Patrick has nowhere to sleep. And yes, he tried the fucking community centre, they wouldn't let him in, would they? Something about anti-social behaviour and unwilling to risk another police enquiry. Fucking dick-heads, that was one time.

So now, he has to find himself a nice piece of ground, instead. He can't go to the spot he was in last night, the fucking cops kicked him out, 'cause apparently it's his fault he's got no money and no roof over his head. Thanks for nothing, government.

The wind bites at his neck as he hurries through the streets, burying himself in his sweater and peering down every alleyway, hoping there's some kind of shelter. Literally anything will do, anything he can – bins.

They'll do nicely. Two big, square, blue bins the size of small sheds stand toward the front of this particular alley, with cardboard spewing out of them and everything.

It's late, there's not many people around, but he checks for cops anyway. You never know when they're gonna pounce on you. He pulls his hat down further, hunching his shoulders to keep from shivering. The nights are always cold, and they're only gonna get colder. The wind whistles through the streets, weaving with the beating music of the club down the road and the cars sweeping past.

When he's safely in the shadows of the alley, he reaches up and wrestles as much cardboard as he can carry out of the bins, cursing when the wind catches it and sends it spilling on top of him.

It's good stuff, though, better than he's had before, corrugated and clean. He gathers it up and lays it out in the corner between the wall and the bin, sitting down and feeling the cold breeze lessen.

He sets his backpack down next to him, digging through it to find his blanket. It's a mess, muddy and holey and wet from that fucking dick of a storm last night, but it's warm, and he's cold, so it'll have to do. Patrick won't eat tonight, he's gotta save the rest of that guy's money to get another sleeping bag, 'cause his other one was fucking stolen, those asshole teenagers. He hopes they die horribly.

And, for the record, he doesn't feel the slightest bit of guilt towards the dude. Who carries fifties around with them like that? He's probably a rich bastard, one of those people with a house and a job and a car. They can all die horribly, too.

He spent most of the money on new trainers, his old ones had practically worn through, and he has no desire to become any more acquainted with the ground than he already is, thanks. They're rubbing his feet a bit, socks are for losers, and people with money, but they're dry and that's all that really matters.

Trying to ignore the cold metal of the bin against his skin, not to mention the smell, Patrick pulls the blanket up around him, bringing his knees up to his chest and huddling as tight as he can into the corner. He knows he shouldn't sleep, but he has to, he has to. It's been too long.

His eyes fall shut, and he tries to imagine he's somewhere else, and not pressed up against a bin with the ground underneath him. It's hard to sleep when you're hungry, even harder when you don't feel safe, but he does anyway. He's used to it by now.

-

"...yeah, take the blanket too."

"What if he wakes up?"

"Who cares, just grab it and run!"

Suddenly, Patrick feels cold crash over him, his eyes snapping open, hands on him and voices near him.

"Shit, go, go!" someone laughs shrilly.

He rubs his eyes and sits up, just in time to see a group of kids charging down the alley, cackling their heads off.

"What the fuck?!" he yells suddenly, looking around him to see that his blanket is gone. And his backpack. You've got to be kidding me. You've got to be fucking kidding me.

"You fucking pieces of shit!" he hollers, scrambling up from where he was sleeping and running after them, feeling the rubbish-strewn and ice-cold ground beneath his feet. Wait, what?

Those motherfuckers have taken his fucking shoes. They've taken his fucking shoes.

He's screaming now, cursing at the top of his lungs, his hands in fists and every muscle in his body coiled with pure rage. Fading laughter is his only response.

Tears prick his eyes, frustration and hatred fuelling his desperate cries as he pulls at his hair and stomps his bare feet on the concrete. How the fuck could someone do that?! What kind of asshole steals from a homeless person?! That backpack had everything in it, his spare clothes, water, money, it'd taken him so long to save up for that and now it's gone. He has nothing but the clothes he's standing in.

A growl rips from his throat as he storms back to where he'd been sleeping, and suddenly he can't take it anymore. He lets out a scream as he throws a fist against the wall, feeling his knuckles split and his arm jar but doing it again all the same.

