

Sport grins at him, squeezing all the tighter. "That's my boy." Lips pressed to Freddy's forehead, slow and lingering. "That's my good boy."

His first day at Sport's, Freddy doesn't get out of bed at all. On the second day, he wakes, still alone, to find the bandage wrapped round his hand still white and clean. He breathes deep, smells the deep green funk of spliff worming it's way under the door, and decides that he needs to get up.

He's wearing a white tshirt several sizes too big that must be Sport's, and his own underwear in serious need of washing. He's filthy, tracks of grime that he couldn't put a name to spiraling down across his arms and legs. Stupidly, he thinks that the sheets he's been sleeping in must be in serious need of a clean, and then he wonders if he would be expected to pay for it.

Or maybe Sport is rich, maybe he has his own washer and dryer. Freddy must have seen the rest of the apartment, there's no way he could have made it to the bed otherwise, but he can't remember what it looks like for love nor money and every time he tries to envision what might lie beyond the door his brain supplies a hybrid image of his parents' house and the place he was living with Brown, Blue and Pink.

To get him into bed, Sport must have had to get his clothes off. Freddy's stomach tightens and for a moment he thinks he's about to land back on the bed, ass first. Sooner or later, Sport is going to want something in return, and he better be good and ready to run when that day hits.

There's a pair of silk kimono's hanging on a stand next to an ornate, dark wood wardrobe. Freddy has to make a quick decision between pastel pink and orange and decides that he would rather uphold his dead nickname. It can't have been more than three weeks since someone called him Orange and it already feels like a distant part of himself, burned up in the fire along with everything else.

A fuckload of comics became kindling that night, and sometimes that's the saddest thing about the whole affair as far as Freddy's concerned. He's already missed at least one big order, falling behind on runs that he was just getting used to having in his grasp at all time.

Tying the kimono in place, Freddy eases the door open. It opens out onto a corridor painted deep green, with a mustard carpet, the walls covered with art and paintings that form a blaze of unrelated colour palettes on first glance and are all pornographic on second. The smell of marijuana is stronger out here, but it's undercut with the soft homeliness of something baking in the oven. Voices drift through from an open door, one unfamiliar and low, punctuated by the more lively jabber of Sport.

Heel to toe, letting the spine of his feet role him forward, Indian style, Freddy creeps along the corridor. The carpet is plush beneath him, and everything is clean in a way entirely unbefitting of New York. The image of Sport in an apron and marigolds, scrubbing away at a filthy oven, suggests itself to Freddy, and he's so knocked back by the idea that he has to stifle a snort in the back of his hand.

The conversation stops, dead air hanging overhead for a long second. "Freddy?" Sport calls. "That you out of bed?"

Freddy stops shitting around, he picks up the pace and sticks his head around the open door. "Yeah."

Sport's living room is deep terracotta with velvet brown furniture, a red and cream Persian carpet and enough plants to start up a garden centre. Freddy's eye is immediately drawn to the bright blue tarpaulin wrap in the far corner, surrounding a cluster of plants overseen by a large, over-bright lamp, but letting his gaze linger feels invasive for reasons he can't quite put his finger on. Sport is decked out in yellow hareem pants and a black kimono, stretched out on an armchair big enough for two with a joint hanging out of his mouth. On the couch, a black guy in a sharp suit, dripping in gold jewelry smokes his own bowl.

Sport smiles at Freddy and slowly starts rearranging himself to clamber to his feet. "Well look at you, sweetheart. You sleep good?"

Freddy nods, shuffling himself over the threshold. He feels markedly self conscious, a damn site off naked but exposed and strange in the presence of people with their shit together. Sport floats over to him, setting down his joint at the edge of an ashtray on the coffee table in the middle of the room. He puts his hands on Freddy's shoulders and starts rubbing up and down, oh so slowly. "How you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Yeah? How's that hand?"

Freddy holds up the unstained bandages as proof of his improvement. It still hurts when he tries to curl his hand up, but as the doctor in the joke said, that's probably just a sign that he should stop fucking doing that shit.

Sport takes the injured hand in both of his, stroking slowly across the bandages, smiling to himself. "That's good. That's real good. Listen, baby, I'm so happy to see you, you know that, right? But I got some business I gotta take care of and I don't wanna bother you with any of this shit."

It's the most polite 'fuck off' Freddy's ever received. He nods briefly in understanding and takes a step back, heading for the door. He can go twiddle his thumbs in Sport's bedroom again, have a snoop around his stuff, see if he can find out what the hell happened to his clothes.

He's barely completed the motion before Sport's dragging him forward into a full force hug. "Nah, c'mon, not like that. As soon as this guy's gone, you're gonna have all my attention for the rest of the day, ok? Gonna spoil you rotten."

Freddy doesn't ask why, he doesn't need to hear the answer to know he's not gonna like it. So he nods again and lets himself be held. "Ok."

"Kitchen's down the hall, second on your left. Why don't you go make yourself a cup of coffee? There's some eggs and bread if you're hungry."

The sound Freddy's stomach lets out at the thought of food has Sport giggling like a little kid. "Let's take that as a yes. C'mon, get outta here. You don't wanna bother with the shit I'm working on today."

He's probably right, and yet Freddy is immediately dying to know exactly what Sport is discussing that he's so keen to keep him away from. He doesn't have shit he could do with the information, but if he knew, then he would know.

Fucking stellar thinking right there, Newandyke.

Freddy closes the door behind him as he leaves the living room. Let Sport trust him, let the guy think that Freddy's going to prioritise his privacy. It can only help in the long run.

Unsure of how well sound travels from room to room, Freddy heads straight for the kitchen. He's somewhat disappointed to find it decked out in neutral blues with a positively conservative dining set pushed up against the back wall. It's big, this whole fucking apartment is big. Sport is either rolling in it or someone is pulling serious strings for him to stay here. He opens up a cupboard and is relieved to find that the crockery at least is a suitably mismatched riot of colours and designs that look like they've been brought together over a matter of decades.

Coffee's in a pot over the kettle, eggs are in the fridge. Freddy sets to work making himself some kind of breakfast, completely oblivious to the time of day. He barely notices the window set over the sink, casting the room in glorious natural grey light, till he's looking down two stories at a corner he thinks he recognises, littered with girls he doesn't. It's a marker, an indicator of what part of town he might be in.

Freddy doesn't recognise shit unless he's viewing it from ground level. He settles back with something that would never pass for am omelette in polite society and a cup of coffee and waits for Sport to come collect him.

-------------------------------

"I gotta take a leak." Freddy whines, as soon as Sport comes through the kitchen door.

Sport blinks at him, then laughs loud and long. "Shit, Freddy, you don't gotta wait for me to give you a hall pass. Go piss."

"I don't know where the bathroom is!"

"You coulda gone looking."

"I don't...I didn't...I got no idea if you got shit in here that you don't want me to see."

"Aww, baby." Sport's laugh resolves into a pensive smile, one finger hooking under Freddy's chin till they're looking eye to eye. "I ain't got shit to hide from you. Bathroom's just across the hall."

---------------------

Half an hour later and Freddy is tucked up on the coach, still in his kimono and filthy under clothes, watching Sport blow smoke rings from his latest spliff. "This is a real nice apartment."

Sport looks over at him with a sloppy grin. "Why thank you. Jeez, you're such a good boy. Don't wanna snoop, got nice things to say about my place. Your momma raised you right."

Freddy doesn't mean to flinch at the mention of his parents, but he must show something, because Sport is on him in a second, gentle hands on his back, cooing under his breath, urging him to keep cool. "It's ok, baby. We all got something we're running from."

