FRIDAY

11:36 AM

The platform was damp when Toby Beecher stepped off the train. He had watched the drenching spring shower grow in strength over the last leg of his journey, until water was pounding against the window, making an indelicate blur of the city up ahead. Now the sun was shining offensively bright in a solidly blue sky as he weaved his way through throngs of businessmen, tourists, students, and the local homeless, intent on the nearest cup of coffee.
 
The nearest coffee turned out to be a disappointingly translucent brown liquid from a sandwich vendor, hardly deserving of the word 'brew'. He ordered two anyway. It was hot at least, scalding his tongue on the first sip. He dumped a third of the first cup in the trash and filled the space with cream, to better facilitate pouring it straight down his throat. When this was done he abandoned the empty cup on the edge of the trash can, taking up his other coffee and heading back outside for the taxi stand, suitcase rolling and jumping in his wake. He could afford to let the second cup cool, now that he had at least some caffeine in his system. The half pot of strong Hawaiian Kona he'd knocked back that morning in Connecticut seemed light years behind him.

Toby stepped into the sun, which responded by shining louder and more mockingly than ever. The light shifted around the skyscrapers, bright beams glancing off endless glass panes, clearly designed to torture Toby's poor tired eyeballs. As soon as his eyes adjusted he made for the first cab he could focus on, climbing inside and murmuring the name of his hotel at the driver. He sank back against the sun-warmed leather seat, eyes closed, not caring enough to watch if the driver was taking the long way on purpose. With all the construction since Toby had last been in town, he doubted if he would know the difference anyway.

He cracked one eye open to glance at his watch, huffing at what he saw. He didn't particularly want to attend the welcoming ceremony, but something about being more than an hour too late to skip it on purpose made him feel edgy. He could already tell that the off-kilter feeling it gave him would stick with him the whole weekend. He had expected to feel out of step, practically intended to alienate the other attendees as a matter of principle, but he suspected it wouldn't feel any less shitty just because he'd seen it coming.

To say he regretted succumbing to his father's insistence would imply that he had ever thought it was a good idea, which he hadn't. Less than twelve hours ago he'd been draped across the carriage house sofa, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and full bottles of liquor, with no plans for the weekend other than draining the bottles to match the growing pile of cheese-crusted cardboard. In the blink of Harrison Beecher's angry eye, all of that changed. Toby's excuses and protestations that he was going to be too busy putting his life back together to go to Cambridge for the reunion had crumbled under the sheer obviousness of his true intentions. Toby knew his parents loved him, but he also knew (sometimes with more certainty) that they were disappointed in him, even ashamed. They had never been patient people, and what little they had for him was clearly wearing thin.

Toby let his head drop with a gentle thunk against the window. He tried to relax his body as much as possible, loosening his muscles in anticipation of the stress headache he fully expected to have by the end of the day. This was a mistake, which he realized and expressed with a strangled yell the moment his coffee slid out of hand and overturned in his lap. He jumped, knocking the falling cup with his knee so that the plastic top popped off the paper cup altogether, drenching him in terrible (but still hot) coffee. The violence of his swearing triggered a swerve from the driver, sending the mostly empty cup across the car to splash its last drops against the window and door.

"You're paying to have the car cleaned, pal," said the driver, glaring at Toby in the rear view mirror. Toby didn't care. He smiled, eyes shut tight again, settling back and feeling the squish of wetness in the cotton of his Dockers.

"Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of java," he whispered, flexing his fingers, exploring the stickiness of the coffee drying in the creases of his knuckles.

He felt relieved, almost happy, to be so secure in the knowledge that while the weekend was certain to maintain its current level of wretchedness, it couldn't possibly get any worse.


===


12:44 PM

Toby tossed his keycard and wallet on the bed the moment he entered the room, hardly noticing when they bounced straight off the tight bedsheets and onto the floor. He only had eyes for the minibar in the corner. It was one of the cheap kind, not actually refrigerated, but sure to contain booze anyway. He yanked the door open. Soda, candy, tiny bags of chips. Water. Booze on the door, at least two dozen assorted tiny bottles crammed on the narrow shelves. Grabbing two nips of vodka in either hand, he used his teeth to rip the flimsy plastic cup out of its flimsy plastic bag. Spitting a scrap of plastic from between his teeth, he dumped all four nips in the cup and didn't bother looking for ice.

He had placated the cab driver with a fistful of twenties he hardly bothered to count, so strong was his desire to start wearing clothes not damp and stained. Considering he wanted to rush, it was to be expected that his check-in process would go hellishly, first with dubious looks cast over the front desk at the state of his clothes, and then a wholly unnecessary level of confusion over locating his reservation. The hotel seemed to have no protocols, or at least none that the staff were ever properly trained in. Toby spent more than thirty minutes shifting from foot to foot in the carpeted lobby, feeling the increasing squelch in his sneakers as the now cold coffee ran down his legs in slow, sad trickles. Somehow he had managed to speak calmly to the staff, and if not smile, then at least grimace politely.

Now, standing in his hotel room, clutching a plastic cup of vodka and still wearing the coffee-damp clothes, Toby could feel the tightrope of his control slackening. It scared him. Made him want to clench his fingers around a drink. Though it would be a lie to say that alcohol helped tauten the rope. That was a lie he'd told many times before, but never successfully to himself. He knew that he was only holding it together exactly as shoddily as he could get away with. He'd spent the past year playing chicken with rock bottom. Drinking made it harder to care that he was losing it, made it almost impossible to care, because who could worry about their fucked up life when things like walking and seeing straight were such pressing issues in themselves?

He slammed the vodka in his hand, tilting his head back and opening his throat. He wanted another drink immediately, but the first took the edge off long enough to shimmy out of his pants and briefs. His shirt was spattered with coffee, but not soaked, so he didn't bother to remove it right away. He glanced at the minibar, annoyed to see there was no more vodka. Opting for whiskey over rum he grabbed the tiny bottles of Jack Daniel's and settled back on the bed, naked save for his spotted polo shirt. Using mindless routine in order not to think, he systematically opened each bottle and poured it carefully into the cup. Then he sat back, sipping the warm booze in a desultory way, pouting childishly as he waited for the intoxication to set in and take the trouble of not-thinking away from him.

He wanted to want to laugh at the fact that his father had pushed him onto a train and into a weekend of half-naked binge drinking, but he couldn't. Even he knew it wasn't very funny. Or fun. When he was at Harvard his single-minded alcoholism had passed for partying, for a reputation as the life of any party. You could always count on Toby to wear the lampshade if things got boring. Most people didn't seem to notice the way he drank even when they didn't, the way his party lasted all week and sometimes boasted an attendance of one. Those that did notice were always in the same boat, and he could spot them a mile away anyhow. He had enough drinking buddies to satisfy every night of the week without much overlap, if he didn't want it. Mostly he didn't care, and neither did anyone else, it seemed.

By the time he entered the practice he had learned to 'function', as they say. He became a very high-functioning alcoholic, in fact. He took secret pride in the well-oiled machine of his addiction, the vastness of his passion for booze in contrast to (but never competition with) the public successes of his life. Sometimes he felt like he actually was quite good, impressive, like there was something powerful about the way he juggled blackout-inducing binges with his family, his marriage, his career. A lesser man couldn't handle it.

A better man wouldn't try. A better man would know better. Toby knew that, even in his murkiest moments. Knowing it helped feed the vicious cycle, the pattern of moods that kept him drinking long after he wanted to stop. Hours after, and years. He couldn't be better, but at least he could be good at being bad at being good. He could self-destruct better than anyone.

Of course, after a while it wasn't just his self he was deconstructing. Brick by brick he picked apart both the life he had built for himself with Genevieve and the children, and the life that had been built for him, with the firm, as a Beecher. He was already slowly demolishing everything he'd ever been when he wrecked Kathy Rockwell, made sure she never got to be anything else at all. Made sure all she'd ever be was a dead little girl.

His family name made sure that justice wasn't served, and if it had been anyone else but him he might have laughed at the irony. He could hardly speak during his trial, must less laugh. He felt like he could hardly think. He couldn't drink for weeks, and the shock to his system was almost more intense than all the rest of it. Than the fact that he had killed someone. That was something he couldn't bear to process. The grief and remorse of it was there, but it felt like something too big to touch, too big to see as it filled every available space. Easier to understand was the realization that he wasn't powerful at all. He hadn't had any power over himself in a long time.

He knew he had less than ever now, disbarred, on probation and living in his parents' carriage house, halfway to being divorced and missing his children like phantom limbs. He hadn't seen them since his trial. Genevieve took them to Oregon to be with her parents, ostensibly on a temporary basis. A year later, Toby craved their weekly phone calls (the only good excuse for being sober anymore) and in his darkest moments doubted whether he would ever see their faces again. He wanted to hate Genevieve, but he couldn't. He'd been pushing her away for years without noticing he was doing it, and now he knew as well as she did that he didn't deserve his children. He wouldn't want them to be around someone like him. He and Genevieve always agreed on everything, why should Toby's unworthiness be any exception? The thought of it made him ache with the weight of all the things he had promised to stop doing, or start doing, knowing even at the moment the promises crossed his lips that he would never even try to keep them. But she had always been so patient. She tried so hard. He thought of all the times when she should have been angry with him, should have screamed, but instead she just held him. He thought of lying in her arms, feeling all of her sadness and her hurting. It made him remember why he loved her. Made him love her more than ever before. Made him want to stay as far away from her as he possibly could.

===


3:13 PM

Toby was several sheets to the wind by the time he left his hotel room. He wouldn't have bothered, except he'd been sipping warm booze and flicking idly through the grainy basic cable channels for a couple hours and some of the spark was starting to go out of the relationship. For a few minutes he'd let himself feel almost excited. All he wanted to do at home was drink anyway; here he could do it without looking over his shoulder for his parents all the time. Then he realized how sad that was, to be a grown man excited to get drunk without his parents finding out. He felt much more miserable the next time he reached for a tiny bottle and wrenched the tiny cap off to pour its contents into an increasingly battered clear plastic cup.

There was nothing good on tv anyway. It was all soap operas and golf. The latter held his attention for a few minutes, but he tired of it quickly, like always. Unlike many sports, golf wasn't much more interesting in person. Toby's love of drinking beer al fresco was the only reason he ever accepted invitations to play.

The thought of ice cold beer made his cup of room-temp rum look even worse. He levered himself off the bed and grabbed the ice bucket off the desk, making for the door with slow, methodical steps. It was only when he looked down, to better monitor the forward movement of his feet, that he realized he still wasn't wearing any pants. Once he'd put on clean pants he realized how dirty his shirt still was. He switched that out too, and then took a moment to remember what he'd been intending to do.

He finally shambled out into the hallway, barefoot but fully dressed and not smelling of stale coffee, at least. He swayed in place in front of his door for a minute, looking this way and that, trying to spot some clue as to the whereabouts of the ice machine. After a minute he just took off in the opposite direction of the elevators, working on the principle that he hadn't seen anything when he passed that way earlier.

The hallway seemed to be patterned on every available surface; subtle red-orange paisleys in the carpet, hideous striped Victorian-inspired wallpaper in muted sickly greens, florid purple vines creeping across the otherwise lovely upholstery. It made Toby dizzy. His mother would never have approved. The Beecher home was decorated in a clean and classic style, all bright whites and gray-blues, Nantucket colors in spite of its location in central Connecticut. Toby had spent his whole life getting used to his surroundings being whitewashed and faux-weathered. Cluttered design and the coarse decay of genuine antiques always made him edgy. He should have looked at pictures before booking a room at this hotel.

When he spotted the ice machine he regretted bothering to leave his room. It sagged in a indent in the wall, dusty and clearly broken even without the hand-scrawled "OUT OF ORDER" sign taped at a severe angle across the front. A vending machine stood tall and proudly functional next to it, buzzing extra loudly as if to underscore the ice machine's sad silence. Toby frowned at the machines for a few minutes, willing the working one to lend some of its life force to waking the other one up. When nothing happened he turned on his heel and stumped back to his room. He was starting to sober up a little, but the idea of passing the rest of his evening the same way as he had his afternoon held little interest for him. He decided to get his shoes and venture downstairs to the hotel bar. At least there he was guaranteed ice.

As he approached the door to his room, he slid his free hand into his pocket and felt a tired resignation creep over his emotions. He wiggled his fingers around even though it was obvious his pocket was empty. His keycard and wallet were still in the ruined pair of pants. Toby was locked out of his room with no shoes and no money. He thought for a minute, then abandoned the ice bucket on the mat in front of the door. Clearly he had no choice but to go downstairs and tell the front desk that he'd locked himself out.

The elevator ride was slow and made him a little sick. Though it wasn't quite as slow as he thought at first, when he spent nearly a minute with the doors closed before he remembered he had to push the button for the lobby. When the doors opened on the third floor he stepped out without thinking, and had to follow a well-dressed elderly couple back in. They avoided looking at him the rest of the way down. Toby decided to pretend it didn't bother him, but he must have been bad at it because the air in the little elevator was thick with tension. When the doors opened on the lobby Toby bolted out to breathe the fresher, less hostile air.

The relief didn't last. As he stood by the elevators, feeling the cold of the marble floor shocking the soles of his bare feet, he recognized the people seated in the plush chairs tucked in a comfortable corner opposite the front desk. They included the valedictorian and salutatorian of his year. The chatting, smiling group was like a Who's Who of Toby's humiliation. They were the people he could never quite live up to at school, and here they were, unknowingly mocking his failures. Toby had asked his father why he thought a disbarred lawyer would want to go to his Harvard Law reunion, but Harrison has responded by asking why a man who'd been to Harvard Law would want to drink himself to death. Toby still couldn't answer that one.

But he also couldn't face speaking to any of those people. He fidgeted in place, not wanting to be noticed waiting in line at the front desk, but knowing that going back up to his floor would leave him right where he started. He glanced in the direction of the archway that led to the bar, but even through that limited view he could see that it was packed with people he wouldn't want to speak to, certainly not without shoes. Succumbing to the rising panic, he did the only thing he could think to do. He put his head down and marched out the front door and onto the street.

He picked his way carefully along the sidewalk, heading away from the heart of Harvard Square. Maybe he could find a hole in the wall bar and hide there for a couple of hours. Then maybe he'd be able to sneak up to the front desk and get a replacement keycard without being noticed. Careful not to get too distracted from the task of avoiding glass and other debris, Toby tried to remember if there were any dives nearby. All his favorite watering holes when he was a student had been across the river, in Boston. But that was way too far to go with no shoes. His best bet was to find a real shithole of a place and hope no one tried to enforce any kind of "no shoes, no service" policy.

After taking corners at random for nearly ten minutes, Toby found himself in an unfamiliar section of Cambridge. It was a weird mix of bleakly industrial and almost quaintly residential. He peered down a tiny side street that seemed to contain no storefronts, just the blank, foreboding sides of too-large brick buildings. He wandered down it anyway, heading for the busy cross street at the other end. He immediately saw that there was something else there, a tall, skinny brick townhouse, sandwiched in between two much larger buildings. Toby suspected it had been there first.

The tall mullioned windows should have allowed a clear view inside, but they were so filthy they might as well have been painted black. The whole facade of the building was dirty and dilapidated, but ornate enough to suggest that Scrinty McGinty's may have once been quite the swanky place. Toby squinted at the battered sign hanging over the crooked door. Yep, it did actually say "Scrinty McGinty's".

Assuming that "scrinty" must be some kind of outdated slang for "unbelievably awful", Toby knew that this was definitely the place he was looking for. Surely no one here would care about his lack of shoes.

Toby ascended the sagging stone steps carefully. He pushed open the door with a quiet squeal of loose hinges and a puff of musty smell like dry rot disturbed and immediately slide onto the very last stool in the surprisingly crowded room. He set about studying the wood grain in front of him. It was somehow still beautiful. Shiny where it wasn't scarred and pitted. It was probably oak, but the deep stains in every crevice, and the dim lighting of the room made it look more like walnut. He ached for a drink, but the place was packed with construction-types, and other working class drunks. Toby felt slightly guilty for judging his fellow drinkers, and then immediately hoped none of them could tell he was with the Harvard reunion. Thinking that made him feel even guiltier.

The same golf tournament he had half-heartedly watched earlier was playing on a tv in the corner. The fuzzy picture matched the fluffy coat of dust the appliance wore. The only people paying it any attention looked as bored by it as he had been. It made him feel slightly more at home. Out of nowhere the bartender appeared, startling Toby.

"What can I getcha?" he asked, smiling so widely Toby's own jaw twinged in sympathy. His smile could only be called beautiful. It was contagious, but Toby fought it. He tried not to stare. The guy seemed to be trying very hard to keep eye contact, and Toby wanted badly to look away, but found he couldn't. He fought against returning the smile, unsure of his footing and feeling his anxiety ratchet up as the moment stretched out. He wracked his brain for the name of any drink in the world, but his entire vocabulary seemed to have deserted him. Time seemed to stand still as Toby fought the paralysis that had come over him at the sight of that smile.

"Gin," he blurted out, eyes lighting on a bottle of it on the wall.

"You got it," said the bartender, blue eyes still boring into Toby's intensely, though the smile in them was anything but threatening. Toby would almost call it... flirtatious, except for how that didn't make any sense.

Toby felt drunker than before. He shifted, unsteady on his stool. The attention was unfamiliar, and unsettling. Add to the mix his increasing embarrassment at the fact that this guy was clearly laughing at him (what kind of bartender made drunks feel shitty about being drunks?) and Toby was starting to think he should have stayed in the hotel lobby and faced the disapproval of his peers. This wasn't all that much less humiliating. He noticed that the guy was looking expectant, but he didn't know what he was supposed to say.

The guy's grin shrank slightly, became somehow more mocking, but in a kind of gentle way, like Toby might be in on the joke.

"You want that any special way?" he asked, leaning back on his heels, settling his muscular body into a more relaxed stance. Toby didn't want to notice the pull of muscles in his arms as he rested one hand on his belt, the other on the bar. "Neat? On the rocks? You want tonic or lime? Actually, wait," he said, glancing under the bar. "Never mind, we ain't got lime. But we got Tanqueray, Gordon's, Seagram's, Hendrick's..." he trailed off, studying Toby with a shrewd eye. "Wait. Don't tell me. You're a Bombay Sapphire guy."

He leaned in without moving his feet, folding down to lean on his arms, face inches from Toby's.

"Any of those?” he whispered, like he was asking Toby to reveal something he might prefer to keep hidden. “Or is it... Beefeater?"

Toby couldn't take his eyes off the bartender's lips as he murmured those last four words in a low voice, his breath warm and startlingly close to Toby's face, like they were sharing something precious and secret. Toby wanted to breathe, but couldn't. He licked his lips and tried to think. Why did he feel so drunk? He needed a drink. Gin is a drink. Gin!

"Yeah... I mean, yes." Toby ducked his head, licked his dry lips again. "Beef... uh, eater. Beefeater. On the rocks."

He didn't even drink gin. Usually. He couldn't remember the last time, couldn't remember if he liked it. He liked the heat of the bartender's body close to his, but that was something he didn't realize until it was gone.

The man had moved away. He had produced ice and a rocks glass, seemingly from nowhere, and was applying gin to the situation with a practiced wrist. He slide the glass toward Toby on top of a flimsy napkin that stuck to the bottom of the glass when Toby picked it up. He gulped half of it, choking back a cough at the strong herbal flavor. Pungent juniper filled his nose. He didn't exactly like it, but he didn't hate it enough to stop drinking it. Toby kept his snout planted in his glass so he could avoid the bartender's eyes. When he put the glass back down the man had wandered away.

