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IDAHO
He knows where he is by the way that the road looks. He’s a connoisseur of roads; he lets them take him through towns, through cities. Portland, Boise, Rome, Seattle...the roads look the same even in different countries and different timezones. But he always knows how to tell them apart.
The road he’s lying on now is jarringly hot, its heat baked in from the afternoon sun. He’s a couple of miles outside Coeur d'Alene, and his bag and boots are gone. Scott is gone. His eyes flicker open and shut at the neverending sky, and he thinks about how he’s all hollowed out inside. Scott is gone, and he’s never coming back.
A vehicle has stopped beside him. Someone has gotten out, and now they’re hauling him into the car. He’s too out of it to see who it is, but he hears someone muttering, “little shit” and “fuckin’ scared me halfway to death”.
And then: a tearful, “Jesus, Mikey you fuck.”
PORTLAND
“How do I know you ain’t gonna sell his ass the moment I leave?” Richard Waters demands.
For all his bravado and belligerence, Scott can tell it’s all an act. Richard’s hands haven’t stopped shaking since he brought Mike into the mansion. Earlier, Scott’s people took Mike away to bathe, clothe and feed him, and now Scott is sitting here at his deceased father’s grand oak desk and watching Richard - or Dick, Mike calls him - trying not to fall apart in front of him.
“I’m on his side,” Scott says, even as Richard lets out a low scoff of disbelief. He doesn’t quite blame Richard. Sitting in his father’s chair in a Zegna three-piece with his hair all slicked back, Scott looks a world away from that loyal, scruffy kid who followed Mike all the way to Idaho, even to Rome. It’s no wonder that Richard is eyeing him with great suspicion.
After a long, pregnant silence, Richard sighs deeply, his shoulders slumping in resignation. They both know he lacks the wherewithal to look after Mike, or get Mike the help he needs. “So what’s gonna happen now?” he spits out, like he’s hating himself for giving in.
“There’s a sleep disorder clinic in LA,” Scott says, the rehearsed lines coming out smoothly. “I’m gonna take Mikey to see a doctor there. She’s a specialist in the, uh, the narcolepsy thing. We’ll see what she says. If there’s treatments for him.”
“Doctor, huh?” Richard wipes at his nose. Scott can see a deep distrust of institutionalized medicine in his deepening frown. Which makes sense, given what happened to Mike as a kid. “Like a-- like a shrink?”
Scott shakes his head. “Not a psychiatrist. A sleep doctor.” One of his staff had rattled off the doctor’s name and exact title earlier, but Scott hadn’t been paying attention, not when Mikey was still missing somewhere in Idaho and they hadn’t found him yet.
Richard absorbs this for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is gruff and sombre. “So you guys gonna stay in LA, huh?”
“We’ll see.” Scott isn’t particularly eager to remain anywhere in Portland right now, not with the vultures still circling after his father’s death. He has plans, but they all depend on Mike’s acquiescence.
“Can you--” Richard clears his throat, before speaking again, “I mean, I’d like to get updates. On how he’s doin’ and shit. Just so I know his sorry ass is okay, y’know?”
“Yeah, ‘course.” Scott pushes a memo pad at Richard, watching him scrawl an address and, as an afterthought, a neighbor’s phone number.
After Richard seems to have exhausted all his questions and suspicions, he throws a longing glance at the bottle of Macallan 18 sitting on the cabinet behind Scott’s desk. Still, he doesn’t ask and Scott’s not going to offer him any, not when Richard has a long drive back to Idaho ahead of him.
By the time Richard is shrugging on his jacket and getting ready to leave, the deep lines of worry etched on his face makes him look like he has aged ten years. Scott doesn’t mention his reddened eyes, or how his hands are shaking again. “If there’s anything--” Richard keeps saying fiercely, “anything at all--”
“Yeah, I know,” Scott says, and watches him leave.
***
Mike regains consciousness in a fancy bedroom that has a plush rug, luxurious drapes and the biggest TV he’s ever seen, and he thinks, I must be on a date.
He’s just managed to push himself up into a sitting position when a tall, wide-shouldered black guy purposefully strides into the bedroom, his eyes hidden behind a pair of aviators. This must be the john, then. Mike wonders how out of it he must be, because he has no recollection whatsoever of this guy picking him up. However, it can’t be too bad. This guy looks pretty fit and clean-cut. Plus he’s well-dressed, which means he can afford to pay Mike, or at least get him food.
“Um.” Mike plucks at the terry-cloth bathrobe he’s wearing now, wondering if they’ve already fucked but he doesn’t know how to ask. Maybe the guy’s back for round two.
