Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was little that Mick hated more than shoplifters. This “little” included the system, his back, and Kiss fans. A typical example of the latter had just appeared in Mick's shop, all heels and tight jeans, wearing more makeup than a hooker, eyes barely visible underneath a black messy mop of dyed hair that’d been hair-sprayed into a physically impossible shape. He hadn't done anything wrong yet, but Mick gained enough experience over the years to see through misfits like him. And this one was definitely up to no good.

It was usually quiet in his little record shop this time of the day - most people were still at work, with an exception of teenagers skipping school. Mick didn’t have much work to do and watched closely every movement of this little fucker while pretending to be stocking up the shelf nearby. Twenty minutes later his intuition yet again proved itself right. The boy grabbed a record from the farthest shelf and hid it in his oversized jacket. A swift, adroit movement of a professional, one that would go unnoticed by most people. Not by Mick, though.

"Put back what you took from the shelf," Mick said calmly, stepping right in front of the boy and blocking his way to the door. Screaming and shouting didn't work with this kind of people - they were only getting aggressive. Though the gun that Mick held in his hand worked like magic as well.

"Shit," the boy hissed, backed off to the next aisle and tried to rush past Mick to the door, only to be met with a gun pointed at his chest.

"You ain't going anywhere, bastard," Mick grabbed his arm, thin and bony inside the wide sleeve of his jacket, and pushed him to the back door, still holding him at gunpoint – who knows what the little bastard had up his sleeve, both literally and metaphorically. "You're going to stay there until the police arrive, and don't even try to pull something off!"

Of course, the boy tried anyway, attempting to push away the gun and knock it out of Mick's hand. He was desperate, and desperation made him furious but took away his reasoning and common sense. If he had them at all, of course.

Mick’s knee hit him in the stomach, pushing air out of his lungs. The boy gasped and fell to his knees, holding onto his stomach and trying to inhale. Mick didn't wait for him to recover; instead, he dragged him up onto his feet and hauled him to the back room. It had a lock, and Mick could keep the young criminal there until the police arrived.

The little misfit, being now frightened enough to not fight back openly, stumbled on every shelf and every table they passed, and a couple of times deliberately tripped over them and fell down. Mick had no mercy for him and didn’t even let him get up. Instead, he dragged him across the floor on his knees for five or six feet, every time secretly admiring the teenager’s stubbornness. They reached the back room eventually, and Mick pushed the boy inside, earnestly hoping that he wouldn't destroy its already modest furnishings in a fit of rage.

"Enjoy yourself." Mick waved around. The boy recoiled, his eyes widening, and Mick remembered he still had a gun in his hand. He decided to leave it there for effect. "While you can."

The boy followed Mick with his gaze as he left the room and locked the door behind him. Try as he might, Mick kept remembering the boy’s pale face and wide eyes. He hadn’t been able to take a good look at the boy’s features, but he was somehow absolutely sure those eyes were green.

There had been lots of teenage shoplifters that Mick had encountered in his life. A record shop was for them like honey to the bees, or, as Mick liked to think about it, a garbage can to the flies. He knew their methods, and he knew that every single one of them was a liar and a hypocrite to the core. The numerous stories they have told about their little brothers or sisters, or cousins wanting a record on their birthday had long stopped making Mick pity them. If this one started doing the same, he would have already called the police.

He didn’t. He didn't start crying or begging to let him go in a futile attempt to evoke sympathy in Mick. He didn't start coming up with excuses and sob stories. He didn’t try to justify himself. Apart from the quiet "shit" under his breath, he was completely, totally silent.

A customer entered the shop, and Mick dropped the phone he’d been holding in his hand the whole time and rushed to help him, maybe a little more eagerly than he usually would. The customer spent ages trying to decide between Fleetwood Mac or Bee Gees, getting scornful glances from Mick when he wasn’t looking. Mick wasn't a huge fan of such music, keeping it in his shop only because it generated a significant part of the revenue.

When the customer finally left, Mick returned to the register. He grabbed a phone again, looked at it for a couple of seconds, sighed and put it back.

The boy was sitting on the floor in the farthest corner from the couch, hugging his knees and staring into the distance with a detached look on his face. Startled by Mick entering the room, he turned his head to look at him, his eyes barely visible from underneath the mop of black hair, which badly needed a cut. His clothes, though obviously customized in an attempt to look fashionable, were oversized and worn, and clearly not washed in quite a while. The kid was probably white trash from the slums or even homeless, Mick realized.

"Give me back the record and I'll let you go," Mick said, approaching him carefully. He left the gun in the main room and now felt especially vulnerable, considering that the boy even at the tender age of fifteen or sixteen was already almost as tall as him and probably just as strong.

The boy blinked in surprise, squinting at Mick with suspicion. Mick stood there, waiting for him to make up his mind. He wasn't going to give him a second chance, one unexpected moment of pity was more than enough.  "Hurry up, or I'll change my mind."

The boy rose to his feet slowly, took a couple of steps towards Mick while keeping an eye on him all that time. Mick stood still, feeling like a tamer in a cage with a feral wolfling.

Then the teenager pulled out the record (Deep Purple’s "Fireball", a good choice), shoved it into Mick's hands and rushed past him to the door. A moment later Mick heard the front door slam.

He shambled back to the main room, clutching the record that was still warm from the shoplifter's hands. He felt old, old and stupid. Now every goddamn teenager in the area would think his shop is safe to steal from, and he wouldn't be able to scare all of them off even with a gun.

He didn't regret it, though. Not in the slightest.

A couple of days later, when Mick had already forgotten about the black-haired misfit, another shoplifter showed up. The boy, a blond Californian surfer type who Mick took for a girl at first, was dressed in all white and looked like an average middle-class kid pretending to be a rock star. It almost tricked Mick, and he barely managed to catch the moment when the boy hid a record in his bag.

"Put it back, little shit!" Mick exclaimed, rushing out from behind the register to head the shoplifter off before he reached the door (his back would later remind him of how careless this movement was). It took the boy aback, and he lingered for a second or two, missing the chance to escape.

“Put the record back,” Mick repeated slowly, now blocking his way out. The blondie's movements were far less adroit than those of a previous shoplifter, his reactions more impulsive. Not completely without experience, but definitely not as skillful as the Kiss fan. Giving his neat appearance and decent clothes, he was probably just another kid from suburbs desperately wanting to be a bad boy and getting in with the wrong people. A stupid mistake that could destroy his entire life. Mick didn’t want to be responsible for it.

The boy didn't take the chance to avoid trouble. Instead, he pushed past Mick, trying to knock him over. Trying – that was it. Mick's back problems still weren’t severe enough to not let him handle a goddamn teenager.

In response, the kid got a knee in the stomach, strong just enough to make him stagger back and give Mick an opportunity to restrain him. Mick didn’t want to actually harm the kid, just to show him who calls the shots here. It didn’t work out - the boy promptly, as though instinctively, covered his stomach with his hands. He dropped his bag right onto the floor, and Mick was sure he heard his stolen record crack inside of it. If it had broken, he would make the fucker pay double for it.

Although the kick didn’t really harm the kid, it managed to stun him enough so that he couldn’t fight back for a second or two. Mick, slightly worried that he underestimated his own strength, went on to grab a fistful of blond hair. It couldn’t cause any real damage but was painful enough to stop any further attempts to fight back.

In theory.

The second the boy felt the grip on his hair he went completely insane. He tried to punch Mick in the guts, twisting so much in his grip a good chunk of his hair remained in Mick's hand. He kicked and punched the air blindly, not even aiming at Mick. Like an animal that got into a trap and was trying to get out, he was so blinded by panic he didn't realize he just hurt himself more and more. All of this Mick would think over later while looking at a patch of blond hair tangled between his fingers. As for now, his natural reaction was to stop this self-destructive panic as fast as possible.

A loud slap rang in Mick's ears, his hand slowly started growing red. The shoplifter froze, looking at him wide-eyed, biting his lower lip so hard blood showed up.

Shame washed over Mick. Congratulations, he thought grimly, you scared a child to death.

"Whatcha looking at? I'm not gonna fucking bite your head off." Mick let go of the boy's hair and grabbed his shoulder instead. He expected the same reaction, but the boy only flinched in response, letting Mick lead him to the back room without any resistance.

 "Let's go to the back room and wait for the police there, shall we?" Mick didn't feel like threats would work now, although phrasing it as a question was wrong as well. He led the shoplifter to the back room carefully, holding his shoulder like it was made of glass. He knew he’d better hold it tighter, but he’d been rough enough today already. The boy followed him silently to the back room, his face expressionless.

When Mick gently pushed him into the room and turned around to leave, the blond spoke.

"Is calling the police really that necessary?"

Good question. Mick liked the police no more than he liked shoplifters, but the former at least weren't actively trying to rob him of his hard-earned money. Passively, yes, they also did, but not paying taxes would get Mick in trouble he absolutely didn’t need at that point.

"What else am I supposed to do with a criminal like you?" he grumbled but stopped in the doorway. He could have been fooled by the boy’s perfectly mastered calm tone, by his relaxed expression, if not for the eyes, wide, terrified eyes of a child thinking he would go straight to jail for snitching a fucking record.

"A lot of things." the blond raised his eyebrow and looked Mick right in the eyes. And smiled, and damn, did he have a stunning smile. "In which the police absolutely doesn't need to be involved."

"Cut it and tell me what you want."

"No." The boy tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "The real question is: what do you want?"

This was the last straw. Mick stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The boy was no good in shoplifting, but he surely was a professional in acting, and even thinking where he could have learned it – and even more, why would he have to use it, - made Mick sick to his stomach. He wasn't a fool. He also wasn't what this kid imagined him to be. How old the boy was, fifteen, sixteen?

He looked at the phone and barely suppressed the urge to throw it into the wall. Mick was repulsed by the mere thought of calling the police and turning in the child with such fear in his eyes and such a skill of hiding it. He groaned and sank into the chair, squeezing his head with his hands. What the fuck was going on with him that he couldn't even get a goddamn shoplifter rightfully arrested?

Mick’s mouth was dry, and he thought of making a cup of coffee, but the coffee machine was in the back room. Thank god he always kept a whiskey bottle in the counter for, hm, emergencies.

Half an hour later he opened the door after scratching around the lock with a key for a good minute. The boy was lying on the sofa with his shoes on, his back turned to the door. When Mick appeared in the doorway, he jumped up, cast a quick look over him and backed off to the farthest corner of the room.

Mick took a few unsteady steps towards him and stretched out his hand with the boy’s bag in it, which had been lying on the floor in the middle of the store the whole time.

"Check if the record is broken."

The boy looked over him with suspicion, darted towards him, wrenched the bag from his hands and jumped back out of Mick’s reach. Once in the safe zone, he pulled out the record and quickly examined it.

"Er... no."

"You're lucky then. Give it back and get the fuck out of my store."

The boy blinked in confusion, eyed him for a few moments to make sure he wasn’t joking, then shoved the record into his hands and dashed out of the room.

Mick looked down at the record in his hand. It was “Fireball”.

The third one was even less experienced than the second, and Mick began to wonder why would the kids be so desperate to get the record that they had sent in this absolutely hopeless case.

Unlike with the blond, the boy’s appearance only made the situation worse for him. He wore jeans with straight-up holes on the knees, which Mick would probably take for a new fashion trend if not for his sneakers that were so badly torn the kid would do better without them. His was t-shirt so dirty the original picture on it was almost impossible to make out. More than that, the kid was so stick-thin he looked like hadn't eaten in weeks, and his black hair, as though dyed sloppily in a kitchen sink, badly needed a haircut. Typical white trash, Mick would conclude, throw him out of the store the second he noticed even a slight misbehavior, and carry on with his life. Would – a week ago.

