Archive of Our Own

A long day of stocking and hauling and running errands, and Tony is tired. It’s grueling work, even if he doesn’t mind doing it. Even if he likes doing it. Likes the smiles his good work draws from Valentina. Likes to see his efforts so clearly pay off. Clean, full shelves and clean, shining floors. It feels good to be a constructive citizen, better than he ever thought it could. It’s good to be helpful, to smile, to have people smile back at him. For a long time no stranger ever smiled at him.

Long day of shop-boy work over and done, Tony says his good-night to Valentina and does another couple hours of floor scrubbing and inventory. Just to keep busy for a while. Finally, past midnight, he trudges his way down to his basement room. His body is heavy, ready to collapse immediately, which is what he wants. He’s only been out of prison a couple of weeks, and the readjustment is as exhausting as the work. He’s forcing himself to keep busy, keep tired. If he has the energy to go out at night, he’ll get caught up in all his old bad habits. He knows this. He has to stay by himself, or he won’t be able to change himself. He’ll fall back in with Riff too much, with the boys too much, and he’ll fall right back into the sewer.

It would be too easy. It is too easy.

Already he’s seen too much of Riff. Riff keeps coming by, stealing from the shop, hanging around while Tony is working the soda fountain. He brought around Baby John once, Diesel once. Never the whole gang. Just Riff sitting at the counter telling tales and flipping through magazines that he never puts back in the racks. If Riff was a little more respectful of Valentina, a little better about paying for things and not messing things up, Tony thinks they’d all get on hunky dory. As it is, Riff is made of trouble and can’t help himself. He leaves messes and bothers customers and loiters around distracting Tony, and Valentina doesn’t like having him around. Maybe it was kinda cute when they were ten, but now she’s pretty well fed up with him. He’s gotten meaner since they were ten too. 

Tony’s had to ask him to leave more than once already in the few weeks he’s been out and working. It’s too hard to be who he wants while Riff is around, let alone that Riff wants him back on the streets full time, like they were before. Riff would be thrilled if Valentina kicked Tony out. But Tony needs to keep his job, keep his stability, keep his bones tired and his brain tired. He can’t think about Riff too much. He can’t think about that kid he almost killed too much.

Every time Riff leaves, of his own volition or shooed out, he has this look in his eyes… this sad, bitter, abandoned look. He covers it with sarcasm and snipes, but Tony knows him too well. Knows he can’t understand what Tony is trying to do, or why he’d want to, or why he's pushing Riff out. Riff can’t change. Riff will never escape this shitty neighborhood and this shitty life. Maybe he could have, but he’s too angry now, too bitter and worn down. But Tony might, and he’s trying. 

Sometimes he thinks, watching Riff across the counter, listening to his rattling stories and bombastic fantasies, looking at his bright blue eyes and his wide smile, that Riff could make it out too if he tried. That Tony could help save him somehow. Riff’s smart, he’s a natural leader. He could make something of himself if he tried at all. It’s just a thought, though. Just a dream. Because Riff’s got a record with the cops as long as his arm and he gave up on his future before sophomore year of high school. Riff doesn’t expect to live to thirty, even if he’d never quite say that out loud. There’s no convincing him that there’s more out there for him.

It’s sad, and it’s exhausting. Tony loves Riff, of course he does. But Riff is going to burn up someday, and Tony wants to live.

And right now, Tony wants to sleep. 

He tromps down the stairs and pivots around the corner, already unbuttoning his shirt and hopping to unlace his sneakers, expecting an empty, rumpled bed waiting for him to fall into.

Instead there’s a lump under his blankets, curled up tight. A mess of towheaded hair, a cheekbone, a nose, a mouth held tight and small. 

It’s Riff. 

Speak of the devil. He must’ve slipped in through the sidewalk cellar door while Tony was still upstairs.

Riff hasn’t done this in years. Crawled into Tony’s bed. When they were kids it was a semi-regular occurrence. Riff would want to get away from his dad, or whatever home for wayward boys he was supposed to be living at, and he would come to Tony. Tony would make room for him, always, and they would sleep tightly pressed together. Tony’s bed was as good a sanctuary as either of them had during those years.

