Scott was awaken by the slam of the door. The gross yet slightly comforting smell of fish wafted into his nostrils as he shot up. Racking sobs met his ears from whoever had just walked in.
Scott rose from the sleeping bag he had pilfered from a sporting goods store and went over to them. In the moonlight that poured into the loft, he could make out the familiar outline of Mike's small frame. So he was the one who was crying.
"Mike?" he asked softly.
Scott paused. He had never known his voice to sound so…small. So vulnerable.
The bright moonlight lit up Mike's face temporarily. One look at what was there made Scott hold his arms out and rush to hold him—something he rarely did. Mike buried his face in his shoulder, body wracked with sobs. He was actually shuddering from crying so much.
Before Scott could think about what was going on, they were on his sleeping bag. Mike was sobbing into his lap and Scott found himself absently stroking his hair. He felt protective of Mike. Like he was this little flower that he had to keep from getting its petals plucked.
"What happened?" Scott asked, lightly picking up Mike's wrist and squinting to discern the yellow-purple marks there.
"I wouldn't do what he wanted me to do," he whispered.
Scott let his wrist drop and started to stroke Mike's forehead the way his original live-in nanny, Clarissa, used to when he had been sick. He made sure his fingers stayed away from his bruised lips and his black-eye.
"Who was it?" Scott demanded.
Suddenly, he wanted this guy to pay. No fucking way could some asshole treat his friend that way.
Mike didn't say anything. Another sob made his body jump and his fingers started to twitch.
"Mike," Scott nearly shouted. "Don't go out on me now, buddy. I need to know who this asshole is!"
But it was too late. Mike had dropped off. Scott rested his head against the wall in defeat. He'd have to wait until morning or whenever to find out. God, why would some asshole do that to a kid? Mike was a young seventeen and that guy did shit to him like he was some play-toy.
If Scott had been less angry, he would've stopped to analyze the sudden jealousy that occurred but he wasn't so he didn't.
??…1987
When Mike awoke, Scott was there. His mouth was set in a thin, straight line and his eyes were twin flames of dark fire on his pale face. If he had been a dragon, he would have breathed fire all over the loft.
"What else did he do to you?" were the first words from his mouth.
Mike didn't speak. It was too embarrassing to recount. Besides, speaking of what happened to Scott of all people would've made him blush and probably get hard…if that didn't hurt that is.
Scott seemed too impatient to wait for him to answer. He inched up Mike's shirt before letting it drop.
"Asshole!" he shouted.
Mike lifted himself up so he was sitting before lowering his eyes. Scott had seen the bruises and bludgeons there too.
"Where else?"
"Down…there," he whispered, gesturing to the area below his belt.
Carefully, he stood and pulled his pants down. It was embarrassing as hell to show him but Scott wanted to know. Scott had this…thing about him that made you want to do things for him. Want to give things to him.
It gave Mike both joy and disappointment when Scott just stared baldly at his exposed genitals instead of either being affronted or happy.
Mike knew that his eyes reached the bottom, the tip of his cock, where a set of angry, red indents in an arch like teeth ran. Where the punter had gotten angry and bit him when Mike wouldn't do what he had wanted. It ached. It hurt like hell. Fresh tears leaked from his eyes and ran down his cheeks in rivulets.
Scott's face paled and red splotches of anger appeared on his cheeks.
"I'm going to make that asshole pay, Mike," he said evenly.
Mike lowered his head and pulled his pants back up.
"You don't have to, man," he said, sitting back down.
Scott shook his head.
"Fuck yeah, I do," he barked. "That asshole fucked you up, Mikey."
Mike looked at Scott and it was like he was looking into a fairytale book. Gallant Scott. Sir Scott ready to slay the dragon for his friend. It made Mike want to pounce on him and rip his clothes off. But he resisted. The aftermath was sure to be a fate worse than death. In the months of Scott's stay on the streets, he hadn't given in to the hustler way of life yet. Mike was amazed by his persistence to stay semi-normal instead of fucked up like them.
He never loved Scott more than he did right then. Staring at him, ready to do battle with the john that had done Mike wrong. Before he could react, the words tumbled from his lips.