The guy gives him a quick, brief smile before he unclips a walkie-talkie from his belt and speaks into it: “He’s up.” Something intelligible squawks back at him, but he ignores it in favor of sitting by the bed and removing his aviators. His eyes are disconcertingly kind. “How you holding up, kid?”
I’m not a kid, Mike thinks defensively, but the john’s being nice and Mike doesn’t want to invite trouble. “Good, I’m good,” Mike mutters. His stomach chooses this moment to emit a shockingly loud rumble, loud enough for the john to chuckle at.
“Think we could all do with some grub,” the man says, before casting a speculative look at Mike. “What d’ya like?”
At a place this fancy, there’s an entire world of options laid bare at Mike’s feet. The john looks like he’s generous, too. “You got any, um, fries? Maybe a burger?” Mike asks, before adding, “and a Coke. Two Cokes, if you got ‘em.” It’s hard not to be greedy when he can’t remember his last real meal. Maybe it had been some leftover fried chicken from that place Gary was working at.
The john’s just smiling at him, but he also looks a little sad. It’s the way Dick looks at him sometimes. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ll take care of it.”
Mike nods, then moves to untie his robe, because it’ll probably be awhile before the food comes, and the john will most likely want--
Except he’s reaching out to stop Mike, his frown deepening. “Whoa kid, don’t-- it’s not like that, okay?”
Mike’s eyebrows fly upwards, his hands stilling on his bathrobe belt. “It’s not?”
“My name’s Wilson,” the man says patiently. “I’m the head of security here.”
This is getting curiouser and curiouser. “For who?” Mike asks.
“The Favor family.” Wilson smiles gently at him. “Particularly, your friend Scott.”
***
When Scott’s father died, the family fortune wasn’t the only thing he inherited. Apparently, his parents - well, mostly his father - had a number of staff under their employ: cooks, housekeepers, drivers, personal assistants and security personnel. Scott’s mother had insisted on keeping the household help, so Scott released almost everyone else from their contract. His two exceptions are Wilson, an ex-military vet who had been his dad’s primary bodyguard, as well as a mousy-looking PA named Abigail who Scott likes because she seems to know when to keep her mouth shut.
Abigail proves her worth - and validates Scott’s judgment of people - when she timidly comes up to his desk and slides over to him everything he’d requested, no questions asked: the rental car agreement, the apartment booking in Santa Monica, the appointments for Mike with the doctor at the sleep clinic. After a moment of hesitation, Abigail hands over the one-way American Airlines ticket to Fiumicino Airport, Rome.
Scott keeps his expression carefully nonchalant. “Could you make sure Carmela gets this? Along with the letter I gave you earlier.”
There is no judgement in Abigail’s eyes, only enquiry: “Do you want me to give her this before you leave for LA, or after, sir?”
“After,” Scott says, because he knows he is a coward.
***
After dinner there is a knock on the door, and Mike yells, “Come in!” He’s well-fed, rested and extraordinarily comfortable, hooked on a Simpsons marathon on Fox. Earlier, Wilson had promised to come by and check in on him, which both warms and irritates Mike. Wilson generally treats Mike like he’s 12, but then again, not many people bother too much about Mike’s welfare without wanting something in return.
The door swings open, and Mike’s heart jumps into his throat when he realizes it’s Scott, wearing a Ralph Polo Lauren shirt and khakis that look expensive as fuck. “Oh, hi.” Mike turns off the TV and sets down the remote, making space for Scott to sit on the bed.
“How you feeling?” Scott’s tone is gentle, as though he is afraid of spooking a wounded animal. However he doesn’t hesitate to sit next to Mike on the bed, their knees brushing. “We were looking for you for a while.”
“Who’s we?” If it comes out a little defensive or incredulous, Mike doesn’t care. Scott had ditched him so easily, tossed him aside like he was garbage.
The wince on Scott’s face is gratifying. “Me. And Richard. It took a while for Gary to tell us where you’d gone, so I called Richard and gave him a heads-up. So he went looking for you.”
To Mike’s horror, his vision involuntarily blurs. He hurriedly swipes his hand across his eyes. “Dick was looking for me?”
“We all were,” Scott corrects him. He scoots closer, his voice a lowered hush: “Hey, Mikey. C’mon. Let me take care of you now.”
“You asshole.” Mike’s pretty sure the way he’s automatically burrowing into Scott’s arms negates the insult. “You’re an asshole, y’know that?”
“I know.” Scott rubs his back soothingly, his hair soft against Mike’s cheek. “I know.”
***
In the end, Scott and Wilson decide to sit down and tell Mike the plan accordingly. Scott had initially planned to get Mike alone and lay everything out for him, man to man. But to everyone’s surprise, Mike had gotten quite attached to Wilson during his weeklong stay at the Favor mansion, so Scott agrees to tagteam.
