1987…mid-June?

Mike leaned over the side of the roof, staring down at the street. Beetles. Enormous beetles shuttled down the concrete path and ants. The ants scurried on the white borders. Mike pictured spitting. He pictured a trail of saliva from his mouth to the ground. He sat up and fell backwards with a start. That was gross. Mike physically stuck his tongue out at himself.

Rising to his feet—and feeling a wave of unfamiliar confidence in his new bought-from-Goodwill-boots—Mike breathed in. For once, he was happy for his perpetually clogged nose. The dead fish smell that slithered in and out of the building didn't affect him. Still, he longed for a way out of this city. Seattle was made from smog and the haze from drugs. It wasn't for him. Sometimes Mike felt like a creature…a fairy…trapped in a world he didn't create. A world where he had to give a part of himself to some random guy on the street every night. But then…where did he belong? He remembered his trip earlier that year. Idaho. The potato state. He had gone to visit his brother, Richard. Even there, he felt oppressed. The small trailer with Richard's creepy paintings on the walls and low ceiling. Those paintings…they scared Mike. The family smiling creepily from their frame kept him awake when he had spent the night.

He didn't belong in Seattle. Maybe he didn't even belong on this planet. Fairy-boy. Fairy. It was ironic really. The name thrown so often at him when he had attended school a millennium ago turned out to be true. Not in the mythological sense but the physical one. Technically…Mike was a fairy.

He pushed his lips out slightly in a fashion that he knew made him look dumber than he was. He wasn't into this philosophical shit. Hell, he couldn't even spell philosophical. He was just there. Or not there. Sometimes Mike felt detached from the world. Floating somewhere above it, watching his body be penetrated by some punter.

He had intensified his usage of blow. It helped ground him and yet it sparked a light that made him want to soar. Soar and be a fairy. A fucking fairy. Mike let his body lay back on the roof. He splayed his arms out, palms up and stared at the sky. A sky of a white, smog-choked blue. Mike yawned. Ever since he was younger, laying down automatically made him want to close his eyes. Like those dolls that stared at him from store fronts. This time, though, he just yawned. Yawned and stared up at the sky, wondering where the fuck he belonged.

It didn't take him long. Mike knew that he didn't belong anywhere. Especially not in this place. It was fucked, Seattle was. Truly, deeply fucked. And it had the desire to fuck everyone over. Mike was a victim really. Fucked over nightly. Fucked over literally by those punters. Not that he would stop. What other job could he hold down? His sleeping spells were becoming more frequent and were lasting longer. More than once in the past month, a john had run off with money after Mike had passed out afterwards. It was fucked up. He was fucked up.

"Mom?" he called upwards into the smog-infused sky.

Mike felt tears leak from his eyes and fall into his ears. What could he say? He only had vague recollections of his mother. Mostly it was mini-skirts and go-go boots. He remembered his mom wearing that combination all the time. It was odd, really, that that was what he remembered. He also remembered being held. Feeling the warmth of someone who actually loved him.

Mike cursed inwardly. He was dreaming. Like he'd ever meet anyone who would hold him and make him feel special. The only person who came close was this guy, Doug. Doug. If his name had been Doug, Mike would've changed it to something less dork-sounding. Like all those who were named Doug were issued wire-rimmed glasses and Oxford shirts when they came out of the womb. But this guy, at least, treated him better than the other johns. He was this married guy who was feeling unfulfilled and restrained since he was really gay. Doug would come to Mike and they'd find a hotel room. For five hundred bucks, he made Mike feel special. He actually stuck around if he passed out afterward and Mike always got to watch TV or something. Doug was weird though. He kept telling Mike that he loved him but sometimes called him Charlie. It was all make believe for Doug. He didn't really love him. Mike was paid to love him, that was true, but there was no way Doug really loved him or vice versa. It was impossible to fall in love with some kid on the streets. Especially not some average-intelligence blonde kid who got bent over the minibar in hotels on a nightly basis. Still…it was nice being held and being told he was special. Sometimes make believe was better, he supposed.