Now he examined him from behind the newspaper he was pretending to be reading and felt nothing but pity. The kid was scared shitless and didn’t even try to hide it, a mix of shame, guilt, and fear on his face. He probably was in it for the first time, or maybe he was just not quite right in the head, because even the least talented of shoplifters would have enough common sense to understand that getting on all fours and trying to crawl to the exit behind the aisle was the worst possible way of getting away with stealing. Mick even felt sorry for the boy. What were his parents thinking, letting this literal kid roam the streets and get into trouble all alone?

I should give him some food, a stray thought flashed through his mind. Mick banished it mere moments later, but it didn’t do away - just slithered to the back of his mind and holed up there. No mercy, Mick reminded himself sternly. No. Zero. None.

He took a deep breath and stepped in front of the boy. The kid froze mid-movement and went so pale Mick thought he was going to faint.

"What are you doing, kiddo? Don't you know shoplifting is a crime?" Mick barely managed to keep his voice at least somewhat hostile. He tried to evoke anger inside of himself and failed miserably. There were only curiosity and a little bit of… pity? Okay, maybe not a little bit. Whatever.

The kid as though swallowed his tongue. He only stared at him from the floor with dismay written all over his face, holding onto the record like a drowning man holds onto a lifebuoy.

"I do," the kid finally mumbled so quietly Mick barely made out the words. And then it was like a levee broke. "I'm so sorry, really - sorry, I didn't want to do that, I just wanted to show the guys I'm no worse than them, are you gonna call the police? Please don't call the police, they will send me back to... to... please, I can give you back the record, I can even pay for it - well, not the full price, but I have two dollars, and-"

"Enough!" The more the boy talked the louder he became, so Mick had to raise his voice. It came out more aggressive than he wanted, and seeing the boy flinching, his eyes filled with hopelessness, made Mick sick in the stomach. "Get up."

The boy sprung to his feet and turned out to be a full head taller than Mick. He weighed probably the same, if not less. When was the last time he ate?

"Is that your first time shoplifting?"

"Uh... is it so obvious?" The boy flushed in embarrassment.

"Absolutely.” Mick found himself suppressing a smile. There was something in the boy so energetic, so lively, as though it lighted up everything around him, not subdued even by the extreme distress he was in. “Did 'the guys' send you here?"

"No!” the kid shook his head furiously. “No, they actually tried to talk me out of it, especially Nikki, but I just wanted to show that I’m not a burden, that I can do something as well, and not just be a distraction while they do the job..." the boy fell silent, his eyes widening anxiously. It probably dawned on him that he had said too much, although he could just as well not say anything and Mick would still understand it through his facial expressions alone.

"And Nikki and another one - the black-haired, right? - usually do the lifting?"

"No, Nikki's the black-haired one. Wait, how did you know?.."

Mick pointed at the record that the boy was still clutching in his hands, fingers gripping the cover so tightly his knuckles were white. "When three kids try to steal the same album with just a few days in between, you begin to suspect they're connected in some way."

"Oh! We haven’t thought about it… we should’ve waited longer, huh?"

"You shouldn't have come at all. I’ve been running this shop for five years and no goddamn shoplifter ever managed to steal something from here yet. You three are no exception."

"Yeah, probably." The boy’s shoulders drooped. "We should’ve backed off after Nikki got caught, if he hadn’t made it then I and Vinnie had no chance at all. You're going to turn me in, right?"

Mick opened his mouth to utter a confident “yes” – and closed it. He wanted to do it. He really did. These three little bastards couldn’t even learn from their mistakes. Not to mention their absolute lack of basic fucking human decency, because when someone lets you off after you tried to steal from him, you better appreciate it and never come back. He should turn this last one in to teach them a lesson.

Then he imagined the kid in jail. He wouldn't survive there, not with his open face and naïve eyes. The black-haired one would blend in easily, the blond would probably find a way around too, but not this one. Not this literal child.

"Tell me why you wanted to do that."

"What for?" the boy mumbled, nervously tapping out a pretty consistent rhythm on the record cover. "I'll have to tell the police anyway. You can ask them afterward."

"I won't." Mick’s guts twisted in his stomach. He took a deep breath and decided to go through with it. “I want to know the reason. Be honest, and I won’t turn you in."

”What?” The boy looked up at him with disbelief and gleams of hope in his eyes. All the doubts Mick had immediately vanished. He couldn’t betray that faint hope, those first glimpses of trust. "Are you… for real?"

"For real."

The boy eyed him up with suspicion for a few more seconds, just like the black-haired one did. But then – then he smiled. Tentatively at first, with only the corners of his mouth, then, seeing that Mick wasn't going to burst into evil laughter, more confidently.

That’s when Mick realized he found the right way.

"Alright, kiddo. What's your name?"

"Tommy."

"Nice to meet you, Tommy. Well, it could’ve happened under, hm, better circumstances. Still. I'm Mick Mars." Mick stretched out his hand. He looked at it with confusion for a moment, then hurried to shake it with force Mick didn’t expect those noodle arms to have.

"Mick Mars? Is that your real name?"

"It’s been for a few years."

"Wait, you changed it? That's so cool! Just like Nikki! Well, it’s not his legal name yet, but he says he will change it once he’s twenty-one. I'd love to change my name too! But I really like my own as well, and I think maybe I'll just change my second name instead. I like Tommy Lee better than Tommy Bass. Sounds more rock n' roll. Despite, y’know, the bass being a part of rock n’ roll-"

"Speaking about rock n' roll," Mick interrupted Tommy just as he was going to go into another enthusiastic speech. The boy could probably talk for hours on end if given the chance. "I guess you all are huge fans of Deep Purple."

"Yeah, it's probably not hard to guess," the boy looked slightly abashed. "Nikki has this portable record player, he stole it... uh... well, he has that player and we can listen to music on it, and we wanted to get the record and listen to it, then sell it."

"Makes sense. Why would you sell it though?"

"We were kicked out of our last room and haven't found a new one yet."

"So you have nowhere to keep it.” Mick concluded, an icky feeling rising up in his chest. He could see where he was going with his next question and he didn’t like it at all. “And... where do you sleep?"

"Wherever we can." Tommy shrugged. "Sometimes Vince's boyfriend agrees to put me and Nikki up, but he’d rather, y’know, spend some time with Vince instead so it doesn’t happen so often. Sometimes club owners let us spend the night inside in exchange for some work done. Sometimes we sleep outdoors."

The fact that the blondie had a boyfriend surprised Mick way less than it probably should have: boys who look like girls usually behave like them as well. Tommy’s nonchalant “sometimes we sleep outdoors” was what amplified that icky feeling in his stomach tenfold. What did the lives of these kids look like that roving around the city, from one shitty apartment to another, never knowing where they would end up next night was really no big deal for them?

A wave of anger washed over Mick. No child should know homelessness, should be left to fend for themselves like that. Where were their goddamn parents, those people who should have cared for them? They had been given a chance to bring a human, a living, breathing, thinking human out in the world, and they passed up this chance knowingly and willingly?

Mick had been deprived of that chance, but oh how he wished he hadn’t.

He took a few deep breaths, trying hard not to let fury and bitterness raging inside of him leak through his facade of mild curiosity. After all, he didn’t want to scare the kid off.

"And what are you gonna do when it gets colder?"

"I dunno, it’s only been a couple of months for me." Tommy shook his head. "Nikki says he knows some places, he's much more experienced than me. He says he’s been living out in the streets his whole life."

"He does look like he has," Mick murmured. "And how have you ended up out there?"

“I?” The boy suddenly became very interested in the floor under his own feet. "I… don't really want to talk about that," he said, his expression unexpectedly stern, his voice thick. Mick definitely had just entered a danger zone.

"Alright, alright. I hope there wasn't any crime involved?"

"What? Oh... well, n-no..." Tommy mumbled absolutely unconvincingly. Something wasn’t right there.

"There was, right?"

"No! I mean... I did nothing wrong. They might think I did. I know I didn't. I was just trying to escape."

"Escape what?"

"The or-“ The kid barely managed to stop at the last moment, “-the place. I swear I only did that because It was so goddamn awful. Everyone was so mean. I couldn't handle it anymore."

"Couldn’t handle what, the jail?" Mick began to feel he could do well as a police interrogator. The boy had almost let it slip already.

"No! I said I did no crime."

"Okay, okay. And what, are “they” searching for you now?"

"I dunno. I hope they don't. The fewer of us hungry orphans - the better...” Tommy’s eyes went wide, his hand jerked up to his face in an unconscious attempt to cover his mouth. “Oh shit. I said it, yeah? Fuck. I said it." He groaned, burying his face in his palms. "Are you gonna bring me back? Tell the police?"

"I told ya, kid.” Mick sighed. So this was why the boy was so afraid of being handed to the police - he didn’t want to go back to the orphanage. “Be honest and no police will be involved. And I keep my promises."

The kid only sniffed in response but relaxed a little bit. Mick was never good with children, even with his own – in fact, they were more often than not intimidated by him. With Tommy it felt… different. He wasn’t scared of Mick himself, even now, when his fate was in Mick’s hands. He was only scared of having to go back.

It was new to Mick. And he liked the feeling.

"Okay, nevermind,” Mick said in the most casual way possible and without missing a bit changed the topic. “When did you last eat?"

Tommy looked up at Mick and frowned, but quickly figured out what’s what and dropped the topic as well. He wasn’t nearly as stupid as Mick had considered him to be at first. Too talkative, yes, a bit naïve as well, but definitely not stupid.

"Um... yesterday? Why you asking?"

"You must be hungry. I've got some snacks in the back room.” Mick said slowly, every word dragging in his throat.

"Oh." Tommy fell silent for a moment, not daring to ask the question. "You mean, I can... take them?"

"Christ, kid," Mick rolled his eyes. "Why d’you think I'm telling you that?"

"So I can?"

"Yes.” Mick barely managed to hold his laughter. “You can. Follow me, I’ll pack some up for you."

Tommy remained still, staring at him with disbelief. "That's really not necessary, Mr. Mars..."

"Just Mick. Ain't no misters here."

"Oh. Okay. That's really not necessary, M- Mick. You've already been too kind to me."

"Hush." The boy's blabbering surely was entertaining, but only to a certain extent, and Tommy had long ago overstepped it. Besides, the conversation had definitely been no easy ride.

Surprisingly, he did shut his mouth and followed Mick to the back room. Very careless of him, Mick thought grimly, hadn’t his friends told him where they’d been locked up? The boy was too trustful for his own good, a positive but absolutely inappropriate trait for kids like him. It was a miracle he hadn’t gotten into some big trouble yet.

Then Mick realized he himself was that very trouble he had just thought of and couldn’t help chuckling.

Mick went through the cupboards in the room, grabbing everything remotely edible. He needed to store more snacks for the next time. If there would be the next time, an unpleasant voice in his head reminded him.

Which Mick had to find out right there and then.

"Do you work?" he asked, handing Tommy a bag of snacks. It was mostly stuff like cookies and chips, but still better than nothing.

"Yeah, if I can find some. People usually don't really wanna hire someone like me. I guess I gotta have a haircut."

"Definitely," Mick murmured. The boy’s thick curls looked like they hadn’t seen scissors for a year or more. Mick breathed in and went for it. "You know, I run this shop all by myself and would certainly do with some assistance. Also no haircut requirements. What do you think of that?"

"Do you suggest… that I work here?" Tommy almost tripped over the couch, looking at Mick as though he offered him to become an heir to a multimillion fortune. "Like, for money?"

"No, for your CV." Mick rolled his eyes. "For money, of course. Just some chores, like cleaning the floor, stocking the shelves. I'm getting a bit old to handle all that. I can put on some records if you'd like as well."

"But you don't look old..."

