If It Aint Love

He dragged his tired body back to the familiar neighborhood.He didn't remember what he was supposed to be writing until he sank into a mattress in a homeless home and found some comfort in that shabby blanket.The only problem is, he has no story to write.Regardless of whether his sense of smell is restored or not, he has no intention of writing this subject at all.Buried under a blanket, he listened to the snoring of exhausted people as they fell into sound sleep.He was probably the only one left awake.He's only known that man for a day, so what can he owe?But apparently, a host of lingering concerns prevented him from being persuaded by the reasoning himself.

A hand gently shook his shoulder to wake him up, expecting it to be Peter, but when he opened his eyes, he saw sunlight streaming through a dirty window onto Jimmy Westbrook's messy brown hair and face On the face, the dense freckles make him look younger than his actual 25 years old.He was sitting on the opposite bunk, leaning on his knees on his thin arms, and was looking at Whit curiously. "Never seen you sleep this long. Are you all right?"

Whit pushed back the blanket and sat up.He's sure he's only been asleep for five minutes all night, which is why his eyes are so eager to keep them shut right now.He tried to shake the feeling off, noticing his wrinkled suit. "Damn it. I should have taken off my clothes before going to sleep." But he only used his fingers to brush his hair. "Your interview is today?"

Jimmy grimaced. "Try anyway." He also smoothed his hair, but it only made the hairstyle look more messy. "I'm trying to clean myself up, but the toilet is dirtier than me. Do you think other people will look like bums then? I pray. It won't be too bad anyway. I That is, even if I don’t get accepted.”

"You'll be accepted." He didn't have to have an excuse to go back to Gramercy Park, but it was good to have one.At least it made it less likely that Peter would slam the door directly in his face. "Would you like to go for a walk?"

Jimmy is reluctant to ask strangers for help, but Whit tells a white lie, assuring Jimmy that Peter is his friend and just owes him a favor.Although Jimmy trailed nervously a few paces behind Whit, they reached Gramercy Park at last.Whit decided not to dwell on the wisdom of the decision, and went up the steps and rang the doorbell.Peter appeared bleary-eyed behind the door, but frowned at the sight of Whit and was about to close the door.

"Peter, wait. If you don't want to talk to me, you can leave me alone, but—you said you wanted to do Jimmy a favor..." Whit looked back, and Jimmy was hesitantly walking up the steps.As if realizing that they were not very popular with Peter, Jimmy stopped halfway and looked at Whit.However, it was Peter who spoke at this time.

"Of course. Sorry, I forgot to make an appointment today." He opened the door. "Please come in."

Whit hesitated. "If anyone in your house—"

Peter returned to his inscrutable expression. "Nobody. Just couldn't sleep well."

"I have a little sleep problem too," Jimmy laughed nervously.He tightened the out-of-shape hat in his hand. "I have to thank you for this..."

"This is Peter," Whit told Jimmy.

"Peter Dorrington." Peter held out a hand to shake Jimmy's, but his eyes fell on Whit, a trace of regret leaking out of his pretended calm. "Come with me, please, we can clean up before lunch. I still have piles of food stuffed in my refrigerator, and I don't mind having a few people help me digest them." Whit remembered Peter's smile at this time .Their company still cheers Peter up -- even if he still has the scars from the night before.Hope rekindled in Whit's heart.

Jimmy took Whit's arm as Peter entered the corridor first. "Dorrington? Then he is—"

"Yeah. It hit him hard. I guess that's why he wanted to help you," Whit said before realizing that was the reason. "He wants to carry on the family tradition, in his own way."

As they walked up the main stairs, Jimmy whispered, "Is there anything I can do to repay him?"

Whit shook his head. "You're already doing it."

They went to the bedroom, and Peter, who had chosen a suit, pushed Jimmy into the bathroom and closed the door. "Let's go downstairs and give him a little privacy."

"Peter—"

"Go downstairs."

In the kitchen, Peter took out plate after plate of food from the refrigerator.Whit found the place spotless. "Is your hourly worker still here?"

"Not coming. I can do well without her."

"Really?" Whitney suppressed a laugh. "So what did you have for dinner?"

