c00ke | For Raye

For Raye

There once had been a time when everything was alright. Both boys had very promising futures and the help to get there. Stevie with his basketball and Cooke with his art. There were no twins who had such dramatically different paths in life spread before them, only to crash completely before they'd barely started. But they didn't just stall out on the path or choose a different one. They just kind of rolled into the ditch and never left. They were just starting high school. Cooke was cracking under his own pressures. He might have been okay, but there was something going on with Stevie that he didn't understand. That strain alone was too much to bear and he folded into numbing himself against it rather than dealing with it.

After that, after he'd found his brother had done exactly the same thing, after they'd found the same path again, Cooke found out what happened to his brother. Why he'd gone the way he did. Cooke felt awful at first, for not seeing it. He tried to run from it all. Got clean and tried to take off for the west coast. He barely made it outside Philadelphia before he turned back, guilt eating at him. He should have been there. He should have done something. He should have punched that stupid coach in the face. Vowing to never fail his brother like that again, he returned home.

And that's where he's been ever since. Well, whatever passed for home these days. Mostly finding corners to sleep in and places to hang out. Parks were good. Places with basketball courts for Stevie to play, and for Cooke to sit in the shade with whatever he could say was a sketchbook.

Lately, they'd found themselves with a proper roof. A flop house, but it was better than sleeping in the park. Daylight streamed in through a crack in the cardboard over the window, and Cooke was already awake. Leg bouncing, he chewed on the tip of his thumb, watching the sleeping form of his brother. He was getting worried. He should probably be asleep, too. It was safer to be awake at night. Night is when their friends got taken. Not that anyone believed him, because he was the only one who ever saw it.

"Hey," he said, in the poorest attempt at a whisper. He chewed at his lip, getting out of the chair and moving to sit on the bed. "You awake yet?" He gave his brother a tentative jab in the side. "You get your money yet?" Because there was one surefire way to sleep the day away, but they were out of it at the moment.

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It was interesting, how quickly the both of them went downhill, from such promising but different paths of life. How they went down the same hill, even, and landed in the same ditch, and never seemed to be able to pull themselves out. And when they did, it was brief. When they did, it was never together. Somebody told Stevie once that they just kept dragging each other down, he and Cooke, and Stevie had walked away shaking his head.

Even if it were true (it wasn't. it was), it didn't really matter. Even if they really kept dragging each other down, there was no way they leave each other alone. Not since Cooke came back from his attempt at a cross-country trip. They were in it together. They only needed each other.

And maybe that meant sleeping on park benches sometimes. Maybe it meant skipping a few meals in order to pay for their habit. Maybe it meant Stevie waking up from nightmares, gasping, only seeing his old coach's face. It didn't matter. Because Cooke was always there for the park benches and the skipped meals and the nightmares. And Stevie was always there when Cooke couldn't seem to pull himself out of bed. Stevie was there when they found themselves in a nasty situation and somebody needed to talk them out of it. Cooke talked a lot, but Stevie was better at it.

It didn't matter what happened as long as they were together. And they were. Always.

Sometimes, Stevie thought, too much, as his brother jabbed him in the ribs, saying something in a not-really-whisper. Stevie only caught about half of it, bits and pieces of the words stabbing through his sleep. He pushed Cooke's arm away, rubbing an arm over his face sleepily.

"Man," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. He cracked open an eye. "What time is it?"

Any time anyone tried to say they dragged each other down, Cooke would have been in their face. How could he drag his brother down? He was there for Stevie when no one else would be. Except for that one time. But that was different. And it would never happen again. He ran his mouth on his brother's behalf far more than his own. Because they were in it together. Stevie was always there for him, too. Dragging him back down to earth when things got really crazy, when not even the drugs could slow him down. Always there when his ideas got a little too wild. And the only one who was ever there on those dark days when sitting up seemed pointless and not worth the effort. How could they drag each other down when they kept each other from losing it?

"I dunno like noon or something," Cooke said, shifting to draw one leg up on the bed and face his brother. He half shoved Stevie's legs out of the way to do it, his own knee propped up on them. He didn't actually know the time, he was guessing and completely wrong. "I just. I couldn't sleep, you know? I thought we could go out early and get something. I woulda gone myself but I don't got enough and I thought maybe you got that money again and then we'd be all set." He was talking a little too fast, even for his usual state.

Like noon or something. If Cooke's usual track record was anything to go by, that meant that it was any time besides noon, though whether it was actually earlier or later than that was undetermined. Either way, all Stevie gathered from that was that it definitely wasn't noon.

He made a noise, muffled by his arm still thrown across his face. Honestly, he was a lot more interested in sleeping than doing anything else. But he could hear it in his brother's voice — he needed a fix. And if Cooke needed a fix, that meant Stevie would need one soon, too. Which meant sleeping would have to come later.