Freddy nods, opens his mouth and-

He's not going to talk about his parents with Sport. Not after he's managed so well at not talking to anyone else about them. He shuts his mouth and tries to relax back into Sport's hands, but his mind is still on the letter he never sent to his mother, another few drops of ash in the wreckage of sixty fourth street. If there's even any wreckage left to sort through. It can take the city months to fix a burst pipe but they'll start throwing up new real estate just as soon as the insurance checks have cleared for whatever was there before.

"What do you need?" Sport hums into Freddy's ear, close and confident.

Freddy breathes carefully, trying to ignore the fire running down his spine. "I'm fucking filthy."

"You wanna take a bath?"

"Sure."

"Ok, you stay here, I'll go run you one."

Freddy holds his breath till he hears the rushing of water hitting ceramic, slightly muted by the distance between the living room and the walls. He looks down at the plush velvet of the couch and tries to imagine Sport sleeping here, his hair providing perfect camouflage, but the picture feels all wrong. He can't even see a spare duvet in here.

He fucking hates the lingering guilt he has over kicking Sport out of his own bed. The guy doesn't deserve it, and it was his choice to let Freddy sleep there. And yet. And fucking yet.

The water turns off and Sport calls Freddy through. The bathroom is thick with steam, laid heavy with smells Freddy doesn't much associate with bath time.

He breathes deep, loving the way the air clings to the inside of his lungs, dragging his brain down a level to a point where not enough shit matters to bother worrying about it. "What is that."

Sport stands up from where he's testing the temperature of the water with the back of his hand. The bath is dark blue and claw footed, Victorian style, though the rest of the room is picked out in neat black and white tiling. The towels hanging by the door match the bath perfectly and Freddy thinks of Sport wandering down the isles of Home Depot, considering every colour until he finds the right one. "Just a few essential oils. Helps open the mind, ya know? Helps you relax, I want you to relax while you're here with me, I want you to feel safe."

Freddy doesn't know how to respond to that, not when Sport is converging on him, looking at him with uncomfortable tenderness. It's all fucking wrong. He has to start reaching for his own dreamt up version of Iris at work to keep himself grounded, disguising the lurch it sets in his stomac by leaning up against the wall.

With a turn of his head and a hand at Freddy's waist, Sport's close enough to kiss him. "You need anything else, baby boy? I can get you a joint, can get you something to drink."

"This, ah-" Freddy clears his throat. "This is good. Great. Thanks."

"Ok." Sport strokes Freddy's hair. "Ok. There's shampoo and soap and all that shit down the far end. You just shout if you need me."

He pulls back and starts towards the door. Freddy could dance a jig with the adrenaline hit from their proximity. "Oh, uh. Sport?"

"Yes, Freddy?"

"You might wanna... um... I think, I mean, I didn't mean to but I'm kinda gross and I've just spent the past two days in your bed..."

"I got spare sheets." Sport smirks. His eyes pass over Freddy all at once, almost too fast to spot. "Now don't you go locking this door, you understand? I wanna be able to help you if you need anything and I can't do that if you're locking me out, right?"

"Right." Freddy answers, mouth very dry.

"Don't worry about it. I'm not gonna come in unless you call." Sport winks, just the once, then leaves Freddy be, letting the door fall softly closed behind him.

It would be very easy to lock the door, if that's what he wanted to do. Freddy has no intention of calling on him for anything, after all.

His hand settles over the lock, but doesn't move. Freddy pulls back, eyeing the door handle suspiciously like it might start turning any second. Without turning his back to the door, he strips off the kimono and hangs it on a free hook before dumping the shirt and his underwear by the toilet. As he crawls into the bath, slowly letting the water engulf him, inch by inch, the smell of the oils seems to rise around him, pulling him down into the deep warmth. As hot as he can stand it, and how did Sport know a thing like that.

The back of Freddy's head hits the slope of the bath down towards the water, his face the only part of him not submerged save for his toes peaking out near the tap. Heat subsumes him, his limbs unsticking as the filth of the past few weeks starts to lift away and time stops mattering.

He should probably have not let his injured hand lie in the water with him, but by the time he thinks of it, the water has already wormed its way through the bandages and is starting to sting the edges of his cut and he knows the worst of the damage is already done.

Further discussion of Iris's sexuality and sexual activity she has engaged in here, long with a lot more in the way of detail as to Sport's operational methods with potential new assets he's trying to recruit. Warnings for mention of battery and rape. Also some non consensual sexual touching by an underage person of a possibly underage person. It's weird.
--------------------------------------------

"Gonna have a little party this weekend, that sound fun?"

"Yes, daddy."

Sport grins, sidling up behind Freddy and rocking a hand into his hair. "Gotta get you all sorted out before then, though. Gotta get you looking nice. Want everyone to see how beautiful you are baby boy."

Freddy nods and doesn't look up. His hair falls forward, obscuring the dishes he's trying to wash after their dinner. Sport cooks, he cleans. Nice and simple, like back in the old days.

Back when his mother kept her mouth shut and his father ate first. The resentment has yet to build, but the sentiment is there. He spent years wondering how she didn't blow up at him, just the once, convinced that would be all it took.

The clothes Freddy wears were bought for him by someone who isn't Sport and who isn't allowed into the apartment, hidden behind the front door like a filthy secret. People come and go, business associates and Freddy's never supposed to be in the room when they get here. Or rather, it's always suggested that he shouldn't be in the room, that he doesn't want to worry his pretty little head about it.

Freddy has no fucking idea what happened to his boots or to the clothes he arrived here in. His hand is healing nicely and he's fed and watered and he doesn't know why he hasn't leapt for the door yet while Sport's back is turned. The bed is no longer his sole domain, but Sport tends to take it during the day, citing business commitments as reason for him to be out at night.

Warm lips press to the top of Freddy's spine. The tension, the expectation that he will snap, is obvious. He would kick his own ass if he could, for the way his body springs and sings at the threat of human contact. He hates it, the sinking realisation that this attraction isn't going away. Sport is older than him, and his clothes are weird, and in many ways he's the worst person Freddy's ever had the misfortune to get wrapped up in a proper conversation with.

But his arms are strong and the clean bow of his mouth has Freddy dreaming up sweet nothings like he doesn't get them on the hour without asking. The raw, immediate urge he's used to picking up off the girls on street corners is absent and the horror of it all the more apparent for it. Careful hands rubbing tension out of his body, chopping vegetables, bringing him coffee, turning down the bedsheets when neither of them are sleeping, spreading khol on the lower lids of his eyes. Threatening to dip beneath the waistband of Freddy's jeans (slim cut, hugging his ass so tight that for the first time in his life, he actually has an ass. And how did he know without stopping to take measurements?) but they won't. Not without him saying, explicitly.

And once it's out in the open, it's all his fault.

"Gonna have Iris come by tomorrow." Sport murmurs, dragging Freddy's hands out of the water and slipping an arm around his waist, moving the two of them to an imaginary beat that only he can hear. "Would you like that?"

Freddy nods, keeping his eyes turned down like it's nothing. He hasn't spoken to anyone who wasn't Sport in more than a week now, he's gagging for something, anything. He'd settle for one of Brown's rants on the sexuality of comic books if that's all he could get. Hell, he'd call the guy up himself if he had any idea which of New York's litany of prisons he's locked up in.

The phone book lists at least twenty, and they only take you through to the front desk. Freddy can't remember the name Brown gave him when he first moved in, he's nothing more than a colour. All the boxes that came to the store were marked for Wacko Comics, not for him.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, baby?"

"What's the date?"

