Part One:

Michael sat, body tense and damp, his bare back reclining against the cool tiles of the flimsy wall, as the bathroom filled slowly with steam. Although he'd stepped out of the stall minutes before, the shower head still sprayed hot streams of water, the loud crash echoing the noise and confusion already pounding within his head. He drew in a deep breath, his bony fingers trembling as they pressed the sharp edge of a razor against his inner thigh, very lightly, so the sharp metal barely brushed against his tender skin. It was hard to resist. Too hard.

The sound of a forceful knock against the bathroom door startled Michael. He swung his head in the direction of the incessant rapping, long wet strands of auburn hair clinging to his gaunt face, falling in front of his wide brown eyes. He stared at the doorknob nervously for a moment, his heart hammering against his frail chest. The knob twisted slightly, as his mother's hand jiggled it from the other side, "Michael! What the fuck are you doing? Jesus Christ, you've been in there for over half an hour!"

Michael said nothing in reply, but continued to stare vacantly at the door, trying to swallow the revulsion that was rising up, like bile, inside him. There was so much he wished he could say to her - the ranting woman who dared to call herself his mother. Heartless bitch. He'd never forgive her for what'd she'd allowed to happen. Never forget the way she'd turned the other cheek, when he'd needed her most. And for what? All for the sake of keeping a worthless shit of a man? Why hadn't she loved HIM...just a little bit? Enough to make it stop?

Instead of exploding with accusations or crying out for her like a needy child, Michael pressed the edge of the razor more firmly against his flesh. As he watched, dark droplets of blood sprang to the pale surface. He closed his eyes tight and gulped. The first cut was always the most difficult. It was an admission of failure. Proof that he was unable to cope.

Michael wet his lips nervously, and without further hesitation, dragged the sharp blade across his thigh, carving a diagonal line in his skin. The subsequent incisions were much easier. One. Two. Three. Four... He slashed away with haste, until fine razor lines appeared like a layer of red mesh over his white skin and a thin pool of blood was spreading down over his thigh.

The self inflicted wounds snatched Michael from numb despair, and propelled him back to the here and now. The physical pain temporarily exceeded his mental anguish. He grimaced and huffed, muttering between clenched teeth, "oww...fuck. Oh shit...fuck fuck fuck..."

Twisting onto his side, Michael reached for the towel he'd thrown across the lid of the commode beforehand, and blotted at the blood trailing over his thigh. The dark fluid was gathering quickly in his pubic hairs, catching in the crease where his hip and groin met. God, what a mess. He'd have to clean himself quickly. Any minute, his mother would be back, pounding on the bathroom door. Michael hated that. Hated rushing. If it were up to him, he'd just sit and bleed for awhile. Wallow in his guilt.

The boy continued to wipe at himself, roughly and without much care. He tucked the towel around his damaged leg and, gripping the toilet, pulled himself up to his feet. He felt calmer now, less tense, but was overwhelmed by a familiar sense of revolt...and guilt. How would he explain this to Jake, later on? Surely, he'd see the marks and get pissed off. And there was almost nothing that made Michael feel worse than inspiring Jake's anger. Michael knew he was a disappointment and was fairly certain that, one day soon, Jake would grow tired of being let down. Grow tired of dealing with the burden that Michael knew he often was.

Limping over to the small bathroom vanity, Michael swiped his hand across the fogged mirror and peered at his reflection, realizing for the first time that his slender face was streaked with tears. He was in a terrible state altogether. His shoulder length hair was drying in loose knots, dark shadows accentuated his already large eyes, and his face seemed especially pale. Ugly. He was fucking disgusting. A real fright. Why would anyone want him, especially someone like Jake? Michael shifted his gaze. He couldn't continue scrutinizing himself in the mirror, it'd only upset him further, and he knew it. In an attempt to soothe his red rimmed eyes, and cleanse the tear tracks from his cheeks, he bent over the sink and turned on the faucet, cupping his hands to catch the cool water and splash it over his face.

***********

The strong smell of garlic clung to the air in the small flat, as Jake stepped into the hallway, a coarse white bath towel swathed around his slim hips. His mother was cooking. He could hear the familiar clanging of pot lids and spoons coming from the kitchen. The appetizing aroma made his stomach grumble. Not surprising, since he'd slept through breakfast. After being out till three in the morning, he just hadn't been able to drag himself out of bed to eat. But it wasn't as if he'd been out wasting time. He'd been out working. Making money. With weekends, came all the recreational drug users, in addition to his regular clients. Friday nights were always among the busiest. He knew this, and expected to be in demand. Expected to be paged by customers all over the city. Late nights were hardly unusual.