"Slow down, man," Stevie said, dragging himself up into what was technically an upright position, probably. He wished he had a phone, or a watch, or anything else that could tell time. But those sorts of things costed money, and all of their money was spent on either food or drugs. (It was always their money, not his money or Cooke's money. They shared everything.) The only thing Stevie really owned other than a few stray articles of clothing was a roughed up basketball.

He rubbed his eyes again, squinting at his brother. "I don't have any money."

Cooke never saw it that way. Only the money that he earned was their money. The way he saw it, none of this was Stevie's fault. Cooke got himself into all of this by fucking up over and over and over. He just wasn't cut out for anything but this, so he gave into it. Stevie on the other had didn't have a choice. Bad things happened to him and he found a place to hide from it. So anything Stevie made was Stevie's money. Cooke liked to think he stuck to this notion, he really wanted to. But when times were tough it didn't matter whose pocket the cash came out of, in the end.

"I thought, you know, maybe you got the--" Wait. Shit. What day was it? Was Stevie even still getting that? Even worse, Cooke knew not to mention it. Maybe it was that itch creeping under his skin, distracting him. Making him say things he shouldn't. "Got some money, last night or something. But maybe not. It's okay! I'll make sure we've got some. I could head over to the park and--" Shit shit shit. No, Stevie wouldn't like that. "...do some drawings or something. You know, or just ask around. Always someone willing to help and then I'll get us the stuff! You just keep sleeping, I'll take care of it!" He was already sliding off the bed, ready to bolt before anything more could be said.

Unfortunately for Cooke, Stevie wasn't an idiot. Cooke wasn't really an idiot either, he just never seemed to think things through very well. That was okay, though, because Stevie happened to think things through well enough. Assuming he wasn't fucked up. And right now, he wasn't, so it didn't matter how much Cooke back peddled, he knew exactly where his brother was heading every time he stopped short.

Stevie didn't like to talk about it. He got the money every month and he knew exactly where it came from, and exactly why he was getting it. All the money in the world wouldn't make up for it. It wouldn't change anything. It just helped fund the only way he could forget about it.

As long as he kept getting the money, they'd be okay. It was what kept them alive. It was what kept Cooke from having to turn tricks.

He reached out, just barely managing to snag Cooke's wrist before the other could bolt, and he yanked his brother back down onto the bed. He was awake, now. Wide fucking awake.

"Nah man, you don't have to do that shit." He knew what his brother was talking about, and he knew that Cooke knew it, too. "We'll figure somethin' else out. We can head over to the park and rig up a couple games of ball. Get some bets goin', you know. It'll work."

Cooke found himself hauled back mid-step, throwing him off balance. He dropped hard onto the bed, his limbs flailing far more dramatically than was necessary. But he was never one for subtlety. At least he stayed there, shoulders slumped. He knew that Stevie knew exactly what he was going to do, and it burned in his chest like acid. He did it so Stevie didn't have to, and he didn't really mind it as long as they didn't get too rough. It was easy to make happen. And it wasn't always sex. He didn't like giving blood as much, because it made him feel weird. But sometimes it paid better. But only sometimes.

He pulled his wrist back, a little too hard. "No, no," he said, with a firm and wild gesture. "You remember what happened last time! If even one of those guys is there..." He let out a rather undignified sound. He was exaggerating more than a little. There was an argument. Threats. Fists flying. Ultimately, it was Cooke's fault because he couldn't keep his mouth shut, and he knew that. He didn't want to get Stevie into trouble. "You don't gotta worry about it. I'll take care of it. And I'll, I dunno, bring back dinner or something. It'll be good. You'll see!" But he wasn't moving for the door again.

Stevie let Cooke jerk his wrist back, but he sat up more properly to make sure he'd be able to grab his brother again if he tried to bolt. He didn't think Cooke would try. Normally, Cooke followed his lead, so if Stevie said no about something, he wouldn't try to do it. At least not for another hour or so. He pulled his hands through is hair, vaguely aware of the fact that he felt gross. Like he needed a shower. But that was pretty par for the course, most days.

"Then we'll go to a different park. Or we'll find some other way to make it work, but--" He looked at his brother pointedly. "We do it together or not at all, man. Okay?"

He didn't have to say out loud how much he hated Cooke turning tricks for cash. Or, worse, selling his blood. Though, admittedly, it was safer for Cooke to do that than it was for him to do it, giving his brother's immunity to mind control. But still. It was dangerous. There were other ways to make cash. Stevie was already rolling out of bed, rubbing the crook of his arm absently.

Cooke always followed Stevie's lead because he felt in his bones that his brother was smarter than he was. Cooke was the wild, mouthy artist who couldn't keep his shit together. Stevie was the cool-headed athlete who always knew what to say. It was Cooke's impulse control that eventually made him act against this. He knew better and he did it anyway.

