A/N: So we all understand why the multipart chapters, right? Because sometimes things drag on too long, and want to break it up for ease of reading. Yeah. This part of this story arc is 32 pages long. So much for that plan.
Timeline
1. 'In the beginning' Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 13 and 14) Rusty is seven, Danny is nine.
2. 'Neverending Conversation' Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 15 and 16) Rusty is seven, Danny is nine.
3. 'Matilda and the Werewolf' (Chapter 23) Rusty is nine, Danny is eleven.
4. 'Something more than it should be' (Chapter 10) Rusty is ten, Danny is twelve
5. 'The humiliation of Norris Carrol' (Chapter 20) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen
6. 'Four Day Interlude' (Chapter 5) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen
7. 'Remember the first time' (Chapter 4) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen
8. 'Sunshine, smiles and sweet, sweet words' (Chapter 17) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen.
9. 'Lie, Cheat, Steal, Play' (Chapter 24) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen
10. 'View from the outside' (Chapter 12) Rusty is eleven, Danny is fourteen
11. 'When we were young' Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 25 and 26) Rusty is eleven, Danny is fourteen
12. 'Walk before you can crawl' (Chapter 2) Rusty is twelve, Danny is fifteen
13. 'Other Nightmares Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 8 and 9) Rusty is twelve, Danny is fifteen
14. 'The more things change' (Chapter 1) Rusty is thirteen, Danny is fifteen
15. 'Words and Silence' (Chapter 22) Rusty is thirteen, Danny is sixteen
16. 'Six months of roses' (Chapter 18) Rusty is thirteen/fourteen, Danny is sixteen
17. 'Two stories with some understanding' (Chapter 21) Rusty is thirteen, Danny is sixteen. Falls within time of 'Six months of roses'
18. 'Life Lessons' (Chapter 7) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is sixteen - falls within time of 'Six months of roses'
19. 'The lies we live' (Chapter 3) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is sixteen
20. 'If the fates allow' (Chapter 19) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is seventeen
21. 'This is our decision (to live fast and die young)' (Chapter 6) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is seventeen
22. 'Such a perfect day' (Chapter 11) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is seventeen
And sequels after they move away!
'Adjusting' - two months after they leave town, Rusty is 15, Danny is 17
'Learning Curve' - eighteen months after they leave town, Rusty is 16, Danny is 19
For a moment the blood was pounding in Danny's ears and he was caught in the grip of the irrational and the unreasoning. Then, with an effort, he forced himself to take a mental step backwards from the edge of panic. There was no use in it, after all. They might be in trouble but they weren't in any immediate danger. He took a deep breath, controlled himself, and he squeezed Rusty's hands tightly, stared deep into his eyes until he was able to do the same.
They were together. They were together and Rusty exhaled shakily, nodded jerkily and blind, unthinking terror faded.
"We can't get out," Rusty said again and this time his voice was steady.
Danny nodded and took another look round at the unopenable door and the useless windows. "So what are we going to do?" he asked deliberately, forcing Rusty to think.
"They'll have to open the door in the morning?" Rusty began uncertainly.
"Yes," Danny said firmly. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. "The very longest we'll be in here is nine hours. That's not so bad." At least there was a definite ending and he watched Rusty's face and saw it helping a little.
Nine hours. And what then? They'd be found by the school secretaries, locked in an office where they had no business being. Everyone would know they'd broken in. The principal would be involved. The police. Maybe they'd be arrested. Criminal proceedings. A trial. Punishment. But most of all, what there would be, was phonecalls. Mom would be phoned. Dad. And he could already imagine the screaming match that would inevitably follow. The points that they'd score on each other. Danny's latest screw-up. Dad, blaming Mom for letting him run wild. Mom saying that none of this would have happened if Dad hadn't left. Both of them blaming him, blaming the company he kept, blaming Rusty. Both of them cold and disappointed and angry. Mom would ground him, Dad would refuse to let him visit (even more than he already was) and he'd never see freedom again. And that wasn't the worst. Because Rusty's dad would be brought in too. Rusty's dad would be told that his son was bad. Would have people - maybe even the police – knocking on his door, wanting to talk to him about his son, and Danny could imagine the reaction, the immediate violence, the raining down of cruelty and viciousness and Rusty would be helpless and Danny couldn't stop it and nobody else would care and maybe this time Rusty wouldn't get up afterwards.
"Think we don't want to be seen when they open that door," Rusty commented. "Guess there's places we could hide. Inner office. Or behind the stationery cupboard maybe." He didn't say – neither of them said – that hiding wouldn't do much good. "Maybe we'll get lucky. Get to a point when no one's looking. Get to sneak out. Long as we aren't seen."
As long as one of them wasn't seen. There was a difference between unpleasant and dangerous, and maybe if Rusty hid, Danny getting caught would be enough distraction, would take the secretaries out of the room for long enough for Rusty to escape.
Rusty scowled. "No, Danny."
He sighed. Tried to argue. "It would be better - "
" - not a chance," Rusty insisted and Danny knew it could never go any other way. He just somehow wished it could.
"So we both hide," he agreed heavily.
"And hope," Rusty nodded.
"What are we going to do in the meantime?" Danny asked.
Rusty shrugged and slumped back down beneath the window. After a moment he pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one.
Grimacing, Danny settled down beside him. "There's a good chance they'll smell that when they come in," he pointed out casually.
Rusty didn't look at him. "Walls are closer," he said vacantly, and beneath Danny could hear the effort of control.
Danny bit his lip and didn't say anything else, and he sat a little closer to Rusty and their shoulders brushed and he tried not to think that this might be their last night of freedom, their last night of together.
"I ran away once," Rusty said suddenly.
"Once," Danny questioned before he could stop himself, because he remembered – he'd never be able to forget – a conversation in the dark over a year ago and Rusty, defensive and earnest, telling him that he'd only had to sleep on the streets twice.
Rusty leaned back and blew smoke towards the plaster ceiling. Danny watched and reflected that it was a good thing that there was no smoke alarm in the room. (Smoke alarm. He frowned and that should mean something.)
"Second time I didn't exactly run," Rusty said at last.
Danny could probably have spent the rest of his life screaming about the implications. Instead he nodded. "You know you don't need to tell me about this, Rus'. Not unless you're sure." It was something that Rusty had always refused to talk about before. And no matter how much part of Danny might want – need -to know, he was never going to force the issue.
Rusty turned his head and smiled at him and started talking.
Robert was six or seven. He knew that; it was June now and Miss Thorpe had told him his birthday was the twenty-fifth of June, once she'd finished looking puzzled and the other kids had almost finished laughing at his confused explanation that he didn't have a birthday. Later, Bruce had derisively demanded if he was so stupid he'd forget cake and presents and he'd blinked and suggested that Bruce was thinking of Christmas. Christmas meant presents. Candy at least. Or at least it had. Up until last year, up until they'd got told he was too bad, Mom would take him down to the shop on the corner, late at night, and he'd get as much as he could carry and he'd eat half of it and spend Christmas Day feeling full and warm and he'd taste chocolate on his lips for hours afterwards. The rest, he'd carefully save for lean times.
Christmas meant presents but it turned out that birthdays also meant presents, to other people. Took him a while to get to grips with that. Finally he figured that other people celebrated because their families were happy they were alive and growing up.
He figured that out a little after his third week of school, when Nicholas' mom had handed him the party invitation and told him to make sure to give it to his mother.
It took him a long time to puzzle out the words, but eventually he realised that he shouldn't give it to Mom at all. She wasn't the one being invited, after all. He'd been invited to Nicholas' birthday party and he was excited and happy, because Nicholas was fun and he'd never been to a party before.
Day of the party, and even following the directions Nicholas had given him, it took him a couple of hours to walk to the house and when he got there he discovered he was the only one who wasn't brought to Nicholas' house by his parents. And he was the only one who was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. And he was the only one who hadn't brought a present. He stood in the hallway, aware of all the other boys in smart shirts, all the girls in pretty dresses, all being cooed over by the assembled parents, and he was suddenly very conscious that Mom hadn't done a laundry for a while, and he'd just picked up the cleanest clothes he could find from the floor. He got a different sort of look, and plenty of comments that they thought he was far too young to understand.
He hadn't known they were supposed to bring presents. Where was he going to get money to buy a present? Where had everyone else found money to buy a present? And when he stammeringly explained that he didn't have anything when Nicholas' mom, looking distracted and frazzled, directed him to put the non-existent present on the table in the hall – which was covered in brightly wrapped packages, surely more stuff than anyone could use in a lifetime – she'd blinked at him and smiled sadly and told him to go play outside with the other boys and girls and he'd pretended he didn't see all the adults watching him carefully and exchanging disapproving glances and tutting to themselves. Somehow, he thought that if he got through this party without being punished, it would be a miracle.