But it was all a game. That's what his "career" was too. All just some game. Love was all that mattered to him and that's what Mike wanted. Someone to love him and someone for him to love. That true love he never knew. Some prince charming to swoop in and make love to him and mean it. To say 'I love you' and mean it. Not just to say it to get/give a blowjob. To get his name right. To stick around when he passed out and stroke his hair and, god damnit, to love him.

Mike snorted and dried his cheeks with the palms of his hands. Like that was ever going to happen.

June 12, 1987

Scott had it all planned out. It was going to mind-blowingly simple. He had prepared for weeks preceding their summer in Seattle…which could've made a good title for some cheesy blockbuster. Ever since that party two years ago, Scott couldn't get street life out of his head. He'd lay in his bed at night, images from the party flashing in his mind in blazing Technicolor. They haunted him like ghosts. About two months ago, the idea finally formed in his head: run away. It made perfect sense. On one level, he could be wild. Free. He needn't have to worry about college. On the other…it would seriously piss his parents off, something Scott had been doing more and more often as of late. Pissing them off gave him a sort of sadistic pleasure. Getting sloppy drunk at one of his mother's cocktail parties and throwing up on Harriett Archibald's gown. His parents and all of the wealthy Portland families followed the belief that their children were able to drink alcohol as long as they kept up appearances—their excuse was, however, that they'd be less likely to abuse it. Scott wasn't keeping up appearances and he was definitely abusing it. He stopped shellacking his hair and left his suits rumpled. He'd guzzle vodka at parties and then go outside and rant in the streets. He heard whispers of him being sent to military school but Scott would be long gone by then. Military school. Yeah, right. His mother would die before seeing him off to Vassar and his father needed him around to be his show-pony son. Besides, he'd rather sleep on a rooftop than in a cot with his black hair buzzed into a hideous fuzz on his head. Scott preferred his hair to be falling into his face. The less people saw of his face, the better. He was seventeen and looked younger. His face had that stupid, prepubescent look to it and his almond-shaped, brown eyes had no hardness that was required in the Favor household. In retrospect, maybe his father would be happy to see the end of him. They hadn't been close since Scott had hit puberty and they were Yin and Yang physically.

Maybe it wouldn't even be forever. Two, three months on the street—just to get a taste of the life—and then back to his comfort zones. It all really depended on one thing. Chris. That was another thought that had been nagging on Scott for the past two years. That frightened little kid in that oversized jacket. He remembered shortly after the party. Chris's hair sticking straight up. His green eyes clouded and a huge grin plastered was on his face. There was a good chance he was stoned but Scott thought that he looked almost…cute. In fact, he was a cute kid. He probably looked younger than he was too.

God, he was sounding faggot. Leaving this place had come none too soon. He shook his head. Chris was only there to be a friend and show him the streets. Like the Artful Dodger only green-eyed and blonde with that cute little face of his—argh! God, he needed to get the fuck out of this house before he started skipping around in pink silk bathrobes and eating bonbons and watching All My Children.

He did it at night. It was clichéd but it gave him a great cover. With a duffel bag slung over one arm, he ghosted out the door. The path was almost tattooed to the inside of his head. He remembered his first trip sneaking out of the mansion. In his dorky Musketeer costume. Scott nearly laughed, picturing his ten-year-old self in that ridiculous hat tromping out the gate.

He turned to the house. It loomed before him like an omen. Get the fuck out! It was screaming at him to leave. Scott did.

And with a 'fuck you!' he was gone.

?…June…1987

Mike nervously bounced on the balls of his feet, looking around. He hated being alone at night. He should've gone with Gary to see that new vampire movie but he didn't. He was saving his money. Plus, he knew he probably wouldn't care about the movie. Movies about happy people—even if they were getting killed by vampires—made him depressed. He didn't care about the stylish vampires or their motorbikes or that eerily pretty male lead. Now he wished he had. He was alone on the street. Mike hated being alone. There were no other hustlers around him. It was eerie. He shivered despite the warmth. God he was fucked. More than usual. What if a mugger came? Mike laughed. He had to. Like a mugger would come near him. He had nothing of worth and it certainly didn't look like he did. The worst that could happen would be—

A hand wrapped around his wrist. Mike spun around, half-expecting to see one of those cinematic vampires. Instead, it was another hustler. The kind that mercilessly preyed on Mike because—he had to face it—he was rather easy to prey upon. It was really stupid, a playground complex. There was no "turf" and there were enough johns to go around. Mike figured they mostly hassled him because he was weak and small and that whole falling asleep thing. Usually, they came in ones or twos and tackled him. Mike was never a fighter and would usually fall down and nearly pass out—twitching and making them laugh even harder. Then Gary or Budd would jump in and whoop their asses. They lived all over and Mike really didn't see the use in attacking him other than for the sadistic pleasure it gave them.

