Fic: Options (1/1), blue cortina, dakfinv

[dakfinv]

Title: Options
Author: dak
Word Count: 2558
Rating: blue cortina
Warnings: mention of character death, swearing
Pairing: Gene/Cecil, implied Gene/Sam 
A/N: I might possibly be the first person to write a rent boy fic with absolutely zero smut. Go figure. Anywho, this is a follow up to the fic I posted the other day, Three Months. It's another LoM/Meat crossover, but you really don't have to know anything about Meat. Actually, it's probably better if you don't. This part does contain spoilers for Meat, so unless you're absolutely dying to watch the film for it's plot, then I wouldn't read. If not, please enjoy!

It was Charlie’s fault. It was Charlie’s fault. It was Charlie’s fault. He’d had nothing to do with it. It was all Charlie’s fault, the stupid messed up prick. The stupid, dead, messed-up prick. Cecil had only been there for backup. To keep an eye out. He hadn’t touched the punter. It was Charlie’s fault. He’d scared the bloke, shouting all kinds of shite at him. He’s the one that gave him the heart attack. Cecil had tried to get Charlie away.
Now Charlie was dead. Frank was in jail, or at least in the cells at the local nick. He wouldn’t be coming out for a long time. Myra was gone, too. Ces couldn’t blame her really. He was proud of her, a little, for at least thinking she could leave the game behind. That was something Cecil would never be able to do. So, everyone was gone now, in one way or another. Everyone but Cecil. And where did that leave him? With the junkies in the squat? At least Frank wouldn’t be taking his sixty percent anymore.

But, shit. Just because Charlie was dead, just because he was the only one they caught on the security cameras at the car park, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be looking for the other “youth.” Yeah, Frank was locked up. Cecil kept all his earnings. Cecil no longer had any protection. Not from cops. Not from punters. Not from other boys trying to get in on his action. He’d thought everything was going to be alright. That’s what he’d told Myra, wasn’t it? She’d be fine. He’d be fine, long as the cops didn’t find him.

Oh, he’d been so cool, then. So collected. Like he had everything under control. Now with the bitch of reality sinking in, he realized how fucked up everything was getting. How absolutely fucking screwed he actually was.

No. It’d be fine. It’d be alright. He just needed a place to calm down. To think about everything. Get it all worked out. He’d be fine. No problems. He just needed some time to think. Some time away from the squat. Away from the drugs. He was no choirboy but, he’d seen what the drugs did to Charlie. He needed to get away from that shite. Get away and think and everything would be alright.

Cecil ran to the bedsit. This time of day it would be empty. If he ever was there on his own, it was only at night. Cecil could get some privacy. It wouldn’t matter if the door was locked. Cecil had snuck the key out of his pocket one week. He hadn’t said anything the next week, so either he hadn’t noticed or he hadn’t cared.

Yeah he had the key but, when he reached the door, Cecil knocked just in case. When there was no answer, he slipped the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and quickly hid himself inside. The room wasn’t large and Cecil immediately knew it was empty as soon as he entered. He locked the door, stuffed the key in his pocket, and didn’t know what to do.

He paced for awhile, then decided on a fag. All he managed to pull from his pocket, however, was an empty pack. He tossed it in the bin and decided if he couldn’t have a fag, he might as well have some gum. As he tracked down the pack of that, he soon realized it was empty, too.

“Fuck,” he cursed and threw the empty wad across the room. No fags. No gum. He chewed on the inside of his cheek instead. He tried sitting on the bed. He tried standing in the corner. He tried lying on the floor. He couldn’t sit still. He’d wanted some peace and quiet but this was too much peace and quiet. There was so much peace and quiet it was allowing him to think, which was what he came there to do. Really, he didn’t want to think at all. If he started to think, he’d realize how worthless he really was.

He walked in circles around the room, kicking things, cursing himself. He had to leave the bedsit eventually. He knew he couldn’t stay there forever. He just didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He wish he hadn’t lost his watch. He had no idea what time it was or how long he’d been there. One second, it felt like it had been mere minutes. The next, hours.

It must have been hours because suddenly the world was dark outside and someone was unlocking the door inside. Cecil had no time to react as the door was flung open and Gene stepped inside. He said nothing until he’d closed the door behind him.

“What’re you doing here? ‘S not Wednesday,” he grumbled and tossed his keys on the bedside table.

“I...I, er...”

“Not often you’re tongue tied,” he quipped.