But it has been years. Something must be really wrong for Riff to do this. He’s only gotten tougher and harder and more independent since they were kids. He has his own place now, with his own mattress on the floor and his own rack of clothes and his own key. The Jets come to him now, and sleep on his floor. Not to say he doesn’t still count on Tony, still want him and need him, but this is different. This is vulnerable in a way Tony hasn’t seen in a long time, even before his year upstate. 

After skidding to a shocked stop, Tony starts to inch forward again, toeing off his shoes. 

“Riff?” He sits on the edge of the bed and puts a hand on Riff’s shoulder. Riff shifts around and buries his face further into the pillow. “Hey, Riff, are you okay?” 

He opens an eye and looks up at Tony. Quiet, docile. It’s a little worrying; even when Riff was sick, or hurting, he was always vibrant with energy, always humming with electricity. He’s always been unsquashable. Quiet and docile is not what Riff is . 

Then Riff turns his head to reveal a massive bruise on the left side of his face, black and blue and purple from temple to jaw. A black eye and a bruised cheekbone melding together. A cut over his eyebrow that’s swollen and packed with dirt and wet with blood. Like someone ground his face into the sidewalk. There’s blood under his nose. Tony’s pillowcase is stained with smears.

Riff can take a punch– has taken many over the years, has gotten real good at it, in fact– but this is particularly nasty. This is a thrashing. He’s probably concussed. Tony instinctively leans in, brushing fingers over the bruising, wiping a smear of dirt away. It hurts him to see Riff broken down like this, hurting so bad he can’t even be himself. It hurts him like he’s the one who took the beating. 

Riff says his name in a shattered glass tone, like he just recognized Tony is here, present, solid, and crawls forward into Tony’s lap, wrapping his arms around his waist, burying his face into Tony’s hipbone. It exposes a shoulder, a ripped t-shirt, a scrape and a bruise over his sharp shoulder bone. 

“Whoa, Christ, what happened?” Tony peels back the sleeve of Riff’s shirt, trying to see what kind of damage they’re really facing here. There’s a fair amount of blood and grime. 

Riff flinches when Tony’s probing fingers press too hard into a gash. “Got jumped.”

“Were you alone?” The boys would never let Riff get smashed up like this. Half the point of a gang was to spread out the fists. Four against four and nobody can hurt you this bad. Four against one and they can, if they want to. 

Riff shrugs, brushing it away. 

Riff has a reputation around the neighborhood, a black shadow that he created himself and that follows him everywhere he goes, and it’s black enough that there are people who hate him and who would happily take the chance to hurt him. It’s enough that Riff rarely goes around alone, no matter how tough he is. He’s been jumped before, by Bishops and Kings and Sharks who wanted to put him in his place. But he wasn’t alone for those, and he didn’t get hurt like this. 

Tony can feel breath hot against his waist, through his shirt. Riff’s shoulders shudder, and Tony presses: “What happened? You’re startin’ to scare me, here. Let me look at you.” 

When Riff doesn’t answer, Tony starts to pull down the blankets to see for himself. Riff makes a weak sound of protest and pulls away, but Tony catches him quick enough he knows Riff wasn’t trying very hard. He gets the blankets down and cages Riff in with his hands against the mattress. He’s undressed down to his t-shirt and underwear, and from what Tony can see of Riff’s arms and legs, it’s worse than he thought. There are bruises from wrist to shoulder and on his upper thighs. His knees are scraped raw. Tony puts a hand under Riff’s shirt and pauses. Riff watches him, his face blank and open, and doesn’t say no. So Tony slides the shirt off, gently lifting it over his head. 

His chest is mottled with bruises too. Riff lets Tony move him around, examining his bruised back and his purpling ribs. Swollen knuckles and scraped palms. 

“Just a jump?” The bruises on Riff’s thighs worry him. Like maybe the jump went too far. 

Tony starts to put it together. He’s been in enough scrapes and rumbles to know from bruises. He’s done first aid on Riff a hundred times.

Riff, alone. Riff, surrounded. Riff pushed and shoved. Riff hit and hit and fighting back but overwhelmed. Riff thrown to the ground, tearing his palms on concrete. Riff kicked and beaten, curling up to defend his stomach, taking it to his back. Maybe there are hands on him, dragging him, dragging his clothes. Maybe there’s blood in his mouth and he can’t fight them off and won’t scream for help. 