"It's only on the outside. So, do you agree?"

"Do I... oh my god. Of course. Of course, I agree!" Tommy almost jumped up in the air, waving the bag around so enthusiastically Mick heard the snacks in it crunch. "Working in a record shop! I'll get to listen to all the music I want! And get money for it! Actual money! The guys won’t believe that!" Seeing Mick wince, Tommy abruptly stopped. Mick spoke before he could launch into a series of apologies.

"They can come too, by the way. Unless Nikki doesn't try to steal something, of course."

"He won’t, not after his failure. I'm not sure they'll agree, but I’ll definitely come! Tomorrow?"

"A couple of days a week will do. Which ones are up to you."

"Oh, so I can come twice a week? No more than that?”

“Well- oh, shit,” Mick’s spine chose the most inconvenient moment to remind him that he couldn’t afford to stand for so long. Concern lit up in Tommy’s eyes, but, thank god, he said nothing. “You can come any day, it’s just that there won’t be much work for you to do.”

 “But I can just come and listen to records?”

“Yes, you can come and listen to records. Just don’t bring your whole gang or what kids like you have. Just you and your two, hm, friends.”

“Okay!” Tommy nodded fiercely. “Okay, I got it. Sorry for so many questions. And… thank you, Mr- Mick, thank you so much. So, so much. I can't believe... I..."

This time one look from Mick was enough to make the boy shut up. He was making progress, Mick thought with grim amusement.

"Quit that, kid. One 'thank you' is enough. Now go. Your buddies – Nikki and Vince, right? - are probably worried."

"Yeah, they probably are," Tommy nodded and finally turned towards the exit, walking slowly, his gaze still fixed on Mick. When he almost reached the door, he stopped, put the bag on the floor, ran back to Mick and wrapped his arms around him. It lasted barely a second, and then, just as fast, he dashed back to the door and disappeared behind it with a loud slam.

Mick didn’t move for a little while, still feeling the warmth of those thin arms around him. If not for the empty cardboards and the record lying on the couch in the back room (Mick hadn’t even noticed Tommy put it there) he wouldn’t believe that everything that just happened wasn’t some kind of a fever dream. Or an alcohol dream. Mick glanced at the bottle of whiskey. No, it was almost full. Couldn’t have been alcohol then.

Mick grabbed a chair and sank into it with a sigh of relief, letting his poor back rest against the soft cushion. “Fireball” was lying on the couch, black cover against bleak orange upholstery, bright purple against black, too bright, too contrasting. Mick rubbed his eyes until he started seeing colorful circles, and closed them, waiting for the black to engulf him.

It didn’t. Instead, he kept seeing Tommy’s face in front of his, that face of thousands emotions that were switching with the speed of light, from scared to desperate to sad to hopeful to happy. Another face popped up, blond curls framing pretty, girlish features. Vince, right? Vinnie, Tommy called him. It suited him. And Nikki, defiant, bristling, silent misfit. Tommy, Nikki, Vinnie. The day, the night and the moon. Wait, what the fuck was that poetic bullshit?

Mick forced himself out of the chair, shambled to the door, put the “Closed” sign on it and returned to the back room. While making himself a cup of the strongest coffee he ever had, he tried to comprehend everything that had happened over the last few days. Three shoplifters from the same gang tried to steal the same record from his shop over just a couple of days, and how did Mick react? Invited them to work there. Amazing. Brilliant. Groundbreaking.

Mick grabbed his coffee and downed it a few huge gulps. If someone had told him all that a week ago, he would have laughed them in the face. Now he didn't feel like laughing at all.

What had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Text

The next morning Mick raked clean a good half of the snack stalls in the store near his shop. He didn’t have a fridge in his store, or he would get some more decent food than chips, cookies and chocolate bars. He probably looked like an oversized ten-year-old who accidentally got ahold of twenty dollars, but at least he could be sure the kids would eat it. Kids always love things like these. Super unhealthy, yes, but better to eat snacks than nothing at all.

Mick left the bag in the back room conveniently open in case Tommy would be too shy to ask directly or straight up dig into it right there. He highly doubted Tommy would take it without permission, but how could he be so certain about a boy he only talked to for half an hour before?

He, however, was; he had no clue why.

When Mick headed to the door to open the store, some little part of him expected Tommy to already stand behind the door, pressing his face into the glass in an attempt to get a peek of what was inside. Of course, Tommy didn’t. Of-fucking-course, he wouldn’t have come so goddamn early. Teenage boys always sleep a lot, especially if they don’t have to go to school. Or he could be busy with his mates, lifting from some other, worse-guarded store. Or roaming the streets looking for work. Or roaming the streets looking for nothing at all. What were teenage boys even up to these days?

Enough, Mick cut himself off middle-thought. Why did he even spare those three little shitheads that much thought?

Mick went back to the register, picked up a book and began reading it. Ten pages in, he found himself not remembering a single word from what he had just read. He cursed under his breath, suppressing an urge to throw the book across the room. The book didn’t deserve such treatment just because its owner was such an idiot.

The door opened, and Mick raised his head up so abruptly a sting of pain went down his neck. A customer. Very regular, very middle-aged, very female customer. Probably gotta serve her.

During the day Mick's neck had to endure this exact same experience so many times that by the end of the day a dull pain settled in its base. At least it wasn’t debilitating, for now, just pretty fucking annoying, but it could easily become such if Mick kept up this foolish behaviour.

Berating and calling himself names in his head didn’t help much, though. Once some customer had left and no other was in sight, Mick pulled the bottle of whiskey out of the register, the one in which he found peace during the blondie's (Vince, right?) visit to his store. The bottle was almost empty. Damn. He had surely gone through a lot lately, and handling it was, apparently, too daunting for a sober mind. 

Mick looked at the bottle wistfully for a few seconds, called himself a fool one more time, finished the bottle in one long gulp and hurled it in the trash can behind his back. It missed, but he couldn’t bring himself to pick it up.

In the evening the flow of customers grew more steady. It helped Mick stay distracted enough - enough not to constantly cast glances towards the back room, where the bag with the snacks was still lying, untouched. Still, it was always present in the back of his mind, a silent but at the same time an incredibly loud reminder of his own naivety.

Mick closed his shop at eight p.m., as he always did. Some said this early it was unreasonable, that he was losing potential clients. Mick did and knew that - the influx of them increased greatly in the late evening when young people went hanging around the streets. But he couldn't afford hiring a shop assistant, and running the store twelve hours a day all alone was physically impossible for him, not with his goddamn back.

Mick left the bag with the snacks where it was and headed home, his heart heavy. The kid looked so enthusiastic yesterday that he had expected to find him sleeping on the doorsteps this morning. What stopped him? No, that was the wrong question. Was he mistaken about him? sounded closer to reality.

The next day went in the same fashion. Mick's anxiety grew and grew, and he had to make a conscious effort to stop himself from glancing at the window every few minutes. He didn't even know what he wanted to see there. Surely he didn't expect to see Tommy pressing his nose to the window and looking wistfully inside, did he?

Although only God probably knew what Mick could expect from that boy. “Probably” because Tommy looked like the type to act first and think second, and to predict someone’s actions in the absence of a forethought was most likely impossible even for God.

When the third day had gone by with no Tommy in sight, Mick shoved the bag with snacks into the deepest corner of the cupboard, solely because it was no good for food to lie in the middle of the room. He didn't want cockroaches in his store, right?

Fourth day passed, fifth, sixth, then Mick stopped counting. When he was taking out the trash, he found two more empty whiskey bottles in it. He didn't even notice he had drunk so much. He definitely needed to do something about it – not drop by the liquor store every other day, for example, suggested the obnoxious voice inside his head. Mick pushed it to the back of his mind, as he always did, but decided to take the suggestion into consideration. He had been trying to give up alcohol, after all.

Deep Purple's "Fireball", being quite popular with customers, got sold out, and Mick ordered no more copies. He hadn't had the chance to check it out himself, not that it really mattered. After all, it was just an album. Probably not even a very good one. Definitely not good. Not even worth giving it a try.

Then, about two weeks later (who did Mick try to fool, though? It was exactly twelve days after the day), Tommy came.

He stood in the doorway looking like a puppy that had just ruined the carpet, wrapping his arms around his body in what seemed a defensive gesture. His hair somehow got even messier, his sneakers dirtier. Mick recalled the rain that had poured down three days ago. Hadn't the boy heard about public laundromats?

A pang of nervousness so strong it echoed in his stomach went through Mick. He gripped the record he was holding so tightly it almost cracked while hectically trying to come up with a suitable greeting. What the fuck was even happening with him that he panicked like a virgin on a first date? This was as far from a date as it could get, and he sure as hell wasn’t a virgin.

"Mr. Mars," Tommy finally called him quietly. "Mr. Mars, do you remember me?"

Mick inhaled deeply and turned towards him.

"I told you to call me Mick, kid. Come in."

Mick wasn't sure if his carefully mastered nonchalant tone was convincing enough, but it seemed to work. Tommy beamed and ran inside, slamming the door behind him with such force Mick could feel the nearby shelves shake. The kid gasped at the sound and dashed back, then halfway through realized it was too late and ran back to him, all of that so fast Mick didn’t even blink once.

"How can I help?" Tommy tried to catch Mick’s gaze, his enthusiasm so zealous it seemed almost desperate. "I can wash the floor, dust the shelves, sort the records, make you some coffee, whatever you-"

"First things first." Mick had to interrupt him. Otherwise, he couldn’t get a word in edgeways. "Are you hungry?”

"Er…"

"I thought so. Go fetch some snacks in the back room. Third cupboard on the right."

"But I didn’t do anything yet-"

"Working on an empty stomach is no good,” Mick cut him off, his voice a little bit harsher than he intended. Tommy got the hint, though.

"Oh. Okay."

He took a few unconfident steps towards the back room and turned his head to check up on Mick. Mick didn't look back, pretending to be extremely interested in the record he just pulled out of a box. The uneasiness in the air was so thick Mick could probably grab it with his bare hands.

He let out a sigh of relief once the boy disappeared behind the door. Sure, it was going easier with Tommy than with any other kid, but that didn't mean it was actually easy.

By the time Tommy showed up Mick had pulled himself together. The boy tried to look serious, but Mick could see a smile hiding in the corners of his mouth. He waved his hand with four empty chips bags in it. Mick pointed at the trash can behind the door, silently admiring the boy's, hm, capability.

Tommy must have caught something in his expression because his cheeks turned faint pink. He threw the bags into the can and turned back to Mick. "I'm sorry,” he began anxiously. Mick frowned, and he started talking even faster. “I ate too much, right? It’s just that those are my favorite chips. Haven’t had them in a while."

"Oh God, kid." Mick rolled his eyes. "All of that is for you. Take as much as you want. You're a teen, teens need to eat a lot."

"Yeah," Tommy chortled, his face switching back to enthusiasm in a heartbeat. "The guys always wonder how it all fits inside me."

"Well, you're growing, your body needs nutrients. How old are you, by the way?"

"Me? Sixteen," Tommy said quickly, then added reluctantly: "Well, almost. Still one month and a half to go."

Fifteen. Not even in high school yet. God fucking damn.

Something hot, boiling, angry rose in Mick's chest and in a matter of seconds spread within his whole body. Mick’s hands itched to throw something into the wall, and he had to make an immense mental effort to push the anger back into his subconsciousness, to deal with it later and on his own. He couldn’t do anything with it now, not in front of the kid.

Why do you even give a shit, a small, indifferent voice awoke once again in the back of his mind. You didn't care that much even when your wife dumped you.

She was a bitch, Mick retorted. Not a big loss anyway.

"You're not even eighteen. Don’t you have any relatives out there to help you until then, since you’re out of the orphanage? Aren’t they, like, legally obliged to take you in?"