He didn't bother to move as his brother started to get out of bed. He was too busy gnawing at a non-existent fingernail. But anyone who knew him for more than a few minutes knew exactly what that meant. It wasn't stress or nerves or worry that brought his fingers to his mouth. It was something he wanted to say that wouldn't stay down. Some desperate thing that part of his mind wanted desperately said, but he knew it was a bad idea. It only delayed it, though. Because what Stevie said struck that thing so hard it knocked it loose.

"No." He blurted out around his finger, not looking at his brother. He pressed his lips together, eyes squeezed shut. He could turn it around. Just say the right thing. But it was like the first trickling pebbles that preceded an avalanche. This was something that had been weighing on his mind more and more lately, and why he'd thought of it first instead of other options. "What that--what you get every month. That's you. You got that. Not me. You had to do that all alone, so I gotta get something too, you know. Makes it even. Makes it so it's not always you. Make is so we don't even need it at all. Then we--you'd be okay. I think. Maybe. Better, at least. Cause it's not..."

Seeing Stevie rubbing at his arm took a little too long to process and only then did he find reason to stop. "I'll hook us up, alright?"

Stevie turned around. It wasn't fast or violent. It was slow and careful, just like the way he took his brother by the jaw and tilted his head back, just to make sure his brother was looking at him when he said this. It was slow and it was patient, and there was very little force in his grip, his fingers gentle against Cooke's jaw.

"You turnin' tricks doesn't make us even. We don't have to be even, Liam." Using his brother's real name held more weight, made this a lot more serious. "I don't want us to be even, man. What would have to happen to make us even--"

He stopped suddenly, his jaw clenching. He dropped his hand, turning around again, pulling his hands through his hair. Honestly? Every time he got money from his coach, it felt like he was being touched all over again. Every time he got that cash, it was like being on another team trip, just waiting in the dark for Ray Masters to come in. But in the end, it was all okay, because then he could afford to put a needle in his arm.

"Nah," he said, quietly, shaking his head. He located his basketball, on the floor beside the bed, scooping it up in his hands. He continued, voice back at normal volume, turning back toward his brother. "Nothin's gotta be even. C'mon. Let's go the park."

Cooke looked startled at first, forced to look up at his brother. He couldn't ever hide anything from his brother. Not even if he wanted to. And as Stevie talked, wide-eyed horror started to wash over Cooke's face. What was being implied...that...he couldn't even consider it. No matter how hard he tried to push it away, the notion invaded his head, forcing itself front-and-center. It wasn't possible to be even. They'd have to go back ten years. With a teacher. His far too vivid imagination started spawning all sorts of images that made him wince.

"I didn't mean that way!" He blurted out, but Stevie had already turned his back. It had taken too long to push those awful ideas away.

Cooke bolted to his feet, but only to move around Stevie and take him by the shoulders. He was half crouched, making himself smaller before his brother. "I didn't mean like that," he repeated. "I'd never mean it like that. I just meant with money. Cause you gotta deal with so much." Even he could see what it did to his brother every month. He was stupid for even bringing it up. "You gotta do so much, you know. It's not fair with you holding all that weight. If we do it together it's still not fair. You...you just..we'll go to the park, right? But you just play. I'll find us something. Not with tricks. Other ways. Okay?"

Stevie's eyes slipped closed when Cooke took him by the shoulders, getting in front of him. He wanted to drop it. He didn't want to talk about it. He really didn't want to talk about it. He just wanted to shoot up and forget about it, like he always good. It was easier that way. When he was like that, he could pretend that it never even happened at all. He was never more content than he was when he could convince himself that Ray Masters didn't even exist.

But he couldn't forget about it when his brother kept bringing it up. It wasn't Cooke's fault. Not really. He didn't really understand, and he didn't really have any sort of impulse control or filter at all. Stevie never blamed him. But still. He just wanted to forget about it.

"It don't matter," he said quietly, without opening his eyes. It didn't matter if Cooke tried to pick up the slack, tried to make some money so it wasn't just hush money from Stevie's traumatic childhood. It didn't matter because all that weight would still be there. It wasn't ever gonna leave. No matter what.

He sighed, opened his eyes. He lifted the basketball up between them, pushed it gently against Cooke's chest. "Promise me. And I mean really promise me, man. No tricks, and none of that fang banging shit either, okay? Promise me you won't do any of that shit."

Even if it wasn't possible to share the burden, it wouldn't stop Cooke from trying. A decade later, he still blamed himself for not seeing it sooner. It didn't matter that he was just a kid, too, dealing with his own issues. He should have seen it. He should have done something. He should have kicked that coach right where it mattered to ensure he couldn't do that to any boys ever again. And he would never stop trying to fix that mistake, even if he kept going about it in the worst ways possible.

