If It Aint Love

Whit didn't want to ask the bank.He just wanted to ask Peter what was going on.Not knowing where the other party would go, Whit himself had nowhere to go but a homeless home.He looked back anxiously, and it wasn't until he was on the Bowery that the first traces of anger and hurt overwhelmed his concern for Peter.Peter was not a talkative man, and Whit never found that a bad thing; but getting kicked out was no small thing to keep quiet about.If Peter intended to use this as a farewell - he must have found a more tactful way to push people away.

Whit restlessly walked to his usual bunk, only to find that the next bed was already occupied. "The son of a bitch—" he blurted out, half exasperated, half relieved, startling Peter and the rest of the newly settled folks.Peter sat on the edge of the bed, hadn't taken off his coat and hat, and clasped his hands repeatedly.Whit fell on the bed and leaned towards Peter, "What happened?"

Peter frowned. "You didn't see my note."

"A note?"

The lines between his brows deepened. "Mr. Smithson must have taken it."

"You mean the man who kicked you out?"

"No, it was the bankers who made me leave, and Mr. Smithson was the estate agent. I left you a note telling you to come here and find me."

"Don't you know they're going to take the house away today?"

Peter lowered his gaze, "I knew that a long time ago."

Whit was puzzled, but at least he calmed down a bit. He walked over and sat down beside the other party. "You don't want me there?" he asked softly.

Peter was silent for a while, and finally turned his solemn face to Whit. "I hope. I've been meaning to tell you, but then—"

"You're not sure how I'm going to react?"

Peter looked at him. "What? No, it's not," he shook his head. "It's just that you look so happy, and so do I. Everything is so beautiful—even if it's only for a short period of time, I can't help but see it ruined. And let you down," Peter added the last sentence softly .

"My God." Whit breathed a sigh of relief and smiled wearily. "You almost scared the hell out of me, Peter."

Peter looked even harder. "I didn't want you to think—that's what you thought. I had no idea you'd think that."

"A little disappointment won't hurt me." Whit leaned on Peter's shoulder. "As long as you're with me, it's no big deal—just a little disappointment. I guess a little miracle is enough to focus attention on the important things."

Peter watched him carefully, as if doubting. "You don't mind if this is all over?"

"You're saying we're taking one dirty glass at a time until we clean Manhattan up like a new one?" Whit snorts, then smiles, "We're doing a good job. Maybe not everyone gets a job—but Even those who haven’t yet found a job, they’re starting to believe that opportunity is just around the corner. You inspired them.” The man who set Peter’s example deserves a lot of credit.Peter's story resurfaces, almost begging Whitt, eager to be told.Whit's resistance to it grew weaker and weaker.He barely shook out the words that had begun to write on their own. "How about we go get some dinner? I've got a dollar in my pocket, so I can splurge on a dining car."

Peter laughed. "I'm sure I've got enough money to go to Childe for a good meal."

Note ①: Child's, the first chain restaurant in the United States.

"Are you kidding me, are you really broke?"

"My creditors and Mr. Roosevelt left me a few dollars." Peter lowered his voice. "We can go down the street and find a hotel and get a room, at least somewhere that doesn't have so many bedbugs."

As dusk fell, more and more men came in to seek shelter.Whit found that if he and Peter stayed here, it would be the first time in over a month that they would sleep in separate beds.Although he was still questioning Peter's confession just now, he reluctantly agreed.As long as Peter shared his desire, his common sense was of little use.

They asked for a cramped side room on the top floor of a small hotel, where a bed would barely fit, and there really wasn't much room for bedbugs.But with a lock on the door and a curtain on the window, it was enough for Whit to hold Peter in his arms and feel the comfort that he had been asking for all day.The soft hands on his back, the cheek buried in his hair, and Peter whispering—these were not fleeting pleasures; they had already taken root in him.Maybe that's why he misses Peter so much when they're not together.

"That's funny," Peter murmured.

Whit nodded before thinking of asking, "What?"

"You actually have this kind of power, which makes me feel that as long as I have you, everything is enough."

Whit sneered. "I'm thinking the same thing."

Peter stepped back a little, and asked with a smile, "Really?"

"Otherwise, why would I grab you wherever I go?"

"Because you like me?"

Whit grinned, "You figured it out pretty quickly."

"Occasionally." Peter's eyes sparkled. "But I'm trying to learn."

Whit took his hand and turned to the bed.He lay down and pulled Peter close to him, wrapping him tightly in faded blankets and firm arms. "Don't cry," he whispered, "I don't have my handkerchief on me."

Peter closed his eyes and gasped with a smile. "Neither have I." The tears that flowed down were necessary catharsis, as were the kisses Whitt placed on his soaked cheeks.When Peter turned his face to Whit's lips, no one thought about the handkerchief.Whit wanted to melt into the other person's body, to warm the silently wounded corner, as if no one could touch it.He kept his movements light, just to communicate his intentions—until Peter pushed him onto his back, then straddled him, his eyes glowing faintly. "I'm not made of glass."