As the empty glass clinked down on the bar, it suddenly hit Toby that he didn't have his wallet. The fact of being barefoot had seemed rebellious enough, he had hardly spared a thought for his total lack of money. Scenarios raced through Toby's head. He was half-wasted, barefoot, and had no cash, credit cards, or even ID. He doubted the chances that the bartender would let him walk away without paying his tab. He glanced at the man, who was lazily polishing the bar with a faded, threadbare rag. Toby thought if he timed it right he might be able to make a break for it, and as long as he didn't leave his hotel room for the rest of the weekend, he didn't see how they could find him.

"Hey Chris! Gimme a beer!" came a shout from behind Toby, making him jump a little. The bartender (Chris, apparently) looked up from the bar and grinned at someone right over Toby's shoulder. Toby felt a shiver of jealousy. It had felt good, if disorienting, to be the focus of that smile.

"All yours, Sully," said Chris, serving up a bottle of Budweiser so frosty it had ice chips clinging to the glass. Out of the corner of his eye Toby saw the guy (Sully, apparently) take the bottle with a nod of thanks and retreat back toward the few rickety tables near the door. Toby turned and tried to glance subtly over his shoulder, to confirm that horrible suspicion. Of course it turned out to be true. Bartender Chris' burly friend Sully had planted himself at the table nearest to Toby's only escape route.

When he turned back to the bar, there was a fresh gin in front of him. He looked up at Chris, who actually winked at him from back at the other end of the bar. Toby felt himself flush. He didn't have a clue what to do. The bartender was already fucking with him, in the weirdest, most confusing way, and Toby couldn't see any way to send this drink back without explaining that he couldn't pay for it, or the one he had already consumed. So he did the only thing that made any sense to him. He settled down on his stool, and brought the new drink to his lips.

The piney taste of the gin felt less harsh the second time around. Toby tried to sip it slowly this time, making it last. He wasn't sure if he was up for getting in as deep as blacking out would get him. He needed to remember the situation. He had to get out. Somehow.

"You new around here?" said a voice in his ear. The words sounded like a slow purr, low and drawn-out, but as Toby shook his head in answer, he thought it might just be him. He was getting to the point of intoxication where everything felt like it was moving a little slower than usual. He stopped shaking his head and tried to focus on the man in front of him.

The bartender. Chris. Chris was asking him something. Chris was looking at him, like he expected more than a head gesture.

"What makes you think I'm not from around here?" Toby asked. He was pretty sure he got it all out without stumbling.

Chris snorted. His smile looked so real. Toby didn't know what to think, or how, anymore.

"You tellin' me you live around here, and you just decided today was the day to check this place out?" Chris took Toby's nearly empty glass and dumped it out, filling it again at once with more ice and gin. Toby wanted to protest, but he also wanted the drink, and his indecision lasted the whole length of Chris' pour.

"Maybe," said Toby, fiddling with the edge of his glass and trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes on the bar.

"What," said Chris, leaning in close again with a conspiratorial smile, seeming not to notice Toby's closed off body language. "You hear good things about the service?"

Toby stared at the man's mouth as he talked, at the dark stubble mapping the span of a strong jaw. He parsed the question a few too many moments after it was asked.

"Maybe," he said again, just to say something. He mentally berated himself immediately. If he could at least keep up a conversation with this guy (who was obviously pretty friendly, if a bit (okay, very) weird) then maybe he could explain the situation and somehow get out unscathed. He swigged his third gin forcefully, feeling like he might still have a fighting chance here, if he could only concentrate. He felt the alcohol rushing in his veins. Toby predicted he had maybe twenty minutes of drunken clarity ahead of him, before the booze settled and things started to get murky again.

"You with the reunion?" Chris asked casually, beating Toby to any sort of punch. He had started polishing glasses with a different (though no less threadbare) rag. He concentrated on the glasses while he waited for Toby to answer, like he didn't care what the response was either way.

Toby looked around. The crowd had thinned out slightly, but the bar was still fuller than Toby would have expected such a dive to be in the middle of the day. He wondered briefly if he was missing something. But no one was paying him any attention, besides Chris.

"Yeah," he ventured, quietly, burying the second half of the syllable in a swig of his drink. Barely a sip of gin was left amongst the melting ice. Chris took the empty glass immediately, practically before Toby had set it down. As Toby watched Chris dump out the ice and wash the glass, he noticed Chris had placed another gin in front of him. Toby stared at his fourth drink, wracked by indecision. He wanted it, with a fervor that almost scared him, when he considered it against the knowledge of how very bad an idea it would be to drink it. He had already drunk three gins he couldn't pay for, in a very short span of time, even for an old pro like him. He was definitely feeling it. The muscles of his face felt weighted down. He couldn't stop licking his lips.

"So, what makes a Harvard man wanna stop for a drink in a shithole like this?" Chris asked conversationally, now tidying his mise-en-place of napkins, swizzle sticks, and sad-looking lemon slices. Toby wondered what made a bartender want to pour drinks down the throat of a barefoot alcoholic. Professional enthusiasm didn't seem to cut it as an explanation. He considered the question for long enough that when he glanced at Chris, he saw a touch of impatience on the man's face for the first time. It brought a twist to his features that obscured most of his handsomeness. Toby didn't like it.

"I'm not wearing any shoes," he blurted, unable to think of anything else to say.

"What?" said Chris, a note of laughter bubbling out of his throat. He leaned over the bar to look at Toby's toes curled around the bottom rung of his stool. "Shit. You're not." He chuckled as he collected Toby's empty glass and poured a fifth drink. Toby couldn't recall drinking the fourth, but he must have. He felt a hint of panic creep through his chest. He resolved to refuse if Chris tried to serve him any more. He wasn't exactly sober before, but now Toby was legitimately drunk. He was well on his way to not remembering any of this.

"I guess that explains things," said Chris as he placed the drink in front of Toby. His voice sounded far away, like it was traveling to Toby's ears through water rather than air. Toby blinked slowly. It was starting to look like there were two drinks in front of him, even though he was pretty sure there was still only one. He wanted badly to put his head down on the bar, but he knew there was a reason why he shouldn't. Though it was becoming more and more difficult to remember. He curled his fist around the drink, just for something to hold onto, and shortly after brought it to his lips out of habit. He nearly missed his mouth. Several drops of liquid ran down his chin. He put the glass back down, resolved not to drink anymore.

Chris was still standing in front of him. Every once in a while he would turn away to serve a drink to somebody else, but every time he came right back. Toby was mystified by the attention, but finally drunk enough not to feel self conscious about it. He let himself enjoy Chris' gaze, his mind too muddled to analyze it. He deliberately met Chris' eyes for the first time, and smiled.

"Hey," said Chris, in a delighted tone. "You look good when you smile."

The compliment made warmth shoot through Toby's body, starting in his toes and working all the way up. He felt the electricity in the hairs on his head. He let the sunshiney feeling wash over him. It nearly didn't occur to him to punish himself for being happy, until Chris spoke again.

"You want one more?" Chris asked, nodding at the empty glass in Toby's hand. Once again, Toby had finished his drink without noticing.

"Fuck!" said Toby, releasing the glass from his grip. He shook his head vigorously until the slosh of his brain against the sides of his skull became too much.

"You sure?" asked Chris, with no special inflection, but it still made Toby wonder briefly if Chris was trying to get him drunk. He couldn't answer the question. A knot of panic had set up camp in his belly. It was squeezing the last of his sobriety right out of him.

"My children," Toby mumbled, addressing no one in particular. "Never, never steal."

"Huh?"

"Never steal..." Toby repeated, finally giving in to the temptation to lay his head on the bar. "Never steal, but when you do, be sure that no one's watching you." He glanced up at Chris, who was looking at him with incredulity, and a little amusement.

"What kind of lawyer are you?" Chris asked with a smirk. The question was clearly rhetorical, but the untimely reminder of Toby's monumentally fucked up life hit him with unexpected force, shocking a laugh out of him. He was the kind of lawyer who killed little girls, and drank barefoot in seedy bars. He wasn't any kind of lawyer at all.

Toby realized he was still laughing. He could feel grit and stickiness between his cheek and the bar, in spite of Chris' near-constant polishing. He raised his head, swiping at his face with one hand.

"I'll take that drink," he said, not bothering to cover the slur in his voice. He had no worries that Chris would refuse him. He did have worries that Chris (or Sully) would beat the crap out of him when the time came to pay. But everything was moving so slowly. The eventual beating seemed so far away. He downed half of his sixth gin the minute Chris produced it.

"Some men I've known," Toby said, unable to stop himself, "commit the most appalling acts, because they happen to be prone... to an economy of facts."

"You a poet or a lawyer?" Chris asked, polishing the print of Toby's face off the bar. He was obviously getting annoyed.

"And if to lie is bad, no doubt, 'tis even worse to be found out."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a fuckin' weirdo?"

"Yes," said Toby, finishing his drink.

“You even care?” Chris asked, collecting Toby's glass, but not doing anything with it.

“Used to,” said Toby, putting his head back down on the bar. He felt the whole world swaying gently around him. He thought of his uncle's boat, the way it bobbed and dipped in the summers of his childhood. His uncle was a drunk. All of his uncles. Most of his family, on both sides.

No one ever killed anyone before, though. Toby rolled his head so that his forehead was on the bar, then to the side, then back again.

“Don't take the life of anyone, however horrid he may be. That sort of thing is never done, not in the best society.”

Toby's habit of memorizing rhymes had started when he was young, a private hobby that he never really abandoned. It had amused his college friends when he got drunk and staged grand recitations. He hardly noticed when he did it, anymore.

“The man who slays his fellow man is never really pop--” Toby cut off mid-word at the slap of Chris' hand on his forearm. “--ular,” he finished, looking down at the long fingers gripping painfully tight on his arm.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Chris whispered, his voice anything but the invitation it had been before.

Toby didn't know. He didn't know why everyone seemed to expect him to know. He looked up, trying to focus on Chris' face. He wanted to tell Chris that he wanted to stop. He wanted Chris to make him stop. But he opened his mouth and the wrong words fell out.

“Whether he sins for love of crime... or merely just to pass the time.”

Toby's eyes wanted to close, but he wouldn't look away. He sort of hoped Chris would punch him, but he just gripped Toby's arm, hard enough to bruise, and stared at Toby like he never seen a creature like him before. Toby didn't know how long they looked at each other, but it felt like the pain in his arm was increasing all the time. He started to feel lightheaded. The upper half of his body began to sway. He gripped the rungs of the stool with his feet. The bartender's eyes were very, very blue.

“Chris,” he said, and passed out.

===

7:57 PM

Toby's arm still hurt, but it was nothing next to the swirling in his brain. He was aware of walking, sort of, in the sense of placing one foot in front of the other and moving more or less forward. But he was in no way controlling the trajectory of his strides. Yet he was going in a straight line; his direction was being chosen for him. Occasionally he stumbled, but he didn't seem to be able to fall. Suddenly the temperature dropped from pleasantly cool to shockingly frigid. Toby backed up, protesting, thunking into something warm and solid. Hands pushed him away, pushed him forward, across an uncomfortably cold marble floor. When he felt his chest hit the smooth edge of a counter, he didn't fight the urge to slump onto the surface. He heard voices, but they didn't seem to be directed at him, so he ignored them.

"Risseldy, rosseldy," he murmured against the counter. "Nickety, nackety."

Toby stayed in place, content to be still until he was hoisted bodily and frogmarched through a doorway. When the doors slid shut behind him he realized it was an elevator. He hoped someone else would press the number for his floor, because he couldn't remember what it was. He stomach turned the instant the car starting moving upward. He gripped the handrail along the side wall, mind clearing slightly as he dedicated all his energy to willing down the bile. After what felt like a very long ride the doors opened and he burst out, landing on all fours and vomiting spectacularly all over the hateful paisley carpet. His nostrils burned with stomach acid. He spat hot gin on the carpet, rocking himself gently and managing to keep down all but the first wave. He took panting breaths until he was sure he wouldn't puke anymore, then cautiously looked over his shoulder. The elevator doors were closed and he was alone. He noticed there was a key card on the floor near his hand.

"Willowby, wallowby," he said, looking at the card.

He forced himself onto noodle-weak legs, grabbed the card and staggered through his door.

===

SATURDAY

12:06 PM

It was legally afternoon by the time Toby remembered that he was alive. And when he did, he wished he hadn't. His mouth tasted like something had died explosively inside it. His tongue felt swollen and dry, like a beached whale against his teeth. Must be the gin.

What the fuck was he thinking, drinking gin? And so much of it? Toby knew better. His father's mother drank gin. She passed away when he was a young child, but he remembered her sharp smell, the sour stillness of her face. He had few memories that were any more than snatches of disparate elements. Gunmetal gray hair. Tartan scarves. Blood red nail polish. The smell of gin. He'd always associated the drink with her, a woman he hadn't known long enough to learn to like. As a child he had feared her, shied away from her tart appraisals and stiff embraces.

Why hadn't he remembered all this last night? He'd made an ass of himself, and for what reason?

Moving slowly, he groped his way out of bed and into the ensuite bathroom, careful not to turn his head too far in any direction. Bypassing the lightswitch, he shucked his boxers and immediately pissed in the direction of what he assumed was the toilet. When he heard the stream hit water he closed his eyes, leaning back on his heels, shoulders sagging, trying not to think too hard, as it was painful. When his bladder was empty he pulled off his sweaty t-shirt as well, dropping it as he turned to the sink. He cupped his hand under the faucet and drank several palmfuls before giving up on propriety and sticking his face in the sink to gulp straight from the tap. He drank until his stomach felt heavy and his mouth tasted mostly normal. He could feel his last three or four drinks still rolling around inside him, but he refused to vomit. His brain was doing some kind of stomping-based dance on the inside of his skull. He lurched back in the direction of his suitcase, praying he'd put the Excedrin somewhere accessible.

He hadn't. By the time he wrestled all the zippers open, and tossed half the clothes his mother's maid had neatly folded for him across the floor, he was too exhausted to even contemplate going back to the bathroom for more water. He shook two tablets into his hand and swallowed them dry. Collapsing back on the bed, still naked, he ignored the irritating tickle the pills left in his throat, and nodded off almost immediately.

His nap only lasted about an hour before his stomach woke him again, this time complaining of emptiness. He blinked his sticky eyelids and resented the lack of food in his stomach. His last encounter with nourishment was the big breakfast he'd enjoyed at his parents' home Friday morning. Nothing since. He regretted the oversight now, dessicated by alcohol and more than 24 hours since his most recent meal.

Deeply discontented with his day so far, Toby rolled over huffily and noticed for the first time that he was desperately entangled in the bedclothes. He hated the way hotel beds were always made with innumerable layers. He'd take one good comforter over too many bedsheets and several equally thin blankets any day.

As he writhed against the straitjacket he'd woven himself into, he suddenly remembered where he was, and what he'd been doing the last time he was here. Which was to say, Cambridge. Which was to say, drinking, heavily, and pretending to be a law student. The latter was no longer an issue, but the former was old hat to him. He knew how to handle a hangover in this town. It seemed so obvious now that he thought of it. He quickly bucked and kicked his way out of captivity, and he would have made straight for the door and the elevator, if not for the nakedness. He dressed efficiently, picking crumpled items at random from the carpet, trusting Bettina not to pack anything overly bizarre. Toby had insisted she include several threadbare t-shirts he liked to sleep in, but luckily he drew none of those.

At the last second he remembered to swipe his wallet off the end table. He made it downstairs and out of the building in a minute flat. When he stepped out he had to stop for a moment and blink the sun out of his eyes, so much brighter than the compact fluorescent light in the hotel. He still knew the way, but his starting point was different, and it took him a moment to decide which way to go. He set off down Mount Auburn Street, decently confident that it would meet up with Mass Ave eventually, and then it would be a straight shot to salvation. He found the walking much easier this time. He moved with purpose, letting the one-track quest for hangover food clear the noise out of his head.

===

2:26 PM

Toby's stomach was actually growling by the time he set eyes on the India Castle Restaurant. He had begun to worry that he'd missed it, or worse, that it was simply gone. A battered sandwich board on the sidewalk out front advertised the $6.99 lunch buffet. He thought it might be the same sandwich board that lured him in so many years ago, though he had to admit it looked much more enticing back then. Even so, it was a sight for sore eyes.

He jogged through the front door, nodding at the waiter but wasting no time in grabbing a plate and loading it up. The smell was unbelievable, if a little overwhelming. He felt slightly sick with anticipation as he piled his plate with pakoras and tandoori chicken, filling the spaces with saag paneer and drizzling raita and spoonfuls of hot onion chutney all over. It was in danger of overflowing, so he was forced to pick up a pair of samosas in a napkin before snagging a chair at the table nearest the food. The waiter from earlier supplied him with ice water and naan bread almost immediately. Toby sat for a moment, just breathing in, letting his slightly queasy stomach settle. He couldn't let his hunger make him overdo it here, or he'd regret it.

After a minute he took a deep breath and picked up his fork. The first few bites were heavenly. The food worked as miraculously as he remembered. He could feel all his cells reacting happily to the kind treatment. Toby mostly ate pizza and other assorted drunk food, but this was drunk food of a much higher caliber. He chewed his way thoughtfully through his first piece of naan, allowing his brain to wander back to the night before, like it had wanted to since he woke up. He finally felt equal to the task. 

He remembered golf. Boring golf and a quest for ice. An unsuccessful quest for ice, which led him... to a bar? He remembered a bar. Not the hotel bar. But... why not? He had no interest in socializing, but he was happy enough to bury himself in a corner and keep quiet. So how did he end up in a rough local pub, barefoot?

"Oh, fuck," Toby said under his breath, a loaded forkful faltering inches from his mouth. It all came back to him. When he locked himself out he was already shitfaced enough to leave the hotel without shoes. No wonder he blacked out; it couldn't have taken more than a couple drinks to get him there. Except... he had a lot more than a couple. He recalled a magical bottomless gin. Bottomless blue eyes and a magical grin. And illogical grin, undeserved by Toby, who drank too much gin and couldn't pay. Fuck, he couldn't pay? How did he pay? He had to have paid, somehow, because otherwise how could be breathing free, unpummeled air?

The niggling questions started to put Toby off his food. He put his fork down and chewed perfunctorily on the bite in his mouth, thinking.

The bartender. Blue eyes. What was his name?

"Chris," Toby whispered, and swallowed.

He fed Toby drinks. He smiled at Toby, and fed him drinks, and never asked if he could pay. Maybe they were gifts. Could they have been gifts? Why? The idea was ridiculous, but so was the fact that Toby had woken up in his hotel bed, more or less intact. How had he even gotten there? Was it Chris? Toby's memory ended with him still on a stool in Chris' bar. But who else could or would have saved him?

Toby stuffed a few more bites in his mouth and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a twenty and dropped it on the table. He stood, taking one last swig of ice water on the way up. On his way out the door he grabbed a handful of fennel seeds from the offered bowl, tossing them in his mouth and chewing them to a licorice-flavored pulp as he walked. After a few blocks he spat the coarse seed coats onto the sidewalk, barely missing his own shoes.

===

3:55 PM

Toby was too busy considering where and what to drink next to watch where he was going. He went right where he should have gone left, taking himself in the direction of the Harvard campus instead of his hotel. He was looking up instead of out, sizing up a bar on the corner of Bow Street when he walked right into someone. The collision was entirely Toby's fault; the other guy had been standing in place, albeit in the very middle of the sidewalk.

"Excuse you," he spat at Toby, not bothering to offer a hand to help him out of his ungainly sprawl. Toby didn't get up right away. He stared up at the guy, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. The guy looked down at him for a few seconds, then snorted and turned back to the woman he'd been speaking to. Unlike her companion, she was managing to stand on the sidewalk without blocking it.