He looked visibly pained as Stevie asked him to promise. His hands tightened on his brother's shoulders, not wanting to answer. He would try to do anything his brother asked of him. No matter what. But he knew himself well enough that he couldn't hold to it. It was just too easy to make money that way. Or trade a little favor for the drugs. No cash needed. He knew he'd fuck it up. But he couldn't say no to his brother.

Slowly, he pulled his hands away, standing up straight again. He cast a glance around, taking his sweet time to answer. "Hey," he said, not answering at all. "If you're gonna do this rigged game thing, you gotta have your strength, you know? I think maybe I got some of that burger left from last night. It's gonna be cold but it's something. You should have it. Cause you gotta do the important stuff."

God. His brother couldn't even promise him that much. It wasn't like he was asking for a lot. There were other ways to get money. Ways that didn't involve getting on your knees for a stranger or bending over the nearest piece of furniture. The thought made Stevie's skin crawl. Cooke was worth more than that. Worth more than sex for cash or drugs or favors.

Though, the money he got was practically the same thing, only it was like a backlog of money for sexual favors he didn't want to do. Stevie shook his head, flexing his fingers around the basketball between his hands. "Nah. You keep it. Sounds like you're gonna need it more than I would."

He couldn't stop his brother. Not really. If Cooke wanted to stoop that low, that was on him. Stevie didn't like it, and he'd said as much, several times. Clearly, Cooke wasn't going to listen. Didn't care how Stevie felt about it. It didn't matter anyway. Cooke would go turn tricks and Stevie would be mad about it, but his brother would get the cash and the drugs and they'd both get fucked up, and they'd both forget it ever even happened. They'd both forget everything for awhile, and that was what was important.

"I'll be on the courts, man. Come find me when you're done." And then he turned, shoving his feet in his shoes and heading towards the door.

Cooke didn't move, staying between his brother and the door. The problem was that he did care how Stevie felt about it all, and knew why he felt that way. But it was his easiest way of making money. Or at least the one that was constantly available. His biggest money maker was information, on account of no one being able to mess with his memory. But that only worked if he had information to sell and someone who wanted to buy it.

He wasn't chewing his fingernails anymore, but he was digging at one of his cuticles with the stubs of fingernails he still had. That was nerves. And worry. And stress. All over his brother.

"Stevie..." he said, when his brother turned. "If I could fix it, I would."

He might have said it before. It was one of those things that was always banging around in his head until he couldn't tell anymore if he'd said it or just thought about it a lot.

"If I'd known it was happening. I'd've done something, you know?" He knew he shouldn't even be talking about it. Talking about it made everything worse, especially for Stevie. But it was eating at him on the inside and he couldn't keep it down. "And I wanna say that I won't do it, at the park. I really do. You know I do. I'd do anything you asked me to. But what if the game don't work or no one's giving handouts? I let you down so much and I don't wanna do it again by promising something that I couldn't keep to. Cause I let you down when we were kids. And when I tried to leave. And I don't wanna keep doing that." He sounded desperate by the end, talking in circles, tears brimming in his eyes.

Maybe he would've felt differently about it if it wasn't for what happened before. If he felt comfortable in his own skin and didn't wake up from nightmares. If he didn't have to wonder if his own sexuality, his tendency to get closer to other guys when he was high, was actually Ray Masters' fault. He probably wouldn't care who his brother slept with, or why he slept with them, if it weren't for his own issues. He kept projecting them onto Cooke, and that wasn't really fair.

He couldn't seem to stop it, though. Just like how he couldn't seem to stop the sudden raise in his voice when Cooke kept talking. Not yelling, but coming close.

"Stop," he snapped, nearly as soon as Cooke said 'If I'd known'. Stevie hated dwelling in the past, for obvious reasons. He didn't want to talk about it. He needed Cooke to stop talking about it. "There's nothin' you could've done, okay? I don't even matter. It's done, it's over. There's nothin' to fix."

He flexed his fingers around the basketball in his hands, an anxious, agitated habit. Basketball was the only thing he'd held onto from that time. It was what got him through the bad times, the reason he suffered through them to begin with. It was the only thing that made him feel good, besides the heroin. But he tucked the ball under one arm and stepped forward, reaching out to put a hand on either side of his brother's face. It was gentle again, as was his voice when he spoke.

"You've never let me down, man. Ain't nothin' you could do to let me down, either. You're my brother. I love you."

Edited 2016-02-22 01:51 (UTC)

Cooke flinched at the sudden, sharp word. It wasn't that he thought his brother might lash out or do anything. It just startled him, made him see just how poorly he'd stepped. Looking up to realize he'd walked into the viper's pit that he knew full well was there. He always did this. He knew he always did this. But he couldn't stop it from happening. It got worse on the days when the only thing that could drag him back from all the craziness was the drugs. Not even Stevie could do much on those days, the opposite of when he couldn't get out of bed. The sort of days he could feel looming on the horizon, like static in the air before a storm.

