Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The late October breeze carries along with it the clamor of awaiting press and the damp scent characteristic of mid-autumn. Washington D.C. is beautiful this time of year, framing the towering Capitol Building in rich shades of orange and brown, the twisting, leafless branches of cherry trees slicing through the pale gray of the overcast sky. The bored murmur of a small crowd of reporters and cameramen swells to an enthusiastic ruckus as soon as they catch a glimpse of the middle-aged man emerging from the Capitol doors, flanked by three security guards. The group flocks like a unanimous mass toward him, extending variously labeled microphones and hoisting cameras up onto shoulders. The whirl and click of shutters mark every countless picture taken within the first few seconds of the man’s awaited appearance.

“Senator Bourbaki, how does it feel to have passed your proposed bill after four years?”

The man’s downcast eyes rise to meet the gaze of the young reporter, an effortless, poised smile settling over his features. 

“Fantastic, truly. I’m beyond proud to begin working to dismantle the parasite that is organized crime in this country. It’s long overdue, but I’m ready to get to work.”

The clamor bubbles up again, the crowd following him as the Senator is led down the path set in the center of a sprawling, neatly-trimmed area of grass, where at the very end sits awaiting a sleek black car parked by the sidewalk. Questions shoot out from every direction; all flawlessly caught and landed by Bourbaki’s skillful tongue and sharp mind. 

“Senator, how are you feeling with Senate elections only a week away?”

“Oh, I’m not too concerned. However the results come in, I will be satisfied with all that’s been achieved during my term.”

The reporter smiles at that—she’s older than most here, seasoned and long-standing in her line of work—a staunch Democrat, of this Bourbaki is aware, but she nonetheless carries the utmost respect for him every time they cross paths. “Do you think luck will be on your side, Senator?”

“There is no luck in democracy. I trust the American people to make the decision they feel is the right one.”

As soon as the following wave of unintelligible questions flood in, Bourbaki’s gaze drifts; his attention catching on a mop of unruly hair crammed in between the bodies. A boy. 

A boy with his hand halfway down the pocket of a preoccupied cameraman.

“Hello, there,” he says, and strangely, his careful voice slices straight through the hubbub—reaches the boy as if the two words had been spoken directly in his ear. He freezes, owlish brown eyes rising warily to the Senator. In one swift motion, his hand retreats, and takes cover behind his back. Bourbaki smiles, then kneels down to reduce his towering height over the boy. Beckons the child nearer with the wave of a welcoming hand. At this peculiar action, the questions hurled in his direction stall momentarily, countless gazes diverting to follow the direction of Bourbaki’s. The cameras, however, remain trained on the interaction, ever greedy for headline-worthy material.

“What’s your name?” Bourbaki asks, once the boy has relented and taken a few frightened steps closer. He shrinks into himself, hands obscured behind his back. He ducks his head timidly. His reply comes in the form of a high-pitched mumble.

“Tyler…”

“Are you lost, Tyler?”

Tyler draws one hand up—still keeping the swiped wallet out of the Senator’s view with the other—to tug restlessly on a spiky lock of hair standing straight up off his head. He meets Bourbaki’s eyes for only a brief moment, then shakes his head. Bourbaki barks out a hearty laugh. Then, after another moment of inspecting the boy, hums thoughtfully.

“Here…” 

His own hand disappears into his wool coat, where it emerges after a second bearing a bright red, raspberry flavored lollipop. He holds it out in proposition. “How about we trade, hm?”

Tyler’s eyes lock on the sweet, fingers clumsily twisting and tugging at his hair, before he takes another minute step forward. He accepts the lollipop wordlessly, then—though not without a nervous glance at the onlookers and filming cameras—returns the wallet.

“A pleasure doing business with you,” Bourbaki jokes, playfully shaking Tyler’s hand as soon as he takes the leather item; the action successfully garners a tiny, bashful smile out of the boy. Bourbaki searches among the affectionate, cooing faces for the owner. The man in question sputters and pats frantically at his pockets when his wallet is returned to him.

Meanwhile, Bourbaki turns back to Tyler, who has busied himself by attempting to peel the wrapper off the hard, sticky candy. “Do you know where you live?” Tyler looks back up at him once accomplished his task, tossing the plastic over his shoulder as he shuffles forward and murmurs a very quiet answer—one meant only for Bourbaki’s ears.

The others crowd in to listen, but the two pay them no mind. Bourbaki sighs, tilting his head in silent contemplation, before rising back to his feet. He extends his hand, palm facing skyward. Tyler peers up at him with wide, attentive eyes—all sheepish hesitance from before vanished.

“Come along, little one. Let’s get you out of the cold.”

Chapter Text

“Yet another series of arrests have taken place early this morning in uptown Chicago, taking into custody four of whom CPD believe to be key collaborators in the Vialist crime family’s most recent endeavors in illegal gambling rings. With the last five arrested suspects all having been killed while awaiting their trial, CPD has tightened their security measures to ensure the safety of these prisoners…”

The incessant, unyielding bouncing of Mark’s heel on the glossy hardwood, along with the monotone news anchor droning on from the old TV several yards away are, for the moment, the only sounds that occupy the corridor where the two men sit. Josh’s back twinges with a familiar stinging bite against the stiff chair, though he pays it no mind. Mark hasn’t spoken a word since they were summoned to the cramped hall outside of Bourbaki’s office, but the restlessness of his leg and twitching hands say enough of his current anxiety. 

Josh’s stomach rumbles lowly, and although this portion of the house is deliberately windowless, he knows the sun is surely on the tail end of its descent by now; he wonders if the leftovers in his fridge will be enough to sate his hunger. He’s been ordering out too much, he really ought to pull back on the spending. 

If only Bourbaki would drop the theatrics and just call them in already—with the meager earnings Josh receives with every job, he really shouldn’t have to put up with sitting out here for an hour on an empty stomach and bored out of his mind just to let an overpowered man-child be dramatic.

Mark’s other leg begins bouncing erratically alongside the first, and Josh clicks his tongue, irked.

“Calm down , man,” he snaps, shooting a shallow glare over at the other, whose legs come to a sudden halt. Mark’s head swivels to face him, face twisted with controlled outrage.

“Calm down?” He whisper-shouts, gaze snapping for a beat or two toward the office door across from them; still shut and blinded. “You’re insane. You’re crazy.”

Josh lets his head fall back until it thumps against the wall. “Well, you’re pissing me off. So relax.”

“He’s gonna kill us.”

“He is not going to kill us.”

“You don’t know that,” Mark presses, hunching into himself so his elbows sit perched on each wooden armrest. “He could be in a bad mood today, for all we know. Could very well decide he’s had enough of us fucking up his jobs.”

“ Job . Singular. He won’t kill us for one bad job, Mark. Jesus.”

“What about last year?”

Josh’s molars grind, flint striking underneath his skin as soon as the sharp-edged words are uttered. He inhales curtly through his nose, and his bladed retort is promptly interrupted by the twisting doorknob down the hall. With synchronous speed, their heads snap to attention, watching as Keons emerges, adjusting his cuffs. As much disdain as Josh may have for Bourbaki himself, his consigliere is, surprisingly, a relatively decent guy. Not that he’s ever had an actual conversation with the man, but from what he’s both seen and heard from others who have, Keons seems astoundingly more grounded and respectable than the man he works for.

Keon’s eyes fall to him, hardly acknowledging Mark’s rattled presence at all.

“Nico would like to speak with you privately, Mr. Dun.”

A puzzled frown tugs at Josh’s brow, shooting Mark a brief glance, who sags with what appears to be relief. The asshole.

He exhales dryly, and gets to his feet. “ Mr. Dun ,” he parrots under his breath as he makes his way toward the older man. That’s a first. Keons steps aside to allow him entry, and as soon as Josh is beyond the threshold, the door shuts quietly behind him.

He allows himself a curious, albeit concise examination of Bourbaki’s office, and is remarkably unsurprised at the exhibit of glossy mahogany and deep crimson accents, ranging from the intricate rug underfoot that likely costs more than Josh’s entire apartment to the dull, abstract red and black paintings on the off-white walls. In the center of it all, right before him, Bourbaki sits at his sizable desk, scribbling something away with a fancy ink pen on his ridiculously corny leather seat. 

The guy couldn’t be more stereotypical if he tried. 

Josh luckily suppresses an eye-roll right as Nico lifts his gaze, hand stilling its motions.

“Joshua,” he says, tone deliberately cryptic. His steel blue eyes remain unblinking for an unsettlingly long moment. It takes Josh a moment to realize he’s expecting a greeting, so he purses his lips and tips his head in as much faux respect he can muster up. 

“Sir,” he mumbles. Nico observes him for another sustained moment of silence, before carefully settling his pen down, and gesturing to the empty chair across from him. 

“Please,” he hums. Josh would really rather not, but his back is also killing him, so he begrudgingly sits. Bourbaki straightens the papers on his desk. Josh blinks, dropping his chin onto his closed fist as he watches him.

“Mind explaining what happened?” The man eventually asks, interlocking his fingers over the smooth tabletop. Josh’s neck straightens. His fist opens, to scratch at his neck in irritation.

“We lost him,” he says blandly, scarcely managing to wrangle back the defensive bite that bubbles up his throat. “He caught us by surprise. Wasn’t where he was supposed to be.”

Bourbaki’s chin rises, blinking in contemplation. Josh holds his gaze, hoping the old man reads it as the challenge it is. Eventually, he simply hums.

“He wasn’t,” he echoes, slowly, “where he was supposed to be.”

Josh’s jaw ticks. “Yeah.”

It had been a close thing, really. Josh doesn’t even think the job went catastrophically enough to warrant this whole scene—hell, he even got a bullet in the guy. He easily could’ve sniffed him out with the amount of blood the man was losing and finished him off. But Bourbaki is nothing if not precise, and their specific orders had been to kill the man in his home, not out in the middle of the street on a Monday afternoon. 

“And where, exactly, was he supposed to be?” Nico asks. 

“He was supposed to arrive once we were inside. Gets out of work at five and goes straight home. He was already there when we entered. Faulty intel.”

Bourbaki’s face does a peculiar thing at those two words. A shift, infinitesimal in itself but staggering when at the end of it. His eyes shift to something cruel, almost amused in his own malice.

“Were you not also responsible for gathering that information?”

Josh blinks, chest constricting with loathing, shifting in his seat. He finally breaks Bourbaki’s piercing gaze, glancing off to the side. He sucks in a reluctant breath through his nose, and exhales in an attempt at composure.

“Yes,” he mutters. His fingers drum mindlessly on his knee, eyes following the swirling, interweaving designs on the carpet. Nico breathes deeply.

“I tire of your insolence, Joshua,” he says. “You have talent. I have witnessed it. So why are you floundering now?”

Josh looks back at him, but keeps his lips firmly sealed. Ironically, a drilling heat stabs through a narrow point in his back. His teeth grind; he shifts in his chair.

Holding Bourbaki’s gaze still, refusing to let the man pick him apart, Josh’s hand shoots for the pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a small box, flicks it open with a thumb, and pulls out one of his last cigarettes with his teeth. Only once he’s returned the box to his pocket, and fished his lighter out, does he tilt his head and ask, 

“May I?”

Bourbaki’s glare is noxious, but his expression remains otherwise empty. His eyes narrow with a small twitch.

“Be my guest.”

The office remains entrenched in silence as Josh casually lights his cigarette, then tucks his lighter away, grinning loosely now at the bitter old man through a shroud of smoke. 

The door flies open abruptly. Josh catches his cigarette between two loose fingers to peer over his shoulder at the intruder, and huffs out an exasperated lungful of smoke at who he sees stalking past him.

As if the father wasn’t bad enough.
“Tyler,” Bourbaki grunts, lifting his head to meet the eye of his son, who stops dead in his tracks once looming beside the desk. He doesn’t bother to even spare Josh a glance, who only leans back in his chair and takes a deep, curious drag. 

“Is it done?” Bourbaki asks, gaze flitting over Blurry’s stiff form, gloved hands clenched into fists at his sides. He can’t quite see his face from this angle, but the taut line of his clenched jaw reveals some deeply satisfying information before Blurry even mutters his answer.

“No.”

For the first time since Josh stepped inside, some proper human expressiveness captures Bourbaki’s face: his eyebrows twitch upward, lips parting soundlessly in what Josh can only assume is surprise. 

“No?”

Now, this is new. Everybody and their mother knows that Bourbaki’s precious pupil never flakes. His kills are as brutally efficient as his father is in every aspect—the perfect soldier. Word has it, the guy’s never lost a single fight he’s been in. At least, none of his opponents have been able to deny it through broken jaws and two teeth left intact in their mouths.

Josh straightens, turning his head only to exhale a plume of smoke. Bourbaki releases a shallow sigh. This seems to make Blurry tense even further, head tipped low. 

Relieved that the attention is off him, Josh smokes and observes. Until, that is, his entertainment is cut short by Bourbaki turning back to him.

“There’s a job that has come up quite recently,” he begins, and it takes all of Josh’s willpower not to groan in annoyance. He just got off a job—a failed one, sure, but can’t the guy cut him some slack?

“It’s, really, somewhat of three jobs in one. The Sacarver family is said to receive a narcotics shipment sometime this month. I don’t know the specifics of when or where, but that is the first part of this job. Find that information, and then I’d like you to steal the shipment.”

Josh nods, his cigarette bouncing loosely between his lips. Heist jobs are good enough—better than hits, at least. Those are always messy, and leave his back in awful shape.

Then, “And… I need Sacarver’s underboss, Andre, eliminated. All I know is that he is sure to be there, as he oversees the family’s drug trade.”

Of course .

“Right,” Josh utters blandly.