Tommy's dynamic, lively face immediately hardened, as though turned into a mask, sparkles of enthusiasm in his eyes died out. Fuck, Mick realized panicky, wrong, wrong, wrong move.

"They probably are," Tommy said bleakly.

"But didn’t do it," Mick concluded quickly. "Okay, got you. So, how about we finally do some work around here?"

"Yeah!" Tommy's face lit up again - thank God, that lifeless mask was gone. "Whatever you want. I can do anything."

"Let's start with washing the floor,” Mick suggested. "You can get a mop and a bucket in the toilet."

"Just a second!" Tommy darted towards the toilet and disappeared behind the door. Something inside fell down and clattered across the floor accompanied by a loud “Shit!”. A few seconds later Tommy returned with the items, looking slightly disheveled. "Should I clean the back room too?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

Such politeness took the boy aback for a second, but he quickly recovered and strolled to the door, splashing the water all along his way. Truly a walking ball of vigorous energy, Mick thought with unexpected fondness. Although, to be fair, almost all the emotions he felt towards the boy were unexpected for him. He didn’t even know him that well, after all.

Tommy clearly put quantity above quality. Though he completed the task in a mere fifteen minutes, the floor still had stains of dirt in the corners and puddles of water with visible traces of Tommy's dirty sneakers in them.

"Sorry, kid, but that needs to be redone," Mick had to tell him, partly fearing the boy's potential reaction. And with good reason, because Tommy’s face dropped, he bit his lip anxiously. With a frantic wave of his hand, Mick managed to stop the torrent of apologies before getting flooded by them completely, but the boy still looked heartbroken.

“That’s really not a big deal,” Mick told him, trying to sound gentle. “There’s nothing bad in not getting something done well at first.”

“I kno-ow,” Tommy sighed. “But like, I never do things well. I either hurry too much and totally fuck everything up or give up in the middle.”

“So what? We all do. It’s only gonna work out if you keep trying.”

Tommy looked utterly unconvinced, but nodded anyway. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

“I ain’t in a hurry, kid. Take as much time as you need.”

“Thanks.” Tommy grabbed the bucket and headed to the front of the store. “You’re the first to not call me lazy over that,” he said, looking anywhere but at Mick.

“Really? That’s stupid. No one can learn without a few errors first.”

“Well, yeah, but I’ve got too many of them.” A stray strand of hair fell on Tommy’s face and he pushed it behind his ear with a sharp jerk of his hand. “Nevermind. I know I’m inattentive. I always overlook stuff. Just tell me when I fuck up and I’ll fix it.”

“Who told you that?” Mick was starting to get frustrated. He could see the eagerness, the enthusiasm, and that was what mattered, not some missed dirt stains. Yet the kid absolutely couldn’t see anything beyond that and automatically deemed himself a failure.

"Teachers always do.” Tommy looked at Mick in confusion, trying to understand what he was getting angry about. “Well, did.”

"Did? What, you're not going to school now?" he asked and immediately regretted it, realizing the sheer stupidity of his question. The boy wore rags, slept on the streets and often went around hungry. Of course, he wouldn't add school to his already numerous concerns.

"Nah," Tommy shook his head. "Used to. Vince and I were in the same class actually. Then he dropped out, and a lil’ bit later I did too."

"And what grade did it happen in?"

"Tenth. Don't worry, I can read, write, count and shit - sorry, uh, stuff - like that just fine," Tommy added, as though reading Mick's thoughts. "There's really nothing else school can give us, is it? For me, it was just a pile of garbage. It was so boring. I only liked music and arts."

Well, that was pretty predictable. The kid seemed like a creative type.

“It depends on the teachers, I think." Mick couldn't help but partly agree with him. His own memories about school, still fresh in his mind, weren't too far from what Tommy had described. "Although a diploma can be pretty useful in later life, y'know."

"What for?" Tommy carelessly shrugged his words off. "I'm going to be a rockstar! They don't need no diplomas."

Mick felt like he got punched right in the guts. He could have said those words some seven or eight years ago. He, in fact, did. Naive and hopeful, just like the kid in front of him.

Those eight years now felt like eighty.

It was better now, he thought with grimness unfit for such a positive thought. He had a stable, not very high, but stable income. He had a nice flat. He was his own boss and didn't have to bend to anyone’s will. It might not be an ideal life, but it was a much better life than the one he used to lead, in infested with cockroaches shelters for homeless  or shitty rental apartments. It was disillusioned and monotonous and predictable and good, right?

Right?

Through great effort, Mick cut off his own thoughts. Was he actually fucking nostalgic about the past that he had been trying to escape for so long?

The kid interpreted his prolonged silence differently.

"Mick? You don't agree?" panicky undertones trickled into his voice, no matter how much he tried to hide them. 

"What?" His voice quickly brought Mick back to reality. Christ, his expression just went slightly aloof, and Tommy already started panicking? "Oh. Well, you understand that out of all the boys that strive to be rockstars only few actually become ones, do you?"

"Of course. But why can't I be among those chosen few? You think I'm no rockstar?" Tommy asked nervously. Although Mick would rather not have this conversation, Tommy’s anxiety over his opinion was almost flattering, in a way.

"Of course not," Mick quickly corrected himself. Delving into memories made him lose caution for a second, and he couldn't afford that with Tommy. "But it's always good to have a second option in case the first... goes not as planned."

He almost said fails. Almost.

"O-oh." Tommy frowned pensively. "I haven’t considered that."

"Then it's probably a good time to do it," Mick said maybe too quickly to sound natural, but Tommy paid no mind. The foundation had been laid; now it was up to Tommy to accept or deny it. "While you're rewashing the floor, for example. Do you want me to put something on?"

Tommy beamed. "Yes, sure! Can I choose?"

"Grab whichever you want," Mick pointed at a pile of second-hand records some people had brought him to resell. Tommy practically dove into the pile with unintelligible sounds of pleasure.

Rewashing took Tommy much less than "Dressed To Kill" by Kiss lasted; Mick was careless enough to call it "some pop tunes" and was punished with an angry speech on the superiority of glam rock over any other genre. It had no effect on him, though. Jeff Beck was better than those Kiss anyway. Those were just facts.

Half of the day flew by unnoticed, and Mick only realized it was almost two when his stomach started grumbling. He usually took half an hour lunch break and headed to the nearest cafe for a sandwich and a coffee. This time, though, he was not the only worker in the shop. Mick thought of closing the store and going to the cafe with Tommy to have a proper lunch, but then another, much better thought crossed his mind.

"Tommy," he called him from where the boy was slowly wiping the shelves. He was taking out every record and examining it, holding each of them in his hands so carefully it was like they were made of glass. Mick watched him proudly from behind the register. Over the course of his career, very few customers had enough respect for the records to treat them properly.

Tommy quickly put the record in his hands back into place and ran over to him. God, did the kid even know what “walking” means?

"Do you feel like grabbing some lunch? Good,” Mick continued after Tommy nodded enthusiastically. “There's a cafe five minutes down the road, I usually eat there. Get some chicken wings and a hot dog for me and something of your choice for yourself. Here's the money." Mick handed him a fifty-dollar bill. It was much more than actually needed, but that was the plan.

Tommy stared at the money in his hand. Mick could almost see him swallowing a question.

"O-okay. I can… absolutely whatever I want?"

"Except booze, of course. And cigarettes."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure. Alright. I'll go then." Tommy pushed the money in his pocket and with shaky steps headed to the door. Mick followed him with his gaze and wondered if he'd ever see him again.

He did – thirty minutes later. According to Mick’s experience, Tommy should have been back in fifteen.

"Here are your chicken wings. Oh, and a hot dog!" Tommy said cheerfully, handing Mick the change. Mick immediately spotted a couple of dollar bills. "I got a burger and some cola for myself, if that’s alright?"

"Sure, sure," Mick answered absent-mindedly, being completely absorbed in counting the money. He knew all the prices in that cafe and he knew exactly how much the boy should have spent there.

The amount of money spent and the estimated price absolutely matched.

Mick let out an audible sigh of relief. Those fifteen extra minutes had him thinking some very unpleasant thoughts. Thank god, they were all wrong.

"Are you sure a burger will be enough for you?" Mick asked, biting into a chicken wing. "You can take my hot dog, I'm not that hungry anyway."

Chapter Text

Tommy came again six days later, this time in the late afternoon. He peered gingerly into the store, not even daring to open the door wide enough to see his face. Mick could only see one very worried eye and a trembling right corner of his lips.

"Mr- Mick? Am I too late?"

"Never too late for cleaning, kid." Mick looked up at him from his lunch which he was consuming at the moment. He’d rather keep staring at the hot dog he was eating, but the boy didn’t need to know Mick was probably even more anxious than him. "Lunch first, though. Are you hungry?"

He didn't wait for Tommy to answer and put a couple of dollars onto the counter. Tommy stepped into the shop, closed the door behind him carefully, and almost tiptoed to the counter. Mick smiled, trying to reassure him that everything is alright. The boy smiled back timidly and took the money – silently. He didn't even try to start his usual "oh you're too kind, Mr. Mars", which Mick decided to consider his personal achievement.

"You know what to do."

Tommy did, and this time came back not only with a burger but also with French fries. Progress, Mick thought with warm satisfaction.

Tommy handed him the change, pulled up a chair from the back room, placed it near Mick, sat down and started eating, or, rather, devouring his food. Mick couldn't help but watch him proudly like a granny watches her grandson eating homemade food. The awkward silence in the shop was interrupted only by Tommy’s energetic chewing, and Mick decided to put on some music. Tommy approved randomly pulled out of the pile Led Zeppelin II with a thumb up - his mouth was too full to speak.

"How much time do I have?" Tommy asked once he was done with his fries. "You close at eight, right?"

"Right, but that doesn't mean I'm leaving at eight. I usually stay overtime to sort out records and count the revenue. So take your time. Why are you so late today, though?"

"Uh," embarrassment reddened Tommy’s cheeks suddenly, "I, uh, had to wait for the guys to leave for a, hm, job. They were supposed to do it in the morning, but we had a, well, some good time at a club yesterday. So we all were, hm, kind of hungover today. So we overslept. But as soon as the guys were out the door, I rushed to you!"

Mick rolled his eyes, mostly out of Being-An-Adult duty than out of disapproval. He didn’t approve of such behavior of teenagers but believed it to be perfectly natural. He was like that too once, after all.

And Tommy rushed to meet him. Rushed. Nobody was ever as excited about meeting him as Tommy. Even Mick’s own kids.

"Ain't you too young to drink, kid? How d’ya even get there?"

"Well, not that it's really that difficult," Tommy snorted into his soda. "The security knows us."

"Oh, so you're also faithful clients?" Mick chuckled. He knew he shouldn’t approve it. At the same time, he wouldn’t be able to play a strict guardian even if he tried. "It was stricter in my days, which weren't so long ago, but still. Good for you, I guess. Just don't do drugs."

"I don't!" Tommy reassured him, for some reason really emphasizing that "I". "Honestly, I didn't expect you to be so chill about that. All adults I know always freak over it."

"I'm chill about a lot of things." Mick almost didn't lie. After all, how could he judge someone when he, himself, couldn’t beat the very same addiction?

A customer, an elderly lady looking like she got stuck in the fifties, entered the shop, and Mick, noticing glances of disapproval she cast at Tommy, shooed him to the back room. He didn’t want the kid to scare off all his customers.

He definitely needs a haircut, Mick thought idly. And new jeans. And new shoes. And new, well, everything. It was a wonder he still hadn't attracted the attention of the police, walking around the streets like that. Mick never considered his neighborhood to be respectable, but even here the boy looked terribly out of place.