Mike seems receptive to the suggested two months of narcolepsy therapy in LA, but his eyes narrow in wariness when Scott assures him that he’ll be with Mike the entire way. Scott is lying if he doesn’t admit that it hurts a little, the way Mike is treating Scott like one of the many people waiting to use and abuse him. I’m on your side, he’d told Mike once in that dinky little Chinese place down Dixon Street. Fuck, he had followed Mike to Idaho, to fucking Italy. Did that count for nothing?
Look who you brought back, a voice whispers insidiously in his head. Carmela’s presence still haunts him daily, like a forgotten wife locked in the attic. Abigail - acting on Scott’s orders - had sequestered Carmela to the east wing of the mansion, and everyday Scott thinks about going to her, telling her he’s sorry, telling her he’s ruined and something’s fundamentally broken in him because he can never love people the same way again.
I love you and you don’t pay me, Mike had told him at the campfire. Look at all the shit Mike had gone through, and he could still love a shithead like Scott.
Not anymore, probably.
LOS ANGELES
At Scott’s insistence, they drive down to LA instead of taking the plane like Wilson had wanted. Mike supposes that it would have been easier to guard Scott on an enclosed place like an airplane instead of the open road. Mike doesn’t mind, though. He’s happy to get out of Portland, and Scott seems equally eager as well, seeing how the mayoral by-election is coming up and he’s desperate to dodge the press swarming him and asking him to endorse a new candidate. “Crooked fucks, the whole buncha them,” Scott mutters in the car, and Mike rubs his face while Wilson snorts in agreement.
Instead of the interstate, they take the road that hugs the coastline so that they get a front row seat to the glittering Pacific. “Bet you can’t get these views on the I-5,” Wilson says, grandly waving a hand at the vast blueness and the crashing waves. “Soak it in, fellas, soak it in.”
Mike sticks his head out the window like a curious dog, inhaling the salt-rich air and imagining he can feel the ocean spray on his face.
He only blacks out once, when they’re pulling into a truck stop and he spots a group of lot lizards hanging outside the restaurant, waiting for truckers to come along. The women look haggard, depressed, bored. Mike stares at them, frozen in place while Wilson asks if he wants a snack. Next thing he knows, he’s shaking violently, unable to fight the sinking darkness, falling asleep to the concerned voice of Wilson asking if Mike's okay and Scott reassuring him that Mike will be fine.
***
It takes them almost a whole day to reach LA, and Scott is sick of driving by the time they pull into Ocean Avenue. It’s a good thing Wilson had agreed to accompany them, so they could at least switch and rest in intervals. Still, Scott hadn’t really been able to sleep at any point during the long ride, keeping one eye on the road and the other on Mike the whole time.
Mike is sitting up now, eyes round with wonder as he takes in the palm trees, the promenade, the beautiful people strolling up and down the beaches. They’re a long way from home, from gritty tired Portland. Scott has never looked forward so much to being a nobody in a city where no one gives a shit about him.
“I’ll go check us in,” Wilson says, slipping Abigail’s manila folder of rental documents under his arm. The building has an unrestricted view of the ocean, and Scott decides it’s worth the astronomical rent, whatever it is. He can afford it now. These days he has to keep reminding himself that he’s not living hand to mouth anymore, and that he has both his inheritance and trust fund to fall back on. It takes a while to stop looking at rooftops and sizing up their potential as sleeping spaces, or to stop squirreling away sugar or ketchup packets at restaurants. It’s just like how he’d taken some time to adjust when he’d first started living on the streets and had to rely on handouts. He’d learned quick and learned fast. People could be cruel.
Mike touches his arm, his face happy and unguarded. “Want to go on the boardwalk with me?”
Scott sighs inwardly: people could be cruel, but Mike will never, ever learn this. The way he turns to Scott, like a flower turning towards the sun, is the best indication of this.
***
Mike loves the apartment in Santa Monica, even if it’s not his to keep: he’s used to temporary spaces, having been on the move his whole life. He loves his sunny, airy bedroom, the endless California king bed and the hugeass 28-inch screen TV, and he loves the wide, utilitarian kitchen. He loves that Scott’s bedroom is just next door, and that Wilson’s is down the hall within shouting distance. Mike’s never had two people he can count on entirely before. Sure, Scott has always had his back, but after Italy, Mike doesn’t know if Scott is ever going to up and disappear again.
One night when they’re eating pizza by the boardwalk, Mike gathers up the courage to ask: “Where’s Carmela?”