“He’s been a fly in our operations for far too long.”

Josh nods again, smoke clouding out of his nostrils on a curt exhale, and moves to stand.

Bourbaki raises a swift palm. 

“ And… ” he growls, turning to look back at Blurry, who hasn’t moved an inch. “The both of you will be taking the job.”

Josh pauses, hand freezing halfway in its rise to deposit his cig back in between his lips. In his periphery, he just manages to catch a swift twist of Blurry’s neck, but Josh doesn’t part his attention from Nico’s lax expression.

“What?”

“I believe it could benefit you two. Maybe you need a bit more of a… strategic approach to your work, unlike how you do so with that friend of yours, and Tyler might gain from an extra pair of hands, another mind around.”

Josh’s mouth flies open, but his instinctive tug toward dissent wanes in his throat and only slips out as a pathetic huff. He glances briefly over to Blurry, who’s turned a bit more to face Nico—but his face holds… nothing. Not discordance, not outrage, not acceptance. It’s carefully, eerily blank. Dead, if Josh didn’t know any better.

“Understood?” Nico presses, looking between both men expectantly. Josh manages a brusque nod, harshly crushing what’s left of his cigarette into the ashtray on the desk before him. 

“Good. You’re dismissed.”

“I don’t understand what the big deal is, honestly.”

Debby’s voice carries with it a telltale offhandedness, a lilt of half-attention that only confirms she’s paying more heed to whatever she’s typing into her computer than Josh and his qualms. Her office is a true polar opposite to Nico’s: peppered with avant-garde decor and wall art, framed photos positioned neatly on her desk and the furniture around it. There’s a bright green couch in the corner of the room that Josh has crashed on more than a few nights in the past. It’s so innately Debby , despite still being a relatively professional workspace, that Josh can’t help but feel his bitter indignation loosen its hold on him.

Her utter indifference toward this whole situation, however, has quite the opposite effect.

“The deal is that I hate the guy,” he reminds her for the umpteenth time. All she does is pin him with a raised-eyebrow stare for a few seconds before returning her attention to the screen.

“You don’t even know him. Hell—I don’t think I’ve ever heard his voice. I’m sure he’ll just stick to himself on the job, anyway.”

Josh’s knee bounces. He fishes around in his various pockets while shaking his head and hastily twists open the pill bottle that emerges. Tilts a pair of pale, oblong pills into his palm and swallows them dry. He’s still shaking his head like an exasperated mother by the time the bottle slips back into his pocket.

Debby shoots him an odd look he pointedly ignores.

“Something about him just doesn’t sit right with me,” he says, leaning back. “Anybody that loyal to a demented prick like Bourbaki is by proxy, like, at least half as awful. And that’s more than enough. What’s the saying? The friend of my enemy is my enemy, or something.”

“That’s not how it goes.”

“Point is,” Josh stresses, eyes dropping to a tiny, plastic figurine of a golden retriever on the edge of Debby’s desk. He reaches for it on an inattentive urge, flipping the toy around between his fingers. “He’s probably just as big of a sonuvabitch as his daddy, therefore… I don’t want to work with him.”

Debby shifts in her seat, deft fingers coming to a sudden halt, hovering over the keyboard. A twist in her brow reveals her unease.

“You have to stop talking like that,” she warns, voice dropping slightly. “Let alone in a building he owns. You’re going to get yourself killed one day, asshole.”

A scoff cracks out of his throat, pinching the plastic dog between his fingers as he sags deeper into his seat. This one is far better on his back, cushioned and spacious enough to prevent that nagging stab of heat.

“Have you seen the video?” He asks, utterly dismissing her forewarning in favor of complaining a little more. “The old news report from the nineties?”

Debby’s eyes shut in what appears to be a prolonged blink, shoulders drooping with a deep exhale. “Yes,” she says. “Everybody has.”

“ God ,” Josh scoffs, “how two-faced can you be? A week before elections he happens to run into this little orphan kid, gives him a lollipop and adopts him. Then fuckin’ master manipulates him into his sociopathic apprentice. Y’know, I bet he set it all up.”

Debby gives a long-suffering sigh. 

“You think he planned for an orphan to run away from the foster home and stumble across the Capitol right as Bourbaki was leaving?” She deadpans, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound like a deluded conspiracy theory, but it’s absolutely something he could envision Bourbaki puppeteering.

“I dunno, maybe,” he mumbles lamely in response to her unimpressed stare.

“I need to work, Josh,” she announces, just like she did when he first stormed, uninvited, into her space, setting free his bottled outrage all over her desk. “C’mon, out you go.” She waves urging hands toward the door as if swatting away a pesky stray dog nagging her for food. Or a flock of pigeons eyeing her sandwich at a park. “Go, go. We’ll talk later.”

Josh groans as he rises to his feet, neatly settling the toy back where it had been sitting before. 

He steps out of her office and into the empty rest of the floor, the uppermost of the sprawling casino building. He shuffles down the vaguely echoey hall and eyes the framed pictures of Debby’s father on the walls, mostly surrounded or shaking hands with other old guys Josh doesn’t recognize. He envies her, sometimes—ever since her dad retired and the casino was left in her hands, she’s been laid off from all other jobs. No hits, no heists, no stalking or other felonies committed in return for a crappy payroll and protection from the feds. Much easier to explain to the IRS, too, when they come sniffing for trouble. But then again, Josh would rather work the occasional thrilling job than sit behind a desk all day and work out the logistics of running the gambling ring in the basement.

He takes the elevator to the ground floor, where as soon as the metallic doors part, he’s bombarded by the clamor of eager casinogoers and the eye-ache that is every beaming, bright screen and neon sign. He grits his teeth and weaves through the sparse crowd, making a bee-line toward the heart of the casino floor where the circular bar emerges from the patterned carpet. An oasis amidst the rolling desert of cackling, tipsy middle-aged men.

He stops at the nearest stool, swinging one leg over to settle onto it. His gaze sweeps across the bar, and fixes on a familiar golden blonde ponytail a few seats down, pouring a drink into a glass near-brimming with ice. She’s speaking, and when Josh’s gaze moves across to search who she’s conversing with, he curses. 

Blurry himself sits right before the bartender, Jenna, accepting the drink she hands him with a wordless nod, attentive to whatever she’s saying to him. 

“Speak of the devil,” Josh mutters to himself, dull fingernails jumping on the sticky bartop in rhythmic, frustrated taps. He glares so bitterly at the stupid red beanie sitting atop his head, and black leather gloves he’s never seen without, he’s almost surprised he doesn’t scorch two holes straight through the guy. 

Well , Josh thinks, working the inside of his cheek between his molars. We’re already here.

With little plan, he slips out of his stool and strolls over to the pair, steeling his expression to something close to neutral. Jenna catches his eye first, plastering a bright customer-service smile. 

“Hi, there,” she greets. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m good for now, thanks,” he replies, only summoning politeness out of the twisting irritation latched onto his gut because he likes Jenna, as does pretty much every other affiliate; she can pour a hell of a drink and, most importantly, knows how to keep her mouth shut and feign innocence when cops come questioning.

She nods, flashing bright teeth once more before she’s turning away to serve another customer who’s stumbled over to the bar. 

Only once she has retreated, does Blurry acknowledge him—in the form of a bored once-over before taking a dismissive sip of his drink—whiskey, by the looks of it. Josh feels his expression harden.

“How are we gonna do this?” He asks. Doesn’t bother with a proper greeting because he really doesn’t care for formalities and he doubts Blurry does either.

The man’s gaze remains trained above, where a TV drilled between the chalkboard menus plays a baseball game Josh has no interest in. 

“We should start figuring something out, at least. Look, we could just split the jobs if you feel like working alone, I honestly don’t care.”

Blurry just keeps sipping, and watching TV, and explicitly ignoring him. It’s a particular brand of indifference, this—like Josh doesn’t even amount to a pesky fly in the guy’s orbit. Hell, he’d probably pay more attention to the fly than the cold-shoulder he’s giving off at the moment. Josh’s head tips to the side, certain he’s at least hovering within Blurry’s peripheral.

“Are you ten?” He hisses. “Can you listen to me?”

It would be more intellectually stimulating to talk to a brick wall.

“Jesus Christ,” Josh mutters, shaking his head and relenting; he steps back, out of Blurry’s space, and looks around in exasperation. 

Then, right as he makes the decision to leave, Blurry pipes up.

“How long have you been doing this?”

Josh’s frustration, briefly, pales to a deeper confusion. His brow draws low, watching Blurry’s face for anything other than that calculated neutrality.

“Ten years. Why?” He slowly answers. Blurry’s eyes finally fall from the TV screen, and coldly latch onto Josh’s own.

“That’s well enough time to learn not to talk about jobs in public, don’t you agree, Spooky ?” It’s, by far, the most emotion Josh has ever heard from him—if cancerous sarcasm is an emotion, anyway. Still, his lips tighten against the itch in his throat to snap back and the tug in his fists to swing. God, he’ll deeply enjoy the day he knocks a tooth out of this guy’s head.

Blurry smoothly looks back at the screen, and continues downing his whiskey. 

Josh can be the bigger man. So, when he turns to storm out of the casino, it’s for Blury’s own sake, really.

Outside, rain pellets the windows in a ceaseless drone that fills in the lull of the chatter inside HQ. Josh sits half-reclined on one of the gaudy velvet sofas by the bar, nursing a lukewarm beer. What they call their center of operations is really Bourbaki’s covert second mansion—because of course he needs two mansions—his first being under the public eye and off-limits for anybody working for him, no matter how high up the ladder. A luxurious pit-stop of sorts to debrief or be assigned jobs, take cover if need be, and, as Josh and Mark are doing at the moment, lounge around and have a drink somewhere calmer than the casino.

Josh has long lost the thread of conversation, though, and finds himself watching the thick, amassed raindrops race down the nearest window as Mark and some other nameless lackey converse beside him. Skin pleasantly warm, both from the heated flooring bleeding warmth into the house and from the beer in his belly, Josh’s head rolls back onto the cushioned lip of the backrest with a pleased blow through his nose. The bottle held on his knee seeps a circular wet spot into the dark denim, glass long since defrosted by his body heat.

His gaze falls from the window, flicking over people walking past, to or from the bar, before catching dark-clad movement at the far end of the area.

Blurry strides into view from an adjacent hallway that leads toward the grand staircase, lingering near the wall as he marches straight for a closed door most are barred from entering. Curious, Josh perks up, observing as Blurry fishes a key out of his pocket and unlocks it, paying no mind to the people roaming about, some casting him uneasy glances, their conversations withering away at his presence. 

Right when he tucks the key away and pulls the door open, Blurry turns, and locks eyes with Josh. Calculated, pointed, despite the indiscernible glint of his intentions—as if he knew Josh was here, or knew he would be here before Josh himself did. Objectively, within that split second of eye contact across a room, Blurry doesn’t signal a single thing. He doesn’t nod, he doesn’t blink; his expression remains stony and untelling. But when he’s swiftly looking back ahead and slipping inside, leaving the door just barely ajar, Josh knows he has to follow.

What’s left of his beer in its bottle is hastily settled onto the glass coffee table before him, eyes fixed on the door.

“I’ll be right back,” he mumbles to Mark, who watches with a puzzled twist in his face as Josh stands. He weaves around the table and the armchair across from it, and slinks through the doorway once he’s cut through the room. Upon shutting it behind him, Josh peers down the narrow wooden staircase descending before his toes.

A basement? He wonders, and hopes he hasn’t just deliberately walked into a torture dungeon.

He moves down the carpeted steps until he reaches level ground, and blinks at the average-looking room before him. Dark oak walls, not unlike the ones adorning every other room of the house, glossy hardwood, another bar, although empty, on his left. A few booths tucked away against the walls on one side, and two pool tables occupying the other end. The lights here are low and warm, hardly reaching the shadowy corners and bathing the room in an almost soothing duskiness. 

Josh wanders deeper inside, eyes catching on Blurry’s form by one of the pool tables, back turned.

“What is this place?” He asks, approaching. Comes up beside him to catch sight of the papers sprawled out across the deep green felt.

“VIP lounge,” Blurry answers, settling his hands on the flat edge of the table, still eyeing it. 

“I’m VIP?”

At that, delightfully so, Blurry faces him, a mild scowl hardening his features. “Don’t get used to it,” he bites. “I wasn’t about to bring you to my place to plan for one job. Now shut up and listen.”

Josh cracks a tight, cocky grin, if only to see Blurry’s jaw tick with annoyance. Soon, though, he returns his attention to the table, narrowing his eyes at hastily-scrawled notes and names, some haphazardly connected with arrows or extended with disorganized asterisks. Other things underlined, and a whole lot of text outright scribbled out.

“This is all we know about the Sacarver family,” Blurry announces. “So, not a lot. Even less so about their drug branch. Like us, they keep their secrets tightly under-wraps. I don’t know much about Nico’s recent meetings with Sacarver, but I know he’s tried to expand on our drug trade, and Sacarver wouldn’t have it.”

Josh nods, dragging one rectangle of paper closer in an attempt to decipher the name and date written above the legible, printed words. He fails and looks back at Blurry. 

“Makes sense,” he butts in. “It’s all they’ve got. If we had narcotics on top of everything else, they’d be ruined.”

It’s remembering this fact, as rare as Josh’s overall cynical nature allows it, that makes him honored to be a part of this family. However much he may hate the boss— and the boss’ son, who’ll probably take on the mantle when Nico finally kicks the bucket—the raw influence the Vialist family holds, not only above every other family or measly gang, but also above the government itself, is not something to take lightly. A powerhouse Josh is proud to be a cog in. Most of the time, at least. If he had a better boss and a better wage, he’d be just as infuriatingly arrogant about his job as cops are.