This time however…this time there were a ton of them. Angry boys in leather, in spikes. Circling him. Creepy grins on their faces. The grins from Richard's paintings. Mike wanted to run but he felt fear, cold and metallic, lump in his throat and his body froze. His muscles turned to ice and his bones became tinker toys locked into position. He managed to take a step back and bumped into another boy. He grabbed his arms. Mike kicked his legs out from under him and they both fell to the ground. Then he heard the unmistakable shing-click noise of a switchblade being flicked out. Oh, shit. Mike squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for the imminent stabbing. His life was so unfulfilled. He never got to see his mother. To be loved, to—

His train of thought was derailed by a thunking noise followed by a muffled 'Ugh!'. He peeked one eye open and saw the other boys fleeing. One of them was clutching the side of his head. Tentatively, Mike opened his other eye.

Holy shit.

June 12, 1987

Scott looked at the boy sprawled out on the ground. Clad in a pair of cheap, secondhand jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, a gray tank top and an orange jacket. Orange jacket! Yellow collar. Four on the sleeve.

"Chris?" he ventured.

He looked around nervously.

"It's me, Scott. You know," he didn't want to sound pitiful so he kept his voice at an even deadpan. "I ran away. Came to live on the streets. With you and Bob and them."

"Oh…" he looked around again. "I'm not Chris. Chris…left. I'm Mike."

Mike. Scott felt like an asshole. But he was so sure it was Chris. Same jacket. Same crazy, dirty blonde hair. Same green eyes. Same pointed chin and upturned nose. It had to be Chris. And yet, it wasn't. It was this bizarre, frightened-animal boy.

"Oh, sorry. Well, why were they attacking you?"

Mike shrugged.

"Because I'm very easy to attack."

Scott left it at that.

"So…you're Mike?" he asked, feeling incredibly dumb.

He nodded.

"Yeah…"

Scott looked at him. Despite just becoming acquainted with the boy, he felt as if he had known him for longer. He felt almost…brotherly towards him already. It was fucked up.

"Do you wanna go do something?" he offered, hitching his duffel bag onto one shoulder.

Mike stared down at his boots as if unsure how to answer. Judging by the way his brow was furrowed, Scott could tell he was deep in thought. Maybe he thought that he couldn't trust him. He couldn't blame him. He wouldn't trust himself if he came barreling in, whacking guys in the head with a duffel bag and then confusing you with someone else.

"Okay," he said finally, looking up.

June 12, 1987

Scott entered the bar with a look of awe of his face. His amazement never ceased about these places. The bar was immaculately set-up. A long, mahogany counter with a top actually made of ice with green lights glowing under it. The rest was just a huge, wooden floor where people were dancing wildly. Renaissance-era art adorned the walls.

"Whoa," Scott breathed.

Mike shrugged.

"I get sent here nightly when I'm not near the washrooms," he said cryptically.

As if to prove his point, a few men called out to him.

"Hey, honey!" one guy shouted. "Who's your friend?"

Mike didn't answer them. Instead, he slunk off towards the men's room.

"Um…" his eyes nervously scaled the bar. "Wait here. I'll be right back. Order something from the bar."

So Scott did. The bartender seemed too preoccupied to card him and he certainly seemed to know Mike.

He ordered a vodka tonic and it was amazing. Not the drink itself but the fact that whenever half of his glass was empty, it was refilled. The amount of vodka in the tumbler never seemed to waver. Because of this, Scott really wasn't aware of how much alcohol he was consuming. It wasn't until the bartender asked him if he was okay, that he realized that he was swaying side to side slightly.

"Yeah," he slurred. "I just like this song."

Scott let out a chuckle and took another pull from his glass. The next moment, Mike was back, looking as drunk as he was. He kept rubbing his nose and sniffling a lot. His eyes were clouded and he had that perma-smile that Chris had from that party.

