Stories from RhyDin & The Rings

C/W: Drug use. Adult themes, and all. You know the drill.

Years Ago:

The sound of sirens and gunshots, sometimes in that exact order, perhaps wasn't the most festive backdrop, but at least there was a nice visual. Sort of. A fresh blanket of snow covered the ground outside. The cars, in working order and not, were all made nearly alike. The trash strewn around in a tiny strip of grass some like to call a yard was hidden. Pristine, sparkling… and then crunched by a shiny pleather platform heel into the mud below. A thin figure in a much too big fur coat stumbled out of the cold and into the damp and unpleasant corridor of the tenement, trading muffled city noises for the much more pressing cry of a baby, one of many sure to start a chain reaction any moment... A television turned up way too loud to compensate for an old lady's failing ears… the couple in 4b either fucking or fighting…

The tired form slunk up the stairs with heavy feet, and paused only long enough to confirm… fucking. 4b was rocking hard. Which meant everyone would get some sleep. When the tidal wave of babies stopped. The form finally stopped at a door on the fifth floor, and there was a jingle of keys that came out of that fur coat. A simple chain, with one dingy cartoon character plush dangling and dancing as the key was thumbed up by a finger with short black rounded acrylic nail and the key inserted.

Into the din of giggles and a TV droning in the background Morgan walked, tossing the key and chain onto the counter already littered with mostly empty liquor bottled, mostly full ashtrays, and at least one mirror that was coated in a thin film of something powdery. "I'm home. What's for fucking dinner, ho?" Three girls turned their heads to raise their collective eyebrow at the red-haired slip of a thing in too-tall boots and shorts that crawled into places fabric rarely belonged. The fur coat was shed and tossed over a chair, and the thin young man raised his hands just as he got an onslaught of chatter thrown his way.

"Bitch I dunno who you talkin—"

"Oh mai gwoooaaaaaahd, Morie, Rebekah got—"

"You know where the food is, you limp—"

"OKAY!" Came a far more masculine yell than the soft lilt he'd started with, silencing the three. There was a soft giggle from a fourth draped over an unfolded futon in front of the TV, and he sighed. "Alright, well… someone order something. My fucking feet hurt, and I just want something in my stomach that isn't—" he was interrupted by laughter, and one of the girls slapped his bicep.

"Ooh, you ain't even lyin'..." she flipped open her phone, and started to dial as Morgan tottered on tall, thin heels to the living area.

"Your ass hurt, boo?"

"Like a bitch!" He called back. Same question, every night. And every night, the same answer. It worked both ways, though, didn't it? Didn't even care anymore. He plopped heavily next to the waifish giggler on the black futon, and groaned.

"Beckaaaaaaah." He wined, and held up a foot, resting it on the somewhat flattened cushion. As she started to loosen the laces, he raised his arm over his head, and pulled a tray down from behind him into his lap with a clatter of metal and glass. The paraphernalia atop the wooden kitchen caddy was for a multitude of things; a spoon charred on the bottom, a once clear pipe with a blackened bulb at the bottom, and two or three needles, with a strip of tan rubber likely stolen from an ER trip. He set to work even as thin pale fingers fluttered over first one boot, then the other, and tugged in a quick jerk just enough to loosen the shoes enough for Morgan to be able to kick them off.

"Thanks, babe."

"Rough night?"

"Not too bad. Mr. Socks put down the big bucks tonight." Between them, a shared giggle.

"Mmmm. You think his wife buys those?"

"Oh, fucking definitely. She seems the type." The last words were clinched as he grabbed a bit of rubber between his teeth and tugged. He looked up when he heard someone calling out to him.

"How much—"

"We good tonight. Let's fuckin' eat." He replied, motioning to the fur coat. A hand with long acrylic nails dipped into the pocket and pulled out a roll, sucking her teeth.

"Daaaaaaamn. We feastin'!" The three in the messy kitchen were already poring over a takeout menu. Morgan gave a small laugh, and motioned to Rebekah for assistance, holding the needle out toward her. He watched her do her magic, and eventually, they were slumped in a pile on the futon. The thin young woman with her dark hair and darker eyes, ringed purple by both bruising and drugs. Maybe a small amount of insomnia. She often had trouble sleeping for fear of her dreams, and the stupor of the warmth she injected into her veins was the closest she often came to anything resembling a good night's rest.

