Warnings for: drugs

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A swirling mess of strings dances over the steady beat of the bass drum, the beat you're supposed to feel in your hips and feet. Freddy doesn't dance much, unless he's high as a kite, and he's only high when the guys he's out with decide that he's worth a little something extra. At that stage the choice is already out of his hands, he dances or wilts at the whims of whoever's paying him.

The good news - he's allowed out and about as much as he wants, but no more three ways and anyone he does bring back gets vetted thoroughly. Sport prefers to pass him on to more high paying customers in need of arm candy as much as anything else and lets him pull in the big bucks.

The bad news - Iris is under closer watch than ever. Not that she gives a fuck, but sooner or later Sport's gonna lose patience with her running off every three hours for want of something to do.

She's athletic, not a nerdy bone in her body. The last thing she wants to do is borrow Freddy's comics and shack up inside all day. Sometimes he worries that she doesn't really know how to read.

Tonight, Freddy's out at a disco club up in the Bronx with a well dressed black guy who's bought his company till around nine the next morning. The Bronx clubs are notorious for being more than a little out of control, the real hotbeds of sin in a city that just can't get enough of that sweet, sweet depravity and he had let his objections be known to a Sport who had already decided his fate.

No need to worry, this guy just wants to dance. And Freddy can't remember how to move his damn feet, so he's tucked up tight near the bar, nursing a drink he's still too young to have but which has been bought for him so he's gonna drink it. He's catching looks, party because he's one of about five white folks in here and partly because disco attracts that kind of crowd.

The lights twist with the dancers, unable to sit still. Everything's dredged in red, filtering out the care with which people have put their outfits together until they meld into one ever shifting unit that knows all the steps and all the moves.

Disco dancing ain't nothing like the meek shuffle Freddy has in his back pocket for house parties and nights spent cramped up in Gemima's room for lack of anything better to do. It has choreography, it has style. It has such a strong sense of personality that Freddy can't quite bare to look at it.

This guy, his guy, Winston, he loves it. Spinning girls around so fast it's a wonder they don't fall. He flashes a smile back to Freddy and he's kind of old but he's handsome all the same. And Freddy's had older.

"Sweet child." Winston purrs, twirling off the dance floor to snatch Freddy up from his bar stool. "Dance with me."

Oh but men do like to think that they're worldly, they do like to teach. Maybe Freddy's one of them or maybe he's lost but he knows the rules of the game, spelled out to him as if he were playing for the women's team the entire time. The slight blush comes naturally to him, even if it's meaningless under the red lights, then all he's got to do is laugh like he's self conscious, dip his eyes so he can peer up through his eyelashes. "I can't dance."

Winston smiles, wide and deep. He leads Freddy to the dance floor and they barely make a splash, the faintest ripple in everyone's evenings. The number of people really paying attention to the two man saddled up together like they intend to make a night of it really doesn't mean that much.

Freddy has never imagined a world so kind.

He definitely can't dance, but the large hands guiding him, trying to persuade his body that he can, are a comfort. Winston moves him to the music and nothing else matters. Then he holds out a neat white pill for Freddy to take, and nothing matters at all.

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

Nine fifteen the next morning and Freddy is in a cab, over a bridge he doesn't know the name of, looking out to sea and pinching himself every time he remembers that Manhattan is an island.

Manhattan is an island he hasn't left since last October. More than six months, way more. He catches his reflection in the rear view mirror and winces. The dark circles under his eyes are to be expected but the damn things are bloodshot, his hair's a mess, not to mention that he danced hard enough to leave his shirt and jeans stinking of sweat and other things.

The money in his pocket hangs heavy. Sport's going to be pleased with him for this, might even let him keep the tip.

The car rolls off the bridge and Freddy wonders if he's being stupid, if he shouldn't have caught a cab heading in the opposite direction. The Bronx has easier access to the rest of America than pretty much any other part of New York, and he has money. He could have made a real break for it, if he were thinking properly.

His mother always did say he had his head in the clouds, but she said it worried like, as if enjoying comic books was some grave concern that would corrupt her child.

Freddy tells the cab driver to pull in a few blocks away from the tenement, not trying to push his luck but in need of the walk. If he thought the early April heat burst was a problem then the current weather is a goddamn crisis. Him and the girls keep begging Sport to let them pop the fire hydrant out front but apparently that would damage their clothes.

Fucking irony, in the winter no one wants to get their hair wet, so they huddle together under umbrellas not big enough for one and come summer they're all gagging for it.

The smell of frying food rising from a diner across the road gets Freddy's attention, and though his stomach is a little woozy from whatever he took the night before, the thought of getting something salty and greasy down his throat is fucking divine.

He goes to cross the street, and a pair of familiar figures stride out of the diner. Freddy pauses in place, one foot slightly raised to take off across the tarmac, as Iris and Travis leave together, her still wiping jam from around her mouth and him hiding behind a thick pair of sunglasses.

The fucking worst. Freddy watches Iris turn her back without seeing him and start off home, while Travis practically heads right towards him.

"Hey!" Freddy snaps, reaching out to get a grip on Travis's arm.

Travis pauses and backs up, face blank. He could be staring at Freddy or he could be eyeing up the girls on the far left corner for all he knows but it seems pretty obvious that whatever's going on, he doesn't recognise him.

He's reedy and thin, but beneath the thin fabric of his tshirt Freddy feels enough hard muscle to land a decent punch, and the guy's gotta be a good four inches taller than him. Gotta play smart.

"Hey." Travis breaks into a dopey grin. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"The fuck are you doing with her, man?" Freddy skips the question and starts thinking about Iris's retreating back.

Travis's face tightens ever so slightly as he reaches up to pry Freddy's hand away. "It's not what you think. She's in a real bad situation, though she don't know it. I just took her out for breakfast."

If it were anyone else, Freddy would think they were bullshitting him. As things stand, he's only pretty sure Travis is feeding him chum, because really. But it's not like the guy has ever been much of a liar as long as Freddy known him.

"See you round." Travis raises a cautious finger gun at Freddy as he departs, which Freddy returns without thinking.

He loiters in the middle of the road till the guy has gone, trying to decide if he's still hungry.