He could, of course, pay Tommy more – not that this rather small sum of money could make his business go bankrupt. He knew, though, that Tommy wasn’t very likely to spend it on clothes or even food, considering everything he had just heard. And Mick didn’t want his money to go into making those kids alcoholics. It could go into making Mick an alcoholic himself, of course, but he was an adult who was willingly giving in to a habit he realized was harmful to him. Mick was pretty sure none of those young misfits knew what an addiction could entail.

The customer was particularly fond of Elvis Presley and ended up buying a few of his rare editions, which rather improved Mick's opinion on her. He always respected a keen music lover, especially an Elvis lover.

"Can I go out now?" Tommy whispered dramatically, peering from the backroom after he had heard the door close. "She didn't really like me much, did she?"

"Old farts like her” – aren’t you an old fart yourself, the voice in Mick’s head whispered, “want all boys to have bowl cuts, wear bow ties and obey their parents. Don't worry about that."

"I don't." Tommy shrugged. "I'm used to it. What should I do now?"

"The floor is waiting for you." Mick waved his hand towards the toilet, where Tommy proceeded to go to fetch a mop and a bucket.

The conversation seemed pretty light-hearted, almost without that last time tension, and Mick almost managed to believe everything was alright.

Almost, because something lingered in his mind. A phrase of Tommy's, barely a couple of words that rubbed him up the wrong way. God, they talked barely ten minutes ago. What was his memory turning-

Gotcha.

"Hey, Tommy," Mick called, and Tommy ran up to him from the other side of the store, concern on his face.

"Yeah?"

"What did you say about the guys? Something before the bar talk?"

"What did I say about..." Tommy frowned, then his eyes widened. "Oh shit."

"What was that?" Mick demanded to know, taking a step towards Tommy. He was barely taller than him and not much stronger, but Tommy still shrunk, staring at the floor.

"Tommy."

"I'm sorry!" Tommy exclaimed nervously. "I don't want you to think badly about the guys. They just didn't have a chance to get to know you yet. Nikki's super paranoid in general too. I know they'll come to terms with it, but it takes some time."

"Come to terms with what?" Mick tried to find Tommy's eyes, but he hid them behind his bangs.

"Me coming to your store," Tommy confessed with the desperation of a drug addict giving away his dealers. "They don't trust you. They think I don't understand shit. That I'm naive and stupid and can't see through people at all. They treat me like a fucking stupid little boy, and Vince is the same fucking age as me, just nine months older! I'm tired of that shit. I want to prove to them that I'm not stupid. I see that you're a good person. They just need to believe me."

Tommy stopped to gasp for air, and Mick just stood there and looked at him with a face devoid of emotion.

He was right in some way. Not about his own naivety: the boy was as naive as one could get, and it was pure luck he came across Mick instead of any other adult with less pure intentions. But Mick did understand how the situation appeared to someone who couldn't really see through his intentions.

Tommy was going to continue his tirade, but one glance on Mick’s face changed his plans. He stared at Mick for a moment, his eyes desperately examining his face, and then asked:

"Are you angry?"

A wave of cold washed over Mick. Was it his facial expression that the kid got scared of? Did he pull a son-of-a-bitch face once again? And god damn, why did the kid think Mick would be angry at every little thing he did?

"What? No, they have a point," Mick shook his head. Tommy, obviously expecting a different reply, blinked in confusion. "Their concerns are reasonable. They're worried about you."

"Yeah, maybe they do that, but they never take me and my opinions seriously!" Tommy started to flare up again. “It’s always, oh, T-bone, you don’t understand, you don’t know anything about life! I have escaped the goddamn orphanage, I’ve been living out on streets for almost a year now, I had my share of hardships, but for them, I’m still too young and naïve!”

After a short silence Mick uttered his conclusion.

“Yeah, it sucks.”

And immediately regretted it. He had to fight the desire to hide under the counter, far from Tommy’s disappointed face. He needed to support the boy, to help him deal with his problems, and once the kid actually opened up and started speaking about those problems, the only reply Mick could come up with was “Yeah, that sucks”? It must have come off as indifferent at best, mocking at worst. Great job, Mick. Just great.

“Yeah! That’s what I’m saying!” Tommy nodded fiercely. Mick raised his glance, examining the kid’s expression. “At least you understand me, thank god.”

“Yeah, I do,” Mick murmured, frantically trying to come up with something more coherent to say. The boy seemed to have missed the awkwardness of his latest remark. He was just glad someone supported him. Maybe Mick overreacted a little. Maybe it wasn’t all that bad.

He still didn’t know what to say, though.

“You know,” his brain finally came up with an option, and Mick clung to it with passion of a lover holding their partner close, “maybe they need to see what we’re actually doing here to realize their paranoia is unfounded? I understand they might have had a slightly wrong impression of my character when I was dragging them to the backroom threatening to call the police.”

“Yeah,” Tommy giggled, “this sure has left a biased impression. So you think I should bring them here?”

“Exactly,” Mick confirmed quickly, glad that he got off cheap with his lack of parenting skills. “Great idea. Bring them to the store and show what we’re doing here. And, additional help is always welcome.”

“Oh, great!” Tommy beamed. “I love it here with you but I really want to be able to tell the guys about it. They won’t steal anything, I promise.”

“Of course they won’t, after such a failure,” Mick laughed. “Nikki seems like the type with principles. Not sure about Vinnie.”

“The only principles he has are not to sleep with cross-eyed girls and not to have a curly-haired person in a band,” Tommy smiled. “I don’t know why he hates curly hair so much. He has a lot of, um, quirks.”

Nikki was a walking quirk himself, Mick thought, but decided not to say it. Tommy could laugh at Nikki’s weird preferences as much as he wanted to, but Mick saw how warm his voice became every time he mentioned Nikki. Surrounded by cold and unfriendly adults, Tommy could really take to a person that expressed even a minimum amount of concern and care.

Mick could only hope Nikki wasn’t a bad influence for the kid. Which he probably was, with his always-looking-for-trouble attitude.

“You two seem to be close,” he only said, trying to manipulate Tommy into telling him more about Nikki. The boy only needed a slight push in the right direction.

“Well, we have spent half a year roaming the streets, I guess that really brings people together,” Tommy shrugged. “Without him I wouldn’t have survived out there. He’s super street smart. He says he ran away from home when he was twelve.”

“Doesn’t he have any relatives to put him up? A twelve-year-old kid was just sleeping out in the streets and no one cared?” Mick only now started to realize how big the problem was.

“Well, I’m not entirely sure, but he said his mother never cared about him. Well,” Tommy lingered, “he didn’t say exactly that, but it was pretty clear. He’s got grandparents, but they live in another state, and Nikki said he wanted to stay in L.A. I’m not sure if he has any other relatives. He never mentioned anyone else.”

“That’s not much,” Mick sighed. Anger started to rise inside him. A child should always have a home to come back to. Always. The mere thought of people who could so easily abandon their child, their flesh and blood, made Mick feel sick to the stomach. “And you all have been surviving on what, Nikki’s, hm, skills?”

“Well, we work if we can find something sometimes. Vince also helps out. He has this talent of finding boyfriends with property, so we can spend a night or two under the roof of one of his numerous lays before Nikki pisses them off and they throw us out.”

“And how often does this happen?” Mick felt like he was going to throw up. One a shoplifter, another basically a prostitute. What a great company for an impressionable young boy just out of an orphanage.

“Well, Nikki has a talent of pissing off Vince’s boyfriends, so it happens quite often. But Vince always finds new ones.”

“Where? Nightclubs?”

“Maybe. He says he “knows his places”. As though we don’t know which gay bars he hangs out in. There are not so many of them around.”

“Wait a minute,” Mick interrupted him. “Aren’t they all eighteen plus? How does he get in there?”

“Well, he used to sing in bands when we were in high school. Probably from there. I’m not sure, we had same classes at school, rehearsed together even, he’s a good singer. Then I went to the orphanage, and when I came back, he no longer performed. I mean, my drum kit was gone, so I couldn’t play anymore but his voice didn’t go anywhere. I dunno, he just… changed. A lot.”

“In what way?”

Tommy sighed, plopped the rag in the bucket and looked up at Mick.

“He’s gone more, like, fake, you know? Like, he always plays his boyfriends around, they are ready to do everything for him, but he also tries it with us. He’s always in that playboy mode now. And that’s some kind of bullshit. I mean, he was like that at school and towards girls, but he never tried it with me. He knew I knew him. And now I feel like I don’t know him anymore.”

‘Who knows what happened to him while you were away,” Mick said. “Looks like he went through a lot.”

“Yes, I thought the same, but he always says everything is fine. And it’s not fine. And I can see it. And it’s killing me.” Tommy sighed and began dragging the rag across the floor.

“You do care about your friends a lot,” Mick noted gently.

“Too much for my own good,” Tommy murmured, not looking back at Mick, his whole attention devoted to the rag. Mick decided to stop asking. He’d heard enough to think over.

But first of all he had to take a closer look at those Nikki and Vince.

Chapter Text

The next time Tommy came accompanied. Vince followed him into the store. The contrast between the two was so drastic no one could imagine them hanging out together. The blond surfing star in spotlessly white pants couldn’t belong near a ragged, long-haired disaster that Tommy was.

Vince headed directly towards Mick. Tommy lingered behind, avoiding his gaze. Mick gripped the edge of the counter so tight his knuckles went white. He wasn’t that nervous even during any job interview. He wasn’t that nervous with Tommy as well; talking to him was easy, in a way. He was open, childish and eager to please, always curious and ashamed of it, and so talkative Mick only had to sprinkle the conversation with “yes”s and “wow”s. Vince, on the other hand, was a tougher nut to crack. Mick had to be careful.

“Couldn’t imagine that I’d come back here,” Vince said, looked Mick right in the eyes and flashing a smile. “But I’m ready to do everything possible to listen to some good music. Everything, sir.” He smiled again. Mick didn’t like this smile. There was something daring in it.

“Today’s “everything possible” includes sorting out records, washing the floor and dusting the shelves. Whatever you choose.”

“Oh,” Vince let out a hearty laugh, “sir, I don’t wanna work. Can I get it for a smile? Or dancing, maybe? I’m a good dancer.”

Vince stepped forward and leaned onto the counter, his face unnervingly close to Mick’s.

“No, thanks. You can dance your heart out after you do some work,” Mick suggested. “Some real work, I mean.”

“What about singing, then? I’m a good singer as well. Tommy can confirm. Right, Tommy?”

Tommy’s been standing behind Vince and staring at the ground the whole time. He flinched, startled when hearing his name. When Mick looked at him, he started nervously messing with his hair.

“Right,” he said quietly.

Vince put his elbows on the counter and leaned over it. Now his and Mick’s faces were mere inches away. Mick could feel the faint smell of his cologne – something flowery. He wouldn’t expect any other slum kid to wear cologne, but Mick would be more surprised if Vince didn’t wear it. For him, it was just in character.

“Maybe I could offer you something else,” Vince whispered and bit his lip, and Mick couldn’t help but recoil. It finally downed on him what was going on.

They were checking him.

Mick backed down so fast he almost dropped his chair to the floor. A wave of anger mixed with disgust once again washed over him, leaving. Who taught the kid to behave like this? What perverted mind would ever teach him? And why? “Listen, kid, I’m not your lay in some nightclub-“

“Why not?” Vince interrupted him. He smiled again, but this time it wasn’t pretty. It was defying.

“How old are you, fifteen?” Mick said, looking above Vince’s shoulder - at Tommy. The boy was red as a lobster and tried to hide his face in his hair. “I’ll be gentle and say you’re not my type – like any other minor. Now, I’m by no means an altruist. I’m not offering free music to anyone - only in exchange for a job well done. If you don’t wanna work, why are you here?”