Morgan's eyes had settled, at some point, on the screen of the boxy TV, to the couple pining over each other at a small town holiday festival. So fashionably dressed, for all that cold weather they were dancing in.

"It's such bullshit."

"Mm?" Morgan turned his head to look at the woman.

"This. Woman moves from the big city to a little cottage in the middle of Fuck-right-off, Arkansas, and finds her true fucking love."

"She's rich. Of course she found love in podunk.”

“I hate these movies.”

“Then why the fuck do you watch them?” Morgan allowed his gaze to once more settle on the screen. They were looking at each other longingly. Barf.

“It’s what’s on.” The two sat in silence for some time, Morgan zoning out constant chattering, and when the food arrived, he wasn’t surprised to have a carton dropped in front of him on the futon. Mindlessly, he ate and watched film after film with Rebekah. He finally shifted, turning himself with a groan to nestle, little spoon, into the woman as they both stared at the screen with glassy eyes. Fingers ran through his long red hair, brushing gently and tugging at tangles when they snagged long nails. “You think we can ever have anything like that?” she said softly into the back of his head.

“You, maybe. Me? Fuck nah.”

“Why not?”

Morgan turned his head slightly, eyes never leaving the Mountie or his intended bride on the screen. “I’m the type-a bitch that’s going to die in a gutter. Or in some guy’s fucking basement. If I’m lucky, I’ll die in a shitty apartment and get eaten by my fifteen fucking Pomeranians before anyone finds me because I’m stinkin’ the muh-fucker up.” This garnered a laugh from the girl, and he joined in softly, before he continued after a few moments of silence broken only the the story in front of them and somewhere, distantly, so far away, a baby crying.

“You have a chance. One of yours might fall in love, or some shit. Think they’re gonna save you from this oh so terrible choice you’ve made. Mine…” He huffed, and sat up slowly, peeling a tight red shirt off and tossing it aside. “They got their wives. Or they’re senators, and god forbid they don’t have a wife. Girlfriends get ignored. They get secret apartments and fucking paychecks and groceries.” He turned and looked seriously at Rebekah, lips tugging downward at the corner and his brow furrowing. “I’m a downlow plaything.”

“Morie—” Rebekah started, trailing off. She sat up with him, and a thumb smoothed over his brow, firm but gentle. “You’re gonna get wrinkles. Stop making that face, mm?” She cooed and ran her palms down the sides of his face, smiling and looking into his eyes. “Maybe you should move.”

“Oh, yeah. I can see it now. Nice fucking cottage with flowers and someone that plays with my hair every night and makes me feel real special.” He scoffed, and slapped her hand away, standing shakily. "Maybe I'll have a fuckin' unicorn, too." He grumbled, moving toward the kitchen to grab a bottle of liquor. Something clear. Maybe vodka. Who fucking cared?

"You're such a fuckin' downer, Morgan LaFey." Came the giggle as the woman draped herself over the futons metal armrest. Well. Headboard, for now. For two months. Really, it rarely ever got folded up.

"No, I am a realist." He replied as he dropped back onto the futon and twisted the screw cap off the bottle, tipping it up for a deep pull. Licking his lips, he passed the bottle back, and rifled through several empty cigarette packs before finding one with a few left. He stuck the menthol between his lips, and took his time lighting it and savoring that first rush of nicotine before he spoke again. Rebekah had draped herself over him, and perhaps they might have looked like a couple, for she had spent most of her evening in her underwear, black panties and a hot pink bra with missing underwires and patches where the lace was pilled or simply patchy. Her nose settled in the crook of neck and shoulder, and she hummed softly, taking the bottle and a swig of her own as she settled in against Morgan's bare, scarred back. "You know what? I will move. But you're coming with me. You can have your own room in my cottage with me and my tall, dark, handsome husband."

"Mmm. Tall, dark, *and* handsome?"

"Aw yeah. Works out. We'll live in the middle of the woods and…" he waved a hand, and laughed. "And we'll live happily ever after." He pushed back against Rebekah, toppling her, and slithered like a snake to lay atop her, grinning.

"You and me and your rich, hot husband. And the unicorn." She added in the end, giggling. Morgan burst into laughter, and rolled off the woman, snatching the bottle and motioning to the television set.

