If It Aint Love

Whit was eager to tell Peter the good news, but when he made the short sprint through the rain to get back to the hotel, the room was still empty.He couldn't wait, so he set off for Lexington, fell down and met Peter on the way.Peter was carrying a suitcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other, and all the sadness on his face disappeared when he saw Whit. "Are you following me again?"

Whit showed the same smile. "do you mind?"

"How?" Peter put one hand on the edge of the umbrella. "You keep the rain off every time." He closed his umbrella and walked beside Whit. "Did you see my note?"

"Saw it, and put it to use. How about the Smithsonian?"

"As big as ever. He doesn't think the house will sell. Honestly, I don't give a damn. I'm not going to set foot in the door anyway."

"Have a nice time on the Bowery?"

Peter responded frankly to his teasing. "Just being there is enough."

"What if I'm somewhere else? Near Times Square, say?"

Peter stopped and stared at him. "You don't mean to tell me you've found a place?"

Whit shook the key. "Come and see?"

Peter didn't ask another question.When they arrived at the apartment, he walked from the living room to the bedroom and back to the center of the living room, looking around at the old furniture that hadn't been changed in 30 years. "You lived here before?"

"Since the spring of 26. It's cold in winter and hot in summer, the bathroom on the third floor is always leaking, and the movement of people coming and going on the stairs is like an elephant patrolling. Mrs. Stewart by the front door plays Caruso's vocal record from Non-stop, Tilly Dormans across the door always has something for me to fix. The pipes and heat are banging, the windows won't open, and the storeroom is being raided by rats." Whitt couldn't help smiling. . "It's hard to live here."

Note ①: Enrico Caruso (Enrico Caruso, 1873-1921), Italian opera tenor.

"But how did you..." Peter turned around, his eyes wide. "Have you written a report?"

"you can say it this way."

Before Whit could explain the details, Peter hugged him. "I knew you could do it. I'm so happy." He let go, joy on his face. "Does Mr. Hadley like it?"

"He looks pretty—"

"What did you write?"

"It's just..." Whit cleared his throat. "you."

"Me?" Peter's smile faded away. "Just me?"

"Peter, listen to me—"

"You said you wouldn't write about my father. You promised me." Peter stepped back, bumping into a chair.He stabilized his weight and looked around, as if the apartment had suddenly become dangerous.Then his eyes, bright with injury, returned to Whit. "Why? There's so much to write about in the world. Did Hadley ask for it?"

"He did say—"

"So you feel like you have no choice?"

"I have a choice." If Peter had read that report... "You've trusted me for so long, can't you trust me for one more day?"

Peter frowned. "You can write an article about a person's good qualities, but once people think he is a villain, they will distort the truth, or ignore it at all. My father can no longer speak for himself. Now I am the only one who can defend his Honor."

"You're not alone," Whit said softly, "I'm not actually writing about Gerald Dorrington, and now that everyone knows who he is, I think it's time to introduce Peter Dorrington too. father." He smiled shyly. "I've only just met him myself. But I should have let you read it first. Can you forgive me?"

Peter exhaled, avoiding Whit's sight. "I want to forgive you too."

Whit may be forgiven before long, but he can't live with the knot at this moment. "It's not too late, let's go."

Peter gave him a suspicious look. "Where are you going?"

"Go to the newspaper. I want you to read the story, and if you don't like it, I'll do what I can to remove it. Your suitcase will stay here for now—" He looked into troubled blue eyes. "OK?"

Peter frowned, but finally put the briefcase down.Whit was overjoyed, and hurried the man out the door. The two hurried to 43rd Street on the wet road, passed the revolving door, and went straight to the editing room.Whitting couldn't see Hadley anywhere, so he seized the opportunity to ask Barbara, who was leaning against her desk, twirling a lock of red curls with her neatly trimmed fingertips, gossiping to the person on the other end of the microphone.

"Where is the report I handed in?" he asked.

Barbara covered the microphone with one hand and leaned forward with her elbows on the table. "Honey, what did you say?"

"The one about Gerald Dorrington. The manuscript Charlie gave you."

"Oh, that." Barbara's attention wandered to Peter, and she shot a charming smile. "You must be the new cutie downstairs." She pressed the microphone against the folds of her shirt and stretched out a hand. "I'm Barbara Elliott, but you can call me baby."

Peter's smile is full of gentlemanliness and humor. "It's an honor to meet you, baby."

Whit gave up and went to dig through the pile of papers next to the typewriter.Barbara clicked angrily and opened his hand with the microphone. "Don't make a mess? I typed your report hundreds of years ago, and it's upstairs, dear. But speaking of Dorrington—" Barbara covered the phone again, She looked Peter and Whit back and forth with her round blue eyes. "Who would have guessed he was such a good man?"

Peter was staring at her as if she had suddenly grown wings.Whit just wanted to give her a kiss. "We're going to find it. Thanks, baby."