“Tommy sang you such praises I decided to check you out as well,” Vince replied. His defying smile disappeared, but Mick could see his shoulders relax. Somehow he knew that he passed the test, or whatever they had come up with. He really shouldn’t have felt that relieved. Stupid kids with their stupid games!

“And what do you think?” Mick asked. “Our first impressions of each other might be a little biased.”

“And what do you think of me, sir?” Vince tilted his head, smiling slyly.

Mick sighed. “You’re one sleazy motherfucker.”

Vince stared at him for a few seconds and then burst into laughter. Tommy finally raised his head, looking at Vince with confusion, as though asking, what’s so funny about it? Mick knew he would never tell that to Tommy – it would hurt him rather than amuse. Vince, however, was a completely different case.

“You have your ways,” Mick continued once Vince stopped laughing, “but I’m immune to them. If you wanna listen to some records, that pile over there needs sorting. If not, then get out of my store.”

“You’re not very polite to your future employees, aren’t you?”

“Records, boy. They are waiting for you.”

Vince smiled again, but this time Mick actually liked it. It wasn’t sly, it wasn’t defying, it wasn’t a mask Vince put on to hide his actual intentions. This time, it was excited – like a music-loving kid should be when faced with such a chance.

“Okay, okay, boss, I’m on my way already.”

Mick and Tommy looked at him until he disappeared behind a shelf. Then Mick caught Tommy’s eye and winked. Tommy smiled, at first unconfidently, swiftly switching it to a happy beaming, and winked back.

“Hey, boss,” Vince called Mick a few minutes later. He approached, only to see Vince sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded with stacks of vinyls, holding two records in his hands. “Kiss or New York Dolls”?

“Neither,” Mick shook his head. “What do you young people find in New York Dolls? They’re hardly bearable to hear.”

“Mick!” Tommy gasped behind him and dropped the mop. It landed on his feet with a loud smack. “How dare you!”

“Sir, you barely look twenty-five, you still qualify as a young person,” Vince grinned. The motherfucker knew how to compliment.

“I’m older than you think,” Mick only said. The boy’s words weren’t far from the truth. Mick wasn’t even that old, even though his body tried to prove him otherwise his entire life. His own twenty-five seemed even farther away than it actually was. “And don’t call me ‘sir’.”

“Mick, then?” Vince smiled. “That feels way more intimate, you know?”

Mick opened his mouth, looked into Vince’s innocent eyes, closed it, sighed and went back to the counter. “Put on your dolls, or what they’re called,” he said from there. “I don’t care.”

He heard Tommy fiercely whispering “Don’t put them on! Get some Jeff Beck, Mick likes him.” And then, in Vince’s typical Californian drawl, “But Jeff Beck is so-o out-of-date”. Tommy said something again, now unintelligibly. Mick heard some movement from behind the shelves. “Hey, that hurts!” Vince exclaimed.

Then Jeff Beck started playing.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“I told you kids, put on your dolls or kisses or whatever!” Mick shouted. Jeff Beck stopped playing. Some more movement and hissing behind the shelves, and then Vince’s blonde head showed up above them.

“Maybe we could make a compromise?” he said, in that sweet voice of his that eliminated any attempt to disagree with its owner. “There surely are bands we both enjoy. How about Sweet?”

“Pop music with a rock n’ roll pretension.”

“Judas Priest?”

“They’re all gay as hell out there.”

“Cheap Trick?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Aerosmith?”

“Which album?”

“Toys in the attic.”

Mick spent a second or two mulling over the suggestion. If he keeps rejecting, they won’t listen to any music at all. “Okay,” he said then.

“See?” Vince turned to Tommy. “That works!”

“Maybe,” Tommy still was unconvinced. His desire to please Mick was both complimenting and disturbing. “Mick, are you sure you’re okay with Aerosmith?”

“Don’t worry, kid. They’re alright. They drink too much, but who doesn’t?”

“You too?” Vince asked suddenly, no smile on his face anymore. Mick stared at him wordlessly, frantically trying to come up with a decent response to such an outright question.

“Who the do you think you are to ask things like that?” He finally said, anger building up in his chest. Not so much because of the impolite question as because he couldn’t honestly say “no” to this.

“I’m just wondering. You don’t need to get all up in arms,” Vince said sweetly. “So, do you?”

“None of your business”. Mick clenched the edge of the counter again. A simple, on the first sight, question left him panicking. He really shouldn’t be so worried about some kid’s opinion on him.

“So you do.”

“No!” – Mick exclaimed maybe a little bit louder than he intended. Vince, however, didn’t seem to notice. “I, um, used to. But I’ve quit. I’m clean now.” Blood rushed to Mick’s ears. Thank god they were covered by his hair, or Vince would suspect something. Who the hell did the boy consider himself to be to ask an adult, almost a stranger, things like these? And, what’s more, expect an honest answer?

“Oh, that’s nice to hear.” Vince laughed, his personality back to his flirtatious self. He tried to mask the relief in his voice, but failed miserably. For some reason, it was very important for the kid. “Sorry if I hurt your feelings. I was just curious. You look like a cool rock n’ roll guy, and I know a lot of them drink and do drugs.”

“Keep your curiosity to yourself,” Mick muttered. “And your flattery too.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. The kid believed him, after all.

“As you wish,” smile disappeared from Vince’s face. Mick’s words must have been too harsh. And Mick totally wasn’t feeling guilty over making the kid shut up and mind his own business. Absolutely not.

“That’s not flattery, Mick!” Tommy opened his mouth for the first time in a while, pulling Mick out of his thoughts. Mick would never imagine Tommy could be that quiet for so long. “You do look like a cool rock star. I mean, your hair looks fabulous! And your attitude… if I met you on a street, I’d definitely think you’re in a band.”

“Vince, your flattery is contagious,” Mick couldn’t help but smile. That was the best compliment he had heard in a while. “I used to be in a band, some time ago. All of that is over, though.”

“See? I knew it!” Tommy exclaimed. “But why is it over?”

“It didn’t work out.” Mick hated to say that – it still hurt, and badly, - but the truth was more important than his feelings. Maybe if he warned the boy now, it later would be easier for him to accept that not all dreams come true. Maybe Tommy would thank Mick for it - later, when he is mature enough. “A lot of people want to be in a band, few of them actually find one, and even fewer make it big. We were one of the unlucky.”

“Did you try playing with other bands?” Vince chimed in. “Maybe you just haven’t found your band yet.”

“Do I look like a fucking idiot?” Vince’s condescending tone again awoke all the anger Mick suppressed in his chest today because of this little motherfucker. “I’ve changed tons of different bands. I played in probably every shitty bar in LA. I’ve been looking for the band since school. I slept on the floor and stole food from shops because my band couldn’t get enough money to rent a motel room. I did everything possible to make it big. And I still failed.”

Vince blinked in confusion, probably not expecting such a harsh reply, and said nothing. Mick didn’t want to hurt the boy, but the fact that he caught Vince, who could probably outspeak anyone, off-guard, made him feel some kind of pride.

“Oh, Mick,” Tommy sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Mick tried to keep his voice calm, but some of his irritation spilled into it. He didn’t want to be reminded of all those years lost pursuing the unreachable dream. When were they going to drop the topic at last? “That’s life. Nothing goes as you expect it to go.”

“Sorry for asking,” Vince finally spoke, quieter than usual. “It was very tactless of me.”

“It sure was,” Mick murmured. “But it’s alright. You didn’t know.”

“Good.” Vince returned to the stacks of records and began putting them on the shelves again. Tommy returned to wiping the floor. Everything seemed to calm down now.

Still, Mick was uneasy. Unanswered questions hung in the air, and Vince kept glancing at him. He had something on his mind.

“What instrument did you play?” Vince asked after a few minutes of silence. Here it was.

“The guitar.”

“Do you still play?”

“Sometimes,” Mick said. He tried to remember the last time he picked up the guitar. Definitely not this week, he returned home late and his neighbors wouldn’t be pleased by hearing an electric guitar play in the middle of the night. “I usually stay late in the store.”

“What do you do here for so long?” Vince asked. What a nosy little asshole, Mick thought with unexpected warmth. Such attention towards himself both flattered and unnerved him.

“Sort records, wash shelves, count money.” Mick sighed and leaned back on his chair. He felt like he was being questioned by the police, but with more attention. “A lot of stuff.”

“But doesn’t Tommy help you? Why do you have to do it yourself?”

“Because some, hm, friends of his are worried about his feisty ass.” Mick cut off. “Tommy, didn’t you tell them?”

“I, um…” Tommy stammered. It looked like someone was going to have a serious talk with his friends later. “I, well, told them that I come here sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Mick underlined. “Once or twice a week. All because you and that boy Nikki don’t let him work a decent job.”

“Um,” was Mick hallucinating, or did Vince’s ears go red? “We were just worried for him.”

“I get it.” Mick interrupted him. “That’s why I allowed him to bring you too. I’d gladly let Tommy help me if not for your, as he said, paranoia.”

“But the situation is super weird at best, don’t you think so? You catch a shoplifter red-handed and instead of calling the police on him you offer him a job.”

“Yes, because I’m a person who has a possibility of making my own decisions. Listen, Vince, if you don’t like me, if you find my behavior weird, I get it. I almost called the cops on you, that was probably not the best way to make acquaintance. You came to check – that’s okay, I understand your concerns. I’m no pedophile or a pervert. The three of you obviously need money. So I offered Tommy some. In exchange for decent work, of course.”

Vince stood silent for a couple of moments, thinking. Then he nodded briefly. “Okay. Yes. Sorry. You know, I had, as you said, “concerns”. But I see I was mistaken.”

“Good we figured it out,” Mick cut him off and turned away, for some reason not wanting to look Vince in the eyes. Tommy, staying silent while listening to their conversation intently, turned away to resemble his work, but Mick could swear he sighed with relief. Everything they needed to say to each other had been said. Even Vince ran out of questions and went back to the records.

Mick really wanted to fish out a bottle of whiskey from under the counter and take a few sips, or, rather, gulps. But he had to keep up appearances. He just lied he wasn’t an alcoholic, it would be stupid to prove it otherwise right in front of Vince. Not that he cared much about Vince’s opinion on him. Not at all.

“Mick?” Tommy’s voice brought Mick back to reality.

“Huh?”

“Would you- could you- if we help you in the store so that you have time after your shift, could you bring your guitar and play something for us? I’d love to hear you play!”

Mick knew this was coming. The boys considered him a rock star, apparently, even though his groups’ gigs never got more than a hundred people in. For them, he was a part of the world they wanted to live in. A very secluded and unfriendly, but a part nevertheless.

“Tommy, I usually have customers to serve,” Mick reminded. He hated to admit that, but a small part of his brain was definitely up for it. They were probably the only ones willing to hear him play in a long time, and he missed it immensely.

“After the shift, then?” Tommy looked at him with his big brown eyes, and Mick knew he would submit to those puppy eyes earlier or later. “You said you stay late to do some work, maybe we could help you with that and give you some extra time?”

“’We?’ What, Vince, are you coming back?”

“Why not?” Vince said with a friendly smile. “I’d love to hear you play too. Maybe we can even persuade Nikki to come. He wants to learn guitar.”

“Wow, even Nikki will be interested? I feel so popular,” Mick laughed. Their attention did flatter him, no matter what his feelings about the problem were. “Okay, maybe some time in the future. Oh, if I’m not mistaken, Vince, you sing? You could sing something with me playing.”

Tommy dropped the rag and made a choked sound, but Vince didn’t pay attention. Once Mic mentioned his singing, he as though froze on place, his whole body tense.

It was a low move, and Mick knew it, but today’s cross-examination of him made him a little bit irritated. Or maybe not a little bit. Rather, a lot.

