warnings: prostitution, mention of canonical minor character death, mention of drugs
Chapter 30: Will & Deshawn
In which Will gets some bad news
A few months ago, if you'd asked Will if he expected to live to see his eighteenth birthday, he would have told you that the chances weren't great.
And yet here he is, eighteen years old and sixty-four days clean of heroin. He's been keeping track, because he's decided for sure now: On day sixty-six, he's going to go back and visit his dad. He's going to knock on his door and tell him that he's officially clean.
(A few months ago, if you'd asked Will if he ever planned to see his dad again, he would have told you no fucking way. But things change. Will's changed. Getting clean has changed him. And he finds himself thinking that maybe over the past year and a half, his dad's changed too.)
o - o - o
It's the last day of August, and it's raining. It's also the sixty-sixth day since Will quit heroin, and he's on the bus to his old neighborhood.
The others had wanted to come with him, but Will had insisted it was something he had to do alone.
And the others, reluctantly, had agreed.
"Whatever happens with your dad, you'd better come back here tonight," Wolfgang had said.
"I'll be back," Will had told them. "I promise."
And Riley had hugged him goodbye, and said, "Good."
o - o - o
He reaches his stop and steps off the bus onto the rain-drenched street. His street. He looks around, and it's strange to think that this used to be his life: porches, yards, neighbors.
His old house looks different than he remembers. The plants are lusher. The porch is cleaner. The car in the driveway is new.
But that's to be expected, he figures. Of course his dad's life continued on after Will left. So what if he's gotten a new car and weeded the front garden?
It's not like that means he won't remember Will anymore, does it?
Will steps onto the porch and walks up to the door. Then he squeezes his eyes shut and, before he can second-guess himself, knocks.
He fidgets on the doorstep, waiting, listening to the rain pouring down on the street. He hopes he doesn't look too bedraggled. He wants his dad to know he's doing good now. Nervously, he zips up his jacket and puts his hands in his pockets.
Moments that feel like hours pass, and finally the door swings open.
But the person in front of him is not his father: It's a boy who looks maybe thirteen.
"Who are you?" Will demands shortly.
"Uh. My name's Deshawn?" The boy raises his eyebrows. "Who are you?"
"Where's Michael Gorski?" asks Will.
"Who?"
"Michael Gorski," Will repeats. "He lives here."
The kid shakes his head. "No he doesn't; you got the wrong house, man." And he starts to close the door.
"Wait, stop!" Will cries. His mind is racing. "This is definitely the right house."
The boy's eyebrows continue to creep up his forehead, but he keeps the door open. "I don't know anyone named whatever you said."
"Did you just move here or something?" tries Will.
"Like a year ago?" says the kid. "Seriously, I think you got the wrong address."
"Well, who lived here before you?" Will asks desperately.
"Dunno," shrugs the kid. "Some dude who died."
"Died?" Will can barely hear his own voice, his heart is beating so loudly.
"Yup."
"No," says Will. "No, he didn't die."
"Uh, yeah, did," says the boy, rolling his eyes. "I know for sure, 'cause my mom's paranoid as fuck about that shit, like ghosts and stuff? She was afraid the place'd be haunted. Made the real estate lady swear the guy died in a hospital, not at home."
Will feels slightly nauseous. His heart is still pounding. "Hospital?" he manages. "How— how did he die?"
"No idea, man. But listen, what was that name you said before? 'Cause now that I think about it that might've been this dude's name."
"Michael Gorski," Will says weakly.
"Yeah, I think that was him. I'm like ninety-nine percent sure." The kid nods in a self-satisfied kind of way. "Sorry if you needed him or something," he adds belatedly.
Will just stares at him.
"Hey, you okay, man?"
"I'm fine," Will hears himself say.
"Okay, cool," says the kid. "So, uh. See ya?"
Will nods numbly.
The kid shuts the door.
Will takes a deep breath, turns, and walks down the porch's steps. Then he reaches the sidewalk, and begins to sob.
o - o - o
He wanders down the street in a kind of daze.
He's passing familiar landmarks— the sidewalk he used to decorate with chalk, the house that used to go all-out with the Christmas decorations, the corner where he used to pet the neighbor's cat, the tree root he sprained his ankle on when he was ten— but it feels like he's in some kind of nightmare where everything is horribly distorted and wrong.
He leaves his old neighborhood, leaves behind the streets he knows, walks and walks and walks until he reaches some museum that he visited once on a school field trip.
The rain is still falling, harder now than before. Will doesn't have an umbrella, and he doesn't bother with his hood. He sits down on the museum's main steps, buries his face in his knees, and lets the rain drench him to the bone.
o - o - o
"Young man?"
Will looks up. There's a middle-aged businessman with reddish hair staring down at him, frowning. "Do you need some help?"
"No," Will says.
The man keeps staring.
Will frowns. "What, you want something?"
The man doesn't answer. But something about the look on the man's face clicks, and oh. He wants Will.
Which is fine. Will can give him what he wants. Why not? It's not like anything matters anymore, really. "Do you know somewhere dry?" he asks flatly.
The man seems surprised, but Will's pretty sure he understands what's being offered. "I— my car is... dry," he says.
"Okay." Will stands up. "Lead the way." He feels strange. Disembodied, almost. He knows that he's soaked with rain, but he doesn't feel any sense of coldness, or wetness. All around him, inside him, is just a strange, reckless emptiness.
He follows a few paces behind the man, head bowed, and suddenly he realizes what's wrong with him: He needs heroin.
He needs it more than anything on earth.
It's a comforting realization somehow, and he clings to it. The man keeps glancing back, like he's afraid Will might slip away, but there's no danger of that, not now that Will knows he needs drugs, which means he needs money, which means he has to do this.
They reach the guy's car. It's a nice car, a very nice car, and Will almost feels bad that he's about to get the upholstery all wet.
"My name is Croome," the guy tells him as he opens the door. He smiles nervously at Will, who can tell he doesn't do this very often.
"Okay, Mr. Croome," Will says smoothly, and they slide into the backseat.
o - o - o
As far as guys who hire teenage prostitutes go, Croome actually turns out to be among the not-so-terrible ones. He uses lube and a condom, and even stretches Will a little first.
And when Will starts crying after a few minutes, he stops cold.
"Is something wrong?"
"My dad," Will says through tears, before he can stop himself. He draws a ragged breath, his face pressed into fabric of the seat. "He died."
"Oh." The man pats Will's shoulder uncomfortably. "I'm sorry," he says. There's a moment of silence. Then: "Do you think you could stop crying, though? I can't do this if you're crying; it feels... wrong."
Will kind of wants to punch the guy. Instead, he swallows hard and rubs his eyes and sniffs.
He stops crying.
"Okay," he says through gritted teeth. "Keep going."
And Croome does.
o - o - o
He pays Will well— really well, to be honest— and seems almost apologetic as he lets him out of he car.
"Do— do you need an umbrella, or anything?" he asks.
Will shakes his head.
"Alright. You have a good weekend, then," says Croome, with a hesitant little laugh.
A good weekend. Fuck this guy.
"You too," Will says stiffly, and slams the door of the car.
Croome drives away. And Will, with more money in his pocket than he's had in a long time, sets off in the direction of BPO bar.
If he's lucky, Whispers will be there to give him what he needs.