Peter set down a platter with a large shriveled roast, surrounded by carrots and turnips out of shape.He gave a dry laugh and looked at Whit helplessly. “Poached eggs and coffee.”

"Can you cook eggs?"

Peter shook his head. "But I brew the coffee myself."

Whit laughed. "It's also a good start."

"You're not going to put that in your story, are you?"

Despite the sarcasm in his tone, there was a frank anticipation in his air.Whittle, minus the sarcasm, responded with the same candor, "I don't blame you for being mad at me, but I really didn't know who you were. I swear to God, Peter, if I had just started—"

"Do you still want to go home with me?"

He didn't expect Peter to ask such a question. "I wanted to go home with you last night."

Peter didn't seem quite convinced. "Really? Even if I'm that angry?"

"As long as you let me explain, I don't think you will continue to be annoyed." He pulled a stool and sat down, leaning over to take a deep breath of summer's sweet breath from the orange basket. "Anyway..." He made a face at Peter. "I'm not a reporter anymore. I haven't been able to write a report for several months, and I may not be able to write one in the future." He wanted to take out an orange, but hesitated for a while before withdrawing his hand.He looked up again and smiled casually, "I won't write about you. I promise."

Peter's smile rose slowly, but it easily infected Whit.He thought he might have stumbled—too hard and too fast.Seriously, though, there's probably no other way. "Why don't we start over." Whit held out a hand. "I'm Whitstead—"

Peter gasped. "WL Stade?"

"It seems that you have seen me in the signature column before."

"It wasn't in the paper I bought last night, but I saw it a lot before." Peter sat down on the stool across the table, fascinated.Whit clicked in embarrassment.

"That doesn't mean anything, does it? In fact, I haven't written half of my stories lately. I went to Chesterfield's last night just because my boss wanted me to write stories that would make it to the paper." Whit stops here.There was no need to tell Peter that Charlie wanted him to write about Peter.It wasn't his story to tell anyway.Peter alone has the right to decide whether to share it with the public.At the same time, however, Whit understood, "You bought a Times last night? Even though you're still mad at me?"

Peter blushed and looked away. "I'm just curious." He took an orange from the basket, put it on the table, and rolled it toward Whit. "I bought a newspaper and found out that I only know your name." A playful light lit up its eyes. "Whitman?"

Whit sneered. "Only Whit." Peter read the whole paper, just to learn more about him.Whit couldn't help being surprised, "You've been doing this all night?"

"No. I took a taxi for a while. The driver's fare is probably enough to pay his rent for this month." Peter lay down on his stomach and rested his arms on his arms. "Just do a good deed every day."

"Now it's good for both."

Jimmy walked in after washing and cleaning. He looked dignified, but his messy hair had regained its original curl.The suit might be a little too big, but Whitt thinks no one will notice; Jimmy wears it as if the suit was made just for him.Yet the moisture from his eyelashes and the quiver in his smile had to be removed. "Renewed, right?" Whit shook his head. "Just a little luck for you. Sit down and have something to eat."

Jimmy made up his mind to sit down, but he ate very little.At 01:30, he declined the taxi fare offered by Peter and set off.Whit knew he was rejecting it not just out of pride, but because he had to walk six blocks to digest the overflowing anxiety.Whit helped Peter clean up the messy cups and dishes, and the noise at lunch was quiet again.Whit slowed down on purpose as he washed the dishes, hoping he would be invited to stay for a while.But the way Peter responded to his expectations was unexpected; a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, lips tenderly kissed the back of his neck.He put down the dish of bubbly butter and turned around, wrapping his wet arms around Peter. "Want to show me the other rooms?"

"Alright, let's start from the kitchen." Peter approached him, his eyelashes drooping on his cheeks, and his lips pressed against Whit.His movements are gentle, touched and tasted, as if Whit was uncharted territory.The simmering lust was crazy, but Whitt couldn't deepen the shallow kiss with Peter's lips pressed against his.As the purpose of the caress between lips became clearer, he fell with Peter, who pressed him against the edge of the sink, cupping his face in both hands, and the inseparable kiss made the two more breathless.

Whit finally stepped back, he gasped for a while, "Here?"