"Turn it up. It's almost time for old Elephant Allen to get home." The two pulled a thin sheet over them and huddled into each other warmly, sharing a drink and the warmth it, and their proximity, brought. Fingers raked idly through red hair, and amber eyes, glassy, half-lidded in a stupor.

"Merry Christmas, Morie." The woman said softly into his ear, before settling in to zone out to cheesy romance, herself.

A rare quiet day dawned on the tenements containing a certain redhead sleeping in the arms of a thin pale woman, snoring softly in a way that the others teased was "adorable", that he sounded like a little frenchie and oh, they should so get a frenchie, but they cost so much, and you had to feed them, and—


The relative silence of an apartment with thin walls was broken by the door hitting the wall behind it, and the subsequent sounds of booted feet stomping past the kitchen and directly into the living area. A pair of bleary eyes opened, squinting, to look up at the interruption, only to find himself peering up the barrel of a gun. His body shifted under a sway, and he tipped his head up, taking in the black on black on black on… ah, fuck. Balaclava. He slowly raised both hands, and grimaced. "Mornin', officer. Offer you a drink?" He offered a small smile as he sat up carefully, swinging his legs over the side of the futon. The two men in heavy uniform looked at each other, one raising his eyebrow, for there was nothing denoting any official police force on their clothing. No SWAT emblazoned on front or back, no stars or shields… they had their guns trained on Morgan and Rebekah, and two others were making a sweep of the house, waking up the other three piled on a bed in the only bedroom.


"LaFey, didn't I tell you to stop fucking around?" Came a voice from a middle aged man in a casual suit as he walked in, lighting a cigarette and looking around with thinly veiled disgust.


"Maloney—"


"Mister." Corrected the older man.


"Mister Maloney—" he started carefully, rousing Rebekah from her trance slowly and ever so gently by rubbing his thumb along her jaw. "I don't know what you're talking about. I got money..." he trailed off as his eyes ticked to a fur coat, then back to the man.


"Nah. Let's call it a well-visit." The man strode closer, and waved off the two with guns.


"With body armor?"


"Bad neighborhood, can you blame me?"


"Oh, fuck y—" Morgan was interrupted with a resounding slap across his face. He teetered on the edge of the futon a moment, and immediately dropped his head, palming his own stinging cheek. Seemingly pleased with the mollification of the mouthy boy, the suited man leaned closer, clenching his teeth and hissing in Morgan's ear.


"You're about two fucking words from the bottom of that river, LaFey." A beat. "Well?"


"Yes, sir." Came the soft reply. The man stood back up, and stuck his hands into his pockets as he strutted around the messy apartment as if it were his own kingdom, and he eyed the three sleepy young women grumbling at having been woken so rudely. One was still probably sleeping. The man sneered at the coffee table in disgust, and looked away purposefully.


"Your stunt at that fucking Christmas party almost caused a lot of problems for a lot of people." Maloney rounded the table, and crouched in front of Morgan, using the angle to force himself into the young man's eyeline.


"It wasn't on purpose. Man, I'm not about to let some rich old lady treat me like a—"


"Then what were you paid for?"


"What?" Well, that seemed to be the wrong answer, for Morgan's face was suddenly caught in a tight grip, fingertips digging roughly into his cheeks, and yet just gently enough that there would be no bruising.


"What. Were. You. Paid. For." Was repeated slowly. So very calmly. The red-haired creature whimpered, and tried to pull loose.


"I wav effcoting miffah Hah-dik." It was so hard to talk when your entire face was mushed. Maloney let go with a jerk, and snorted derisively.


"Oh, so Mr. Hardick makes the rules now? Didn’t keep you out of the broom closet, did it?" Morgan, rubbing at his face, had no response. Rebekah sat up slowly, and draped an arm over the young man that seemed so much smaller than her.


"Mister Maloney, you seem like you're in a bad mood. Maybe there's something someone can do about calming you down." She smiled almost dopily, and leaned slowly, as if in water, to pluck a half-smoked blunt and hold it up in offer. Morgan looked up and was reminded of a sloth he'd seen on TV once. Moving slowly, but with a calm grace that was almost ethereal. The man huffed, and slapped the girl's hand away before he turned to leave.


"Sober up some, Red. You have a busy night ahead of you." The man waved a hand over his shoulder as he strolled out, and all but one of the men in black filed out. He hesitated a moment, then looked back over the wilted redhead and his dark-haired wraith of a protector, draped on him like a shawl.