Scott stops chewing, his eyes downcast as though he’s afraid to look directly at Mike. “Uh, she’s gone home.”
“You mean Portland?”
“I mean Rome.” Scott starts picking at his pizza nonchalantly, but Mike isn't fooled. “Back to the farmhouse.”
“Why?” Mike doesn’t know if he’s asking why Scott sent her back, or why he’d brought her over here in the first place. As a person, Carmela is nice enough. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that Mike’s heart broke every time he so much as glanced at her.
“We didn’t work out.” Scott sounds faraway, distracted. When he finally does look up at Mike, he looks so haunted that Mike decides never to bring Carmela up again.
***
The narcolepsy doctor is young and Indian. Her nametag reads ‘Dr. N. Patel’ but she asks Mike to call her Nisha.
“You have both narcolepsy and cataplexy,” she says, her voice soft and gentle. “Cataplexy is a sudden loss of muscle strength, which explains why you can’t control your limbs whenever you get a sleep attack. There is no known cure for either, but studies have shown that a combination of medication and a strict sleep schedule will help.”
“What should we do for the sleep schedule?” Scott had asked.
Dr. Patel smiles reassuringly at him. “I’ll pass you a sample copy and we can tailor it to Mike’s attacks. In the meantime, Mike, I’ll write a prescription for modafinil and methylphenidate, along with a tricyclic antidepressant to control your cataplexy.”
The meds do help, even though they leave Mike dry-mouthed and desperately hankering for some uppers. Back in Portland, he’d had easy access to a steady stream of coke and E. Heck, Scott had taken his fair share as well. But here in LA, Mike wasn’t sure if he could be certain of scoring even something harmless like weed, let alone coke. His first instinct had been to hang out along the seedier parts of Hollywood Boulevard and wait for the right people to approach him, but he knows it’s the worst idea ever, not if he doesn’t want Scott and Wilson yelling at him and kicking his ass.
He goes to bed according to his fucking tyrannical sleep schedule and thinks: I’m not alone anymore. There’s no longer a lump in his throat when he reminisces about his mother, both of them under a sky so blue that it looks like a painting.
***
They’ve been in LA for a month when Wilson asks Scott: “You know Mike looks at you like you hung the moon, right?”
Wilson is far from being the first person to say something like that. Back when they’d lived on the streets, plenty of people had said that shit to Scott: Gary, Budd, even Bob. Mike had followed Scott around like an adoring puppy, and Scott had told himself that he had allowed it because of some misguided sense of loyalty and protection, some unspoken street kid code.
Except that wasn’t true.
Scott hadn’t given a fuck about Gary, Digger or any of those other fucks who were only interested in spending their money on blow and branded shit. Scott had never wanted to admit how deeply he’d cared for Mike, who would give Scott the shirt off his back if he’d only asked. Because he wasn’t a goddamn fairy and he wasn’t growing wings, no matter what his dad used to say just to needle him into becoming some macho-shit caricature he’d always wanted for a son.
Even after Scott had returned home, his mom had worried far more about what her high-society friends would think of her son's antics. Scott hadn't bothered telling his mother that he'd serviced more than a few of their husbands; he'd left that life behind. In Italy, he'd bought into the mistaken assumption that he could have the clean slate he'd boasted to Bob about, starting anew with his trust fund and Carmela. Except that hadn't happened when he'd returned to Portland. He'd felt hollow, like one of those empty Russian dolls Jane had kept at the derelict hotel. It'd been a while before he could admit Mike had been the key to all the goodness inside him, and he'd fucked that up like everything else in his life.
***
It's a ridiculously warm, humid California night when Scott gathers his courage and pads over to Mike’s room, knocking on the door and pushing it open when he hears Mike’s sleepy, “Come in.” Mike’s eyes widen when Scott slips into his bed and under the covers with him, and Scott wants to explain, raw with pain and regret over how he’d slapped the truth in the face and socked it away like a bad dream.
“You told me you loved me once, at the campfire,” he whispers, as Mike huddles over so that they’re sharing the same pillow. “I-- I know I fucked it up, but…”
“It’s okay.” Mike is stroking his hair, voice low and soothing. “I know you’re sorry.”
“I’m trying.” Scott turns his damp face towards the pillow. “I’m really fucked up, Mikey. I think I’m broken.”
He can feel Mike pulling him closer, nosing into his hair. "You're not broken," he whispers back. "And even if you are, I fuckin' love you anyway. Y'know?"
"I know." For the first time, Scott really does.
They remain like that until morning, Scott's face buried against Mike's throat, Mike humming under his breath with his fingers sifting through Scott's hair.
Grow wings, Scott thinks. It feels like he's flying.
THE END