"I love you, Scott," he whispered.
Scott didn't seem to hear him.
"What, Mike?" his face was pretty close to his now.
Concern danced on his face like imps and Mike felt a blush creep up his neck while he mentally cursed himself.
"Nothing," he said quickly. "Thanks, though."
"For what?"
"Caring."
Scott slid next to him and draped an arm around his shoulder.
"Think nothing of it, Mikey."
October? 1987Scott stared at his reflection in the window. Bug-eyed and wild-faced from not sleeping at all last night. He squared his shoulders and puffed his skinny chest out in a vain attempt to look bigger. He wasn't short by any means—in fact he thought of himself as too tall—but he was lanky. He was still so coltish and pubescent looking. He was nearly a man for crying out loud!
He tousled his dark hair so it fell wildly in his face to give him a bit more of a feral look as he readied himself for a convincing argument.
"Bob?" Scott turned from the window and called out in the dark of the loft.
And Bob stepped from the shadows like a mobster in a 40s movie. Scott nearly expected him to be wearing a pinstriped suit and wing-tips. Instead, Bob wore his usual, royal blue robe and looked like he had just tumbled from bed.
"Yes, Scottie m'boy?" he asked.
Scott cleared his throat but was suddenly unnerved by Bob's appearance. Bob always looked at him differently from the others. Like he was taking bites out of him with his eyes. Like how he was staring at him now.
"Bob," Scott started. "Some john fucked Mike up. Do you know who saw him last night?"
Bob didn't answer at first. He drew closer to Scott so the two were nearly seeing eye to eye. Despite their lengthy age difference, Scott was the same size, if not taller, than Bob.
"Bob?" a whispered voice as though he were in a cathedral.
The older man cupped his cheek in one hand. Scott felt his heartbeat accelerate. It seemed to be telling him that something was about to happen.
He wasn't entirely surprised when Bob pressed his lips onto the contour of his neck but that wasn't to say he wasn't unsurprised. A little gasp involuntarily left his throat as Bob nuzzled his neck in a way that made Scott believe that there'd be the telltale, raisin-like mark there in the morning.
It felt almost unreal, Bob's hand on his face while the other one inched up his shirt to feel his torso. Scott felt himself grow almost drowsy and too tired to put up a resistance. He had spent the night watching over Mike and felt about to collapse. He fell into Bob's chest as the older man continued to neck him.
What happened next was a blur. Scott awoke on Bob's bedroll, naked and wide-eyed. He sat up and found his worn t-shirt laying in a pile on the floor. He grabbed it and pulled it to his chest. Like he had to hide himself. Crumpled dollar bills fell from it. Where had they come from?
Thoughts were no longer attached to actions but Scott must have pulled his clothes on, grabbed the money and ran. Ran from the loft.
He ran like he was being chased. Arms pumping and legs screaming in confusion for the sudden gait. Scott kept looking back, half-expecting to see Bob following him. The people he passed on the street were looking at him weirdly. They probably thought he was on drugs and being chased by a figment of his imagination. And maybe he was. Maybe what happened had been a surreal dream and he was going to wake up next to Mike and they'd laugh about it before Scott went to kick the ass of the john. Maybe—
A large arm wrapped around his waist. Scott's arms and legs shot out comically in front of him before he was yanked into the alley. Now what?
The man was illuminated by the moth-infested light above the utility door to the right. He was tall but skinny. His ribs poked out from stretched flesh that was almost transparent. His eyes were like a goldfish, blue and round and nearly bugging from his angled face. The oddest thing about him was the sheer, steel cables of muscle in his right forearm. Scott grew sick just looking at it, knowing exactly how it ended up that way.
"Hey," he said, looking Scott up and down like he was buying a used car.
This was the last thing he needed. He shouldn't have left the loft. Now here he was, alone on the street, with this guy.
Scott didn't look into his face. He stared at his bony chest which was swathed in sheer, purple mesh to the bottom of his ribcage. A weird necklace with a ring on the end was around his neck.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" the guy asked.
Why did he automatically assume Scott was gay? Well, he might as well play along. Get this freak uninterested in him.