“I’ll go. Sorry,” Cecil rushed by him, trying to reach the door, when Gene grabbed his arm and gently pulled him back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing. Okay? Nothing. I’m fine. Let me go.”

“Tell me,” he said sternly.

“No! Alright? I’m fine. Let go and I’ll leave,” he tried to twist out of Gene’s grasp but the old man was strong and held him tight.

“Is this about--”

“I had nothing to do with that, okay? It was Charlie’s fault! Charlie’s!” Cecil shouted and wrenched himself free of Gene’s grip. He didn’t go for the door, though. He went the opposite direction, hurrying to the window.

“Charlie,” Gene repeated. Had he ever told him about Charlie? Sometimes they talked but it was usually about football. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever mentioned Charlie.

“He needed someone to keep a lookout while he was with the punter. I don’t know what happened. He...he freaked out, man. Freaked when the bloke wouldn’t pay. I tried to get him to stop. I tried...” he wiped his face with the back of his hand. He was not crying. Cecil did not cry. He was a professional.

“Wait. You mean that thing in the car park? That kid in the photo, was that your mate?” Gene questioned.

“Fuck,” Cecil whispered to himself. What had Gene been referring to if not the car park? “You gonna turn me in?”

“Should I?” Gene asked firmly but, not accusingly.

“I swear, Gene, I swear to God, I didn’t do anything!” Cecil was good at begging. He had some customers that liked it when he begged. He hardly ever had to do it for real. Gene stared at him briefly then, started to remove his coat.

“You should still go to the station. Give a statement,” he advised.

“No. No way, man. I can’t. Charlie’s dead. They’ll lock me up instead,” he shook his head, avoiding eye contact. “Wh...what did you think...”

“You were upset about?” Gene finished, opening the drawer on the night stand and pulling out a bottle of J&B.

“I wasn’t upset,” Cecil poorly lied.

“Right,” Gene rolled his eyes. “Heard about Frank. Got himself nicked for shooting some kid up in Camden,” he pulled two glasses from the drawer and started to pour. “Was that Charlie?” he asked, then held out a glass. Cecil hesitated, then crossed the room and sat on the bed, taking the whisky.

“Yeah. Real sad kid. Worked at the diner. Frank got him all messed up in the head. Feel sorry for the poor sap,” he tried to be cheerful but couldn’t manage it. Instead, he sipped the whisky. Cecil had never taken to whisky before he met Gene.

“Probably better with Frank locked up then, innit?” Gene sipped his own drink. Cecil didn’t answer. Gene sat down next to him. “What’re you goin’ to do?” he asked and Cecil simply shrugged.

“Dunno. What I’ve always done, I guess,” he swirled the glass then took another gulp.

“Have any money saved?”

“You’re taking the piss, you are,” Cecil laughed. “Yeah. Got meself a right bank account. Fancy checks and all.”

“So, you’ll stay on the game, then?” Gene inquired, staring him down. Christ, but it felt like an interrogation.

“ ‘S what I’m good at. You should know,” he smirked, trying to hide the pain, but Gene was having none of it.

“And what’re you goin’ to do when you get older, hm? When you’re all used up and stretched out and no one will pay?”

“Leave it, man, okay? I didn’t come here to--”

“What did you come here for, Cecil?” Gene had already finished his drink and was pouring another.

“Look. I’ve got no A-levels. No training. I’m shite, alright? I’ve got one trick, and that’s it,” he argued.

“That’s it, hm? So you'll give up? Just like that. Throw the rest of your life away cos you can’t see a change?”

“Why bother with the fight? It’s too long, it’s too hard, and I can’t win, alright? I'll stick with what I know, thanks,” he tipped back the rest of the whisky and stood to leave.

“Wait a mo,” Gene sighed, and he set down his glass. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed Cecil a folded picture.

“What’s this?” Cecil asked, reforming his guarded disregard.

“I’ll pay you if I’m taking too much of your time, son,” Gene said sarcastically. Reluctantly, Cecil unfolded the wrinkled photograph. It was a picture of a slightly younger Gene with his arm draped around a slighter man in a leather jacket. A man that could almost be Cecil, if it weren’t for the short hair and nicer teeth. “That’s Sam.”

Sam. The name Cecil took every time Gene handed him cash. Sam. The name Gene cried out as he came. Sam. This was the Sam. The man that haunted Gene. The man that haunted Cecil whenever he was with Gene. Cecil hated Sam.

“Why are you showing me this?” he asked uncertainly. He liked Gene, he did, but he tried to make it a point not to know too much personal information about any of his punters.