"Rus'..." Danny sighed.
"I know," Rusty said quickly. "But at the time I thought that anyone might turn round and hit me."
"And you'd have let them," Danny said savagely.
Rusty shrugged. "How would I have stopped them?" Danny could hear the hopelessness in his voice, and it wasn't normally there, no matter how bad things got Rusty was defiant and unbreakable, and Danny would give anything to set Rusty free right now.
The party was fun. Running around in Nicholas' backyard, hours of games and he was careful not to win and he was careful not to come last, and he was careful not to get caught cheating.
And then they were called inside and the dining table was laden down with more food than he'd ever seen in his life. He followed uncertainly as the other children charged forwards, grabbed at paper plates, piled food on them. He wasn't sure what he was allowed to eat. Or even if he was allowed to eat; after all, he hadn't brought Nicholas a birthday present and Mom had always told him that food was expensive, and Dad had always told him that ungrateful bastards didn't deserve it.
He hesitated and then Brady told him to try the potato-things, and, before he could say anything, he dumped a couple of pieces of stuff onto Robert's plate.
Cringing, he waited a moment before eating, but no-one said anything. So he gulped down the mysterious potato-shapes as quickly as possible, and they were some of the most amazing things he'd ever tasted. All warm and crisp and soft and buttery inside and breadcrumbs and it was all he could do to even attempt to chew before swallowing.
And still no-one objected so, feeling happy and daring, he took a step closer to the table and grabbed a few different things and took them away to the corner to eat. Somehow a peanut butter sandwich and a couple of cookies found their way into his pocket. The rest though, the rest he tried to eat as quickly as possible. Until Nicholas' mom stood directly in front of him. "Robert," she said, and it wasn't quite a yell but it certainly wasn't a happy tone. "Don't inhale your food. You'll choke."
He dropped the piece of pastry he'd been wolfing down with a guilty look. He didn't exactly understand all the words she'd said but he guessed he wasn't supposed to eat anymore. Oh, well. He'd done quite well. And he still had the other stuff for later, if he got hungry again.
He spent the rest of the time whole the other kids were eating chatting happily to his classmates. Brady tried to get him to take a bowl of ice-cream, but he smiled, said no, and listened to Bruce telling anyone who'd listen that his birthday was next month and the party was going to be the most amazing thing ever. Apparently there were going to be clowns. Apparently that was good.
After a time, Nicholas' mom stepped out of the kitchen carrying an enormous chocolate cake in the shape of a space rocket, with 6 brightly lit candles along the back.
They all started singing. Luckily he knew the song; they'd sang it to Nicholas in class on Thursday.
A few minutes later, he was smiling at the large piece of cake that Nicholas' mom had handed him. It looked delicious. He'd never had cake before.
He was just about to take a bite when his hand was grabbed and twisted painfully and the cake was snatched away. He stilled instantly, fighting the desire to lash out and the desire to run. Looking up carefully, he saw Nicholas' older brother staring down at him.
"You didn't bring Nicholas a present. And Mom and Mrs. Peterson and everyone says that you're all filthy and dressed in rags and scrawny, and it's a disgrace and someone should do something. So I'm doing something."
"You're taking my cake?" Robert asked quietly.
"I'm taking Nicholas' cake back" the boy corrected.
Robert nodded and stepped back. He couldn't hope to win the fight. Not like he was in a hurry to get hurt. And he wasn't going to complain to anyone, even if he'd thought they'd take his side. He didn't whine. Besides. The boy had a point.
"Nicholas' older brother?" Danny checked quickly. "So that'd be Jeremy Raeburn, right? Year younger than me?"
"Yeah..." Rusty blinked at him and sighed. "Oh, you are not doing that. He was seven at the time. It was six years ago. You really planning on yelling at him for something that happened six years ago?"
Danny shrugged. Yes, he wanted to yell at him. He wanted to yell at him and punch him and make him cry and he wanted to get Rusty as much chocolate cake as he could possibly eat. "He had no right to do that," he said instead. "No right at all."
Rusty waved a hand dismissively. "Like I said. It was a long time ago. I know better now."
"Good," Danny said shortly.
Rusty's expression took on a dreamy quality. "Chocolate cake is definitely worth a beating."
"Not funny," Danny said after a moment, his voice tight and controlled. Not even a little bit funny.
The apology was immediately evident on Rusty's face, and Danny sighed and shook his head.
Rusty looked round the room quickly, eyeing the walls, the doors, the windows, as if he was hoping there'd suddenly be another way out and Danny knew that he was trying to keep things normal, keep himself calm. He shrugged uncomfortably. "Last birthday party I went to for a while, anyway."
"You came to mine," Danny pointed out, resting his head back against the wall.
"Well I'd figured out how to get people presents by then," he explained, grinning.
"Right," Danny nodded. "Because obviously I'd have kicked you out if you didn't get me something."
"Exactly," Rusty grinned happily. "That's just the kind of person you are."
They both laughed, comfort in absurdity, and there was silence for a moment.
Rusty grimaced. "Got a little distracted there didn't I?" He made an effort to smile and it didn't reach his eyes. "I was meant to be telling you about the time I ran away."
"You don't need to," Danny said again gently. "Don't unless you want to."
"What else have we got to do?" Rusty asked brightly.
Danny shrugged. "We could fix their filing system for them."
A laugh that was almost genuine. "Planning on being a secretary when you grow up?"
"I like to think I have a working knowledge of the alphabet," Danny said loftily. Unlike whoever did the school filing. They'd found Doug Fletcher's permanent record under 'R' one time. For 'rapscallion', Rusty had suggested. Danny thought that it was possibly a surprisingly well thought-out security measure.
"I've wanted to tell you before," Rusty said quietly, suddenly serious. "I've thought about it..." He sighed and lit another cigarette. Danny carefully didn't make any comment about lingering smoke. Or about lung damage. "It's difficult."
Danny sat a little closer and silently reminded Rusty that he was here, that he was always here, and that, really, everything was okay.
Rusty laid his hand briefly on Danny's and stared at his shoes.
Robert was six or seven and he thought that maybe he was going to die soon.
Dad had been away for a while now. Before he'd left, he'd told Robert's mom that he had a job and he'd be out of town for a few days or so. But it had been longer than that, and with every day that passed, Mom had got stranger. More erratic. He was doing his best to stay out of her way, but it just wasn't working. She'd come into his room last night. Woken him up. Screamed at him for throwing stones at her cat. They didn't have a cat. Not for as long as he'd been alive, anyway. She hadn't really hurt him at least. She'd just shaken him a couple of times, slapped him once or twice, and then he'd been able to run and hide in the bathroom until he heard her go to bed. The day before he'd watched as she put every piece of clothing in the house into a pile and then started cutting all of them into exactly thirteen pieces. Luckily he'd managed to steal most of his stuff back, certainly all the best outfits he was trying to keep reasonable for school. The day before that, she'd been convinced he was his dad.
Things were bad and when he had to move at all, he crept about the flat as quietly as he did when Dad was hungover. He didn't want to go out if he could help it. He had a horrible feeling that she wouldn't let him back in. Most of his time was spent lying on the floor of his room, drawing pictures with a crayon and a notebook that he'd stolen from school. As much as he thought about it at all, he told himself that they had lots of them. They'd never miss what he took. And he'd wanted something.
Eventually he got thirsty and he quietly opened the door, made sure there was no sign of Mom in the living room, and he snuck into the kitchen and got himself a glass of water. He didn't bother looking in the fridge; there was nothing there. Right now he was living on the last of the cornflakes and a giant tub of peanut butter mom had brought back last week. It was pretty good, really, and he was just helping himself to a couple of spoonfuls when Mom suddenly appeared behind him and shoved him back against the kitchen counter.
He hadn't heard her come in. That never happened. She must have been moving as quietly as...as quietly as...as quietly as he did.
She was staring at him, anger and confusion and rage on her face. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice more hostile than he could ever remember it being.
He bit his lip. Hunched his shoulders. Tried to be a smaller target. "Mom, it's me," he told her quietly. "Robert. Your son."
"Liar!" she exclaimed and she slapped him across the face hard. Dazed, he cowered back against the kitchen counter, vaguely aware of her leaping back and when he next managed to focus his mom was pointing a knife at him.