Then Stevie's hands were on his face, and he felt worse than ever. It wasn't true. He'd let his brother down more times than just those two. Those were just the big, obvious ones. Every day he couldn't get clean and go back to school. He didn't have a big, bad stain on his life. It was all just himself. He owed it to Stevie to be the one to go straight and make something of himself. Then he could help his brother instead of just making everything worse.

He tried to turn his face away, but couldn't with those hands there. So instead, his eyes just turned, looking as low to one side as he could. He reached up and scrubbed at his nose. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly feeling like a desert. "I just don't wanna make you feel bad, and you're..." Stalling to silence. A rare trait for Cooke. He reached out to run his finger over one of the lines on the ball. "Let's just go do that game thing."

His brother would always be stronger than him, and he had no way to say it. Because Stevie kept going, one way or another, with all that happened. Cooke was just a fuck up who couldn't focus on anything.

Stevie felt awful for yelling as soon as he saw his brother's face. He wanted to apologize. He didn't mean to get angry or yell, especially not at his brother. It was just hard to make Cooke understand sometimes. It was hard to make him get it. It never seemed to work until he raised his voice, because before then, Cooke always tried to keep going.

But that wasn't really his fault. It was just who he was. And it didn't matter how frustrating it could get, he wouldn't trade his brother for anything in the world. Wouldn't change anything about him. Well. Almost anything.

He knew life would be easier for the both of them if they could just get clean and stay clean. But every time Stevie tried, something happened, a nightmare or a bad day or Prince Miller's face on a billboard, and he always feel apart again. It was similar with Cooke, he knew, though not exactly the same. Each time Stevie tried again, it was harder than the last time. And each time he tried, he knew somewhere int he back of his mind that it'd never work, because it'd never worked before. This time and the next time wouldn't be any different. It was just easier like this. And for the most part, both of them always chose easy over better.

Stevie sighed, his hands slipping down to Cooke's arms as he rested his forehead against his brother's shoulder. "Don't apologize," he said, without lifting his head. "It's okay. I'm not angry."

Finally, he straightened up, letting go of Cooke completely and dropping the ball back down to his hands. "C'mon. We'll head to the park and then we'll figure it out from there."

It wasn't okay. It would never be okay. Not until he learned to watch his own mouth. Not until he learned to stop before Stevie had to raise his voice. Not until he could go a day, a week, a month without doing something to remind his brother of all the awful things that happened to him. It wouldn't be okay until he could make everything okay for Stevie.

Cooke just patted Stevie's arm, nodding slightly. "Yeah. We'll make it work, some how..."

His mind was still going crazy, the sort of crazy that meant soon he wouldn't be thinking straight. But shadows were already growing underneath it. The shadows that made him not want to talk anymore. The things that kept him in bed all day. The two sides were at war in his head. One trying to lift him higher, the other trying to drag him down. He felt like he was going to be pulled in two.

All the more reason to get that money so they could both get their fix. Then none of it would matter for either of them. At least for a little while.

"It's still early enough, we don't gotta worry about any coffin dwellers messing with your game, you know." Never mind the fact that when he tugged the door open, the sun was already creeping toward the horizon. Not enough to color the sky, but enough to make long shadows across cracked pavement.

Stevie smiled, just a little bit. They always made it work somehow. Even when they were flat broke and none of their usual plans were going right, they always managed to scrape up enough money to get their fix. As long as they both continued to put all their energy into it, their combined effort was enough for them to get by.

They'd make it work. They always did.

The first thing Steven did upon stepping outside was bounce the basketball off the side walk a few times, feeling the familiar vibrations up his arms every time he caught the ball. Then he squinted at the sky, frowning a little.

"Shit, man," he said, the ball going under one arm as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It ain't noon."

Still-- Cooke wasn't wrong. It was still early enough that no vamps should be out. Stevie had a gift, just like his brother had a gift, but they were different. Cooke had his immunity and Stevie had his heightened speed and reflexes and mobility. Not heightened like the vampires' were heightened, but heightened enough that it made a difference in his game. It was what would've made him go pro, if he hadn't fucked it all up.

"C'mon." He nudge Cooke with his elbow, bouncing the ball against the pavement again. "We should hustle."

Cooke squinted in the direction of the sun, looking at the long streaks it cast across the pavement. That light meant it was way, way later than noon. Stevie's words just drove it home harder. He'd never been so great with time, but this meant it was worse than normal. Because he'd swear the last time he'd looked at the clock, which wasn't all that long before he'd started poking his brother, it had been ten past noon. He'd seen that, then gone to see if they had anything to eat. Then tried to wake Stevie. Wait. No. He'd done something else. But what? It couldn't have been that long.