Toby shook his head and started to pick himself up. The snobbery shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. He took his sweet time brushing the dirt off his pants, even though he was standing uncomfortably close to the guy he walked into, who was steadfastly pretending Toby didn't exist. He seemed to have launched back into whatever story he'd been telling before. Something about stock options.

"Toby?" asked the woman he was talking at. Snob-Ass trailed off mid-word.

Toby squinted at her for a second. "Margie?"

"Hi!" said Margie, launching herself at him. "You're here! I didn't see you at the reception yesterday. Oh, Toby, it's so good to see you!" She pulled him in for a hug, then threaded her arm through his. Toby was slightly confused, but not displeased. He and Margie had been friendly, but he wouldn't have expected her to notice his absence, or care.

Snob-Ass cleared his throat loudly. Margie turned to him, her tone apologetic but her feet already pointed away.

"Oh, I'm sorry Terry. Toby and I need to catch up, it's been such a long time. I'll see you later."

She tugged Toby's arm, lowering her voice to whisper "walk with me" in his ear.

"But--?" piped up Terry.

"Thanks for the mozzarella sticks!" Margie called over her shoulder as she hurried Toby down the street. She didn't release his arm until they were out of Terry's line of sight. She let go and stepped slightly away, but not too far. She smiled at Toby, and it looked genuine.

"Thank you so much. You came along at the perfect moment, you have no idea how boring that guy is."

"I can imagine," said Toby.

"Sorry to use you like that. I just had to get away. He hounded me all day yesterday to have a drink with him, and then today he spends the whole time talking about his portfolio. Made me want to burn Wall Street down."

She laughed a little, and Toby laughed with her in spite of the tension he felt, waiting for the inevitable inquiries about his life. He regretted not spending more time rehearsing answers that weren't "I fucked it up completely, but how are you?"

Margie didn't ask, though. She just smiled, and chatted at him as she led him across Mass Ave and down the street. He didn't notice that her speech was just a little too fast, a little too insistent until he had already followed her through the gates and onto the Harvard campus. He wondered if she was trying to keep him from speaking. Or maybe trying to spare him the trouble? It hadn't occurred to him to worry about the rumor mill until that moment. He felt stupid for it. Of course she already knew his sob story. Probably everyone did.

Toby stopped just as Margie was jogging up the wide stone steps of the Griswold building. She stopped at the top, turning to look back at him.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked, slightly breathless from the brisk pace of her speech, never mind the walking.

"Uh, where exactly are we going?" Toby asked. A surprisingly cool breeze swept right through the fabric of Toby's polo shirt. The campus smelled just like he remembered, the salt of stone and paper competing with the freshness of trees and grass, something totally distinct from the busy, noisy square just outside the high brick walls. 

"Lessons Learned: The Impact of Career Decisions on HLS Grads," Margie recited, looking at the wrinkled pamphlet she'd pulled out of her purse. "Four o'clock. We're late. I promised Gracie I'd show. Did you know Grace? Grace Platt. She's speaking." 

Margie turned even as she spoke, continuing through the door like she had no doubt Toby would follow. The tactic worked; Toby felt compelled to run after her, hardly questioning it until they were seating themselves as discreetly as possible in the back of a small and crowded auditorium. Toby tried not to make eye contact with any of the people who turned their heads when he and Margie entered.

The room was freezing, like the air conditioning was running at full blast in spite of the cool day. Toby hunched down slightly in his chair, trying to curl into his own body heat. He crossed his arms, hoping to soothe the goosebumps prickling up all over. Margie appeared to be perfectly comfortable next to him in her fitted linen jacket, leaning forward a little as though enthralled by the speaker. All Toby could hear was a faraway drone, like jackhammers heard from inside a room full of pillows. But his nipples were getting uncomfortably hard, so he wasn't listening very carefully.

He shifted unhappily, regretting allowing himself to be dragged along. The impact of his career decisions was nothing next to the impact of his car on Kathy Rockwell's body. He knew there was nothing anyone in the room could say to help him make sense of that. His mind wandered to his next drink, mulling over ways to make it come sooner than later. He'd have to sneak out. Luckily he was sitting next to the aisle. He could put up with a few dirty looks on his way to the door. He didn't know where he'd go once he got out, though.

Could he show his face back at Scrinty McGinty's? He shouldn't have gotten out of there unscathed. Was the fact that he did just a fluke? Probably. It was suicide to go back there when he'd somehow been blessed with a second chance. 

But Toby's curiosity was at least as deadly as any cat's. Someone had made sure Toby got back to his hotel safely, that much was clear. But who? And why?

The 'who' was the easier question. Toby's mind rang with one syllable: Chris, Chris, Chris. It couldn't possibly have been anyone else. His memory of the bar was patchy, but he couldn't stop remembering the safety he saw in that smile. It was stupid, and pointless, and probably the worst idea he'd had all weekend, but Toby wanted to see it again. He had to go back there, if only to find out the 'why'.

He touched Margie's shoulder gently. She turned her body to him slightly in acknowledgment, but hardly took her eyes off the speaker. Toby tilted his head in the direction of the door, muttering, "I gotta..." and lifting himself partway out of his chair. Margie flapped her hand at him dismissively, so he went. Toby preferred the Margie who had held him by the arm, and spoken to him like he wasn't something almost too shameful to acknowledge. But it was nice while it lasted. Toby was starting to get used to taking what he could get.

===

4:27 PM

The first thing Toby noticed was that Scrinty McGinty's was less crowded this time around. The second thing he noticed was that Sully was tending the bar. Toby sagged for a minute in the doorway. The shaft of light from the partially open door highlighted the filth of the place, the dust in the air and the grime on the floor. Toby's shadow was long and grotesquely distorted, thin and then wide with his indecision as he fidgeted from side to side. Sully definitely noticed him, but did not seem especially put out by his reappearance, and it was that likelihood of being served a drink that made his decision for him. At least he had his wallet this time.

Toby perched himself cautiously on the stool at the very end of the bar. He leaned against the wall, trying to subtly study the other patrons. It was a slightly different crowd than the previous day's, in that it included one woman, and several men in leather jackets, obviously bikers. Other than the biker group there were a few of the usual suspects, mostly unassuming men, standard drunks. Toby relaxed slightly. The bikers were the only people he would even think to worry about, and they seemed fairly subdued, sharing a pitcher of beer and a pack of cigarettes in one of the three ratty booths along the opposite wall. A muted basketball game played on the dusty tv, while some kind of bluesy rock rattled out of the ancient-sounding jukebox. It was hard to tell the artist, or even the gender of the singer, through a sound system that swampy.

Toby ordered a vodka martini when Sully finally skulked over. He nearly asked for gin, without thinking. He almost wished he'd asked for beer when he saw the look on Sully's face. Though a few minutes later Toby did have a vodka martini in front of him, in a martini glass no less. There was even an olive.

He sipped it, making himself comfortable on his stool. It certainly wasn't the best martini he'd ever had, but it surprisingly wasn't the worst. Sully was a half-decent bartender, apparently. Toby had been served far worse drinks in far nicer bars.

Settling into his drink, Toby hoped that Sully was also the kind of bartender who knew to keep 'em coming. Even if Chris never showed, this bar was as good as any other for his usual purposes. 

And if Chris did appear... what would happen exactly? Toby hadn't really thought that far ahead. How could he possibly broach the subject? What could he say?

Hi, remember me? You got me drunk. I think it may have been on purpose. I also think you may have carried my soggy ass back to my hotel. How's it going?

There was no way. Toby drained his drink, sucking thoughtfully on his olive. He'd just have to see how Chris reacted to him. If Chris ignored him, Toby would leave a huge tip for Sully and escape as quickly as possible with his life. If Chris got angry, Toby would plead wretchedness and hope for sympathy. It was so easy to inhabit every inch of the pitiful drunk. And he had enough cash on him to soothe most irritations. But somehow Toby didn't feel like Chris being unhappy to see him was really in the cards. Something told him it would be just the opposite, and that was scarier than anything. If Chris smiled at him again, Toby had no idea what he would do.

The smiling thing. That was the most unsettling of all. If Toby was honest, it was the main reason he ventured back. He was probably just spineless enough to have counted his blessing and ignored the loose ends, if not for that smile. It confused him, nearly made his skin crawl with the embarrassment of being the focus of it. But he felt slightly addicted to it, at the same time. It had been so long since anyone had looked at Toby like his presence pleased them. Margie didn't count; she had ulterior motives. But did Chris? What could they be?

Only one explanation occurred to Toby, and it was so preposterous he could hardly bear to consider it. His mind shrank from the idea that he was attractive enough to flirt with. When he was younger, maybe, when he could have called himself a success and actually gotten away with the lie, maybe. But it was laughable to think that anyone, much less a man, much less a particularly attractive, good-smelling man, would want to give Toby any kind of attention on that level at this point. 

Toby had to admit, at least, that he found Chris attractive. In order to get far enough down the line of reasoning to dismiss the idea that Chris was attracted to him, Toby had to touch the place where such a thing was even within the realm of possibility. Once Toby asked: Could Chris have been flirting with me?, he could no longer avoid: Would I have liked it if he was?

Toby pushed his empty glass further away from himself, trying to get Sully to notice it. He twirled the little plastic sword that had held the olive in his fingers. Toby had never given much thought to the idea of being attracted to men. It had crossed his mind, sure, but never in a way that stuck. He had enough trouble getting lucky with women; trying to get far enough with another guy to actually do anything worthy of the term 'experimenting' seemed like a potentially exhausting waste of time. By the time he married Genevieve he'd been deep enough in his own selfishness to assume he had a partner for life. He probably would have, if he'd been capable of treating her even half as well as she deserved. If he could have lifted his eyes long enough to see that he was killing her.

Another martini slid into the space in front of Toby, right on time. He nodded at Sully in thanks, picking it up. He studied it for a long moment, wanting it, but drawing out the moment. Every sip he took now, in full awareness of the true dimensions of his problem, was a conscious exercise in self-abuse. The finger-smudged glass and the bitter, oily, glorious drink were the key to his self-loathing, the password that accessed his most private convictions about himself. He had nothing left but this. He chose nothing but this, dismantled every obstacle in the way of giving himself up to it. There was nothing left for him to surrender. Powerlessness defined him now, and somewhere inside the howling terror, Toby felt the unfurling of a freedom he'd never known before.

He brought the glass to his lips and carefully drained every last drop. He clunked the glass back down on the bar, then tapped it a few times to get Sully's attention. Sully appeared quickly, fixing Toby a fresh drink without a word. He placed the new glass in front of Toby, but held on the stem. Toby waited for Sully to release the glass, but he didn't, not until Toby looked up and made eye contact.

"Your tab's gettin' a little long there," said Sully. His tone was neutral, but his eyes were slightly menacing. Toby wondered if the tall, muscular, bald-headed, thick-necked bartender was even capable of not looking menacing.

Wordlessly, Toby reached for his wallet. He extracted a hundred dollar bill and offered it to Sully between two fingers. Sully stared at it.

"This cover me for last night?" Toby asked, unable to keep his hand or voice from shaking.

"Just about," said Sully, finally grabbing the bill. He pulled a counterfeit detector pen from under the cash register and slashed its tip across the face of the bill. No mark appeared.

"Keep the change," said Toby. The look Sully threw him stated plainly that he had intended to. But he seemed satisfied. Toby breathed a sigh of relief, and got started on his third martini.

=

7:49 PM

Toby stopped looking up every time he heard the door hinges after the first hour's worth of false hopes. The bar boasted a seemingly random diversity of clientele, from sweaty laborers drinking their paychecks to frankly (and terrifyingly) obvious criminals. None of the patrons stayed for more than a drink or two, barring the bikers, Toby's only rivals in longevity. The shortest stays belonged to the occasional tourist couple, blatantly lost. Toby was busy ignoring the forced joviality of once such couple, smiles pasted on anxiously as they listened to Sully's lazy explanation of how to get back to Harvard Square, when the door opened again. Toby refused to look. He drained his umpteenth martini, waving the glass imperiously in Sully's general direction. He was drunk, but no more drunk than he was comfortably accustomed to being. To keep Sully's confidence he had started paying drink for drink, increasing his tip every time. It had occurred to him sometime after his fifth drink that waving his wealth around might not be smart, but he was already feeling swimmy by then, so the notion passed him by before he could properly consider it.

Sully appeared quickly, well-trained by this point. He served another drink and waited. Toby slapped a twenty on the bar and waved his hand dismissively. Sully took it to the register and didn't come back.

Raucous laughter rang out from the other side of the room. Toby looked up with the rim of his glass poised at his lips. A tall, dark haired man in a weathered black leather jacket stood near the booths with his back to Toby. The bikers were in hysterics over something he'd said. Toby felt his heart rate speed up. He put his drink down without taking a sip, surprised to see his hand was shaking.

It freaked him out slightly to know that he could recognize Chris from behind, despite not having any recollection of ever having seen him from that angle before. He could feel his pulse all over his body, in his fingers and toes, his throat and temples, the ditches of his elbows and the pits of his knees. He stared at Chris' back, at the liquid movement of his shoulders under leather, his casual shrugs at the biker group's obvious adulation. Time seemed to stand still as Toby stared, frozen by the intensity of his reactions. Toby was open-minded, and hardly a virgin, but it still threw him for a loop to sit there, wanting.

Toby wanted. He wanted Chris. He wanted the heat of Chris' body, ached to be the recipient of that cool blue gaze. He had rarely felt such an intensity of longing, and never before for a man. Though it was not Chris' maleness that shocked Toby; rather it was his seemingly unconscious ability to take people out of themselves. Toby had never before felt the things he was feeling, and try as he might, he couldn't unfeel them.

The same secret freedom Toby felt in a bottle started to make itself known inside him again. He made no conscious choice to want Chris, but now that he did he couldn't be sure he would make the choice to stop. He stared at Chris' back and thought lovingly of surrender.

The bikers were still displaying uproarious enjoyment of Chris' presence. The woman in the group had scooted over in the booth, and was tugging insistently on the sleeve of Chris' jacket. Toby looked away. He remembered his plan. He would rather walk away than watch Chris flirt with a reasonably attractive middle-aged biker chick. One more drink, and if Chris never approached him, he would leave. He drained the drink he'd forgotten before, and looked around for Sully. Toby startled when he saw Sully at the far end of the bar, talking to Chris, who had abandoned the biker booth and was leaning on the bar. They had their heads close together, voices low but still casual. Toby held his breath, somehow knowing what would come next.

It took less than thirty seconds. Toby watched Sully's head tip subtly in his direction. He knew he should look away before Chris turned and saw him, but he felt paralyzed. His heart was beating much faster than was comfortable, and he felt dizzy. He pushed his empty glass far away from himself, resolved not to drink another. 

Toby was staring right at Chris when he finally turned his head, but he thought that even if he hadn't been, he would have known when the moment came. Chris' gaze was like a living thing. Toby felt it physically on his skin, soft like fur, but also sharp like a swipe of claws. They made eye contact, but the look on Chris' face was unreadable. The way he pushed off the bar and sidled in Toby's direction, however, could not be mistaken. Almost before Toby could blink, Chris was standing next to him, in the flesh. Toby began to feel lightheaded. He let out the breath he'd been holding with a 'whoosh', but none of the dizziness left him. Chris was staring at him, not smiling, but not frowning, either. Toby opened his mouth to greet Chris, somehow, but he was interrupted before he could speak.

"Another martini?" asked Sully. The question was obviously directed at Toby, but Sully was looking at Chris as he waited for the answer. Chris was looking at Toby. Toby's instinct screamed "yes!" like always, in spite of his good intentions, but he schooled his mouth against forming that word. Sully was making it Chris' choice, and far from being insulted, Toby felt thrilled. He held Chris' gaze, trying to beam his thoughts into the other man's head. He did want another drink, but he recognized that as a situation that would never change. What he wanted more, at that moment, was to close the space between his lips and Chris', fill it with a kiss.

Some of Toby's thoughts must have made it through, because Chris broke their eye contact to turn to Sully, shaking his head.

"Nah," he said, shrugging, "I think we're gonna get outta here."

Toby stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his stool. Sully let out a mean laugh, but Chris didn't join in, so Toby didn't care. 

"You paid up?" Chris asked Toby pointedly.

Toby nodded. He reached for his wallet and pulled out another twenty, placing it on the bar in front of Sully, hardly taking his eyes off Chris. Sully grabbed the tip and didn't say thank you, but Toby hardly noticed. Chris strode across the room in the direction of the door, and Toby followed immediately. The bikers tried to flag Chris down, but he dismissed them with a smile and a wave of his hand. Toby felt slightly glow-y inside when he saw that.

Chris reached the door first, and held it open for him, but not in any particularly chivalrous way. More like Chris was standing near the open door with his hand on it, looking anywhere but at Toby, who just happened to be there. Toby hurried through. As soon as the door was shut Chris looked at him again. The sun had set in the time Toby was inside the bar. It wasn't completely dark yet but Toby felt the urge to look around to get his bearings in the lack of light. Except he couldn't look away from Chris, who was looking back at him, stoic save for the barely perceptible smile on his lips.

The fresh air was helping with Toby's lightheadedness, but his heart was still pounding. He felt the cool night most acutely in his hands and realized his palms were sweaty. He wanted to wipe them on his pants, but he didn't want Chris to see. Toby had no clue how they had gotten to this point, or what would happen now. He hoped that Chris would follow through on his flirting, but he acknowledged it was equally likely that Chris wanted to administer a beating. Maybe more likely; Toby always had been one for magical thinking. It was probably the cause of every instance of trouble he'd ever landed himself in, that propensity for seeing only what he wanted to see.

Toby wanted to invite Chris back to his hotel room, or even to another bar, anywhere other than that desolate street and the cheerless facade of Scrinty McGinty's. But when he opened his mouth all that would come out was one word.

"Why?" he blurted.

He wanted to smack his hand over his mouth right after, but resisted. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned purposefully and started down the street, trying the trick that Margie had successfully used on him earlier. He made it nearly to the corner, but heard no sign that Chris was following. He wouldn't let himself look back. He was rounding the corner, as slowly as he dared, when Chris caught up with him. Toby felt a tiny flicker of his pride return to him when Chris slid into his periphery.

They walked in strangely companionable silence through the quiet streets. Toby wished that Chris would say something, but didn't dare to be the first to speak. They didn't encounter another soul until they reached the main streets of Harvard Square, and by then Toby had all but given up on any kind of conversation. Toby simply led the way to his hotel (for lack of any better destination) and Chris followed.

When they were less than a block away Toby slowed his steps down as significantly as he could without coming to a stop. It had been so long since he'd displayed any balls that he didn't know where to begin looking for them, and he couldn't possibly lead Chris into his hotel and up to his room without a serious display of more balls than he'd probably ever shown in his life. But all too soon the shrub-bracketed automatic doors loomed into view, and Toby had to make a choice.

The coward's way came so naturally to him that he stopped almost without thinking about it. He checked his watch, just for something to do, looking anywhere but at Chris, behaving every bit as stupidly as he felt. He prayed for Chris to speak, or even just walk away, anything to absolve Toby of the onerous responsibilities of seduction. It had been so long. Maybe it had been forever; Toby couldn't be precisely sure that he'd ever really seduced anyone. How could he possibly start with this... frighteningly beautiful man, who seemed to make the very air around him crackle with energy? Or was it promise? Toby couldn't begin to pick apart the threads, divine whether the promise was one for pleasure or pain. The only thing he knew for sure was that this man would make him feel something, anything, and that knowledge itself was almost electrifying enough.