“Just a jump,” Riff says, real serious. It occurs to Tony that Riff would never say otherwise. Not even to him. Would never admit if someone hurt him more than he could handle. Not even to the one person he says he trusts the most. He’s got his pride and he’s got his ego and he’s got his sense of self, and now he’s starting to remember it: “Don’t know what I’m doin’ here, even.”

Riff, alone. 

Tony can’t help but press. “Why were you alone, Riff? Come on, man, talk to me.” 

“Felt like it.” If Riff was cruising, he’d be alone. If Riff was meeting someone, he’d be alone. Tony knows Riff too well. Knows his big secrets, even the ones Riff never told him direct. He knows that sometimes Riff wants something the girls can’t give him. For a while he came to Tony for that, and Tony was happy enough to oblige. Liked being needed, liked feeling good. Liked having Riff close and tight in his arms, instead of out on the streets and courting danger. It was easy and uncomplicated, and they didn’t talk about it. Riff would catch his arm after a fight, or pin him in an alley with a hungry look on his face, and naturally enough they’d fall back into the one place they’d always been safe– Tony’s bed. 

But Tony has been away for a year and who knows what Riff’s been up to during that time. Who knows what itches he’s scratched, and how, and if he’s been careful enough. If he was cruising and got jumped, or tried to pick up the wrong guy and got jumped, or just plain got jumped for being the leader of the Jets and an all around neighborhood menace. 

He imagines it: Riff coming out of a daze, gingerly picking himself up, brushing dust off his jeans, his skinned knees, and limping thoughtlessly to the closest thing he has to a home. To Tony. 

Quiet, Riff grumbles, “I wouldn’t’a come here if I thought you was gonna give me a hard time.” 

“Hey, I’m glad you came here. I’m not givin’ you a hard time. I just want to know what happened is all. So I can help.” Tony leans to press his forehead to Riff’s. Riff may not talk to him, Riff won’t ask for help, but he came here for a reason. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

“I’m fine,” Riff grunts. “Just sore.”

“No, you’re filthy. You’ll get an infection, come on.” Tony laughs and kisses Riff’s cheek, just to make clear nobody’s feelings are hurt and everything is a-okay. He slips his hands under Riff’s shoulders and starts to lift. Riff groans and it doesn’t sound like annoyance. It sounds like pain. Tony stops moving. Riff gets an elbow under himself. “Ok,” Tony says, his thoughts spinning. “You stay here. I’ll get a towel, and…”

Stiffly, Riff huffs out a snickering laugh. “You gonna give me a sponge bath, bucko?” 

“Yeah,” Tony says lightly. That’s more the Riff he knows. “Guess I am.” 

Riff’s laugh is bigger this time, but it pinches off fast with a twinge of his ribs. He shakes his head and starts to wrangle himself to sitting. “No, no way, Tony, I’ll… I can get up.” 

“Riff, you don’t have to–"

“I’m gonna, though. Funny how that works.” He smiles, tight and pained. He swings his feet off the bed and pauses for breath, gripping the edge of the mattress so hard his knuckles would be white if they weren’t purple and red. 

“I got a little bathroom down here,” Tony says gently. “Got a shower.” 

Riff’s collarbones stick out and cast deep shadows. Geez, Riff has gotten skinny. Tony makes a note— while Riff is showering, get him some food. 

Tony follows Riff to the bathroom to make sure he doesn’t fall, or faint; he’s walking like his bones are made of glass. Tony dips in to turn on the shower, getting the water hot. Valentina asks him not to use too much, but this is a special exception, without doubt. Riff needs to get clean. Riff needs hot water to loosen him up.  

“I can help,” Tony offers. “If you’d let me—“

Riff raises a hand to stop him. “I’m a big boy. I promise to wash behind my ears and everything.” The good old Riff is coming back with every word, which should be a comfort, but it’s not. It feels like a front. It feels like a wall between them. Maybe Riff is embarrassed he came. Embarrassed to be seen at anything less than one hundred percent tough. Tony never thought Riff would ever be embarrassed around him. It's a funny and strange and disorienting.

“I’m here.” Tony insists, so earnest, so serious, trying hard to break through Riff’s pride, just for a minute. “I know I was gone, but I’m here now. I want to help, Riff, please. You don't gotta be tough with me."