The two came to the fourth floor, and Whit shuttled among the messy compositors, and Peter followed behind him.Finally he saw Roy Bartlett who was busy, with a stack of manuscripts marked with black pencils in his hands.Ignoring protests, he snatched the entire stack and started rummaging through the report.

Roy looked behind him. "Could you tell me what you're looking for?"

"The one on Dorrington. Did you see it?"

Roy smiled. "Are you joking? That article has already been circulated on every table on this floor. Some people bet that it was fabricated by you."

"What's written on it is absolutely true." Whit returned the stack of manuscripts to the other party, looking around. "Who got it? Do you know?"

"I heard that Ingram took it in the end, and he probably has already started typesetting."

Whit gritted his teeth. "Thanks."

He beckoned Peter to follow, and as he passed a row of typesetting machines, Roy called from behind, "Stad! Well done."

Peter squinted at Whit. "What exactly did you write?"

"You'll know in a minute."

Ingram is bending over a frame.Whit moved closer, otherwise his voice would have been drowned out by the roar of typewriters around him. "What about Dorrington's report?"

Ingram's snow-white eyebrows were raised above his glasses, and his green eyes were still piercing.He picked up a stack of photocopies from the stool and pulled out the bottom one. "You're not going to withdraw, are you?"

"It's up to Mr. Dorrington to decide." Whit handed the document to Peter.

Ingram raised his eyebrows even higher, but he continued to work without saying a word.Peter seemed to understand the power he had been given, and he stood silently, ignoring the traffic around him, glanced at the manuscript, and held it up under Ingram's lamp; eye sockets.Whitt discovered that the title of the story -- "A Father's Gift" -- had been adopted without change.Peter needed a place where he would not be disturbed to read it.

Whit pushed him away from the machines, into the nearest elevator, and pressed the top button.Peter began to read again before the door closed, his eagerness palpable.Whit wanted to wrap his arms around the opponent's body, but at this moment, the feeling of Peter wandering in his writing was so wonderful that he withdrew his hand instead.He didn't want to rush into the quiet place Peter was in now, because the memory of communion there was the only connection Peter had with his father.

The elevator stopped, and Whit pressed another button to keep it going.Peter didn't notice at all.When they were about to reach the first floor, the paper fell from his hands, and his gaze followed downwards, as if he was reluctant to part with those words.When he looked at Whit again, he had already calmed down, his eyes were endlessly blue, and what glistened inside were not only tears, but also the relief of a person who no longer fights alone.

Peter turned around and pressed the fourth floor in the row of elevator buttons.Whit couldn't help asking, "Are you sure?"

Peter seemed speechless.He hugged Whit tight with both hands, his wet cheeks pressed against the hollow of his neck.Whit felt Peter exhale hastily, hoping it would take some of the other's grief away.There was a hint of understanding in Peter's absent-minded comfort, which made him feel relieved. "I was so fucking impulsive," he murmured, "because I thought you understood me. You always seem to understand me."

Peter snorted lightly and pulled away to kiss him. "Don't use this to take advantage of me."

"I can't help it. You're too good for me."

"I don't always make sense like that."

"Really?" Whitney couldn't hide his smile.The slight bounce when the elevator stopped reminded them that they were about to return to the sight of others, and he subconsciously pulled the distance between them, even though he didn't want to.

The reluctance to let go also appeared on Peter's face, but he smiled, and the curious look overwhelmed the sentimentality. "You really believe it," he handed out the manuscript, "believe every word you write."

"I'm kind of sentimental about it," Whit said with a laugh, too.

Peter ignored his playful response. "Are we going to have it in tomorrow's papers?"

"No problem. I'm going to hurry up to the homeless shelter later, before someone empties the locker before I get it out. That's all I have left."

"You have more than that left." Before leaving the elevator, Peter gently squeezed his hand.

After returning the report to Ingram, Whit went to the Homeless Home to retrieve his personal belongings, while Peter went back to the hotel down the street to check out.Whit handed back the keys, and took one last look at the homeless, utilitarian interior, grateful that he was finally out of here.Although he will always remember this as the place where he met Peter, he knows it will be a long time before his memories of it turn from bleak to sweet.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, he met Jimmy who was about to enter the door. "They haven't kicked you out yet?"

Jimmy thumped his arm in greeting. "You also know that I have saved money for a long time, and I finally bought it today." He patted his coat pocket. "Even though it doesn't look good──"

"You fool, she loves you, she doesn't care about that kind of thing." Whit pulled him aside so as not to block the frequent tenants. "When are you going to find a house to live in?"

"About next week. By the way, how is Peter?"

"Much better. Where's Harold? Any good news?"

"No, but he's hopeful." Jimmy smiled. "He said he wanted to find a house soon so he could take another bubble bath."

"It is indeed one of the great enjoyments in life. By the way, Jimmy, can you do me a favor?"

Jimmy's eyes lit up, as if waiting for this opportunity. "Go ahead."