Almost.

Toby flicked his eyes up to the sight of Chris, casual next to him, somehow managing to lounge while standing. He was looking right at Toby, but the expression on his face was soft, or at least undemanding. He looked comfortable. He looked like the kind of man who could make himself comfortable anywhere.

Toby didn't really remember what it felt like to be comfortable. He thought he should, because to hear his parents talk, comfort was one of the many gifts they had given him which he had thoughtlessly squandered. But Toby had begun to wonder whether there was really much qualitative difference between his life now and his life before. He had never been happy. Maybe in small corners of time, lazy sunday mornings with his children, weekend hiking trips with Angus. But the happy fragments gave off a light that always served to throw the dark parts into sharp relief. To highlight the fact that most of the time, Toby felt overwhelmingly, desperately alone.

"Come up to my room," he said. The words simply fell out of his mouth, just like that. His voice didn't even tremble, which surprised Toby because he could feel his heart beating hard enough to make his chest quake. He stared right at Chris, not bothering not to bite his lower lip, holding his breath so he'd be sure not to miss the answer.

Chris just smiled. Then he grinned. Then he laughed at little, sort of under his breath, still grinning as he looked away, then at his shifting feet, then at Toby. The man could somehow fidget with grace, and laugh at Toby in a way that charmed him, and didn't diminish Toby's desire to hear the word 'yes' at all.

=

10:17pm

Toby had never seen anyone take the invitation to "make yourself at home" so literally. The moment they crossed the threshold into Toby's room Chris sprawled himself across the bed on his stomach, flicking on the tv and immediately flipping to the pay-per-view channel. Toby goggled in disbelief for a moment, then remembered to shut the door. The picture Chris painted on the bed might have been childlike if not for the leather jacket he still wore, the way it rode up to reveal a firm ass packed into a pair of too-tight blue jeans. 

"I hope you're not planning on ordering porn," Toby said, situating himself about a foot from the bed, scared to walk any closer. Chris rolled over, propping himself up on his elbows, his dirty black boots rubbing on the pillows. Toby wanted to tear his clothes off. He was pretty sure Chris wouldn't be here unless he wanted to let him, but still Toby didn't know how to get from point A to point B. Chris was grinning at him, which was probably step one right there.

But after a while the grin dropped off of Chris' face, though in a kind of slow, sexy way that Toby couldn't argue with. Then Chris sat up, sliding to the edge of the bed, and before Toby could blink or think or breathe Chris was on his feet, right up in Toby's face.

Toby expected to be hauled forward when Chris took his collar in both hands, but Chris just held him close. Toby felt the heat of his own panting breath trapped in the small space between their mouths. He thought he could live with being seduced, but this was almost like being asked permission. Like being given a choice. Though he still suspected he wouldn't be able to break Chris' grip on his collar, and he didn't try it.

It was maddening, the idea that he had any control here. It boiled inside him, and he shook, feeling scalded, torn open. He wanted, and Chris was offering, and Toby was going to take. He tried to push away from the wall and further into Chris' space, mouth open, blatantly seeking.

Chris held Toby in place with hardly any effort, turning his head, offering his throat. A consolation prize. Toby took it, gratefully, not considering its meaning. Chris closed the space between their bodies when Toby's lips found the pulse under his ear. The air left Toby's lungs in a groan as Chris crowded him against the wall, bringing his lips to Toby's ear.

"How 'bout I suck you off?" he asked in a low voice, just like that, like it was an easy question. Like it didn't have to change absolutely everything. Toby felt exposed and overwhelmed and hot all over. His own pulse roared in his ears, making him feel like he was hurtling forward at a million miles an hour, and he knew he would never forgive himself if he let his fear make the wrong choice now.

Toby planted his thumbs under Chris' ears, yanking him up to look in his eyes, too fast to think twice. Chris blinked, something almost like surprise, but much smoother. Toby knew who was really in control, and it felt like sparks on his skin, this man and all his raw power.

"Fuck yes," he barked, tugging Chris in hard, begging open-mouthed for a kiss. Chris dodged him again, this time by dropping to his knees. Toby's head spun and he clutched at Chris' shoulders to keep his balance. He couldn't concentrate; he could hardly breathe.

He hissed as Chris reached inside his jeans. He hadn't felt a mouth on his dick since law school, since the last time he was here, in Cambridge. Most of the women Toby had been with were, if not bad lovers, then very shy and conservative ones. Genevieve most of all. His chest tightened at the thought of her, of all those years. He married her for love, for the children he wanted, not for sex. But it always triggered a near-unbearable ache inside him, the way he suspected she put up with his advances more than enjoyed them. He believed that she loved him, but he didn't think she ever really wanted him.

He huffed out a breath as Chris rubbed his lips against Toby's hard dick through his briefs. Chris wanted him. They'd known each other for less than 48 hours but he had no trouble believing it. Chris wanted him, wanted to suck his dick. Toby felt dizzy with it. Now that he knew, for certain, that the person touching him truly desired him, he couldn't remember ever knowing it before, with anyone else.

"Chris, please," he breathed, running his hands lightly over Chris' hair, not daring to grab or pull.

"Please, what?" Chris answered, low and hot, his lips so close to the bulge in Toby's briefs that he felt the words more than heard them.

Toby flushed. He knew what Chris wanted him to say. He felt embarrassed, and slightly thrilled.

"Chris," he whined , stalling. "Please..."

"Please... what..." Chris repeated, tucking the first two fingers of either hand into the waistband of Toby's briefs and pulling them down, teasingly slowly. Toby's jeans came with them, until both were sagging just under his ass, keeping him from spreading his thighs. Chris tucked his nose into the hair at the base of Toby's dick, inhaling deeply. His stubbled cheek rubbed, and Toby moaned.

"Chris! Please," he choked out. "Suck me."

Chris growled and obliged him immediately, sucking the head of Toby's dick into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks. Toby cried out and tried to thrust, but Chris' hands on his hips held him firm against the wall. Heat flooded through Toby's entire body. He'd had no idea he liked being held down. He tried to thrust again, wanting to fail, knowing he would. Once again Chris held him back effortlessly. All of Toby's joints were as liquid. He struggled to keep his legs from buckling under him. His knees shook from the effort.

"Chris, Chris, Chris," he whined, hoping the man on his knees in front of him didn't mind the sound of his own name, because it was the only syllable Toby could form. Chris hummed around Toby's dick as he took it deeper in his mouth, and Toby could no longer speak at all.

Then he felt the fingers of Chris' left hand creeping over his balls, and further, to the sensitive space behind them. Toby reacted instinctively, shoving forward with the instinct to get away from those fingers, touching him where he'd never expected to be touched. This time Chris let him, and he moaned loudly as the head of his dick slid past the fluttering muscles of Chris' throat. Chris swallowed, and Toby couldn't care that the fingers had followed him and were now touching him even more insistently, circling his tensing hole. He heard the guttural noises he was making and finally understood what people meant when they said 'the point of no return'. Toby refused to think about whether he wanted to stop, because he realized he couldn't, either way.

"You gonna let me fuck you, huh?"

Toby's eyes flew open at the question. He hadn't been thinking in those terms, or any; he was completely out of his depth. Now it seemed obvious, and he felt foolish for not expecting this from Chris. He thought of his parents, his soon-to-be ex-wife, thought of the horror that would surely take over their faces, if they were to hear such a question being asked of Toby. It made him harder. Precome surged out of his dick and he groaned.

"You like that?" Chris asked, letting one finger tease Toby's perineum while another slid inside.

"Yeah..." Toby whined, and Chris' eyes were alight with amusement.

"You gonna let me fuck you, then?" The words were breathed out over the head of Toby's cock, barely interrupting the work of Chris' wicked tongue.

"Yeah," Toby whispered, trying to push back on Chris' fingers without pulling away from his mouth. He scraped his nails gently along Chris' scalp, holding him close. Chris leaned in obligingly, taking Toby in all the way to the hairs and sucking hard.

"Fuck! Chris!" Toby shouted, his thighs shivering. "I'm gonna -"

Chris pulled back immediately, grabbed Toby's dick by the base and gave it a vicious squeeze. He was on his feet in a flash.

"Not yet," he whispered against Toby's lips. Toby could taste himself on Chris' breath, and he never would have imagined that the hint of his dick on someone else's lips could drive him so wild. He bucked against Chris' embrace, broke free to throw himself face first against the wall.

"Fuck me already," he ground out, planting his feet, thrusting out his ass in the most blatant invitation he'd ever had the balls to give to anyone.

Chris made a sound like a wounded animal and plastered himself against Toby's back. They were so close he felt Chris' hands undoing his fly right up against the bare skin of his ass. Then Chris backed up for a second, and Toby heard him spit into his hand, then the slick sounds of precome and saliva sliding on skin. Then something warm and blunt was nudging Toby's asshole, and he shivered violently. Was he really going to do this? Could he? Toby had no idea, and yet -

Chris made a low sound as he pushed forward, slower and more gently than Toby had expected. He felt the long, slow slide all the way up his spine, tingling in his scalp, standing every hair on end. He shoved back into the feeling.

"Oh, fuck," Chris groaned, bruising Toby's hips with suddenly tightened fingers. "I can't... you make me so..."

"If you can't... then don't..." Toby panted, understanding that Chris didn't mean the fucking, he meant the not-fucking.

"It's gonna hurt," Chris whispered into the skin behind Toby' ear. "Ain't got lube..."

Toby groaned in frustration. He already felt the burn, and it was driving him crazy. Planting his palms on the wall for leverage he shoved back against Chris as hard as he could. Chris' dick slid all the way in, until Toby could feel the hair on Chris' balls. The warmth and solidity of Chris' body against his ass made Toby writhe and pant open-mouthed against the wall. He felt more than heard the rumble deep in Chris' chest as he started to pound his ass in earnest. He was trapped between Chris' body and the wall, his leaking dick sliding wetly along the beige-colored semi-gloss paint. Every thrust left another shining streak. Toby moaned and met Chris' pistoning hips. The pain was a hot stab, but Toby only wanted more. He'd never felt more desperate to press himself against another person, to sink his skin into theirs. Chris' breath was a steady huff against his ear. It sped up over the course of a few seconds and just as suddenly Chris' hips slowed down, making one last long slide until he was buried balls-deep. With his hips snug against Toby's ass he flexed, rocking inside Toby but avoiding a thrust. Toby tried to pull away, wanting to fuck himself on Chris' dick, but Chris had him pinned hard against the wall.

"Does your wife know you like it rough?" Chris asked, circling his hips, giving Toby everything he could never ask for by denying him what he wanted.

Toby shook his head, thrashed his whole body. He let out a long whine. His dick ached.

"I... didn't know..."

"Jesus," Chris gasped, wrenching his dick out of Toby's ass. Toby made a garbled sound of disapproval at the same time his legs gave out underneath him. Without Chris' body to hold him up he crumpled to the floor, already missing Chris' heat.

Then Chris was behind him, pulling him up on his knees, nudging Toby's legs apart with his own. Hot palms spread Toby's ass wide as Chris sank his dick back inside. Toby felt himself go limp in Chris' lap, his head lolling back onto Chris' shoulder, rocking as Chris fucked him. Then he reached his arms back, the fingers of one hand sliding along Chris' scalp as the other hand snaked under his armpit and up to clutch at his shoulder. The angle of Chris' thrusts changed with the arch of Toby's back and he let out a groan that didn't until stop until Chris took one hand off Toby's hip to stuff two fingers in Toby's mouth. Toby sucked on them mindlessly, flicking his tongue at the sensitive juncture between them. Chris' breath came in gasps again.

"Shit, shit, shit," he chanted, pulling his fingers out of Toby's mouth and wrapping his hand around Toby's dick. Toby's skin felt too tight, his lungs too small, every inch of his body burning. Chris jerked him hard and on the second upstroke rubbed his thumb in a circle over the head. Toby felt his orgasm rumbling toward him like a freight train. He closed his eyes and went with it, letting himself break apart inside Chris' hold. He came all over Chris' hand, but Chris only caught his come and didn't stop moving for a second, rubbing Toby's still-hard dick raw. Toby's nerves screamed, but he could only whimper. He fell forward onto his hands and Chris let go to grab both of his hips. Toby expected to be fucked hard but Chris slowed down again, starting a slow rhythm, sinking all the way in then pulling out so only the head of his dick was inside.

"I'm gonna shoot... fuck. Shit... shit," Chris muttered, words coming as slow as his hips. "I'm gonna come inside your sweet ass. Fuck, I'm gonna come -"

Toby pushed back at Chris' words. He was still hot all over. His dick was going limp and everything ached but he didn't want Chris to stop fucking him.

"Say it. Tell me you want it."

Toby still hadn't caught his breath, but he forced his lips to form one syllable, over and over.

"Chris, Chris, Chris..."

Chris sucked in one quick breath and snapped his hips, fingers squeezing briefly, but firmly, where they'd been caressing Toby's throat. Toby bucked hard, almost panicking, and Chris moaned louder than ever before collapsing on Toby's back. Toby whined in protest after a few seconds, and the next thing he knew he was cold, and feeling for the first time the very distinct sensation of come in his ass.

"Oh, fuck!" he heard Chris groan, feeling the long, slow stretch of his body beside him. Toby rolled onto his side to look at Chris, who was sprawled on his back and smiling with his eyes closed. "Shit, man. I haven't busted a nut like that in..."

He slowly trailed off as he opened his eyes, seeing Toby smiling shyly back at him. He seemed to remember something he was annoyed to have forgotten. He curled his torso up into a sitting position, casual in a way that looked self-conscious.

"Shit, man," he said again, sniffing, and this time the words sounded totally different. "Your ass bleeding?"

Toby felt his face heat up and snorted on a laugh. The indignity of that was almost worse than the question.

"So much for the afterglow," he groused, keeping his tone bolder than he felt to hide his discomfort.

Chris didn't laugh, but Toby hadn't really thought he would. Chris didn't seem to laugh at anything, not really. Not in a spontaneous way, like he was actually caught off guard by the amusement. He had a smile for every occasion, sure, some with an edge of laughter, and some warm and open enough to make Toby's stomach drop out. But none of them ever seemed like they were on anything but Chris' terms.

Chris wasn't smiling now as he looked at Toby, leaning back on his hands, obviously unconcerned with his still open fly, glistening dick framed almost artistically by the fabric. Toby guessed it must be easy, not to care about being seen naked by the guy you just fucked in the ass. Toby had never been in that situation, but it made sense. He wasn't sure what would make sense for him to feel, in his current situation. Other than a twinge in his ass, which he definitely did. He looked at Chris, who met his gaze steadily, though his expression revealed nothing. Neither of them looked away. Toby knew he should take his cues from Chris, and he would, but that couldn't stop him from being disappointed that Chris had ruined the moment so easily. Some trace or more of his petulance must have shown on his face because Chris started smirking, though it softened quickly into something much more welcoming.

"Wanna cuddle?" Chris asked, low and sweet, like he might actually mean it. Or maybe like he was mocking Toby, like the idea was so ridiculous that only the merest trace of sarcasm was required. Toby couldn't be sure, and the ambiguity pissed him off. The creeping anger made it easy for him to tell the truth.

"I would, if I thought you really meant that," he said, moving to stand up. He badly wanted to look back at Chris' face, but he thought it might take some of the punch out of his statement if he did. He let himself believe he had surprised Chris, more because he wanted to than out of real confidence. He wanted to be equal to Chris, to feel like he could occasionally have the upper hand. Mostly, he wanted Chris to want to let him.

Toby straightened up carefully, then bent at the waist as gently as possible to pull up his pants, mostly because he didn't want to try walking with them around his ankles. He got them up around his hips and didn't bother to do up the zipper. He staggered toward the bed and fell backwards onto it bonelessly. He regretted this slightly when he bounced a little, causing a shock of pain to run through his backside. He wondered how long it would be before he could move any part of his body without feeling pain in his ass.

"I'm never getting fucked without lube again," he announced for the benefit of the room. He heard Chris snort, though when Toby lifted his head to look at him he appeared to at least feign a modicum of remorse.

"Told ya it would hurt," Chris said. "Seriously, you bleeding?"

"No," Toby said, dropping his head back onto the bed and squirming his hips experimentally. Once again he regretted the movement. He felt nothing but a hot, not-unpleasant ache when he stayed perfectly still, but the slightest jostle cause a sharp slicing pain in what felt like every nerve below his waist.

"Did you check?" Chris asked.

"No," Toby repeated, lifting his head again to look at Chris with slight incredulity. "Did you see me check? Anyway I think I'd feel it."

"Maybe not," said Chris, finally standing up. "Just fuckin' check."

Toby tried to catch his eye, wanting to figure out how Chris could seem to care so much about him, and so little at the same time. But Chris had busied himself with zipping up, and didn't look at Toby even when he was finished. Shrugging, Toby stood and walked to the bathroom, refusing to slow or widen his gait even though he thought it might sting less if he did. Chris was looking at him now, he was sure of it; he could feel those eyes on him, as physical as a touch.

Toby shut the door firmly behind himself and pissed perfunctorily, stalling. When he was finished he took a wad of paper and cautiously swiped it between his cheeks. He held it for a few seconds before forcing himself to look at it.

Blood. Not much, but definitely there.

Toby probed his own feelings as he stared at the paper, wanting to feel more, confused by how little he did. He'd begged a hot bartender to fuck him until he bled. Now he stared at the evidence, unable to deny it, and feeling almost nothing beyond seriously hoping that sexy bartender would still be in his room when he went back out there.

Toby cleaned up as quickly as he could. The sharpness of the pain was definitely lessening as time passed, though he knew he'd be feeling it all night, probably longer.

When Toby opened the door Chris was sitting on the bed, zipped up and wearing his jacket again, flicking through the porn titles on the Pay-Per-View channel. He turned when he heard Toby enter, leaving the description for Horny Housewives 4 highlighted on the screen. His eyes traveled slowly up and down Toby's body, his gaze like a shiver on Toby's skin. Toby was hyper-aware of the fact that they had fucked almost fully-clothed, and that Chris was sitting there looking as unruffled as he ever had. Toby knew from the bathroom mirror that he looked as well-fucked as he felt. His hair, already unruly from too long without a haircut, bore distinct resemblance to a tumbleweed, while his polo shirt was stretched in the collar and spattered with come at the hem. Chris still wasn't meeting Toby's eyes.

"You bleeding?" Chris asked Toby's waistband.

"No," Toby lied, pulling his stained polo off and turning to rummage through his suitcase for a clean shirt. He told himself he didn't care whether Chris believed him, which he probably didn't. He concentrated on digging deeper in his suitcase, trying to find any shirt that wasn't pastel, Lacoste, or both. There was nothing save for the paper-thin t-shirts he slept in. Most of them were band shirts he'd bought in his college days. He studied the logos and wondered if they were more or less embarrassing than the polo shirts.

"Hey," Chris said.

Toby sort of hated himself for how quickly he looked up. He looked back down again immediately, but not before noticing that Chris was now standing, and grinning at him. It was the fake kind of grin, but Toby was happy enough to take any indication that Chris was going to continue to speak to him now that he'd gotten his rocks off.

"Yeah?" Toby said as he selected one of the t-shirts at random and pulled it over his head.

"Wanna grab a beer?" Chris asked, running one finger through the dust on the tv screen. His tone was light, making it difficult for Toby to figure out whether he was supposed to say no. He wanted to say yes.

"Yeah," he said, shucking his Dockers in favor of the only pair of jeans in his suitcase. Chris watched him silently as he changed, and Toby tried his best not to feel awkward about it.