"Yeah," Scott widened his eyes to manic proportions and forced himself to look into the guy's narrow face. "He's in a gang, you know? And he doesn't like other guys coming on to me."
The guy took a step back. His plan was working.
"Yeah," he continued. "He's about six foot five, two eighty-five. All muscle. Kind of rough in the sack and shit."
Scott flashed the guy a petulant grin, showing more bravado than his jiggling insides should have allowed.
"You know," he said. "I think his turf's around here somewhere…you wouldn't want him to run into you coming on to me would you?"
He didn't give the guy time to reply. He was already halfway out of the alley.
So it is October…October 14, 1987Scott pressed his body against the wall, feeling like a commando. A commando wearing clothes fresh from Goodwill but a commando nonetheless. He nimbly climbed through a window and tumbled into the living room. He jumped to his feet and ran up the stairs. This had to be quick.
Scott threw the door open and pulled open the orange knapsack he had with him. Pulling open the dresser drawers, he grabbed clothes and dumped them into the bag. Once it was full, he zipped it up and slipped back downstairs.
He was in the kitchen, stealing food, when he was finally spotted.
"Mon-see-your Scott!" Babette, the Fanch maid, stood in the doorway. "Where half you been? Your fat-her hass been looking all over for you!"
He didn't answer her. He grabbed the rest of the food in his direct grasp, feeling like a thief in his own house. He started away.
A strange confidence bloomed in the pit of his stomach as he made his way towards the door. He slung the knapsack over one shoulder and turned to face the very confused looking Babette.
"Where are you go-eeng?" she asked.
Scott looked at the ajar door and then back at her. A smile played on his face. Not one of those psycho, all-work-and-no-play-makes-Jack-a-dull-boy smiles that tend to freak people out. It was a goofy smile. One that rarely graced his features and made him look about ten times dumber than he was.
"Wherever," he turned back at the door before continuing. "Whatever. Have a nice day."
Scott turned back, gave a laconic, two-fingered salute and darted out the door, slamming it behind him.
Nighttime…1987Mike pressed his forehead against the window. The throbbing had ceased but his body still ached like hell. He couldn't bring himself to go out on the streets but he also couldn't bring himself to tell the others why he couldn't go out on the streets. Maybe he'd make up an excuse. Like…he was treasuring his time in the loft. They had been found squatting and it was either: a) get the hell out of there by the end of the week or b) go to jail. Obviously, they unanimously opted for option A. They were heading back to Portland in a week. Maybe he could say he was staying in the drafty loft to cherish the moments. Yeah…like that'd work.
Mike turned away from the window and slumped down, his back resting against the cold glass. His sudden depression wasn't brought on solely by the attack last night. Bob had slept with Scott. It filled him with an ache that seemed to burrow under his skin, lay eggs in his stomach, shoot bullets into his heart. Soon his heart would die from bleeding, bugs would hatch in his stomach and creatures would burst from his skin until Mike died and left a bug-choked, bleeding corpse on the ground. He wanted to die. It seemed so dramatic but that was what his mind was telling him to do. Die and get it over with. Die…
"Mikey?"
The ache returned. Scott was back. Mike crossed his arms over his chest, doing his best not to wince from the large bruise brought on by a kick last night. He kept his head down, focusing on the dusty planks of wood rather than bear to look at any part of Scott.
"Are you okay?"
Mike didn't answer. Why should he? Scott was big on not getting into the life and then he slept with Bob. It was almost as though he had betrayed Mike himself. And he felt stupid for thinking it. He had no hold on Scott. He was just his friend, his best friend. Scott most certainly didn't know about the hunger, the longing Mike kept in check around him.
"No," Mike finally said. "I'm not okay."
Scott sat down across from him, long legs folded Indian-style.
"I'm going to find that guy, Mike," he said solemnly.
"Sure you are," Mike replied in a petulant manner.
He sounded like a complete brat. Like a tantrum-prone little kid, having fifty fits because his parents wouldn't buy him a certain toy. And he hated that feeling.
"What's wrong?"
Then anger, like an arc of vomit, spit from his mouth. Mike shot his head up and glared at Scott.
