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It's just after midnight. Arthur's out at a concert with his friends, and Anson's filling the time trying to put a shelf together, an old monster movie keeping him company. He frowns at the directions, then looks at the shelf, then turns the diagram upside down.

Oh.

Muttering to himself, he rummages around, looking under the various pieces of packing material that litter the living room carpet. After a moment, he groans, cursing out loud. There's a screw missing. Of course.

He might have one that size in the junk drawer in the kitchen. Sighing, he gets to his feet. May as well get a beer when he's in there. He's halfway to the kitchen when there's a knock at the door. Puzzled, he hurries toward it, thinking perhaps the concert ended early and Arthur forgot his key.

He opens the door, smiling.

"You miss me, ba-"

He stops in midsentence, his jaw dropping open. It's Salem, unconscious and bleeding, his head thrown back like a dead boy. He's in the arms of another boy, barely bigger than he is, and not looking in much better shape, either.

"Jesus!" Anson gasps. He moves quickly to take Salem from him, wincing at the sight of the boy's bruised and badly swollen wrist. How the fuck did he carry him here like that? "Here, give him to me. I've got him."

He turns, gesturing to the other boy to follow him inside. He rushes Salem over to the couch and lays him gently down on it. He looks up at the boy. He's gonna need help too, but right now Salem's his main concern.

"Oh Christ," he says, lifting up the edge of Salem's blood-soaked shirt. "He's been shot!"

He quickly strips his shirt off and wads it up, using it to apply pressure to the wound. Questions clamor in his mind, about who and where and what the almighty FUCK, but there's no time for that now. Anson reaches behind him, grabbing the cordless from the coffee table. He dials 911, glancing up at the other boy again as he waits for an answer.

"Sit," he says, pointing to the chair. "I don't want you passing out on me, too." Feeling badly for the injured boy, he smiles reassuringly, though his rapid breathing and ashen pallor probably don't do much to reassure. "It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna get some help, for him and you both."

The moment the 911 operator answers, Anson begins speaking, barking out information rapid-fire into the phone.

"I need an ambulance at 77th and Lexington, apartment 4C. I have a male, approximately sixteen years old, unconscious and breathing. He's got a gunshot wound to the right side. He's also got a..." Anson looks at the smear of blood on the upholstery beside Salem's head. He cradles the phone between his chin and shoulder and reaches back, running his hand through Salem's hair and wincing when his fingers come away wet. "He's got a head injury, a...a cut I think. He's pretty banged up. And there's a second victim here, male," he glances up at the boy again, "approximately eighteen years old. He's conscious and ambulatory, but he's got some injuries. I think his wrist is broken." Anson pauses for a moment, listening. "I don't know, ma'am...no, I didn't...just please send an ambulance? And tell them to hurry."

He puts the phone down and looks down at Salem. The boy's pale face swims before Anson and he blinks the tears away, reaching down with his free hand and resting it on Salem's forehead.

"Salem..." He strokes Salem's hair and tries to keep his voice from trembling. "You're gonna be okay now, little one. I promise. We're gonna take good care of you."

Edited 2008-03-02 00:29 (UTC)

Jake honestly couldn't have told anyone how he got here. He had just found his way here, and thank god he hadn't hit any cops on the way to this guys place. He was lucky he could even find it, what with Salem's directions having been confusing as he faded in and out.

He didn't even know how many blocks he had carried him, at least they had taken a taxi part of the way. The idiot taxi driver hadn't had much attention to detail and believed the fact that Salem was just drunk. Idiot. Though Jake was grateful for that.

When the other man went to take Salem, Jake handed him over with a grunt. His wrist was broken from right before they had escaped from Lyle's it was the same hand the psycho had broken his fingers on. Following Anson inside he watched as the older man examined Salem.

"Ah yeah, I'm not gonna pass out." Jake said looking over at him as the other called 911. Once he had hung up Jake spoke quickly.