“You know, I'm startin' to think you got soft in prison.” 

“Nah,” Tony gives his warmest smile, one he knows Riff has seen a thousand times before, just to prove his point. “I always been soft. I got smart in prison, is all. I got thoughtful.” 

Riff snorts, then softens, just a little, in the face of such sincerity. “I can lick my own wounds, Tony,” he says, propping himself against the doorframe. “I shouldn’t’a brought my trouble to you at all. You don’t want it.” Tony opens his mouth to protest– no matter if he’s done with the Jets, done with rumbles and shoplifting and scrounging for the bare minimums of life, he still wants Riff to be able to come to him. Riff cuts him off before he can speak: “But since I’m here, I’ll take some clean clothes.” It’s just a crack in the wall, a tiny admission. For Tony, it feels like a flood.

“You got it. There’s a towel there, so, just scrub up and, and, I’ll be out here when you’re ready.” 

Riff nods and closes the door in Tony’s face. 

There are some things he won’t let Tony be a part of. He never did. Even when it was just the two of them running around together, there were parts of himself that Riff kept to himself. Whatever happened to him tonight, whatever thing drove him into Tony’s bed, it's clear that’s something Riff is going to keep to himself. 

This isn’t some heroic story he’ll tell over the counter upstairs, or to the boys in the empty lot that used to be the building Action grew up in. He’ll make something up to explain the bruises and the Jets’ll buy it, hook, line and sinker. They’ll believe Riff got clipped by a taxi jaywalking, and they’ll applaud him for it. That mystique is key to how their gang works. Riff tells stories and the boys believe it. They want to, so they do. Sometimes the stories are even true. 

Tony’s different. Tony has always been different. He’s always been able to see through the make-believe, and more often than not he was on the inside of it anyway. Like now. He’ll always know what Riff looked like, small and vulnerable in his bed. He’ll always know that. No matter what story Riff decides to spin, he’ll know. He’ll keep the secret too, of course. Riff needs his pride. 

He listens at the door until he hears Riff step under the spray, then dashes up the stairs two at a time. The shop is dead quiet and his socks slip on the scrubbed and shining floors. Working fast, he plucks gauze and band-aids and aspirin off the shelves. There’s a first-aid kit behind the counter, which he remembers a little too late. He used it just a week ago to clean out Riff’s knuckles, split in a run-in with a stray Shark and a brick wall. Riff had laughed about that one. He’d shown up with blood between his big white teeth and laughed about it. He’d been proud of it. The first-aid kit, which has rubbing alcohol in it, gets added to the growing pile in Tony’s arms. Behind the soda fountain counter is Valentina’s bottle of rum, which Tony swipes, then hesitates. Instead of bringing the whole thing, he pours four generous fingers worth into a glass and puts the bottle back. 

He grabs chips and candy bars and two bottles of coke, and wishes they had better food on hand. Not just snacks and sweets. Something hearty to bolster Riff’s skinny ribs. But they don’t, and Tony can’t slip up to Valentina’s upstairs apartment with it’s well-stocked kitchen, not tonight, so Tony takes what he can.

He’ll explain to Valentina in the morning. He’ll pay her back. She can dock his pay. She’ll cluck at him, and chide him, and call Riff a degenerate, no good for you , but he’ll just have to explain. He loves Riff. It’s that plain and simple. Riff is his brother, his blood, and more. He’d do anything for Riff, when it came down to it. No matter how much he’s trying to break away from the life they’ve led together, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, abandon Riff when the cards were down. Maybe he should, but he can’t. Right now, Riff needs him. Needs him to take care of him. To patch him up and make him feel better. Valentina has to understand that. Riff doesn’t have anybody else. 

Maybe Riff is a bad habit he’ll never be able to shake. Maybe he’s going to have to be okay with that. 

On his way back downstairs, he locks the door behind him. 

The shower is still going. For a moment, Tony puts his ear to the door. He catches a quiet curse, a muted yelp. 

Tony goes over to the bed and drops his armful of medical supplies and food, carefully putting the glass of rum on his bedside table, then goes to root around for clothes. At the foot of his bed he finds Riff’s jeans. The knees are torn and bloody. The rest is worn thin with wear. It twinges Tony’s heart painfully. 