"What's wrong?" he shot back. "What's wrong? What's wrong is that you fucked Bob! That's what's wrong!"
Scott looked taken back. That obviously hadn't been what he was expecting.
"Mike, I…" he looked down. "I…"
"You what, Scott?" he hated himself for screaming at him and he hated Scott for making him hate himself for hating him.
"I didn't want it," he said in complete deadpan. "I was confused and everything happened so fast. And I don't see why you care, Mike!"
The last part was said almost spitefully. Mike lowered his head. He felt like shit.
"I know…" he cursed himself for almost letting his feelings show. "I just…I mean…whatever."
Scott tipped his head to the side and Mike looked at him. He felt a blush creep up his neck but he kept his lust in check. What was with Scott that made it nearly impossible to stay angry with him? Did he cast spells to do so? Was he forever pulling tricks out of an invisible top hat to eliminate any anger towards him?
"What did he look like Mike?" Scott asked suddenly.
"What?" his voice sounded dreamy and far off.
"The guy," Scott said evenly. "The one who attacked you. What did he look like?"
Mike shook his head, suddenly back on earth.
"Oh…" he said. "Uh…he was tall. Taller than you, maybe, and really skinny. Kind of anorexic-y. And he had a weird necklace. Like a chord with a ring on it. He tried putting his dick through it to get me to…you know."
Scott's face was clouding over with a look of sheer anger.
"Mike," his voice sounded clipped. "Did he have a huge right forearm? You know, the kind you get from jerking off a lot."
Mike felt the color drain from his face. Scott was just that good! How did he know?
"Uh…yeah," he said meekly. "How did—"
He never finished that sentence. Scott was already out the door.
October 14, 1987Scott ran back through the streets, desperate to find that guy. His heart was a stretched drum as it pounded in rhythm with his feet. His mind worked in a constant rhythm to match his feet as he continued to run. He knew what he had to do. What were the chances that that asshole was still in the alley? Slim to none but Scott didn't know where else to look.
"Hey, sweetie. Where's your gang-banger boyfriend?"
Bingo.
Scott turned and saw that guy in the same, moth-choked alley. He stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He wore a button-up shirt cut so his hipbones—which jut out of a pair of leather pants—and his navel would be seen. A dragon was silk screened onto the shirt. That was how Scott felt. Like he was up against a dragon.
"You fucked up my friend," Scott said in deadpan. "You fucking asshole."
The guy laughed and stepped towards him. His hair was like blonde flames in the night. Scott crossed his arms and set his lips in an angry scowl. No way was he going to let this guy know that he scared him shitless.
"Ooh," the guy purred. "Tough guy."
Scott let his arm drop and took in the night upon his chest where his heart pounded furiously against the thin flesh. He felt his left hand start to curl into a fist. Without thinking, he lifted his arm and punched the dragon in the face. Big mistake. The guy grabbed his arm with that steel-cable muscled-by-masturbating arm and twisted it behind his back. Scott bit his lip to stop from groaning in agony. He kicked back into the guy's shin so he let go. Scott rolled and tried to jump to his feet. He had never fought anyone in his life. It was actually kind of exhilarating. The guy was then on top of him and all the air in his body came out with a whoosh. His head began to pound like a heart. The street lamp above blazed with white intensity, mocking Scott with its glow. Lit up by the mocking light, the man stared down into Scott's eyes, frightening him with the look in his creepy eyes.
"You are quite stunning," he said in a hoarse voice, pressing on Scott's chest with his bony knees.
Scott's lip started to quiver as the guy cupped his face in his hands.
??…1987
He dreamt of kissing him. He dreamt of pressing his lips to the devilish curls of his. Feeling the tickle of his dark hair against his chin and to be able to see love reflected in his brown eyes. The same love he had. Mike knew, though, that that would never happen. Scott would never see him as more than a friend—a best friend. Sometimes, though, he'd wake up in the protective hug of Scott's arms when he needed comfort. Scott was his panther, protecting him from any and all danger. He had beaten up that john for him and had almost been raped in doing so. If Bob hadn't happened by…Bob…the thought made Mike want to cry. After that, Bob and Scott had a thing. He didn't even know if Bob paid him. He just knew that they were together on the rooftop. All the time. Gary would make jokes about it—kissy faces when they walked by, loud laughs and innuendos—and Mike would laugh along but inside he was dying. Why couldn't Scott turn to him? Make love to him?