Chris. Get that kid the fuck out of your head…he's gone.

Scott spun on the stool until he faced the dance floor. People packed were dancing to the twinkling stars above them. Scott suddenly became overcome with the urge to join them. He turned to Mike but the blonde was already gone. He was out on the dance floor, tossing his head and dancing by himself. Everyone else seemed to fade away. Scott had never seen someone so uninhibited. He was like from another world, locked in his own private groove. Scott watched, spellbound, as the rest of the people came back into focus. Some older guy, mid-forties, grabbed Mike around the waist and stuffed a piece of paper into his back pocket. It may have been the Ketel One he had consumed in massive quantities but it looked like that guy's hands rested on Mike's ass a little too long.

The guy pushed Mike away with too much force and—before he knew what he was doing—Scott sprang from the stool and caught him. Their eyes locked for a second. Scott pushed Mike into an upright position and felt his body start to move. At one point, they were dancing ala John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever while banging their heads around. Scott felt like he was tripping which, in a way, he was. Neither of them was a good dancer but both were too intoxicated to care. By the end of the night, Scott figured he was more drunk off of dancing with Mike rather than the alcohol. He was generally feeling at one with the world.

Afterwards, they plopped at the bar and Mike looked at him with the seriousness that only a severely drunk person could have.

"I have to go somewhere," he said with a small frown. "Um, you could go to the loft. By the fish…place."

He sounded younger than he was before. Like whatever he had done in the bathroom had lowered his mentality. Scott didn't want to divulge that he knew where the loft was—although he doubted that he could find it. He didn't want to sound like a psycho stalker.

"I'll wait for you," he offered.

Mike shook his head.

"I'll be a while. You know? Just, uh, here."

He grabbed a pen and scribbled down an address with an extremely shaky hand.

"Go there."

? June…1987

Mike nervously waited outside the bathroom. He was jittery partly from the coke and partly from dancing with Scott. He touched his cheek and let a small, half-smile form. Scott was living on the street. It filled him with a joy he couldn't comprehend. He figured since, when they spoke, he no longer had to keep up the "Chris" charade was what made him happy but Scott…Scott was something else entirely. The touch of his hands on his back when he caught him lingered in his cocaine-clouded mind. He should've gone with him to back to the loft. Instead, here he was, about to get fucked again by some middle-aged drunk.

God, he was such a moron. Was it too late to get out? He could feel his buzz start to waver. It was understandable. He hadn't snorted that much and he had been developing a slight tolerance. Maybe—once his mind was clearer—he could convince the guy not to—

"Sweetie?" the man stepped from the bathroom, completely naked.

Shit. Mike fumbled with his tongue. It felt too thick for his mouth. He had to say something, anything, to get himself out of this. He just wanted to get out and go back to the loft.

"Um…"

Before Mike could speak, the guy strode over and plopped his ass on the bed, legs splayed. Mike knew body language. This guy wanted him to blow him.

"C'mere," he gave a lascivious wink.

Shit…too late now. Mike walked over and stared at the guy's penis. Ugh, no matter how many times he did this, it always grossed him out…unless he was receiving it. Then he felt a weird kind of ecstasy—something he really hated himself for.

Mike was seriously loathing himself as he felt his body kneel before the guy and put his head down.

End of June, 1987

"Okay, dude, this guy was fucking all over me. So I pull out a condom and the dude's like 'It's not my size' and I'm like 'Put it on or I'm walking and there are no refunds, asshole,'" Gary recounted, idly combing a hand through his hair.

"You didn't say that," Scott responded.

"Did so."

Scott leaned back on the roof and propped himself up on his elbows. It had been a couple weeks since he first came out to the streets. He had to say that he was enjoying himself greatly. The street kids were far cooler than the uptight rich kids he grew up with. They also swore a lot more. And drank a lot more. And smoked, snorted, and fucked a lot more. Still, he preferred Gary over Reginald any day.

"That didn't happen," Mike piped up. "Because you would've gotten your ass kicked."

Scott chuckled. Sometimes Mike could come up with an observation or, even, a joke that made him really laugh out loud.