In a fit of blinding rage, he aims a kick at the bin, hoping if he hits it hard enough, those fucking kids might feel it up their thieving little asses. But he forgets. He forgets they took his shoes, too, doesn't see the jagged piece of metal sticking out. He only feels the pain as the sole of his foot is ripped in half, hears his own cry of agony.

He shouts every single swear word he knows at the bin, his vision blurring around the edges, and he throws out a hand to steady himself against the wall, breathing hard.

Holy fuck does it hurt. He's had pain worse than this before, sure, but that's difficult to remember when it feels like his entire leg is being spit-roasted, he swears his foot must be melted off by now, or he might just have to chop it off, his teeth clenched so tight they've practically fused together.

The tears in his eyes make a bid for freedom, and begin to spill down his face. He can't swallow the sobs anymore, the pain making it too difficult to keep hold of whatever dignity he might have left, so he just clutches at his leg with shaking hands and focuses on being able to breathe, cursing in between gasps.

"Hey, are – are you alright?"

Patrick looks up, ready to strangle whoever the fuck wants to mess with him any more, and sees a figure peering at him from the opening of the alley.

Wait. Oh, shit.

It's that dude. That dude from the shop, the dude he stole the money off, oh god no this is not good. Apparently fate hasn't quite finished shitting on him.

He ducks back behind the bin, wincing as his good foot steps into a warm puddle of what is probably his own blood.

"No, wait, you're that kid!" the guy exclaims, taking a few steps towards him and pointing.

Patrick sighs. Spending the night in a prison cell is starting to look like the better option. He hops out into full view of the dude, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible despite the searing pain in his foot.

"Listen, I don't have your fucking money, alright?" he yells at the dude, fists clenched. "I spent it. I can't pay you back. Go on, call the damn cops!" It's not like he can run away.

"Hey, no, it's – it's okay, I'm not gonna call the police," the guy says, loudly but gently, his voice bouncing off the walls and swallowed by the night sky. "What're you yelling about?"

Patrick looks away. He shouldn't tell this guy anything about himself, he knows that, but then the frustration of all this is getting a little too much for him to keep hold of. "Some, uh... some kids stole my stuff," he mumbles at the ground.

"Oh, so you're against stealing now?" the dude laughs, and suddenly Patrick wishes he could walk just so he could give the guy a punch in the gut.

"Listen, shithead, you-" he starts, but he's cut off.

"No, no, I was kidding, I'm sorry. What did they take?"

"Fucking everything. Blankets, money, everything!" Patrick gushes, biting his lip to keep from breaking down all over again.

"That's awful. Whoa – they took your shoes too? What happened to your foot?" the dude says anxiously, pointing at Patrick's bare toes, his bleeding foot trembling as he tries to keep it hovered off the ground.

"What do you care?" he snarls, wiping furiously at the tears on his face.

The dude ignores his question, though. "You cut it? That looks pretty bad, you ought to get that cleaned up. Have you got somewhere to go?"

Patrick scoffs. "What does it fucking look like?"

"You don't? You sleep out here every night?" the guy asks, seemingly un-fazed by Patrick's malice. He'll have to try harder next time.

Instead, he just nods at the floor, allowing himself a wince of pain.

"That's rough, dude," the guy says, then frowns for a moment like he's thinking. "You – do you wanna come to my place?"

"Piss off," Patrick spits immediately. "I don't need your fucking charity."

"Well, no offence, but...it kinda looks like you do, kid."

Running shaking fingers through his hair, Patrick growls at the sky, then at the dude. "Just leave me alone, okay? I'm fine, I'll be fine."

It's the dude's turn to scoff now, but when Patrick shoots him a glare sharper than that fucking bit of metal sticking out of the bin, he coughs and sighs. "Listen, it's just for tonight, okay? Come back to mine, I'll patch you up best I can, yeah?"

"No," Patrick asserts, nearly stomping his feet, then thinking better of it.