“But, that says enough about how big a business narcotics are, if they almost rival us—and we’ve got strip clubs, the casino, and the gambling rings.”

Blurry pauses then, leaning forward to slide his gloved hands through the mess of papers, shuffling through them in search of something. 

“On one of my last jobs,” he hums, distracted. “I caught wind of a party taking place later this month at their headquarters.”

Josh’s eyebrows furrow. “A party?”

“Yes,” Blurry exhales, sounding irked. “Sacarver regularly throws these big parties to distract from important meetings and business operations, usually taking place in the very same location. If we can sneak upstairs during the party, I can guarantee they’ll be discussing the shipment. I could plant a bug, maybe.”

Josh hums, braiding his arms over his chest in contemplation. “Take ‘em out while we’re at it?” He asks. Blurry’s head snaps over to pin him with a flagrant stare, lips curling.

“Are you joking?”

Josh shrugs loosely. “Once we get the date and location of the delivery, we catch them by surprise. No one will be there to receive or distribute the shipment. Easy.”

A dry, humorless scoff snaps out of Blurry, jaw tight. “We’re not trying to start a war here, asshole.” He’s shaking his head, turning back to the pool table.

“No one will know it was us, if we do it right.”

“Listen,” Blurry snaps, turning his head vaguely in Josh’s direction but not bothering to meet his gaze. “We’re doing this right. And if we’re doing this right, then we’re doing it my way. You got a problem with that, you’re welcome to take your complaints to Nico, understand?”

Josh’s molars grind, resentment fizzing up his throat, taking root in his diaphragm to make his following breath a shallow, curt exhale. Blurry’s eyes rise, in a split second, to meet Josh’s—blank, save for a quiet undercurrent of malice behind cognac irises.

Josh tears away, tongue absentmindedly circling sore molars.

He really fucking hates this guy.

Chapter Text

“Was the makeup really necessary?”

Josh barely manages to catch Blurry’s disgruntled inquiry, what with the thunderous bass pulsing through the grand, luxurious villa sitting atop the ramped driveway before them. Josh can feel the music vibrating up the soles of his boots and watches, briefly entranced, how the shifting neon lights bleed through every window of the ground floor. 

“We’re trying to fit in, aren’t we?” He shoots back, casting a sidelong glance at Blurry’s half-scowl as they trek up the driveway toward the entrance. Flawlessly trimmed white cedar trees rise from the narrow stretches of soil caging the driveway, framing the looming Mediterranean style home like a picturesque real estate presentation.

Sure, part of the reason he spent ten minutes scouring his bathroom for his shabby eyeshadow palette and smeared his eyes with bright red pigment, one not unlike the shade of his hair, was to blend into the rowdy, glitter-and-leather-clad partygoers—draw as little attention to himself as possible. But maybe there was a sliver of intent to watch Blurry’s face twist with discontent at the sight of it, on top of that.

As they approach the front door, held open with a potted plant in continual welcoming, the concentration of people thickens. It’s notably warm out tonight, which Josh can only assume indicates the pool being open to the public, if the various states of near-undress and wet hair he observes are anything to go by. They step inside, where the threshold gives way to a marble-floored foyer, dotted with people huddled near the walls, either comforting a too-drunk friend or simply searching for a moment away from the chaos. Josh can hardly hear his own thoughts through the booming music, only growing louder, stronger in its vibrations through his chest, the deeper they venture.

The living room is utter mayhem. Strobe lights rain down in jerky, cyclical routes across the floor, some beams of purple and red and green pouring out through the sliding glass doors at the back of the house and painting the thrashing pool waves in vivid hues. The air smells distinctly of alcohol and sweat, the sprawling floor a sea of dilated pupils and frizzy hair. Hired strippers wander about, scantily clad as sexy butlers and servants, bearing trays of cocktails and finger food as they wink at whoever accepts one.

“There’s the stairs,” Blurry declares, elbowing Josh in the side, arguably harsher than necessary to draw his attention. Josh follows his gaze, brow furrowing.

“You want to go up now?” He asks. 

“When else?”

Josh’s answer comes as a loose shrug, gaze darting around until he catches a server strolling their way. He waves her down, and plucks a glass of something bright orange off the tray. 

“We’ve got all night,” he states, turning back to Blurry, who’s staring at him as if he’s grown a second head. “Unwind a little, man. Hey—” he curls a finger off of the lukewarm glass, raising it to point in the direction of the retreating woman. “She’s pretty. Maybe that’s what you need, eh? I’m sure you can afford a night with her.”
Blurry makes an outraged, sort of strangled sound. Josh peers at him over the rim of his glass, eyes crinkled around a shit-eating grin.

“You know what—do whatever you want. I’m getting what I came here for.”

Josh throws his free arm up, feigning disappointment as Blurry turns on his heel and slinks into the shadows, still glowering like it’s his face’s natural resting position. Josh’s smug grin drops, releasing an alleviated breath before taking another sip of his too-sweet drink. It’s strong enough, so he keeps it as his feet carry him across the house. He pointedly ignores the couples with their tongues down each other’s throats and the small groups crowding every table and countertop with credit cards and tightly tunneled dollar bills in hand. More often than not, he’d have no qualms with joining them, but he reminds himself he is technically here working, and he also popped two Ultram before leaving his apartment—he’d rather not accidentally OD while on the job. So, he steers clear of the coke and tusi powdered tables and instead draws his last cigarette out of its box. He strolls past a young woman reeking of weed and jerks his thumb at her in the universal smoker language—she’s quick to offer her lighter before they part ways.

Eventually, however, while sharing a sofa with another guy too far gone to even blink, Josh grows bored. He doubts it’s been much more than fifteen minutes, but sue him—dragged to a party with free drinks, thrown by the very people who essentially own the city’s drug monopoly, and he can’t even indulge in more than one drink. Hell, his back is far too achy today to be up for anything as strenuous as sex, so all he can do is smoke down to the filter, and listen to a stranger’s high mumblings beside him. He leans forward with a grunt to squash his cigarette butt into the packed ashtray on the coffee table and rises to his feet. 

Sneaking upstairs is suspiciously uncomplicated. It’s dark save for the occasional stray beam of neon that’ll stretch across the floor, and a pair of golden stanchions stand at the foot of the staircase, barring access to the upper floors. All it really takes is a quick scan of his surroundings, assuring the absence of any onlookers, before he’s ducking underneath the velvet rope hanging between them and rushing up the curling staircase.

Once upstairs, Josh narrows his eyes against the pressing darkness he encounters there, reaching an arm out until his fingers graze the chair rail on the wall. Following it down the far-reaching hallway, and keeping his hand on the wall until his eyes adjust to the low light, Josh strains his ears. With every door he passes, his eyes drop to the floor, never finding the subtle glow of light beyond it, even as he wanders through the labyrinthine floor, carefully peeking around corners.

Some distance ahead, from utter silence, footsteps emerge; muffled with distance at first, but undeniable as they approach the adjacent hall. Josh tenses, retreating blindly toward the door his fingers grazed not a minute prior. Eyes wide and trained on the empty corner, counting the steady, shuffling steps approach, Josh silently prays Sacarver keeps his hinges oiled as he reaches the door and swiftly slips inside. He swings it near-shut as soon as he’s beyond the threshold, coming to a halt no more than an inch before the doorframe to peer through the gap. The few moments of stillness he observes are shattered by the sight of a hulking figure slowly walking down the hall outside, swathed in darkness but undeniably one of Sacarver’s guards. One hand braced on his hip, where Josh is sure a gun sits holstered, the other swinging loosely beside him. His footsteps dwindle just as they had grown moments before, and Josh remains silent and motionless, pressed close to the wall. A brief look over his shoulder confirms he’s in a bathroom, and luckily hasn’t stumbled into an occupied room—he really isn’t keen on finding out whether Sacarver’s guys are the shoot-first-ask-questions-later type.

He breathes deeply for a moment, attempting to map the layout he’s wandered so far, but he has a feeling, from having just seen the gargantuan mansion from the outside, that he hasn’t even explored half of what there is to see. He doesn’t even know if the meeting is taking place on this floor .

But he doesn’t have time to sit around and mull over what to do next, so after a few more seconds of listening to the empty silence outside, Josh slips back out.

He begins heading in the direction the guard was coming from, hoping maybe that’ll lead him to Sacarver’s office—or closer to it, at least. He keeps close to the wall, making a mental note of every door he cruises by in case he needs to make another swift disappearance.

That is, until he’s stepping around a corner and there’s hands on him, seizing the front of his jacket and cramming him up against the wall. His head hits the surface with a dull thump, and before he can curl away from it, before he can even raise his hands, the sharp cusp of a blade is tucked into the underside of his jaw. He blinks rapidly, and only aborts the swing of his fisted hand when he spots narrowed, dead eyes across from his.

“Jesus Christ , Joshua,” Blurry mutters, jerking his forearm harder against Josh’s chest in reprimand before dropping it entirely. The blade disappears from Josh’s neck, and he immediately sags.

“What is wrong with you?” He spits in a half-whisper, rubbing the stinging point under his jaw. Blurry takes a small step back, tucking his switchblade back into his pocket. “And what’s with the name? We’re on a job, Tyler .”

“What are you doing?”

Josh almost laughs—instead, he just about manages to stomp it down into a dry scoff. “What am I doing? I came to help. I am also working this job, in case it slipped your mind.” He pulls his fingers away from his throat, studying them with narrowed eyes in search of any blood.

“Are you drunk?” Blurry asks dryly. Josh’s eyes shoot back up to his, speechlessly indignant for several seconds.

“Do I look drunk, asshole?” 

Blurry’s jaw ticks, a microscopic action only further veiled by the darkness, but Josh catches it just as easily as he does his following shallow exhale.

“Have you done anything so far, at least?” Josh asks, glancing down the shadowed hallway with a swirl of settling unease—they’re far too exposed.

“I think I know where the main office is,” responds Blurry. “But they’ve got guards swarming it. We just need to get close enough to the door to hear.”

“Where is it?”

Around this time, the same discomfort with their current position seems to settle over Blurry as well. He shoots two sharp glances on either side of them, the line of his shoulders tense.

“There are two ways to get to it,” he answers after a moment. “I think we should split up. Use the noise downstairs and the dark to our advantage.”

Josh pushes himself off the wall, straightening. “What about the guards?”

“Knock them out if you have no choice.” Then, pointed and strict, he adds, “don’t kill them.”

Josh can’t help but make a face at that, brows furrowing like they’re weighted. “You seemed perfectly fine with killing me a second ago.”

Blurry rolls his eyes, drawing up one gloved hand to pinch the narrow bridge of his nose. “Can you drop it? Let’s just get this over with.”

Josh maintains his glare, but manages to keep any further rebuttals to his chest, half-listening to Blurry’s rushed directions before they’re walking to the end of the hallway and parting where the path diverts into two directions.

Once alone, Josh slips back near the wall, eyes long since adjusted to the dark, making it notably easier to navigate. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach for his own concealed blade, the absence of his gun’s weight in his waistband almost jarring enough to throw him off-kilter. Being utterly weaponless is a troublesome thing, but when he hears more footsteps approaching around the corner, Josh is quick to side-step out of view, and for instinct, engraved into his joints, to take over. He waits in his meager cover until he sees the first dark outline of a body emerge and he’s pouncing out. His arms wrangle the man into a chokehold in the space of a second—before the guy can even open his mouth to shout. When he does, the calculated pressure driven into his windpipe renders all attempts at noise fruitless. Josh widens his stance, making the guard’s frenzied, blind kicks meet air instead of bone. As the man grows heavier in his arms, the struggle seeping out of him, Josh half-drags him backward, and then waits until his body goes limp before dropping him to the floor. He turns, swings open the nearest door, and reaches down for the guy’s arms. The muscles across his lower back twinge and spasm in protest, but Josh grinds his teeth through it until he’s successfully dragged the unconscious guard into what appears to be a home theater, and shut the door behind him.

A deep sigh escapes him, curling his fingers to drive two knuckles into the stiff flesh of his back. They do very little to ease it, so he continues moving.

He recalls Blurry’s directions. In theory, the office is two left turns away—somewhere, distantly, Josh acknowledges the truly bizarre layout of the floor, constructed less like a family home and more like a cluster of sinuous hallways with miscellaneous, detached rooms dotting them. Although, that might have been the intention.

When turning the final corner, Josh makes the grave mistake of not peeking around it first, so when he comes face-to-face with a guard, he clicks his tongue, irked. After a short-lived lull of stillness, the guard’s mouth falls open with the beginning notes of a shout, hand shooting for his holstered gun—Josh prays and swings. The man’s head jerks sharply to the side, rattling his brain in his skull enough to sap the strength from his body in an instant. He collapses in on himself like a ragdoll, splayed out ridiculously on the waxed floor. Josh sighs, and readies his back for some more lugging.

Once depositing the guy inside another bathroom, Josh continues his journey, more irritated than anything else—until he spots in the center of his final corridor, a dark-clad figure crouched at the foot of dark oak double doors, sealed shut but spilling a low warm glow onto the floor underneath them. Josh walks up to Blurry, who’s busy fishing something out of his pocket, and hardly spares him a glance when he stops beside him. 

“What is that?” Josh asks, tipping his weight just enough to lean against the doorframe. In his hands Blurry brandishes a small box, limbed with tangled wires, two of which have the familiar budded ends of earphones. As expected, Blurry doesn’t answer, pressing a few buttons on the box and reaching for the end of the third cable, undoubtedly a tiny, cylindrical mic. He proceeds to jam the earphones into his ears, and in all honesty, Josh doesn’t even bother to ask for one, just sighs and stares up at the ceiling for a moment, absentmindedly listening to the quiet graze of metal on marble floor as Blurry snakes the mic through the narrow gap underneath the doors.