The low churn of water from the shower stops abruptly, with a squawk from the pipes. Tony drops Riff’s jeans and scrambles to pull out a pair of underwear and a clean shirt. Just to have on hand. Just to prove he listened when Riff said all he wanted was clothes. 

The pillow stained with blood stares at him. Tony flips it over. 

A minute later, Riff comes wobbling out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. Scrubbed and clean, pink from the hot water, his hair brushed back off his face, he looks almost like a self-respecting citizen. But there are those bruises, and scrapes, and his tattoos, his sharp ribs and rangy muscles and tight tendons and clenched jaw. He’s got on his Virgin Mary medal, which hangs between his collarbones and lands on his sunken sternum. It was his very late mother’s, Tony knows. And that gold chain he wears around his wrist– Tony gave him that one summer, lifted from a girlfriend and wrapped around Riff’s arm one warm and wonderful night. They’d been at the beach all day, then gotten drunk and slept under the boardwalk. It had been a pretty great time. Now it sparkles in the dim light, scrubbed as clean as the rest of him, the hand it’s on propped loosely on his boney hip.

He looks tough again. All the vulnerability has been put away. The rawness, the pain, the need that had him crawling into Tony’s lap, is gone. 

“I grabbed some food,” Tony offers. Start there, then ease into band-aids and rubbing alcohol. Ease into asking what he’s been up to, and how he’s been. Not the fluff he’s spun upstairs at the counter. How he’s really been. “You eat a single meal while I was upstate?” Tony asks, teasing. Riff scoffs. “You look like a skeleton.”

Riff hobbles over to him, and Tony makes room on the edge of the bed for him to sit. 

“Will you let me patch you up, at least? Like this one at least?” He lightly touches the cut over Riff’s eye. Riff cringes. The dirt is mostly out of it, but it’s oozing still. 

“Don’t make a big fuss or nothing, okay?”

“Right.” Quick, before he changes his mind, Tony starts opening gauze. He reaches quickly to grab the glass of rum and push it into Riff’s hands. “Figured you might want that.” 

Riff takes a sniff, then a sip. Tony starts dabbing rubbing alcohol onto his face. 

It goes like that for a minute. Tony dabbing, Riff sipping. Quiet like. Tony applies a band-aid and moves on before Riff can stop him. He runs his hands over Riff’s shoulders and chest, patches the scrape on his shoulder, checks his hands, washes his knuckles and palms and applies bandages. By the time he’s done there, Riff’s hands look like a boxer’s hands. Then it’s onto his ripped up knees, which Tony wipes clean and wraps as best as he can. Riff is clenching his jaw and breathing in sharp inhales. It hurts, of course it does. Rubbing alcohol stings. He’s stayed totally silent and cool, but of course it hurts. 

“You think anything’s broken?” Riff shakes his head. Tony presses a kiss to his knee. "Don't need a hospital?" Another head shake. 

When he tries to take away the towel, Riff holds it tighter around his waist and puts his foot on Tony’s chest. 

“Cool it, buddy boy. I said I was fine.” 

“I know,” Tony holds Riff’s foot against him and bends his head to lay his cheek against the bridge. “Sorry.” He lets his lips run over Riff’s boney foot, something he’d never do except that Riff just got out of the shower. This is the cleanest his run-around feet will ever be, and they aren’t even all that clean since he walked over the floor of the basement, coated in brick dust and regular dust, and who knows what else. Probably Tony will have a footprint on his shirt. 

Riff watches this with interest, but not passion. Tony kisses up Riff’s ankle, to his shin, back to his battered knee. 

“It was just a regular jump, Tony. Promise. Sorry I scared ya.”

“It’s okay.” 

Tony eases up off the floor and back onto the bed. He’ll respect Riff’s privacy, his fierce independence. He’ll stop pushing.

“Scared myself a little, I guess,” Riff says, barely louder than a whisper. Unsure what to say to that, Tony hooks his hand around the back of Riff's neck and gives him a shake. A little ruffle. Riff’s face slides into a muted smile. 

The rum is gone. Tony thinks maybe he should’ve swiped the whole bottle after all. Instead, he offers the bottle of aspirin and a Milky Way.

They sit side by side, Riff in his towel and Tony’s shirt open, and eat and drink their cokes and surround themselves with wrappers and detritus, like they did when they were kids. Stealing candy bars had been the peak of childhood excitement, at a time. It feels like a lifetime ago. 

