AN: I'm back! And with me a story I didn't know I was thinking about writing until I was three-quarters of the way through this chapter.

This is, in its own little way, a sequel to my other story "I'm Here". You don't need to read it to understand this story, especially early on, but it might make things easier later. Plus, self-admitted review whore that I am, I'm always happy for new reviews. ^^

New characters are here to step forward and bear the weight (ha! right.) of the story, with many of IH's cast to fill in the breaths between scenes. And what breathy breaths they be.

Just a note; I'm still getting into the groove with these characters, so forgive me any awkwardness. It defied my attempts at polishing. can't preserve bold/italics and what not. Nothing too important in this chap though, so no worries. Any suggestions?

Eternal and heartfelt thanks to Hellsing, who managed to beta this amidst her insane schedule. You're an amazing, vunderful editor..tag!

Anyway !

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Chapter One: The Fantastic Umbrella Factory

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Another car passed me by, and the wind was heavy with the smell of the sea as it brushed my warm, freckled cheeks.

That was one thing that always amazed me about Rhode Island. The small state, surrounded on two sides by the great Atlantic Ocean, could not escape the grit and salt of its coast. The highways were far from exempt, and as I walked down the cement colored shoulder there was a delicate crinkle of sand with every step. Even this ugly strip of highway was claimed as part of its shores.

It was a comfortable day, a rare thing in August's scorching heat, and the breezy, salt-kissed air batted ineffectually against my heavy dreads. Nothing short of a hurricane would succeed in displacing them. I ran my hand over the thick locks, frowning slightly when I found a twig stuck somewhere towards the back. Damned things were always picking up stuff. I'm surprised I haven't stumbled on a squirrel nest yet. I'm sure one will turn up sooner or later..

Despite the welcoming, heavenly weather, there was speed to my step as I scurried along the shoulder. My self-allotted break from work was up, and I was eager to get back to the store.

My job is, quite simply, amazing. I know believing this puts me in a blessed minority; one that's sure to garner eye-rolls from the yuppie Starbucks employees whose free time actually spent outside their place of employ is usually spent bitching with coworkers. The absolute horror stories about how this one did that one, or how the creepy guy from across the way only ever tips twenty-five cents, even though he can be well relied upon to check out some uniform clad ass cheeks as soon as he can find a chance.

No sir, not I. Here, work is only work because if I tell people that I get paid to hang out in a kick ass store and talk the talk with people who know what's up, down, or eye level, they'll assume that I live on a street corner and preach to my unwilling pedestrian congregation about the End Of Days.

Every town has a place like it. Sometimes it's a section of suburbia, sometimes it's a street- hell, sometimes it's a single, lonesome store. Cities, though their asphalt and concrete grind their teeth at something so natural, are not exempt from it. They, in their sprawling commerce, give birth to bustling autonomous bodies that occasionally gain more notoriety than their creators. Philly has South Street, New York's got the Village, and San Francisco. hell, San Francisco just is.

And it's not just the prideful that make it The Place. It's that old school hippie mentality that mellowly states, "Hey man, if you wanna work your 40 hours a week, choke yourself with that Brooks Brothers tie, and go home to white picket fences, brother, that is fine by me. Just don't lay your life on me and we'll be cool."

And God, is it gaudy! Tie-dyes, rainbows, flowers and laughter. all of it bubble up from somewhere within and drift out into the world beyond. A lingering fog of incense follows, almost disguising the sweet smell of marijuana, but not quite. The place, in essence, is too stuck in the 60's and much, much too new.

To Rhode Island, my small, pathetic state, it came in the vibrant form of The Umbrella Factory. Four ramshackle buildings lounged on a few acres that had, in another time, been some sort of farmstead. The sixties came, and with it, a change in lease. A few peace-loving flower children settled down, opened stores in the rotting buildings, and called a piece of the wooded Rhode Island countryside their own. If you care to look, you can find it along a narrow stretch of road, one of those little sideways that lace on and off the aorta of Rhode Island's highway system, Route 1.