Eventually, his gaze falls back to Blurry, sitting just as he had moments prior, focused gaze fixed on a point in the floor. His face reveals nothing of what he hears inside, not even in a twitch in his brow—hardly blinking. Josh doesn’t sigh, so as not to receive a stern shush from the other man, but he definitely considers it. His head meets the wall again, yawning. He checks his watch, but doesn’t bother reading the display of hands, instead pushing himself off the wall to quietly stroll down the hallway. Paces to and fro, occasionally shooting Blurry a glance, who remains statuesque where he kneels by the doors.

He paces, and he glances at his watch a few more times—properly reading its face in these instances, watching the minutes drag by. 

1:24

1:26

1:30

Slowing his pacing amidst an awkward attempt to angle his arm behind himself and press his knuckles into the blazing tension along the lower curve of his spine, Josh catches something. Faintly echoey, undeniably approaching—sounds of unhurried steps, irregular to his own footfall. He zips forward, inching his head around the corner and shooting back into cover at the sight of Sacarver himself, flanked by two guards, approaching their hallway.

Alarm floods his limbs, fueling his feet to rush back to Blurry—both as silently and swiftly as he can manage. Hyperfocused as he is, Blurry doesn’t notice his blooming panic, nor his hasty arrival, so when Josh hauls him to his feet, he makes sure to clamp a hand over his mouth, demanding silence.

He only catches a brief glimpse of the puzzled outrage in Blurry’s gaze before he’s rushing him down the hall, toward the opposite direction of Sacarver’s incoming appearance.

As soon as they’re around the corner, Josh turns to Blurry and brings his index finger to his own lips. Blurry’s eyes narrow, lips drawn tight, until Josh jerks his head to the side, and he can see for himself the motive of his interruption.

After a moment or two, Blurry straightens, turns back to Josh.

“I have what I need. Let’s go.”

And with that, soundless and swift, he slinks back into the dark, catlike. Josh lingers, watching the other’s swift retreat.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles, before cracking his neck with a twist of his head and following suit.

Whereas Blurry immediately bee-lines toward the clustered pool table as soon as they’ve entered the lounge, Josh makes a pit stop at the small bar at the end of the room, slipping behind it and browsing the variously filled bottles he finds there. His hovering finger stills near the neck of a Johnnie Walker, eyebrows creeping up his forehead. He spares a glance up at Blurry, who’s gotten to scribbling something down on the table, unbothered by Josh’s pricey interest.

“Blue Label,” he hums to himself, impressed, before pulling it out and onto the bartop.

He spins on his heel, retrieving the first glass he sees before returning to the bottle. It’s practically untouched, missing what can’t be more than two or three fingers worth of scotch. He might as well reap the benefits of this temporary privilege, he’s certain that as soon as this job is finished, his access to this very lounge will go back to its status as strictly off-limits. He pours himself a glass—neat, because he doesn’t know where the ice is and he doubts Blurry would tell him, anyway. 

Tongue caught in a pleasant burn, he meanders out from behind the bar and toward the pool table. 

“What did you hear back there?” He takes a hearty sip, but his eyes remain on the side of Blurry’s face, downturned and tight with focus. Josh follows the line of his arm to the indecipherable handwriting left in the wake of his leather-bound hand. With narrowed eyes, he leans in a little closer—when Blurry’s arm shifts to the next line on the crinkled sheet and bumps into Josh’s elbow halfway through another taste of his whiskey. 

“Jesus Christ ,” Blurry snaps, dropping the pen to slide the scotch-speckled paper beneath Josh’s arm further from him. Josh clicks his tongue, downing the last dregs before settling the glass on the lip of the table. “Can you give me some space?” Blurry bites, jamming his elbow into Josh’s side to punctuate his venom-laced words. Josh bristles, and in a bout of admittedly childish ire, harshly swats his arm away. Blurry’s head swivels, pinning him with a vicious glare. In no more than a single heartbeat, his hand shoots up, locking around Josh’s forearm in a grip so tight it feels more machinelike than human. Josh’s skin erupts in a prickling burn, like a lit matchstick held to a haystack—tensing for a fight.

The door swings open.

Their heads snap to attention, watching with flaring nostrils and rigid shoulders as Keons descends the stairs, the sight of the two visibly giving him pause.

“Already at each other’s throats?” He asks around a deep sigh. Suddenly, like the grazing against a scorching surface, Blurry’s hand retreats. “I’d bet that wouldn’t be for another week.”

The older man strolls across the lounge, watching with an amused glint in his eye as Josh and Blurry reluctantly step apart, glaring daggers at each other like petulant children.

“What do we have so far?” He asks, peering down at the scattering of notes across the felt.

With irritation still flaring uncomfortably under his skin, Josh huffs through his nose. “We?” He parrots, drawing both the others’ attention. “I wasn’t aware Bourbaki put you on the job, too.”

It’s not lost on him the way Tyler stiffens. In fact, he finds himself quite satisfied by it.

“He didn’t,” Keons deadpans, raising one eyebrow, unruffled. “And, officially, I’m not. But you two are treading some dangerous territory here—and not to downplay your boys’ expertise, but I’ve been doing this almost as long as you’ve been alive.”

Josh’s jaw ticks. Who does this guy think he is?

Blurry, surprisingly, doesn’t appear aggravated in the slightest—but then again, Josh still hasn’t learned how to read him, so he could be outraged for all he knows.

“So, I’ll be keeping an eye on this job from here on out,” Keons continues. “For both of your sakes. And my peace of mind.” He turns to Blurry, head tipping with anticipation. “So. What do we have?”

Blurry nods, one curt, sharp movement, and shifts on his feet.

“Well,” he relents, and Josh almost laughs, wondering how long it would’ve taken him to pry the intel out of him without Keons’ appearance. “I got a date and the approximate time for the shipment’s delivery. Location, too, but I’d already assumed it would be at their warehouse. I’m thinking we storm the place, then take the cargo.”

Keons’ lips seal tightly, humming a low, brief note.

“If Sacarver operates the same way we do,” he begins, drawing the pair’s attention, “then there’ll be a two-to-one guard ratio. And there’s sure to be at least two people there: Andre and their seller. That’d make six people, at best. You run in there, guns blazing, and you’re coming out in body bags.”

“So, what then?” Josh pipes up, crossing his arms over his chest. Keons’ fingers rise and fall against the lip of the table in a dull, absentminded rhythm.

“You find vantage points. Snipe as many guards as you can, then head down, take out the stragglers, and swipe the truck.”

Josh’s eyes slide to Blurry’s face, watching him nod again, slower this time. When he looks back at Keons, he’s brandishing a crooked grin.

“Like taking candy from a baby,” he says. “Easy.”

Easy , Josh thinks sourly. 

Right.

Chapter Text

In the car’s brief stall at a stop sign, Josh watches through the window on his right as a mother takes her daughter’s hand before crossing the adjacent street. The girl’s glittery backpack bounces with every enthusiastic stride, leaping from one crosswalk stripe to the next. It’s jarring, the contrast of this and what he and Blurry are currently set out to do. A dissonance he tends to avoid acknowledging; he’s usually the one in the driver’s seat when working jobs with Mark, so he can occupy his mind with that, rather than the outside world, blissfully oblivious of what they carry in their belts and trunk. But, this time around, they’re in Blurry’s car—and Josh is certain the guy would sooner saw his own foot off than let Josh drive his treasured Mercedes. He seems miffed enough that Josh is even sitting in it, and his visible irritation only sharpens when Josh pops two preemptive painkillers. Neither of them speak.

The low rumble of the car engine offers its break from the oppressive silence, until Blurry is pulling into a narrow back alley, sandwiched between dumpsters and rotting wooden pallets. Then, the silence truly takes root. Complete and laden with animosity.

“You better not fuck this up,” Blurry warns, tone razor-sharp and sour. Josh laughs, a dry, sardonic thing, angling his torso to face Blurry a bit better.

“What?”

“Look, Spooky —” he mocks, sharp cognac eyes narrowing as he spits the codename, “I don't know, or frankly care, how you work, but I’m here to get the job done, then move onto the next. If you slip up and we need to bail, I’m not looking back for you. You’re on your own, got it?”

Josh’s face twists with a swell of cruel sarcasm, tilting his head minutely.

“And that’s why you were put on this job with me, right? Because you work so well on your own?”

Blurry’s reaction comes as a miniscule, near-phantom flitter across his face. Tiny twitches of meticulously contained rage. His jaw tightens, and Josh’s grin broadens, sharklike. Poking if only to break skin and bleed—to see him tick.

His glare lingers, unblinking, for a few more seconds before he straightens to ram the door open.

“Fuckin’ junkie,” he mutters as he steps out, and Josh only grins at how easy it is to get under his skin.

Upon stepping out himself, he circles the car to where Blurry stands before the gaping trunk, hauling out a pair of nondescript duffle bags. Without sparing him a glance, Blurry shoves one into Josh’s chest, before slinging the other one over his shoulder and shutting the trunk. Josh watches him, fueled by an itch of something akin to curiosity, as he raises the strap to hang off his shoulder. Blurry tucks his keys into the pocket of his ink-black jeans, and begins storming down the road. Amused, Josh follows, but keeps his distance as they weave through alleys and sparsely occupied roads toward the Sacarver family warehouse a few blocks away.

They deliberately approach the building from the back, so as not to risk being spotted by anybody arriving earlier than the 3 PM delivery. The building is a single story, but what it lacks in height it makes up for in expanse. The brick and mortar walls are darkened with age, as are the various windows lining the exterior, their thick layer of grime offering a buffer for the activities that take place inside. The walls reach high, before they slant inward and meet to create a gradually sloped gable roof.

Returning his gaze to the ground, Josh notices Blurry making a bee-line toward a rusty, caged ladder drilled into the back wall. He straightens the bag over his shoulder and waits for Blurry to reach the middle before wrapping his hands around the first rough, haphazardly welded rung. The ancient structure creaks and groans under their combined weight; Josh grimaces during his entire ascent. Fortunately, the roof isn’t very steep, so when he emerges from the corroded tunnel, finding his footing and trekking up toward one of the ceiling windows comes with little struggle. The nearest window, one of three lining each side of the roof, is missing two glass panes—perfect vantage points. Blurry makes it there first, smoothly dropping to a crouch and zipping his duffle bag open. He hauls his rifle out, then reaches back into his bag for a magazine. Josh mirrors him, on the other end of the broad window. Blurry handles a weapon the way a chef would a butcher’s knife, with poised ease and joints oiled with years of practice. 

Josh refocuses on his own, snapping his magazine into the well with the heel of his palm and positioning himself on his stomach, braced against the lip of the window. In the unfocused edge of his peripheral, he notices the barrel of Blurry’s gun emerge through the window. Josh anchors the recoil pad against his shoulder, and his cheek on the smooth surface of the stock. With his view now magnified through the scope, Josh releases an anticipative breath.

They don’t have to wait long. Within only a handful of minutes, Josh snaps back to full attentiveness at the sound of the industrial sliding doors parting with a grating rumble. Once opened, a white box truck smoothly rolls into view and comes to a halt once positioned in the center of the warehouse floor. Behind it, the doors are dragged back in place, but only shut completely when the pair of guards responsible step inside, accompanied by a third figure. Josh peeks through his scope, not to shoot—not yet, at least—but to identify the third dark-clad individual currently strolling toward the truck as Andre.

Josh can’t quite catch what’s spoken below, so instead they both watch the scene unfold. The apparent seller steps out of the blank, white truck, adjusting his cuffs before firmly shaking hands with Andre. Keons had been right; aside from the two businessmen conversing in the heart of the floor, four guards stand circling them, stances open and unyielding like true soldiers.

Josh sneaks a glance at Blurry, whose cheek is pressed firmly against the stock, unblinking where one narrowed eye bores through his scope. His index finger brushes the trigger, not with hesitance, but with calculation.

Returning his attention below, Josh does the same, locking the dotted intersection of his crosshair onto the head of the guard nearest to him. He exhales, and in the natural pause of his body in between breaths, twin synchronic shots crack through the warehouse. Two guards collapse in a boneless heap, heads blown open—dead before they hit the ground.

Josh shifts his aim as soon as the recoil has concluded its drive through his upper body, training onto the next horrified guard, already reaching for his holstered gun. The first shot is always the easiest—after that, everybody’s moving, darting around, shooting blindly at the skies in hope of catching their attackers. The hand Josh doesn’t have on the trigger shoots back, pulling the bolt handle down and back to load another cartridge. 

He shoots again, right as the guard pauses and catches sight of the pair—his upper chest is blown open in the bat of an eye.

Two more shots ring out in rapid succession on his right—the last guard collapses, lifeless, only moments before the seller does, midway through his desperate sprint for the doors. Below, Andre doesn’t even bother pulling his own gun out, just whips his head around in search of cover. 

It’s far less time than Josh would usually take for ultimate precision, but when Andre lunges for the truck, Josh jams his finger against the trigger, and Andre goes down behind the front wheel. He releases a steady breath, the sound muffled amidst the piercing ringing in his skull, and pushes himself onto his knees. 

“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” he hums to himself, peering down at the bloody display on the ground while his hands absentmindedly yank the magazine free and stuff it along with the rifle back into the bag. Blurry’s on his feet before Josh even reaches for his zipper, shrugging the strap over his chest and heading back toward the ladder. 