Tony reaches to get a smear of chocolate off the corner of Riff’s mouth and Riff bites his thumb. 

This is how it is with them. Somewhere between childhood pals and adult lovers, always hovering undefined in the middle. 

Tony smiles. He’s feeling warm, no booze involved. 

“How ya feeling?” 

“Been worse.” Tony’s not totally sure he believes that. He’s seen Riff smashed to bits, broken bad enough that Tony had to carry him to the hospital for stitches and splints. Somehow this seems worse. It’s how quiet he is. That he admitted being scared.

“You’re gonna stay here tonight, right?"

“Yeah, Tony, sure.” 

“Okay. Good.” There’s a pause. Tony starts collecting their trash, bundling it all up in his hands. He figures he’ll go upstairs and throw things out and leave a note for Valentina. It’ll give Riff a chance to put some clothes on without Tony peeking. “I’ll just, uh– There’s–” he nods towards the little pile of clothes he’d pulled out, sitting on the bed. “If you want.” Riff grins as Tony collects the empty bottles and the glass and balances it all. It’s ungainly, but awfully charming. “One sec.” 

Off he trots, leaving Riff perched on the edge of his bed. 

He lingers upstairs for a second, breathing, listening to himself as much as he’s giving Riff time. It’s too easy to fall into old habits with Riff. It happened without his even thinking about it. They just fit together too well. Being with Riff is like well worn dance steps, ingrained in his blood. He tries, for a second, to reorient onto himself and off of Riff. He can’t build his whole life around Riff anymore. He can’t do it and be the new man he wants to be. He’d made up his mind about that six months ago. But faced with Riff now— and Riff like this— it feels impossible. He loves Riff. They love each other, and Tony hasn’t had much love in his life. What’s he supposed to do, throw it away? Leave Riff behind like he never meant anything to him? He could never. 

Tony pours himself a slug of rum and throws it down his throat.

He leaves a note for Valentina, explaining that Riff is downstairs and Riff is hurt, so Tony won’t be working in the morning like he usually does. He writes out a list of what he took and adds up how much he owes. Please understand, he writes. I know you don’t like him, but he needs me . 

He can’t think of what else to say. There’s nothing else he can write down. 

So he leaves it and slinks back downstairs.

Any thought of getting away from Riff fades like mist once he’s back in his friend’s presence. Riff is dressed, wearing the underwear (a little too big) and t-shirt (a lot too big) that Tony left out for him. He’s stretched himself out on the bed, obviously carefully arranged to avoid putting pressure on any of the big bruises. He’s trying to play casual, with a clear mischievous look in his eye, like he was never vulnerable. 

“Hey, Anton,” he purrs. 

“That rum getting to you?” Riff never calls him Anton, not when he’s sober or they’re not tangled up together. Not like he minds it, but Anton is for special occasions. 

“Maybe. Wouldn’t say no to some more.” A smile smears across his face, showing off his teeth. “Or maybe you got some weed?”

“Sorry, buddy, no more rum and no weed. I’m supposed to be stayin’ clean.” Tony kicks off his jeans, tosses off his shirt, and joins Riff on the bed. It would be nice to have some weed, he thinks. Mellow out. They used to smoke in bed together all the time, Tony reading his sci-fi magazines while Riff tried to blow smoke rings. Now, Tony settles into that old shape, thoughtlessly slipping his arm around Riff’s shoulders and pulling him close. “You sure you feel okay?” 

Riff hums pleasantly, hooking a finger into the waistband of Tony’s underwear. “Yeah. Feel great. Could feel better, if you want.”

“You gotta be more careful with that, man.”

“I am careful. I got jumped, Tony, that's all, can you let it go–” He lightly puts his teeth into Tony’s shoulder. Not starting anything, not trying anything. Just making a point. They don’t talk about this. They don’t . They do it, or they don't, but they don't talk about it. And Tony has never, never, tried to tell Riff how to do it, or how to handle it.

“Riff, I mean it, look at you.” He runs a finger over the bruised cheek, drags it under Riff’s jaw and tilts him up. For a second they stare into each other’s eyes.