The husky, exasperated voice made Whit laugh, and suddenly he understood.Living sanely - with someone who made him want to be sane, that was all Peter was after.Whit kissed him hard enough to hurt Peter, and was returned enthusiastically.The desire he ignited inside Peter was enough to drive him to deepen the kiss, to demand Peter's skin with both hands.There was incredible pleasure in Peter's low moans, and the friction between their bodies despite the cloth was enough to make Whit's blood boil.The hands that fumbled under Whit's shirt to untie the cuffs of his trousers seemed to be fanning the flames, and he stripped them clean as well.When Peter lay naked on top of him, he felt like he was about to give it a go.

If that's what it's like to be alive soberly, may he live forever.

Not long ago—only eight weeks ago? ──Time seems to be endless, but now it is in short supply.By the time he collapsed, sweating profusely and exhausted, next to a flushed, sleepy-eyed Peter, his mind was already filled with anticipation for the future. "I'm going to help you find a job. Probably not in management, like your old job—but you're good with numbers, aren't you?"

"Not very good at it," Peter admits. "I like the management part more, making sure that everyone does their job and helping them solve problems. But other than that, there's not much I'm good at."

"A few months ago you couldn't light a fire, now you're a good breakfast cook. You must have some gift for learning—" Whit yawned. "Can learn to fry sun eggs."

Peter kissed him on the shoulder. "As long as someone does it for you, it's not difficult."

Whit moved closer, trying to tease Peter with a word or two.However, it didn't seem long before he opened his eyes and found that the sunlight had flooded the room, and Peter had already gone out.He was taken aback by something shaking under the exposed light bulb on the ceiling, and when he took a closer look, it turned out to be a large sheet of drawing paper hanging from a light cord.This time Peter put the note where Whitt couldn't miss it.Whit stood up, laughing, and tore the paper out of mid-air.There are only a few words on it.Peter said he went to find Mr. Smithson, and stopped by to pick up a few things that had been left behind.

Remembering that his own clothes were still in the locker at the Homeless Home, Whit grabbed Peter's pencil; but his original intention of writing Peter's note gradually drifted away.Like the rest of Manhattan, Whitt hadn't waited to see Gerald Dorrington—until he saw the man through Peter's eyes.Peter may have sublimated his father's personality while grieving, but Peter's own personality convinced Whitt that Dorrington must have been a good man during his lifetime, at least it had a lot of good influence on the son who admired him.

Whit was about to start writing, but his pencil stopped on the paper and hesitated.Peter might think he's not keeping his word.Although Peter shared with him one after another the memories he kept in his heart, this is still a story that only Peter is qualified to tell.Whit cherishes that trust -- yet he doesn't feel betrayed just to write about a story that tugs at his heart.

After noon passed, he finally put down his pencil and stretched his stiff fingers.He used to use a typewriter, especially when his writing speed couldn't keep up.He thought about showing the report to Peter first, but Peter hadn't come back yet, and he didn't know how long Mr. Smithson would talk to him.

In any case, the report had to get Hadley's approval before it could be published.Whit stuffed the densely written paper into his coat pocket and walked out of the hotel.It was windy and rainy outside, revealing the bitterness of winter, but it didn't slow him down.He walked briskly on the wet and crowded sidewalks, refusing to contemplate what might be as bad as the weather after nightfall.

By the time he sat, drenched and out of breath, in the seat opposite Hadley, staring at the back of the manuscript and the smoke billowing from it, he was already doubting his decision. "How about it?"

Hadley exhaled impatiently, "Will you let me finish reading first?"

Whit collapsed in his chair.He decided to wait another minute to beg for a Camel cigarette, regardless of whether he was still hungry.Hadley read it calmly, and after what seemed a lifetime, he finally put the manuscript down and leaned back in his chair.The smile on his face, stiff with carelessness, loosened the knot in Whit's bowels. "good?"

Hadley smiled. "Welcome back."

A knot tangles again, only this time it's at his throat. "Won't the Pulitzer go away?" he quipped.

"We'll see people's reactions tomorrow morning."

Whit sat up straight. "Are you publishing it tomorrow?"

Hadley got up and walked out of the office with the manuscript in hand.Whit waited for a long 10 minutes, and finally couldn't bear to take a Camel cigarette.By the time Hadley came back he was almost out.The other sat down in the creaking leather chair, sliding its wheels against the desk. "Tomorrow," he grunted, throwing a thin piece of paper at Whit; a check scrawled on it.

Hadley must have made the poor clerk's ears hurt from talking about it.Whit stared fascinated at the string of numbers--just one line, but the most beautiful numbers he had seen since his first check a long time ago. "So... it's really going to be published tomorrow?"

Hadley sighed. "Do you mind? I've got work to do, and so do you. I'll keep you entertained until Sunday, and after that, you'll be sending me more reports like this." He said that Throw the pack of Camels to Whit. "But for heaven's sake, move back to your damn apartment first."

Whit let go of a big stone in his heart. He left the cigarettes with Hadley and deposited the check in the bank.He went to the previous landlord, only to learn that the apartment had been vacant since he moved out because no one could pay the rent for a long time.After the man reluctantly agreed to reduce the rent, he returned the keys to Whit.Whit rushed upstairs to find that the furniture was covered with blankets, and the broken window in the living room hadn't been patched, but otherwise it was as it had always been.It just needs to be dusted off, and the place will soon return to its family-like appearance—and this time, he hopes it will be a home for two people.