They descend and slip inside through the gap of a paneless window in the very same silence most of their interactions have been steeped in for the better part of an hour. The warehouse is a bloodbath—crimson, dark and blossoming, seeping into the dust-carpeted floor, soaking the soles of Josh’s boots and leaving bloody half-footprints in his wake. Wide, unseeing eyes burn right through them as they pass—at least those of which whose faces are still intact—still somewhat recognizable and not blasted open by the jaw or back of the head. Josh has long lost the natural inclination toward nausea or revulsion. Years ago, he’d try to rationalize it; they were drug dealers, probably murderers too. They were scum, they deserved to die . Now, though, Josh has learned it’s simply a part of the job. Whereas a mere slip up in anyone else’s job would lead to a write-up by a narcissistic corporate boss, or maybe a dissatisfied customer and a subsequent poor Yelp review, in this line of work, you’re lucky if you go quick. It’s a certainty set in stone, ever nagging in the back of one’s mind—most people die before they ever reach retirement.

He follows Blurry around the truck, then watches from a distance as he tugs the latch open and rolls the rear door up. Relieved he doesn’t find a ticking explosive inside, Josh’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at the sheer quantity of sealed wooden crates stacked inside, parted just enough to provide a narrow space in between that Josh doubts could even fit a person. Blurry, however, doesn’t seem to share this uncertainty, because he swiftly hoists himself up, reaches for a crowbar peeking out atop one of the highest crates, and weasels into the aforementioned gap.

He doesn’t ask for help checking the cargo, so Josh doesn’t offer—but his attention is promptly diverted when he catches a dull shift somewhere on his right. He approaches the side of the truck, fingertips hovering over his pistol’s grip, holstered and so far untouched on his hip. There, he comes to an abrupt halt, and clicks his tongue.

Andre lies bleeding against the wheel of the truck, face bearing a ghostly pallor, which only makes the bright red spurting from his neck all the more vivid in contrast. His hands scramble to apply slippery, rapidly weakening pressure to the wound, wheezing, his brow drawn tight.

Josh slides his piece out, thumbing the safety off and strolling over to Andre’s sinking figure. Their eyes meet, and Josh cracks a manic grin.

And to his surprise, Andre laughs—although it rings out closer to a rattling, shallow heave, but the faint upward curl of his blood-stained lips disclose his intention. His head tips low, readjusting his hand on the gaping hole in his neck. Even through weakly fastened fingers, intermittent spurts of starkly-hued blood pulse out between them. Nicked artery, Josh presumes. 

“Shoulda known,” Andre manages, voice wet and forced through an unpleasant gurgle. “Snoopin’ around Bourbaki’s business. Can’t have his—” he chokes on his words, eyebrows pinching in the closest approximation to pain Josh has seen from him. Either his tolerance is through the clouds or the shock has granted him the courtesy of painlessness. He coughs, and Josh grimaces at the dribble of blood—thicker and not nearly as bright as the one spewing from his throat—that spills from his lip like drool. “...His grand plan disrupted.”

At this, Josh cocks an eyebrow, hand faltering where it had been moments from raising to finish Andre off.

“What are you talking about?” He bites, lowering to a crouch a safe few feet before him.

Andre only laughs, dying. “You Vialists are dumber than a box of rocks.” Even minutes from bleeding out in a warehouse that reeks of humidity and rot, the asshole looks amused. Smug, even. “Who do you thin—?”

He’s silenced by the deafening snap of a bullet, and the side of his head bursts in a spray of crimson. The force of it has him collapsing into the puddle of his own blood and brain matter beside him like a puppet with its strings snipped.

Josh purses his lips, teeth grinding as he shoots back to full height. Blurry stands at the end of the truck, lowering his handgun and then smoothly tucking it into its leather holster without a word.

“What the hell?”

“Oh, did I interrupt something?” Blurry mocks, only then sparing Josh a sharp look, before he’s moving forward to the front of the truck. He steps over Andre’s wide-eyed corpse “Open the doors and let’s go,” he orders, yanking the driver’s side door open and hoisting himself inside. Josh releases an attempt at a steadying breath, chest tight and prickly with simmering irritation, before he trudges to the front of the warehouse. The handle is rough where he loops his hands around it, and leaves fine imprints of its texture in his palms upon managing to drag the door open. Blurry drives the truck out through the narrow opening, and Josh half-expects him to just keep driving—to take the truck back to Bourbaki’s warehouse and leave Josh here to figure out a way back on his own. If that were the case, he’d have no qualms about stealing Blurry’s Mercedes. In fact, he’d quite enjoy the imagined look on his face when he’d figure it out.

But Blurry, surprisingly, comes to a steady stop once outside the building, and he only proceeds once Josh has shut the warehouse door and slipped inside the truck. His act of bare decency, however, is swallowed by the silence that, like clockwork, settles back over the pair. Josh maneuvers his duffle onto the carpeted floor between his feet and then weasels his hand into the tight space between the door and his seat to lower the backrest and lie back. For good measure, throws a foot up onto the dashboard, too. That garners him a judgemental side-eye from Blurry.

After a few minutes of listening to the humming engine, Josh draws the silence to an end. “Back there, before you shot him… Andre said something.” Relaxed against the stiff headrest, Josh only bothers to roll his head slightly to the side. Blurry’s gaze remains unbroken on the road, and from this angle the annoyed tick of his jaw stands out more than anything else. Does everything exasperate this guy?

“About Nico,” Josh clarifies, and watches with mounting interest the way Blurry’s leather gloves squeak against the wheel. “Said something about some plan. Woulda let him finish if you hadn’t JFK-ed him halfway.”

“He had a hole in his throat and was stalling for time before you finished him off. What could he have had to say about Nico? You shouldn’t have gotten distracted in the first place. People say anything when they’re dying,” Blurry bites back, fiery gaze snapping to Josh’s for a long enough moment that Josh starts to glance anxiously at the unwatched road for him. He raises his palms in mock surrender, and sinks lower into his seat when Blurry breaks his gaze. 

“Relax, okay. Forget I said anything,” he huffs, turning back to his window.

Fuckin’ daddy’s boy.

The Vialist family warehouse is nowhere near the rotting shack Sacarver owns, both in appearance and maintenance—newer and sleeker inside and out. An angular, mostly-steel building rises out of a ring of gravel and tidily-trimmed trees, its scarce windows positioned high and tinted dark gray. A fine scattering of parked cars occupy the sprawling parking lot crowning the warehouse, and by the time Blurry and Josh are pulling up to one of the industrial roller shutter doors, it’s already beginning to rise steadily and allow them entry. Inside, a few people mill about, carrying clipboards and pens, rushing around the towering storage racks like a fine-tuned machine. Much like all of the working environments under Nico, it functions with the same seasoned efficiency of a living ecosystem. 

A man inside, clad in an orange reflective vest slips into the truck’s path, guiding it through the floor with calculated flicks of his hand, occasionally tossing a brief glance over his shoulder. Then, once tucked away in a far corner and bracketed by industrial shelves and two more guys brandishing pressure washers, the man guiding them stills his extended palm in a halt motion, and Blurry kills the ignition. As soon as he and Josh step away, the truck is swarmed by diligent workers who begin scrubbing down the vehicle. One clambers inside to wipe down any traces of fingerprints, the other two bring the twin engines to life with a low rumble and begin spraying down the exterior. Meanwhile, a small forklift approaches around the back.

Josh knows all of this is only the first step—and a pointless struggle in his opinion. Later, the truck will be burned or otherwise discarded. His job will be long over by then, so he hardly looks back as they’re whisked away by Safety Vest.

“You checked the cargo?” He asks, guiding them around the perimeter of the building so as not to disturb the other work taking place. Josh switches the strap of his duffle to his other shoulder. Blurry nods curtly beside him, eyes trained ahead. Safety Vest nods, and checks his watch.

“Good,” he hums, a lilt of distractedness in the pitch of his tone. “Well, your guys’ work here is done. We’ll take it from here. You can exit through that door right there.”

With a final point in the instructed direction, Safety Vest wordlessly slips back into the structured chaos.

Josh watches him retreat for no more than a few seconds, but when he’s turning back ahead, Blurry is halfway to the EXIT -labeled door. He kicks up into motion, shooting a hand out to catch the weighted door before it can slam shut.

“Hey,” he calls out once outside. “Where are you going?”

Blurry makes an unhurried turn on his walking heels. His face is set in that constant, faint pinch of exasperation—like every thing and every one is below him, and like Josh’s mere question is a terribly bothersome waste of his precious time.

“I’m getting my car,” he replies, still retreating, and Josh still loosely following. At the sight of him opening his mouth in a stern rebuttal, Blurry adds, “you’re not coming.”

At that, Josh stops in his tracks. “How am I supposed to get back?”

A bitter, mocking twitch of his lips reveal the attempt of a smile. Blurry turns back around, and over his shoulder tosses a bored, “not my problem.”

Josh takes the bus. Sandwiched between a weary-looking mother with a wailing newborn in arms and an older man who could not stop coughing for the life of him, it takes him a whopping fifty minutes to make it back to HQ—a journey which otherwise could have been condensed into a fifteen-minute drive, had Blurry been taught basic human compassion as a child. Then again, during moments like these, he tries to remind himself the guy was raised by Bourbaki, of all people, so it’s not entirely Blurry’s fault that he’s a bastard.

HQ isn’t too crowded when he finally makes it through the grand front doors, the building’s intimidating size and ornamental but ultimately soulless opulence cushioned by the calm chatter floating throughout it. He’s greeted by a few guys here and there as he wanders deeper, moving through the living room toward the carpeted staircase. In Blurry’s absence, Josh presumes he’s already arrived, likely in Nico’s office mid-debrief.

Upstairs, Josh navigates the winding corridors, always unsettled by the vacancy of the upper floors, until the door to the office comes into view.

It’s seconds before his outstretched hand reaches its surface when he pauses. The door is ajar, no more than an inch, and from beyond it he catches a distinct voice. Not Blurry’s, as expected, but one he soon recognizes as Keons’. A voice in the far reaches of his conscience, one that sounds suspiciously like Debby, tells him that his curiosity will be the death of him one day. He leans in anyway.

“That’s ten this year , Nico,” Keons says, and even through the muffle of distance and the barrier of the door, Josh catches the tight strain in his words. “Ten people in eight months. Before this we had three arrests across seven years. This isn’t just a stroke of bad luck.”

A muted shuffling comes in through the gap, and Josh tilts his head forward infinitesimally—mindful not to touch the door and risk it moving. Then, a heavy sigh rings out.

“I’m aware of these numbers, Keons,” Nico grumbles, sounding more miffed than troubled. If anything, there’s a ribbon of venom curling through his every syllable, rather than one of concern. “And I do keep an eye on them, despite what you seem to be insinuating.”

“I’m not insinuating anything, Nico,” Keons replies, sharp and stern in a way that has Josh’s eyebrows creeping up his forehead. He doesn’t know much of their dynamic other than the fact that Keons has had the position of Nico’s consigliere for the longest anyone else has. If he hasn’t been sniped and stuffed into trash bags yet, then Josh guesses this is normal for them. He can only wonder why Nico tolerates this treatment from Keons and nobody else, but something tells him it’s the complete and utter absence of fear Keons has of him. “I’m saying something has to be done. You tell me what and I’ll handle it, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now. But we can’t sit by and watch this keep happening. They got Meany , for fuck’s sake. That’s not just a rookie slip-up.”

“Keons,” Nico sighs. “I have work to do, and I’m expecting somebody. I give you free reign to do as you deem necessary, but I cannot entertain the baseless claims you’re making. This is a turning point for us, if we have to lose a few people in the process, then so be it.”

Keons makes an incredulous noise, a cross between a dry laugh and a huff. “It’s not just—”

“You are dismissed,” Nico cuts in, and the warning edge in his tone is palpable. A beat passes, then another, and Josh barely has time to slink down the hall before three heavy, striding footsteps approach the door and it swings open. Josh stops when Keons steps out, feigning surprise—as if he’s coincidentally arriving just as Keons is making his departure. With one hand agitatedly scrubbing down his graying scruff, his eyes dart from the floor and lock onto Josh’s. It’s brief but incisive enough to make Josh wonder if he knows—if in that short-lived moment, he can read right through him. However, Keons remains silent and stony-faced as he leaves the door open and storms down the hall. Josh exhales shallowly.

He takes a step forward, glancing at the door, then behind him at Keons’ retreating form.

Suddenly, in that small hesitation, Nico’s voice rings out from inside. “Come in, Joshua.”

Josh stiffens, but he doesn’t have time to panic when there’s an order sitting in the air—a calm order, lacking in the venom it held moments prior, so as he steps inside, he can only pray that Nico doesn’t know he was just eavesdropping on his conversation.

“How did it go?” He asks, without looking up from the paper underneath his ink pen in his hand. Josh looks at it, then at him. He’s out of cigs, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets, if only to give them somewhere to sit. His duffel hangs achingly heavy on his shoulder, but he doesn’t bother switching it again; it’ll only make the other one sore. 

“Good,” he exhales, and only then the thought strikes him. His eyes sweep the dim office, but Blurry is nowhere in sight. “Shouldn’t we wait for Blur—Tyler to debrief?” he asks, clenching his jaw at the slip-up. Codenames are for the field, however much it rubs him the wrong way to use the guy’s name like they’re anything akin to friends.

“Tyler is currently training. I already spoke with him,” Nico answers jadedly. Neither of them speak for the time it takes Nico to finish writing, and when he finally does settle the pen down, only then does he look up to acknowledge Josh.

“As I said to him already, I’m quite impressed.”

Josh blinks, conflicted on whether to feel flattered or irked. His brow tightens a little, more out of bewilderment than anything else. “Oh.”