Then Riff makes a face and pulls away, wriggling back a few inches. He props himself up on an elbow and glares down at Tony. His mouth turns into an ugly sneer. “You know, I took care of myself the whole time you was upstate. I took care of the neighborhood and the Jets, and, Tony, I took care of you our whole fuckin’ lives. I’m not some fuckin’ pansy–”

“I know, Riff, I just mean–”

“Who cares what you mean?” He bites. “I don’t.” 

Tony smiles, trying to be unthreatening. Just good ol’ friendly Tony who everybody likes. His hand, still around Riff’s back, trails over his sharp shoulder blades. “Riff, don’t get all…”

“All what?” 

“All… how you get.” Meaning defensive. Meaning mean. Meaning jealous and bitter and worked up and biting. Meaning dismissive and aloof. “Just… don’t lock me out. I don’t like seeing you all… hurt.” 

Riff bends. “I ain’t that hurt. Ain’t I always okay?” 

“Sure.” He lays his hand flat against Riff’s back and gently eases him back close. Riff palms his face, playful and affectionate. His smile comes back, wide and glowing, only a little hesitant. He pinches Tony’s fleshy cheek, never ground to glass like Riff’s. Still soft, still gentle.

“You’re a big fuckin’ nag.” 

“Oh?” Tony laughs. “I’m a nag because I don’t want you to get beat to death?” 

“Yeah. A nag and a buzzkill.” 

“You’re reckless, Riff. Like you’re tryin’ to get yourself killed.”

“Well, I ain’t, okay?” Riff sniffs, then presses his body against Tony’s with purpose, putting an ankle over Tony’s calf. He puts his face against Tony’s throat and licks a stripe up his neck. It sends a shiver down Tony’s spine, and Riff’s satisfied grin, which he can feel against his skin, sends another.

“Riff–”

“Tony. I’m not looking to get killed. I’m just tryin’ to live my own way. I’m okay. I’m always gonna be okay.” Now that is something Tony does not believe. Someday Riff will get hurt too bad. Someday Riff will self-destruct. But for now, Riff’s smile has turned salacious and his hand has skated down Tony’s stomach. “Let me show you how okay I am, if you’re so worried.”

“Christ, Riff–”

He wants to say he’s too tired, because he is. Bone tired. Riff has to be too. But there’s adrenaline and electricity in the room, brought on by their little spat and the charge that lives between them and always has since the first time they kissed in a closet at school. And Riff is tonguing at the underside of his jaw. Riff’s hands are digging into his ribs and groping down his underwear. Tony slips his hand up the back of Riff’s shirt. It’s hard to say no to Riff. It always has been. He's sure about things in a way Tony rarely has been. Riff knows what he wants and he takes it. And now he wants to show Tony that nobody can hurt him, not really. Not in any way that matters. He pulls Tony in and kisses him, hard and deep, and Tony kisses him right back. 

They fumble together, Riff groping and Tony groaning, until Tony squeezes too tight, catches the wrong bruise the wrong way, and Riff shouts. Shouts . Tony recoils, horrified, and whips his hands away.

“I hurt you, geez, Riff, I’m sorry, I didn’t–” 

“Fuck,” Riff hisses through gritted teeth. “Shut up. Christ, just shut up. Who fuckin’ are you?”

“What?”

Riff looks at him, pained and incredulous and angry and embarrassed, with tears in his eyes. “You never used to– You were never this– You’re like a whole other guy.”

Then Tony gets it. He was never this nice. Before he went upstate and spent so much time with himself, thinking about himself, his life, his future… he was mean. He was as mean as Riff, and they were mean to each other. No matter how much love was between them, they pushed each other around and bit and could be cruel. Tony from before would have pushed Riff’s bruises and relished it. It would’ve been hot to him, to cause a little pain. He wouldn’t have recoiled like that. He would’ve kept going. 

That’s not who he is anymore. 

“I can’t be nice? Come on, Riff, I don’t want to hurt you. Ain’t you been hurt enough for one night?”

Riff makes a face. Tony props himself up on his elbows so he can look at Riff properly. 