He frowned at the cracked pavement under his feet. This was bad. This was really bad. He knew he'd been doing something. But this was how it always started. It meant the craziness wasn't about to start, it meant it had already started. He needed a fix to calm it down and soon. He started digging in his pockets. Maybe he'd missed something. Some cash or something to tide him over.

He jerked his head up, still in the middle of his search when Stevie nudged him. He looked startled for a moment. Had he said something? Did Stevie know? Is that why they had to hurry? It took him a moment to come back around to remember what they were doing.

"Yeah. Let's go." He started down the sidewalk, hands shoved deep into his sweatshirt pockets. He needed to stay focused. On Stevie. On the game. He couldn't let on what was happening and he couldn't wander off. Absolutely focused. "Focused," he muttered allowed, barely audible, not realizing he'd said it.

Stevie was already going through all the possibilities in his mind. It was later than they normally did this, so there'd probably be a different crew at the park. Or, possibly, the same crew winding down for the night. Either way, it wasn't hard to rig something up. Hustling was something they'd gotten good at. Or, really, Stevie had gotten good at it, and Cooke was good at following his lead.

Sometimes, they had a little money on them. It was easier, then, because all Stevie had to do was lose a few one-on-one games before betting on himself, or letting his brother bet on him, and then kicking ass up and down the court. It was tricky, sometimes. People were more likely to suspect a set of twin brothers being up to no good.

It was even tricker when they were flat broke. It meant Cooke had to run the betting pool, and a lot more things could go wrong that way. There were a lot more variables to be considered. A lot more things could fuck up. A lot of times, it just ended with them nearly getting their asses kicked. At that point, it was easier to just grab the money and run, and find a new park to start hustling at.

Too bad neither of them were good at pick-pocketing. That'd sure as fuck come in handy.

He was bouncing the basketball as they walked, and the only reason he heard Cooke say anything at all was because he was between bounces. He glanced over, brow creasing. "You say somethin'?"

Cooke shook his head, a little too firmly and a little too quickly. "Nope. No. Just thinking." Shit that wasn't right. Calm down, Cooke. Focus. You gotta be on top of this, or else the game won't work. Stevie's gotta trust you so he can focus on his game and make sure people bet on him. "I mean, it's getting late, you know. And a lotta the guys that're usually there, they run off before it gets dark. Maybe there won't even be anyone there. Or it'll be..."

He made himself trail off with a shrug. Maybe there could be hybrids out at this hour, they didn't have reason to scatter when the real cops came out. It was a clear day, so they wouldn't have to worry about that until proper dark. The daytime patrols were nothing to worry about, even Cooke could get away from them. Stevie would be gone in a flash, too. It's when the vampire shift started that they had to worry.

"I just don't wanna end up in jail, you know?" Whether really up or really down, jail was the last place he wanted to be. He couldn't get anything to help.

Well. That didn't sound like a lie or anything.

Stevie opened his mouth to encourage his brother to tell him the truth when, it turned out, he didn't have to. Cooke started talking all on his own. Maybe that wasn't what was really wrong, but it was a legitimate concern, all the same. Stevie pressed his lips together thoughtfully. They didn't have a lot of other options, other than Cooke turning tricks. And that, Stevie felt, was a last resort. He'd sooner suggest they mug somebody, honestly.

Even though he didn't really have a violent bone in his body. Neither of them were the mugging type.

"Yeah, man. I know." He tucked the basketball under one arm for the time being. "I also know neither of us are gonna last another night without it."

Cooke may have been far more willing to punch someone int he face than Stevie, but he certainly wasn't the mugging type. Mugging meant planning, anticipation, steel nerves. None of which Cooke was very good at. In the heat of a moment, he could do some damage. If he had to think about it, he was useless.

"I know...I know..." He should have tried to wake Stevie sooner instead of doing whatever he'd been doing. Then they'd have more time and he wouldn't be feeling so anxious and itchy. "I know." He tried to shove his hands deeper, but he just pushed his sweatshirt down.

"Maybe...maybe it won't be so bad. You know. If I did my thing. You just play look out and I'll get us like fifty bucks easy. No risks of losing that way, right?" And if he was the one doing the work, it would be easier to focus. A blow job was way shorter than any game of basketball.

Stevie sighed. It wasn't angry, or annoyed. It wasn't even exasperated. It sounded defeated. He knew that there wasn't anything he could do to stop his brother. That Cooke was going to do it anyway, if not tonight, then another time. He had to stop projecting his own issues onto his brother, but honestly? What Cooke did didn't feel all that different than what he was getting money for. Not when you got down to the roots of it.

He didn't say anything right away, but he didn't stop walking, either. He bounced the ball against the sidewalk a few times, running his fingers over the smooth surface over and over again, worn that way from age and use. He bounced it hard, once, watching it launch into the air, and pausing so he could catch it when it came back down.

