And the Sea is Full
Fuck, the place is quiet tonight. it is not at any time exactly jumping, but Brayden usually steps aside for greater amount studs than this; more sad old bastards who won’t touch each other, so they pay to see boys half their age shake it in this sleazy little shithole.
Not like me, this guy thinks wryly, and stamps his feet to shake out the chill. nothing sad about being forty-two and spending your nights at the door of a sleazy little shithole. Where the fuck is Harry? Ten minutes late for his shift afresh is where Harry is, like always, during the time that i’m freezing my balls off here instead of freezing ’em off at home, in comfort.
When Harry still isn’t here five minutes later, Brayden can not bring himself to care about how his boss’ll react if he finds the door empty. If that guy can discover himself some other sadsack willing to throw out creeps and pursue off junkies, the poor fuck can have Brayden’s job. he’s not getting paid for overtime.
Brayden plants his wazoo down on the doorstep and lights a cigarette to warm his fingers. this guy sucks in a lungful of smoke and holds it, drawing out the seconds previous to he heads home, and a hand taps him on the shoulder.
When he looks up, there’s a youthful man looking down at him. For a moment, Brayden wonders when the clientele got so young, then that guy recognises the kid as one of the dancers. lengthy hair, badly bleached, darksome roots. skinny as fuck.
“Got a smoke?”
Brayden raises an eyebrow, head still tilted back. “That’s a wicked habit, kid. you sure you’re old enough?”
The kid rolls his eyes and waves a hand expansively. “This isn’t that kind of a rathole, smartass. u sharing or not?”
Brayden shrugs and holds out the pack. “It’s your funeral.” It acquires him one more roll of those pale blue eyes. Funny, that guy never really noticed the boy in advance of but the face is unforgettable. On the ugly side of elfin, nearly a little goblin-like. delightful in an odd way, maybe, or alluring enough for this crowd.
The boy reaches out and plucks a cigarette from the carton. “Hope.”
“What? u more excellent not be planning some sorta sol-ill-ee-key on the nature of humanity or something, kid. i’m not the right audience for it.”
“Funny, you do not look like the kind of chap who considers himself nothing.”
Brayden looks at him sideways, and the kid grins at him around his cigarette.
“When actors soliloquies, they talk to themselves. you are thinking of a monologue. Or possibly an apostrophe, i’m not sure. If I knew the difference, you think i would be stripping here?” that guy wipes a sharp-knuckled hand on his jeans, then holds it out. “I’m Hope.”
Brayden snorts and doesn’t take it. “You’re scrawny as shit and u need a hair cut, but you are not ready to be sporting a girl’s name yet.”
“I’m the final sorry son of a wench working in this dump. only seems fitting.”
And now Brayden’s wondering what the guy’s been taking and Hope sees it in his eyes.
“Only Hope was left within her unbreakable house,” this chab says softly, like he’s giving up something wonderful. “You never read anything outside Hustler, old man?”
“You think I did, you think i would be working here?” Brayden tries to sound mocking, follow the eager kid back indoors, but he is amused and that guy can hear it in his own voice.
Hearing his own words twisted and parroted back at him, Hope tips his head back and laughs. that guy has clean, white teeth and when his lean face drops back into view, Brayden checks his pupils and finds them fine.
Not high, this chab thinks, just lonesome. He’d have to be, if he is out here talking to me instead of in there hustling old men for tips.
In the streetlights, Hope looks washed out and a little strung out and his eyes are sad now; like he’s looking at smth far away this guy cant remember the road to. “And at the bottom of the box, there was me.”
It’s not quiet, but Brayden feels like this guy can not have heard right. “What?”
Hope isn’t looking at him anymore, he’s seeing smth behind his own eyes or maybe behind Brayden’s. “Just me. this babe opened the lid and they all left and I was all alone. So eventually I left too.”
He reaches out a hand and Brayden doesn’t move, doesn’t even think of moving, and Hope touches the pad of his thumb to his forehead.
“He not at any time left you, Brayden, not on purpose. this guy meant to come back but some angel and her fellow carjacked him and dumped him in the river.”
And Brayden is frozen as Hope pulls away and stands up, looking half like a young fellow in cheap, scuffed jeans and half like smth old and lost and terrible.
“Planned on catching the next flight back, Brayden, after he cleared his head. Forgave u for that blond – these blonds. When those 2 got in his car, this guy was hoping he’d get through this and do just that. Hoped it right up until the river closed over his head.”
Hope – for that was his name and Brayden knew now, knew that no creature like this could answer to any name that wasn’t its own – stands, and slings his ratty backpack over his shoulder. “I know how studs in exile feed on dreams of hope, Brayden. Take hope from the heart of man, and u make him a brute of prey. you aren’t a beast. you aren’t even the bastard you think you are.”
He stops one final time, halfway to the next streetlight, and looks over his shoulder. “Go home. acquire a more excellent job. Have a little…” And he grins and doesn’t finish his sentence, and Brayden watches him until the road curves and takes him away with it.
A little hope.