"Mom...Mom, don't. Please." He was trying to keep the whine out of his voice. Trying to keep from pleading. He licked his lips, tried to keep his voice steady and lied. "I know you don't want to do this."
She took a step closer and the point of the knife swung up at it was at his face, at his left eye, and he was trapped and he had nowhere to run and he could already imagine how it could feel and there was no mercy in his Mom's eyes.
"Who are you?" she said again, her voice trembling with anger and disgust. "I don't know you. I really don't think you should be here. Not looking at me. Don't look at me!" He wanted to look away. Thought that maybe looking away would make it safer. But she was still holding the knife and he was frightened and he didn't know what he'd done wrong and he stared at her and shrank further back against the counter. "Who are you?" she asked and he didn't have any other answer and he was trembling and he couldn't help it. "Filthy. Disgusting. I don't like your eyes. They're evil. Looking at me."
There was blank hatred in her eyes and she laid the point of the knife against his face and the point was a hairsbreadth from his eye, and if he moved even a fraction..."Looking at me with those disgusting eyes," she muttered, and he took the risk, the chance, jerked his head back, threw himself to the side, and he heard the crack as the knife hit the counter behind where he'd been standing, and he dodged around Mom even as she screamed and he ran for the door as quickly as he could.
Danny knew he was staring. Knew his face was a mask of horror. "She tried to kill you," he said blankly.
Rusty shrugged uneasily. "She wasn't exactly trying to kill me. And she really wasn't responsible, Danny. She was never...She was sick and out of her head on who knows what." His arms were wrapped tightly round his knees and he was shaking with the pain of memory and Danny neglected the need to point out that there was never an excuse to hurt the people you were supposed to love, in favour of leaning in closer and brushing his hand through Rusty's hair and Rusty moved sideways and leaned his head against Danny's chest.
Time passed in silence. The trembling eased. Rusty's breathing evened out and if Danny didn't know better he might have thought that Rusty had fallen asleep.
He frowned and something was bothering him. A memory from a very long time ago. Back when he'd first met Rusty. Playing cowboys. A childish voice, fear overlaying it, a passing moment of blankness that he'd later learn to associate with screaming memory. I don't like knives. Sorry, Danny.
He closed his eyes, and he knew now what nightmares he'd been invoking and the urge to apologise was sudden and absolute.
"Rus', I..." he began and then Rusty looked up at him, trust and gratitude and wonder and love shining, and he blinked and smiled and in the end he said nothing.
He stumbled out of the building into the street and he'd never know if she followed him or not but he ran and didn't stop running for a very long time. Not until he'd left behind everything familiar. Everything he knew, everywhere he'd ever been. He ran and ran and hoped he'd be safe and he only stopped when he couldn't run anymore.
When he looked round, catching his breath, he realised he was in a playground. There were some teenagers playing basketball on the court. Some kids around his age playing on the swings and the slides, their anxious parents watching from nearby.
He had no idea what to do now. He couldn't go back – he shivered at the very thought and the memory of Mom's blank, staring eyes rose up, phantom-like, in front of him.
Somehow, he found himself wondering if it would hurt as much as he'd thought. Maybe she'd only been trying to scare him. Maybe she'd just have taken the blade right up next to his eye and then laughed at him for being a coward. Maybe she thought it was just a funny joke. Somehow he couldn't make himself believe it. She'd meant it all right. And what would she have done once she'd taken his eyes? Once he was helpless and couldn't see. She'd have done something, he was sure. He'd have been screaming after all. Crying, if he still could. No matter how much he was convinced that it never helped anything, he didn't think he'd have been able to stop. He'd have been screaming and crying and Mom didn't like that sort of thing. And she'd still have been holding the knife.
He shivered again. He couldn't risk going back. Not until he knew it was safe. He'd wait until Dad got home. Mom was only like this because Dad was away; when Dad was here he'd give Mom things when she started acting strange and she'd calm down. He'd go home when Dad was back. (And if Dad never came back?) And he'd be punished for running away, of course, that was something he was absolutely not supposed to do. He was supposed to stand still and take whatever he had coming. But that was alright too. That'd be everything back to normal.
And anyway, that was all a problem for later, and not one that he'd be able to do anything about. He didn't know when Dad would be back, after all. Could be tonight. Would hopefully be tonight. But it could be tomorrow. Could be days away. And he didn't know what he was going to do till then. Where he was going to go. If anyone knew he'd run away from home they'd drag him to the police, and if he was very, very lucky they'd take him home to Mom and leave it to her to show him what happened to ungrateful, defiant little boys.
For a brief moment he considered going round to one of his friends' houses. Brady or Cameron maybe. They'd probably both be at Brady's house, actually. And they'd probably both be happy to see him. They could play for a few hours, and Brady's mom always made the best snacks and she always encouraged him to eat as much as he wanted, and probably no-one would mind if he stayed for dinner. Maybe he could even stay the night. Brady was always inviting him to, since Cameron's mom said they were too young. Trouble with that was that Brady's mom said each time that he couldn't spend the night unless she'd made the arrangements with his parents. And that was never going to happen. And, come to think of it, every time he showed up she'd always ask if his parents knew where he was. And, when they didn't arrive to pick him up, she always insisted on walking him home.
No. He couldn't go home and he couldn't go to his friends, and he didn't have anywhere to go.
"You always have somewhere now," Danny promised.
For a moment he thought he saw a flash of guilt deep in Rusty's eyes, but before he could say anything, before he was certain, it was gone and Rusty's smile was light and mocking. "You been watching the After School Specials again?"
Danny didn't bother with embarrassment. "It's not sentimental if it's true."
He stayed in the playground until after it got dark. Long after the basketball players had called it quits. Long, long after the very last of the other children had been dragged home by annoyed parents. He'd spent the time playing quietly by himself, gently and politely rebuffing all attempts by other kids to get him to join in their games. They noticed him, their parents would notice him. It was always best to be invisible. Robert hadn't met a single person in his whole life that he wanted to see him.
A while after it got dark, a different group of teenagers moved into the basketball court. These ones didn't have a basketball, they had bottles. Several bottles. And they hadn't seen him yet but he still wanted to leave now, before they saw him and decided he looked like entertainment.
Quickly, he walked away and started wandering through dark streets, walking in the opposite direction every time he saw another person. He had no idea what he was doing. All he had was a vague hope that if he headed home, Dad would be there.
It took him a couple of hours to walk back home across the city. It had seemed a shorter distance when he'd been running. By the time he got back he was exhausted, bone-weary and his feet hurt and he was hungry. Which was stupid. He knew there was no food to be had. And he'd gone longer than this without eating. He was just being a pathetic little crybaby, just like Dad always said.
Stubbornly setting his jaw, he looked up at the apartment. The light was on in the living room. That was good. Would make this easier. Now, all he had to do was climb up the rusty ladder of the fire escape on the building opposite. Couple months back he'd discovered that if he crouched in just the right place – here – he could see straight into their living room. Of course, this was the first time he'd done it hoping to find that Dad was here.
Peering across the street, he could see Mom lying on the sofa, the knife clasped loosely in her hands. She wasn't wearing any clothes and he looked away quickly.
No sign of Dad. He hadn't come home yet. And that meant Robert didn't dare to either.
He scrambled back down the fire escape and began wandering away as fast as he could. Each step made his feet hurt even more, but that didn't matter. It was only pain, after all, and he couldn't stop imagining Mom coming running down the stairs, knife ready to slice into his eyes, and he had to get away.
Once again he found himself in unfamiliar streets, and it was late now, and all the people he saw were adults, and most of them smelt of alcohol and a lot of them were shouting, and he was frightened and he had to find someplace to hide.
He cut down a quieter street, this one full of shops all closed for the night. It felt a little safer and he stood in the empty road, blinking and exhausted, staring at a bakery. Bakeries were good. They smelled nice. And this one had a little nook of space between the pillar, the wall and the doorway, and if he squeezed himself just right he could fit inside it. Felt safe. The stone was cold against his back though. He wished he had something more than a t-shirt on. But really, it wasn't that cold, and he should be thankful for that. There were plenty worse off than him. Worse things happened at sea; he could be drowning too. He smiled and the emptiness gnawed at his stomach and he reminded himself again that there was no point in worrying about it. Least it should make it harder to fall aslee...