There's no factory within the grounds, nor any umbrellas for sale. The name's origin is lost, if it was ever really known at all. Perhaps there was some deep, philosophical reference that I've never been able to pin down, or maybe it was the result of a joint and a few beers. Either way, it fit like well worn leather, creasing in all the right places.

The only indication of its presence to the concrete yuppie jungle beyond was a faded wooden sign that creaked ominously with the wind of every passing car. Once, it had colorfully announced "The Fantastic Umbrella Factory" in gold-flecked, flowing letters. Now they've faded to abused, neglected shades that only could be described as "vintage".

I rapped lightly on the sign as I passed it; a meaningless action really, but important in the indefinable way such things tend to be. "Tradition," let's call it, for lack of a better word.

The parking lot was half full, and most of the cars were rust buckets driven by the other shopkeepers. Peter's wreck, a VW van, was parked as always in an overgrown section of the small lot. It's been there as long as I can remember. Morning glories and other crawlers laced up the muralled sides of the van, claiming it into the wilderness.

The buildings that house our stores are the original deal, all of them having lived previous lives as barns, farmhouses, and storage shacks. I shifted the Dunkin' Donuts bags I carried as I stepped onto the narrow, sea- shell lined trail that wondered from building to building. It encircled the overgrown wilderness/garden that served as a courtyard. Sometime ago, someone had built a breezeway for the trail, using logs and corrugated metal as their only tools. The innumerable flora of the area had used this to full capacity, jumping up the log supports to explode on the metallic ceiling above.

They were beautiful, I supposed, all brightly colored and smelling of sunlight, but as I walked down the trail, tendrils and blossoms tickled my nose and hair. Combined with the fact that my hands were full of fried confections, I wished the things were a little more inclined to stay on the ground.

A particularly low-hanging and brutish vine caught my hair, and I was oh-so- lucky to realize that it was one of the few vicious thorned crawlers that populated the grounds. I growled softly and tried to shake it free, but my valiant effort only succeeded in tangling it further. Right, then, on to plan two. I tried, without much success, to blow it free, huffing air up my face and grunting in frustration. Oh, I thought with a small quirk of my lips, this must look attractive.

And, as if God had read my mind and decided to make my life just a little harder, a soft, light laugh caught my ear. Somewhere behind me, someone stood from a crouch and walked towards me.

"How do you twist your lips like that?" a soft, grinning voice inquired, a few inches from my ear. I started, not expecting him to be so close, and almost lost the precious donuts in hand to the ground below. Deft, white fingers trailed up my sides and gently went to toy with the buttons of my shirt.

I froze, afraid to move my head and let the thorns pull my hair. Unable to turn my face, I observed the speaker from the corner of my eye.

"Hey, Mikey. How ya doin'?" I asked cheerily, pretending that I wasn't standing on my tiptoes in an attempt to avoid pulling on the locks that the vines had captured.

A soft breath was blown gently across the tender skin behind my ear.

"Fahhbulous, Danny, darling. And you?" he murmured, working his fingers between the buttons of my shirt.

I shifted slightly. Good Lord, any touch was a good touch. Dry spell? Go take a walk through the Sahara, then talk to me about dry spells.

Ignoring any response that he was trying to elicit, I grinned and looked over my shoulder.

"Been better," I chirped, not letting my voice break as he rubbed my chest. "Now, as much perverse delight watching me stand here in pain and embarrassment must give you, I'm just not up for it. Tuesday is bondage night, remember?"

"Pfft." Another warm breath was blown across my neck. "Like you'd have the balls for bondage."

But I could hear (hell, the way he was standing, I could nearly feel) the smile in his voice as he spoke, and I couldn't take offense.

"Please help me," I pleaded, doing my best to give him puppy eyes over my shoulder, and I saw him grin at my attempt.

"Please.?" I begged, not even a bit ashamed as I did so. The shorter, blonde man grinned wider and rolled his eyes.

"Spoil my fun, why don'tcha," he muttered, coming around to face me.