Still damp from his recent shower, Jake padded barefoot through the living room, and headed toward the kitchen, hungry for a peek at whatever his mother was throwing together on the stove. As he passed through the room, he paused to watch his two younger brothers wrestle on the carpeted floor. Marc was almost sixteen now, and while he acted the part of aloof tough guy in front of his friends, at home he still carried on like a twelve year old. Which was perfect, since Gino was twelve. It gave the youngest boy in the Serafino household a full time playmate.

Grunting and writhing, the two boys rolled across the floor, until they were just inches away from Jake's feet. He lifted his leg and gave Marc a playful kick, knocking him off Gino, "hey big shot, pick on someone your own size, eh?"

"Ohhhh...haha....look who's talking! You walk around thinking yer hot shit," Marc hopped up off the ground, pushed his boyish chest out and strutted about the room, attempting an impression of his older sibling, "C'mere, Gino, feel my muscles...go ahead. If you work real hard, you can look like ME when you grow up."

Gino giggled heartily and stood to give Marc's skinny arm a squeeze. Pretending to swoon, as he touched his brother's biceps, "oh wow. You're sooo strong." With that, the youngest boy rolled his big blue eyes, and flopped down on the overstuffed couch, pretending to faint. "Cute. Very funny," Jake grinned despite himself, and slapped Marc across the head, continuing his brief trek to the kitchen.

As quietly as he could manage, Jake opened the swinging door, and stepped into the brightly lit room. For a minute, he stood unnoticed. Observing his mother, as she worked over the hot stove. Her long dark hair was gathered back, and knotted at the nape of her neck. Jake noted, with a pang of regret, that her once raven hair was graying at a steady pace. The last few years had taken a tremendous toll on her. With his father's restaurant almost going under, and the man's gambling debts hanging over their heads, Jake's parents were strapped for cash. With all five of their children still living under their roof, it was a struggle just to make ends meet. Their financial position had bettered over the last few months, but the improvement was hardly significant. Not nearly enough to ease the worry lines from his mother's face.

Jake crept up behind his mother, as she stirred her latest concoction. Whatever she had cooking, it smelled delicious. Before she could sense his presence in the room, Jake pounced and wrapped his arms around her plump body, pulling her tight against his bare chest. So soft. Warm. He could still remember curling up on her lap as a little boy. Snuggling against her breast. Her heady perfume, tickling his nostrils as she read to him from storybook after storybook. It had always been his favorite place in all the world.

Mrs. Serafino laughed merrily as Jake planted a firm kiss on her cheek, "mmmm....smells good, Ma. Maybe I should sample that sauce for you, eh?"

"Ahh, my son lives. What time did you get in last night, mister? You know I worry about you like crazy." Wriggling free of her son's arms, Mrs. Serafino turned around, and waved her stirring spoon menacingly in Jake's face. He smirked at her stern expression and reached for the loaf of bread sitting atop the counter. Ignoring his mother's question, he tore a chunk off and dipped it in the pan, scooping up a large glob of the thick sauce. The woman gasped, as if he'd just committed a mortal sin, "Jake! Don't be such a slob!? And look at yourself....what's the matter with you? Parading around the house naked...you know better than that. What if your sisters walk in? Go get some clothes on." Mrs. Serafino shook her head and mumbled, what sounded like a prayer, beneath her breath.

"Come on, Ma. You're giving me a headache, knock it off," Jake stuffed the last of the bread in his mouth and licked at his fingers, "and I AM gonna get dressed. I've gotta go back out anyway."

"And just where are you off to now? Or can't you tell your mother these things?" A severe frown tugged at Mrs. Serafino's lips, as she wiped the sweat from her brow.

"Over to Michael's, I guess." Shrugging his broad shoulders nonchalantly, he turned and grabbed for more bread, deliberately avoiding his mother's knowing eye.

"Jake....oh Jake," the woman reached up and took her son's cheeks in the palms of her dry, work toughened hands, "why can't you find yourself some nice girl? Settle down? Make lots of babies? Why is it always this Michael person? You know, your father would have a fit if he knew what you were up to."

"My father wouldn't say shit, and you know it. He's got too many skeletons in his own closet," Jake pulled away from her clasp, "anyway, I'm too young for marriage and babies. And you'd like Mikey...you should let me have him over sometime."