Sport turns Freddy to face him, smiling like you smile at a child that's asked a question they're not yet old enough to understand. "Doesn't matter. None of that shit matters, so long as you're here with me."

Somewhere in Central Park, a strip of sidewalk has gotta be getting mighty cold.

------------------------------------

Perched on the sofa, head in one of the comics that Sport had picked up for him - all wrong but sometimes you just gotta appreciate the gesture and move on with your life - Freddy's ears prick when the door clicks open. He's given up trying to run up behind it, to catch a glimpse of something, anything that might give him a clue as to where the fuck he is. The postman doesn't even stop here.

"Hey, baby." Sport coos. Freddy's stomach lurches and rolls at the wet smack of what sounds like lips on lips. "Sorry I haven't had so much time for you recently. I've had some stuff to take care of."

"It's cool." Iris bursts into the living room, wearing a long pink skirt that manages to highlight every twitch of her legs underneath and a cropped yellow jumper. She's hidden up in a beanie today, which gets pulled off her head without ceremony and dumped on the coffee table. "Hey, Freddy. How ya been?"

"Fine." Freddy smiles weakly at her. In anticipation of her arrival he had been biting back butterflies but now she's here she's just Iris. Always and never out of place.

Sport hangs off the door, surveying the pair of them as a farmer surveys his crops. "You kids play nice now. I gotta go out for a couple of hours, so I figure you can keep each other company."

"Sure thing, Sport." Iris winks at him.

Freddy can't imagine ever calling the guy by his name.

Sport lets his attention drift over to Freddy with indulgent over affection. "See you later, baby."

"Bye, dadddy." Freddy replies, before he can even remember to feel self conscious about it. By the time the door closes behind Sport, Iris is already laughing about it.

"Daddy?" She folds in on herself, making an ugly honk that is entirely out of place with her image and perfectly in step with her age. "What the fuck, man?"

Freddy shuffles his feet, deciding that he likes the image he gives off better when he's not tucked up small on the sofa. "He wants me to call him that."

"Yeah, no shit. That doesn't mean you have to just sit there and take it. I never did." Iris kicks off her shoes, which are chunky and blocky and look like they should leave her feet filthy by the end of the day but when she pulls herself up into the big chair, her red painted nails are perfectly clear.

Freddy blinks. "He asked you to call him daddy?"

"Yeah, and I told him to get fucked."

"Huh."

"So he's got you wrapped around his little finger. Figures." Iris reaches for the trio of rolled spliffs lying on the table and lights one up. "I've been trying to work out why he likes you so much."

It would be easy enough too Freddy to say the same, except he hasn't. He hasn't wondered at all. He has taken it as a given since the first time he met Sport on ninety second street that he was interested in one thing and one thing only. The idea that Sport's affections might be dependent on his behaviour sets his head spinning. "Yeah."

The muggy green stink of the weed permeates through the room in a heartbeat, pushing out the stale smoke that seems to be a permanent feature of the apartment. Despite not having taken a single puff, Freddy's probably been on a contact high since he got here.

"So." Iris starts around a neat little smoke ring. "How many times a day is he having you?"

Freddy blinks, confused. "What?"

"How often is he fucking you?"

The heat frothing forward into Freddy's cheeks belays the vaguely disgusted sneer he tries to pull off. "He isn't. He hasn't."

"Bullshit."

"I'm serious." Freddy laughs, lightly hysterical. "I mean, he's tried. Or he's made a move or two but I've never let him get anywhere with it."

He's expecting mild irritation, perhaps a dig at him for being a prude. He's not expecting the fear that crosses her face, smudging the smoke pouring from her mouth.

He frowns. "What?"

Iris shakes her head slightly, like she's not gonna talk.

"Fucking what?" Freddy can feel the impetus to rise to his feet clawing up his spine, like she's not tall enough to knock him back down on his ass as soon as he makes a move.

"Why ain't you let him fuck you yet?" Iris asks quietly.

"Because I don't want to."

"No one fucking wants to. That's some bullshit. Why ain't you let him fuck you?"

Freddy pauses, bites his tongue. He could lie, and get absolutely nowhere. No idea if Iris is his ally. She's certainly not on his side as long as she's got herself to look out for, but that doesn't mean she can't have his best interests at heart. "He keeps like...waiting for me to say yes. But if I say yes it's because he wants me to. Like I wouldn't have walked up to him on the street like 'hey man, wanna fuck?' ya know? I just...don't want him too win."

The look Iris gives him is enough to melt glass. Freddy has to prop himself up internally, reminding himself that she's younger than him by a good few years, before she launches into a tirade.

"You stupid, fucking, idiot! Of course he wins, that's how the game works. You really think that he's gonna treat you nice, put you up in his apartment and then just let you go? Fuck's sake! You naive little shit. You're trying to get yourself killed."

"I could go." Freddy counters. "I could walk out that door right fucking now."

"So go!" Iris holds up her hands, scoffing out something that might have been intended to sound like a laugh. "Fucking hell, man. It's your fucking funeral. You think him and his people aren't gonna find you. They've picked up most of the big players still on the streets from the Cabot crew - either brought them on or killed them. Where the fuck are you gonna go, Freddy?"

"I don't gotta go anywhere! I can stay here, he's nice to me." Freddy spits, and hates himself. Fucking God he fucking hates himself.

Eyes too old, face too young, Iris is practically fucking parental with him when she next opens her mouth. "Freddy. You seem nice, but you're real dumb. You know what the longest anyone held out on Sport was? Ten days. Now tell me how long you've been here."

"Just over a week." Freddy shrugs.

Iris opens up her free hand, laying bare his cards for his own benefit. "Right. So you gotta move fast."

"Or what?"

"Or it won't be on your terms."

"You mean..."

No digs, no rolled eyes, no disbelief. Iris's voice comes thin and needy and every inch the twelve year old girl. "He'll fuck you up. Forreal. I've seen it. Right now you're cute and shit, he'll treat you good if you work with him but you'll end up giving cheap blowjobs in public bathrooms if you don't. You just...you gotta just do it Freddy. Get it done. On your own terms."

She's seen some shit, of that much he's sure. It roles off her back most of the time but that doesn't mean none of it gets caught in her feathers.

"Don't see how it can be on my own terms with that kind of choice."

"Oh my God." Iris hisses, rubbing hard at the back of her neck and looking skyward for a saviour that isn't coming. "You gotta stop overthinking this, here." She shoves the still lit spliff into his mouth.

Coughing, Freddy pulls it away. "What the fuck? I don't smoke this shit."

"You do tonight." Iris hauls herself onto the sofa, right up close in Freddy's personal space. "C'mon, deep breaths." She holds up the spliff and the acrid smoke has him gagging. "C'mon! Take it down."

"Alright, alright, Jesus!" Freddy takes the thing in his hands and tries again. One breath, a second breath to chase it down. And hold. He hasn't done this since California.

Iris watches him like a hawk, eyes tracking his face. "Good, that's real good."

The nib burns right and red and Freddy keeps his eyes on that to distract from how close Iris is sitting. Her wide eyes are perfectly highlighted in thick rims of mascara, making her look like a cartoon idea of the perfect woman. Her arm resettles, close behind Freddy's ass and he tries to scoot up the sofa to get away from her but she stops him with a hand on his arm.

He holds still, spliff two centimetres from his mouth. "Iris..."

"You got too many morals for your own fucking good, you know that?" Her voice is scathing. He gets two seconds of roaring silence in his ears then her mouth is on his neck, sucking hard at his pulse point and her hand has slipped between his legs.

He could fucking scream.

