A Boy Who Came in From the Cold

"This is a story for my friend Ant, aka Sirkillabutt, who fancied a session of his own with Rayne. It is quite unusual for the early stories as it's nice to have Ray pleasured intensely (if roughly) for once instead of just used and cast aside. (BTW. I am not advocating that ANYBODY should try the icicle scene at home!!)

"If you're not into bondage and enema fetishism, or rough anal and oral sex between two horny, consenting adult males, look away now."

xx. Sadie

Part One – ICE & FIRE

Mister Right walked back along the cut towards the harbour where his boat was moored, following the same route and routine he had enjoyed since he first came here to Greenwich a couple of years ago. It was the only real, affordable way to live in London these days without the inconvenience of a landlord. Each day he woke early and took the same walk along the embankment to the shop where he bought his milk and his newspapers then strolled back at leisure to his boat to enjoy his breakfast and watch the world go by. The only thing he imagined he would really change would be the addition of a companion to share the comfortable routines with him (and perhaps enjoy a bit of energetic bedroom action as well... or even, quite a lot of energetic bedroom action!)

Although he missed the company of a regular mate, he was not lonely. Plenty of friends dropped by to see him and each day and shoot the breeze. They talked about boats and the places they had been to and would ultimately go when they got the chance. Some of them came to see him about work they needed doing on their own crafts, or to buy his models and the other intriguing toys that he made in his spare time (about which, more a little later in this story!)

But I am getting ahead of myself, dear reader, for this morning is what the crux of my introduction is about. London was afflicted by one of those random cold snaps that often curse England in June. The previous day had been bright and clear but this one was colder and a good deal greyer. The sky had even thrown a coating of sleet over Greenwich Park during the night and it crunched beneath his booted feet now as he walked back to the elegant little cruiser he called home.

In order to reach the shop he tended to walk up through the park and come down at it from the rear (a favourite tactic in more than just this particular aspect of his life!) On the way back he completed the circle by walking home along the embankment, which firstly necessitated crossing through an underpass beneath the busy main junction of Greenwich Park Road and Trafalgar Road and walking down towards the domed, red-brick entrance to the old Greenwich Foot-Tunnel beneath the Thames. On a pleasant day it was a very enjoyable walk. This morning, with just a bit of a chill in the air, he was quickening the pace as he entered the underpass.

Down towards the end of the tiled and graffittoed passageway, he could already see the huddled shape of some unfortunate, doubtless having selected the underpass as a dry, reasonably sheltered place from which to pan-handle. He had little sympathy with most of them, being of the opinion that if he could take care of himself without resorting to begging for hand-outs, then others should be able to manage it too. As he drew closer to the end of the walkway, a couple of things about the beggar were already giving him cause for concern.

Anthony Wright did not consider himself to be a cruel person. And the young man curled up in the mouth of the tunnel had no doubt been treated cruelly.

He was lightly clad for the chill weather, in just a pair of ripped jeans and a thin, short-sleeved tee-shirt, under a black shirt of some kind of silky, impractical material. The body encased in this unsuitably summery garb was small and impossibly skinny. He lay on one side with his head cushioned by a medium-sized black canvas backpack of the kind used by students the world over. His matchstick arms were wrapped around a battered, black guitar case which for all the world he seemed reluctant to let go.

Ant slowed his stride as he drew level and took a closer look, initially worried that the kid was dead. His skin was very pale, almost bluish in the dim light of the underpass. There were raw track marks on his bared arms (but no sign of a needle) and what he could see of the youngster's face beneath the spill of bleach-tipped black hair, was leached of colour, save for a nasty-looking bruise around one eye and much of his cheek-bone. Ant stopped and put down his milk bottle, crouching beside the youth curiously. This was London, if the kid was hurt then it might be days before anyone else paused to check on him.

Very cautiously, he rested one hand on the lad's shoulder and shook him. The skinny little creature moaned softly and huddled more securely around his guitar-case but he did not stir. There was a flaky patch of some yellowish spill in the corners of his mouth that could have been vomit, or even semen. His clothing smelled damp and unwashed and he was shivering uncontrollably.

That made up Ant's mind for him. He could not leave the boy here like this. More determinedly, he shook the youngster until at last there was a flicker of sentience behind the veil of his dark hair. Long lashes fluttered and he struggled to sit up, whimpering quietly at this unexpected intrusion.