 
=

11:09pm

They left Toby's hotel inside a gust of unseasonably cold wind, the last vestiges of what had been a chilly New England spring refusing to give up the ghost. It made Toby long for a jacket, his ageworn Rolling Stones tee failing utterly to protect him from the elements.

It was hero worship that made Toby wear the shirt in the first place. Rummaging through his suitcase Toby had thought he'd rather walk out of the hotel naked than wear any of the oxford button-downs or poly-blend polos packed within. It embarrassed him to be so unequal to the task of blending in with Chris.

The shirt had been his best attempt. Now it only embarrassed him more, goosebumps shivering to life up and down his arms as they rounded Brattle Square, beating an steady path to the train station. Toby hadn't ever ridden the T much while he was at school here, and he hadn't intended to at all this weekend. The class difference between himself and Chris slapped him in the face again as the grimy facade of Harvard Square station loomed into view. They ignored the pleas of elderly bums and teenage punks, all looking for spare change, to descend the stairs into the station.

Toby faltered in front of the turnstiles, fumbling in his pockets for the fare, until he saw that Chris was still moving. He stopped to watch Chris approach a turnstile, smoothly pulling it back about six inches, turning the lower half of his body to slide through that seemingly impossible space, careful not to pull the bar too far back and catch the locking mechanism. Chris achieved this maneuver so quickly and nonchalantly that he was on the other side before Toby could parse what had happened. Chris turned to smirk across the stiles at Toby, backing away as though putting distance between himself and his petty crime.

Toby doubted his ability to successfully copy Chris in one try, but his skin crawled at the idea of Chris watching him pay after a stunt like that, and anyway Chris was still moving. Toby didn't want to be left behind.

Scanning the area for T employees, he spotted only a white-haired, doughy-looking man inside the fare booth. He seemed absorbed in his newspaper. Toby took a deep breath and approached the turnstiles, not breaking his stride as he planted his palms on either side of the waist-high metal gate and hoisted his legs over it. He managed to keep walking as though his heart weren't pounding in his head, making him dizzy. He looked up to see Chris staring at him with something almost like admiration, tempered with not a little surprise. It made his cheeks burn, but the flip of his belly was more than pleasant. He buzzed with satisfaction at the idea that he could shock this man.

"Let's go," he said, when he passed Chris and it seemed like Chris might actually just stand there, staring after him. Toby was somewhat surprised when Chris followed immediately, saying nothing. Toby refused to look back at the man in the booth, but no one shouted for them to stop, and they waited in companionable silence until a train came to take them into Boston.


===

11:51pm

Toby followed Chris from the red line to the orange line, through dark foul-smelling tunnels and up crumbling concrete steps. The trip was silent but somehow not awkward as they stood next to one another with their hands on the same pole, their bodies casually brushing with the rocking of the train car, like good friends. Toby wanted to talk, but the questions were all jammed up in his throat, congested in a fight to be the first one asked. Each time one made it to the tip of his tongue he invariably rejected it as too unspecific, too concerned with unimportant minutiae. Toby wanted to know who Chris was, and how, and why. But he wanted the kind of answers that most people couldn't put into words. Toby wanted to know the things about Chris that Chris probably didn't know.

He couldn't help but stare at Chris as he followed him, as Chris led the way, never quite looking at Toby, but never leaving him behind. They emerged from Chinatown station onto a wide, dark street, tall office buildings empty and properly silent for the middle of the night. The chill air felt refreshing after the close atmosphere underground. Toby wanted to stop and breathe for a minute, savor the total stillness at the center of the city. But Chris seemed to know exactly where he was going, and Toby had no choice but to follow.

They walked straight ahead, down a gently sloping street lined with shuttered stores and restaurants. The neighborhood seemed to grow darker the deeper they delved, and Toby was just starting to wonder where they were going when Chris turned abruptly right at the corner of a narrow street. As soon as Toby followed he saw the dirty neon sign advertising The Glass Slipper. It was heavily dented, cheese-yellow and flickering at odd intervals. The place didn't give off any impressions of being a happening nightspot. There was no bouncer at the door, but the placed still screamed 'strip club' on all sides. There was almost nothing else on the tiny street.

Though Toby did notice as he and Chris got closer that there was one person outside the club, a dark haired man smoking a cigarette with a nervous air that was at odds with the casual way he leaned against the wall next to the club's door. The man suddenly looked up as they got closer, quick like he thought he might need to run. Though seconds later he was pitching his cigarette into the street and walking towards them.

Chris stopped dead in his tracks. The man came closer. Toby watched Chris carefully for a reaction, but if there was any it was difficult to discern. The hairs on the back of Toby's neck stood up as he looked from one man to the other, noting their similarities. He felt it the moment their eyes locked, like a shock of energy. Like the slamming of a door.

=

SUNDAY

12:02am

Chris just stared, and wouldn't let himself smile. He knew the kid was stupid, but hadn't bargained on this stupid.

"Ronnie."

"Chris Keller, son of a bitch," said Ronnie, like he thought Chris was glad to see him. He closed the distance between them, clapping a hand on Chris' shoulder. Chris decided to make things easy, and let himself get pulled into a hug. He wanted to slap Ronnie down onto the street for using his full name in front of Toby, but he let it go for now. He knew the lawyer was listening, in spite of his efforts to look interested in the weatherworn fliers pasted thickly around the club door. It didn't surprise Chris that Toby's first instinct was to do his damnedest to blend into the wall, but his efforts were annoyingly useless. It was too much to hope that Ronnie hadn't noticed him.

"What the fuck you doin' here, Ronnie?" Chris asked, keeping his voice low but putting enough edge on the kid's name to make him nervous. Ronnie was already nervous though, grin too wide, bright blue eyes darting around wildly, a dead giveaway.

"I can't just wanna see you?" said Ronnie, slightly breathless, neediness disguised as a weak joke. Chris didn't answer, and Ronnie finally let his eyes settle on Chris' face. Those fucking eyes. If the kid had known what a sucker Chris could be for pretty eyes, he might actually have given Chris a run for his money. It had made Chris wary at first, but Ronnie couldn't hide his tactical lack for long. Chris learned quickly that there wasn't much behind those eyes that Chris couldn't read on Ronnie's face, or that Ronnie wouldn't tell him with no more than a little coaxing. 

Ronnie was easy. His crush on Chris was useful, made him more reliable, more eager to grant Chris outrageous favors. Until it got a little unruly, a little unpredictable. Chris leaving town was coincidence, but the distance from Ronnie was not unwelcome.

Ronnie cast an appraising eye over Toby, who pretended not to notice. He turned back to Chris with a knowing expression. It made him look even more stupid than usual. Chris cursed inwardly, clenching his jaw but forcing his fingers to flex instead of ball up. He didn't want Ronnie's opinion, but he could see he was about to get it.

"Really, Keller?" Ronnie asked, barely lowering his voice.

"Shut the fuck up, Barlog," said Chris, but lightly, like it was a joke and not a threat.

"Man, Chris, you know I'd never question you," said Ronnie quickly, submissive, like always. "I'm just wondering if you should really -"

"Shut your fuckin' mouth before I shut it for you."

Chris smiled, to help the words stick. Ronnie held his hands up, palms out in a gesture of defeat. But as usual, he couldn't resist a parting shot.

"Okay, man, okay. I'm just sayin'. The heat is on."

Chris kept his fists at his sides. He didn't need to lose his temper in front of Toby, not with the way things were going. He knew he'd never get rid of Ronnie. He'd have to blow the lawyer off, leave things unfinished. He took a deep breath, and spoke slowly.

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"Man, that's what I came here to fuckin' tell you. And seriously, I want gas money for that shit, not to mention I've been sittin' in there drinkin' nine dollar beers for a week -"

Chris growled as his blood pressure rose steadily. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Toby was no longer even pretending not to listen.

"Ronnie, fuckin' tell me what you're tryna tell me."

Ronnie looked stricken for a moment, unable to stop a nervous, automatic glance at Toby, who couldn't hide his discomfort, or his interest.

"Chris, it's bad, man."

Chris was done dancing. He stepped closer to Ronnie, let his superior height cast a shadow. He was close enough to breathe on Ronnie's face, to communicate silently the violence of his impatience. Ronnie swallowed visibly.

"Okay, okay. It's just..." Ronnie leaned in close to Chris' ear, lowering his voice to a tiny whisper, "the feds. FBI. They came to talk to me."

Chris felt his scalp tingle with hairs on end. The words were like ice in his veins, colder than his own blood. He knew what this was about, and he knew exactly who had spoken to Ronnie.

If Taylor had gotten as far as Ronnie, then he'd gotten way too close for comfort. Chris hadn't entertained the possibility that Ronnie had turned up to save his life. It was irritating. Chris would take action, but he couldn't be grateful. The whole thing was like a thorn in his side, fucking Taylor and fucking Ronnie. He wanted to be rid of them both.

"Fuck," Chris breathed, turning away from Ronnie, running his hands over his face. "Fuckin' fuck."

"Yeah, man. Looks like someone saw you with the -"

"Shut up. Not here. We gotta go somewhere." He raised his voice, addressing Toby, who startled at the sudden acknowledgment. "We gotta go."

"Okay," said Toby immediately, looking pathetically relieved to have been remembered. "Where to?"

"Not you," said Chris, as hard and short as he could force his voice to go. "Me and Ronnie. I'll catch you later."

"Wait a minute. Chris, wait!"

"Later!" Chris lied over his shoulder as he walked quickly away from the club, Ronnie following automatically.

Chris knew that, in all likelihood, he would never see Toby again. His whole body ached at the thought, but he pushed the sensation away. He put it down to the usual itch of unfinished business, running their encounters over in his mind, probing for problem spots. Chris had done nothing worse than fuck the guy, but that alone was enough to make his skin crawl at the open-endedness of it. He liked to wrap things up in a tight package. He liked to make the situation unavoidably clear. But who knows what Toby had been left thinking, and Chris knew the loose ends of that would keep tickling at him, like a fly he couldn't swat. But if Ronnie was right about Taylor (and Chris couldn't see how he could be wrong) then he needed to get his shit together, and fast. He'd have to go far, go deep, as soon as possible.

He tried not to look back at Toby, and they made it all the way to the end of the street before he cracked. When he glanced back, Toby was staring after them, and it took all of Chris' willpower not to call to him. Even at the distance of half a city block, he could feel Toby's eyes boring into his. He stopped, floored by the intensity, so that he watching when Toby finally looked away, turning to enter the club.

Stupid boozy fuck, Chris thought, knowing that Toby's interest lay, not with the naked women, but with the nearest shot of alcohol. He turned again, ignoring the aura of amusement radiating off Ronnie. They rounded the corner, and Chris did his best to push the magnetic, messed up lawyer out of his mind. He had much more important things to think about.


===

12:11am

Ronnie wanted to stop at another bar for a drink, but Chris dismissed his suggestions with a pointed look. He had to get back to his room in Southie, clear out his shit, and hit the road as soon as possible. Chris bypassed Chinatown station, preferring to hoof it above ground to Downtown Crossing, taking the time to breathe the night air and think. There was no chance that Ronnie was smart enough to cover his tracks, at least not well. Chris had no way of knowing whether he was being tracked, which meant that Ronnie could very possibly have led Agent Taylor right to him.

So he had to act like that cocksucker could show up at any moment. That was priority one. Priority two was dealing with Ronnie. Chris studied Ronnie's profile out of the corner of his eye as they walked side by side down dark sidewalks, considering. Chris would need to get rid of him eventually, but he could be made useful in the meantime. Chris was still working out how when Ronnie broke the silence.

"So what's the story with you and that guy?"

Chris stopped himself from flinching. It was an embarrassing corner to be backed into, and he ached to strangle Ronnie to avoid the topic.

"You drive two hundred miles to gossip like girlfriends?" he asked, regretting the words the instant they left his mouth. He'd led Ronnie straight to the heart of it. Ronnie looked delighted.

"So you are fucking him."

Chris shook his head, less as a denial and more in an attempt to clear the cobwebs he could feel forming.

"He looked like your type," said Ronnie, distinctly accusatory. "You like 'em preppy, don'tcha?"

A taxi whizzed past them down Washington Street, and Chris imagined chucking Ronnie in front of it.

"Is this shit really what you came to talk about?"

"I didn't know the topic would be on the table."

"It's not."

"But he is. Or was," Ronnie teased with a smirk. Chris couldn't believe they were having this conversation, considering what Ronnie knew about him. Considering what Ronnie had come all the way to Boston to warn him about. The kid had a fucked up sense of humor. Chris didn't really have a normal sense of humor himself, but he faked it well enough to know that Ronnie was one sick puppy.

Chris led the way down the steps into Downtown Crossing station, sidestepping a vast puddle of urine on one of the landings. He hoped to drop the topic, but he felt Ronnie's expectant stare all the way down to the platform and onto one of the last southbound trains. Several times he started to speak, then cut himself off. He had nothing to prove to Ronnie, but he couldn't get a lie to roll off his tongue. He didn't want to lie about Toby. The realization startled him into the truth.

"He's different."

"Oh. Different, huh?" asked Ronnie, instantly venomous. "How fucking so?"

Chris' hand twisted and tightened around the pole they were both holding to keep from stumbling on the moving train. He knew the fidgeting was a tell, and it infuriated him not to be in control of the image he projected. But Ronnie's fat fingers were poking right inside him, getting to the tender squishy parts he didn't want to admit were there.

Ronnie just stared at him, trying to laser through his walls. Chris said nothing. Finally Ronnie looked away.

"You motherfucker," Ronnie spat, still not looking at Chris. "You fuckin' cunt. All those times... and you said. You fuckin' said, Chris. I believed you."

Chris didn't give a fuck what Ronnie did or didn't believe. Anyone who trusted Chris not to lie to them deserved to be lied to. Chris was many things, but oblivious was not on the list. He knew Ronnie had always had a crush on him, a kind of hero-worship thing. At first it had disgusted him, like all tenderness not involving women always did in the end. But slowly he came to see it for the boon it was. Ronnie would follow him from ponzi to ponzi, practically to the ends of the earth, and all Chris had to do was smile the right way, sling an arm over his shoulder at just the right moment. But not so often that Ronnie would get ideas.

It was clear to Chris now that he had failed. Ronnie had gotten ideas. Maybe he had spent the last year thinking too much. Maybe he'd gotten it into his head that he was the reason Chris had left. It wasn't a stretch of the imagination to think that Ronnie might have concluded that Chris had run away from Ronnie, from the feelings developing between them. Chris knew that no such feelings existed, but he also knew that sheer desire could convince anyone of anything. He'd made a career out of persuading the desperate that they could have exactly what they wanted, and that he, Chris, was exactly the man to give it to them.

Looking at Ronnie now, at the misery on his face, Chris made a strategic decision. He wrapped an arm around Ronnie's neck, tugging the other man closer to plant a quick kiss on the top of his head. Pulling away, he left his hand on Ronnie's shoulder, kneading at the tight muscles.

"Ronnie. Listen to me. I don't give a shit about that drunk fuck." Chris leaned in close to Ronnie's ear, lowering his voice to a whisper. "He's a mark. Lawyer, lotta money. Dunno why I didn't tell you earlier. Doesn't matter now." He smiled at Ronnie, his best, most disarming smile. "I'm glad you're here."

Ronnie melted instantly. His whole body relaxed, lungs letting out a little sigh. He grinned, dazzlingly, and Chris realized, not for the first time, that his sins were beyond forgiveness.


===

12:34am

It didn't take long for Ronnie to return to his most natural state of being: whining.

"Seriously, man, you owe me."

"Yeah?" Chris responded vaguely, mostly tuning him out as they made their way off the train and through Broadway station. "How you figure?"

"I told you, gas money. Nine fuckin' dollar beers -"

"Well, who fuckin' told you to hang out in that shithole all week?"

"How the fuck else was I supposed to find you? Not like you left a forwarding address. I figured if I spent long enough in the scummiest place in Boston I'd get a whiff of you eventually." Ronnie smiled fondly as he said this, like it was meant to be a compliment. Chris conceded the logic, but not the debt.

"I don't owe you shit, Ronnie. You coulda asked around."

"You think I didn't? How fuckin' stupid do I look to you? No one would say anything."

Chris was very tempted to tell Ronnie exactly how stupid he looked. But he stopped himself. He still needed Ronnie's help. He opted not to saying anything until they emerged onto the street. As soon as they did, he turned to Ronnie, all his charm chugging along full throttle.

"Listen, Ronnie -"

"Chris."

The voice calling Chris' name was not Ronnie's. Chris stood frozen for a moment before slowly turning around. He had recognized the voice, but that didn't stop him from being surprised at seeing Toby standing at the entrance to Broadway station. He looked pretty pissed. Chris didn't really blame him, but he also didn't need any more grief.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he spat, in full denial of the uncomfortable urges he was feeling, the ones that told him to speak to Toby softly, to walk over there and hold him close.

Toby shrugged, cool for the first time ever.

"Followed you," was all he said.

"I saw you go into the Slipper," said Chris.

"Came right back out," said Toby.

Chris was at a loss. Ronnie was muttering something behind him, but he couldn't have cared less if he tried. For a moment he just stared at Toby, blindsided by this unforeseen display of balls. Then he took back control.

"Get the fuck out of here," he said, making sure to let a note of derisive laughter bleed through. "Let's go, Ronnie."

"The fuck I will!" shouted Toby, grabbing Chris' arm. "What the hell is wrong with you!"

Chris looked at Toby's hand on his arm, and then up at Toby's face. Pain was written on every inch.

"I should ask you that question," he said softly. He let their eyes meet. "You drunk?" he asked, meaning to insult Toby with the question, but it came out concerned instead.

Toby let go of Chris' arm. "Not anymore," he replied, and Chris could see that his hands were shaking slightly. Though whether it was down to nerves, or the beginnings of withdrawal, Chris couldn't say. He just stared at Toby, mind whirling. Toby stared right back.

"Aw, what the fuck," said Ronnie, his voice an irritating buzz at the edges of Chris' attention. "I thought we had shit to do."

"We do," said Chris without looking away from Toby. "Toby here is gonna help."

===

12:46am

Since arriving in Boston Chris had split his time amongst several of South Boston's least reputable boarding houses. He had no real reason for hopping around other than a chronic inability to get comfortable. It was easier to move house than to admit that the irritant might be living in his own skin.

His most recent accommodations were located several blocks down West Broadway, on St Casimir Street. The Church of Our Lady of Częstochowa loomed shadow-black and eerily silent at the intersection of the two streets, attracting and repelling Chris in equal measure. He found it difficult to live near churches, but he figured that avoiding them was probably a sin. Most of the things he found comfortable and easy in life were considered sins.

The church, while small and in definite disrepair, did feature an impressively sized stained glass window on its face. Huge, round, and taking up the whole space under the gable roof, it depicted the Black Madonna of Częstochowa. Her proportions were no more distorted than usual, but the effect of that scarred, mournful face cast in glass was nightmarish. Chris had lived in a Polish Catholic neighborhood as a young child and had grown up afraid of her, already an outcast as a half-Irish Catholic. His inability to hide his unease in the presence of Poland's holiest symbol would have been enough to make him a figure of suspicion in the community. The rumors of his connection to the disappearances of several neighborhood cats only added fuel to the fire.

Chris kept his eyes averted from her face as he, Ronnie, and Toby approached the church. He rapped his knuckles against Toby's arm, indicating with a gesture that they should turn right at the corner. As soon as Toby did however, Chris rounded on Ronnie.

"There's a liquor store two blocks back. It's open til one. Go get some beer."

Ronnie was incredulous. He looked at Chris like he was waiting for the punchline.

"Seriously?"