"What the hell?" He tries to push her away but crammed down the end of the sofa there's nowhere else to go. She dives back in, and it's just a fucking hand but she knows what she's doing with it, and Freddy's every attempt to get her off him feels more feeble than the last.

"We gotta get you horny. Like, real fucking horny. Like, you'll throw yourself at him when he comes through the door horny." Iris explains, her voice low, ghosting over his ear and followed by her teeth. "You jacked off since you got here?"

"I ain't telling you-"

"When did you last jack off?"

Another toke of the spliff, it's making everything easier. Things are still clear but they don't matter quite so much, leaving him weightless and ever so slightly ineffectual. "I dunno. Weeks ago."

"Shit." Her hand vanishes and Freddy could choke. Reaching down the arm of the sofa, she brings up an unlabeled bottle of something brown and alcoholic. "Here, have a glug of that."

"I don't-"

"Don't give me that shit! You don't wanna fuck. So we're gonna get you horny and we're gonna get you fucked up till you don't care anymore." Iris waits for him to finish off the blunt before shoving the bottle into his hands. "Drink!"

"I don't fucking wanna get drunk!"

"You ever fucked before, Freddy?"

His lips lock. He has stood in a room that was his for the taking till someone took it from him. He has slept on the floorboards. He has wondered why he asked for so little in return. That's gotta be something.

With one hand on the butt of the bottle and one hand on the back of his head, Iris guides him. "That's what I thought. Now drink."

It's whiskey or rum or brandy or some other brown spirit that Freddy doesn't know the name of and doesn't have the experience to distinguish on taste alone. It burns and he splutters and it hits him so fast he doesn't know which way is up.

"That's good." Iris coos into his ear. "Good boy. In ten minutes or so I'll get you hard again, and then we just keep going, alright?"

Freddy slides his eyes over to her, unsure if he wants to kick her in the teeth or kiss her. She's straight back, sure boned and so much better at this than him. Their hands lock together, knuckles sliding against knuckles. They've got each other. If nothing fucking else counts for anything, she knows what to do to keep them both afloat.

Aftermath and worsening. All the warnings from the last chunk apply here, in addition to non consensual, uninformed drug taking, rape of a possible minor and physical abuse. As ever, trying to go light on the details of the actual awfulness.

-------------------------------------------------

His mouth tastes like someone took a shit in it, his head has got to be visibly throbbing with the muggy leftovers of the night before. Freddy blinks wake slowly, then rushes to the finish line as his nerves light up with sensation he's sure he wasn't built to feel. Light too bright, body too hot, stomach rolling too quickly to keep up with. Oh shit.

Pushing aside the duvet, Freddy tries to scramble to his feet but finds himself stuck in the loose locked grip of Sport's arms. He shoves them away, whimpering in panic and get to his feet in time for a wave of nausea to have him shoving a fist in his mouth. He barely registers the bone deep ache clawing its way up his lower spine till he reaches the door, when it hits him like a freight train and he doesn't know if he can walk any more.

"Baby?" Sport's voice is way too loud, the fucking traffic in the street is way too loud. "You ok?"

The noise that makes it past Freddy's lips must say everything because three seconds later, Sport is on his feet, holding out a plastic bag as he gets the door.

"It's ok. It's all gonna be ok."

Despite all the odds, Freddy makes it to the bathroom before he really starts puking, stomach clenching hard enough to make his eyes water. Sport holds his hair back from his face, kissing along his neck and telling him to get it all out, that everything's going to be fine.

Freddy falls back from the toilet bowl, head pressed back against the side of the bath and the cool sting of the metal is just what he needs. He breathes deep and rushed, blindly reaching for the glass of water that he just knows is coming his way and not even bothering to rinse before he swallows it down.

It feels like it's going to come straight back up again, but he holds his breath and wills it to stay still.

"Poor thing." Sport mumbles, dropping down beside Freddy to stroke his hair. "You were pretty drunk last night, hey?"

Freddy nods, he doesn't want to know how loud his voice sounds in his ears. He wants desperately to be unconscious, not asleep so much as in a protracted coma of his own making.

"It's ok." Sport's voice is muffled by Freddy's hair. "I don't mind. You were so good to me last night, so fucking good. You remember?"

Fingers in places fingers weren't supposed to be, funny smelling oil, everything going bright and tight and explosive all at once. He doesn't fucking want to remember. Freddy nods his head anyway, because it's what Sport wants.

He can feel the smile forming against the shell of his ear. "So good, baby. So fucking good for me."

They're both naked, and it's not as weird as it should be. Maybe because Freddy feels about as far away from sexual as it's possible for him to get, maybe he's just gotten used to having Sport in his personal space, one way or another. They sit, Freddy saying nothing and Sport saying nothing at all, until the light slipping through the single, narrow window hung over the toilet starts to change.

Sport slings a hand round Freddy's waist, pulling him in closer. "It's early, real early. We can't have gotten to sleep much after nine last night. Plenty of day left to work with."

Freddy doesn't want a fucking day. The nausea appears to be creeping away from him now it doesn't have anything to latch on to but his head feels the worse for it. And his bones. Everything hurts. He could cry but the point feels somewhat moot under the circumstances.

"Got that party tonight." Sport reminds him. "Don't worry, you got all day to get right again. You want some coffee?"

Yeah. Fuck yeah. He's never wanted anything more. Freddy nods fractionally.

"Ok. I'll go make a pot. How about you run yourself a bath, it'll be good for you, help you feel better."

He's probably right. Sport helps Freddy to his feet and vanishes off to the kitchen. When he comes back, coffee in hand, they're both still naked and the steam rising off the bath is starting to clear Freddy's head.

------------------------------

The day fumbles and trips it's way through to the end, so by the time Freddy looks up he can't believe that any time has passed at all. The bath that loosened up his joints feels like a lifetime ago, as does the haircut that one of Sport's friends gave him in the kitchen not long after. The roast beef sandwich he managed mid afternoon is still fresh in his mind though, and though his body is very sure he never wants to eat again, his tongue is desperate that he should reconsider that stance.

He's been slathered up with more grease and product than he knows what to do with, his shortened hair pushed back off his face and his nose thick with some cologne that he's not entirely sure he likes. Rather than the usual fair of tight fitting jeans and tshirts so bland they feel like they were torn out of a pad of the damn things, tonight Sport produces a suit and lays it out on the bed for him to put on.

Freddy frowns. "What's this?"

"Think of it as a little present." Sport smiles. "Besides, you wanna look good tonight, don't you?"

Who'd have thought this guy of all people would be so fussed about some house party. House proud but he barely lives here, and all his friends exist as passing mentions in conversations that he one sidedly tries to have with Freddy.

Freddy nods, unconvinced that he's telling anything close to the truth.

"That's a good boy. C'mon, lets get you dressed."

Twice in his life, Freddy has worn a suit. Once for his grandfather's funeral and once for a school dance. Both experiences had been thoroughly underwhelming, and he had hated the way the collar tugged against his windpipe.

Still, not like he has much choice. Freddy strips down dutifully, unable to concern himself with how little shame he has left. He moves to pull the suit on himself, but Sports all over him, slipping the tails of the shirt into the waistband of the pants and copping a pretty spectacular feel of his ass in the process, helping him tie his tie.

Looking in the full length mirror that Sport has tucked inside the door of his wardrobe, Freddy would be hard pressed to say he doesn't recognise himself but he doesn't much like what he sees either. everything is too trim, too neat. His mom always used to be on his case about accidental injury, the things he would knock off any given surface for not paying attention to what his overexcited hands were doing in the middle of conversation. The sleek black lines of the suit look poised to hold him in check, pinching his waist and tying down his legs.