"Leave me alone..."

"You're going to freeze to death if you stay here," Ant told him rationally. "How long have you been sleeping rough?"

The boy managed to get into a sitting position and his head lolled back against the tiled wall. He was still shaking. Behind lips that were turning blue, his small, white teeth chattered incessantly. Unfocussed, pale green eyes glittered behind the curtain of unwashed hair.

"What day is it?" he managed to force out at last.

The older man was somewhat taken aback by this and it was a moment before he was able to answer; "It... it's Wednesday."

The boy rubbed his pale, tired face with one grubby hand and pushed the hair out of his eyes so that the extent of that painful-looking bruise was unveiled in all it's black and yellow glory. His eyes drew Ant's attention more strongly, however. He had the most beautiful, cold, sceptical eyes that the other man had ever seen. Even filthy, beaten and bedraggled he was astonishingly pretty. Only the tenor huskiness of his voice and the well-filled crotch of his tight, pale blue jeans convinced Ant that he was not a younger lad, or even a girl. That gaze which pinned him and kept him in suspicious view now, was the colour of ripe lime flesh and distant as the moon. He had long, thick black eyelashes and a pixyish upturned nose. The lips that framed his words were soft and full, chapped with cold but still curiously cherubic in that small, hostile, heart-shaped face which turned up towards him.

"Four nights," he said, pulling Ant back out of a reverent contemplation of that tender mouth. "Since Saturday."

"When d'you last eat?" he wanted to know.

This time the boy just shrugged. His gaze flickered away into the distance, an expression of dismissal but Ant stayed put. The kid was still shivering and he wrapped his arms around himself now, defensively.

"Bet you're hungry, aren't you?" the older man persisted. "You look frozen."

"Not cold," the young man muttered, lowering his head and tucking his chin into his chest defiantly. "Don't need anything from you."

"You're shaking. Don't be an idiot. D'you want to freeze to death?" Ant said more firmly. "It's gonna snow later on. You gonna sleep out in your shirtsleeves then?"

"What do you care?" He could barely get the words out. Ant could hear the rattle of his teeth.

"You need to get warm," he insisted.

"I need a fix. Unless you've got some Junk, just fuck off, all right!" Those green eyes narrowed and Ant sat back on his heels.

He supposed he should have guessed that the kid was maybe an addict. The puncture marks on his arms were a dead give-away. He figured that the sensible thing to do would be to get up and leave him to it. Ant had never really enjoyed being sensible, mind you. Impulsive people were much more fun.

"I've got some brandy," he said at last. "If you wanna get drunk, you're welcome to it."

"Idiot!" the boy spat out, scathingly. He curled around himself again, burying his face in his arms. The constant trembling of his limbs was getting worse, not better.

At last, Ant heaved a sigh then pushed himself to his feet and went home to his boat. He looked back once but the boy had slumped down on his side again and was curled up like a stray cat. During the day he could not get the thought of the kid out of his head, however. As the afternoon rolled on, the snow clouds also rolled in and a swathe of white cascaded down into the Thames and covered the green mound of the park in a blanket of crisp, deep snow. From time to time he went up to clear the decks and look around. It was unusually quiet out here today. The snow seemed to have wiped Greenwich of its customary gaggle of tourists and lunchtime office workers.

By two thirty he was restless. It was impossible to work on the boat in this weather and he could not concentrate on anything else. Pulling on a heavy coat and his boots, he climbed down the ladder and trudged back through the falling veil of flakes towards the underpass.

The boy was not there. Up here the snow was not sticking so readily to the pavements and roads and Ant wandered around the edges of the park aimlessly for a while, keeping an eye open for him. After a little while he headed back via the foot tunnel, resigned to the idea that you could not always help a person if they didn't want your help. There was no point in freezing his arse off looking for the ungrateful little wretch.

He had just decided this when he spotted the familiar, skinny figure up ahead, stumbling along the embankment, struggling with the bulky instrument case and soaked to the skin. As Ant hurried after him, the boy staggered and fell into the snow. He flailed like a fallen horse for a moment then seemed to give up the uneven struggle and slumped into the embrace of the unseasonable carpet of white. When Ant tried to get him to his feet again, the kid was completely unresisting and insentient. His skin was ice-cold and the man feared for one terrible moment that he was dead. Then he shivered again, a long involuntary tremor that ran through his whole body. His breath came in quick little huffs as if bands of iron were squeezing all the air out of him. Decisively, Ant threw the strap of the guitar case over one shoulder and picked him up.