“Erm, I-“ Vince began, then turned to Tommy. “I’m going to cut your tongue out someday,” he promised gravely. “Sorry, Mick. I don’t sing anymore.”

“Why not? If I can come back to playing the guitar for you, you could come back to singing. Maybe, if you work here for a while, you’ll be able to afford a drum kit for Tommy. Almost a band!”

“No,” Vince shook his head. “You don’t understand. I don’t sing anymore.”

“Can I ask why?”

“It brings back bad memories,” Vince cut him off. Something in his voice was making Mick not want to continue the conversation. Something hidden and grotesque.

“Well, playing guitar sure brings back my memories about roaches in all the flats I rented. But I’m not refusing to play because of that. Anyway,” he concluded, feeling he’d already said enough, “it’s a shame that you can’t sing for us, but you do you.”

“Thanks for understanding.” Vince nodded shortly and returned back to the stack. Tommy looked at both of them, moving his gaze back and forth, frowning in confusion. He felt the tension in the air, but couldn’t figure out its reason. What a naïve little boy he still was.

Vince, on the other hand, was very far from being naïve. He might have looked sixteen, but talked like he was thirty. It bothered Mick. Kids mature faster when there are a lot of hardships. And the boy sure had his share of them in his life. Tommy’s optimism and liveliness saved him from that; Vince wasn’t so lucky.

Mick could only wonder what made him like that. And he was pretty sure it was connected with the fact that he didn’t sing anymore.

He wanted to ask more questions. He itched to know what happened, and how he could help. But he knew Vince wouldn’t say a word unless he trusted him completely, and that wasn’t going to happen any time in the foreseeable future. He was a tough nut to crack.

Toys in the attic finished playing. Mick got up and went to change the record. “So, what are we gonna play next?”

“What do you want to play?” Vince said.

“Kiss!” Tommy suggested, beaming.

“Vince?”

“But you said you don’t like Kiss.” Vince frowned. “It’s your store, after all.”

“Yes, but I let you two choose now. Convince me that your Kiss are worth listening to.”

“Okay,” Vince said and turned around to dig into a pile of records, and Mick could swear he saw a little smile on his face.

Honestly, he was ready to listen through Kiss’ entire discography for that smile.

Chapter Text

This time Mick stayed late in the store. A bunch of records that arrived that day were damaged, and he spent hours arguing on the phone with the provider demanding to replace the order. He did succeed in it, but when he put the phone down, the sky was already dark-blue and public transport wasn’t working. One more reason to get a car, a gloomy thought crossed his mind. If those problems with the supplies continued to arise, he wouldn’t be able to save up enough to buy a car in the foreseeable future.

Then there was his, well, other problem. As stress was building up in him due to financial difficulties, he found it harder and harder to keep away from the bottle. Even if he managed to keep himself from hiding one more bottle of whiskey in the counter, he inevitably got caught by nearby bars. Every day he passed them on his way to work and on his way home, and often ended up inside with his savings all gone, wasted. The next day there was always shame and self-disgust, and a lot of promises to give up, now for good. All those promises went forgotten once a Friday came about.

This night was a Wednesday night, and Mick already craved a drink. Before, he would just give in to the craving, but now every time he saw Vince’s face in front of him. His relieved expression after Mick lied to him haunted him. You told him you had quit. The only thing you do well is lie. You are so weak.

Mick’s hands were shaking when he was counting money. He dropped a coin, and it rolled under the counter. God fucking damn.

Mick plopped down on his knees and stuck his hand under the counter to get the coin. It was just out if his reach. Now, if he managed to stick his hand a little farther-

The door of the shop opened with a loud bang, and Mick heard steps of three people coming inside. What the hell? He was sure he had put a “closed” plate on the door...

“Anyone in here?” a male voice asked. Mick tried to pull his hand from under the counter, but it stuck.

“A second!” he called, frantically trying to free his hand. Finally, he managed to get it out, grazing the skin on his knuckles in process.

“Yes?” He stood up, and his jaw went slack.

Two policemen stood in the center of the shop, and one of them was holding a boy by the shoulder. The boy’s face seemed familiar, spiky black hair and stubborn crease of the eyebrows, but Mick had to rack his brains to recognize him. He stared mindlessly at the boy for a few awkward seconds until he dug up the face in front of him in his memory.

It was Nikki, Tommy’s and Vince’s friend. Right here, in his shop, accompanied by two cops.

“Uncle Mick!” Nikki exclaimed. Mick blinked in confusion. As far as he knew, he didn’t have any nephews until this very day. “I was just grabbing some hot dogs for us and these co- gentlemen said I broke the curfew.”

“Excuse me?” he murmured, staring at Nikki. The boy stared back, tapping his foot on the floor nervously.

“Sir, this boy claims to be your nephew,” one of the cops spoke. “Is that true?”

Mick looked at the cop, then at Nikki. The boy was making big eyes at him, nodding slightly. Help me, he pronounced with his lips soundlessly. Please.

Should he help him? He was a bad influence on Tommy, didn’t let him come to his store at first and was still reluctant about it now. Vince never talked about him and when asked retreated to one-word answers, which was as far from Vince that Mick knew as possible. Mick could as well tell the cops he didn’t know him - to get rid of him. Maybe without him Tommy would- he and Vince would agree-

Oh well.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “What, is that so late already? I might have lost the track of time.”

“It is, Mr- what’s your name?”

“Mars,” Mick said on a whim. “Oh, wait, you want my legal name. Deal, it’s Deal.”

“Mr Deal, why did you let the boy out so late? Don’t you know about the existence of a curfew for kids and teenagers?” The police officer said with barely a note of disapproval. He really didn’t care. Well, neither did Mick.

“To grab some snacks. I do, I do; I just didn’t notice it’s already too late for kids to go out. Time flies by, y’know.”

“Well, next time we will have to bring the boy to the police station and file a case. We’re ready to turn a blind eye on it now, since it’s your first offence of a kind, but we’ll have to fine you.” The cop’s face livened up when he said “fine”. Of course, Mick thought with disgust and reached into his pocket with a sigh. Cops were always the same. The boy was lucky Mick hated the police so much – definitely much more than him. He didn’t even hate him to the full meaning of the word, definitely not. Rather, he was irritated by him, which was a completely different thing.

He put three dollar bills on the counter, 50$ each. One cop approached and took them. The second raised his eyebrows, so much greediness on his fat, apathetic face Mick barely managed to hold himself from punching him in that face, just not to see it anymore. Instead, he only nodded and reached for his wallet again. The boy was observing them with interest in his eyes, successfully hiding it for the cops behind his bangs. He didn’t seem to be scared or even mildly uncomfortable at all. More than that, Mick could bet he was enjoying it to the fullest. What a motherfucker.

Mick lined three more dollar bills on the counter, and they immediately disappeared in the second cop’s pocket. Only then they released Nikki and left the shop, smiling smugly.

Mick followed them with his gaze until they were out of sight. Then he turned to Nikki and spoke:

“What the fuck that just was?”

Nikki turned his head away, avoiding Mick’s gaze. The enjoyment he had while Mick was dealing with the cops vanished immediately.

“I need to go,” he said, turning towards the door.

“No way,” Mick stood up. “If you get caught the second time, you’re absolutely gonna end up in a police station.”

“I won’t,” Nikki shook his head, his hand already on a doorknob. Still, he stopped and turned to Mick. “I need to check up on Tommy.”

“Anything wrong with him?” Mick frowned.

“We were heading to Starwood when the cops appeared.” Nikki said unwillingly. “I told Tommy to hide and ran to distract them. I need to check up on him.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Mick cut off. “I’ll go. You tell me where you left him.”

Nikki’s grip on the knob strengthened so much his knuckles went white. “I’m going with you. You don’t know all the places.”

“Listen, you-“ Mick started but had to cut the sentence off short because the kid was right. Mick wasn’t a huge partygoer, and only knew the clubs on Sunset Strip from when he used to play in them – which was pretty long ago. He never went to such places to drink - they were too crowded, chock-full with teenagers. He preferred smaller pubs near his home.

“You don’t know all the places,” Nikki added. He knew exactly what he was doing, and it worked – Mick’s stubbornness was weakening. If only there was someone else who knew Tommy better…

There was no one. Mick sighed.

“Alright. You can go. But if we come across cops, I’m talking, alright?”

Nikki just nodded.

***

“Here is where I left him,” Nikki suddenly said fifteen minutes away from the shop. The place was incredibly unremarkable. “I ran across the street, and Tommy hid behind the corner.” They peered behind the aforementioned corner, both knowing it would be useless and both doing it anyway. Tommy, of course, wasn’t there. Still, they looked at each other with disappointment.

“Why did you decide to attract the cops’ attention?” Mick asked as they were crossing the street.

“To let Tommy get away,” Nikki looked at him like he was an idiot. “Haven’t I already said that?”

Mick sighed. Fucking teenagers. “Yes, I’ve heard that. What I want to know is - why not the other way around?”

“You mean, Tommy runs and I hide?” Nikki clarified in a tone an adult would talk in to a four-year-old.

“Yes.”

“Haven’t he told you about his… situation?” Nikki raised his eyebrows.

“He told me a lot of things.”

“I mean his life situation. How he ended up on streets.”

“Ah, this,” Mick recalled the day the third shoplifter hungry for Deep Purple music appeared in his shop. The memory was accompanied with an unexpected fondness. “He told me that on the very first day, in his first few sentences he addressed to me.”

“Yeah, he does that,” the corners of Nikki’s lips curved into a smile. Mick smiled too. It was physically impossible to think about Tommy and not smile. “A big mouth, he is. Then you should understand why it’s better for me to get caught.”

“He doesn’t want to go back to the orphanage.”

“Exactly,” Nikki said. Mick tried to come up with any other option in such a case, but got nothing.

“But shouldn’t the cops bring you to your parents?” Mick asked, recalling Tommy’s stories about Nikki. There was something wrong with his parents, that’s for sure. Tommy never told him much, probably because Nikki hadn’t told him much as well. So what was that? Abuse? Alcoholism? Single parent family? Neglect?

“Parents?” Nikki grinned, but it looked more like an animal baring its teeth before an attack. “I have no parents.”

“Everyone has parents.”

“Well, I don’t anymore. Physically they are still out there, but for me they’re as good as dead.”

“Okay…” Mick looked at Nikki, but he looked strictly forward. His hair covered a good portion of his face, so his expression in the dim lights of the street was undistinguishable. There was something really fucked up between Nikki and his parents and people are always hungry to learn about fucked up things, Mick was no exception. Still, he knew for sure he wasn’t going to get an answer – Mick and Nikki weren’t on exactly friendly terms with each other, and winning Nikki’s trust would be way harder than Tommy’s or even Vince’s.

“Where are we going now?” he asked after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence. Nikki kept glancing at him, thinking Mick didn’t notice. He was probably wondering why Mick would go through all the trouble. Mick was wondering about it himself. Still, he kept walking.

“I think we should check the clubs on the Strip first. The security knows us and could let him in.”

“Is it really that easy for a minor to enter an adult-oriented place?”

Nikki chuckled. “Well, not for other minors. But for us – yes.”

“What’s so unique about you three?”

“Everybody knows us,” came the short answer. One of the clubs was right across the street, and Nikki pointed at it. “Here, that’s Starwood. Are you going in with me?”

***

Upon entering the place they met a security guard who looked over Mick with suspicion and nodded to Nikki. As a “responsible adult”, Mick should probably be condemning such violations of the law. But he was never on good terms with the law in general and the government in particular, and, to be honest, hadn’t he done exactly the same when he was fifteen?

Once they were inside, Nikki headed directly towards the bar. The club was stuffy, full of people dancing, kissing and drinking, with some garage band performing on the background. Mick tried to listen, but quickly realized that the guitarist was probably holding the guitar for the first time in his short life, and lost interest.