Gary, on the other hand, looked affronted. He gave a dramatic heel-pivot before going back in the loft.

"So…Gary's a prostitute?" Scott ventured.

Mike nodded and leaned back so the two were in the same position.

"That'd be weird," he continued. "You know, being fucked by another guy."

Another nod.

"Mike?"

He shook his head.

"Yeah?"

"You were planet-hopping."

Scott noticed a blush creep up Mike's neck. It was cute…in a completely platonic way.

"Sorry," Mike lowered his head sheepishly.

Scott smiled.

Summer…1987

Mike leaned against the wall of the bathrooms, eyes nervously scaling the streets. Despite that, though, he felt an air of safety since Gary wasn't too far off. He had told Scott that he was going to go meet some friends. He felt like an asshole for lying but he hadn't yet been able to bring himself into telling him that he was gay, let alone that he was a prostitute.

"Michael!" a voice broke through his reverie.

Mike glanced up and saw Doug's car. His chin quivered every so slightly as he went over to the window.

"Hey," he said in a small voice.

"Get in," Doug commanded.

The car ride was brief and before Mike could blink—it seemed—he was bare-ass naked on the bed and being pushed into. This grounded him…he wasn't turning or tumbling. He was in his body being fucked.

Afterwards, Doug put his arms around him and kissed his neck, murmuring his name into Mike's ear. Except it wasn't his name. It was "Charlie" again. He had no idea who that person was but Doug sure seemed to like him a lot. Finally, Mike brought himself to speak.

"My name's not Charlie," his voice sounded clogged and young and not at all authoritative. "It's Mike."

Doug responded by tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

"I know."

"Then why do you call me Char—"

He was cut off by Doug sticking his tongue down his mouth. Mike wanted to cry out but it was proving to be rather difficult. He wanted to soar like he did when he was asleep. He didn't want to be grounded!

Scott's face flickered into his mind. It was an odd thing, picturing Scott during sex, but it took his mind off of the forty-year-old man with his tongue down his throat.

It was gross, putting those two together in his mind, but for some reason, Mike couldn't stop picturing Scott with his tongue down his throat.

Summer…July? 1987

It had to be around July. Red, white and blue streamers were being put up around lampposts and stern-looking Uncle Sam stood vigil in windows, on stilts at used car lots and on the street, passing out invitations to barbecues.

Mike didn't get an invitation and he was happy for it. Why should he care about some dead guys who signed a piece of paper? Did he have freedom? In some ways yes and some ways no. He could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted but it wasn't liberating. Technically, he was free but Mike felt trapped. Like he was a bird stuck in a cage watching all the other pets in the shop get bought. That one puppy no one wanted because it was different. Because it limped a little. Because it was missing an ear. He was that stunted puppy. The reject of the litter.

Feeling uncharacteristically melancholy, Mike sat down on the park bench. He couldn't remember if it had been the one he had woken up on so many years ago or if it was a different one but, frankly, he didn't care. As long as he had a place to gather his eclectic thoughts.

The day was hot, though. One of those sticky hots that left a residue on your hands and made even your hair feel like it weighed one hundred pounds. Steam rose off of almost everything and the air smelled thick with rubber and the sick, tangy smell of garbage that clashed with the fish smell of the loft. The park was hardly a respite. Now the smells of pigeon shit and what Mike suspected to be semen—although even he would retch at the thought of how it got there—mingled to create a mosaic of displeasing odors that burned his nostrils like acid.

Mike had taken off his jacket and left it at the loft. It was too hot for it. He also made the unfortunate choice of going barefoot to keep his feet from sweating too much. Well, now they were dirty and cut…he would've preferred sweaty. So there he sat, probably looking about twelve years old in his torn, orange t-shirt and the pair of olive green, Army surplus pants.

So he thought.

He thought mostly about Scott. That black-haired boy was taking up a majority of his mind. It had been a while, almost a month probably, since Scott first came out to the streets. He seemed to be this light at the end of the tunnel. He spoke enthusiastically about his inheritance and how he was going to give it to them once he got it. Mike also suspected that Bob had the hots for Scott but was still deciding whether or not he was straight or not. He'd have it figured out soon. Bob was good like that. He once told Mike that he knew his orientation the moment he had laid eyes on him…almost six years ago. Shit. He was going to be seventeen next month. Most kids looked forward to their birthdays. Mike wasn't one of them. Other than his eleventh birthday celebrated all those years ago, Mike hadn't had a party and wanted his aging to come and pass without a fuss. Everyone would probably forget anyway.