"You got comprehension problems, Barlog? Two blocks that way. Seventeen St Casimir, second floor, when you get back."

Chris didn't wait for a response. When he turned again he found Toby waiting for him on the corner. Together they walked to number seventeen. The building was a typical South Boston triple-decker, if a particularly shabby example. All three apartments were rented by the room. He used a wedge of wood to prop the front door open for Ronnie before leading Toby up the worn stairs. The door to the apartment was, as usual, unlocked. Though it often stuck in its frame, making it difficult to open anyway. Toby stood behind Chris as he wrestled with the door, and it was only when Chris began to apply his shoulder to it that Toby stepped closer. Both of their shoulders did the trick.

Chris' room was the first door off the main hallway. Chris was regularly glad for this, because it kept his interactions with the other boarders at a minimum. Most were addicts of some kind, a few were simply elderly and broke and alone. None particularly concerned Chris.

As they entered the hallway he suddenly heard the unmistakable sounds of Old Ike, the few-toothed junkie who for some reason thought Chris was a good prospect for scamming money, emerging shamblingly from his room near the kitchen. Chris hurriedly unlocked his own door and shoved Toby inside. Old Ike would probably knock, but Chris was used to ignoring that.

Toby, being soft and green and unsuspecting, was caught off guard by the shove. He ended up sprawled ungracefully, face down, on the bare, dirty wood floor.

"What the hell was that?" he asked, scrambling to get up, turning so that he no longer had his back to Chris. This factored favorably into Chris' assessment of Toby's intelligence.

"Don't worry about it," said Chris imperiously, locking the door behind him. Toby's face twisted, betraying his total inability to obey the order.

Chris wasted no time, grabbing his fraying duffle bag out of the tiny, doorless closet. He moved efficiently around the room, roughly stuffing what few possessions he had in the bag. Toby spent the first few minutes looking out the room's only window, probably looking for a fire escape. He was quickly disappointed though, and afterward took to silently watching Chris pack with an expression that was somehow both sullen and terrified.

"You just gonna stand there?" Chris asked, irritably.

"What do you want me to do?" asked Toby, softly.

Chris didn't answer, because he didn't know. He swept a small pile of change off the top of the room's rickety dresser and into the duffle with more force than was necessary. Several coins missed the bag and skittered across the floor. Toby swallowed audibly.

"Do you have anything to drink here?" Toby asked, after another minute's tense silence. What he meant by 'drink' was obvious.

"Ronnie's getting beer," said Chris. He didn't really want a drink, but he had known Toby would. And he relished the break from Ronnie. 

Toby nodded, seating himself gingerly on the end of the sagging single bed. He gave Chris nearly thirty seconds peace before ruining it.

"Who is Ronnie anyway?" he asked, like he had the right. Chris took a moment to breathe.

"Known him a lot longer than I known you," said Chris, warningly. Toby didn't seem phased by it. His previous nervousness at being locked in a tiny room with Chris had given way to a privileged self-assurance. He sat there on Chris' bed, both like it disgusted him and like he owned it. Chris was starting to see that Toby was both completely reckless and far too smug; a dangerous combination.

"You used to fuck him," said Toby. It wasn't a question.

"Nope," said Chris. He should have said 'mind your fucking business'.

"He wants you to."

"Congratulations, you have eyes," said Chris, zipping up the duffle and tossing it on the floor near the bed.

"You gonna fuck him?"

Chris barely held in a noise of frustration, growling, "Why? You jealous?"

Toby said nothing at first, tracing the outline of a large stain on the blanket with one finger. He didn't look at Chris, and when the reply finally came it was so soft Chris nearly missed it.

"Yeah."

Chris was stunned by the admission, but tried to hide it.

"Don't be. I don't want Ronnie," he said. He should have said 'I don't want you either', but he didn't.

Toby opened his mouth to speak but his words were drowned out by a pounding on the door. The fist on the other side of it was knocking hard enough that there were faint sounds of dry wood cracking with every beat. It was too forceful to be Old Ike, whose knocks were usually accompanied by an odd scrabbling sound, like a cat pawing for his dinner. Chris threw the bolt and yanked the door open.

Ronnie stood on the other side, fist hanging stupidly in the air mid-knock. He threw Chris a distinctly huffy look before entering the room.

"Why'd you lock me outta your room?" He asked Chris, ignoring Toby completely. Chris didn't like his tone.

"Thought you were a junkie," said Chris, ignoring the questions on Ronnie's eyebrows. He grabbed the six-pack of Budweiser out of Ronnie's hands and tossed one to Toby, who popped it immediately and drank deeply. Apparently his expensive taste wasn't enough to make him snobby about alcohol.

"You're not staying, anyway," Chris continued, his eyes on Toby's throat, watching him swallow. "We need a car."

When Ronnie didn't answer right away Chris turned to find him staring with that dumb cow expression.

"You heard me, Ronnie?"

"Yeah, but," Ronnie spluttered. "Why you tellin' me?"

"You got your kit, right?"

"Yeah of course man, but -"

"Go get us a car." Chris turned away from Ronnie as he said this, attempting a firm dismissal.

Ronnie appeared to be speechless for a moment, then he started to puff up like Chris had never seen. He made indignant squawking sounds, eyes wild. He seemed to be struggling to express his fury. Chris wondered if he hadn't pushed the kid too far. It was amusing to see, but he had to stop it. It was too soon. He still needed Ronnie.

Chris grabbed Ronnie's shoulders, rubbing slightly, pulling him around to look into his eyes. 

"Ronnie. Ronnie, I'm sorry," he said with a just a little bit of a laugh, a wistful smile. "I'm sorry. I'm freaked out, man. Just wanna get outta here." Chris took a little step to one side, taking Ronnie with him, trying to block Ronnie's view of Toby, who was staring at them rudely and working on his second beer. "I know it's a lot to ask... you was always better at it than me."

Ronnie smiled sheepishly, buying it completely. He deflated before Chris' eyes.

"Aw," he said, drawing out the syllable a little as he gazed at Chris. "You know I'll always help you." The stars in his eyes made Chris nauseous, but he plastered on a flirtatious smile, letting Ronnie hold eye contact as long as he wanted.

Finally Ronnie pulled away, laughing.

"I ain't even had a beer yet," he said.

"Take it with you," said Chris, tossing him one. It hit Ronnie in the chest, but he managed to catch it before it hit the ground. He looked a little disbelieving again, like it really hurt him every time Chris was mean. Like he really believed it when Chris said he was sorry.

Stupid kid, thought Chris when the door shut behind Ronnie. 

He looked at Toby, who was watching Chris from behind his third can of beer. Chris grabbed one for himself, knowing Toby would just plow through all of them given the chance. It was Toby who broke the silence with more than just the slurping of drinks.

"You manipulate him," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was clear he felt steadied by the beer. He no longer looked remotely scared. He was starting to look downright comfortable, and it made Chris uneasy. He knew it was pointless to deny Toby's assertion, so he didn't.

"You lie to him," Toby continued, starting to sound like he was making a case. Like he was gearing up to try to lawyer Ronnie right out of the picture. Chris wanted to tell Toby that he lied to everyone, that he would always lie to Toby too. But he never showed his hand like that, and he wasn't about to start.

"But you need him," Toby went on, cracking open the last beer with no hesitation. Chris snorted at that, even though it was true. He didn't want it to be.

"But what do you need him for?" Toby asked, pointedly not addressing Chris, keeping it rhetorical. "I know you can steal your own car." He studied Chris with a practiced eye that Chris longed to blacken. Too quickly, a look of understanding flashed across his face. It made Chris' stomach roll sickly.

"He knows something. You don't need him, you just need him not to leave." His expression was like the cat that got the canary as he drained the last beer. Chris' heart started pounding in his head. Feeling trapped, he decided to bluff.

"Nice work, big shot," he said with a sharp smile, leaning back on the bed to settle against the wall. "Any other Junior Detective conclusions you wanna share?" He let his legs sprawl, meaning to invade Toby's space, establish dominance, but the gasp that slipped out of Toby when their bodies touched made Chris' skin tingle. Chris watched, unable to speak as Toby closed his eyes, swallowed, appearing to gather himself.

"You think I don't know a thing or two? About lying? Manipulation?" Toby said, not quite a whisper, but quiet enough to make the words ring in Chris' ears.

"I'm sure you do," said Chris. The silence lengthened as Toby chewed his lip, looking anywhere but at Chris. Chris found he couldn't look anywhere but at Toby.

Chris cleared his throat.

"Earlier..." he started, waiting until Toby looked up at him, "You asked me why."

The blush that stained Toby's cheeks was gratifying. Chris fought the urge to touch, and went on.

"Why what?"

Toby sat up, took a deep breath, ran one hand through the hair his mom probably told him needed a cut. 

"You," Toby started, swallowed, started again, "You got me drunk. Really drunk. And that's one thing, but then you got me home safe even though I couldn't pay for what I drank." He turned to look at Chris again, forcing eye contact. "Why?"

Chris sat up, pushing himself off the bed. He crossed the small room to stand next to the dresser. He kept his back to Toby, letting himself think. In a couple hours Ronnie would return with a car, and they would drive it out of town, leaving Toby behind. Chris' mind swirled with ways to fill those hours. He wanted to touch Toby, to hurt him, break him, fuck him. Hold him. He didn't really want to talk to him. He regretted starting the conversation. And yet once again, when he opened his mouth to lie he found himself revealing the truth instead.

"You don't know the lion's den you walked into," he said, pulling open the top drawer of the dresser and slamming it shut again. He repeated the action, for lack of anything else to fiddle with. "Looking like you do, smellin' like money, not to mention shitfaced. I coulda hung you out to dry any time. Any of those guys coulda. The gin was insurance." He paused, studying wood grain and splinters, trying not to think too hard. "It was funny. You're a fuckin' mess."

Chris slammed the drawer again, this time with so much force it fell off its tracks and sank into the drawer below it. He looked at it for a second, then turned to face Toby, who looked like he was about to speak. As much as Chris didn't want to talk, he wanted to listen even less.

"I overestimated your tolerance," he continued, and of all the insults he'd thrown at Toby so far, however subtle, it was that one that seemed to shame him most. Toby looked at his knees.

"You were going to rob me," said Toby quietly.

"Yeah, at first," Chris shrugged. "But then you let on that you had no money. Couldn't decide what to do with you then. But you were still funny."

Toby seemed as though he were shrinking before Chris' eyes. Normally, Chris would find that kind of weakness amusing, but watching Toby crumble filled with him a sensation he was scared to acknowledge as guilt.

A ringing silence fell. It persisted until Toby kicked savagely at the beer cans around his feet. Most were empty, but one had still contained a few sips of pale beer, now spattered across the dusty floor. Chris barely moved, half-expecting Toby to try to rush him. But Toby just crossed his arms over his chest, sulking. He seemed incapable of any real violence, obvious as it was that he was filled to the brim with the desire to commit it.

"So I was a game to you," Toby snarked with a tilt of his head, "That's fine. You're not the first. But you admit you could have thrown me to the wolves. Instead you took me back to my hotel. That's the one I really want an answer to." Toby looked up and straight at Chris' face, forcing eye contact before Chris had a chance to look away.

"You stopped being funny," said Chris, thinking back to those weird rhymes, back to Toby's prescient portrayal of a drunken prophet. Toby had managed to freak Chris out completely, something few people had ever been capable of. It made Chris feel protective, even as he recoiled from it. Returning him to his hotel was as much about protecting him as it was about protecting Chris, locking Toby away so that Chris didn't have to look at him, and wonder.

"So you're some kind of career criminal," said Toby, a little shakily. "No offense, but I could have guessed that much. But what are you running from?" His hands twitched like they ached to pop the tab on a nonexistent seventh beer. "Why did you let me come here?" 

Two different questions, but Chris sensed that in Toby's mind they were the same. If Chris was in such a rush to flee, why was he bothering with Toby? If Chris' intentions for Toby had always been sinister, why were they together in Chris' room, talking, lopsidedly sharing a six-pack? What had changed?

Chris didn't know the answers any more than Toby did. Chris did know that though they had so far avoided discussing the fuck, the topic was frighteningly inevitable. Chris was desperate to avoid it. He saw the question in Toby's eyes, watched with mounting horror as it slowly made its way to Toby's lips. Chris decided to cut it off at the source.

He crossed the room in three strides and crushed Toby's mouth under his own. The force knocked Toby back on the bed and Chris went with the momentum, straddling Toby's legs. Toby didn't fight the kiss, but Chris took no chances, holding either side of Toby's face, shoving his tongue deep in Toby's mouth. Toby returned the kiss but soon began to claw at the shoulders of Chris' jacket with an urgency that only spurred Chris on. Chris crowded Toby all the more, pressing him into the bed, sinking his fingers into Toby's too-long hair, letting them curl and hold.

Toby started to shake his head against Chris' grip. Chris kept kissing him even as he tried to pull away, but the third time Toby said 'no' against his lips, he found himself uncharacteristically denying his every instinct. He pulled back. 

Chris expected Toby to try to escape the embrace entirely, but he only pushed at Chris' shoulders, trying to flip their positions. He wasn't strong enough to force Chris, but Chris went with it anyway, curious. He watched as Toby sank to his knees on the floor in front of him, palms firm but shy on Chris' knees. He stared, shocked and almost angry as Toby laid gentle fingers on the fly of his jeans, teasing down the zipper with his bottom lip between his teeth. Toby's refusal to be predictable shook Chris at his core. He wanted to punish Toby, and worship him. He wanted to look at him forever, and never again.

"I don't usually... let guys suck me off," he said, breath coming faster than he would have liked, hands bracketing Toby's face, fingers spread along cheeks hot to the touch.

"Oh, yeah? Huh," Toby said, sounding like he was only half-listening, running the tips of his fingers too-gently up and down Chris' hard shaft. He looked up at Chris, his face composed but his eyes somehow laughing, laughing at Chris. Like he was thinking, just because I'm on my knees... I never said I was going to suck you off...

Chris felt a fine tremor pass through him. He wanted Toby, bad. There was no denying it, and never would be, not as long as the mere sight of this man, teasing him and promising him everything at the same time, could make Chris feel so out of control. So much like he would do anything; like he could. Chris swallowed against the anxiety climbing up his throat, pushing his hips up into Toby's roaming hands. He could hardly keep hold of all the threads of his emotions; he felt weird and insensible things, stuff that was impossible to explain. Like how he was pretty sure this was Toby's first time doing this, and yet Chris was the one already feeling desperate, like he couldn't think. Like he was the virgin here.

He looked down at Toby, who took a firmer grip on his dick, jerking it slowly, leaning closer until Chris could feel his hot breath. Chris ached for Toby's lips to make contact, but Toby seemed to be thinking.

"Why not?" Toby asked, laying a soft kiss on the head, charmingly off center and perversely chaste. He placed more kisses up and down the shaft, parting his lips, his tongue a barely-there touch. Chris strained against the softness of Toby's actions, concentrating on soaking in every sensation. He could hardly answer Toby's question.

"Chris, why not?"

"It's 'cause the guy -" he swallowed, making no improvement in the dry huskiness of his voice, "the guy doing the sucking has all the power. You could bite my dick off right now."

Toby smiled at that, like Chris knew he would, though Chris might not have predicted Toby's lips would be so close to his dick that he would feel the smile as much as see it. He also couldn't have known that Toby would choose that moment to suck the head of his dick into his mouth, rolling his tongue around once before setting his teeth gently under the ridge of it, just against the circumcision scar. He flicked his tongue sharply against what it could reach, which seemed to be every inch of the head, his teeth pressing in enough to be felt, just this side of hard enough to hurt. Chris became conscious that he was holding his breath, letting it all out in an undignified huff, followed by a gasp. Toby's eyes laughed at him again. Chris never knew anyone could look so smug with their mouth full of his dick. 

He used his hands on Toby's face to pull him close, trying to get deeper in Toby's mouth. Surprisingly, Toby obliged him, letting Chris so deep that he gagged. Toby pulled back a little, but not completely, and Chris reveled in it, gently running his thumbs along Toby's closed eyes to swipe the tears from his eyelashes. He tipped his head back and let Toby take the lead.

When he came it was like a burst of electricity, his every nerve-ending set alight, the surface of his skin sparking with sex and fear, with life and death. It wasn't an orgasm to bask in, it was one to make him question everything he thought he knew. He looked down at the man between his legs, disbelieving. How could Toby make him feel so much? How could he begin to pick apart the disgust from the arousal, the sex from the fear? Chris had always made a meal of living his life on the knife's edge, cheating God, cheating Heaven and Hell in equal measure. But in Toby's eyes he saw life and death in a whole new way. In Toby's mouth he realized he'd been cheating at a game he never actually learned how to play.

When he shoved Toby's shoulders, pushing him back onto the floor, Chris wasn't entirely sure yet whether his touch would lead Toby to pleasure, or harm. He pulled at Toby's clothes, aimless, frantic, unsure of himself in a way he'd thought he never would be again. When Toby kissed him, Chris couldn't help but make a choice.

===

2:37am

Chris was never one to wallow in the afterglow, but when Toby clutched at his back, not letting him pull away, Chris allowed it. He lowered his body back on top of Toby's, careful not to put too much pressure on anything Toby needed for breathing. He listened to his own hurried heartbeat as Toby took deep, luxuriant breaths underneath him. His own lungs felt weak, crushed by reverse gravity. He pulled away again, successfully this time, rolling onto his back next to Toby. He should have gotten up, fixed his clothes. He shouldn't have been so careless as to let their bodies keep touching, a gentle brush of shoulders and hips.

Chris forced his heart to regulate with slow, careful breaths. His inhalations were wavery at first, but he allowed it, saving his gathering strength for the moment (so soon) when he would pull Toby to his feet, kiss him, and push him out the door. He'd threaten violence if necessary, enact just enough to make Toby believe him. Chris would break some minor bone, a pinky finger or two, and Toby would leave, but he'd never forget Chris. He'd go back to his pampered life and heal, but Chris would be there, a warning written in knitting tissues. Chris could rest easy, knowing he would never see Toby again, knowing Toby would never stop seeing Chris, every time he closed his eyes. It wasn't how Chris usually did things, but it was good enough.

Next to him, Toby sat up. Chris mimicked the movement, grasping for the upper hand. Toby was turned away. Chris stared at the back of Toby's neck and tried to make himself want him to leave.

"You would have hurt me," said Toby. "You still could." 

Chris said nothing. Toby stood quickly, zipping up his pants. Chris sat frozen and disheveled on the floor, staring helplessly back up at Toby.

He turned to look Chris in the eye. "Should I be scared?"

"Yes," said Chris.

He held his breath, poised for a fall. But Toby just nodded, ran one hand through sweaty hair drying into raucous curls, and sat down on Chris' bed. Chris felt pinned to the floor. Toby was so much braver, and more stupid, than Chris had imagined. He was either narcissistic to a staggering degree, or just suicidal. Either way, Chris recognized an opportunity to buy himself some time.

"Nazis," he said, finally pulling himself to his feet. He straightened his clothes, concentrating on keeping his hands steady.

"What?"

"That's who I'm running from. Nazis."

"Still not following you," said Toby, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands free to gesticulate as always. "You mean... White Power types? Skinheads?"

"I mean skinheaded jackbooted heil Hitler fuckin' Nazis. So, yeah. 'White Power' types." He let his voice go sarcastic at the end. How like a lawyer to try to sanitize without thinking. 

"How the - " started Toby, shaking his head incredulously. "How did that happen?"

"Long, long story," said Chris, because it probably would be, if it were true. "But the moral of it is that Papa Nazi hates my guts." Chris was pretty sure Vern Schillinger actually loved his guts, and his ass, and his steady deadly hands, having used all to his own advantage as often as he could. But as a story for Toby it worked quite well.