"Hey, Morgan… I, uh… I tried."


"Get the fuck out, Jeremy." This from Rebekah, with a hiss. As soon as he was gone, and the door quietly shut, Morgan gave a loud groan, and disappeared into the sheets.


"I'm going back to sleep. Fuck right off." Meaning he was not open to talking about it, periodt. Eventually the five all slipped back into their beds…


Morgan wasn't the only one that worked when the sun went down, after all.

"Why do you even deal with him?"

"I make money."

"Baby, you make HIM money. Oh my God, you could literally pocketing all of this fucking cash."

The brush that had been bristling softly across a high cheekbone stilled, and Morgan stepped back with it in hand, narrowing his eyes. "Where else am I supposed to go, Beks? Say I quit. Totally. But then what? Back to fucking Ithaca?"

"You could go anywhere, Morie. Not just Ithaca." The waifish woman gave an airy giggle, and lifted her hand slowly to brush her thumb across the back of the redhead's hand. "You're too young to be like this, baby." Her big dark eyes rested on the young man, and she leaned forward slightly. "You sound like the old bitches at Caller's." The laugh she gave seemed a million miles away to Morgan, something otherworldly and just out of reach. In many ways, it soothed. He sighed, and put the brush down, sitting on the stool next to Rebekah at the backstage vanity. A few light bulbs were out, and the place was always a mess of fabric and feathers and bras hanging from every available hook point, but this place felt more like home to him than even his own apartment. Perhaps it was because he spent so much time here.

"Beks… I'm realistic, remember? What job am I gonna get and I didn't even go to high school?" He lowered his face, and pursed his lips. "I can't even read that good." His hands folded together in his lap, fingers entwined, and he watched the movement of his own thumbs as he steepled them and rubbed the pads together. "The best I can get right now is stock boy at Minelli's, and even then…" he shuddered. "I hate the owner's son so much. I really wish he'd just choke on his own stupid tongue."

"Don't you pay that boy no damn mind, Morie. He and his little friends are at the best they’ll ever be. You? You’re still polishing that shine, baby. You growin’ into yaself. They done peaked.” Another fae laugh came from the thin woman as she stood, leaning into the mirror to check. “Damn, boy. You make me look ten years younger. Every time.” Her eyes shifted to one side, taking in the reflection of the redhead pulling back shoulder length hair. “If I’m ever rich and famous, you’ll totally be my stylist.” She winked, the false lashes he’d applied fluttering heavily onto the apples of high cheekbones.

“We’ll hang out with Nicki.”

“Mm. Yes. Not that bitch Taylor.” The two laughed, and Morgan reached out to skip his hand across the woman’s backside. She jumped slightly, and pushed away from the vanity. “Ugh. Is it so much to ask for a day off?” She grumbled, moving away and fluttering her hand at Morgan. The feathers in her hair bounced, he noticed... and the young man leaned heavily on the desk of the vanity as he watched the swish of the short skirt over back of Rebekah’s thighs, the shift of red sequins dangling over her pale back, the sway of her thin hips practically forced by heels that made her already willowy frame so much longer. She moved like something underwater, and he always imagined scenes from movies where women drown in flowy dresses, and how everything floated so serenely. He once told her, watching one such scene on a crime show as they dozed on the futon sharing a cigarette, how beautiful she would look like that. The woman laughed, and swatted his shoulder. And then she tilted her head, with a dreamy look, asking if he really thought so.

“Break a leg, ho!” he called after her as she stepped up the stairs out of the “green room” as they’d dubbed it. When she was gone he slumped on his stool for a single unguarded moment. Chatter turned into a drone around him, the constant buzz of “did you hear?” and “giiiiirl” and complaint and praise and chatter, chatter, chatter. Usually, he joined in. The first to suck his teeth to hear what so-and-so did this time. The first to lean in and soak up the lives of those around him. Escape into everyone else’s world. Tonight, he draped over the vanity, resting his head into the nest of his arms. His brows knit together, and his eyes closed tightly. He at least had to try to save the eyeliner. Maybe… He could even catch a nap.

Just as Morgan started to doze off, the tone of the room quieted just a fraction. Of course his ears would perk, pick up, overhear a gasp-- he picked up his head just in time to watch Rebekah collapse down the stairs from the stage, landing in a heap of limbs and sparkle. The moment, though... it was so slow. It was like, for a stretch of time, indeterminate, she was floating in water, falling to the riverbed.