“Look, I know I’m different. I’m trying to be better than I was. I love you, Riff. I don’t want to hurt you. I never did, before. It just… felt like the thing to do, didn’t it? But it ain’t. It don’t have to be. Alright?” Tony wants to touch and comfort, but holds back. Riff is eying him suspiciously. He can’t push him too far. He takes a deep breath. This has to stop. Riff needs to rest, needs to recover. They have the rest of their lives to fool around, for Christ's sake. To be nice to each other or mean if they want. To figure out how to be with each other, how they fit. They don’t have to do it on the same night Riff got the snot kicked out of him. “Let’s just, just– Let’s just sleep huh? You ain’t hurt, I believe you, but, hey, I’m tired. Aren’t you tired?”

The grit in Riff’s tightly held jaw slowly bleeds away. He nods. He looks tired now. Totally wrung out. 

“Okay, okay,” Tony takes him by the shoulders and lays him down. “We’ll sleep, okay? You sleep as long as you want. I ain’t going anywhere.” Riff looks up at him from the pillow, docile and quiet again, sad and drawn and exhausted and maybe a little confused. He’s still a kid, really. They both are. Not even twenty-five. It shouldn’t be this hard to be alive, Tony thinks as he lays himself down next to Riff. This is a bigger bed than they’ve ever shared, and Riff reaches out a hand to touch Tony’s chest, just to be sure of him. 

“If you want me to be mean, I’ll be mean in the morning.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Sure, Riff. Whatever you want. Tonight let’s just sleep.”

One night without any pretense, without any pretending to be tough or posturing at uncaring sexiness, or whatever, is all Tony’s asking. One night where Riff allows himself to rest, to breathe, to be cared for. One little night without any more hurt.

When Riff’s hand slides around the back of Tony’s neck and tangles in his hair, Tony smiles. Riff is willing to bend, just for a night. So Tony scoots closer and wrangles his arms around Riff’s shoulders and holds him. Riff doesn’t complain, doesn’t chafe, doesn’t bite. Tony holds him until his breathing steadies out and Tony is sure he’s asleep. Holds him and feels his bones and his breath and his eyelashes brushing against his collarbones. 

Holds him and hopes hopes hopes that the next time Riff won’t die in the street. Hopes that the next time Riff will come to him. Hopes this will be some kind of wake-up call and Riff will pull it together and find a way to see a future for himself that's more than blood and hurt and fighting.

Which he won’t. Riff won’t change. Riff can’t see a way out. 

So for now, Tony holds him and lets him sleep, and feels a heavy sadness in his heart along with the spinning anxiety of what to do, what to do . 

Someday Riff is going to burn up and Tony won’t be able to do anything about it. Someday Riff is going to burn up and Tony will have to just watch. Someday he won’t be able to patch Riff’s scrapes and hold him and eat candy bars while Riff nurses his pride. It’ll be too late. 

Someday is coming, and fast. 

Tony looks down at Riff’s hair, blonder now that it’s clean, laying flatter than usual. He lays his cheek against the top of Riff’s head. 

It never used to scare him, that awful Someday, because he figured they’d burn up together. Live fast and hard and not worry about the future. Die young. There was no future.

Tony used to be mean. He used to not care. It was easy. Riff made it easy. They were going so fast it didn’t seem to matter. But Tony slowed down while he was upstate, and meanwhile Riff has sped up, accelerating towards his own destruction along with the neighborhood and the Jets. He's looking for it, even if he says he's not. He's seeking it out and he's finding it. Tonight he found a little too much of it.

Now that Tony can see it, it’s horrible. It makes him sick. 

He has to get out. He has to break out, before Riff drags him back in and back down. He has to if he wants to live, let alone if he wants to thrive. 

But he can’t. Not when Riff needs him like this. Not when he’s the only person Riff would come to beaten and hurting like this. 

No good for you . Maybe not. 

But Riff is part of him. The part of him that’s destined for destruction, maybe, but not a part he can just cut out like a  tumor. Not when he’s the only person who maybe, maybe, could help Riff. Maybe maybe drag him out of the gutter, even a little ways.

He can’t give up, not when there’s a chance. Even if he should. Even if he really should. 

He loves Riff. So he can’t. So Tony will patch his wounds and his ego and hold him while he sleeps for as long as Riff will let him. It’s what he needs to do, right or wrong. And Riff needs him too. There’s nothing he can do but hold him, hold him forever, for as long as he’s willing to be held, and be with him. 

And that’s how Valentina finds them in the morning.