Sport lets out a hushes gasp. "Baby boy, you look so good."

"Thanks." Freddy responds, on instinct.

"Look so good, in that suit I bought you. I knew you were gonna fill it out real nice but damn baby boy your ass." He creeps into the frame of the mirror, one hand aiming straight for said ass and the other wrapping tight around Freddy's middle. He nuzzles his nose against Freddy's neck, letting out a growl that echoes through the limited space between them.

Sport in a deep red tunic over the top of something midnight blue and weightless that could as easily be a skirt as trousers and carnival beads wrapped tight around his neck. Bordering on the feminine, with his long hair, except Freddy can feel the hard line of his cock pressing forward towards his ass. He'd duck out of the way, but he's already caught by the waist.

"C'mon." Sport spins him round, and their faces are close enough to kiss. "Lets get a drink in you before the guys arrive." He pulls out a silver flash from somewhere in the depths of his clothes and flicks the cap off.

Freddy shakes his head. "I'm alright."

"It ain't gonna hurt you."

"I'm fine, really. Still kinda coming down from last night."

"Well, you know what they say. Hair of the dog that bit you."

"I'm good."

The friendly smile that exists in various shades as a permanent fixture of Sport's face almost flashes its death mask. It returns along with a hand under Freddy's chin, holding his jaw steady.

"Freddy." Sport coos. "Freddy, Freddy, Freddy. Sweet little orange. I really think you oughta have a drink."

Though the tunic hides most of his arm, the lines of muscle vanishing into the hem are clear. Freddy looks down, and tries ever so slightly to shift himself. The hand around his jaw tightens and the shock hits him hard enough to wind.

This is not a fucking game.

"Freddy." Sport is unyielding, steel.

"You're hurting me!"

"I really think you should have a drink."

"Ok!" The hand falls away and Freddy reaches for the flash with a shaking hand. He takes a minuscule sip and it burns all the way down, only to have the bottom pushed up by Sport, leaving him spluttering, struggling not to spill any of it.

He takes a shuddering breath, hating how the alcohol stings his still sore stomach. The flask vanishes and Sport melts back into him, pulling him into a hug that Freddy is of no mind to return. "Sorry, baby. You know I don't wanna hurt you."

Fuck of all fuckers, Freddy actually kinda believes that. He's just gotta stop being stupid enough to think that Sport won't do something just because he doesn't want to.

---------------------------------

Cranked up loud enough to have the police on top of them in ten minutes flat if the neighbours gave half a shit, the base winding it's way through the speakers plays accompaniment to Freddy's heartbeat. It makes him shuffle and sway, it makes him want to dance. There are people surrounding him, who he was introduced to when they arrived but he doesn't remember any of their names. Save for the tall, older guy in a button down and waistcoat that Sport had pushed him towards with more enthusiasm than the rest. His name is Simon, or so he says, and he and Freddy are the most overdressed people here.

"You need another drink, darling." Someone hands Freddy a glass filled with bright pink liquid. It would look perfect in Sport's bedroom, but in the living room it clashes horribly with the walls. Freddy starts to laugh, can't stop himself, he has a job not dropping his drink. When he straightens up, the person who handed it to him is genderless and beautiful, swimming in a sea of seaquins that make him wish he knew how to swim.

He used to swim all the time. At the local pool, on the beach when they headed out there over the summer. There was a lake at the place they lived when he was very small, but he was never allowed to go in for fear of gators and giant catfish. His dad used to say that his mom worried too much.

Freddy downs his drink all in one go, the alcohol brushes up against something else, strong enough to brush off any worries he has about how awful he's going to feel in the morning.

"Heya, baby." Sport's voice is muggy and insubstantial under the roar of the music. Freddy groans and turns away from him, trying to get back into the heat of it all before he's dragged out into the corridor for a proper chat. He doesn't want to talk, he's not sure he can remember how.

I don't. I fucking don't. He never will, but here he is.

Simon hovers at the edge of Freddy's vision, trying very hard not to look straight at him and being real fucking obvious about it. Sport leans in, whispering something in Freddy's ear that doesn't make a lick of sense but sounds comforting. He arches up into him and thinks maybe that they could go to bed again, the muscle memory of something wonderful coming back to him that his sober self would never admit was real.

But when he leans in to kiss Sport, Sport pulls away, setting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back with a gentle laugh. "Steady there, Orange. You must have me confused with someone else."

Freddy frowns. "No. I-"

"Here, drink some water." Sport holds up a fresh glass, complete with shimmering clear liquid inside. Freddy doesn't hesitate to neck in, sure that he's going to need to take a leak soon.

The water tastes kind of funny. Smacking his lips, he hands the glass back to Sport and tries to sink into the groove again, but the easy warmth of the alcohol and whatever the fuck else he took has started to bleed out, replaced instead by a creeping dread that doesn't feel like it's coming from him at all.

"Easy, easy." Sport murmurs, getting an arm around Freddy as his vision starts to turn black. "I got you."

"What the fuck?" Freddy slurs, reaching up to get an arm around Sport's neck. It barely feels enough to keep him steady.

"Easy, easy. I got you."

Rooms change, along with colours and lights. Freddy is aware that he's not in the living room anymore but beyond that, it's anyone's guess. He breathes, tenses, moves against the thing moving over him. It doesn't smell like Sport and it doesn't sound like Sport. It doesn't whisper sweet nothings, but it calls him a whore like it wants him to be one and when he tries to scream not a single sound makes it out of his mouth.

-----------------------------------

Once he's moved past the shock of waking up alone, and the horror of the ache in his legs and his spine, and the shame of the bruises at his hips, and the fucking mystery ride fucking confusion of the bite marks all over his upper body, and the desperate need to puke his guts up, Freddy finds Sport reading a book, toked up on the couch with nowhere to be.

"What the fuck?"

"Morning, sunshine." Sport smiles. "Or should I say, afternoon."

Freddy barely hears him, stood in the doorway, shivering in his kimono and a pair of y-fronts. "What the fuck?"

"You want some coffee?" Sport rubs out the flame and sets the spliff against the ash tray for him to come back to. He's been cleaning, not so much as a dirty glass in sight. He looks bright and refreshed and Freddy can't remember if he were drinking the night before.

Yes, he wants some fucking coffee. No, he doesn't want any fucking coffee. Freddy watches, appalled as Sport moves past him without so much as a twitch in his smile, leaning down to plant a kiss on his forehead.

"What the fuck happened last night?"

Sport pauses, shrugs. There's none of his usual spiel about how Freddy is a precious flower in need of protection. This is just some shit that happened. "All sorts, it was a party."

"What did you put in my drink?" Freddy's voice wavers on a knife edge between boundless rage and tears.

Rolling his eyes, Sport walks back too him, just long enough to tip a finger under Freddy's chin that is swiftly thrown away. "Freddy, baby. You're being paranoid. You had a little too much to drink and you and Simon decided to have a good time together. It's no big deal."

"The fuck does that mean?"

"The fuck does what mean?" The corners of Sport's mouth twist down, his patience being tested. "Y'know, I don't much appreciate the kind of language you're using with me today."

"I want to know." Freddy says from between gritted teeth. "What I did last night."

"You danced, you had a good time, you got laid. It's all good. C'mon, coffee." Sport turns on his heel and Freddy has no choice but to follow like the dog he is if he wants answers.

"I don't fucking know Simon. I don't- I would never-"

"Never say never, Freddy."

"I would never!" Freddy bellows, loud enough to feel real.