"Go upstairs."

Peter's room was as empty as Whit remembered, an oasis of comfort, warmed by the afternoon sun streaming in through the half-drawn curtains.But before he could take a good look, the whole world coalesced into one solemn kiss and an even more serious gaze from those blue eyes. "WL Stad," Peter chuckled, "did I make you suffer? I just..."

"I know." Whit pulled him closer. "I like you too."

The ensuing kiss was so familiar, yet so painfully new, that even after Peter's fingers had unbuttoned his trousers in the inevitable caress, Whitt still refused to break the kiss. .He moaned against his exploring lips, and he didn't resist when Peter pushed him onto the bed and onto him.Thinking of the unfinished work, Whit hesitated, but the work was unlikely to distract him from what was at hand.It wasn't until the shadows of the evening made him realize that the night was getting dark that his attention returned to the real world.Peter became a hazy and warm figure, he was close to Whit, still calming down the breathing that was disrupted by Whit's success just now.Whit calmly realized that something extraordinary had happened, but he didn't know how long this miracle could last.

When Whit woke up the room was full of moonlight, and Peter's steady breathing warmed his shoulders.He planned to sleep for a while, so he continued to lie down, feeling the silence in the room that was not disturbed by the noise of the city at this moment.His thoughts wandered and fell on the rocking chair that he hadn't noticed before, as if he could see a man leaning on the back of the chair drowsy, and a little boy nestled in his arms.Gerald Dorrington, the man whose ex-employees claimed he never smiled, was sure to smile at the little souls who looked to him for comfort in the dark night.Whit doesn't believe that Peter's recollection of a kindly father is merely a result of his bereavement.He doesn't know anything about his father, who raised him with love from his grandfather; though one never quite figured out how the cranky old widower managed to pull out an outspoken, inquisitive little boy grow up.

Whispering with family ties, Whit fell asleep again until the doorbell woke him.Peter came out of the bathroom, hair still wet, but dressed and buttoning his vest. "Will anyone come here to find you?"

Whit snorted. "Nobody knows I'm here—"

"Jimmy."

Whit grabbed his pajamas, put them on, and ran downstairs, Peter following closely behind.Whit was just in time to grab the handle when the doorbell rang again.Before he had time to fully open the door, Jimmy who was standing in front of the door rushed in, as if he couldn't wait another second.Panting, he grabbed Whit's shoulder, too excited to speak.But Whit didn't have to listen to him. "You did it?"

Jimmy laughed heartily, "I've got a job, I've got a job!"

"My God," Whit gave him a hug.Peter took a few steps back, but the smile on his face was caught out of the corner of Whit's eye.The news might not be about them -- but boy, they feel it.

Jimmy, still holding Whit in one arm, held out the other to Peter. "God bless you, Mr. Dorrington. I have to repay you for lending the suit--but if you don't mind, I'd also like to lend it to a friend who is going to the Edison Hotel to interview for a job. I I think there is really some good luck hidden here." He stroked the collar of his suit almost reverently.

Peter was beaming with joy. "Just pass it on. If your friends want to come here for a good meal and a hot bath, I'd welcome that too."

"Really?" Jimmy stared at Peter carefully for a while before taking Peter's hand.Seeing Peter's peaceful joy, Whiter thought, Gerald Dorrington was doing one thing right anyway.

However, Harold Morton, who was significantly bigger than Peter, could not have fit in Peter's suit. "It's a shame," Whit said.Harold, flushed with embarrassment, stood on the porch behind Jimmy. "But we can still give him a good freshen up."

Peter seemed lost, and he greeted them absently until Whit's concerned gaze called his attention back. "I think we could give it a try." Instead of taking them to his bedroom, he moved on, into a room shrouded in heavy drapes and an even thicker silence.In the dressing room, an entire row of expensively cut wool and linen was covered in dust.Peter took out the only empty hanger and put it on the rack, then pulled out a charcoal gray suit and hung it carefully on his arm. "This set should fit."

Harold broke into a sweat. "With all due respect, but—I'm not sure it's the right thing to do. I mean, I don't think I should—" He looked helplessly at Jimmy, who looked back at Whit.