"Heaven help me, I don't think I could bear to look at him. I know what goes on between the two of you, and it's just shameful." Mrs. Serafino turned away, busying herself once again, with her stirring and seasoning.

"Whatever you say, Ma," Jake placed a gentle kiss on top of his mother's head, and rubbed her back affectionately, before turning to leave the room. He knew she meant well. She just didn't understand.

Back in the bedroom he shared with his two younger brothers, Jake yanked on a pair of snug black jeans, and perched at the edge of the bottom bunk where he slept. He reached for the gold chain he'd deposited on the night stand earlier that morning, and fastened it around his neck. Then, without hesitation, he lifted the dangling crucifix to his lips and kissed it reverently, a habit left over from childhood. Shooting a nervous glance toward the bedroom door, Jake tugged open the night stand drawer, and drew out the small metal box he kept hidden inside. Privacy was something unheard of in this house, but his younger brothers knew well that there'd be hell to pay if they tampered with his box. Inside, he kept the drugs he'd set aside for his own, personal use. And his steadily increasing stash of money.

Rummaging through the weighty box, Jake pulled a fifty dollar bill free from his thick wad of cash. Something for his mother. Often, when she wasn't looking, he'd stuff money in her purse. It wasn't much, but he figured it'd help. He glanced around at the other contents, trying to decide what to bring with him to Michael's. After giving it some thought, he grabbed the nickel he'd tucked away. Something mellow. He hesitated, then picked up his vial of coke and crammed it down into his front jeans pocket. Just in case.

As he was about to shut the lid, he glimpsed Michael's picture, hidden beneath the clutter of money and drug paraphernalia. Jake snickered to himself and picked up the small photo. The boy was sitting on the steps of his trailer, grinning from ear to ear, his hair glinting a fiery shade of golden red in the light of the setting sun. His shoulder length tresses had been tucked neatly behind each ear to show off small silver earrings. One of the very first gifts Jake had ever given his friend.

Lost in the memory of that day, not so long ago, Jake touched his finger against the photo, and traced over the dramatic curves of Michael's face. He knew every angle by heart. Had gone over each line and feature, again and again, while lying in bed, on the nights they couldn't spend together.

What Jake's mother failed to understand, was that no girl he'd ever dated, could compare to Michael. He'd never met anyone else who had the power to make him feel like this. Like he was special. Loved, even. Jake hadn't expected to feel this way, especially not for another guy. But still. Here it was. And he wasn't about to turn it away. Couldn't if he tried. And besides, Michael needed him. Clung to him as if his life depended on it. And while this frailty inspired an instinctual protectiveness on Jake's part, deep down, he knew that he needed Michael every bit as much as the other boy needed him.

***********

The chill autumn breeze whipped around Jake's body, nipping gently at his skin, as he stood on the crumbling cement steps outside the dilapidated trailer. Impatiently, he shifted his weight from one boot-clad foot to the other, shivering slightly as he rapped on the scuffed door. The roar of shrill music emanated from within the shabby trailer, causing it to vibrate with the heavy beat of whatever Michael had blaring on his stereo. Jake cursed under his breath and lifted his fist for a third time, pounding against the door with more force.

"Come on," he muttered impatiently, hugging his lean torso for added warmth, "what the hell are you doing in there." As he stood there, Jake found himself wishing he'd thrown a bulky sweater on beneath his leather jacket. It was unseasonably cold for early November, even for a cloudy afternoon such as this.

Within a matter of seconds, the door was thrown open, and Jake was met by Michael's warm, grinning features. For some reason, the cheery smile only managed to stoke his irritation.

"What the fuck were you doing? Jesus Christ, it's freezing out here," Jake grumbled, shoving past Michael as he stepped up into the warmth of the trailer.

"What?" Michael shouted, raising his already high pitched tone to be heard above the racket, a perplexed expression on this face.

"Turn the goddamn music down!" He shrugged his leather jacket off and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice as he yelled.

Michael nodded his understanding and scampered off like a nervous little mouse, wincing noticeably as he walked into the adjoining room to adjust the volume on his stereo. While Michael was in the living room, Jake glanced around the confined space that served as a kitchen. Filthy dishes and pans were piled high in the sink, cold leftovers still sat on the counter tops...

He couldn't help but feel repulsed at the sight. The way Michael and his mother lived wasn't fit for animals. Often, Jake had wanted to say as much to Michael's mother, but had restrained himself for Michael's benefit. Besides, it wasn't like Michael couldn't pick the place up himself. Not like Michael worked. Or went to school. Or did anything, but mope around.