The bar was a way more interesting place. Mick strained his eyes, trying to find Tommy in the crowd, but to no avail. He turned to Nikki to ask whether he could recognize him in the crowd and discovered that he was already sitting on a bar stool sipping a beer.

Mick sat down on a bar stool next to Nikki. “Weren’t we looking for Tommy?” he murmured indignantly, trying to fix his gaze on Nikki’s face instead of the glass of amazingly cold beer in his hands. How could the kid tease him like that? Of course, he didn’t know Mick had been trying to quit. But it didn’t justify it!

“We are,” Nikki waved to the bartender. “Hey, Tony!” he shouted as the bartender approached them. “Have you seen Tommy over here in the last hour or two?”

“No,” Tony shook his head. “Is your, hm, friend ordering anything?”

“No, no, I’m not,” Mick shook his head.

“You sure?” the bartender raised his eyebrow. “People don’t go to clubs just because.”

“I’m still surprised I’m here,” Mick muttered, sending Nikki a murderous gaze. Nikki kept drinking his beer as though he didn’t notice it, though Mick was pretty sure he did. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be Nikki.

Once Nikki finished his beer Mick touched him by the shoulder. “So, are we going to search for Tommy, or you’d rather have fun here?”

“Oh, come on,” Nikki rolled his eyes. “It’s just one glass. I was thirsty.”

Mick only shook his head and got up. He had no power over Nikki, and it wasn’t his job to better him. He was just disappointed. He thought better of him. In Tommy’s stories he was always a hero. But Tommy was so blinded by Nikki’s lone wolf appeal that he couldn’t see his friend’s negative sides.

Nikki watched him getting up and moving the chair back under the counter with an unreadable expression. For a second, Mick thought he would stay. But then Nikki got up as well.

“Okay, okay, let’s go,” Nikki put money on the counter and headed towards the door.

The next club they went to Nikki decided not to go in, to Mick’s relief. He just shook hands with the security guard at the door and asked him something. Mick knew the guard would shake his head even before he actually did it. Mick’s anxiety for Tommy kept growing. What if the kid had been arrested and was now at the police station? How were they going to get him out, especially now that he had no legal guardian? Mick could pretend to be his uncle in front of only two not very meticulous cops in his own shop, but at the police station he would have to prove it.

“Nothing?” he asked when Nikki returned. The kid just shook his head.

The next club, apparently, had some relatively famous band playing tonight: the line of mostly teenagers stretched out across the street.

“We’re not going to stay in this line, are we?” Mick asked Nikki, dreading the answer. If they had to stay in the line they would lose too much time. More than that, Mick didn’t feel confident surrounded by so many teenagers. It was their place and their time: Mick didn’t belong in it.

“Nah,” Nikki shook his head. “I’m just gonna go ask the guard. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“I hope so,” Mick murmured, following Nikki with his gaze as the kid found his way through the line, eliciting a few angry calls from the teenagers. Mick leaned against the wall a little away from them, feeling uncomfortable under the gazes of so many teenagers. Someone in the line laughed, and Mick flinched. They weren’t laughing at him, were they?..

Well, that was just stupid, he berated himself. He had as much right to stay here as any of the kids in the line. And since when did he care about what some dumb kids think of him?..

When Nikki returned, he shook his head again silently. Mick sighed. The hope to find Tommy was getting thinner and thinner. And if they wouldn’t find him, how was he going to sleep at night knowing Tommy was in danger?

“They have London playing over there,” Nikki suddenly said as they headed to the next club. It was a little farther away, adding a few minutes of walking. “I used to be their bassist.”

“Got kicked out?”

“Sorta. I got my bass stolen, and didn’t have enough money to buy a new one.”

“It’s a pretty expensive instrument. How did you get it in the first place?”

“Stole it,” Nikki giggled. “Went into a shop with an empty guitar case, and as the shop assistant was searching in the back, I just took the guitar, put it in the case and left.”

Mick glanced at him quickly. “It’s karma. You had stolen the bass and then someone stole it from you too. What else did you expect?”

“Bullshit,” Nikki waved his hand. “I just hope someone steals my bass from that jerk as well.”

Mick smiled. Nikki was more of a kid than he and Nikki himself imagined. And it was reassuring, in a way. Nikki could act like he’s all grown up, but underneath this façade he was still a kid.

The rest of the way they walked in silence. As they neared the last bar – Whiskey, Mick recalled, he used to play there from time to time, - Nikki pointed at it.

“You sure you don’t want to have a drink? Here they’re making good Bloody Marys.

“I’m not drinking,” Mick refused almost confidently. Almost. “Haven’t Vince told you yet? I quit.”

“We don’t speak much now,” Nikki said, frowning. “He’s always at his boyfriend’s, and I don’t like him.”

“Vince or boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend, of course,” Nikki curved his lips in disgust. “Vince’s always picking older guys, and as for me, they’re just using him for sex. But he doesn’t want to listen to me. And his boyfriends always hate me, I don’t know why.”

Mick just nodded. As for him, it was perfectly reasonable why. A mere mention of Vince’s boyfriends got Nikki so agitated it was clear it wasn’t just a nuisance for him. But Mick sure as hell wasn’t going to tell Nikki about that.

Of course, there was no Tommy in Whiskey. Nikki didn’t have to tell Mick: just seeing him in the doorframe, alone, was enough. They both turned around and headed back without a word. Mick kept glancing at Nikki, waiting for “well, I gotta go”, but Nikki was silent. He was silent as they crossed the street and approached Mick’s store. He was silent as Mick opened the door.

“Would you like to, um, stay the night?” Mick finally gained enough courage to ask, tired of the heavy silence between them. He was more nervous now than he was asking his first girlfriend out.

“Okay,” Nikki shrugged. Mick felt his knees weakening. Okay? That was it?! “Not that I have any other place to go.”

Mick inhaled slowly. All the “paranoid junkie” bullshit Tommy was talking about (or, rather, the conclusions Mick drew from his words) made him think Nikki would never agree to come to his shop in person, let alone ask for help and stay the night. Maybe Tommy exaggerated a little. Nikki was wary, yes, but not outright hostile.

“And where were you going to sleep this night then?” Mick finally asked, recalling the “no place to go” part.

“I haven’t thought of it yet. I prefer to focus on the present.”

“I have only one sofa, by the way.” Mick told him, smiling at the confidence the kid said it with. “Someone is gonna have to sleep on the floor.”

“No problem,” Nikki shook his head. “I had it worse. Do you have something to eat, by the way? I’m starving.”

“Say no more,” Mick found a bag of chips in the counter and handed it to Nikki. “As a responsible adult I’ve got to warn you that it’s not healthy and nutritious,” he then fished a half-finished bottle of coke out of the counter and immediately closed the door so that Nikki wouldn’t see all the empty whiskey and vodka bottles lying in it.

“Enjoy,” Mick turned the key in the lock, making sure it was closed. With a person such as Nikki, one could expect anything. Not that he didn’t trust the boy, not really. But money is money.

“Thamks,” Nikki slurred, his mouth already full. “I don’t like your responsible adult mode,” he said once he swallowed and could speak clearly. “Don’t you want to just have some fun sometimes? Go to a bar, get shitfaced, get laid? What do you even do for fun, count your taxes?”

“That was rude,” Mick commented, actually trying not to laugh. He also once had that sex, drugs and rock’n’roll mindset. Until he ran out of money. “Be careful with accident hook-ups, kid, or you will end up like me.”

“What, an independent business owner in the center of LA?” Nikki raised an eyebrow. “Sounds alright to me.”

Mick laughed. “Up to your ears in alimony!”

“Oh,” Nikki said thoughtfully and reached for more chips. “I didn’t know you have kids.”

“We’re talking for the first time since the day I caught you,” Mick reminded. Nikki winced at these words. “I would be more surprised if you did. But, knowing Tommy…”

“Yeah, he tells me everything,” Nikki nodded. “And I’ve heard nothing about them from him. How old are they?”

“Eight and five. They live with their mother.”

“Do you see them often?”

Mick sighed. “No. Can we drop the topic?”

“Sure,” Nikki just put a handful of chips in his mouth and the phrase sounded muffled. “But it’s a pity, really,” he added when his mouth was empty again.

“It is,” Mick murmured. He needed to put an end to this conversation immediately. “Now, isn’t it bedtime?”

“Oh, come on,” Nikki waved his hand. “Turn off that responsible adult mode. Do you maybe by any chance have some whiskey?”

“Bed,” Mick pointed at the backroom and frowned, more for a laugh.

“Okay, mom,” Nikki rolled his eyes, but got up and headed to the backroom. “I can sleep on the floor, but I get a blanket then, alright?”

“Sure, it’s fair,” Mick agreed. The perspective of sleeping on the sofa without a blanket wasn’t very attractive, but sleeping on the floor would fuck up his spine for a long time coming. He checked the lock on the door and followed Nikki to the backroom. It wasn’t the first time he stayed the night at work, but it was the first time he had a roommate. He only hoped Nikki wouldn’t snore.

Meanwhile, Nikki had already put the blanket on the floor and settled on it.

“Good night,” Mick told him as he lay down on the sofa.

Nikki looked surprised. “Good night, I guess. And… thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Nikki fell asleep quickly, but Mick stayed awake for a long time, tormented by the pain in his back. It obviously didn’t like his midnight walk around the city. He checked up on Nikki every now and then, amazed at how peaceful he looked while sleeping. It was like all his concerns that left their trace on his face during the day disappeared during the night. A kid of his age shouldn’t have so many concerns, Mick thought. Teenagehood is a time for bad marks, hanging out with friends till sunrise, first crushes, and definitely not a time of thinking where to spend a night and how to survive the next day. Anger washed over Mick, making him clench his fists as he kept looking at Nikki peacefully snoring, clutching his backpack even in his sleep. Whoever did this to Nikki didn’t deserve to have kids at all, let alone take care of them. Nikki deserved better.

Mick couldn’t fall asleep for a long time, recalling the day again and again, every move, every word. He was pretty sure this wasn’t the first time Nikki broke the law. Staying in a police station for a night would have been just another nuisance for him, not a life-changing situation. So after all Mick had heard from Tommy about Nikki he least of all expected Nikki to need help – his help, of all people. They’d never even talked before. Why did he do it then? It was weird, and from the image Mick had in his head based on Tommy’s stories and what he saw today, not at all Nikki-like.

On the other hand, he didn’t know Nikki all that well. Who knew what was going on in that head of his?

There was one thing, however, that Mick was sure about. Nikki would come back. One day or another, but he would. Not after what happened today.

***

Mick woke up from energetic banging on the door. He looked at the clock. Well, no doubt he overslept – it was almost an hour after he was supposed to open the shop. Still, what kind of customer would actually bang on the door of a closed shop?

Of course it weren’t customers. It were Tommy and Vince.

When Mick saw them, he wanted to both hug and kill them. Now it was clear that Tommy went over to sleep at Vince’s. What’s more, it was perfectly logical. Why didn’t they even think about it yesterday?

“Hey, Mick! …why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m gonna murder you one day,” Nikki promised solemnly from behind Mick’s back. He had probably also been woken up by the banging.

“I love you too,” Tommy grinned. “Can I know why?”

“Where the fuck did you go last night? We walked round the entire neighborhood!”

“We?..” Tommy looked at Mick questioningly.

“I’m not ready for this,” Mick waved his hand and stepped to the side. “Nikki, you tell them.”

“Oh, I will,” Nikki promised gravely. Mick retreated to the backroom, sprawled on the couch and closed his eyes, listening to indistinguishable voices from the store.

As though a weight had been lifted off Mick’s shoulders when he saw Tommy alive and well. Why did he even care so much?