"Look," he said finally, still not moving, but watching his brother. "If you go ahead and do that, what you get is yours. You earned it. I'm not takin' any of it. I'll find another way."

At first, Cooke didn't even realize his brother had stopped. He kept walking a few steps further, too focused on staying focused to notice something changed. If Stevie hadn't said anything, he would have walked much further. The realization that he'd kept walking when he shouldn't caught up to him in stages. So turning around to face Stevie nearly landed him on his face.

"No!" He said, a bit too hard and a bit too loud. "Not when you're always sharing--" He almost said the wrong thing. Almost mentioned that money again. He knew he shouldn't, and stopped it. But the pause was a little too long before he found something to replace the notion to be even vaguely smooth. "...you know, all your stuff with me. I can get enough for both of us. To get a fix and some food. Maybe for tomorrow, too. We both gotta eat, don't we?"

Stevie grimaced, but he didn't say anything. He certainly didn't yell. He only reminded himself that Cooke couldn't be held responsible for tip-toeing around Stevie's issues. It wasn't fair. Nothing was fair, honestly, but that sort of thinking didn't really get them anywhere. Neither would standing on the sidewalk and arguing. That was just going to waste what little daylight they had left.

"It's not the same," he said, bouncing the ball a few more times awkwardly. It was pretty much the same thing. Actually, it maybe made more sense, because at least Cooke was an adult doing it of his own free will. Stevie hadn't been.

"You can't make me take your money, Cooke," he said, looking up at his brother again. "Can't make me take your drugs, either."

Cooke actually didn't say anything right away. He seemed to draw into himself for a few moments, his gaze dropping to the pavement. He tried to say something a few different times, but it fall felt wrong some how. He'd said the wrong thing too many times already and he didn't want to hurt Stevie more. He knew all the reasons, but he didn't like them. There was nothing to do about them. They were big, open, infected wounds. Even touching them hurt, no matter what. Even if he was trying to help and make it better.

"You gotta eat, Stevie," he said, his voice soft. "Would you....would you at least take food if I got it?" There was a rising, desperate note in his voice. He had to make this work. He had to make it better. "Maybe...we don't gotta do either thing and we'll be lucky tonight. Maybe..." But whatever he'd been about to say died on his tongue.

He was just going to fuck it up. He always fucked it up. No matter how he tried to help, it always hurt his brother. Every single time. If he could be better, in one way or another, it wouldn't be so bad. Then he could help Stevie and not hurt him. Maybe if he could get a clear head he'd know what to do and not trip over everything all the time.

Honestly, he didn't want to take anything that came from Cooke turning tricks. It left a bad taste in his mouth. His brother shouldn't have to do that kind of shit to keep providing for them. What Stevie needed to do was learn how to better manage to money he got. Save some of it instead of spending it all at once. But once he had it, he was always keen to get rid of it. He hated having the reminder. So he always spent it on drugs and food, and the drugs would last them awhile, but the food, not so much.

It didn't matter. It wasn't like being a career junkie had given him any kind of management skills. Neither did basketball, or growing up in the slums.

He held the ball between both hands, pressing the tips of his fingers against its surface. He had to meet his brother halfway, at least. Come to a compromise so they could get this done, and get back inside before nightfall.

"I guess." He started bouncing the ball again with one hand. "You go do what you need to do and meet me at the courts when you're done, okay? Just be careful, man."

Cooke just nodded. It would be better if Stevie was a look out. That way he could focus and not worry about getting found out. He'd do good and make extra money for being good. But it was harder if he had to worry about getting found out. But he knew he couldn't push that any further. Because he didn't want to upset Stevie. He knew even mentioning the one time was bad enough. It wasn't the same, he knew that. He was doing this himself, and it wasn't some creepy coach. But he couldn't change how Stevie felt about it.

He turned around and started walking again. He kept quiet, his tongue wedged between his teeth. He didn't want to say anything to upset Stevie any further. He'd be quiet and focused and maybe his brother would forget where the money came form. He'd sure forget once they got what they needed. It never mattered then.

"You be careful, too," he said after far too long of a delay. "Don't, you know, get your face punched or anything."

Good. They'd compromised. Stevie didn't necessarily like it, but he figured Cooke probably didn't either. That was the point of a compromise. Neither of them would be totally happy. But, ultimately, it wouldn't matter. Once they had the drugs, it wouldn't matter where the cash came from. He could be upset about it now — they both could — but it didn't really make a difference. When all was said and done, they'd both be putting a needing in their arm without another single concern.

And that was what was important. That, and having each other.

Stevie bounced the basketball, behind his back and between his legs and over his head as they walked. All that same talent he had as a kid, only a little bit diminished through the passage of time and the use of drugs. He could still win most street matches he put himself in, at least. That was what mattered.

"Yeah," he agreed, already branching off for the courts. "I'll try. See you in a few, man."