Nico hums a curt, low note. “Not only with the success of the job, of course—but I was surprised by the swiftness of it, what with your…” he pauses, and his forehead wrinkles with the tiny upward twitch of one of his eyebrows. “Animosity toward one another. I’ll keep the two of you in mind for future jobs.”

Immediately, Josh’s soothing undercurrent of blissful satisfaction that his work with Blurry was over at last is snuffed out like a candle between damp fingers. He can’t help the way his shoulders wilt on his answering sigh. Whether or not Nico notices this display of disappointment, he makes no comment on it.

“Great,” Josh manages, forcing the grating word out through his teeth. “What about my payment?”

Nico returns his attention to his desk, deft hands straightening the papers there. “As per usual, your earnings will be deposited directly to you within the next forty-eight hours.”

Distantly, Josh thinks he should make sure they’re both on the same page regarding numbers, but the soles of his feet are itching to get out and he’s craving a drink and a generous nap, so he nods curtly, and says, “Am I done here?”

Wordlessly, Nico tips his head and raises a dismissive hand in the door’s direction. 

Josh steps out. As soon as the door is shut behind his heel, he releases a colossal breath and squeezes the strap of his bag.

If he’s lucky, Nico’s old, deteriorating brain will forget to ever pair them up again, and Josh won’t have to so much as stand in the same room as Blurry ever again. A man can only dream.

Chapter Text

The sun beats down mercilessly on the already burnt skin of Tyler’s neck and high curves of his shoulders. His days spent playing alone in the pool have left his chest the same shade of his strawberry popsicle, so despite the sweat that clings to him, he keeps his tank-top on. The curb is cracked and difficult to balance on, but he’s determined—loyal to this self-imposed challenge—to make it to the end of the block without touching the parched grass on one side or the scorching asphalt on the other. It’s a pesky undertaking, so he pulls his half-melted popsicle from his mouth to use both outstretched arms for balance. He topples and wavers every time his weight shifts from one foot to the next, but slowly, surely, he tip-toes his way down the block. His fingers are sticky with sugar, fine streams of pale pink weaving down the skin of his hands, dripping off his wrist to be drunk up by the dry asphalt.

School has only been out for three weeks, and he’s already growing restless. Usually around this time, he’d be back at home in the pool until the sun dips beyond the horizon and the housekeeper, Linda, calls him in for dinner—but today he’s balancing on the curb of Nico’s second house, waiting for him to finish up—in his words— ‘a very important meeting with very important people’ . Tyler has utterly depleted all two boxes of assorted popsicles in the downstairs freezer, and when he snuck in to retrieve the one currently melting onto the road, Nico had caught him and told him not to come back inside until he was finished. So not only is he bored out of his mind and pool-less, but he can’t even lounge around inside until they can go home.

He makes it to the cemented curve at the end of the block unceremoniously, having picked up an effortless equilibrium about halfway from where he simply walked to the end. Tyler releases a deep sigh, and drops roughly to sit onto the low edge. He stretches his legs out before him, absentmindedly tapping the toes of his weathered sneakers when a flash of movement across the street catches his eye. He perks up, lowering his popsicle.

From underneath a parked van, to Tyler’s surprise, shimmies out a dog. A mutt, by the looks of it, tan and black with watchful brown eyes and half-floppy ears. Its tongue hangs long and pink from its jaw, flanks heaving as it focuses on Tyler and stops in its tracks.

“Hi,” Tyler greets it. The mutt’s low tail gives a tentative wag or two, and it seems to wait until Tyler holds out his free hand and snaps his fingers. Only then does it approach, trotting swiftly across the street until reaching Tyler’s shoes. It sniffs around, then steps closer, panting so deeply it looks like a grin. Tyler reaches out and scratches behind one black ear.

“Hey, boy,” he laughs, and pauses when the dog’s head stiffens in attention, mouth clamping shut. Tyler snorts, and ducks his head to bite a chunk of his lollipop off with his molars. The dog’s gaze follows it, inching closer to sneak a whiff. Chewing with cold-sensitive teeth, Tyler tips what’s left of it forward. The dog doesn’t hesitate to start lapping at it, occasionally drifting down to lick Tyler’s hand in thanks. He laughs.

“You like popsicles, huh, boy? You can have it, I prefer the orange ones anyway.”

As the dog keeps licking away at its newfound treat, Tyler studies it. It doesn’t have a collar, and the faint but still visible curves of its ribs reveal a lackluster nutrition. When he pets its side, his hand comes back feeling grimy and dusty. By all accounts, the little guy is definitely a stray.

Curious, Tyler says, “hey, boy. Boy .”

It keeps lapping, but the canine’s response is immediate—its eyes flick up to Tyler, ears perking so that they almost stand correctly on its head.

“Is that your name?” Tyler asks, smiling as the dog takes to chewing the remaining chunk off of the wooden stick. He reaches up to scratch its neck. “It suits you.”

Once Boy is finished, he’s left licking tentatively at the stick and Tyler’s sugary fingers.

“You thirsty?” Tyler asks, and at the curious tilt of Boy’s head, shoots a glance behind him at the towering mansion. He works his lip between his teeth, wishing he’d brought out water like Linda always tells him to—when an idea strikes him. He drops the stick and shoots to his feet. Boy, bearing the same innate, clueless enthusiasm all dogs have, pounces around him, tail fully swinging now. “C’mon,” Tyler urges, jogging across the lawn. Boy follows closely behind, gaze fixed unyieldingly on his new friend. Tyler reaches the house, but avoids the front door. Instead, he weaves around the side, pushing the iron sidegate open and ushering Boy through. A sizzling excitement surges through him, lowering to a crouch when he reaches the kitchen windows in order to sneak out of sight. Boy never strays too far, keeping close to Tyler’s heels, who utters the James Bond theme under his breath as he approaches the door to the prep kitchen at the back of the building. Luckily, the lawn is vacant, so the two pretend-spies remain under the cover of secrecy and shade as they reach a pale door. Tyler inches the handle down, then cracks it open to scan the inside. Empty.

“Go, go!” he whispers, opening it further to shepherd Boy inside. Once followed, he soundlessly shuts the door behind him and darts over to the cupboards. He glances at the door to the house, opposite to the one they entered through, as he pulls out a bowl and hastily smacks the tap open. Boy waits faithfully by his leg, looking around the unfamiliar space. Cool water rises in a steady growth up the walls of the ceramic bowl, and Tyler waits until it reaches the rim before turning the tap off. Lowering it to the ground, Boy’s nails tip-tap excitedly on the ceramic tile until his muzzle can reach its contents, and he begins greedily lapping up the water.

Tyler grins, and slides down to the floor beside him with a triumphant exhale.

Blinking out of his daze, Tyler straightens off his car’s backrest, fingers still locked, motionless, around the arc of the steering wheel. The teenager he had zoned out staring at tugs at the leash clipped to his labrador’s collar, urging him closer before they cross the street. Tyler blinks once more, and removes his hands from the wheel. His car sits in silence, engine long dormant.

He makes quick work of his seatbelt once his gaze is torn from the kid, and steps out of his car. The force with which he shuts the door rings out down the otherwise vacant street on which HQ sits looming.

Tyler heads inside quickly, alleviated to hit the wall of cool, conditioned air as soon as he steps beyond the threshold. He cuts through the residence, boots squeaking against the waxed flooring briefly before his footfall is rendered mute by the carpet in the living room. His eyes remain fixed ahead, distinctly aware of the way all laughter and conversation in the space stalls at his appearance, but ignoring it nonetheless. Unnerved eyes bore into him with unsettled glances like high intensity lasers, silent but no less heavy as he reaches the door to the lounge and slips inside. 

It’s empty, as per usual, so Tyler releases a hefty breath as he redirects toward the far pool table, still topped with forgotten papers and notes. He collects the stray pens scattered across its surface first, bundling them into one hand before carefully settling them on the wide lip of the table. He straightens the largest papers next, mostly ripped-out notebook pages and old documents bearing smudged notes and circled data. He slides the thin stack to one side, and then gathers the scarce post-it notes stuck to the felt.

With the mismatched array taken into both hands, Tyler breathes out again—albeit shallower than the sigh released into the empty lounge upon entering it. He rolls the torn flesh of his inner cheek between his molars, willing his heels to ground themselves to the present. He lumbers over to the bar, where he hastily deposits the stack of intel and joins his hands near his chest. His thumb comes to rest in the center of his opposite palm, bracing it with his other fingers. He drives his thumb into the flesh until the perpetual, itching prickle there flares into a jab of acute oversensitivity. He twists it, brow twitching once.

Distantly, in a hazed corner of his logical brain, Tyler determines that he should head upstairs and ask Nico to assign him another job. It’s barely been two days since he and Joshua wrapped up their narcotics case—even still notably longer than what he usually takes in between jobs. The word boredom feels childish, almost, but he figures his aimless drifting around his apartment and the buzzing impulse under his skin to get back to work isn’t too far off. 

His hands part, and he reaches for the papers again. 

Tyler’s bounding out of the backseat before the car has even come to a full stop, sparing only a halfhearted glance down the road before bolting toward the trimmed lawn across it. Once standing on the cropped grass, he stops and whistles a quick, high-pitched tone. He turns in place, gaze darting around excitedly, half-tripping over his own ankles in his haste.

He whistles again, then clicks his tongue a few times, and that seems to do it.

Boy comes barreling out from somewhere beyond the house, and Tyler drops to his knees before Boy even reaches the lawn. He’s damn near tackled by him, and Boy isn’t a massive dog, but he’s not small by any means, either. Tyler laughs, a screeching sound sprouted from deep in his chest as Boy whines and hops and licks every inch of his face.

“You’re still here!” Tyler says, repositioning to sit flat on the grass rather than perched on his bent knees. He settles both hands, fingers spread wide, on either side of Boy’s face, then lightheartedly shoves it to the side—laughing again at his success at further riling him up. Boy’s head straightens immediately, loose ears flopping, and he raises a paw to tap at Tyler’s arm.

“No popsicles today, Boy,” Tyler laments, trying to get Boy’s ears to stand up straight with careful fingers. As soon as he releases them, though, they wobble and fold to the sides. “I think we have Pop-Tarts, though.” He hesitates. “Can you even have those?”

“Tyler.”

He jumps, craning his neck up with startled swiftness at the low timbre of Nico’s approaching voice. Boy looks back at the man, sits, and then turns back to Tyler.

“What is this?” Nico asks upon reaching the pair, eyes narrowed and inquisitive on the mutt sitting on his lawn.

“This is Boy,” Tyler replies, cracking a grin. “He’s a stray, I think. I gave him some water last time I came and he waited for me.”

Nico seems unimpressed, glaring down his nose at Boy, the bland pull of his expression doing little to reveal what he’s thinking. 

“Can we keep him?” Tyler asks, and for good measure, throws a scrawny arm around Boy’s neck. “I’ll take care of him.”

His neck feels achy already from the angle it’s at in order to gaze up at Nico’s looming figure. His dark-clad form casts a mild shadow across the pair, stretching out across the lawn until it tapers off and shifts back into summer sunlight. He looks at the dog, then back at Tyler, whose brows have involuntarily knitted at Nico’s prolonged silence.

“You may keep the dog,” Nico finally decides, but continues firmly before the two can celebrate. “But remember where your priorities lie, Tyler. Let owning a pet teach you responsibility, but it cannot interfere with your discipline.”

Tyler nods cartoonishly, failing to stifle his beaming expression.

“Thank you, Nico! He won’t, I promise.”

Nico nods, then, and the corner of his mouth twitches with a reluctantly fond exhale.

“Don’t let it inside, it could have fleas,” he says, before turning on his heel and striding inside. 

With both upturned lips curled in between his teeth, Tyler waits until the front door clasps shut, and only then does he jump to his feet. He releases a victorious holler that tapers off into a guffaw when Boy joins his celebration, naive to the reasoning behind it but plainly basking in the simple, interspecies concept of shared joy.

The abrupt sound of sudden footfall behind him startles Tyler out of his stupor. He whips around, hand settled on the grip of his handgun before even recognizing the approaching figure as Keons—not a threat.

“Woah, there,” Keons whistles, raising his palms to display no adverse intentions. Tyler’s shoulders sag, dropping his hand from his hip. 

“Jesus, Kee.”

“That was on me. I should know better than to sneak up on you. You good, kid?”

Tyler’s jaw ticks. He turns back to the bar, where he settles his elbows. “Fine,” he grumbles, feigning interest in the top paper on the stack by his forearm. Keons approaches, footsteps deliberately heavy so as not to spook him again. 

“I was just looking for you,” Keons says once he’s come to a stop beside Tyler. He leans forward, jaw craning out to peer down at the goods on the other side. His hand reaches down and returns bearing two short glasses, before disappearing again in order to pull into view a scotch. Tyler shifts his weight on his feet, begrudgingly curious. It’s not that speaking to Keons is an odd occurrence—hell, he’s been a constant in Tyler’s life almost as long as Nico has—it’s more so the context: here, alone, and most of all, away from Nico.

“For..?” Tyler presses, accepting the drink handed to him with a nod and immediate sip. Keons sits the bottle on its base, so careful it hardly makes a sound against the smooth, mostly untouched wood. Tyler watches him reach for his own glass, swirl it absentmindedly, and take a hearty drink.

“Look,” he begins, and although he doesn’t sound fearful, there’s a pale trace of unease in his tone that only further piques Tyler’s interest. “I’ve been having some concerns regarding all the recent arrests that have been taking place. I’m sure you’ve heard by now, right?”

Slowly, Tyler’s answer comes as a nod. His fingertip traces the fine, curved lip of his drink; leather on glass.