An incessant beeping and the hiss of a respirator was nearly enough to drive one crazy. Heart rates were good, and the machine was doing its best to pump oxygen into the lungs of a body that was so very thin when in motion, but here… Rebekah looked positively skeletal. Her eyes were closed, and looked sunken. Like death. He had barely managed to get in. Lied about his relationship to her like he always did. He was curled up in a chair pulsed right up to the side of the hospital bed, makeup smeared down his cheeks from tears shed on the way. He’d almost walked, but of course, there were easier ways to get across the city, when you had that swing of hips and told your charge you lived out by the General. It worked out in the end maybe, because by the time he was dropped off half a block away wiping at smeared red lips, the girl was in a room.

Lies got him everywhere he needed to be. Most of the time. Lies got him into this room where he just wanted to tear that fucking machine out of the wall. Fingers curled into messy red locks, hells of palms pressed into his ears. The lights were low, and yet impossibly bright in his eyes. It was more irritating, than anything.

“Wake up, Beks… You gotta get up now.” He scratched at the back of his head, and his eyes ticked to the door. Was he being too loud? The hospital was so quiet. Except for the beeps. The air. Someone coughing their lungs up somewhere down the hall. Rebekah didn’t answer, and his brows knit together. How long had he been here? It felt like days. It felt like years. It felt like forever. Likely, it was only a couple of hours. The nurses were nice enough at first, but it seemed they were getting tired of the wide-eyed boy in the chair refusing to move even long enough for them to check vitals. They’d only gotten him to do so when they threatened to have him forcibly removed from the premises, and even then he hovered.

“Beks.” he whispered softly. Of course there was no answer.

Was this his fault? Had he missed something? He thought everything was okay. Everything looked okay. They said something about a stroke. But he knew that was impossible, right? That was something that happened to old people. Bright stars like Rebekah didn’t have strokes. That was a ridiculous notion. Morgan stood up, and started to pace. He had to move. He couldn’t sit still. Move, Morgan, move. Maybe it would help the creeping ache in his hands. Maybe it would settle the restlessness he felt. But somewhere deep inside, he knew it wouldn’t. He felt nauseous. He felt… maybe a little thirsty. His steps slowed, and he moved to the woman’s side, brushing thin hair from her face. His lips pressed to her forehead, and he tapped his own to it.

“You wanna drink, Beks? I can bring you some coffee… I’m gonna get some, okay? When I come back, you’ll prolly yell at me about how it’s not enough sugar in it. Then they’re gonna kick us out for disturbin’ the sleepy sick people. Just like last time, right?” He smiled, and ran his thumb over one high cheekbone. “Don’t get kicked out without me, okay? We go together. Peas and carrots in a chicken pot pie.” Another kiss to her cool skin, and he walked out. He knew the halls well enough. He hated the place, but he knew it. Broken limbs, sprains and traumas, he’d seen it all. Even one time a girl in his building straight up had a baby. He hadn’t been there for the whole thing, but he remembered being dragged along to welcome the wrinkled little creature. He remembered the girl crying when her tiny son had been taken by people in pantsuits and khakis, the folks from the state.

He took his time getting the drink, and was stopped once in the hall by a concerned young nurse. He was sweating so much, was he sick? No worries, he was fine. Just nerves. He sweat when he got nervous, is all. See how his hand was shaking? His friend was in surgery, see? It was going to be fine, right? The nurse seemed pacified by the explanation, and was gentle. Best surgeons in the area, you know. His friend was in good hands. It was just an appendix, what was there to worry about? Get some coffee, have a smoke, it’ll be fine. She even gave him a cigarette. And so he sat in a tiny courtyard alone, a cup of coffee in his trembling hand and a cigarette slowly burning away between his lips, when he was joined by an older man in a while coat.

“You got a light?”

Morgan looked over, and without a word, just offered the man his own cigarette. He’d bummed a light off of someone else, having left his own either at the club or in some asshole’s car. He waited to get it back, and tilted his head. A doctor. Beks would really like this one. Strong jaw, salt and pepper hair, probably married and sick of his home life and open to a nice young mistress with a pair of fake tits. Doctors could usually afford them, anyway. These thoughts were usually the ones that continuously swirled in his head on these visits. But there was a word that echoed far louder tonight. “You a doctor?”