"Listen, I'm not hanging around here long. I don't need a doctor or anything. I just wanted to make sure I got him somewhere. I would have taken him to the hospital, but they ask a lot of questions so I just brought him here. Its where he said he wanted to go anyway." Jake said reaching his good hand up to rub at the back of his neck.

"What?" Still holding his shirt against Salem's wound, Anson turns to look at the boy. "Dude, I hate to tell you, but you do need a doctor." He gestures toward the boy's wrist. "You need your wrist checked out, and the rest of you, too, by the looks of you." He pauses. "Look, I understand about not wanting too many questions. I'm gonna have to do some pretty fancy footwork to keep the powers that be off his back when he wakes up," he adds, nodding at Salem. "But I can't just let you leave here. Not like this. You're hurt, and I owe you for this." He glances down at Salem. "For him."

He frowns, considering.

"Look, you don't wanna deal with the paramedics and shit, that's okay. I know a doctor. A real good one. He doesn't ask questions, if you know what I mean. I can get him here. He can help you. Come on, kid, what do you say?"

Jake rolled his eyes. "I'm nineteen, I'm not a kid." He wasn't stupid he knew this shit wasn't going to heal itself. His eyes moved to Salem again just watching the boy's chest rise and fall slowly.

"Yeah maybe. We'll see. " He told him just keeping his eyes on Salem.

"I don't think the bullet hit anything." He added after a minute. If it did he'd probably be dead by now. It took us forever to get here.

Anson breathes a silent sigh of relief. The kid hasn't made a move to get up and leave, and that's a good sign. Anson can't leave Salem's side long enough to chase him down, and he doesn't want to think of the boy running off into the night in the condition he's in.

"What's your name?" he asks. "I'm Anson. I'm a friend of Salem's. I can't thank you enough for what you did. We've all been worried sick about him."

Anson checks Salem's pulse. It's weak and thready but it's there. Keeping his ear out for the wail of the ambulance, Anson studies the older boy. There's a bright red ring of chafed skin around his neck, just where a collar would be. Anson looks down at Salem, tugging the collar of his torn and soiled shirt down. His stomach drops as his fears are confirmed. There's a matching ring around Salem's throat, the skin mottled with bruises.

He fought it. He tried to get away.

Anson rests a hand on Salem's cheek, trying not to think of the hell the frail boy on his couch has been through. Who could do this to him? To them both?

"Ambulance is going to be here soon," he whispers, even though he knows Salem can't hear him. "Gonna get you to the hospital, get you fixed up."

He turns back to the older boy.

"I'll call my doctor, he says, reaching for the phone and dialing one-handed. "He's on Long Island so it's gonna take him a while to get here. When the ambulance comes, you hide out in the back bedroom. I'll tell them you took a flit before they got here. You just gotta promise me you'll stick around. Okay? You promise me you won't leave til I get back here."

Edited 2008-03-02 02:01 (UTC)

"Uh... Jake." He said when he was asked his name. His arms folded themselves neatly across his chest making sure not to bump his injured wrist and fingers. He just glances around feeling slightly uncomfortable despite technically being in a more comfortable place than he had been in a month.

"I guess if you insist. But if it takes too long I'm leaving. I'm not promising anything." He would feel weird just sitting around in Anson's apartment. He didn't know why.

The cops had come to break up the impromptu concert and Arthur, not wanting to get taken in for underage drinking, decided to hoof it. It takes him a few times to place his key in the lock, but he finally achieves it, coming around the door with a smile to see how Anson is coming along with his shelf project.

What he sees is a dying boy on a couch.

‘Mon Dieu…Salem!’ Suddenly sober, he dashes towards the couch, falling to his knees next to Anson, looking over at him with pleading eyes. ‘What happened to him? Wh…Anson, what’s happening?’

Arthur's eyes are wide and afraid, his face white with shock. Anson puts his free arm around Arthur's shoulders and pulls him close, holding him, comforting him as best he can.