Peter didn't notice the exchange of eyes from the others at all.He stood there in a daze, pulling at a loose thread, obviously thinking of other things.Whit put his hands on Jimmy and Harold's shoulders and turned them to the bedroom. "You guys should know where the bathroom is—" He glanced again at Harold's wrinkled coat. "Don't worry, we'll make your suit look like new."

"I don't want to be so rude," Harold whispered, taking another look at Peter.

"Never mind," Whit said. "He understands."

As soon as the two left, Peter raised his head and met Whit's sympathetic gaze with a nonchalant smile. "I guess it's better to give these to someone who doesn't know where they come from." Whit walked up behind him and put his arms around him as he hung up his suit.Peter turned and buried his face in Whit's shoulder. "I should have known—" His voice broke.

Peter wasn't talking about suits.Whit hugged a little more worriedly.Shame wasn't the only thing that led people to make bad decisions, and he didn't like the fact that Peter was imposing guilt on his own scarred heart. "You know what, I forgot to tell you—there's this guy in Homeless Home, and Jimmy says he's been nagging about a recent teaching job opening. But his coat is ripped, and his white shirt looks like Gray. Jimmy told me the man was too shy to set foot in the office of the person in charge."

Peter drew back and wiped his face with his sleeve. "Is he a teacher?"

"I guess so. That guy's smart--just can't mend his coat." Whit laughed. "You'll have to borrow some clothes from him. Or help him find a wife."

The familiar wistful smile appeared again. "It's probably too late to find a wife. He can only change clothes."

It turns out that taking strangers home and giving them a chance to start over can easily become a habit.While Whit enjoyed it, what made him happiest was being able to see how it all affected Peter.Every handshake, every hug, and every grateful return made Peter seem more content.He refused all returns, but day after day greeted those whom Jimmy and Whit had privately invited back, and shared with them his stores of food and clothing.It's all happening behind the scenes; because Peter may not mind a queue at his door, but his neighbors do.Whit didn't want to make things harder for herself after Peter reached out to those in need.

The demand is endless.Within a week, Peter's refrigerator and wardrobe were nearly wiped out.Peter quickly filled them again, and the business failure doesn't seem to have left him with nothing - even if the house ceased to be his home soon after.Whit didn't intend to ask for details. Although the relationship between the two is getting closer, some sensitive topics still cannot be touched.

It pleased him now that Peter would turn to him for advice, affection, and comfort.Every afternoon, after sending the polished applicants out, Whitt would try to lure Peter out into the real world.They act on every inconsequential thought, whether it's a late-night movie or a bike ride through a park in the late autumn chill.

Whitt even encouraged Peter to go with him to find a story; however Whitt hadn't written down the stories he was most interested in.Hadley was pissed at being dragged down by Whitt's society page, and was still pursuing Dorrington's report persistently.Whit knew that if he couldn't turn in another manuscript, he might soon become a stranger to the Times, but as the days passed, he became more and more convinced that he would rather lose his job than lose Peter's trust.

It wasn't until the first day of November that Peter gave him a chance to think about whether he had never gained the other party's trust from the beginning to the end.Hadley's latest persuasion seemed to be still in his ears, and when Whit walked back to the house, he found the door locked and the key Peter had given him didn't work.He was about to ring the doorbell when a short, fat, red-faced man came out, wrapped in a coat that was obviously too small.Whit didn't recognize him, and when he passed by and walked down the steps, Whit recovered his senses and chased after him. "Did you come from the hotel?"

The man turned around, raising his eyebrows. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"It's the hotel—" Whit frowned. "Is Peter in the house?"

"Ah." The man seemed to understand his doubts now. "No, the bank has already taken over the property."

Whit grabbed his arm before he could turn. "You kicked him out?"

"Mr. Dorrington vacated the house himself." He shook off Whit's hand and looked at him with a half-smile. "We don't need to rush."

"Free up? Where did he go then?"

"It's hard to say." The man stepped forward, and Whit followed closely.

"Why? Don't you know, or can't tell me?"

"All."

The man left gasping.Whit stared over his back in frustration. "Then who else will know?"

"Ask the bank."