"So... you're hiding here? But they found you?"

"Bingo," said Chris, leaning on the window and peering out, scanning for any sign of Ronnie. 

"Where are you going to go?"

"What do you care?"

"Maybe I want to come with," said Toby, like he was insulted. Like it should have been obvious. "Chris, I'm a lawyer. I know a lot of people. I can help."

Chris snorted like he didn't see that coming.

"You can't help."

"Won't know until you let me try."

Chris was still debating how much longer to let Toby think he needed convincing when they both startled at a long, loud honk coming from the street below. Chris threw the window open and stuck his head out to see Ronnie hanging out the passenger window of what could only be described as a jalopy. The car's appearance worried Chris less than the idea of whatever was under the hood looking equally dire. He hoped Ronnie had the sense to steal a car that could stand to carry them more than a few miles.

Ronnie leaned on the horn again. 

"Let's fuckin' go!" he shouted, but Chris was already back inside the room, gathering his duffle bag. He left his key on top of the broken dresser and opened the door. Toby was still sitting on the bed.

"You coming?" Chris asked, walking out without waiting for answer, or looking back to see if Toby was following.

=

3:58am

Ronnie had protested vociferously when Toby climbed into the backseat, but Toby refused to get out, and Chris refused to force him. Eventually Ronnie got sick of hearing himself shout and switched to muttering murderously, though he did finally put the car in gear and pull out of St. Casimir and onto West Broadway, turning left toward the on ramp to I-93. Five minutes later they were on the Mass Pike, heading West out of Boston. 

They drove for over an hour in tense silence. Chris was just grateful for the quiet, so he ignored the crackle between Ronnie and Toby, leaning his head on his window, eyes closed. He felt the moment the tension dissipated. The difference was so stark that he looked around for the reason why and immediately saw that Toby had fallen asleep sprawled across the backseat. He was snoring quietly, but steadily, like he'd probably be out for a while.

"You're a fuckin' idiot, you know that?" said Ronnie.

Chris knew it, but he wouldn't tell Ronnie. He hoped Ronnie would drop it, but he hoped without a shred of faith that he actually would. Ronnie didn't disappoint.

"I swear I never met anyone as fuckin' stupid as you," Ronnie ranted. "You think you're untouchable... ain't got a fuckin' clue how much work it is, watchin' your back..." Chris let Ronnie let it all out. He didn't care how much work Ronnie put into trying to hang on to him. If yelling at him made Ronnie feel better, what did Chris care? He looked out the window, thinking of anything but where he was, who he was with.

"What did you tell him?" Ronnie asked, and Chris tensed, tuning back in.

"You don't needa know," Chris said, uncomfortable, dismissive. He shifted in his seat.

"Fuck you!" yelled Ronnie, taking both hands off the wheel to throw them in the air. Chris smacked him across the mouth automatically, whipping his head around to check the backseat. Ronnie grabbed the steering wheel again so hard that the whole car swerved across two lanes of the blessedly empty turnpike. Chris didn't care, he just wanted to watch Toby stretch, try to roll over, and fall back asleep, immune to all forces but the tug of nod. When he was satisfied, he turned back to Ronnie, who had regained control of the car and was glaring at the road ahead with furious intensity. 

"Ronnie," Chris started, voice soft and so reasonable, "You needa shut the fuck up. You're gonna relax, right fuckin' now, and leave the planning to me. I got it all under control."

To Chris' surprise Ronnie smiled at that, shaking his head like he'd never heard something so witty. He had actually started to chuckle by the time he pulled off the turnpike into the rest stop, his grin approaching something almost hysterical as he parked the car next to the McDonalds.

"Chris, man," he said, looking at Chris with pity in his smile. "You got no such thing."

With a grunt of effort he pulled himself out of the car, slamming the door in Chris' disbelieving face. He'd never shown quite so much balls before. Chris took a few seconds to make up his mind, then followed Ronnie toward the golden arches.

He caught up with him just as he was on his way down a narrow, dingy hallway ending in a door to the men's bathroom. He let Ronnie get as far as opening the door before grabbing the back of his neck, throwing him forward against the far wall of the room. He closed the door and locked it while Ronnie was still picking himself up off the sink.

"What the fuck, man?" Ronnie whined as Chris stepped forward, far into Ronnie's personal space.

"Ronnie," Chris breathed, one hand on the back of Ronnie's neck again. He brought the other up, so that he was cupping either side, thumbs brushing the bottoms of Ronnie's ears. He pressed their bodies together, sandwiching Ronnie between the heat of his body and the chill of the painted cinder block wall. "Ronnie. You know I love you, right?"

"I gotta piss," said Ronnie, but his eyes shone, body relaxing into Chris. When their lips met Ronnie sighed, his hands light but buzzing with energy on Chris' shoulders. Chris let himself be kissed for a while. When Ronnie opened his mouth to swipe his tongue along Chris's teeth, Chris pulled back a little. Their mouths were still close enough that their lips brushed together when he spoke.

"Love you, Ronnie," he said.

When Ronnie opened his mouth to return the sentiment, Chris let his hands tighten and twist. He felt the resistance, then the snap, then the steady drain of life leaving, the onset of total stillness. He kissed Ronnie's forehead before letting go. Ronnie slumped to the floor between the toilet and sink. Chris washed his hands, then pissed and washed them again, avoiding the mirror.

He opened the door a sliver, checking the hallway for witnesses. It was empty. He stepped out, shutting the door firmly behind him.

His stomach grumbled, and the whole way back to the car he regretted not stopping for fries.

=

4:26am

"Where'd you go?" Toby asked the moment Chris got back in the car.

Chris didn't answer, just started the car and pulled back onto the Pike. Toby stayed quiet almost long enough for Chris to relax.

"Where's Ronnie?" 

Chris glanced in the rear view mirror, accidentally meeting Toby's eyes. He was sitting up, looking as awake as ever.

"Ronnie's gone," said Chris.

"I can see that."

"Then why bother asking?"

Toby appeared not to have an answer for that one. Or if he had one, he didn't give it.

"You could have at least let me get in the front seat," said Toby.

Chris shrugged. A second later Toby was climbing over the center console, sliding from the back into the front passenger seat with surprising grace. He settled immediately, and it was like he'd always been there. 

They drove on. Chris took exit five toward Chicopee, and had to let Toby pay the toll when his own pockets turned up mostly lint and pennies. The sun started to rise around them, the Pioneer Valley lit up first with subtle dots of pink, then an expanding orange glow, until finally bright beams of yellow stabbed through the spaces between trees. When they crossed the bridge over the Connecticut River Chris kept his eyes on the road, averted from the dazzling spark of morning light on water. He couldn't remove Toby from his periphery, though, Toby who was practically glued to his window, Toby who made no attempt to deny himself the majesty.

Chris felt like there was something torn in half inside him. He'd never really understood what a comfort he usually enjoyed in the ability to make decisions instantly. Never before had he been faced with a choice to which the right answer was not instantly, unavoidably clear. He didn't know how to hesitate. Didn't understand why anyone would.

"Where're we going?" asked Toby, head lolling against glass, voice gone soft like he was getting sleepy again.

Chris took so long to decide how to answer that in the end he just pretended not to have heard.

=

5:27am

Bonnie's house was in the woods, practically, or at least that's how it seemed to Chris as he maneuvered the rickety old car first down a narrow dirt road, then up an almost vertical driveway to park in front of a sprawling but derelict ranch-style house, surrounded on three sides by dense trees. He was relieved to see Bonnie's old station wagon parked near the front door. He jumped out of the car, unsurprised to hear Toby follow him immediately. He picked his way quickly across the scraggly patch of hillside that passed for a front lawn, dodging empty terra cotta planters and cutesy garden statues of animals wearing overalls and pushing wheelbarrows.

He leaned on the buzzer as soon as they reached the door. Toby crowded in next to him, closer than Chris wanted, leaning over him on the tiny stoop to read the name neatly printed in paint marker across the face of the mailbox.

"Bonnie Keller," he read out loud, finally pulling back out of Chris' personal space. "Huh. Is this your mother's house?"

Chris huffed out a little laugh at that. It was true that Bonnie was a little older than him, a little wiser in some ways, but he knew her feelings for him were hardly maternal. His for her weren't exactly befitting a son, either.

"Sister? Cousin?" Toby went on, with the slight impatience of someone who probably considered himself a good guesser.

Chris smiled to himself and rang the bell again, letting Toby stew in it for a second. Only when he heard Bonnie's voice, raised in a tirade of cussing and getting closer, did he open his mouth.

"My ex-wife," he said, just as the door was opened by a very angry woman in a very rumpled skirt suit, her hair still half in curlers.

She got as far as "What the fuck do you -" before recognition stopped her words. She stared slackjawed through the screen door for a moment, then let her head fall back with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeal. She pushed the screen door open and threw herself into Chris' arms. He obliged her with a tight hug and a hard kiss, squeezing her waist, the curve of her hips. She pulled back, staring up at him with shiny eyes and a disbelieving smile. She paid Toby no attention whatsoever. Chris tucked her hair behind her ears, gently trailed his thumb across her cheek. He would love her until the day he died. Hell, he might even marry her again. If he lived long enough. And if she would have him.

Bonnie reached up with her right hand and entwined it with his at the same time she gave him a short, sharp smack with her left.

"Ow!" he said, rubbing his shoulder. "What was that for?"

Bonnie smacked him again.

"Haven't seen you in nearly three years, can't even call, now you show up at ass o'clock when I'm already running late for work?" She turned to Toby with a skeptical eye. "And you brought a friend."

Her tone was superficially friendly, but Chris heard the frost in it, and from the way Toby tensed up it seemed he heard it too. Bonnie was remarkably jealous considering she had never actually denied Chris a single thing. She put up with girlfriends, boytoys, threesomes and moresomes. She never, ever said no, and that alone was boring enough to make Chris stop asking, eventually. He'd never had anyone as accommodating as Bonnie, but it was obvious she was happiest when she thought she had him all to herself. He let her believe it as often as possible, but it was useless to outright lie. He'd also never had anyone as good at spotting his lies as Bonnie was.

"Well, you better come inside," said Bonnie, opening the screen door again. "Both of you."

=

7:01am

Toby demolished three rounds of sausage, eggs, and toast before passing out on Bonnie's overstuffed couch in spite of the multiple mugs of coffee he'd washed it all down with. Chris sat at Bonnie's little round table, sipping his own coffee and trying not to glance too often through the doorway into the living room.

"So what do I owe the pleasure of this intrusion, Chris?" asked Bonnie with a fond smile. She'd taken out the rest of the curlers, leaving her hair a slightly unruly halo of dyed red curls around her face. 

Chris smiled back at her. 

"I can't just wanna see you?" he asked. But Bonnie didn't fall for it any more than Chris had. She shook her head.

"No, you can't."

Chris took a deep breath, looking at the table to avoid her eyes. He ran his finger idly back and forth along a chip in the rim of his mug.

"I'm in trouble," he said.

"That all?" Bonnie snorted. "For a second I thought you were actually about to surprise me."

Chris smiled, a tiny, thin, feeble thing.

"I need help," he said.

Bonnie softened, like he knew she would. She always did, and it made him hate himself a little bit more.

"What do you need?"

"Money," he said with a sniff. "And my bike. And just... promise me..."

"What?" she asked, leaning closer to him, putting one hand, broad but delicate, over his.

"Promise me that if they come for you, you'll stay out of it. You don't know anything. Tell them you haven't seen me. Tell them I left a long time ago."

"That won't be hard," said Bonnie. "You're always leaving."

Chris said nothing. He couldn't deny it, but somehow it pained him to confirm it. He wanted to tell her that he'd never left like he was leaving now. That every time before he'd always had every intention of coming back. And he'd always followed through, eventually. But this time, his intentions were meaningless. The choice might not be his to make. 

"Just keep yourself out of trouble," he said. 

Bonnie sighed, pushing back from the table to gather her purse and keys off the counter. She didn't even dignify Chris' warning with a response. She looked, if anything, insulted by it. Chris knew deep down that he didn't have to worry about her, but he would anyway.

"Your bike's in the shed out back. The shed is for shit, though. Can't guarantee the bike still works."

She worked a key off her keyring and slapped it on the table next to Chris' hand.

"There's cash in my jewelry box. Lock up when you leave."

She kissed his cheek, and left. Chris didn't move at all until he heard the slam of her front door, and the grumble of her old car starting up. Even then he only reached out to slide the key slowly off the table, and hold it tightly in his palm.

=

7:21am

The first thing Chris did when he trusted himself to stand again was check the bike. Bonnie hadn't been lying about the shed. So many of the slats had rotted and fallen away that it was more of a glorified lean-to, heavily reinforced with blue plastic tarps and duct tape. Peering through one of the many gaps he saw that in addition to his bike it held mainly rusting garden tools, empty pots, and sodden, leaking, busted-open bags of potting soil. He wondered if his bike wouldn't have fared better spending the winter actually outside.

He huffed out a breath and leaned one arm against the shed, careful but wanting to just knock the damn thing over. He didn't want to get the bike out and look at it, afraid that it would need more work than he had the tools or time to give it. He felt trapped. By now someone had to have found Ronnie, and once they figured out who he was the feds would get involved, and they'd see Chris' handiwork all over that one. His ex-wife's house less than fifty miles away was not exactly the hardest place to find him.

He kicked out in frustration, then immediately had to steady the shed against total collapse. He breathed in deeply. He could feel his blood pressure rising, hear his own pulse pounding in his ears. The trees around him were rustling in the wind, filled with chirping birds and dripping with last night's rain. The wetness made the smells all the sharper, the grass and the dirt and the decaying shed. He was a dead man walking, yet he had never felt such a sharp thrill of life under his skin. Well, rarely, anyway, and always in the middle of some ill-advised scheme, or just drunk and reckless, or with his hands wrapped around a gasping throat. Never in the middle of a semi-rural garden on top of a hill, surrounded by trees, pant legs wet from morning dew.

Chris flexed his fingers, feeling the momentum build. He didn't know how to feel this way. He didn't know how to feel this way without -

He just didn't. He couldn't. He had to. But he wouldn't. 

Or maybe he just wouldn't regret it. 

Chris jogged downhill, back toward the house.

It would be easy. He'd be doing Toby a favor, letting him off the hook. Letting him off all those many hooks that so obviously tore at him. It would be so easy. He'd bury his body in the woods out back, then he'd say fuck the bike, jump back in the car and drive until they caught up with him. He knew they would, and while he could accept that, he couldn't just wait for them to come get him. He'd make them work for it.

He burst into the house through the back door, making more than enough noise to wake Toby up, but unable to stop himself. But when he made it into the living room Toby was somehow still asleep, curled up awkwardly on a couch far too short for him. He'd kicked his shoes off, bare feet dangling over the arm rest. Chris just stared at those feet, wondering what kind of lawyer wore sneakers without socks. Wondering what kind of man, for that matter, left everything behind to run off with a stranger. Toby had nothing but whatever was in his pockets. Chris thought of his hotel room sitting empty, his suitcase full of expensive clothes, all those other lawyers who would miss him, maybe even enough to look for him.

But Toby was smart. Toby would have thought of all that. He came anyway. He got into a car with Chris and drove away, not knowing where they were going. Not knowing what Chris would do to him, what Chris inevitably did to everyone who made the mistake of loving him, eventually. And not always on purpose.

Chris was poison, and he must have smelled like it, surely. Surely someone like Toby could smell it, smell him from a mile away?

Chris felt himself panicking, just a little. His heart was still beating so fast, so present in all of his pulse points, demanding in his skin. He worked so hard to stay calm. He was usually so good at staying calm. He was so fucking far from calm.

He backed away from Toby, dropping heavily into a sagging armchair.

He had to assume that Toby was desperate. That he had as little to lose as Chris. There was no other possible explanation. Toby wore a wedding ring. Where was his pretty wife, where were the pretty children they probably had? Why did he prefer Chris' company to theirs?

Maybe it wasn't about what Toby wanted at all. Did he, like Chris, have an unappetizing and constantly dwindling set of options to choose from? Maybe he chose the booze first. Maybe he was alone, like Chris. Maybe he had nothing to lose. And if he had nothing to lose, then...

He might actually stay. Obviously not forever (Chris had grown out of wishing on stars earlier than most) but maybe for a little while. Maybe even long enough that when he finally left, Chris would want him to. 

The booze was the key. Not even Chris was arrogant enough to think he could get in between lover and beloved. Didn't always stop him from trying, but this time he wouldn't. This time he'd fan the flames.

He shot off the armchair and back into the kitchen. He made a racket clattering around in cupboards, so much so that when he returned to the living room with half a bottle of Tia Maria, Toby was awake, but just barely, looking at him with half-open eyes.

"Chris?" he asked, voice rough with sleep, and warm with something terrifyingly like trust.

Chris should have hurt him. He should have given him a black eye and told him to run, to get the fuck out if he valued his life. He didn't.

He put the bottle on the floor next to the couch, well within Toby's reach, and said, "Go back to sleep. We'll be riding all night."

=

9:08am

Chris drove five miles back east before he found the kind of thing he was looking for, in the town of Ludlow. Our Lady of Fatima Church had a large, crowded parking lot to its right, surrounded on the other two sides by a hacienda style rectory. It was obviously a busy parish and the lot probably saw constant, shifting traffic. The car would probably remain unnoticed for a few days at least.

Chris pulled in to a spot near the street, hoping the plan could coast for a while on the assumption that he was an inconsiderate worker from some local establishment, parking for free in the church lot. He turned off the car and watched the people still arriving, late for the nine o'clock mass. There was one large family, a mother and father with at least four, maybe five children (they were too far away, and running around too much for Chris to count), and even a grandmother, slowly ascending the church's stone steps with her walker, accounting for the family's delay.  

Chris thought about joining them. He could walk through those heavy doors, dip his dirty fingers in the font, sprinkle himself with undeserved absolution. He could sit in a pew at the back and pretend to be lost in the way that wants to be found. He could pretend to belong.

He checked the car's cup holders for loose change before getting out, slamming the door behind him. He took a left down the street, heading toward Ludlow's excuse for a main street. He used some of Bonnie's cash to get a ride from a bored-looking cabbie, and used even more of it to give him a reason to keep his mouth shut when the cops eventually started shopping Chris' description around. He spent the ride first gazing longingly at a succession of portuguese restaurants, and then wondering what kind of thing Bonnie kept in her fridge these days. 

=

2:37pm

By the time Toby woke up, Chris had already been working on the bike for hours. The damage was not as bad as he had expected, and most of what really needed doing was basic tuneup stuff. He was nearly done when Toby appeared in the back door, looking ruffled but rested as he peered out into the back yard.

When he opened the door and stepped out, Chris was gratified to see him holding a mug nearly full to the brim with brown syrupy liquor and ice. The smell of coffee and vanilla preceded him as he approached.

Chris wanted to be the first to speak.

"Hey," he said, wiping his grimy hands with a rag.

"Hey," said Toby, sipping his Tia Maria with a slight smile. The sun was still high in the sky, and the way the light caught on Toby's hair made Chris feel sick. Toby's cheeks and chin were covered in three days of stubble, the point at which things start to edge into beard territory. Chris wondered when was the last time Toby had gone so long without shaving.

They knew almost nothing about each other. Chris couldn't even bring himself to say Toby's name until he turned up at Broadway, looking every bit his own avenging angel, or maybe just a slightly wilder version of his usual self. 'Cause Chris didn't really know Toby's usual self, or how wild he might be. It wasn't possible to learn those things in a few days. Chris wondered why it felt like he had learned them. He looked at Toby's stubble and imagined a different kind of Toby, one who could fit into Chris' world. Toby in a leather jacket, Toby in dirty jeans, Toby with sideburns. Toby straddling his own bike.