Keons’ face hardens minutely, gaze flicking from Tyler to a point in the middle distance, unfocused. “Nothing like this has ever happened. Never in our history have we had these many arrests in such little time. This happens to other families, maybe—but not to us. Not with the sizable chunk of the CPD we have on our payroll, judges, lawyers, people in Congress, for fuck’s sake.”

Tyler leans further against the bar, turning to the side to better face the older man. His glass sits spinning within his deft fingers. 

“Okay,” he utters. “What are you saying?”

“I think…” he falters, lips twitching. “I think we’ve got a mole.”

Tyler releases his glass altogether, instead shifting to cross his arms over his chest. It’s not an outrageous theory, that he can acknowledge. If anything, it’s the most reasonable of the few that immediately come to mind. One mole, covertly feeding the few decent cops in the city vital intel on the family’s inner workings is really all it takes. But there’s one particular detail of this conversation that isn’t clicking.

“Why are you telling me this?” 

Keons raises his eyebrows in long-suffering irritation. He only replies upon finishing his scotch. “Trust me, I’ve tried to broach the subject with Nico, but he’s… he won’t have it. A couple of arrests here and there are hardly a cause for concern, according to him. He’s so preoccupied lately, it’s impossible to even talk to him.”

Tyler’s mild frown only deepens at this, his previous question still hanging, unanswered, between them. 

“Again,” he begins, “why tell me all of this? Got something in mind?”

Keons twists his mouth into a dry, lipped smile, and he points an index finger Tyler’s way. “Bingo.”

“What?”

“I was thinking an internal job. Keep it under wraps, snoop around a bit, figure out who it is—and if there is no mole, hopefully find that Achilles heel and patch it up with a dip in the river.”

Tyler’s brow furrows, blinking unenthusiastically. Keons’ smile flounders.

“River Styx? Forget it—look, I know I can trust you. You’re the best guy for the job, and I can’t do it alone. If we do nothing, we risk this entire family coming apart.”

He holds Tyler’s gaze with a stern line in his brow and a fierce resoluteness in amber eyes that makes Tyler’s usual aversion to dishonesty toward Nico wilt. He taps his fingertips upon his bicep, tearing his eyes away and refocusing on the last dregs of golden liquid in his glass. It’s not necessarily disobedience—it’s helping Nico, if anything. Helping the whole family. If there truly is a mole in their ranks, it must be eliminated before they lose any more people.

“Alright,” he exhales, and imitates annoyance at the delighted punch in the arm he receives from Keons. “Whatever, I’m in. Just call me when you need.”

“Knew I could count on you, kid.”

Not a kid, Tyler would’ve bitterly shot back, once upon a time—but he’s long since come to terms with the fact that it’s a losing battle. He’ll be on his deathbed in fifty years and Keons will still be calling him kid from the ghostly realm.

So instead, he shakes his head and grabs the stack of papers beside him again. Before making his departure, his free hand reaches out and he downs the last of his scotch. 

Upstairs, he’s greeted by the same startled glances and halting, wary silence. He holds the papers close, mindful not to drop any as he finds the staircase and skips every other step to the second floor. Relieved at the apparent vacancy of the floor, Tyler slows his step, considering whether to leave the intel with Nico or in his own rarely-used office. 

It’s in this brief distraction that he’s startled by a bump on his shoulder, and the sight of a figure storming past him, down the hall. He comes to a puzzled halt upon catching sight of unruly curls dyed bright red.

Joshua?

Mostly alarmed, but admittedly curious as well, Tyler picks up a brisk pace, following him all the way to the door to Nico’s office. At the sight of Joshua shoving it open with no regard for respect or composure, that puzzled alarm flares into something sharper under Tyler’s skin. He rushes down the small stretch of hallway, and with half a mind drops the papers onto one of the chairs lining the walls, before entering.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Joshua’s outraged demand rings out. Tyler steps inside and quickly scans the situation. Joshua doesn’t appear to be brandishing any weapons, but the raw fury carved into his expression doesn’t soothe Tyler’s concerns. Nico sits at his desk as usual, hands frozen over his work, still holding an ink-dripping pen over a document. His eyes are crinkled, the muscles around them marginally tensed—whether in either surprise or ire, Tyler can’t tell.

“I risk my ass out there in a three part job, and you pay me the same shit as always,” Joshua snaps, taking a step closer to the desk. Tyler jolts into motion, moving forward and hovering a warning hand over Joshua’s chest. But much like a predator with its attention fixed on its prey, Joshua doesn’t so much as glance his way. “I’ve got fucking bills to pay. I need my meds and since Dr. Meany got arrested I don’t have a supply anymore!”

Nico simply keeps staring, the image of indifference—like Joshua’s spitting outburst is nothing more than a bothersome mosquito buzzing around his ears.

“You should leave,” Tyler presses, voice low. Joshua’s hand shoots up to harshly smack Tyler’s arm away.

“You fucking cheap-ass—you’re rich!” Joshua continues, taking a wide step closer to Nico, and only narrowing the distance between him and Tyler. “I’m not leaving until I get my money. I won’t keep doing your dirty work for pennies, Bourbaki.”

Tyler shoots a brief glance back at Nico, who has merely tilted his head to the side, irked. 

“That’s it,” Tyler says, reaching for Joshua’s arm with one hand and cementing the other on his sternum to push him back toward the door. “Get out.”

What he doesn’t see coming, amidst his second uneasy glance at Nico, is Joshua’s fist flying directly at him. It misses his nose by a hair, instead landing awkwardly on his cheek and jerking his head back with a flare of pain in both places. He stumbles back, steadying himself on the glossy edge of Nico’s desk. Now, Joshua is looking at him, jaw tight and nostrils flared. 

Tyler swinging back is about as automatic as his heartbeat thrumming in his chest. Joshua’s head snaps back, feet catching underneath him as an animalistic groan falls through gritted teeth. He lowers his hand from his nose, and at the sight of fresh blood streaming down to his chin, coating his teeth, Tyler feels a roaring, electric thrill flood through him. 

Joshua lunges, missing his following punch but managing to find a handful of Tyler’s shirt and hurling him against a wall. Cornered, Tyler’s head lurches forward, knocking his forehead into Josh’s bleeding nose—and although it earns him a pained grunt, the hand pinning him to the wall disrupts most of his impulse, and Joshua’s soaring fist meets his temple.

Tyler reaches out with one hand, managing a blow to Joshua’s ribs, one he hopes finds its marker on the liver—but there’s blood spilling into his eye from the pulsing sting in his brow, so his vision is reduced to about fifty percent.

In the midst of Joshua's brief standstill, Tyler’s free hand reaches for his belt. The sound of his switchblade springing open is instantly intercepted by a new voice joining the fray.

“Boys, boys!”

Then, Joshua is peeled back, and Keons’ hardened face comes into view. Tyler sags against the wall, blade-bearing arm falling loosely to his side. His head tips back against the painting behind him, watching with a mocking half-smile as Keons steps in between them, gripping Joshua’s arms hard enough to bruise.

“The fuck is wrong with you two?” Keons snaps, craning his neck back to drive the point home to them both. Tyler wipes the blood from his eye, and locks gazes with Joshua.

Finally, Nico pipes up, his bladed voice cutting through the breathless panting from both bleeding men.

“Joshua,” he says, “I recommend you go home before you make another mistake.”

“Are you—?” Joshua starts again, looking ready to start another fight, but Keons shuts it down.

“Don’t start it. Come on, out you go.” Still gripping onto him, Keons half-drags him to the door, voice dropping to a vicious mutter, surely berating him under his breath. Tyler’s heartbeat in his ears is too loud for him to catch it.

As soon as they’re out, Nico’s cold gaze sweeps over to him. Tyler stiffens, swiftly pushing himself off the wall, tucking his blade back into its grip and slipping it back into his pocket.

The detached disapproval in Nico’s eye makes shame run a familiar course through Tyler’s skin. Despite the blood in his eye and the various aching and throbbing points across his face, the insidious disappointment in Nico’s otherwise dead expression makes him wilt. Long gone are the days of verbal or physical punishment. Tyler is a grown man now, one who makes his own stupid, careless decisions, so one look is well enough to let him know he’s fucked up. 

Still, he’ll sometimes find himself missing the cruelty. Nico would look at him, then— truly look—even while pulling him open and picking apart all of his failings. He’d caress his cheek with something like warmth, even though the skin there ached with a fresh bruise soon to mottle.

“Go on,” Nico dismisses, returning to his work. “Before you get blood on my floor.”

“ How are you so fast?” Tyler heaves, dropping bonelessly to the grass after his umpteenth defeat. Boy pants contentedly, approaching to sniff at Tyler’s fallen form before sitting by his hip. Tyler watches the golden-tinted clouds overhead, following their jagged shapes against the darkening sky. The world is silent around them, much further from the commotion of the city here at home—the backyard a much wider stretch of grass, half-deflated floats and tufts of short dog hair bobbing on the surface of the pool. Tyler stretches his arms out on the warm grass.

“I’m a faster swimmer, though,” he hums, looking down at Boy, whose head tilts with attentiveness at Tyler piping up. “You swim really slow,” he continues, poking at the tiny smattering of white fur on Boy’s chest. “And you stink.”

His one-sided conversation is interrupted by the sound of the glass door to the living room sliding open a few meters away. Tyler cranes his neck up, puzzled at first upon seeing an upside down Nico striding toward him, before it hits him.

The drying pool water on his skin freezes into icy pinpricks stabbing across his entire body. He scrambles to his feet. He straightens, heels anchored into the soil, and takes in with mounting terror the tight, furrowed line of Nico’s eyebrows.

“Do you know what time it is?” he asks once motionless. Tyler wrings his hands. Shakes his head.

“I—I don’t have—I forgot, I’m sorry.”

“It is,” Nico pauses, pulls his sleeve back, and reads the face of his luxury watch, glinting in the dying sun, “precisely twenty-eight minutes after you were meant to show upstairs for your training. Do you remember you had training today?”

Tyler nods jerkily. “At seven. I’m sorry, I—we were in the pool, and then we—”

“What are your priorities, Tyler?”

Tyler shrinks into himself, lowering his hands to his sides. Boy stands beside them, distracted by a bird hopping across the far end of the backyard. 

“My training and education,” Tyler recites quietly, staring at a bare chunk of soil that must have been ripped out of the ground during one of their races.

“Exactly,” Nico hums, and Tyler finds himself glancing back at his face in an attempt to read him. His voice remains carefully neutral. “And do you remember what I said when I let you keep this animal?”

Tyler stiffens immediately at that, shoulders bunching. “I do, it won’t happen again, I swear—I didn’t know what time it was!”

Nico’s calculating eyes drift between Tyler’s own, and remains in utter silence for a weighty stretch. Then, in a minuscule movement, his lips twitch tighter, and he exhales something close to a sigh.

“It won’t happen again,” he parrots slowly. “Of that I’m sure.”

Tyler registers the sound first—a terrible, ear-grating crack that makes every muscle of his body jerk with dread. It rings and rings in his ears long after it’s passed, and long after Boy collapses in a heap of fur and blood onto the grass.

Nico only lowers his pistol when a cracked, guttural cry rips all the air from Tyler’s lungs. His trembling hands fly to his mouth, meagerly stifling hitching, choking sobs—nausea rolls through his stomach, but he can’t find it in himself to tear his eyes away from the bloodied mess oozing into the soil.

His kees quiver, then give out entirely, all he can do is curl into himself and stare into Boy’s wide, unseeing brown eyes.

“Oh, Tyler,” Nico sighs, descending into a careful kneel. He reaches out, warm palm cradling one of Tyler’s ruddy, damp cheeks. His thumb tenderly swipes at his relentless flow of cascading tears. “Come here.”

He proceeds to draw Tyler into a rocking embrace, muffling his cries into his shoulder, palm rubbing soothing circles into his heaving back.

“It hurts me to have to do these things, do you know that?” He murmurs, carding his fingers through wayward hair, stiff with chlorine. “I wish I didn’t have to. But sometimes hard things are necessary in order to learn, hm?”

Tyler doesn’t answer, only wraps frail, goosebumped arms around Nico.

“And you did learn something today, did you not? Will you be late to your training again, Tyler?”

Sniffling, shaking like a leaf in a storm, and clinging desperately to his only comfort, Tyler finally manages to pull his eyes away from the corpse. He shakes his head in three firm motions. Nico continues caressing his hair.

“That’s my boy.”

Chapter Text

“Quit whining,” Keons growls, his grip on Josh’s upper arm white-knuckled and unrelenting as he drags him down the hall.

“Let go of me and I might,” Josh spits back, trying for the umpteenth time to free himself by way of a sharp jerk of his arm, but Keons’ hold is cemented in place.

“That was a dumb fucking stunt you pulled back there,” he continues, more disgruntled than outraged now, the crease between his brows just barely looser. Josh isn’t sure where exactly he’s being taken—all he does know is that this isn’t the way to the staircase. 

“Confronting Nico or the fight?”

“Both,” Keons huffs, shaking his head minutely.

He stops then, a motion so sudden Josh nearly trips over his own adrenaline-buzzing feet. Only then does he notice the door on his left, cracked open just enough to reveal a sliver of a glossy, marbled bathroom beyond it.

“Wash your damn face,” Keons sighs, finally releasing Josh’s tricep and gesturing to the door with a brusque wave. Josh eyes him for a moment, absentmindedly rubbing away the ache in his arm before he turns and shoulders the door open. 