Whit spoke, though with little hope he had of late hoped hopelessly for good fortune.He got up at the first ray of sunlight, ran out and bought a The Times to bring back to the sleeping Peter.They cobbled together a makeshift mattress in Whit's living room, since the original one had been repossessed -- and Whitt guessed it had been sold by the homeowner.

So they just tore the sofa cushions and the blankets that covered the furniture and spread them on the floor, but Whit knew that if he and Peter slept in a corner of the sidewalk tonight, it would be heaven.He bought eggs, bacon, coffee and fresh milk on the way out, and when Peter sat cross-legged on the floor reading the newspaper, he prepared breakfast on the sidelines.He noticed how carefully Peter was leafing through the paper, and it looked like at least one issue wouldn't be thrown out the door with the eggshells and coffee grounds.

After breakfast they put away the blankets and perused in vain the job listings in the newspaper. "It seems that you have to use the old-fashioned way to find a job," Whit said, "at least we should be thankful that it didn't rain today." At this moment, there was a sound of chaotic footsteps and excited chatter and laughter outside the door, and Whitt understood , This is God's second blessing to them. "Gosh, they're going to wake up Manhattan."

He opened the door to a group of breathless, smiling people; Jimmy, Harold; and two people Whit recognized but couldn't remember their names.The four hoisted a high-backed chair over their shoulders like in a victory parade, and the chair was quickly placed in front of a stunned Peter.

"That's the one, right?" Jimmy asked, seeing Peter just standing there staring at it.

"That's the one." Whit shook hands with Jimmy, murmured thanks, and Jimmy just waved him back.

"It's not difficult. George and Harold did most of the work, and Frankie and I just opened our mouths." Jimmy smiled wider. "Haggled the price a bit. The agent only wanted us to get out of here."

"We're not leaving until we have the chair." George's laughter resonated in his thick chest. "I guess he wants to send us away."

Peter seemed to come back to his senses. "You—you bought this for me?"

"We raised money to buy it," Whit said. "We wanted to intercept it before Smithson sent him away, and it seemed like we got there just in time." I think Peter should have guessed that.

But Peter looked so dazed he could only sink into the chair. "I really don't know what to say. You're so kind—"

"That's what we're supposed to do," Jimmy said quietly, holding out a hand. "I've never met your daddy, Peter, but I think this report is somewhat true. I just wanted to let you know. If you need any help afterward, just ask me."

Peter got up to shake hands with him, and then the others stepped forward one by one, with undisguised gratitude on their faces.Whit found that he would need a handkerchief if this went on, so he changed the subject and invited everyone to breakfast.The conversation inevitably returned to work during the meal, and the others seemed inspired by Jimmy.To Whit's surprise, he was inspired himself.But two months ago, he still felt that it was impossible for him to have this kind of mood again.

As for Peter - he too is happily listing his possibilities in the job market.Whit just wanted to kiss him.When the dishes were cleared, the guests were gone, and the apartment was restored to its original state, he finally got his chance.Peter found a sunny corner for the chair, and he sat on it, his feet resting on Whit's wobbly ottomans.Whit tucked into the empty seat next to him and half-sat on his lap, their legs crossed. "Maybe I can get you a job at the newspaper."

"Better not. Then you might get bored of me soon, and where else can I go?"

"Going cod fishing?"

Peter seemed a little surprised, then smiled shyly. "I don't want to go. At least not by myself."

Whit also laughed, "Who has expectations for whom now?"

"I don't, I just like you."

"Really? Are you unrequited, crazy, and forever in love with me?"

"Probably."

"It sounds like my luck hasn't run out yet."

The corner of Peter's mouth curled up in a mischievous arc. "I think I have a little luck left, thanks to a gentleman named Whitby Lawrence Stud."

Whit feigned anger, "Who told you?"

"I called the Times to ask."

"impossible."

"Baby is quite helpful."

Whit shook his head and smiled. "Are you sure you don't want to work for the newspaper?"

"As the editor-in-chief?"

"Be the manuscript delivery boy."

"I can scramble eggs now," Peter reminded.

"Oh, of course, this is the first step in taking back Manhattan." In the past, Whitt would never have believed that a pair of helpful hands and a generous sharing heart could accomplish so much.But now he just felt that maybe there was no other way.

Peter reached over Whit and swept a finger across the brass lamp next to the chair, leaving a trail of dust. "But we haven't even recovered the apartment yet."

"It already has a style of its own." Whitt took advantage of his posture and pulled Peter over for a kiss. "Picture auspicious."

Peter's smile softened. "It seems that as long as we are together, we will have enough good luck to share with others."

"Hmm, but I was thinking..." Whit looked at him seriously. "We might want to make sure first."

"Manhattan is still waiting," Peter murmured teasingly.

Whit kissed him deeply, and the kiss in return was warm enough to comfort those who have passed through countless winters.The rest of the world hadn't recovered from the collapse; but his own life was undoubtedly improving. "Manhattan..." he chuckled, "just let it wait."

-The End-