The lad weighed next to nothing, it was like carrying a child or an empty sack. Ant stumbled back through the blinding snowfall towards the boat with only one concern, to thaw this tiny little wraith out before he froze to death.

Somehow, he was not sure how, he managed to get back to his craft without falling or dropping the unconscious youngster. He wrapped as much of himself around the boy as possible, trying to share his body warmth until he could get them both out of this unbelievable weather. The stove was still hot when he staggered down the stairs into the galley and lowered the kid onto the sofa there. Peeling off his coat, he hurried forward into the bedroom he had created in the bow of the boat, fetching blankets in which to wrap his foundling. The lad was moaning quietly when he came back and knelt beside him. His eyes were closed and he was still shaking, his breath coming in little sobs. Ant put down the blankets and stripped him quickly out of his wet clothing, an action which at least provoked some ineffectual resistance.

"Don't be silly, kid," he cajoled mildly. "You're soaked. You're gonna catch your death if you don't get dry and warm."

"Keep your hands off me!" the boy slurred, shaking so fiercely that he could barely get the words out.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he responded grimly, wrestling the young man out of his wet jeans and ruined hi-tops, noting as he did so that there were bruises all over his skinny frame as well as on his face. His naked body was boyishly hairless but even half-frozen he was well enough endowed to suggest that perhaps he was not as young as Ant had first suspected. A whisper of stubble under his fingers indicated that he shaved himself smooth. "Come on, let's just get you warmed up, hey?"

As soon as he put the blanket around the lad's shoulders it was snatched from his hands and the youngster curled himself up within it, burying his face once more and quivering like a tuning fork. Gently, Ant put another woollen throw over him and left him on his own for a little while. He took the boy's damp things through into the compact kitchen space on board and ran some hot water to wash them through. When he came back to the sofa, his foundling was quieter. He was still huddled up small, engulfed in the covers, but the tremors had subsided and he was breathing more easily. Ant sat down on the end of the covered bench and stroked his hair tenderly.

He felt the boy wince but maintained the gentle contact for a time, until the frightened youngster stopped bristling.

"What's your name?" he asked at last, when he could be sure that the lad was conscious and aware of him. The enquiry got no response so he went on; "I'm Ant – Anthony Wright, but you can call me Ant, okay?"

At last that dark, tousled head came up out of the nest of blankets and the boy's huge green eyes blinked at him owlishly. He looked dazed and slightly bewildered. Occasionally he shuddered but the vibrations were intermittent now, not constant.

"Do you want a drink?" Ant suggested. "I can make you some hot chocolate, if you fancy."

"I feel sick," the kid whispered. He swallowed hard once or twice.

"Where'd you come from?" his rescuer persisted, still stroking his blond-tipped hair reassuringly. "Is there someone I can call for you?"

Again those pale, defiant eyes lifted to meet his own.

"Your mum, maybe?" Ant smiled helplessly. "Someone must be missing you?"

"Oh yeah!" the young man sneered softly, then gagged and put his hand to his mouth, coughing up a little bile but nothing more.

Ant fetched him some kitchen roll and he managed to wipe his pale young face with an attempt at dignity. There was a sheen of sweat across the bridge of his upturned nose and he shuddered again.

"What were you taking?" the older man asked sympathetically.

This time the boy did not meet his eyes. In a low voice he said; "Coke, mostly, or speed. Heroin, on and off for... for a while."

"How long for?"

A shrug, then; "'bout a year... fifteen months."

"Who's your dealer?" Ant ventured. "Will he help you?"

"Don't be fuckin' stupid!" the skinny lad laughed disparagingly.

"Can't you go home?"

"I spent all my time trying to get away, why the fuck would I go back?" At last he struggled to sit upright and leaned back into the embrace of the sofa, coughing into the crumpled wad of tissue again.

"I'm only trying to help, kiddo. You don't 'have' to throw it all back in my face." Ant told him.