Cooke watched Stevie as they walked, nearly tripping over his how feet a few times because he wasn't watching where he was going. He'd always been a little bit jealous that his brother but such a cool talent. It wasn't the bitter sort of jealous that slowly turned into hatred. But he just wished his was that cool. That his could be used any time he wanted like that. His was really dangerous to have and could get him killed. Stevie's was just really cool.

"Yeah...see ya..." Cooke said, coming to a halt as his brother headed off. He hesitated, looking off deeper into the park. Was this the right thing to do? It would upset Stevie if he went of on his own. It always did. But was the trade worth it? Either he had to hurt his brother or risk going hungry. Or worse, without a fix. With a sigh, he headed off deeper into the park. He'd get it over with quick.

But it wasn't quick at all. Darkness started to spread over the park, but still he wasn't back. At first, he'd just lost track of time, like he always did. Business wasn't so great as day shifted into night. So it was a constant game of just a little bit longer. But the light started to fade from the sky and Cooke still hadn't returned. He wasn't in any of the usual places. Even as bad he was about time, he'd usually be back by now.

Night covered the park. The city itself was truly waking up. And still Cooke was nowhere to be found.

Stevie actually was careful while he played. There were still a few people on the court, and it was only enough to hustle two or three games. There was an art to it. Win a little bit of money, lose a little bit, then win a little bit more. There had to be a balance in order for people to not get suspicious, but he always wound up on top. The trick was to not let on about his abilities. They only really got mad when they found out he was cheating.

He'd always argue that it wasn't cheating, he really just couldn't help it. It was something he was born with. But that never stopped very large guys with very hard right hooks from punching him in the mouth.

It went well this time, though, earning him enough to probably last until he got the hush money, and as the sun started to set, Stevie was anticipating his brother's arrival.

But it didn't come. The sky was slowly changing colors and everybody else was packing up and taking off, but Stevie stayed put. He waited until long after Cooke should've been there under any circumstances, even the ones where he lost track of time. Eventually, as the sky was getting truly dark, he wandered off into the park to check the usual spots. Where he'd normally find Cooke. But he came up empty.

His stomach was in knots, worry and panic starting to creep up on him fast. Probably, what happened, was that Cooke wasn't paying attention, or just forgot, and ended up going back to the flop house instead of the basketball courts. That was probably all it was.

It was the sliver of hope Stevie held onto as he started heading back to their sleeping quarters. This time, the basketball stayed quiet and still in his hands.

More than an hour after Stevie got back, Cooke finally walked in the door. He didn't look so great. His face looked practically gray, at least what could be seen of it. He had his hood pulled up, as if trying to hide inside it. He moved slowly, far too slowly for how he'd been acting before. And not the sort of slow that came with getting a fix. This was different, there was a strange sort of edge to it all.

"I got...the um..." But the words didn't happen. He sounded hoarse, like he'd been yelling for days. He just waved his hand vaguely, not able to get the word out. "I'm not...I'm gonna lay..." And again, it failed.

Head bowed, he started to move further inside, intending to head for the bed. But he only got a few steps before his legs gave out. he didn't trip or falter. It was more like his strings were cut and he just collapsed to the floor.

Nearly as soon as the door opened, Stevie was on his feet. He'd spent the past hour sitting on the bed and fidgeting, occasionally getting up to peek out the window. It had gotten to the point where he was nearly as wound up as Cooke was some days. It didn't help that he was really starting to itch for a fix.

"Jesus Christ, there you are. What the hell happen--"

He stopped short. Stopped talking, stopped moving, standing in the middle of the room. Something was undeniably off. From the coloring of Cooke's skin to the way he moved, the way he sounded. Stevie's stomach sank slowly. Something was wrong.

"Hey man, what's the matter with--"

It was then that Cooke collapsed. Stevie bolted over, but even his abnormally fast reflexes weren't enough to get there to catch him. Even so, Stevie knelt down, half-dragging his brother into his lap. Panicked enough that, when he spoke, he used Cooke's real name. "Liam? Liam, what's wrong, what happened to you?"

Cooke wasn't out completely, his eyes rolled as Stevie moved him, struggling to find something to focus on. Slowly, they closed, as he seemed to lose what small grip he had on consciousness. But hearing his name seemed to bring him back, opening his eyes and finding Stevie's face at last.

In moving, his hood fell away. There were marks on his neck. Partially healed bite marks on one side, a mess of half dried blood on the other. He tried to reach for his hoodie pocket, but he just ended up vaguely pawing at the fabric, not able to find the opening.

"I got money..." He managed to say. "I didn't..." He shook his head vaguely. "...no tricks..." His eyes slid closed again, a vague sort of smile settling onto his lips. Like he was expecting Stevie to be happy. He hadn't traded sex for money. Just like Stevie wanted. He did good, right?

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