"What's eating YOU?" Michael reappeared in the doorway, tilting his head to the side, as he folded his scrawny arms across his chest and leaned against the cheaply paneled wall.

"What's eating me?! I stood outside on the steps, freezing my ass off, for the last fifteen minutes. THAT'S what's eating me," Jake sank heavily into a kitchen chair and fumbled in the pocket of his discarded jacket for his pack of cigarettes. Once found, he pressed one of the cigarettes between his full lips and lit the tip with his Zippo. He took a deep drag, regarding Michael with exasperation, before exhaling a cloud of smoke in the other's face.

The boy's face contorted as he coughed, and fanned at the smoke with one hand. "Don't be such a bitch, you just got here." Smiling sheepishly, he toyed with the fraying hem of his oversized T-shirt, "maybe you need a pick-me-up? What do ya say?"

Dope. Michael's answer to everything. Unfortunately, it was also a weakness of Jake's, one he was all too aware of. But at least he knew how to pace himself. There was no way Jake would let himself fall into the trap so many other dealers found themselves in. It was too much of a risk. If recreational use turned into abuse, then there'd be no cash to be made. Everything would end up in his nose.

"Dipshit. I'm taking you shooting. You wanna get high and blow yer fucking foot off?" He shook his head with amazement, trying to suppress a chuckle. Sometimes, Michael was just dense, "let's wait till later on, eh? What's the rush?"

"I dunno...just felt the need for a jolt, that's all," the boy shrugged his puny shoulders, and looked away, embarrassed.

"Nah. Not a good idea. Besides, you look at yourself lately? Whaddya weigh now, 100 lbs? Keep this shit up, and you'll whither away to nothin'." His worried eyes trailed down over the other boy's spare form, regarding him sternly, "I'm gonna cut you back, little man. You're getting a bit too fond of the blow."

At that, Michael gave a heavy sigh, "maybe we shouldn't go out shooting? I mean, what the hell do I need to know how to shoot a gun for anyway? You're the business man. Couldn't we just...stay in? Haven't seen you all week..." He stammered and looked down at his worn Nikes, feeling suddenly bashful under Jake's stare.

A twinge of remorse flooded Jake, as he watched the other's hesitancy. He knew he shouldn't be so curt with Michael, the boy couldn't help being the way he was. And he seemed especially young and vulnerable, standing amidst the filth and clutter of the cramped living quarters. As Jake sat, quietly drawing on his smoke, he looked up at his friend. It was true, he hadn't been around in over a week, but he'd been busy working. Saving. And the money he stashed away wasn't just for him. It was for Michael too... So they could get the fuck out of this place. Michael fidgeted under Jake's silent, steady gaze and reached nervously to tuck a strand of reddish brown hair behind his ear, his dark eyes locking with Jake's, "please?"

The desperation in his plea caused Jake's throat to tighten involuntarily. He cleared the thick lump that had lodged itself somewhere inside, afraid his voice might crack and betray him, "all right. Fine. Just thought maybe you'd wanna get out of this hovel for awhile," he paused and held up his burning cigarette, "get me an ash tray, would ya?"

Holding the butt carefully between his fingers, Jake reached with his free hand for his jacket. This time searching the inside pocket for a joint he'd rolled earlier in the day, "let's burn one? I'm not givin' you any coke. You wanna kill yourself, do it on your own time. Don't look to me for help."

Michael nodded agreeably, grabbing an ash tray off the messy kitchen counter. His body unnaturally stiff, he brought it over to the table and set it down before Jake, who eyed the boy with suspicion, brows furrowing, "why are you walking like you have a stick up yer ass?"

"I'm not."

"The fuck you're not, Mikey. Lemme see." Jake scowled and ground his cigarette butt into the ashtray angrily, kicking his chair back as he rose to his feet, "I know you too well."

"Please, Jake...don't," Lifting his thumb to his mouth, Michael backed away, his frightened doe eyes widening further, as he chewed rigorously at his thumb nail.

"Mikey...look...I'm going to see it anyway, right?" Grabbing for the loose waist of his friend's faded denims, Jake softened his voice to a husky whisper, "it's better I see it now."

With a weak nod of assent, Michael drew his hand away from his mouth and wiped his sweaty palms over his legs, unable to meet Jake's keen blue eyes, as his friend unfastened his jeans, "just...don't yell..."