The man looked disbelievingly at the redhead. “What gave me away? Was it the coat?”

Morgan huffed, and looked away. His leg was starting to jump. Nerves? Yes, he’d blame it on nerves. “Could be a lab tech, I dunno. Pharmacist.”

The man laughed, and took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Yeah, I’m a doctor. Don’t tell anyone I’m out here. Smoking is bad for you, kid.”

Morgan hesitated a moment, and launched right into the burning question he had refused to let the nurses answer. Because they weren’t doctors. They were just nurses. They wiped asses and they poked needles into people. Hell, he could do that. “You can’t really get a stroke when you’re young, right?” Please let it be a lie.

“You can, actually. Blood clots happen. Our brains are pretty fragile. But when you're young, you have a better chance of getting through it. Why do you-- Hey, where you going, kid?!” he called to the back of the running Morgan, who had left his coffee and the still lit butt of his cigarette, rolling in a breeze across the concrete.

She had to be okay. The doctor said she had a chance! See? Doctors knew. It was all he needed. He had to go tell her! Had to go rub it in the faces of those nurses that were giving each other sad looks when he asked if she was going to be okay. Somewhere on the horizon, the sky was starting to lighten, and it only bolstered his spirits to see it out of giant windows as he ran through corridors and hallways all the way back.

His steps slowed, however, to hear codes being called. Someone on Rebekah's ward wasn't doing too hot. Maybe it was coughing man. Morgan frowned soberly as he tip toed into the halls near the room. He could hear a flatline. Could hear the bustle of people trying to bring someone back to life. At least he could sneak into the room again unseen, right? He rounded the corner, and felt his heart drop. It was her door that was wide open. Her door all the commotion was coming from. Her machine droning in a high, steady whine. He took a step closer. Another. Confirming the fear. When he got to the door, he peered in, and he saw so many bodies crowded around her bed.

“No…”

She was going to be okay.

“No…”

She had to be okay.

“NO!” He screamed, and an orderly turned to look at him, finally, then moved to usher him out of the doorway. He was in the way. He was blocking the door. Stop screaming, kid. You’re not helping, you’re in the way. You’re in the way. You’re in the way…

“BEKAH WAKE UP!” It was the last thing he remembered before memory became snippets. Throwing up all over orderly. Punching and kicking and flailing at security. Biting… someone. And then… Sitting on a sidewalk, curled up and sobbing. They didn’t let him back in that morning. And they had no reason to, after. The young man screamed at the sky, at God, at the Devil, and everything else he could think of.

Because they’d all taken his Bekah away. The only thing he had, and it was gone. Everything was gone. His brother was gone, his parents had never been there, and now…

Now there was no real reason to care anymore, was there?

Sometime midmorning, he went home. Sometime before noon, he was on the floor in the living room, curled up in blankets with a rubber strap dangling from his fingertips. He didn’t want to feel anymore.

There was no reason to.

Sweat and alcohol permeated the air of a small and humble home in a neighborhood full of them. A crush of bodies in the heat that writhed only vaguely to the deep bass that filtered through from a single room outfitted with a small setup for a small-time DJ. Some moved because of the music. Some simply because they were following the flow of bodies. Some were moving to entirely different song, enhanced by the thumping of the deep, rhythmic beat.


The small and lithe form on the counter with a drink in one hand and a straw in the other was watching the bodies like a hawk sought prey as he wiped his nose clean. The straw was set back down on a plate neatly, and he seemed to zero in on someone that didn't seem attached to any particular group… dark lips, a plum to match the semi punk vibe he chose for the night, parted into a smile as he slid down from the counter. He sipped at his drink as he prowled.


The best thing about being so small, of course, was the ease in which you could get through a crowd when you weighed less than half of them. With an added bonus of making it very easy to be at the right place at the right time. The man turned just in time to spill his drink down Morgan's front. He looked down, seemingly shocked at the state of his torn and cropped band tee over heavy black fishnet… and not to mention the leather pants! Okay. Pleather. Whatever.


"Shit! Sorry!"


Morgan made a show of looking away and waving a hand, looking for napkins. A stray shirt. Something. Morgan couldn't help a little smile when he saw a handful of paper towels, hastily retrieved and nearly torn to shreds being offered.


"I'm really sorry. Can I buy you a drink?"