"Come on, you can have a shower, I'll cook you a hot meal, and you can sleep in the guest room. Queen-sized bed and everything?" the guy says hopefully, taking a step forward.

He's about to say no again, he really is. But his foot is screaming, he's pretty sure he can't walk, like, at all, and the thought of an actual meal makes his stomach yearn to be filled. He doesn't actually know what a queen-sized bed is, but it sure sounds comfy. And comfort isn't something Patrick is too familiar with.

The guy could be a crazy stalker creep, a murderer or something, but he doesn't seem like it. Patrick doesn't always understand how people talk, doesn't get why some things are funny, and why some things aren't funny at all, but this guy seems like he isn't kidding.

"Uh...okay," he says, shrugging like he isn't dreaming of limbs that don't ache and eyes without shadows underneath them.

"Good. Alright then," the guy nods, rubbing his hands together like he's nervous or something. Then he starts to walk towards Patrick, who hops quickly back behind the bin, panicking. Maybe the guy is a stalker.

"Get away from me!" he spits, wishing he could move faster than an arthritic tortoise, trying to ignore the fact that his whole leg is burning.

"Hey, hey, calm down," the dude holds up his hands, speaking a bit softer now he's nearer. "Look, I only wanna help you walk."

"I can walk!" he protests. It's such a lie, it's almost laughable. He knows if he puts any weight on his foot, he'll probably pass out or something stupid like that.

The guy raises a sceptical eyebrow, and moves closer, holding out a hand.

Swallowing quickly, Patrick gives in. He loosens his grip on the side of the bin, and lunges for the guy's hand, grabbing his arm and nearly pulling him over, but the guy keeps still, letting Patrick steady himself. An arm is slung round his shoulders; Patrick flinches at the feel of someone's hand so near to his back, but he doesn't suppose he really has much of a choice but to just cling on for dear life.

He manages to catch the guy's neck in the crook of his elbow, and finally, he feels some of his own weight taken off him.

"Are you good?" the guy asks, gripping Patrick's shoulders tightly and raising his eyebrows at him.

Patrick nods as best he can, looking around for any stuff he might have forgotten, then remembering he doesn't have any fucking stuff.

The guy takes a step forward, and pulls Patrick along with him, watching him carefully. Patrick's foot jolts at the sudden movement, and he lets out a whine of pain, like a wounded animal. The guy stops immediately, and Patrick can practically feel him panicking.

"It's fine, I'm fine," Patrick growls through gritted teeth.

"Are you sure? I could, like, carry you or s-"

"Just keep fucking walking," Patrick snaps, pushing at the ground with his good foot and trying to shove the guy forward. God, this is embarrassing.

With about as much grace as an alcoholic getting out of a swimming pool, they start to stagger down the alleyway, casting a strange three-legged shadow across the concrete.

Patrick tries not to think about the steady flow of blood, thick and warm, trickling between his curled toes, and focusses on not tripping up, grateful for the smooth pavement as they limp down the main road.

The guy babbles away, his voice a buzz in Patrick's ear, pieces of what he's saying sometimes floating through.

"...lived here for very long, it's just, like, convenient, y'know...my mum's near, she likes to visit...club down the road, don't worry, though, I'm not wasted, it's just funny seeing everyone else get wasted..."

They turn another corner, onto a less busy road, less lights and more parked cars.

"Kid?" the dude's voice is suddenly louder, and Patrick's aware that they've stopped.

"What?" he blurts, twisting his head to look at the guy.

"I just asked what your name was," he laughs, motioning for them to carry on.

"Uh...Patrick."

"Cool, okay. I'm Pete, by the way," the guy – Pete – says, grinning like he's just made a new friend. "My place is just over the road," he points, "nice to meet you, Patrick."

Patrick very much doubts that anything about their meeting was nice, but lets Pete shovel him down the street all the same. The novelty of whatever good-willed yearning this was will wear off for Pete soon, Patrick's sure. He'll stay a night, get some food, get his foot patched up, that's all. What's the worst that could happen?