He slept uneasily. Dreams where Mom found him here mixed with dreams in which he was staring up at Dad through sightless eyes, and he couldn't dodge and he couldn't run and he couldn't hide, and it hurt and Dad told him why he deserved it. He woke regularly, biting his lip to keep from crying out, and sometimes, often, he was woken by noise from the street; the sound of a car going past, people walking near him, other sounds that he couldn't even place. Everytime, wide-eyed and fearful, he'd press himself further into the wall and, shivering, he'd silently plead with the world not to find him. He knew no-one was listening. No-one ever listened to what he wanted.
As it happened, he wasn't found till early morning. He woke again and it was lighter, dawnlight, and he could hear someone coming towards him. He kept absolutely still. Willed them to walk on by, but instead they came up the stairs towards the door, and he heard the jangle of keys. Must be the owner opening the shop. He bit his lip and hoped the man wouldn't look down.
"Jesus!" Hoping didn't work. "Hey! You alright? You can't sleep here."
He risked a quick glance upwards. Caught sight of an old man, frowning down at him. He looked down again hastily, staring at the ground respectfully.
"You're...you're just a baby." The man sounded shocked and Robert knew that any minute now the man would realise how awful he must be to be out here without his parents. Sure enough a hand came down towards him. "Come on out of there, will ya? It's okay." He flinched away as the hand came near him and immediately dodged the follow-up blow that he was sure would follow. He must have been successful; there was no pain and he managed to scramble to his feet, dodge round the man's legs and sprint away while the man just stood there.
Four blocks away, he sat on the kerb and considered his position. He was still bone tired, and his feet were hurting enough that he was left with a definite desire not to take his shoes off, and his back and neck and everywhere was aching from the way he'd been sleeping, and he was so hungry and thirsty. He took a deep breath. Well, most of that couldn't be helped and so there was no use whining about it. In a couple of hours the streets would be full again and he didn't want to be seen by anyone. He'd try find someplace comfortable to hide. And in the meantime, he figured he could do something about his thirst.
He wandered around for a while and finally found a public toilet. Turning on the tap, he stared doubtfully at the water. It wasn't exactly clear. But his mouth was dry and his throat was painful and his head was beginning to hurt, and it had been almost a day now, since he'd had anything to drink, and he wasn't exactly seeing a lot of outstanding choices here. He put his mouth to the stream of water and gulped at it. It tasted awful. Bitter and rancid and greasy, somehow. He'd had a vague plan to drink as much as he could in order to fill his stomach and suppress hunger, but he just couldn't force any more than a few mouthfuls down before he started to feel sick.
As he headed back out into the street, his stomach growled loudly and he ignored it resolutely. With any luck, tonight he'd be back home and he'd be able to eat...well, not as much as he wanted. He grinned to himself; that was a stupid, impossible dream.
Danny found that ignoring the urge to search through his pockets to confirm what he already knew was difficult. He didn't have any food on him. He didn't have anything to give to Rusty. And all he was doing was listening to the story and his eyes were still stinging with unshed tears.
Rusty glanced at him and caught his expression, his thoughts, and for a moment he looked torn between amusement and irritation. In the end he settled on affection and understanding. "It was a long time ago, Danny. I'm hardly a starved child now."
Danny just looked at him.
Rusty sighed. "Everything's better now, remember?" He looked round the room. Licked his lips. "Well, apart from the whole bit where we're trapped in here with no way out unless someone lets us out, but no one knows we're here, so no-one can let us out and if they do they'll know we're here, and - "
Danny put a finger firmly against Rusty's lips. Then he leaned in and kissed him gently on the forehead and pressed his face into Rusty's hair for a moment. "If it all goes wrong," he said quietly. "Really wrong, I mean." If they were caught, and they both knew how bad the consequences could be. "We might have to run." It would be better than the alternative.
Rusty stilled. He looked up at Danny carefully. "We don't have anywhere to go."
"I know," Danny told him. But there were things he wasn't going to allow. They got caught like this, his parents weren't going to accept a promise of better grades and a squeaky clean appearance. They were going to take Rusty away. And Rusty's dad wasn't going to stop.
There was a pause and Rusty studied his face thoughtfully. Then he closed his eyes and nodded slowly. Accepted.
He spent the day moving through the streets, concentrating on being a nothing, an insignificance. He curled up on doorsteps, huddled beneath walls, was small and silent and invisible. And still, he could never seem to stay anywhere for more than a couple of hours before he'd see people start to notice him, to frown, to wonder why he was alone, and painfully he'd stand up and he'd move on.
An alley and a pile of soggy cardboard boxes that looked comfortable and he thought that maybe he could catch a few hours sleep where no one would look. But the moment he stepped too close, a tall man with a wild beard had stood up from out of a pile of garbage, screaming and swinging a bottle towards his head, and for a terrifying moment, Robert had been paralysed, caught in present fear and too many over-vivid memories, and it wasn't until the bottle broke against the wall, just above his head, that he was able to turn and run.
He wasn't followed, and he sat hidden behind a dumpster a couple of blocks away, brushing the glass shards out of his hair, and considered that if something looked too good to be true, it probably was.
He spent the afternoon in a park. A different one from yesterday; he'd ended up in a different part of the city. This one was mostly full of adults. Plenty of them were sunbathing, and Robert took the opportunity to stretch out on the grass and hopefully look just like everyone else. Certainly no one bothered him, and the ground was softer than stone and he felt some of the ache in his muscles ease a little. He didn't fall asleep though. There was no chance of that. Too much noise. Too many people. Too much danger.
After a time he noticed an old woman sitting on a bench, feeding the pigeons, dropping crumbs of bread on the ground at her feet. Tempting. Very, very tempting. He was so hungry. And as long as no-one noticed... He snuck closer and crept under the bench, nestled inches from her feet. She dropped the a handful of crumbs and his hand darted out and caught a few before they hit the ground. He stuffed them in his mouth quickly. Not bad, actually. Fresher than what he normally got. But they were so small, and even though he managed to grab another few handfuls, it really didn't go any distance towards lessening the hunger, and before he knew it, she was brushing the last of the breadcrumbs from her hands and walking away.
Robert and the pigeons watched her go and he had the feeling that none of them were satisfied.
It was maybe an hour before sunset when he decided that it was time to go and see if there was any sign of Dad back home. Luckily he'd managed to stay off his feet enough today that walking didn't hurt so very much, and he trudged back to his own neighbourhood slowly. The closer he got to his own building, the slower he walked and he wasn't sure whether he was hoping Dad would be in or dreading it. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be in a place where he could curl up in his own bed and be reasonably hopeful that he wasn't going to wake up to someone hurting him. He wanted to be in a place where he could sneak through to the kitchen and have a good chance of being able to eat something. He wanted to go home. Even if it meant facing Dad. Would just be for a little while. Pain passed. Nothing lasts forever. It was okay.
"Hey! Kid!" The voice was little more than a whisper and it came from the alley, and he turned to see two older boys crouched against the wall. He recognised them. Knew them, vaguely. Chip and Buzz Fairley.
He hesitated and walked over slowly. Chip had a wad of bloody tissue pressed to his nose. Buzz had his hand on his brother's shoulder, his face anxious and afraid. They looked, somehow, as if they'd been there for a while; their jackets were crumpled beneath them and there was a bag of chips lying crumpled on the ground between them.
Buzz glanced over at Robert, and Robert was hanging back away from them, well out of arm's reach. "Robert, right?" Buzz checked and he nodded slightly. "Listen, did you see anyone out in the street?"
"Did you see our Dad out in the street?" Chip asked, his voice muffled.
Robert thought for a long moment, playing every inch of his walk back in his mind. He hadn't been paying attention, but on some level he'd still seen. After a time he shook his head.
"You sure?" Buzz asked, and he nodded. Buzz breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks."
Robert smiled slightly and watched, dismayed, as Buzz absently picked up the bag of chips and made to throw it into the dumpster opposite. He must have made some small noise of protest, because Buzz turned and stared at him. "It's empty."
It wasn't. Robert could see from here. There were -
"Crumbs," Buzz said frowning. "There's just crumbs left."
"Do you want them?" Chip cut in, looking hard at him.
He hesitated, and he knew he wasn't supposed to ask for things like that, knew he wasn't supposed to be greedy...but he was so hungry. He nodded quickly and waited, staring at the ground, for their decision. He wasn't prepared, therefore, when Buzz stepped quickly towards him, and he leapt back, his arm already flying up in front of his face, protecting himself.
There was no pain, and when he carefully lowered his arm, Buzz looked upset and he pushed the bag of chips towards Robert abruptly. "Here. Eat."
He stared for a long moment, trying to measure if Buzz meant it, trying to guess if there'd be punishment, but Buzz seemed sincere and he tore the packet all the way open and grabbed at the chip crumbs eagerly with both hands, shoving as much into his mouth as quickly as he could.