The red haired young man raised an eyebrow, and took the offering with haste, patting himself dry before he loosened his posture fluidly, tipping his head to the side. "Big spender."


The two eventually made their way to where the party spilled outside. The side patio had a much quieter vibe, a wide and flat space for people to spread and take advantage of the seating random objects provided. Morgan found himself sitting on a bucket while his new friend sat cross-legged next to him. They shared drinks and spoke at length about nothing at all.


The buzz of so many substances had emboldened the dancer, and he had climbed into the man's lap, straddling his legs and using them as a quite comfortable seat. He tucked his feet beneath thighs, and contented himself to be there. In the moment. The conversation had gotten deeper, and the two spoke in hushed tones to each other as they drifted ever closer. A rough hand, one that saw the toil of work and hardship in its short life, drifted across the young man's cheek, and his lips tried to follow.


"What's your name?" Was whispered breathily into cherry red locks that draped them in a perceived privacy.


Of course… had it ended there, it could have been something great. It could have been a start to something tragically beautiful. Morgan opened his mouth to speak, but his name was drowned out by the sudden call of a siren. A universal signal that the party was quite over. As for those not supposed to drink yet… it was the signal to run.


"Shit." He clambered off of the man, and took off running. What followed was absolute confusion. Bright light flooded the place, and people were yelling, maybe? Morgan froze like a deer on the highway, losing that dear fraction of a moment that he could have sprinted away. There were more shouts, blue and red and white and blue and so much blue… grey, and then… he was moving. Heard the radio going off now and again. He pulled against the handcuffs behind him…


And darkness came, for a little while.

Bail was a bitch.

Bail meant he owed someone.

Bail meant there was a person waiting that he likely wanted nothing to do with. Didn’t want to owe. He hesitated when he was given his things back. When he was escorted to the door. Even tried to step back. Keep me. Just keep me here. And yet he was starting to sweat. Starting to shake. The two men at his side in blue thought it was nerves. Oh, boy was he ever in trouble. The man in the suit could have passed for a guardian, maybe… But he knew the truth behind that fake fatherly smile, the disappointed sigh. He was neither. He was… So. Fucking. Mad. Morgan whimpered and tried to pull back, but he hadn’t the strength. He couldn’t make sense of what was being said. He didn’t even remember getting into the back of the black car. Black? It was black. It was a blur. It could have been grey. Grey like a gun.

What brought him to earth was the sudden pain. A hand across his face. Idiot. Moron. Didn’t even get any money. Did you think you could just do shit on your own? Stupid bitch ain’t here to save you now. Fucked up and got herself killed. Didn’t give a fuck about you, see? Didn’t care enough not to explode her stupid fucking brain, see? Another strike. He wished he could black out. Wished this bastard would just punch him hard enough that he could sleep through it.

But he knew better than that. It was so important that he didn’t swell. Had to look nice for those special ones with the preference, you know? They liked the pretty ones. They liked them to look happy, and fresh, and innocent, right? Morgan… He was good for that. And there was a nice little surprise waiting for him when he was all done.

Makeup, idiot. Do the makeup. Here. We got twenty minutes.

Jail to junkie pipeline.

It was a slide. A chute with no ladders.

But the sweating would stop. The shaking. The itching. Just had to hold out a little while. Right before, yeah? Do your makeup… open your mouth… a little taste, just like that. A pill between the lips to take the edge off. Lingering fingertips that smudged pink with the lipstick just applied to give them some color. They were so pale. Like all of him. So pale, and skinny. Eyeshadow, smudge and smudge to conceal the dark rings beneath.

The red cheeks just made it look sweeter, see? Look how it helps put a little color there. A little kiss? Now, now, always turning your head. Be nicer to people that provide. Nicer to the money.

And then he was at a door, fingers wrapped into a fur half-jacket. Trembling in a cold hallway with a flickering light. This didn’t look so fancy, did it? Maybe act like you got some class, and you can go back to that. Back to the soft sheets and the warmth and the mixed drinks and expensive wine before business. Not like this. The straight drop. A knock at the door, and an unsure smile to a strange face that had cold eyes.

At least he was offered a cigarette. Shaking fingers took the offering, and the door shut behind him. He didn’t want to go in. It smelled like wet dog, and dead things. He wanted to scream. Rail. Cry. But none of that.

Maybe later, in his own bed...

Maybe he’d hate himself a little less.