I smiled at him when he finally stood in front of me. Mikey'. There's really no other word for it. Not handsome. He's not rigid enough to be handsome. He's not pretty, but he flirts with it daily and with obvious delight. He's not arrogant enough to be hot, and not shy enough to be adorable.

Cute.

Cute is good, in a little-brother sort of way. Though we both prefer the company of the similar sex, the only relationship between us is friendship, and we're both satisfied with that. He says he wouldn't be caught dead with a geeky guy like me, to which I respond that I wouldn't be seen with a girly flirt like him.

Of course, that doesn't stop us from flirting.

"I like you like this," Mikey murmured, stepping within my personal space, ".begging." He smirked and stepped closer. ".Wanting."

"Really? That's fascinating," I chirped, looking down at him and wincing as the thorns pulled my hair. I quickly jerked my leg, trying to catch him in the groin, but he was quick, probably expecting the attempt, and jumped back just in time.

"Tut, tut. Jumpy, are we?" he asked, slinking back against me.

"Only around you," I responded, smiling at him. "Now please get me out of this." I gave him a desperate look. "I'll make it up to you."

He quirked a single, blonde eyebrow at me. "When you put it that way."

He reached his arms up to where my hair was tangled and I caught a whiff of the cologne he was wearing. I sniffed him lightly as he leaned in, grinning at the small, pensive frown he wore as he examined at the mess of my hair, and decided the cologne wasn't his. Most likely it was whatever his most recent conquest had worn.

"You know," Mikey muttered as small deft hands started pulling at my hair, "you wouldn't have this problem if you cut off all these grungy dreads."

I gasped and gave him a hurt, wide-eyed look.

"Don't listen to them, lovelies," I whispered, pulling some of the brown- red dreads into my hands. "You're beautiful!"

He pulled back far enough so that I could see the look of confusion on his boyish face before he leaned back in and began toying with my hair once more.

"Weird, Danny-boy," he muttered. "That's just weird."

A few minutes and whimpers later, my hair was free from the snaring vines and I sauntered away from him, fishing keys from a deep pocket.

"So," I asked, looking around. "Did you have fun last night?"

A bright grin lit his face and he responded with a wink. "I always have fun at night."

I rolled my eyes as we came to a stop in front of the store I worked. It was a long, low building. The planks that laid horizontally to make up the walls were just slightly warped, in the same old time way the windows' glass was just slightly wavy. I flipped through my keys before I settled on an old, brass antique number that matched the rotting lock before me. A sign on the window read Donut back soon!

"You close for donuts?" Mikey asked incredulously as he leaned against a terrace support. "Does your boss know you do that?"

I laughed, trying to imagine Pete as anything but placid, and failed horribly.

"Mikey," I said plaintively, shoving the door open after several failed attempts. "Pete takes pot breaks; he's not one to talk."

He snorted and followed me into the store, waiting patiently by the door as I slid through the dark store unhindered and hit the light switch on the other wall.

The bright afternoon sunlight had baked the old wood of the tumbledown building, and everything smelled of sauna and stale incense. There was no air conditioner, but a rotating fan whirred to life when I hit the switch, the rainbowed ribbons attached to the cage flapping brightly.

Clothing racks stood huddled together in the long, narrow store, logos ranging from innocuous "Pitcher" or "Catcher" hints all the way to such things as "I Can't Even Think Straight". I wandered behind the old, wooden counter and plopped myself down, setting to work on the item of my quest.

"So" I said, around a mouthful of powdered donut, "what's new in the life and times of Mikey Man-killer?"

He looked up from a hat that read "Straight But Not Narrow" and sauntered over to the counter.

"Nothing" he muttered, pouting as he leaned on the counter. "That's the problem."

I glanced up with wide eyes.

"You didn't turn a trick last night?" This was unheard of. I mean, Christ, the day begins, the day ends, Michael Jackson does something extremely creepy, and Mikey Jones gets laid. Oh, sweet Goddess, the world is ending. God, forgive me my purchase of Dick Mighty's entire pornographic collection. It was in a moment of weakness; don't hold it against me.

With a loud, horribly feigned sigh, I placed a hand to my forehead and slid from the chair, swooning to the floor.

