Hey! It's me again! This is my next MOPI project, a series of vignettes detailing the relationship of Mike and Scott. These vignettes will be all over the place; some before the movie, some during and some after, some in Mike's POV, or Scott's, or third person. They'll be pretty crazy. But the main idea I have behind writing this is that hopefully this will help me set up the sequel for Understanding (yes, there will be a sequel called Conviction), but I haven't gotten around to writing much of it yet, so I didn't want to post it at this moment. However, this category is dying, so I thought I'd try to keep it active by posting something new.

The way I'm doing these vignettes is that I'm using a prompt to inspire a small scene (the prompt for this chapter was 'comfort'). If anyone has any ideas – like 'death', 'scars' or 'carrots' (!) just tell me and I'll try and work them in somewhere.

I reckon the rating will change to M at some point for sexual content and language probably. I'll give you all warning of when that will be.

Disclaimer: My Own Private Idaho is the property of Gus Van Sant and New Line Studios. It's shit all to do with me.


Chapter I: Comfort

And if you're cold, I'll keep you warm

And if you're low, just hold on

And I will be your safety

Don't Leave Home – Dido

It was amazing how much time had changed him.

A year ago, the Scott Favor he had known would never have been living here. The old Scott Favor, the mayor's son, the heir to the Favor fortune, the only outlet for all of his father's hopes and expectations, would have still been sitting in the mansion he had grown up in, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and growing up to fit the mould his father had planned for him. It was already shaped, a perfect fit for what his father wanted him to be. All he had to do was make sure he fit, and then everything would have been okay.

But no. Some surge of rebellion had taken him over. And that was how he had ended up storming out of his father's house one morning, taking with him a pocketful of money and a handful of expectations for the future. What the hell, no life could be worse than this. Suffocated by a useless dick that only saw him as part of his legacy, something more for the great Jack Favor to leave behind and a mother who couldn't have cared less about him.

And now he was here. The money in his pocket was all gone, and most of his expectations had worn away after a few months.

But, whether he liked it or not, he was a Favor. He might not have had the virtues his father thought were important – integrity, faith, honour to name a few – but he had the Favour resourcefulness, the Favor intelligence, and whether he liked it or not, he had the Favour ambition. Unlike his father though, who wanted to leave a mark in the world when he was dead and be remembered, Scott wanted money. Scott wanted comfort. Preferably the kind of comfort that came imprinted on fifty dollar bills, the comfort that came with a fat wallet.

This life was fine. It was severely pissing off his father – score one. Here, he was respected, if only by Bob's gang of street kids and down and outs – score two. Finally, Scott got to reveal the parts of him that his father hated most – score three. But he couldn't cope with this life forever. This had no future. They were all without time here, because time had no meaning for those who had no meaning.

There was no reason why he couldn't go back tomorrow. If he picked his moment, sometime public, maybe after church or something, his family wouldn't be able to turn him away. They wouldn't throw him out in public, and though he'd get worse behind closed doors, he would have somewhere to go.

Somewhere to go, no-one to be with.

A noise from behind disturbed him. On the hard rooftop behind him, Mike, his face contorting while he slept. Dreaming. Going fucking mental was the term Gary used, but Mike had never said what he actually dreamt about. Scott knew it wasn't good though. He'd sometimes seen Mike wake up with a sort of terror in his eyes that faded once he realised he was out of the dream, but that didn't stop it from being any less real. Scott didn't dream, and he didn't want to, if that was what they were like.

Scott went over to his friend, sitting next to him. He didn't really have any idea what he was hoping to achieve, but he wasn't going to leave Mike like that. In a manner that was almost routine, he pulled Mike closer to him, trying to keep him still. Whenever it got too bad, he would thrash around, as though he was trying to break the boundaries of the dream. Though Scott was flippant about it, Mike was his best friend. He couldn't bear seeing him tortured when he slept. He used his own body to try and still Mike's convulsions while he slept. It was so dark he couldn't even see Mike's face, but he could feel his sleeping body against his, fitting and then stilling.

It felt eerily calm, after Mike's fit had passed. Scott suddenly felt tired, as though the stillness on the roof was stilling and wearying his mind. Though maybe that was the cold, spreading from the tips of his fingers into his body.

It was too exposed out on the rooftop. The street lights below didn't reach up here, so the only light came from the stars, like pinpricks in black silk. As beautiful as it was, they would both freeze, up here on the merciless rooftop.

Lying down next to Mike in the shelter of the air vent, Scott carefully placed the rag that passed as a blanket over the two of them, Scott unconsciously holding Mike as he slept. It took him a second to realise that he was cradling him, protecting him. Watching over him. It felt bizarre to Scott as he realised that. Maybe because no-one had ever watched over him before, and he'd never returned to favour. Whatever. He couldn't let go though. Not even when his arms began to protest as he held Mike in his arms.

He couldn't let go of him.

He closed his eyes and slept, for once, dreaming, though when he woke up, he couldn't remember what they were about.


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