Mick didn't know why he continued to hang around with Will. Probably because it felt safer to have the old guy watching his back. Mick had been on the streets since he was fourteen. That had been four years ago, and in the intervening time he'd had more than his share of run-ins with other street kids and the cops. That is, until Will had taken him under his wing.
"You're like the son I never had," Will told him at one point. Then he'd smiled, adding, "Hopefully if I'd had one, I'd have made sure he had a good home and love. Or perhaps that should be vice versa. Love is much more important, I think."
Mick agreed. "I've got the home," he told him. "The problem is the love is missing."
When Will asked, Mick said, "My folks are"—he shrugged—"less than tolerant of people who aren't exactly like them, and that includes me."
Since Mick had already admitted to both being gay and not exactly a model citizen when it came to having used recreational drugs—to wit, marijuana, Will said with a laugh, "So you didn't adhere to the straight and narrow path they envisioned for you—emphasis on 'straight'."
"Got it in one."
They made an odd pair, but it worked. They'd met when Mick was running from a couple of punks who thought beating up street kids was their prime reason for existing. Will had stepped in and shown them they weren't the only ones who had the power to hurt someone.
"Not that it'll actually sink in," Will said, after the punks had slunk away, their tails between their legs. "But at least the word will get out to leave you alone."
"I hope so," Mick replied. At five-ten and scrawny from living hand to mouth on the streets, his only real defense was to run from the bullies who got off on hurting kids who were weaker than them. Will, at six-one and surprisingly muscular, despite the fact he was also living on the streets, made the perfect protector as far as Mick was concerned. So he'd started trailing after the man until Will had broken down and let him stick around.
"You behave, stay away from the dealers, and don't sell yourself," Will said, "and I'll keep an eye on you. Screw up and, as some movie actor said, hasta la vista."
"'Hasta la vista, baby', if you want to say it right. It was Schwarzenegger in one of the Terminator movies."
Will chuckled. "Whatever, as you kids say. I still mean it. Don't screw up."
"Yeah, yeah."
And so they became friends of a sort. Mick was sure, though he never said so, that most of the people who saw them thought they were father and son, and probably wondered why they were homeless. Though given the way things are these days, we wouldn't be the only family that was… if we really were family.
* * * *
"Catch," Will said, when he appeared at the entrance to what he and Mick were calling home for the moment. He tossed the book he'd found to the teen then took a seat on the broken windowsill in the room on the third floor of the abandoned building.
"Whoa, great! Where did you get this?" Mick turned the book over to read the blurb on the back of the spy thriller.
"Someone left it on a bus bench. Paying it forward, I guess. But"—he waggled an admonishing finger at Mick—"no reading until you've done your math."
Mick sighed. Recently Will had taken it upon himself to make certain Mick studied math, English and any other subjects he deemed necessary to survive in the world.
"Just because you stopped going to school when you ran away, does not mean you get to slide on your education."
With that said, Will had managed to come up with books he thought would help Mick in that respect. At first Mick had protested but soon he'd found a certain joy in being able to understand and keep up with what Will wanted him to learn. When he did well, Will rewarded him, as he had today, with something interesting to read. "Maybe not great literature," Will sometimes said with a laugh, "since they're all 'found' books, but reading anything is better than reading nothing."
Mick settled down with the dog-eared pad of paper and a pencil to work on his assignment. When it began to get dark, he pulled out the battered flashlight he'd found in a dumpster, feeling a bit like Abe Lincoln studying by firelight.
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