"Prick," he observed several moments later as he looked over the counter and gave me a bored look. "Pity me, Goddamn it. I'm not used to not getting laid. Hell, I feel like. you."

"Slut," I accused, hauling myself to my feet, swaying slightly at the head rush. But through the dreads that had fallen into my eyes, I saw something that surprised me. Mikey winced a little at the joking insult. I frowned at him, more aware of the flinch than he knew.

"Hey, man," I said, smiling gently as I pushed an errant lock of gold-brown hair from his face. "I was just kidding."

He looked up with a smile that I wouldn't have known was forced if I didn't know him so well, and brushed my hand away. "I know."

Before I could comment on his mood swing, he turned away, prancing to the sale rack.

"What about you, Mr. I'm-Too-Good-For-A-One-Night-Stand? Did you have fun?" he goaded with a smile.

"I had a good time," I said defensively, trying to eat and drink at the same time. "I caught a movie with Katherine."

Mikey spun and gave me a sharp glare. "You've been fucking around with my faghag? That whore! She'll get no greasy details for a week!"

" here?" I reminded him, waving my third donut of the conversation at him. "I don't wanna hear about whatever you freaks fill your conversations with.."

He shrugged and let the shirt he was inspecting fall to the ground, ignoring my glare as it crumpled on the dusty floors. I rolled my eyes, and tugged a bandana from my back pocket. Grunting softly, I tied my dreads back, absently pulling on a matted strand that escaped the cloth and fell against my cheek. It was too damned hot to leave them down.

"Hmph," he grunted, turning away. "You didn't mind when I fucked The Hotness last week."

I made a small begrudging noise, not quite admitting the truth of the statement and not disagreeing enough to place myself on the "No Greasy Details" list. Mikey was always quick to tell of his conquests, and the graphic details he'd supplied of his encounter with the newest, hottest patron of The Tower rose quickly to mind.

"'S different," I muttered. "Now you're givin' all the good tidbits to the other team."

"Katherine is hardly the other team," Mikey said lightly. "She whishes she was a gay man.. what PC term defines that?"

Several witty retorts rose to mind, but I bit them back, not really wanting to get into an insult match. Mikey usually won.

"So!" he chirped suddenly, coming back to the cash register. "You gonna come to the flea market with me?"

I looked at him with raised eyebrow. "? Sorry, darling, I don't share your love of old lady costume jewelry."

With that, Mikey shifted into his never-fail, I'm-gonna-get-my-way mode, codename: But I'm A Sexy Bitch. His bottom lip pouted out, lashes fluttered, and doe eyes looked up at me through sex-tousled hair.

"Please, Danny. I'm bored. Come entertain me. It's not like there's anything else to do around here on a Sunday."

I waited a beat, knowing there was more.

"Plus, it's hot as balls. All the sweet young things are gonna be walkin' around sans shirts."

"You want me to come scope guys with you at a junk fair." It was a statement, void of surprise and heavy with martyred surrender. "I mean, sure, I'm desperate, but I still have taste."

Mikey gave a heavy "pfft" at my last comment but I chose to ignore it. It wasn't like he was one to talk.

"Fine," I said finally, losing a staring contest against his much too pretty eyes. "I'll go, but you're buying coffee."

"But of course, mademoiselle. I am, after all, a gentleman."

Right, I thought, grabbing a piece of loose-leaf paper to write another note for the door. How many gentlemen never leave home without a toothbrush and a tube of lube?

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AN: There we are, all new and shiny just for you. Not entirely happy with it, but I didn't really expect it to be easy to write, so there we are.

Just a note: "The Fantastic Umbrella Factory" is not, in fact, mine. I wish I could claim credit for something so fundamentally awesome, but alas, its age exceeds my own by a few decades. But, one would-be hippie to another, I invite you to seek it out should you ever drive through Charleston, RI. I've taken some liberties, but the actual and fictional versions dance to the same rhythm, and the atmosphere there, while not unique, is rare enough to go out of your way to find.

Please review.

Peace and Love!