When Patrick wakes up about 9 hours later, he's disoriented. The world is spinning around him, pushing and pulling against him. He has to squeeze his eyes shut to make it go away. The colors, the sounds, the overload of his senses. It must be the after effects of the... drugs...

And then there's the excruciating burning in his lower back and even the s lightest shift makes him cry out. There must have been a bad customer last night... Maybe one who wanted it dry. He's taken it a few times, it's been a good $200 for it, though, and he internally smiles at how much money he must have gotten from that. But... strangely enough, he can't really remember doing it.

Patrick opens his eyes and blinks once the spinning has stopped.

This isn't his room. This isn't the old run down motel he usually stays at. This isn't his private room in the club... where the hell is he?

He slowly rises to prop himself up on his elbows but that alone sends another thousand knives through his lower back and tears begin to fill his eyes as he collapses back down on the bed. New place, a horrible pain from something he can't remember and...

Oh god.

Gerard.

Patrick releases a belated breath, staring up at the ceiling. The guy who can fly who showed up forever ago. The guy who sent him to the hospital and got him in a ton of trouble with the cops. He eventually managed to get out of it and said it was the people who took him that forced him to take that cocaine even though it was a pure lie, the cops didn't find enough evidence to convict him of anything.

But Gerard. If Gerard was there last night then... then he must have saved him from something...

Right.

The people who knew it would be cheaper to take Patrick after his shift was over. That explains the pain in his lower back. That would also explain the dizziness from the ecstasy. Well, not exactly, but he does remember taking it last night to deal with the fact he wanted to do anything but his job.

Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose and whimpers a little when he tries to shift his hips. He needs painkiller. That's what he needs. Painkiller and... and to talk to Gerard about this weird, 'I don't eat, and I can fly' bullshit. And to figure out how the hell Gerard can fly. He did fly, right? Or maybe that was his imagination and the first time they met a year and a half ago, Gerard didn't really fly him to the hospital. Maybe that was just the drugs talking.

Reeee.

Patrick's eyes dart to the door at the sound of the hall creaking and he nearly has a heart attack when he sees Gerard there. Black strands in his dark eyes and a hoodie covering his upper chest just like last night. In his hands are a bottle of painkiller and a glass of water and Patrick almost thanks him aloud.

What if it's drugged?

The bleached blond watches Gerard set it on his bedside table and sighs the slightest, "I heard you bitching."

"I was rather enjoying my bitching," Patrick replies simply, lowering his eyes and feeling the blankets of the bed between his fingers, "What's in the water?"

Gerard frowns, "It's just... water...?"

"Bullshit. You want to drug me and rape me, right?"

Gerard's eyebrows raise high and he blinks in shock, "What the hell? What kind of people did you hang out with? It's from the fucking faucet. I don't have drugs, man."

Patrick stares at him suspiciously and begins to sit up but immediately cries and clutches the headboard, "Fuck. Nevermind, sorry."

Gerard watches with an amused expression, eyes tracing Patrick's movements for water and painkiller, and as soon as they're down the boy's throat, he grabs the water and the bottle, "When does your shift start?"

"Seven," Patrick replies simply, "How can you fly?"

"Later," Gerard smirks, "I'll be right back."

Patrick watches as the man crosses the hall into the bathroom, dumping the water down the drain and setting the cup on the counter before pressing the painkiller into the cabinet above.

"I can fly you down there if you'd like," Gerard says simply, "Unless you want to find a new job. But I'd say stripping is your best bet for now."

"I know," Patrick sighs, biting his lip. He's been stripping ever since he got his fake ID at 16. 14 was when he was introduced to the streets, 16 was when he got a job and also when Gerard found him... And now he's 17, still illegally working at a club. He hates it. All the people he's met, all the close encounters, all the too close encounters. And then the encounters he doesn't talk about.

Patrick sighs and pulls the blankets up and over his head, whimpering when he feels his lower back move.

"You need anything?" Gerard asks.

"I need you to leave me the fuck alone."

The words hang in the air, Gerard watching Patrick from the door, a pile of blankets on the bed.

"You need to start trusting people."

Apparently, it's the wrong thing to say. Patrick is a ticking time bomb and Gerard just ran out of time. Patrick flings the blankets off of himself, glaring right at Gerard and clenching his fists until his knuckles turn to white and Gerard worries they're split.

"You don't fucking know me. You don't know who the fuck I've trusted. You don't know how many fucking times I've been stabbed in the back," Patrick growls, "And if I wasn't fucking confined to this bed, I would punch you for that because while I may be younger, I know hell of a lot more than you can fit in that pathetic brain of yours. So listen here, fucker. Don't fucking tell me to just 'start trusting people' because you have no idea how many times that water has been fucking tainted, Sir."

Gerard blinks with wide eyes because he really didn't expect Patrick to reach so negatively to such a simple question. It only seems to light Gerard's own fuse.

"Then tell me, Kid. How many times has that water been drugged?" Gerard spits, venom in his tone.

"I lost count at 17," Patrick barks right back.

"Maybe you should quit complaining and start hanging out with the right kind of people!"

"Bitch, where?"

"Right in front of your fucking eyes!" Gerard yells, "Jesus Christ, Patrick! I'm just trying to help you, quit being a stubborn brat!"

"I'm not fucking stubborn, it's just hard to tell the good from the bad and you can't just expect me to believe you on this shit no matter how much I really do want to," Patrick replies.

Gerard sighs. He knows. Patrick had a shitty childhood, most likely. Ran away or was abandoned. He understands.

"Fine, whatever, what time does your shift start?"

Patrick runs his fingers through his hair, "Seven sharp. If I'm late, they take 30 from my paycheck."

"Why's that?" Gerard says.

"How can you fly?" Patrick snaps right back.

Gerard is about to say it, "That's a question for another time," but he finds himself dumbfounded and gets the point. Patrick won't answer questions unless he gets something in return. His life is made up with agreements and deals and promises that were all broken or never returned.

"Okay. Fine. I'm gonna go, if you need me, you can't contact me. Sorry, not sorry," Gerard says, "Take care of your self, if I come home and some guy has you from behind I'm kicking you out. Keepeesh?"

"Yeah, whatever."