Chip said a bad word, very softly.
Robert barely listened to the brothers' hurried, hissed conversation. He was too busy trying to scrape up as much food as he could, then trying to lick even the last traces of salt off his fingers.
"We need to do something, Chip."
"What do you want to do? You want to take him home with us? We don't know that Dad won't be back tonight."
"You think he'll be safer if he goes home? At least Mom would feed him."
"Sure. Then Dad would kill her right after he got through killing us. And the kid."
"We can't leave him. You even got any money? We could feed him."
"I got nothing. You know that."
Robert glanced up sharply. He wasn't asking for their money. And he didn't want anyone to get into trouble because of him. He pushed the now-completely-empty bag of chips back towards them. "Thank you," he said politely and he turned to walk out of the alley.
"Hey, wait!" Chip sounded surprised. Robert paused, but didn't turn round. There was a moment of hesitation. "Are you going to be all right?" Chip asked at last.
"Yes," Robert answered with absolute confidence.
It turned out that Dad still wasn't home and he was wondering now whether he ever would be. He sighed and didn't think on it, and he walked in the opposite direction; not daring to go near where he'd seen Chip and Buzz, not wanting them to ask any awkward questions.
It was dark and it was colder tonight and the hunger was biting into him and it actually hurt now, physically hurt, and he hated the feeling. There was dizziness and his arms and legs were trembling, and he didn't think it was just with the cold. He needed to eat, and soon. People died from not eating, he knew that, he just didn't know how long it took. He hadn't felt this hungry in a long while.
He roamed the streets, hungry and tired and desperate, and he found himself kicking at bits of abandoned garbage, hoping that there would be scraps of food hidden inside. Round the back of a burger bar he hit the jackpot. A half-eaten hamburger, still inside its paper wrapper. He stared down for a long moment. Disgusting, a voice whispered inside his head. Like a wild animal. And yeah. It was. He was. But he was starving and, with a quick look round to make sure that no-one could see, he grabbed the burger and stuffed half of it in his mouth as quickly as possible. It tasted soggy and disgusting, cold and stale, but it was food and he choked it down and ignored the memory of cookie crumbs and blood that rose up in his mind.
The other half he shoved in his pocket. For later. For worse times. There could always be worse times. There would always be worse times. In the meantime, he needed a place to sleep. No more doorways, he'd learnt that lesson. Nowhere anyone would want to go. Nowhere anyone could see him. Someplace hidden and unwelcoming.
He gazed thoughtfully further down the street. This place looked deserted. And that dumpster was almost but not quite against the wall. No room for an adult to squeeze in, but he thought maybe he could. If he crawled. He tried it. A snug fit, but he could get out either side, and he seriously doubted that anyone would be able to see him. Perfect, in other words.
He was fed, he had more food for tomorrow, and he'd be safe for a few hours sleep.
He was woken by a noise. A soft, scuffling, skittering, scratching sort of noise. A noise, and the feeling of something running past him, the ghost of a touch, hot, rancid breath against his face. For the slightest second he lay absolutely still, not daring to breath, his eyes squeezed tight-shut, clinging to ignorance, wishing that the world would just go away. And that made him a coward and that made him weak and he hated it. He opened his eyes. Stifled the whimper. The space beside the dumpster was alive with rats. Crawling past him. And most of them were rooting through the garbage around him, but there was one standing next to his leg. Looking at him. Consideration in beady little eyes, drool on sharp little teeth and before he could move, it jumped on top of him, little claws scrabbling over his jeans and the twitching little noise snuffling over the outside of his pocket.
The burger. God, the burger. That was what it was after, and that was the only food he had and he didn't want to share it with a rat, and if he moved he knew those teeth would sink into his leg, and he thought that maybe if he was actually bleeding the other rats might get more interested, and he felt sick at the thought. But he didn't want to give up his food.
Moving quickly he hit out at the rat, knocking it off him, backhanded, and it squeaked – screamed, really – and for a moment he felt pain on the back of his hand and there was no room for him to stand up, and he was crawling through the filth to get away, sobbing as the rats swarmed over his hands, past his legs, and it was a hundred, a thousand years before he managed to wriggle out of his hellish hiding place and stagger into the open air.
The tears were falling and he shoved the remains of the burger into his mouth as quickly as he could, choked it down and it tasted like blood and rancid meat.
Horror surged through every inch of Danny's being, and he held tight to Rusty and he wasn't sure which of them he was trying to comfort. Rats...and he could see them, could see their beady little eyes, their twitching little noses, their sharp little teeth, their jagged little claws...He shuddered with revulsion and pressed desperate kisses into Rusty's hair and in his mind he could see rats climbing over Rusty and he wanted to scream and Rusty didn't look at him and kept talking.
The tears were threatening to fall, terror and anger, and he bit his lip hard, refused to let them. He brushed frantically at his clothes, at his arms and legs, still able to feel the rats crawling over him, and feeling sick he kicked a stone hard towards the dumpster and the swarming rats. There was a loud bang and the rats vanished briefly and Robert clenched his fists tightly and turned away and found himself retching helplessly against the wall.
When he was done he stood up and wiped a shaky hand across his mouth. It wasn't the rats' fault. Wasn't the rats' fault that he was reduced to living in filth, sleeping on garbage, fighting with rats for the scraps of food that normal people threw away. Everything his mom said about him was true. He was disgusting. Filthy. Evil. He'd run away from pain like a pathetic little coward and he'd chosen to live like this because he was nothing. He was bad. He was bad and no matter what he did, he was never going to be good. Shame and self disgust rose over him and for a moment he almost wanted to run to the nearest police station and beg them to arrest him for being so awful. Fortunately, the impulse passed almost immediately and gradually fear and disgust and confusion were replaced by cool anger and calm determination. Fine. If he was bad then he'd be bad. He wasn't going to go and curl up in some forgotten corner and starve to death quietly, being grateful and good. He'd be bad and live.
He spent the rest of the night wandering the streets, not daring to stop, even for a moment, knowing that if he did he'd fall asleep and feeling absolutely certain in some, small, childish, unalterable part of his mind, that the moment he did, the rats would be back. And maybe this time he wouldn't wake up in time. He bit his lip at the thought and once again had to fight off the feeling that they were crawling all over him.
By the time daylight came, he could hardly keep his eyes open and he thought that probably only the pain of hunger was keeping him awake at all. The streets began to fill with people and it didn't feel safe. He ducked into a public restroom again. The water was cleaner this time and he drank as much as he could and cleaned himself up a little. Managed to get the worst of the dirt off his hands and face anyway. His hair and clothes were looking filthy and he stared at himself in the mirror and tried not to think about what they'd say if they saw him looking like this in school. Bad enough that he didn't have nice clothes without everyone knowing that he couldn't even keep himself clean.
Carefully he examined the bite on the back of his hand. It wasn't bleeding anymore and that was good. It stung though, and when he experimentally dripped cold water on it that really hurt. It was pretty filthy though, so he gritted his teeth and dabbed at it with a paper towel, getting the worst of the dirt off.
Danny couldn't stop thinking about infections and blood poisoning and rabies and a thousand other awful things that he was sure Rusty could have got. He couldn't help grasping Rusty's hand, turning it over gently, looking for a scar that he already knew wasn't there.
"It wasn't that bad," Danny," Rusty told him, softly but firmly.
Danny nodded. "It wasn't cleaned properly. You could have gotten sick."
Rusty shrugged. "If you think about how often I've got hurt and it hasn't...guess I'm just naturally tough."
He caught his breath. That had been a painful attempt at deflection. "You did get sick," he stated with unwelcome certainty.
Rusty stared at the door for a long moment and then closed his eyes. "Might not have been the rat bite," he said eventually.
Danny bit his lip.
"And it isn't as if I knew anything about - " Rusty continued.
" - I know," Danny cut in, because he still remembered Rusty's reaction to Mabel and antiseptic that first time. "Gonna tell me it wasn't that bad?"
Rusty sighed and half grinned at the familiar words. "Bad enough," he answered. "I was fairly out of it for a few days, I think. Remember curling up under the bed with a blanket and refusing to come out. Heard Mom talking about taking me to the doctors at one point. But they couldn't, obviously."
Danny nodded and didn't let himself think too hard about the 'obviously' and he certainly didn't let himself think too hard about Rusty sick and hurting and hiding under the bed, probably thirsty and uncomfortable and frightened and in pain and so very, very young. They'd both got used to the way things should be now, and that meant that when they were sick there was someone there to care and soothe and fetch food and water and help with trips to the bathroom and bring medicine. It hurt to remember that there'd been a time, not so long ago, when they'd both been so alone and so much more vulnerable.