For a moment the young fellow looked at him as though he could not quite figure out how they had come to be here, in this situation. There was a flicker of vulnerability behind his eyes, then he looked away, hiding it.

"My name's Rayne. I'm not a kid," he said in a defensive tone of voice.

"Rain? Like the weather?" Ant chuckled mildly.

"Rayne Wilde...as in Oscar; I was christened Raymonde, it was my grand-dad's name. My parents were hippies, they always called me Rayne." He spelled it carefully just in case there was any confusion, then coughed some more

"Won't they want to help if they know you're in trouble?" Ant wanted to know.

"My mum killed herself when I was fourteen. My dad's always in the pub. What could 'he' do? He's doing well if he can stand up on his own." The hostility was back.

"You a London lad?" Ant deflected it gently.

Rayne shook his head. "'m from Kent. I'm a student at UCL. Can't remember when I last went to a lecture. They've prob'ly kicked me out by now."

"How old are you?" the other fellow asked quizzically.

"How old d'you 'think' I am?" Those icy green eyes were too knowing. He looked sidelong at Ant, then coughed again.

"I reckoned at first that you probably weren't much more than fifteen," he confessed in turn. "But you're skin and bone. I reckon you've been living rough longer than a few days. Don't you get student digs?"

Rayne pushed his hair out of his eyes and flashed a rueful smile, the first genuine indication of humour he had attempted so far.

"I'm twenty," he said quietly, with no evidence of deceit. "I'll be twenty one in four months. There... I reckon you're not so interested now, are you?"

"Can't people worry about you just because you're a grown up?" Ant countered at once, suprised but also quite excited by this admission. Even bruised and filthy, his young guest was gorgeous and he felt less guilt lusting after the lad in the knowledge that he was at least legal. "Where've you been living?"

"Nosy aren't you?" Rayne hacked up another good gob of bile and shivered violently again. "I had to get a place outside the halls," he croaked at last. "Digs are first come first served, there's not enough for everyone, and I was at the back of the queue. I'd spent most of my money before I got to London and I thought I was gonna have to crash under a desk at the college or somethin'. Then I met this bloke in a pub and he offered me a place in this squat he'd opened up in Mile End. It was a bit rough but it was warm and dry, so I said okay. I told him I'd pay him when I got my giro through. He said not to worry, he'd sort it."

Ant was looking seriously at him. He'd known kids who spent their whole lives moving from squat to squat with no prospects and less cash, but Rayne did not seem short of common sense. He was lucid during spells when the shakes did not master him and seemed reasonably intelligent. It was beyond reason why a smart, pretty young guy like this should get himself so messed up.

"So you were okay?" he queried. "This bloke... would he help you out?"

"I'm not going back to him!" Rayne was suddenly defensive again. He looked defiantly at Ant. "He reckons I will, cos he knows I'll need a fix, but I can get off it. I'm not going back!"

"He gave you the drugs?" Ant said, just to clarify this for himself.

"He didn't give me them. I 'worked' for them," Rayne expounded, his expression darkening.

"Did you work for that shiner as well?" Ant reached out gently, touching the backs of his fingers to Rayne's bruised face.

The young man shied away then shook his head. Already Ant could see that he did not like to be touched. He sat back, giving Rayne some space.

"I got into a fight. I nicked some gear from 'im," the young man explained at last. "I went down this club in Camden where my band sometimes plays and I was shootin' up in the bogs with Jeli, this girl that sings for us. This bloke that owns the club caught me at it and he threw me out. He punched me. Jeli kept the gear and I was going to go back to her place but her new boyfriend was there and I got into a fight with him. After that it's a bit vague. I knew I couldn't go back to John's place cos he'd fuckin' kill me for nicking the Junk in the first place. So I just wandered about a bit."

Ant shook his head slowly.

"Can't you just work for him until the stuff's paid for?" he asked rationally.

Rayne looked at him as though he'd suggested nude bathing in a bath of acid.

"You've no idea what this bloke is like," he flashed back ominously. "He'll fuckin' murder me for crossin' im in the first place. If I live, then I'm back to square one." He drew his knees up to his chest and folded his arms around them, burying his face in the blankets for a moment. "I've 'ad enough," he said at last in a small, muffled voice. "But I'd fuckin' kill for a fix right now. I feel so bad, Ant."