"He's alive. He's hurt bad, but he's alive. I don't know what happened yet. He's been shot, and beaten, by the looks of it. The ambulance is coming any minute now." He kisses Arthur's cheek and rubs his shoulder. "I'm glad you're here, baby," his voice cracking a little before he recovers himself. It's true. He's almost pathetically grateful to see Arthur, to hold him and know he's okay. Seeing Salem like this, so much blood...it reminds him too much of when Arthur got hurt, of when Anson nearly lost him.

Anson takes Arthur's hand and places it against the wadded-up shirt he's been holding against the wound in Salem's side.

"Here, baby. Hold this...that's right. Good. Keep the pressure on, okay? We've got to keep the bleeding under control until the paramedics get here."

Anson watches him, nodding as he obeys. Giving him a job to do, something to focus on, that'll help keep Arthur calm, make him feel less helpless. Anson gives him a reassuring squeeze, glancing down anxiously at Salem's pale face again as he gets up to go and check on Jake.

He approaches the boy in the chair, gesturing toward his hand.

"Can I see? I won't hurt you, I promise." He looks at the swollen hand, wincing at the sight of bruising. There's yellow and green mixed in with the purple. Broken all right, and not today, either. This looks like it's been a few days at least. "I really want you to stay, get this treated," he says, looking up at Jake. "Where would you go, anyway?"

Edited 2008-03-02 04:28 (UTC)

Jake glanced over his shoulder from the chair he was sitting in when he heard the key in the lock. It wasn't long before someone else let themselves into the house and joined the party. He watched as the new boy rushed over and dropped to his knees in front of the couch. This Salem kid obviously had people who cared about him. Must have been nice. Lyle was the only person in a long while who had cared about him. And now he was dead. But that had to be done.

When Anson made his way over and asked to see his hand, Jake just eyed him for a moment before thrusting it out toward him unceremoniously and letting him take a look at it.

"Fine, I'll stay. If I can use your shower..." He said glancing up at Anson with his dark eyes. At the other question he shrugged. "I dunno. I have a friend who lives in New York probably crash at his place for a while. Whats it to you?" He added the last part after a small pause before taking his hand back.

'Salem...'

There are other voices, but he can't focus on them.

‘Salem…please be okay. Please wake up. Please…please…oh…’ Arthur closes his eyes and presses the shirt tighter against the wound, presses as much of himself against Salem’s body as he can, kissing his forehead. Bowing his head against Salem’s shoulder, he murmurs softly.

‘Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-olam, she-hehiyanu v'kiy'manu v'higi'anu la-z'man ha-ze…Notre Père…Notre Père, qui es aux cieux, que ton Nom soit sanctifié, que…que…Barukh atah Adonai Elohei-…please…’

"Of course you can use our shower."

Anson looks at the boy, worried. He can't even imagine what Jake has been through. He needs help, but getting through to him is going to be difficult if not impossible. He's been hurt so badly, and so often, that the walls he's built around himself are damn near impenetrable. Anson wishes the boy would go to the hospital along with Salem, but he knows it's not going to happen. He looks over at Salem, then back at Jake, torn. This boy needs help, whether he wants it or not. He needs someone to wrap him up and take care of him, help him heal. But Salem is so much worse, hovering between life and death, and Anson can't be in two places at once. He just has to hope Dr. Nick gets there fast, and that the boy will hang around long enough to get checked out.

"What's it to me?" Anson echoes, frowning. "You need help. Just let us do that, please. We owe you, for getting him out. For bringing him to us." He pauses. "And I don't want you out on the street in the condition you're in. Come on, Jake. Just promise me you'll stay."

There's a knock at the door. It's the building security detail, radios in hand, accompanied by two paramedics. Anson quickly stands aside and lets them in. He goes to Arthur and bends down, taking him gently by the shoulders.

"Come on, baby," he murmurs in Arthur's ear. "Come on. Let them help him." He helps Arthur to his feet and draws him away, wrapping him up tight in his arms. "It's gonna be okay, sweetheart. He's gonna be all right."