Rusty looked back at him and smiled. "It could have been worse."
"Of course," Danny agreed hollowly. It could always have been worse.
"No, really," Rusty said seriously. "I could have ended up as some kind of were-rat."
Danny felt his lips twitch in spite of himself. "Cursed to undergo a horrific transformation every full moon - "
" - least I'd have a tail - " Rusty commented, hopefully and inexplicably.
Actually grinning, Danny went on. " - stuck in the form of a hideous beast. Even more than usual, I mean."
Rusty scowled at him and the pout was way overdone. "Stalking the streets by moonlight - "
" - striking terror into the hearts of..." He hesitated. "Everyone who's afraid of rats, I guess." He had a feeling that might include him now. They'd never bothered him in the past, but he didn't know if he'd be able to think of them again without seeing Rusty, young and helpless and afraid.
"And solving crimes," Rusty finished cheerfully.
"Solving crimes?" Danny repeated incredulously. "Is that what hideous were-creatures are known for these days?"
"Well, if I have a secret alter-ego, it's going to be as far from me as possible, right?" Rusty explained. "That's why Bruce Wayne throws all those parties and Batman doesn't know how to smile."
"So were-rat-you solves crimes," Danny nodded. That made sense.
Marginally cleaner, he wandered back into the streets. After a time of aimless wandering, he found himself in a quiet neighbourhood. Few shops, a diner, but most importantly, quite a few people just hanging around, kids playing in the streets or sitting on stoops, and no one was paying them any attention whatsoever. He figured he could blend in.
He limped over to the nearest building and sat on the step and gingerly, grimacing, pulled his shoe off. As he'd figured, his feet were a mess. Blisters had formed and burst and wept and bled. He sighed and wondered if it might be better to just leave the shoes off altogether. The problem with that was that he'd need to carry them, and if he had to move quickly, he might end up leaving them behind. And that would be one more thing he'd have to explain to Dad later. Best to wear them and walk carefully.
Yawning as he reknotted his laces, he leaned back against the wall and considered. The hunger hadn't gone away, not really, and he still felt cold and clammy, dizzy and lightheaded. Not a good sign. But the water had gone some way to relieving the pain of it, and the need to rest seemed more important right now. He pressed himself further into the wall, closed his eyes and dozed.
He woke up every time someone stepped too close, and he'd stare down at the street and watch the feet as they walked safely on by. No one stopped, thankfully. As far as he could tell, no one even spared him a second glance, and by the time the pressure in his bladder woke him fully to go and hide in the alley and relieve himself, he figured by the sun that it must be some time after noon.
Not much had changed since the morning. Different people. There was a loud group of teenagers a little further down the street. All maybe thirteen or fourteen, nearly adults, five boys on bikes and the girl they were showing off for. That wasn't what caught his attention though. They had pizza. He could see the box, propped on the wall next to them and unable to stop himself, he stood up and drifted closer, sticking to the other side of the street, not daring to get too close. Not yet anyway.
He could see that there were still a couple of slices left. Could see cheese and bacon and green pepper and onion and he wanted it. Maybe if he just wandered up, like he was walking past them, he could grab a slice without any of them noticing. They'd put it down, after all. They obviously weren't that interested in it anymore. He stared and all he could think about was how hungry he was, and how good pizza tasted and the street was wavering at the edges of his vision, and he needed to eat, he really, really needed to. Wouldn't be that hard. He could just wander past and...
"Hey, kid!" The voice interrupted him. He turned his head sharply – a little too sharply and for a horrible, sickening moment, the world span like he was on a merry-go-round – and he realised that one of the boys, the one in the baseball cap, was watching him. The boy picked up the pizza box. "You want this?" he asked. "Come here."
He hesitated. Of course he hesitated. But he couldn't stop thinking about Chip and Buzz, last night. They'd given him food willingly enough. Sometimes people were kind.
"You want my pizza, kid?" the boy went on. "Come and get it." He held up a slice and waved it towards Robert, and Robert would swear that he could smell it, hot and fresh and there was nothing that he wanted more, and almost helplessly, he found himself crossing the street.
Almost immediately, the boys formed a circle around him, hemming him in, trapping them, and the girl behind them sighed heavily.
"You want this pizza, kid?" the boy in the cap repeated with an eager smile. "Say 'please'."
That was fair. "Please may I have some pizza?" he asked politely and the boys howled with laughter.
"You're going to need to do better than that, kid," the shortest boy sniggered.
He didn't understand, and he stared at the pizza in the boy's hand, and he reached up hopefully, and the boy snatched it back, raising it just out of Robert's reach.
"You're just a greedy little piggy, aren't you?" the boy in the cap grinned. "What the fuck do you think you're doing asking for people's food? You got no shame, little piggy?"
"Piggy, piggy," one of the boys behind him snorted.
The girl rolled her eyes disgustedly.
He felt a hand in his hair, jerking his head sideways and mercifully letting go almost immediately. "Look, he's even all dirty like a little piggy!"
"Like PigPen," the shortest boy jeered. "Where's Snoopy, PigPen?"
The boy in the cap leaned forwards. "You been rolling in the muck, piggy? You been rooting in the garbage?"
He felt heat rising in his cheeks and it was true and he had been, and didn't matter that he hated it, it was true and maybe he was greedy. Dad and Mom always said so, after all. And when he got the chance, he always seemed to want to eat more food than other people, and really, right now all he could think about was food. That was greedy, wasn't it? "No," he lied anyway and he felt sure that they knew the truth, and they were laughing again.
"Say you're a little piggy who likes rolling in garbage and you can have this pizza," the boy in the cap promised and he waved the pizza under Robert's nose. "You still want it don't you?"
Yes. Yes, he did. And he felt his stomach growl and he tried to grab for the pizza and the boy laughed and pushed him back lightly.
"Say it," the boy ordered, his smile gone. "Say it, and you get the pizza."
"No," Robert said softly. He didn't want to say it. He wasn't going to say it. Dad played this game sometimes. Made him say things. True things. Things that hurt.
The boy shrugged and stuffed the whole slice of pizza in his mouth and ate it as fast as possible.
"No!" Robert burst out, and he immediately wished he hadn't. He turned, trying to get away, and he was jostled back into the middle of the circle and they weren't going to let him go.
The boys were laughing again, and they passed the pizza box over his head, and then the boy in the cap was waving the very last slice at him. "One more chance," the boy said through a mouth full of pizza. "You want it, little piggy? You're gonna have to work for it."
He wanted to run and he stepped back, and again, they pushed him forwards, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl shake her head. "Pathetic," she muttered, and she walked away. He wished he could.
"I don't want it," he lied and he still couldn't take his eyes off the pizza and the boy laughed derisively.
"Say you're a greedy little piggy who loves rolling in garbage," the boy demanded and he was staring at Robert and there was a look in his eyes that Robert had seen before, a look that promised consequences.
It was just words. What did it matter? And if he said them, he'd be fed, and if he didn't, he'd be hurt. Shouldn't be a choice here at all. He stared at the pizza. "I'm...I'm a greedy little piggy who loves rolling in garbage," he whispered, and the words cut right through him. This was what complete strangers thought, just by looking at him, and he was still so greedy that he was willing to do anything for food.
The boy started to hand the slice of pizza towards him and, just as he was about to grab for it, dropped it on the ground. "Oops," the boy said, grinning.
He stared down at the food. So close.
"Don't you want it anymore, little piggy?" the boy asked softly. "Pigs don't care if they eat off the ground, right?"
Wouldn't be the first time. And Mom and Dad had made it clear that he only ever considered acting like that because he was so awful and bad...but the pizza was right there. And it had only been there for a few seconds.
"Eat it!" the boy ordered. "Get down on your hands and knees and eat it!"
Robert started to obey but the moment he was on the ground, the boy stamped his foot down on the pizza and twisted his heel, rubbing it into the sidewalk.
There was a long moment and Robert stared up at the laughing boy and anger and defiance and hatred were nowhere in sight. Didn't mean that Robert wasn't feeling. He'd done what the boy wanted. And for nothing.
His face was blank when the boy moved his boot and he didn't take his eyes off the boy's face when he reached out a hand to the smear of crushed pizza, fully prepared to eat it anyway and not care.