Mike wrinkled his nose only partly from the smell. He was trying hard not to pull that teen angst thing. The 'me-me-me, whine-whine-whine' tirade all over some greasy park bench but it was hard. He was alone. No one else was like him, probably. Gay…a prostitute…drug user…chronic sleeper…

"Happy Fourth of July, Mikey!"

Mike was startled out of his reverie by the uncharacteristically chipper voice of Scott Favor. Sure enough, the charcoal-haired boy who had been strangely occupying his mind plopped his skinny, pale ass next to him on the bench.

"Why are you happy?" Mike asked, genuinely curious.

Scott shrugged and put his hands behind his head. The gesture caused his shirt to ride up. For some reason, the gap between Scott's shirt and the top of his pants made Mike look away and blush.

"I'm not," he admitted. "I honestly couldn't give two shits about this supposed holiday. Why should I care about a bunch of dead guys who signed a piece of paper?"

Mike's heart fluttered. Scott had just voiced the thought that had shuttled through his mind only minutes ago.

"Yeah," Mike nodded. "I agree."

Scott smiled. He had a great smile. Mike figured his smile would look great on TV. Like in a toothpaste commercial. Mike could never do something like that. He was too much of a freak.

Scott had once told him—a week ago, in fact—that Mike was too hard on himself, lookswise. He had even said that he looked like he belonged on the cover of Seventeen with teen girls hungry to know his favorite color. Those were his exact words. Mike had felt so happy. He felt like he could share anything with Scott after that. After him saying what he was thinking right then.

"Man," Scott said suddenly. "I still can't believe that Gary fucks guys for money. I mean, where's his dignity?"

Maybe not…

July 4, 1987

The first firework went up. An exotic plumage of red bloomed outward in the star smeared sky. It was gorgeous.

Or else, it would be if Scott had cared to notice these things. He was on the roof of the loft with Mike. Perched on the roof like some animated gargoyle. The sky was black velvet with star pinpricks and the moon was an enormous, white melon resting on that astral blanket.

"A-whoo!" Scott pushed his lips outward to emit a wolf-like howl.

Mike gave him an odd look but his green eyes were dancing. Obviously, he had never seen this side of Scott before.

"Come on Mike!" he shouted happily. "Bay at the moon! Bay! A-whooo! Ow-ow-a-whoooooo!"

And he did. Mike let out a long howl that actually did kind of sound like a coyote. When Scott asked him how he knew, he responded with the word 'Idaho' as if Scott would understand. He hadn't.

"Well…whatever. Let's howl."

For what seemed like a while, they did. They let out gut-wrenching howls that would've made heavy metal rockers clap. Tossed their heads back and forth in an animalistic head-bang. Jumped on the ledge of the roof and yelled swears down at the passersby. Just random teenager shit. But it always went back to howling. Howling at the moon.

Scott turned and saw Mike, outlined by that luminescent orb. A huge, genuine smile was stretched across his narrow face and he really did look like he was from another planet. The shimmering moonlight made his eyes almost a neon green as he howled up at the sky. Alien-boy…

He hadn't been lying what he had said about the magazine. Mike looked like a fucking movie star. The problem was, he didn't see it. He thought he was some street-punk shit but he wasn't. He was…

Fuck.

Scott wrenched his head away in disgust. Fuck! He was thinking about Mike the way he thought about girls for Christ's sake! That was fucked up. Two guys couldn't love each other. No fucking way.

July 4, 1987

Mike's throat was hoarse from howling and growling and tilting his face up towards the moon like he was a lupine of the night. He stared at Scott, illuminated by the insipid moonlight. He looked like an alien but in a good way. A fairy-alien from the same planet as Mike. Then…then, his pale body tensed like a jungle beast and he sprang at Mike, tackling him like a giddy puppy.

The blonde hit the ground but managed to keep his neck craned to prevent a skull crash.