It should have felt fantastical, ridiculous, but the thought only made Chris look closer, and ask himself whether that Toby might actually be in there, whether he'd been there all along. Whether he might simply have been fortunate enough to have been born in the wrong place. The wrong life.

These last thoughts did make Chris feel ridiculous, because they added up to something embarrassingly close to destiny. Or even just desperation. Like Chris' mind was willing to twist Toby into any shape necessary to keep them together. There in Bonnie's garden they made a picture so achingly domestic Chris could almost forget that he was fixing their getaway ride, that Toby had demons in that coffee mug. He could almost forget the gulf between his thoughts and what was real.

Toby wrenched him back into the moment when he spoke.

"Tell me more about these nazis," he said. His whole aspect had changed while Chris wasn't looking. He was clear-eyed and serious, still holding his mug, but lower, more like a lawyer than a lover. He wanted to help Chris. Chris shouldn't have let his stomach flip at that, the idea that he had someone like Toby in his corner. He had to remember it wasn't real. He wasn't running from nazis. He was running from something much worse, something Toby would never want to save him from. He ran from a monster he had created, something huge and unstable, sedimentary, congealed from layers of bad intentions, bad choices, bad manners. It was as dead as he was, as rotten, and Agent Taylor was only a symbol of it. That man was only a harbinger of the real darkness that was chasing Chris. The real force that would punish him, and make him pay.

Chris knew he could never win the game, but that didn't mean he couldn't dance a little, drag it out. He could run, and run until he fell, and go down knowing that it took it as far as it could go. He opened his mouth and did his best to lie convincingly.

"Never liked 'em," he said, to start. That part was easy; it wasn't a lie. "Well, guess I didn't think about 'em much until I met some. But ever since then, they been pretty... low on my dance card."

"Where did you meet them?"

"Lardner," he said, not looking at Toby, cleaning up his tools, trying to drop the word casually, like it wasn't a bomb.

But Toby just nodded, like he'd expected something like it. He waited, as though for more, but Chris let the silence grow so long that he spoke again.

"Chris. You have to tell me the whole story."

Chris was glad to be facing away from Toby. He couldn't control the convulsions of his face at that. Chris would probably die first. He'd die, trying not to tell. He took a deep breath.

"I was seventeen. Tried as an adult. They put me in a cell with a guy called Schillinger. Vern Schillinger. He taught me how to protect myself."

"He took care of you?" Toby asked, with some surprise.

"Depends what you mean by that. He stopped other guys from fucking with me. Sometimes... literally. But only 'cause he was a jealous fucker. Not 'cause he thought I deserved better, or anything."

He felt the look of pity of Toby's face. He stayed facing away, so he wouldn't have to see it.

"Then how did he teach you -?"

"Never known anyone like Vern. Never met anyone so smart, or so sick. I survived five years with him. No reason to be scared of anyone, after that."

"Except him," said Toby. "You're still scared of him."

Chris schooled his face into sincerity, and turned around.

"Yeah."

Toby looked galvanized, determined. He looked convinced. Chris seized his chance.

"He just got out," he said, straddling his bike, testing the ignition. "And he wants words with me. Ain't seen him in more than ten years, and he wants to fuckin' talk to me. I never wanna see that motherfucker again. Thing is, he could be on his way here. He won't take no for an answer. I gotta go." The engine roared to life between his thighs, and he glanced at Toby, taking another chance. "We gotta go."

Toby looked long and hard, not at Chris, but at the bike. Then he drained his mug, setting it on Bonnie's rusted, three-legged wrought iron garden table.

"Yeah," he said, looking up at Chris' face. "Okay."

=

6:56pm

They drove for hours, due north, stopping briefly for gas a couple of times, and to let Toby shake out his legs, unused to relentless vibrations of the bike's engine. There was only one helmet, and Toby wore it. Chris decided to go without as soon as he found out that Toby had never ridden a motorcycle before.

They stopped for the third time in Newport, Vermont, twenty minutes from the Canadian border. They'd been leaning into a curve skirting the shore of Lake Memphremagog, and Chris had been trying not to look at the lake, it's vast stillness extending into Quebec, into Chris' forthcoming sigh of relief. He'd been concentrating so hard he almost didn't hear Toby shouting to be heard over the roar of the wind, asking him to stop, Chris, let's stop.

The sun was just beginning to set as Chris pulled the bike into the huge parking lot of a crowded sailboating pier. There was a lakeside bar and restaurant on one end, and Chris parked as far from it as he could. He flipped the kickstand and dismounted, stretching his legs. Toby stayed suspiciously silent. After a minute Chris looked around for him, finding him at the foot of the pier. It jutted out into the lake, hard to tell how far, and all Chris knew was he didn't want Toby to walk down it. Toby wasn't, but he was standing there, looking out at the water, like he might.

"Toby," said Chris.

"Canada, huh?" said Toby.

Chris swallowed, reaching out, too far away to touch. Toby didn't turn around.

"Yeah," said Chris, just barely. He watched as Toby's shoulders sank and rose, an odd trembling, and he was next to Toby before he could stop himself. When he got there he realized Toby was laughing, quietly, private and derisive. He turned suddenly and grabbed Chris, tugging him close. Chris went with it, breathing air across Toby's ear, staring at the lake over Toby's shoulder and wondering what the fuck to do next. 

"Let's get a drink," Toby whispered, inclining his head toward the bar, which was starting emanate a glow from its wide picture windows as the night fell. "Let's spend the night."

Chris let Toby kiss his neck, pretending not to hear the cold shiver in Toby's voice.

=

9:14pm

Chris knew that Toby didn't really mean one drink, but he was slightly startled nonetheless by the actual number of drinks Toby was capable of putting away. He was also becoming concerned by Toby's increasing silence, the way each successive drink seemed not to make him drunker, just harder, more solid. More impenetrable. Toby just drank, watched the hockey game playing above the bar, and slowly stopped talking to Chris, closing off his body language. When it had been fifteen minutes since he'd even looked at Chris, Chris started to get impatient.

Chris had been matching Toby almost drink for drink, but his were beer instead of liquor. Still, he was starting to reach his capacity, the point at which he might tip over into drunk at the next sip, and that couldn't happen. They had to get back on the bike. They had to keep going. Toby wanted to spend the night, but Chris only wanted to taste relief. And just crossing the border wasn't enough. Chris wanted to keep going, to ride until north became south on the other side of the world. His mind conjured images without his permission, of Toby in a Gore-Tex parka, his nose red from the cold and not from gin.

Toby had to come with him. He had to. Chris couldn't let him go. He already knew too much, Chris had pulled him so deep, without his permission. So he had to stay, because he couldn't go, and if he tried, Chris would have to stop him. But he didn't think he could do that, didn't want to. He wanted Toby to want to stay.

Chris looked over at Toby, his profile sharp in the garish light and shadow of a bar filled with neon beer signs and peeling laminate. His posture gave no outward sign that he even knew Chris, turned toward the tv and hunched over his drink. They might have been strangers, forced onto neighboring stools by the game night crowd.

"Fuck," Chris muttered under his breath, wiping exhaustion from the corners of his mouth. "Fuck."

He drained his beer and plunked the bottle down, backing off of his barstool, ambling sideways toward the door. He kept his eyes on Toby until the last second, but Toby never looked around. It wasn't until he bumped into a burly local, and had to make placating hand gestures and mumbled apologies, that he really looked where he was going.

The bar had side door, leading to a long, skinny deck along the side of the building, overlooking the water, the pier, and the parking lot. Chris pushed the door open just slightly, wanting fresh air, but not wanting any small talk with whoever else might be out there. He held the door ajar and leaned out, scanning left and right. There were no other patrons on the deck, but there were flashing lights a way in the distance, far across the parking lot. Chris squinted, heart starting to pound. He could make out two cop cars, one state and one local. The officers got out of their cars. They were looking... at his bike.

Chris slammed the door. It didn't actually matter why they were looking. Inevitably they would run his plates, and yeah, it was all in Bonnie's name, but that wasn't much better than his own. If they weren't on to him yet, they would be, and soon.

"Toby," he said, near Toby's ear, trying for casual but achieving only breathless. "Toby, we gotta go."

Toby didn't look at him, but he did snort lightly, shrug, sip his vodka.

"Toby," Chris hissed, cleaning closer, his palm on the bar, crowding Toby in. "They're here."

That did get Toby's attention, and he turned to Chris with obvious alarm. Their faces were so close Toby had to crane his neck back to focus.

"Schillinger's people?" he whispered. Chris fought down the bile, unable to fight a grimace.

"No," he ground out, backed into a corner. "The cops."

The look on Toby's face was furious, but not remotely surprised, the corners of that pouting mouth turned down like Chris hadn't yet seen. He looked at Chris, vibrating slightly, but deadly silent. Chris felt his insides tearing apart. He had to go. Toby had to come with him. 

After a moment that felt like years to Chris, Toby turned away, took his hand off his drink, pushed it away with the tips of his fingers.

"Well," he said, quiet, tired, "we gotta go."

They slipped out the front door, Chris risking a glance across the parking lot. The cops were still there, but they seemed to be milling around casually, not looking like they were yet involved in an interstate manhunt. Chris pulled Toby around the other side of the building, and they made their way down the street, quickly but not so much as to draw attention.

=

11:25pm

They walked four miles down East Main Street, away from the lake, into the town of Derby Center. There Route 95 met up with I-91, and as they approached the juncture Chris was relieved to see a Super 8 Motel. Chris felt awkward as they approached the office, but he didn't even have to ask. As soon as they reached the door Toby went in alone and booked a room in his own name, paying with cash. He emerged minutes later with a key, and didn't look at Chris, just walked past him in the direction of door number seven.

Chris was unsurprised to find that Toby had booked one of the larger rooms offered, the kind with a king bed and a minibar. He was equally unsurprised that the minibar was open within seconds of their entering the room. Chris watched Toby down two nips of vodka, then turned to make sure the curtains were tightly shut. He was still tugging them when Toby spoke.

"You lied to me."

Chris leaned his face against the fabric, inhaling the smell of polyester and dust.

"Yeah," he said, muffled.

Toby laughed, but not like it was funny. Chris turned around to watch him.

"I should have known," he said, pulling all the little bottles out of the minibar and scattering them across the table. "I mean, I did know." He slammed the door shut so hard it sent the whole minibar askew. "I figured it out."

He unscrewed the cap from a nip of rum. Chris noted that his hands were shaking.

"I mean, really," Toby continued, swigging rum, "I knew halfway through Vermont. We were headed for Canada. Who goes to Canada on the run from nazis?" He opened another bottle. "Who runs from nazis? Not guys like you."

He turned to Chris then, waving the tiny bottle, his words starting to slur.

"You probably are one," he accused, squinting shrewdly at Chris. "Yeah, I bet you are. That's how you thought of it. That dumb fuckin' story. You were some guy's bitch in prison, and now he's after you."

Toby snorted wetly, dropping heavily onto the bed. He reached out to sweep the bottles closer to the edge of the table, so he could reach. 

"So you're really on the run from the cops, huh? What'd you do? Must've been bad, if you're trying to leave the country. So what was it, huh?"

Chris just looked at him, wondering if surrender, prison, and the needle might be less painful than this. Toby went on with his taunts.

"Didja kill someone? You and your nazi friends kill some black guys? Some jews? What about gay guys?" Toby let out a loud, barking laugh. "Oh wait, you are one of those! Do they know? Your nazi friends? Is that why they're after you? 'Cause you're a a gay nazi?"

"I'm not gay," said Chris slowly, through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I see," said Toby, drawing out the syllable sarcastically. "But you are a nazi."

Chris forced his fists to unclench.

"I'm not a nazi."

"Oh, okay," said Toby, flippantly. He opened another bottle, sipped from it, looking at Chris appraisingly. "Are you sure?"

Chris let out a roar of frustration. It was all he could do not to throttle Toby.

"I am not a fucking nazi!"

"You're not anything, Chris!" Toby shouted, his voice hoarse with drinking. He threw the half full nip in his hand at Chris' head, grabbed a couple unopened ones and threw those too. He stood up, wrenching the sheets off the bed, the pillows, throwing them as well. He overturned the mattress, made it a barrier between himself and Chris, then slumped behind it with what was left of the minibar contents.

"Toby, what the fuck are you doing?" Chris asked, trying to keep his voice down. They didn't need the management to come knocking. 

"Yesterday upon the stair!" screamed Toby, hysterical. "I met a man who wasn't there!"

"What the fuck, Toby," Chris said, trying to move the mattress.

"HE WASN'T THERE AGAIN TODAY!" Toby went on, pulling the mattress down completely on top of himself, smothering his own voice under it. "Oh how I wish he'd go away!"

"Toby, please -"

"GO AWAY! GO AWAY! GO AWAY!"

Chris had been on top of the mattress, putting pressure on Toby's form through it, but he pulled away and Toby stopped screaming. Chris backed up. The mattress was rising and falling softly, like Toby was panting for breath underneath it. Chris couldn't take anymore. He fumbled for the doorknob and let himself out.

=

MONDAY

5:14am

Chris spent the night wandering Derby Center, staying in the shadows, just in case, but seeing no sign of any unusually frantic police activity. He needed a vehicle, but he had no money, and no gun to help him appropriate one. After wandering in circles several times around the whole town, he found himself back at the Super 8.

He let himself into the room, and was shocked to see that not only was Toby inside it, but he had cleaned up all the mess. The bed was not exactly remade, but the mattress and bedclothes were mostly back in place. The empty bottles had been collected and lined up neatly on the table. Toby was leaning against the headboard, flicking through channels of the tv.

"You're still here," Chris blurted.

"So are you," said Toby.

"I thought you woulda left," said Chris.

Toby looked at him then, and Chris could see there was still a fire of anger burning behind his eyes.

"You realize I can't, don't you?" he asked, dropping the remote control and sitting up. "You trapped me. You got me involved in something I still don't understand. I can't just leave."

Toby's face was tight, drawn and unhappy, and Chris had a lot of practice hating himself, but he'd still never felt quite so low before. So unworthy. He had trapped Toby, and himself too, but he was going down. Could he let Toby go downwith him? Would it be worth it?

"You should," he said, stalking closer, grabbing Toby's arm roughly. "You should leave. You have to get away from me."

"I can't," said Toby, shrugging out of Chris' grip. "I'm an accessory. I'm your accessory now."

Chris growled in frustration. Fury made him honest.

"Toby, I was gonna kill you!"

Toby proved he was far crazier than Chris ever could have imagined by not looking even slightly shocked or put off by this news. He just sat there, as still and silent as if Chris had never spoken. The moment lengthened until Chris might have repeated himself if not for the fact that he couldn't bring himself to say those words more than once. Then he realized that Toby was smiling. More than that, Toby was laughing, if silently, his shoulders starting to shake. He began to make a hiccuping sound, and once that started it wasn't long before he was full-on belly laughing, rolling slightly on the unmade bed. Chris hadn't exactly been looking forward to more hysterics, but at least a freakout would have made sense.

"I'm fuckin' serious, ya fuckin' fuck!" Chris said, his voice rising as each word made Toby laugh harder. Chris wanted to hit Toby, hurt him, make him shut the fuck up. He felt the rage rising inside him, coiling in his limbs, lighting up his muscles with an electric tension that begged for release. Chris has always been secretly scared of his own anger, bewildered by his inability to control it, but this was something new. Because even though he felt the desire to pop the giggling lunatic in the jaw in every fiber of his body, he was struck with horror at the realization that he didn't actually want to. That if he did, he would regret it instantly. Chris had killed men for no worse crimes than letting him get close enough to do so, and yet the idea of harming a single hair on Toby's head made sickness rise in Chris' throat.

"Fuck!" he bellowed, whirling around and punching a nice deep crater in the wall. Plaster dust drifted to the carpet as Chris took a deep breath, counted to ten. Toby had stopped laughing. Chris didn't turn around to face him.

"Toby, I'm serious," Chris whispered to the water-stained wallpaper.

"I know," Toby said, and Chris could tell by his voice that he really did. He swallowed, still unable to look at Toby.

"Then... why?" he asked, his voice a dry crackle.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

Chris closed his eyes, swallowed again. He probably did owe Toby an explanation, as much as he'd ever owed anyone. Except he never thought he'd do this. Never thought he'd have to figure out where to start.

Then again, fuck it. Toby was gonna leave as soon as he came to his senses, for sure. Chris would let him go. Chris might even miss him, and he'd made a lifetime habit of never missing anybody. He turned around, sliding down the wall to sit against the baseboard. He stared at his knees so he wouldn't have to know the look on Toby's face.

"Why was I gonna? Or why didn't I?"

"Take your pick."

Chris hung his head until it almost touched his knees. He deserved this. It was torture, and he deserved it. It was every comeuppance he'd ever though he wouldn't get, every punishment he'd ever outrun catching up to bite him in the ass. He opened his mouth, hoping the words would just fall out, when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Toby leapt up, peering through the peephole. Then he turned back to Chris, waving his arm frantically, indicating the bathroom. Chris didn't need to be told twice. He jumped up and hid himself in the shower, leaving the bathroom door ajar so he could hear.

"Morning, officers," Toby said, faking a yawn. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry to bother you so early, sir," said an unseen cop, "but we have reason to believe there's a fugitive in this area. Have you seen this man?"

Silence as Toby pretended to consider.

"No, I don't think so," he said slowly, convincingly.

"Well, thanks for your time," said the officer.

"No problem at all," said Toby pleasantly, a smile in his voice. "Have a good day."

The door shut. Chris leaned against the shower tiles and willed down the pounding of his heart. Seconds later Toby was in the bathroom with him.

"Chris," he said, from the other side of the curtain.

"Yeah?" said Chris.

"I'll buy a car."

"What?" said Chris, ripping the curtain back. Toby stood on the other side, quiet and still, nothing at all like he had an insane death wish.

"I'll buy a car," he repeated. "There's a used lot on the other side of Route 105. I asked at the desk before you got back."

Chris couldn't speak. 

"The cops have a picture of you. A pretty good one. They'll have it at the border, I'm sure. You'll have to hide."

Toby had turned to the sink and was running water over the complimentary razor, soaping his stubble with the other hand. 

"I need a new shirt," he went on. "I don't think they know anyone's with you, yet. I can cross no problem as long as they don't know you're with me." He tapped the razor against the edge of the sink, looking at Chris for a reaction.

Chris swallowed around the lump blocking his throat, trying to speak.

"You sure?" he rasped, finally.

"No," said Toby, wiping excess suds off his face. "But I don't really have a choice."

He put the towel down, stepped close enough that Chris' nostrils filled with the smell of soap. He met Toby's eyes and didn't look away.

"You don't have a choice, either," said Toby. Chris knew that, but it mattered less. He hadn't had a choice in so long it hardly seemed worth mentioning.

It would never work. They'd get stopped at the border, the car would be searched. They'd be tried, convicted, Chris would die for his crimes while Toby would just rot. But they had no choice.

"Okay, said Chris.

"Okay?" Toby asked, the tiniest smile playing around his lips.

"Yeah, okay," said Chris, like he was agreeing to a game of cards. Maybe he was. He smiled back. They looked at each other so long they almost didn't hear the distant sirens, the beginning of the hunt in earnest.

Toby came around first, grabbing Chris' hand, pulling him toward the door. Chris could only follow. The end might come at any minute, but he'd follow Toby all the way there, and back, if he could. 

The thought made it difficult to get the smile off his face.

END

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