The boy's face twisted with disgusted fascination, and then one of the other boys, one of the one's who hadn't said anything, shoved Robert out of the way, grabbed the remains of the pizza and threw it firmly into a nearby trash can. "That's enough," he said firmly.
Robert stared after the pizza. "Gonna eat it out the garbage?" the boy in the baseball cap asked hopefully.
For a moment, he considered it. Even shuffled closer to the trash can. But then he heard the flies buzzing and he could smell rancid food, rotting vegetables, and he couldn't. He wasn't that desperate. (He wondered how long it would take him till he was that desperate.)
The boy looked disappointed. "You bastard, Ben. I wanted to see him eat it."
Ben – the boy who'd stolen his pizza – sighed. "Leave the brat alone, can't you?"
"Nah," the boy shook his head, his eyes gleaming. "I want to see what else we can get the greedy fuck to do."
He wanted out of here. Even more than he wanted food, he wanted out of here. "Where's your girl?" he asked softly.
The boy glanced round stupidly. "Sandra?" She was long gone and the boy swore and looked round even more wildly. "Sandra!" he yelled, "Fuck, where did she go?" And then he was getting on his bike, and the other boys weren't surrounding him anymore, and Robert got to his feet and disappeared as quickly as possible.
Rusty came to a stop for the moment and he turned his head, his face blank, and he studied Danny carefully, looking for something.
Pity, Danny would guess. Or disgust, even. He met Rusty's gaze and let him see what was there; horror and grief and love and support and hate for everyone who'd hurt Rusty and a burning sense of never-again.
Rusty relaxed with a sigh. "I didn't really think - "
" - I know," Danny told him gently and he put an arm tightly round Rusty's shoulders. "Nothing changes."
"You wouldn't beg," Rusty said quietly, a hint of self-loathing in his voice.
Danny made himself stop and consider. "Now? No. And neither would you." He was absolutely certain. "But when I was a child? If I knew what you knew? Before you..." He trailed off and hoped Rusty knew exactly what he meant. Before he'd known Rusty, before he'd known what Rusty saw when he looked at Danny, before he'd been able to build his life round something other people could only dream about. "Before you? I think I'd have done the exact same thing."
Rusty almost looked convinced. Almost. "And you've never..." Rusty shrugged and trailed off and somehow managed to indicate a whole horror of experience that Danny had never had to adjust to.
"I've never," he agreed. "But you think I don't want to live just as much as you do? You think I wouldn't fight just as hard?"
Rusty frowned and his eyes were troubled. "I know," he said softly.
He'd learnt something anyway, not just about never expecting kindness, and he made more of an effort to be invisible as he checked out the diner. He didn't stare for one thing, he let his gaze wander past and then picked over the details he'd seen. The diner looked nearly nearly empty. The man and woman behind the counter looked too deep in conversation to notice anything amiss. The little glass containers on the side counter looked within easy reach of anyone crouching down behind the counter. The cupcakes beneath the glass containers looked...his mouth was watering. It looked easy enough. He could do this. He wrapped his arms around his stomach as it growled painfully; he thought maybe he had to do this.
He watched until a couple came spilling out of the diner, the bell above the door jangling loudly, and he quickly dodged behind them, getting inside just before the door shut. Stupidly, he hesitated in the doorway. Huh. This was really the first time he'd been inside in three days. Felt a little strange. Shaking himself, getting over it, he glanced over at the counter. The man and the woman were still talking. Arguing, actually, by the looks of things. Wearing matching wedding rings. Must be a family business. Anyway, the point was that he figured they were probably distracted enough.
He crept into the diner, taking the long way round, ducking behind tables until he was crouched down beneath the side counter. The cupcakes were just above his head and he bit his lip. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this desperate. Quietly – very, very quietly and very, very carefully – he snaked his hand up and lifted the glass lid fractionally, holding his breath, terrified it was going to make a noise, that someone was going to notice. Then – even more quietly and even more carefully – he reached up with his other hand and his fingers closed around a cupcake, and he eased his hand back and replaced the lid noiselessly.
He stared down at his prize. Food. Delicious looking food. It was all he could do to avoid just stuffing it in his mouth there and then. Not very subtle. Instead he slowly made his way back round the way he'd came, keeping low and sneaking for the door. Not being seen. That was the point.
"Smooth," Danny approved and relief coursed through him. Of course he knew that Rusty had come out of it all okay. But that didn't stop the pain and it didn't stop the worry. "Very smooth."
Rusty nodded. "Up to a point," he agreed reluctantly.
Danny's eyes narrowed. "What point?"
"The point where I push the door open, the bell jangles fit to wake the dead and ten seconds later I'm running down the street with the owners charging after me," Rusty said with a sigh.
And Rusty might be fast and he might be good at running away from people, but he'd been six and they'd been adults. Danny closed his eyes. "They caught you," he said heavily.
Rusty nodded.
He got maybe twenty or thirty steps, shouting and anger and pounding footsteps on his heels all the way. Then the large hand closed around his shoulder and jerked him back and he stumbled and almost fell to the ground as a new wave of dizziness and weakness slammed over him. Not now,he told himself firmly. Please not now.
Didn't seem to do much good and he was wheeled round roughly and found himself blinking stupidly at the diner owner, fighting to clear his head as his hand was wrenched open painfully and the cupcake was snatched away and thrust in his face.
"What's this, huh?" the man demanded angrily. "You think it's clever to steal, boy? You too good to pay money like everyone else?"
He watched vaguely as the man shoved the cupcake towards his wife, standing behind him, wearing a frown. For a moment all he could focus on was the sight of food being taken away from him and he couldn't quite suppress the whine of loss and disappointment and desperation that rose in his throat.
The man snarled at that and he was gripped by both shoulders, tighter than ever, and it hurt and he was trapped and shaking and he knew what was coming next. He knew what always came next.
"Didn't your parents ever teach you that it was wrong to steal, boy?" the man asked menacingly, shaking him lightly with every word.
He shook his head truthfully and he gazed down at the ground and concentrated on being meek and respectful and sorry and grateful for correction...and he was hungry. He hadn't exactly known that it was wrong and he didn't exactly care.
"Easy, David," the man's wife murmured, and she sounded unhappy and he didn't know why.
The man looked even angrier and he shook Robert back and forth, hard, by the shoulders, and Robert was almost glad he was so hungry – he had a feeling that if he'd eaten anything recently he'd be throwing it up on the man's shoes right about now. "That's the trouble with kids today," the man roared. "Everyone goes easy on them. No discipline. Parents are too soft on brats like you. Not like in the good old days."
Robert shivered; that was what Dad always said. That he went easy on Robert. That he was soft. That Robert's punishments were nothing compared to what he'd got from his old man. That Robert would probably cry and wet his pants if he ever had to deal with real pain. And Dad's father had taken on monstrous form in Robert's mind; he'd long ago decided that in order to be that much worse than Dad the man must be twelve foot tall, built like Joe Frazier and always drunk. And he didn't know how anyone kept from crying in the old days, if everything really hurt that much more.
He kept his mouth shut and his eyes down; when in doubt, keeping quiet was rarely actually bad, and he waited for the man to decide what to do with him.
"By God, if you were my son, I wouldn't go easy on you. If I was your father I'd soon sort you out. Teach you right from wrong. By the time I was through with you, you wouldn't be able to sit down for a month."
Dad made that threat sometimes. He'd never actually carried it out though. Normally it would just end with Robert not being able to stand or move very well for a few days and not being able to leave the house for a little longer. He could barely imagine how bad something would have to be to still hurt that much a month later, and maybe it was just because he was weak, but he thought there was a good chance that something that extreme would actually kill him.
He wasn't going to stand here and let it happen. He wasn't. He couldn't. And he didn't care how bad it was, because yeah, Dad would always get him in the end if he struggled and if he ran, but this man didn't even know who he was. If he could get away, there could be no consequences, and he tried to wrench himself free and the man gripped harder, and he reached up and scratched viciously at the hand on his right shoulder, and the man yelled out, a sharp cry of unexpected pain and explosive fury and Robert didn't even see the punch coming.
He snapped awake and his head was pounding and there was blood in his eye and he was lying on the ground and he must've only been out for a couple of seconds, because the man was still just standing there, staring at him. His hand was still raised, but his wife had grabbed his elbow and they were both standing there like they were waiting for something, and a couple of other people had appeared at some point, were staring at the three of them, and there was anger and raised voices, and Robert's head hurt even more trying to figure it all out.
"I never..." the man began hoarsely and his voice trailed off. His eyes were wide and his face was twisted with emotion. "I never..."