"Mike?"
There he was again. The ache tore at him this time. It made his stomach cramp and his muscles suddenly feel waterlogged. Scott stood in front of him, wearing only an Oxford shirt that came to the middle of his thighs. His dark hair was sex-wild and his eyes looked bleary. Mike lowered his head and pretended not to stare at Scott's feet when he approached him. His feet were slightly large but Mike adored his feet. It was a weird thing to adore but they were nicely shaped and proof that Scott wasn't entirely perfect-looking.
"Hey, Mikey," he said as if he hadn't just been being fucked by Bob on the roof. "Want to go out to dinner?"
That depends…is Bob coming?
"Sure," he said and stood, suddenly nose to nose with the object of his affections.
Once more, Mike wanted to scream and rip his clothes off but it seems that Bob had been doing that to Scott enough recently. Scott smiled a weird smile. It was kind of hazy but it reached his eyes and that was what mattered. It was a panther smile. That's what was weird. If a panther had a human face, Mike decided, it would look like Scott. A panther with slanted brown eyes that smiled hazy smiles. A panther that slept with the grizzled hawk instead of his friend the…what? Sparrow? Lab puppy? What was he? He had lion-colored hair, tawny and wild, but he wasn't a predator cat. He was a weakling. Maybe some kind of bird. What was he?
???…1987 Nighttime
The restaurant was one of those cheesy Italian joints: red-and-white checked table clothes, fat red candles with fishnet netting, paper napkins and music from a drunken sounding man. Scott had taken a wad of cash with him when he left the second time—when he had come back for his stuff—so he told Mike to order what he wanted. Neither had been here, a Portland restaurant. Renaissance cherubs and naked statues adorned the walls and wine bottles were suspended from the ceiling, looking like they were about to pour their bounty right on top of the boys. Scott wanted to tilt his head back and gulp hungrily but he knew that the bottles were empty and nothing would come out.
Scott swung his legs from the booth which was done up in black vinyl with gold accents; very ginzo. It was up high so his long colt legs could swing freely without worrying about whacking his too big feet on the floor. He pursed his lips around the cherry hanging off of the end of his drink. Unfortunately, places like this still carded so both were to order sodas. Scott could've sprung for a fake ID but he would be legal soon anyway. Mike was staring at him over the rim of his glass. Or maybe he was just studying the carbonated bubbles. Scott bit down on the cherry and the sweet juice flowed into his mouth, coating his tongue in a cherry condom. Scott laughed and nearly choked on the juice. Mike looked up from his glass. Why were all of his thoughts sex-based? Quickly, he yanked the stem from his mouth and cleared his throat of the juice. His wrists ached from earlier that night. A feeling had gripped him so tightly he had to run off to the bathroom. How he ran his hands over his body, left wrist aching in agony as he jerked off in a public restroom, was fresh in his mind. It was hideous and unsanitary but not as unsanitary as who he was imagining. The feeling had caught him shortly before nightfall when he saw the familiar form sprawled out on the roof in the plastic tent. Like a lion cub curled asleep. The feeling had settled like a lump in his stomach, causing it cramp and cause him to abuse himself. But sex alone, even out of desire, had never been his cup of tea and he found that it accomplished nothing more than to make his hands sticky. Maybe that was why his wrists ached. When he came it was in coughs and whines. The guy in the next stall had asked him if he was alright. Was he? He didn't know. There was no way he was gay. Yes, he was fucked by Bob on a nearly nightly basis and he had lately been dabbling in hustling but in both of those trysts, he was being paid. Guys couldn't love each other unless one of them was getting money. Of course, the thought had been some weird malfunction. Nothing more. Nothing.