Sport pauses, hand just off the kettle set to boil. He turns around slowly, face fiercely blank. When he's not smiling, when he lets his brow settle and his mouth fall into that easy droop, there's nothing particularly warm or welcoming about his face at all.

When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous. "That's how you talk to me? In my own home? After everything I've done for you? How's that fucking hand, Freddy? How's the roof over your head?"

Big old prostitution warning for this chunk - resting on the laurels of everything that's happened so far.

This is getting very long and has entirely gotten away from me...

-----------------------------------------------------

Too early by half, but Iris doesn't exactly operating on a normal human timescale. The thudding on his front door is loud enough to wake the dead, the first time she did it he thought it was the cops.

"The hell took you so long, Orange?" She laughs as the door falls open, pushing past him with a bag full of fresh pastries from the French bakery down the street.

Freddy glowers after her. "It's eleven in the fucking morning!"

"Practically afternoon!"

"I didn't hit the hay till six."

"Jeez." Iris winces in sympathy, making a beeline for the coffee pot and snatching a couple of plates from the woefully inadequate draining board. Not that it matters, Freddy is the worst at doing his own washing. He probably wouldn't get it done at all most days if he didn't know she was gonna come over a bust his balls about it, it's not like the customers pay a blind bit of attention to what the apartment looks like.

It's a studio with just enough of an attempt made to pinch the kitchen off from everything else that you can trick yourself into believing it has two rooms. The toilet and shower are stuffed together like an over-compressed sleeping bag and he's only got a hob to cook on but the bed is big and comfortable. Rent's taken care of, so all he has to do is keep the place clean and keep himself fed. The decor is all reds and yellows, all the furniture perfectly muted to stop it becoming too much. There's a blind over his window that barely ever gets drawn and the bedspread is in a rich brown. He's been allowed to put up a few personal touches, a couple of framed comics that he particularly liked the cover art of and the Iron Man toy Sport had bought him as a treat after he lured his first customer in off the street.

"You been working hard, then?" Iris asks, tucking into something sweet and layers, oozing jam out of the side.

Freddy drops into the second chair - the only other chair that will fit around this pathetically tiny table - and snatches up the pain au chocolat she bought him. This is the third day in a row she's gotten breakfast. He's gotta get ahead of her or she'll be breathing down his neck for the rest of the month.

April. It's fucking April. He's been in this apartment for just shy of three weeks, it's starting to grow on him.

"Sure have." He nods towards the bed, but they both know he's really nodding to the locked box underneath. "Haven't seen Sport in more than a week though. You know when he might be by to pick up his money?"

Iris shrugs. "Who knows? He's been all over the place this past week."

"You been going with him?"

"Sometimes."

Freddy nods, slowly. The coffee passes over their shared minimum brewing requirements and they sit in silence, throwing it down. Iris pours enough sugar into hers to satisfy an ants' nest.

He clicks his tongue. "How long did you have to wait before he let you out?"

"Let me out." Iris snorts. "You talk about it like he's got you trapped."

"Doesn't he?"

"Sure he doesn't. You can go anytime you like, you'll just get your ass kicked for it."

"He ever kicked your ass?"

"Nah."

Freddy doesn't know how long Iris has been with Sport but from the way she talks about it, it's been a while. Sometimes he tries to trick himself into believing that she approaches the matter with a degree of relativism that he's not privy to, so that the six months, the year, the however fucking long it's been are represented as a proportion of her life rather than a finite span of time. Then he looks at the difference in age between the two of them and decides that that can't possibly be what's going on here.

He hasn't told her that he left Sport's apartment with a deep dark bruise blooming just above his naval, that it had allowed Sport to charge less for his services for a full week till it started to go down.

"He'll ask you to head out soon." Iris assures him.

Freddy doesn't believe her. Sometime around midday, they hear the rumble of feet coming up the stairs and Iris goes dashing back to her own room just down the hall, ready for whatever gets sent their way.

-----------------------------

Not being allowed to walk the streets isn't the same thing as being cooped up in doors all day. Freddy takes the handful of customers that make it up to him of their own accord, either familiar faces or guys that have come recommended directly by Sport. He's supposed to be an attraction of some kind but he doesn't have the guts to ask why. He's sure that at the core of it, he doesn't want to know.

The rain still comes down in irregular showers, washing them all half way down the street. It's more of an issue for the girls than it is for him, seeing as he's not expected to wear makeup or shirts so thin they dissolve in the rain.

He's the only one of them who's not a girl. Apparently Sport has a couple of other guys dotted around town, but this comes to him as heresay.

Gemima is twenty three years old, pretty as a peach and foulmouthed as a sailor. Her long raven hair is always done up in some complex knot that has the other girls asking how the hell she does it. Her lipstick is a fierce shade of purple and the cigarette dangling from her left hand never seems to go out.

"So I says, honey, you put that thing anywhere near me you're gonna lose it. And he thinks that I'm kidding right up until I hit the buzzer and Matthew shows up behind me. All macho like, you know how he is."

This prompts a round of giggles. It seems most of the girls like Sport, a lot. Every time he tries to ask about it he get a spiel about job security, the tenacity of the housing market and a strange look like he should consider himself lucky to be here.

Lucky. Standing on a street corner in the pouring rain, keeping his eyes down whenever a cab crawls past because he can't stand to accidentally recognise someone.

"What about you, Orange?" Gemima calls over the heads of the giggling girls. The nickname was passed around by Iris before he showed up and has more or less stuck against his will. He hates it, the way he keeps expecting to see Brown looking down at him from over the back of the couch, demanding that he get off his ass and get to work.

Freddy shrugs. He hasn't learned the art of turning bad customers into funny stories just yet. "Not much to report. Guy wound up crying on me for so long the other night he had to pay double to get what he came for but what else is new?"

Everyone cackles. It's a good story, something they can all relate to. Despite himself, Freddy smiles and takes the cigarette that Margo offers him.

None of them go by their real names, even if they all more or less know what each others real names are. It causes less fuss, less paperwork. And it makes it harder for the police to find them.

Over the course of the next half hour, they all get picked off by guys heading up to ninety second street to see their needs met. Iris first, because it's always Iris first, but the others fall in soon enough. Some days, Freddy is snapped up first thing, but today he's left to linger, till it's just him and Gemima. She's attractive as all hell but Sport keeps telling her she's too assertive to make real money. She reads like a girl you gotta take out on a date.

Sometimes the girls get to go on dates. It costs a whole bunch extra and is considered a special privilege born of trust. Like walking the streets, it takes time to get there.

"Hey." Gemima digs Freddy in the ribs and nods towards the shiny black Audi pulling up outside the tenement block. "You reckon he's come to the right place?"

A door swings open and a short, chubby guy with over wide eyes, curly blonde hair and a hideous blue tracksuit pops out. His shoulders are hunched, and he looks back over his shoulder as soon as he's taken a step, trying not to be seen. He's definitely trying not to be seen.

Upon seeing the street more or less empty, he approaches Freddy and Gemima cautiously. "Yo, psst! How much?"

"Depends." Gemima drawls around a long toke of her cigarette. "Which one of us do you want?"

He hesitates, so it's real fucking obvious what he's after. When he manages to stutter out that he's interested in Freddy, his face blushes bright pink.

Freddy is a long way from picking up enough grace to comfort a guy who's just now realising that he wants to stick his dick in something that doesn't have tits. Sport hasn't been by all day, so Gemima plays pimp and runs through the rules while Freddy sits back and doesn't say a word. Why should he? He's a rarity out here.