"Bastard," someone muttered and with the return to something familiar, Robert came to his senses, scrambled to his feet and fled before the man remembered that he was supposed to be hitting and kicking and hurting.
"Doesn't matter that he was sorry, he still should never have hit you," Danny said, quiet and angry. "He had no right to hit you."
Rusty blinked and looked confused and for a horrible moment Danny was taken back to times when that simple idea had been as far out of Rusty's grasp as the stars. "He was sorry?" Rusty asked instead, and frowned. "Huh. He was sorry."
"You didn't - " Danny asked.
" - never thought about it," Rusty explained. "Just took it at face value." He yawned suddenly, and wriggled against the wall, trying to get comfortable.
Danny nodded slowly and thought about perspective and wondered how much they missed.
When he was sure he wasn't being followed he slumped down behind a wall and tried to get his breath back and tried to get control of the dizziness. His head hurt and his fingers traced over swelling and tenderness. There'd be an impressive bruise there soon. Good thing he didn't have to go to school anytime soon. And there was a cut and he absently pulled his t-shirt sleeve up to the side of his head and used it to soak up the blood. Must've been the man's wedding ring. It stung. He supposed he should be grateful Dad didn't have one. Not something he'd like to have to get used to.
He sighed. Well, that had been a dismal failure. But he still didn't feel like it had been the wrong choice, exactly. Just that he'd gone about it the wrong way. For a start, he'd got caught, and he'd been holding the cupcake so there hadn't even been a chance of denying it. He sighed again and dropped his head into his hands, exhausted and hungry. Other people got to have food, and, frustrated, he thought about the diner owner asking why he didn't pay money like everyone else. He didn't have any money. But other people had money, and they used it to buy food, and he wanted some.
His attention was caught by a woman across the street buying a newspaper from the stand and dropping her change straight into her purse. Opportunity, surely, and she stopped and sat down at the bus stop, and her purse was on the ground at her feet as she struggled to unfold the paper. Mouth dry, hopeful and cautious and barely letting himself think about what he was doing, he stood up and drifted over to the other side of the street, consciously kicking at a can, looking anywhere but at the woman. He took his time and finally found himself walking behind the bus stop and the woman and, quick as a flash, he crouched down and rummaged through her purse, finally, after an age, managing to seize a handful of coins and instantly he was on his feet again, hands stuffed in his pockets, and he managed a couple of steps of casual escape before the need to run seized him and he sprinted, convinced that he'd been seen, that she was going to come after him.
He found himself a block over with almost two dollars in his pocket and a desperate desire to spend it as soon as possible. There was a shop on the corner, and the shopkeeper didn't even spare him a second glance when he walked up to the counter with Hershey bars and a bag of Fritos and a packet of raisinets and a couple of tootsie pops and a packet of Oreos and a huge bag of Cheetos and a bottle of Coke. Came to a little more than he had and, reluctantly, he put back a couple of things. Difficult choice to make but in the end he abandoned the Fritos and the Oreos and felt deprived. Still. He had a whole bunch of food and no one could prove that he hadn't come by it legitimately.
Of course, that didn't mean that no one could or would take it away from him, so he shoved as much in his pockets as he could and hid the rest under his t-shirt, his arms wrapped around his chest to keep it in place, and he hurried through the streets, certain that everyone was looking at him. Finally he found himself at the end of a street, looking at a deserted construction site. Looked like everyone had gone home for the evening. Could be a good place to be, and, determinedly, he pushed past red signs and white tape and clumsily scrambled over fences and hoardings until he was standing in the midst of rubble, looking at the remains of half deserted buildings. Perfect.
Curled in a sheltered corner, he tore open packets and wrappers, stuffed as much food into his mouth at a time as he could. Sweetness and salt and it tasted so good. He'd learnt his lesson from the rats the night before, and despite his first instincts, he ate until all the food was gone and for the first time in forever he was full and contented and perhaps it was only natural that the moment the last crumbs were gone, he felt his eyes closing and he curled up on the ground, his head resting comfortably on his arm and drifted rapidly towards sleep.
A moment before darkness took him, he realised that he hadn't gone back home today. He hadn't checked whether Dad was back, hadn't thought to find out if it was safe. Maybe that wasn't so bad though. After all, he wasn't hungry now. And apart from his head, he wasn't hurting at all.
He slept until dawn and only woke up a couple of times to threatening noises. But none of them were close, and none of them led to any danger, and each time he managed to drift off to sleep again, feeling relatively safe. When morning came, he left the construction site as fast as possible, knowing that if he got seen there by the workers, he'd be in trouble. Still. It really hadn't been a bad place to sleep. Worth remembering.
Feeling brighter and happier than he had previously, he spent the day relaxing and stealing. He managed to pick two pockets and felt proud. A man who kept his wallet stuffed carelessly in a shallow coat pocket and a woman whose purse was overflowing and dangling off her arm and who never even noticed Robert trotting silently alongside her. It was easy. It was easy, and he had money, and he felt safe in keeping half of it for later, and as for the rest, he went to the ice cream stand in the park and ate more chocolate ice cream than he'd have thought possible and spent the rest of the day lazing in the sunshine and watching the ducks.
It was a good day. It was a very, very good day, and it was with dread and reluctance and hesitation that he headed back home in the evening and climbed the fire escape to spy into the apartment.
Dad was home.
Dad was home, and there was no use in denying it anymore, and still for a moment, he considered just staying away. Just walking away and never coming back and spending the rest of his life stealing wallets and eating chocolate ice cream. He closed his eyes and shook his head; that was a fairytale. A children's fantasy. Instead, he headed inside and he climbed the stairs very, very slowly, dragging his feet with every step, and he stood outside the door and knocked softly, part of him hoping that they wouldn't hear, that they wouldn't answer.
Dad flung the door open and glared down at him. "Where the fuck have you been, you little shit?" he snarled and he seized Robert by the throat and dragged him inside.
The door closed behind them.
Rusty was leaning heavily against him, and Danny didn't ask what happened next. He just clung on tight and offered all the comfort and love and understanding that were in his soul.
The story had taken a few hours and they were both exhausted and heartsick and Danny could still feel Rusty's fear and distress, still trapped, still caged and miserable, and he could do nothing except promise that he was still here, that he was here for Rusty, and there were still seven more hours of locked-in to go, and in the morning, in all probability, they would be found and caught and nothing would ever be the same again. And maybe the very best they could hope for was a chance to run.
Rusty looked up at him, biting his lip and the trouble was back in his eyes.
"What?" Danny asked.
"Nothing," Rusty lied immediately.
"What?" Danny said again, insisting and he was never going to let it go.
"You've never..." He shrugged and again indicated horror. "And I never want you to have to."
Danny sighed. "It wouldn't be as bad, Rus'," he pointed out. "We'd be together. And we're good at stealing now. We'd manage."
Rusty blinked and looked away. "See, that's what you'd think," he said slowly. "But thing is, sometimes it's cold and you're hurt and you can't risk making any lifts till you're feeling better, and then a couple of days go by maybe, and you're hungry as well, and you have to try, and if you get caught you're going to be hurt more, and there are people who know you've got money, and think you owe them, and there are no safe places to run to...I don't want that for you."
Danny gripped Rusty's hand tightly and wanted desperately to know, to demand, just how bad it had been the second time, just how hurt Rusty had been. "Think I want it for you?" he whispered. Rusty shook his head amid hopelessness. Danny licked his lips and thought about consequences and alternatives and different ways of losing. "Is it better to be safe or free?"
Rusty laughed slightly. "Who says we get to be either?"
"Who says we can't have both?" Danny demanded instantly and Rusty turned round quickly and stared at him and gradually the defeat in his eyes was overshone by endless determination and unbreakable spirit.
"Free. Always," Rusty said at last, and Danny smiled and brushed a kiss into Rusty's hair. They could try, and if they could try, there was a chance they could win.
"I'm tired, Danny," Rusty said quietly, after a long moment.
"Me too," he admitted. They honestly couldn't hope to stay awake all night. "We fall asleep, you going to be able to wake us before morning?" he asked.
Rusty nodded. "Yeah. No problem."
"Okay then," he said, and he vaguely wished there were some cushions in here, or that they'd been wearing jackets, or that there was anything to try and make the ground a little softer.
"Not exactly comfortable," Rusty commented, grimacing at the floor.
"There are worse places to sleep," Danny said and his mind was full of them.
Rusty smiled a little and held a hand against Danny's cheek.
They didn't talk about it, they just lay down, wrapped in each others arms, and they fell asleep, curled together like children.
Still to be continued...