“Friend of ours took it at the Grand National in ‘86. Four months before he was diagnosed. Prostate cancer.”

Cecil wanted to hand it back. He didn’t want to look at it. He didn’t want to think any of the men he fucked had a life, not even Gene. But, he couldn’t stop staring at it.

“All the years I knew him. ‘Don’t smoke this. Don’t drink that. Eat this. Put that butty down. You’ll die before your fifty, Gene, I swear.’ Neither of us ever...” Gene shook his head and stared at the floor.

“Sorry,” he managed to speak. “Really,” his arm remembered how to move and he handed the photo back. Gene took at stared at it himself, almost smiling.

“One thing Sam never stopped doing, was fighting. Usually he fought me. Tooth and nail. Everyday. Every bloody hour he thought of something to twist up me jacksie. And when the cancer came, he fought that instead,” Gene was rubbing his thumb over the photo. “Took that damn disease nearly two years to take him from me.”

Cecil knew he should be inching towards the door, making his escape. Gene would understand if he had to leave. If he had to meet a client. His feet weren’t moving.

“I asked him once, near the end, when he was all pale. When his hair were all gone and he din’t even have the energy to sleep. Bags under his eyes the size of saucers,” Gene coughed and regained control of his voice. “I asked him, ‘Sammy, what the bloody hell was all that for?’ And he looked at me. He looked at me and smiled, the bastard, and said ‘I need to fight, Guv. I’ve always had to fight. You. Warren. Morgan. You know you’re alive when you’re fighting.’ Then he reached out his hand and said, ‘Tenner and a Party Seven that I make til next Monday,’” Gene looked at the picture one more time, then tucked it away in his breast pocket.

“Did he?” Cecil asked despite himself.

“Died at 12:01am that Monday morning. Git,’ Gene shook his head and reached for the bottle. “He was right, though. Me whole life, me whole career, I saw things, did things, I never thought I could change. Then he came along. Showed me I was wrong.”

“I’m not your Sam, Gene,” Cecil whined. “I’m...’M not like that. That’s not me.”

“Yeah,” Gene sighed. “I know.”

“Look. Sorry I bothered you. I’ll just be going, alright?” Cecil finally turned.

“What d’you charge per hour?” Gene suddenly asked. Cecil spun around in shock.

“Huh?”

“Usually, I leave what’s in me pockets. Never told me what you charge per hour,” Gene sipped his whisky.

“I don’t. Well, usually ‘s just for the type of job. Not the time,” he shrugged.

“How much for a weekend?” Gene eyed him carefully.

“The whole bloody weekend?” Cecil’s jaw dropped. “I, er, I don’t...”

“Thing is, my Sammy was a great fighter. He was also very good at investments. Always knew where to put his money and when. Left me quite a bit. I’m going up to Manchester this weekend, me old stomping grounds. Don’t fancy going alone and there’s some things I want to show you. Won’t ask anything from yeh, not like that. Just that you listen to what an old man has to say. When the weekend’s up, you can come back here. Your life. Your job. If you want but, I’ll be staying there,” Gene screwed the cap on the whisky bottle and set it back in the drawer.

“Why are you staying?” Cecil asked, not that it really mattered. It didn’t matter if Gene left or not. He was just another punter.

“There’s a boy I think I know. Just got himself promoted to Detective Sergeant. Probably make Chief Inspector by his early thirties. Git,” Gene smirked. “Sam asked me to keep an eye on him. Keep him out of trouble. And the Gene Genie still has connections up North. Could probably get you a job, a real job, if you wanted.”

“And if I don’t?” Cecil crossed his arms, trying to look stern. He knew he couldn’t quite pull it off.

“Like I said. You come back here,” Gene shrugged and reached for his coat. “Just thought I’d give you the option. Least let you have a choice,” he stood, tossing on his coat. Cecil let the silence fill the room, hoping Gene would speak again. The Man didn’t and he walked past Cecil to reach the door.

“Sam,” Cecil suddenly blurted out. Gene slowly turned and waited. “Sam, he...he gave you lots of choices, didn’t he?”

“Too many for his own good.”

“Did you always make the right one?”

“Not nearly enough,” Gene sighed, laughing quietly to himself.

Cecil swallowed hard. No one ever gave him options. On his back or on his stomach. In the alley or in the car. Those were the only choices Cecil ever had to make. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want a new choice. He’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t terrified of getting a new choice. Cecil was very good at lying to himself. Cecil wasn’t sure if he wanted to anymore.

“How far is it to Manchester?”