Scott yipped between laughter at his surprised friend and Mike yipped back. They both erupted into a wild fit of laughter. Mike felt tears squeeze from his eyes as he let his head rest on the concrete. His sides and stomach ached from laughing so much. Scott yipped at him. Mike returned with a yip and a short bark. And they laughed more. Laughed their heads off.

Then they both froze.

It was like a moment of total clarity or some shit like that. They just stopped and realized.

Mike realized that Scott's body was pressed against his in what some part of his mind hoped, a sensual gesture and his hands were pushed into his hair. Their faces were so close, if Mike puckered his lips…they'd kiss. In fact, the muscles in his face twitched as if they were itching to touch Scott's lips. Mike refrained.

Their eyes stared into each other. Green into brown. Brown into green. Just staring without blinking. It was like they were involved in an unorthodox staring contest. Then, Mike spoke.

"I'm gay," he said quietly. He couldn't believe he had just said that.

To his surprise, Scott nodded.

"I know."

Feeling urged by that response, he continued.

"I'm a prostitute too."

Another nod.

"I know that too."

"Okay…just making sure."

Scott got off of him and offered a hand to help Mike to his feet. He yanked too hard and they nearly collided skulls. Scott let out a laugh and Mike felt himself joining in even though he had thought he was all laughed out.

"It's okay, you know," Scott said with a smile. "I mean, I know you have to. Bob told me."

Fucking Bob! Who did he think he was?

"Scott, will you really share your inheritance with us?" Mike queried, deftly changing the subject.

"Sure, I will."

His voice cracked a little. Scott lowered his head and Mike knew that he knew that Mike heard it and knew that it tore him inside.

August 23, 1987

Mike turned seventeen. He knew the date only by a newspaper at a stand.

It was the worst day in a while.

The sky was a sick shade of brown-yellow-gray and it kept raining. Acid rain. It pelted and stung like hornets.

No one remembered his birthday. He never even told Scott when his was. If his rooftop confession had shaken him, Scott didn't show it. He didn't change his attitude towards Mike in the least. That was the only good part about the day.

He felt so forlorn. Sick and melancholy. He just wanted to find a hole to crawl into and die. Wither away like some discarded flower.

Honestly, though, Mike slept most of the day. He just lay back on the blankets set up in his corner of the loft and slept. It was nice, escaping the world for a little bit. To not have to worry about punters or if he was going to be able to get blow. He just wished that he could go into one of his sleeping spells. For once, he wanted that. He wanted just close his eyes and wake up days later. Skip his birthday all together. Just go back to being himself instead of his soulless shell of Mike that he was.

Mike really had no idea why he was feeling so down. Maybe it was just birthday-stress. Even if no one remembered, you still felt the pressures of being a year older. He paused and opened his eyes. If no one remembered that you were aging, did you age at all? If that were true, was he really still eleven and not seventeen? It was so confusing so…odd. He shut his eyes and waited for sleep to come. He couldn't. Stupid, asinine thoughts streaked across his brain, lit up like neon signs. He rolled around, wanted to cry out for someone. But no one was there. No one was there.

August 23, 1987

When Mike awoke—so he had managed to sleep—Scott was there. He was sitting next to him, with actual concern on his face. Or, at least, it looked that way. He was seated at Mike's feet, back against the wall so he only saw his profile. Mike tilted his head to the side.

"Scott…" he said. "I was born seventeen years ago today. Do you think anyone cares I'm around?"

Scott made a contemplative face before nodding. He turned to look at him squarely in the face.

"I care when you're not…does that count?"

Mike's heart soared like a bird. He felt un-caged.

"Yeah," he managed.

Scott cracked a boyish smile.

"Happy Birthday, Mike."

And the day was good.

Later on, Mike lay down and stewed over things. Mostly, he thought about Scott. How his heart pitter-pattered when he was in the same room and all that. How that compliment from him made him soar like the fairy he knew he was.

He had a lot to things to consider: cutting down on cocaine, maybe easing up on the punters and shit like that. But now there was something else to consider, to think about. Something that'd be in his mind no matter how much coke he snorted, no matter how many times he got/gave a blowjob. A thought that was both equal bits good and bad. That thought was how he was in love with Scott Favor.