Carl at the bottom of the stairs runs his usual scam, asking ten dollars for the room like the rent ain't paid. The building echoes with the slap of their feet heading up the stairs.

"In here." Freddy directs the guy before he can wander off.

The guy pauses, arms folded over his chest, then follows. He stands in the middle of Freddy's room, at odds with the colour scheme and clearly trying to decide if this place is worth ten dollars for half an hour. "So, uh, how does this work?"

"However you want it to." Freddy moves towards him, pulling his arms open without ceremony. "You gotta pay up front though."

Twenty five dollars is pushed into his hands. No more undercharging, though once Sport has taken his cut you'd be forgiven for thinking that Freddy wasn't putting enough effort into selling his ass.

"What do I call you?" The guy asks, brusquely. "How old are you?"

"You can call me Orange." Freddy says slowly, fiddling with the draw string at the front of his trousers to try to get them down. "And I'm as old as you want me to be."

A wince, not what the guy wanted to hear. "That young, huh?"

He sure as shit didn't hear Sport's sales pitch.

"What do I call you?" Freddy counters, so he doesn't have to answer.

"Ed- I mean, call me Nice Guy." Hands come up to steady Freddy's, urging him to stop. "You know what, I don't think-"

"Just relax." Freddy urges him, steering him back towards the bed. The words sound flat, even to him. He doesn't have the energy to make a show of flirtation. Why the fuck does it matter when he's already got their money.

A hand below the belt, if you know what you're doing you can shut them up in a matter of seconds.

Nice Guy's eyes blow wide, arching up off the bed. "Oh shit."

There you go.

"I don't- God, Orange, keep doing that right there- I don't normally do this but-"

"It's fine." Freddy assures him, not trying to get his life story. "This ok? You want something else?"

"This is fucking great." Nice Guy hisses between his teeth. "God. I don't normally do this shit but my boyfriend got taken in my the cops a couple of months back and I'm getting real tired of my right hand."

"That's rough." Freddy nods. He's decided that he would like to keep this exact level of intimacy up for the next half an hour. Far be it for him to complain but he doesn't think he has it in him to let Nice Guy fuck him.

Nice Guy bites back a laugh that tapers to a grown. "Nah, he didn't get taken in...get taken in for queer shit. He never woulda let them catch him at that..."

Freddy tunes it out. This job is as much about how you let people treat you like a comfort blanket as anything else.

Nice Guy tenses and grunts. Easy as pie. He's still got shit to say, but at least he ain't fucking crying.

Warning for Freddy having vaguely sexual thoughts about Iris, some purposefully vague sex scenes involving Iris (VAGUE!!! VERY VAGUE!!!), depersonalisation, and non consensual sexual violence.

-------------------------------------------------

Sport's rushing down the hallway to Iris's door before he's got a good hold of the money Freddy presses into his hand. "Sorry, baby boy. Can't talk, places to be."

Freddy nods and keeps his mouth shut. It's been three hours since he talked anyone upstairs and he's starting to get mighty bored. All the comics in his room he's read ten times or more and he's not allowed to slip out to the cinema. He'd ask about getting a TV installed in his room but the way the others talk about it, that's a luxury that has to be offered rather than begged for.

He could beg. Some of the customers like it when he begs. A couple have tried to bypass that speech Sport gives about how no one's supposed to mess up anyone's faces but they changed their tune fast when reminded who they would be dealing with if Freddy showed up with a shiner.

Sport's star is rising fast. Freddy wouldn't sorry so much about the speed with which he whips round to collect cash every few mornings except that his eyes never settle anywhere for too long. The over indulgent, lingering gazes that he's come to expect have vanished, replaced with brief appraisals to be sure he's keeping well before heading back out of the door. It's stupid and he knows it, but it leaves Freddy feeling jilted and sullen.

He sincerely hopes that this moody shit is just a biproduct of how fucking bored he is.

It's not like Iris is fairing much better in Sport's attentions, but she doesn't seem to care so much. A handful of words is exchanged between the two, voices rumbling low and even though Freddy's still leaning up against the door frame, staring at Sport's back, he can't really make out what they're saying.

Money changes hands, Sport makes to leave but pauses on the top stair, looking back over his shoulder at the two of them but never settling long enough to say that either of them has his attention. "You kids busy today?"

"Nope. Slow as shit." Iris bounces out of her room, leaning up against the banister. "Right, Freddy?"

"Right." Freddy agrees. He wonders if he could ask for someone to run out and grab the past four Batman issues he's missed. He's still trying to come up with a concrete argument for why Brown is so fucking wrong about the guy being a sexually submissive, bestiality riven pervert.

Sport clicks his tongue. "That's a real shame. Tell you what, why don't you pop over to Danny's and see if he's done fixing up my suit yet. Who knows, you might meet some nice fellas on the way." He winks at the two of them, fishing a handful of bills back out of his hand and passing them back as 'pocket money'.

Freddy waits until he hears the front door slam closed, three floors below before he lets himself try to understand what the fuck just happened. "Wait, is he letting me out?"

"I told you." Iris grins, counting back the money like five dollars is a generous tip. "You just gotta be patient. He treats us all alright in the end."

-------------------------------------

Danny turns out to be a second rate tailor who all the girls hate but who Sport has made a habit of employing over the past couple of years. His shop is just five blocks away, but Freddy could smell that the air smells better once they're away from the tenement. It's still ninety second street, but there's a lot to be said for street corners that don't feel like they've been burned into the back of your eyelids.

"I don't wanna go back." Freddy whines as the shop door falls closed behind them. Iris is carrying the suit that Sport's had tailored, wrapped in an opaque green bag but they're absolutely going to take a peak before they return.

Iris looks at him like he's stupid. "Why the fuck would we go straight back? C'mon, we got pocket money."

"There ain't no curfew or nothin'?"

"We're s'posed to be old enough to look after ourselves." Iris digs him in the ribs. She's in the middle of a growth spurt and in her ever present platforms she's officially taller than him. It's all going into her legs, stretching her out till she looks like a barbie doll.

And maybe sometimes Freddy wonders if she wouldn't like to show him what she can do. Maybe he catches himself trying to flirt every now and then. He's bad at it, but he figures she doesn't really have any other guys that she's close with, he's gotta be in with a chance.

She's twelve. His head snarks back at him. He tries very hard to care.

They head a little further afield, till they hit a Greek place that does weird little pastries that Iris insists he's going to want to try. They buy up a few pieces of something called baklava which looks like little more than a loose collection of nuts and head out to the stoop to eat.

Iris shoves the first piece into her mouth so fast that she's left with greasy sugar smeared over her lips. She groans low in her throat and the weird juxtaposition of her childish excitement and the sound that Freddy knows she learned under Sport's tutelage has Freddy seeing double.

"C'mon!" She urges, when she swallows and he's still staring at the bag, not sure where to start. She reaches down and breaks off a piece, laughing when he stumbles his way to opening his mouth.

His lips just catch the tips of her fingers and then it's gone, replaced by the sickly sweet mess of filo pastry, nuts and syrup.

She wasn't lying, it's delicious. Freddy's eyes go wide, chewing hard to clear his mouth fast enough to say as much. "Fuckin' hell."

"I know." Iris grins, taking another piece for herself.

"Well what do we got here?" It's a sunny day, warm without clinging too hard to the inside of Freddy's lungs. The light streaming down onto the sidewalk is interrupted by a dark shadow looming in over them.

Freddy blinks up and sees a guy in this thirties, reasonably good looking. The beginnings of a beer belly but his arms are well toned and his jaw is strong below a dark crop of hair plus stubble. "Can we help you?"