The waiter, a gorgeous guy with fistfuls of ebony curls, brought them their food. His hand lingered on Scott's plate a little longer than necessary despite the heat of the porcelain. He stared at him through the steam and Scott felt himself suck in a deep breath. He dropped Mike's off without a second thought and strode by him. If Scott didn't know better, he thought he heard the guy whisper something. Mike ate his food politely and quietly as if he ate at restaurants all the time. Scott had to give him kudos not to tear into it like a hungry lion since none of them had eaten in a weak. Scott, however, wanted to grab his fork and shove as much into his mouth as he could without choking. But Favors were nothing if not polite so he followed Mike's lead and quietly ate his penne.
Later that night…1987Mike walked through the park by that fountain with the greening statues.
"Scott…" he ventured. "If I were an animal, what would I be?"
Scott said nothing for a while but stared at a park bench. It reminded Mike of the bench where they had met all those years ago. When he told Scott his name was Chris.
"A rabbit," Scott said, leaping ahead on his long panther legs to demonstrate. "You'd be a little tawny rabbit."
Mike didn't know whether to take it as a compliment or not but smiled at Scott's impromptu rabbit hopping nevertheless.
"What about you?" Mike asked, catching up with him.
Scott stopped bouncing and looked at him with his slanty, panther eyes. Mike watched him carefully, wondering if he'd say panther too. That Scott would admit to being his pounceable panther prince and they'd live happily ever after. He nearly laughed. Ha. No one wanted a factory reject like himself. The tossed off rabbit toy.
"I'd be a wolf," Scott said solemnly.
Rabbit and Wolf. Mike liked panther better. They walked a little further down the park until Scott stopped and looked at him. He said something quietly, a whisp of a sentence.
"Don't trust wolves, Mikey."
Mike shook his head. He had to be imagining it.
1987
Mike dreamed that night of a room. An electric room the color of watermelons. Stuffed rabbits were on the walls. Stuffed rabbits with green eyes. Dead green marbles inserted into their heads. A wolf was laying on the floor. It tore at a stuffed toy, fluff was flying everywhere. The wolf's back shone. It was a leather jacket. Big bad wolf tearing at a stuffed toy of a panther. The wolf looked up and stared out with tilted brown eyes and howled. It was the howl Scott made on the roof on the Fourth of July. A yip-howl that sounded more human than animal. The fire in the fireplace crackled with Bob's laugh and a creepy hawk above it began to squawk. Mike-rabbit sat on a wingback chair, watching the Scott-wolf tear at the toy. The wolf stopped howling and tearing and stared at Mike-rabbit. Don't trust wolves, Mikey. Then he lunged. White flashbulbs exploded and Mike sat straight up. Up on the rooftop, he felt so exposed to the milky light as white as the flashbulbs in his dream. Using the heels of his hands to rub the last remainder of sleep from his grass-green eyes, Mike crawled from his plastic tent—the scent and feel reminded him of his childhood on the roofs in Seattle—and looked around for Scott. He found him hunched over a pile of clothes. The flashbulb moon lit up his pale body, revealing the fact that he was completely naked. Mike felt a blush creep up his neck. He had never seen Scott naked before. And the fact that his best friend had no idea that Mike saw him stark naked as the day he was born made him feel scandalous and dirty. It was almost as if he were taking something away from Scott by seeing him like that. He must be cold. He must be fucked. People don't randomly get naked on rooftops. He had just been fucking. Mike felt the blush deepen.
"Scott?" he ventured.
Like an ebony-haired meerkat, Scott straightened up. He held the current coat selection over the pale perfection of a chest where Mike knew his heart beat so close to the outside elements as his did. That was why Mike envied the girl prostitutes. They had buffers for their hearts. He and Scott and Gary and all of the boy hustlers had their own beating so close to the surface without any fat tissue protecting them.
"Jesus!" he hissed, pulling a pair of underwear—obviously his own, discarded pair—from the side up and over his ass. "How long have you been there?"
Mike rubbed the back of his neck. "Not long. Were you just with Bob?"
Scott stood to yank on a pair of pants that were more hole than denim. He waited until they were fastened to answer.
"No…that waiter tonight. From the restaurant. He gave me his money in tips," Scott pulled on a worn t-shirt before layering on his hooded sweatshirt and leather jacket.
Mike nodded and wanted to edge closer to him but refrained.
"Oh," he nodded his head again, watching Scott pull a ski cap down over his panther-dark hair.