The sound of Michael's uneven breathing reverberated against Jake's ear as he carefully unzipped the boy's jeans, and slipped them down over his narrow hips. He could feel his friend's anxiety in the subtle quaking of his legs, could see it in the way he balled his smallish hands into tight fists.

Why did he always do this shit? Jake couldn't understand it. Was almost afraid to look. He took a deep breath. Losing his temper wouldn't help. He knew that. He'd tried it in the past, to no avail. But he hated this. Hated that Michael kept hurting himself. The thought made him physically ill.

Although he'd tried to prepare himself for what he'd find, when Michael's jeans were shoved down around his knees, Jake gasped with alarm, gaping at the dark maroon stain on the boy's white boxers. The thin cotton had adhered to Michael's injured limb, "oh Mikey...what the FUCK, man. Christ!" Even though he hadn't seen the actual lacerations yet, he knew his friend had done a number on himself this time. Jake dropped to his knees, clasping the elastic waist of Michael's boxers, as he gazed up at the boy mournfully, and eased the material down over the his thighs.

As the fabric pulled away from his gashes, Michael cringed, "ow. Watch it, that hurts..."

"Well, guess that's what happens when you dice yourself up, eh? Gee. Imagine that? It HURTS." Beneath the boxers, Michael's split skin was red and crusted with blood. The chafing of his denims had left him raw, "why do you do this stuff? Could you give me just one valid reason, Mickey? Just ONE?"

"I dunno." Mumbling almost inaudibly, he reached for Jake's broad shoulders, holding on for balance as he stepped out of his clothes.

Jake stared up at Michael, torn between wanting to scream or sob, until he found himself placated by the boy's gentle brown eyes. He looked so sad. Lost. His life hadn't been easy. And Jake suspected he didn't even know the half of it.

Feeling his anger melt away, Jake smoothed his callous hands along the boy's slim hips, fingers grazing the soft flesh of his ass, "I just...wish you wouldn't do it." On his knees before Michael, Jake was almost at eye level with the marred skin, with the boy's flaccid cock. He was tempted to swallow his friend's dick, right then and there. Suck it till it was good and hard. Make Michael feel good. Make him forget the bad. Just for a little while... He wanted it so badly, he could almost taste Michael on his lips. But instead of following through, Jake climbed back to his feet, concern for the boy's wounds pushing the other thought to the back of his mind. For now. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

When they stepped into the bathroom, Jake was struck by how claustrophobic the tiny room actually was. He'd been in it before, many times, but for some reason, it'd never seemed quite so suffocating. Something was awry. A strange sense of foreboding nagged at him, even though he was making an honest attempt to force it away. Maybe it was Michael? The haunted expression on his face? The choppy incisions in his skinny thigh? A shudder raked through Jake's sinewy form, as he poked around in the small medicine chest for bandaging and peroxide. He couldn't help but wonder, as he searched, if Michael had slashed himself in this very room? Or if perhaps, he did the cutting in his own bedroom, just down the short hallway?

Once he'd found what he'd been looking for, Jake went about the business of tending to Michael's incisions, rolling the gauze neatly around his friend's limb, "there you go. That's much better, isn't it?" He grinned at Michael winningly, trying to act much more lighthearted than he felt. Trying not to show how affected he was by the raw emotion apparent on Michael's wan face,

"I'm...sorry. You're not mad at me, are you?"

"No. I'm not mad, babe." Jake forced another smile and stroked Michael's cheek with his knuckles. There was so much he wanted say, but it was choked somewhere inside him. Bottled so tightly, that he was afraid to let it out, for fear it would come rushing to the surface, and he'd be forced to confront his feelings in their entirety. It just felt like too big a risk. Small talk was better. At least most of the time. Jake blinked back the tears that threatened, hoping Michael hadn't noticed the glazing of his eyes, "you wanna go smoke that joint now?"

"Yeah...yeah...I guess." Tugging at the bottom of his long black T-shirt to conceal his nudity, Michael grasped the bathroom counter and pulled himself up off the commode, his legs wobbling slightly beneath him as he stood.

Amused by Michael's sudden modesty, Jake teased, his eyes transfixed on Michael's bare ass, "hey Mikey, I think I like this look on you." With that, he gave Michael's bottom a playful slap, causing the boy to yelp with surprise. Michael broke out giggling, and peeked over his shoulder, stilling Jake's heart with that one softhearted glance.

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