The guy flicks his eyes between Freddy and Iris. "I'll say you can."

Iris nudges him, and Freddy already knows what she's trying to say. Too fucking easy, man. Two easy by half.

----------------------------------------------

Sport, on the other hand, is somewhat resistant to the idea. "You want what now?"

"I wanna show these two kids of yours a good time." The guy leans in. "So how about you tell me how much?"

Definitely not convinced. Sport glances over to Freddy and Iris. "You two head up, I'll sort things down here. Orange's room."

He's considering it then. Freddy slips back into the building after Iris, already kicking himself for not having stalled for longer back at the deli. Back in the same four walls all over again, this isn't what he had in mind when he imagined what it would be like to be allowed outside. In his head, any errand that he got would see him out and about for most of the day.

And now Sport doesn't like the John he rustled up. Fucking great.

It's not till they're shut up in his room that Freddy really starts to think about what's on offer here. Iris throws aside her sunhat and kicks off her shoes the same as ever, but if all goes well downstairs it's not going to be long before she's shedding a lot more than that. His mouth goes dry and a wave of dizziness washes over him. He doesn't want that, not really. The hypothetical he has let himself entertain is extremely limited and entirely between the two of them.

He doesn't. I don't.

They sit in silence, which Freddy suspects is more comfortable for Iris than it is for him as she flops down on the bed and blows raspberries to amuse herself. Her shorts are too short, he shirt doesn't cover enough.

A soft knock on the door. For a second, Freddy expects Iris to answer, till he remembers that this is his place. He lets it fall open a crack and sees the warm, welcoming eyes of Sport staring him down.

Looking at him, really looking. Freddy could cry in relief.

"Hey, baby." Sport coos, reaching out to run a finger down Freddy's cheek. "You feeling ok?"

"Yeah."

"You're shaking like a leaf."

"I'm fine."

"Just excited?" Sport raises an eyebrow. "I bet, I bet. Such a good boy. I got that customer you picked up, we've managed to work something out. I just wanted to make sure you and Iris knew the rules before you got started.

Freddy pushes the door all the way open and calls Iris over to stand at his shoulder. Behind Sport, the John shuffles his feet, not quite sure where to look though he keeps coming back to the space between Freddy and Iris's heads.

"So this is how it's gonna work." Sport starts. "It's gonna be quite a party you two are getting in two, so I need you to be open minded, ok? He's got you for the full hour and that's what he's paying for, even if he backs out early. Might get a little rough with you but he's gonna leave your faces alone."

Iris shrugs. "Cool."

Freddy has never wanted to die quite so perfectly cleanly as he does in the moment. The urge to fall down and let his heart stop beating is real and profound but his body won't catch up to his brain on the matter and he stands aside gormless and terrified as the guy comes through.

"Stay safe now." Sport whispers, just for Freddy, as the door swings closed. "I'm right downstairs if you need me."

Inside, with the curtains drawn to create the illusion of privacy, everything feels way too dark. Iris is arranging the money with enviable candor but the words don't sound right in Freddy's ears. He stumbles forward, dropping down onto the bed because that's where he's sure he's wanted.

Time breaks down and fragments around him, and he could swear he can feel floorboards pressed up against his cheek. Clothes are shed and words are said and the sharp sting of something harder than a hand hitting his buttocks is the only thing that rings true.

"Freddy!"

It sounds like Iris but he can't look at her. If he looks at her then it's real and the last fucking thing he needs right now is to know what she looks like naked.

"Freddy! Fuck I-" Her voice is choked and insubstantial. Someone is calling her a bitch and telling her to shut up but he's never met them before in his life.

"Freddy!" A final wheeze and his vision comes back to him, in horrible high quality. There, on the other side of the bed, with fingers wrapped around her neck, Iris is turning blue.

It all clicks into place. "Get the fuck off her!" Freddy surges forward, trying to dislodge the guy but he's all skin and bones and at best, all he does is make him angrier. Dashing for the window, he throws aside the curtain to get it open, shouting a meaningless plea for help down to where Sport should be standing on the pavement.

And that's not good enough, there's not enough time. Iris's fists are starting to lose their potency, turning from a volley against the John's shoulders to ineffectual taps. Freddy has no idea how long it takes to strangle a twelve year old girl, and he doesn't want to find out.

There's a lamp on the bedside table, the base shaped out of porcelain because that's supposed to be fancy or some shit. Freddy scoops it up and staggers back to the bed, raising it high with two hands and bringing it down on the back of the John's head.

And again, and again, till the funky metal rods that hold the whole contraption in place have left a bloody mess at the nape of his neck. He's still breathing, collapsed on the bed, but he's not conscious any more.

With shaking arms, Freddy casts aside the remnants of the lamp and hauls the John off the bed. Iris bolts into a sitting position, hacking and gasping for air, a hand coming up to trace the outlines of the bruises blushing dark and deep at her neck.

"I...I got you." Freddy sobs, putting am arm around her and pulling her in close. He doesn't look at anything but her face, he doesn't want to know.

Sport doesn't knock, just barges straight in, tearing the lock clean off Freddy's front door. "What the fuck is goin' on?"

Eyes dart from the unconscious, bloody lowlife on the floor to the two kids huddled up together on the bed.

"He tried to." Iris tries to speak but her voice comes hoarse. Freddy shushes her before he can think better of it and gets a scowl in return.

Sport's face is drawn and blank. He's furious. Freddy doesn't have to have seen it before to know. Tension zaps into him like a bad batch of smack, straightening him out and putting fire in those deep brown eyes. "What the fuck happened?"

"He was choking her." Freddy explains. "Like, really choking her, look."

Sport approaches to get a look at Iris's neck, winding when he sees the extent of the damage done. "The cocksucker. The fucking cunt piss cocksucker. Oh baby girl what the fuck did he do to you?"

Maybe Freddy's just a little upset by how quickly Iris pulls herself away from him to fall into Sport's arms, but not by much. His heard is hitting way too fast, adrenaline working overtime to keep him alert.

Sport nods to the guy on the floor. "What did you do."

"Brained him with the lamp on the desk." Freddy mumbles. He wishes he knew where his clothes are.

The next half hour passes by in a hyper focused daze. They all get dressed, Iris tucked up in her room with the promise of a doctor on his way and a couple of other girls to keep her company. A car pulls up outside and a collection of the guys that Sport's been hanging with recently tumble out, ready and waiting for the vaguely conscious John who's ferried in to join them, no doubt in for some kind of horrible fate that Freddy doesn't really want to know about.

He watches the car leave, trying to decide if that kind of shit is worth it to get to go outside.

"You did good today, sweetheart." Freddy's not even alarmed to find Sport creeping up behind him, slipping an arm round his waist. "Real good. It coulda all gone south if you hadn't been here."

"Yeah." Freddy says, unable to think of anything else to say. Playing humble feels wrong, not playing humble feels wrong. He's all messed up.

"I hadda real bad feeling about that guy." Sport continues, his tongue reaching out to trace the shell of Freddy's ear. "I think maybe you did too, you just didn't know it yet."

"I don't know." Freddy tells him the whole fucking truth. Sport is solid and real behind him, supportive and unyielding. He leans back and is rewarded with a second hand coming up too stroke through his hair as a mouth searches for his pulse point.

"Missed you, baby."

"Missed you too, daddy."

"I know you have. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I gotta treat you better. I wanna treat you better, sweet boy."

It's not everything Freddy ever dreamed of, but it's not exactly awful. There, on the filthy sheets, with the window still open.

Let the neighbours hear them. If they were going to take offence, they would have been out of here years ago.