He looked ready to go to bed and Mike felt his chance slipping.
"I had a trippy dream," Mike piped up.
Scott tilted his head to the side like the Scott-wolf in his dream. "Oh, really?"
He was disinterested. Mike just nodded once more and sat back down. Scott hopped over to him, pulling socks on his bare, too large feet as he did so. Idly, Mike wondered why he was still naked if he had left the waiter.
"Scott?" an accented voice answered his question.
"This is his apartment building," Scott's chuckle splashed Mike with a spray of cold water. "We're not still fucking if that's what you're thinking."
Mike's heart beat like a rabbit's foot and he stood to go. The waiter was still here. Still here on the rooftop where he didn't belong. Mike felt sick. He had to go back to the safety of his tent.
That morning…1987
Scott sat on the rooftop, letting the wind blow his hair from his face. Something about the cold, stale smelling wind of Portland awakened a hollow feeling inside of him. It was as if it were trying to tell him something. But what? What could some breeze be telling him? He wasn't into that "listen to the wind, it'll tell all" bullshit self-help gurus rhapsodized about but this seemed to have a feeling. Nothing else had ever awoken this specific feeling before.
"Scott? You're up?"
Scott turned his head slightly and nodded. Poor Mike. It was hard to erase the small animal, pitiful look that he had seen on his friend's face the night before. They were moving their spot. The waiter had mentioned how he'd like to see Scott again sometime. He didn't think he was up to it. When he went to collect his money, all he could picture was Mike standing there, looking like a sad rabbit.
"Hey, Mikey. Where is everyone?" Scott asked pushing his arms up in the arm to stretch. "It was empty when I woke up."
"Not sure…I just got up."
The two boys sat next to each other on the rooftop, Scott's long legs dangled over the side of the building while Mike sat cross-legged.
"We make weird friends," Scott said out of the blue.
Scott imagined how they'd look from the street; photo-negative boys. Green eyes, brown eyes. Blonde hair, black hair. Poor mouse, rich mouse. Rabbit, wolf. Wolf…he remembered what he had said that night to Mike in the park. That night…seemed like a while had passed even though it had just been mere hours. About not trusting wolves that tear little bunnies apart.
"You're wrong, Scott," Mike said suddenly.
"About?" Scott felt his body stiffen. He had never been called wrong before except when his mother tapped him on the shoulder at "social functions".
"You being a wolf. You're a panther," Mike looked down at the early morning traffic as if he felt embarrassed about what he had said.
Scott leaned forward, strongly grasping the edge of the roof, to look at Mike's profile. Slowly, the other boy turned his head and their eyes met. It reminded Scott of them on top of the rooftop in Seattle at the Fourth of July. How their eyes met. What would have happened. Mike's lips twitched and Scott felt his cheeks heat up. Their faces were so close, they could kiss. Still, something seemed wrong about it. Guys didn't kiss. Guys fucked and got fucked for money but kissing meant more. Plus, it was like he would be taking something away from Mike. Something of innocence. So he pulled away. Shakily, he stood up from the roof and offered his hand to Mike. At first, he didn't take it.
"You're wrong again, Scott," Mike said quietly.
Once again, Scott felt himself stiffen. "Why this time?"
Mike stood on his own, not touching his outstretched hand.
"About us making weird friends," he explained. "We make very rational friends."
They laughed. It was a nervous laughter, a hard laughter like salt on an open wound. It burned and soothed at the same time.
"Mikey, I don't think we even are friends," Scott smiled. "We're brothers."
Positive, negative. Photo-opposite brothers. The two smiled at each other. Scott had on the panther-grin, the wide grin that showed more wisdom than it should. Mike wore a small grin, one that didn't pop and explode with flashbulb brightness but both seemed happy. Scott put his arm around his friend and led him down to the fire escape to where they could exit.
"Let's get some food," he said, rubbing his stomach.
They shared another smile, neither afraid at the moment.
--
A/N: And that's all she wrote. I've actually had this chapter sitting around on my upstairs computer completed since January but just now got around to submitting it. Hope you enjoy. This is, obviously looking at my profile, my last MOPI story.