The water is instantly soothing against his throbbing knuckles, and the alleviated breath that escapes him is entirely unintentional. He allows the water to run over the back of his right hand for a few blissful seconds, bracing his other on the lip of the sink and leaning his weight onto it. He’s acutely aware of Keons’ lingering presence by the door, silent and watchful. Josh ignores him for the time being, instead meeting his own eye in the mirror and wincing. He ducks down, cups both palms, and splashes his face. The stream dripping from the tip of his nose runs pink. His nose pulses with a steady ache, but upon some inquisitive prodding, determines the bone is still intact.

Only until he’s successfully washed away every last trace of blood from his nose and chin does he speak.

“You got a staring problem or somethin’?” He straightens, and reaches for the closest hand towel of the several folded and hung tidily beside the sink. Keons, to his surprise, cracks an amused smile, and crosses his arms over his chest.

“You think you’re calm enough now to listen to me?”

Josh exhales, sharp and irked. His jaw ticks, but he nods nonetheless.

His gaze drops to the towel in his hold, meticulously drying every inch of skin on his hands and wrists, down to the crevices between each finger, and then moves to his face. Despite his outward display of standoffishness, he pays close attention to Keons’ subsequent tirade; something about all the recent arrests taking place, and Nico’s disregard for them, and mostly, his suspicion of a mole in their ranks. At that, Josh perks up, head tilting.

“A mole?”

Keons nods, expression drawn taut and severe. “Not just that,” he adds, then pauses with palpable hesitation. He leans back, glances down the hall. “I think Nico might be in on it. Or is somehow at fault. I don’t know yet.”

Josh’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline, hands freezing for a beat. Of all the things he was expecting to come out of this conversation, that was certainly not one of them. 

“That’s quite the accusation,” he carefully answers, dropping the towel onto the counter, damp and unfolded. Keons’ fingers rise and fall in a smooth wavelike motion on his arms, nodding.

“I know,” he says. “And I know what you’re wondering.”

“Do you?”

“Why am I telling you this?” Keons clarifies, tipping his weight just enough to press his shoulder to the doorframe. “You’re just a soldier among dozens of others. Mid-rank, not quite a veteran, mixed success rates—”

“I get it,” Josh butts in, brow furrowing. Keons raises his palm from his bicep in silent apology, before lowering it back into place. 

“All that considered, you’re the first person I’ve met who isn’t afraid of him. Now, I don’t know whether it’s suicidality or just an inflated sense of pride, but you had the balls to storm into that office and face up to a man who could wipe you off the face of the Earth so that not even your mother would remember you.”

Josh shifts on his feet, equal parts lauded and uncomfortable under the vague praise. He tilts his head and shrugs in some wordless approximation to humility. Keons’ attention is stern and adamant, drilled onto him, uninterested in modesty or gratitude.

“Hell, a few years ago I wouldn’t have even pulled something like that. One thing that hasn’t changed, though, is my duty to this family. I’m going to figure out what’s really going on, and I could use someone like you on my roster, kid.”

He uncrosses his arms then, and without breaking Josh’s gaze, extends an upturned palm. 

“So. You in or out?” 

Josh studies it briefly, and with a final airy chuckle, meets it in the middle.

It’s three days later that Josh is abruptly fished out of sleep with a series of hurried smacks on his arm. He blinks once, bleary and still partially asleep, when his brain detects the towering, shadowed form by his bed and he jumps to full attention. His hand shoots out for his nightstand without a second thought, reaching for his piece when his wrist is caught in a loose grip.

“Hey! Will you relax?”

Josh blinks, chest heaving slightly. “ Keons ?”

“Get changed. Meet me outside in five,” the man says, releasing Josh’s wrist, who scrambles to sit up. The sheets pool around his waist.

“Did you break in?” He squawks, voice still croaky with sleep.

“I’d hardly call it that. I didn’t break anything,” Keons replies, halfway through strolling out of the bedroom. “Hurry up or I’m leaving without you.”

“Leaving where?” Josh calls out after him, but Keons is already out of sight beyond the doorway, and his answer never comes. 

For a moment, Josh simply sits against the headboard, still blinking the weighted exhaustion from his eyes while his heart returns to a regular rhythm. His gaze drifts to his side, where it lands on his charging phone, and upon reaching for it he groans at the time displayed in bold, white numbers. What Keons could possibly need from him at almost 5 AM is beyond him—but because he’s already awake, and his nagging sense of curiosity has always managed to get the better of him, Josh begrudgingly crawls out of his bed. He hurriedly changes out of his sleep clothes, hoping that Keons wasn’t too serious in his threat as he slides into a pair of boots and slips out of his crappy apartment.

The sun hasn’t yet emerged, so when he steps out of the lobby that reeks of humidity, it takes him a moment to notice the unfamiliar black car parked across the street in the cover of darkness. Only after a cursory scan of his surroundings to confirm their desertedness, does he cross the street and reach for the passenger side door handle. He tugs, but the door doesn’t budge. Before he can even begin to worry about whether this isn’t the car at all, the window smoothly rolls down into its sheath.

Blurry sits reclined in the passenger seat, and Keons leans closer from his own place behind the steering wheel. Josh stills, fingers curling at his sides with indignation. Keons had not mentioned Blurry would be joining them, though in hindsight, that small fact was probably intentional. It’s a small comfort, however, that his own irritation is mirrored in Blurry; the line of his jaw sharpens and his shoulders draw fractionally tenser.

“Nice of you to join us,” Keons chirps, much too lively considering the early hour. He gestures behind him with a small nod. “Hop in.”

Upon satisfying his need to glare at Blurry for a few more seconds, Josh straightens and slides into the backseat. As soon as his door slams shut, Keons is already pulling away from the curb, silent as he drives away from Josh’s apartment building and deeper into the city. At some point amidst the long stretch of silence, Josh slumps into his seat, shoulder pressed awkwardly into the door, knee bouncing.

Outside, Chicago seems suspended in a strange liminality—a twilight zone in between waking hours, the streets uncharacteristically devoid of cars or pedestrians, shadows a deep indigo around the reach of the streetlights. Every now and then, they’ll drive past a car or two—some poor sap on their way to work, surely, but soon enough they’re driving alone once more.

“Do I get to know where we’re going?” Josh finds himself asking, if only to kill the eerie silence. He leans forward, ducking out from behind Blurry’s backrest to inspect the road beyond the windshield. “And also,” he adds, “why you broke into my place in the middle of the night?”

“Can’t risk your apartment being bugged,” Keons replies easily, hand low on the steering wheel, the other perched limply on the gear shift. Josh makes a noise at that.

“Yeah, cause I’m sure Nico would have all of his guys’ places bugged.”

Then, before Keons can reply, Blurry pipes up, his tone sharp. “ Nico ?”

“You still half-asleep, kid?” Keons teases, and Josh’s brow pinches from where he’s staring at Blurry’s profile, who has his head tilted slightly to the side in a partial acknowledgement of Josh. Haltingly, Josh drags his gaze up to the rearview mirror and meets Keons’ gaze. His eyes widen marginally, rising eyebrows accompanying the motion— emphasis . Josh leans back, and just barely manages to stifle the disbelieving, trenchant scoff that bubbles up his chest.

Blurry doesn’t know that Nico has even been considered as a suspect. Of course he doesn’t—Josh doubts he would have agreed to help Keons at all if he knew they’d be looking into his beloved, exemplary father behind his back. In place of a stubborn laugh, Josh releases a shallow lungful of air, still holding Keons’ gaze through the reflection. Blurry is bound to fish out the truth, but until then Josh concludes it’s better to have him on their side. And when he does inevitably find out, it’ll be Keons’ problem, not his.

“Right,” he mutters. “My bad. I meant the mole.”

He glances at Blurry; he doesn’t seem very placated, but his head straightens, and he returns to silence nonetheless.

“Better safe than sorry,” Keons continues, unperturbed by the interaction. “We’re going somewhere safer. Think of it as your temporary second HQ.”

Josh looks between the two, and then allows his head to thump against the middle seat’s headrest. The three soon retreat to a strained quietness in which the continuous purr of the engine offers a break in the mild awkwardness. Josh yawns into his fist and sinks down further in his seat, watching the dozing city sweep by, only now through the windshield rather than the side window.

He braces himself for a longer trip—for at least an hour on the road, steeped in this very silence. To eventually diverge from the ample main roads and steer far out into some nondescript safehouse on the outskirts of the city. What Josh doesn’t expect is to make a sudden turn into a deserted parking lot and roll across its expanse toward the main entrance of the massive, dilapidated property at its front. He straightens, craning his neck down to gawk quizzically at the weather-beaten welcome sign, marred with dirt, rust, and chipping paint.

Keons kills the ignition, unconcerned by the pair blinking dazedly at the long abandoned entrance.

“The safest place you could think of was an abandoned zoo ?” Josh bleats, maintaining eye contact with the faintly eroded outline of a cartoon giraffe poking its head out from around the ‘E’ on the welcome sign.

Keons holds his reply until they’re all out of the car and the luxury vehicle has beeped once to signal itself locked.

“It’s empty,” he starts, beginning toward the row of decrepit turnstiles and spurring the begrudging pair to follow him with a glance and subsequent jerk of his head. “...It’ll stay that way for the near future, and the last place anyone would think to check is in the heart of the city, right under their noses.”

They move through the turnstile barrier with ease, the locked poles rendered laughably futile with the lack of any overseeing security guards and staff to impede simply hopping over them. Josh cringes at the feeling of his arm tearing through the finespun structure of a cobweb, and wipes his hand on his jeans as Keons leads them deeper into the zoo. He navigates the deserted area as though in his own home. Near the edges of towering, electric-wired walls, the foliage hangs low, sagging underneath its own overgrown weight. Bushes, surely once neatly trimmed and shaped, swell and reach outward in dense cloudlike formations over the cement path, pawprints and hoof trails pressed into its otherwise flat surface. The shadows here seem thicker, where the reach of the streetlights beyond the walls and the glow of the dipping moon wane. The three walk past a small circular building, sitting at the split of the broad path. Josh peeps through the cracked, cloudy windows to see a pyramidal stand of stuffed animals blanketed in dust and neglect.

“Do you own this place?” He asks, looking back at Keons as they pass the meerkat exhibit.

“No,” Keons answers with a loose shake of his head. “Owner died back in the nineties, it’s been a war between his kids over what to do with it since. They still keep the power running—so by some government technicality it isn’t really abandoned. That way it stays in their hands.”

Josh grunts in acknowledgement, craning his neck up to read the sign displaying ‘LABORATORY’ high above the chained glass doors they walk past. However, Keons doesn’t stray from the building itself, instead he leads them around its sprawling perimeter, until they’re turning into a small alley-like gap around the back. On one side, benches line the wall between restroom doors, and across from them, Keons heads straight for a staff-only door. Unlike the front entrance, this door is not only unchained, but unlocked as well. 

Inside, Josh’s eyes narrow to furrowed slits against the darkness in order to scan the jarringly empty space before him. Tables and mounted cabinets line the perimeter, and some broader tables rise from the center of the floor, spaced evenly to allow sufficient space for scurrying scientists to move about without bumping into each other. The tabletops, however, carry nothing aside from thick tablecloths of dust and several stray paper or pencils. Josh’s approaching footstep echoes faintly as his eyes adjust to the dimness. Not a single piece of equipment remains in sight—not one microscope or beaker. Josh supposes it must’ve been looted long before their arrival.

Behind him, an empty click rings out, and after a beat the furthermost row of fluorescent tube lights hum and blink to life. They waver and oscillate between a tepid gleam and their sharper, artificial glow before eventually settling on a point in between. Josh turns around to see Keons reach for the two other switches alongside the first, but upon flicking them skyward, the lab remains submerged in half-darkness. 

Keons frowns, tries again. The lights don’t even buzz.

“They should work,” he mutters to himself, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll go check out the breaker box.” His gaze falls, then, finding Josh first before flicking to Blurry—as silent as ever. Josh thinks he catches a gleam of amusement there before he’s turning back toward the door.

“You two get comfortable, maybe clean the place up a bit. I’ll be a minute.”

Josh’s sigh falls on deaf ears as Keons makes his swift departure. The door slips shut with a resounding, metallic clang, and then they’re alone.

Josh’s fingers scrub at his sleep-achy eyes and ambles over to the nearest table. Blurry lingers off to his right, sort of leaning against the blocky pillar extending to the ceiling in an odd attempt at repose that clashes with the tense draw of his spring-loaded muscles.

With the edge of the groaning table digging into his hip, Josh watches Blurry’s head tip back against the pillar. His fingers itch; they’re quick to find relief in the box tucked away inside his jacket pocket.

Only upon the third or fourth weak click of his lighter do Blurry’s eyes latch onto him. His face hardens in the space of a breath, jaw ticking.

“Don’t smoke in here,” he sourly berates. Josh lowers his lighter once it sputters a sufficient flame to light his cigarette, and tucks it away. He takes a long, deep drag and savors the bitter phantom taste the smoke leaves in its wake as it floats into his lungs. His fingers rise to pry it from between his lips; Blurry follows the motion with detached eyes.

“Or what?” Josh breathes out through an airy, mocking chuckle. Smoke spills out around it. Blurry’s arms cross over his chest, fingers twitching against his biceps. He gives a tiny shake of his head, miffed, and looks off to the side, as though giving up on his insistence.

Josh’s eyes lower, then, and his stomach plunges with satisfaction at the shadow of a purpling bruise splashed across his cheekbone.

“You been icing that?” He teases, returning the cig to his lips, and when Blurry looks back at him, brows pinched in confusion, Josh taps his own cheek.

Like a sheet of ice sliding over him, Blurry’s gaze sharpens—glacial and bitter. His head returns to its resting place against the pillar, stiffening and working his jaw as though chewing on his own indignation.

Josh’s head tilts to the side, laughing out a lungful of smoke. “Come on, what happened? Cat got your tongue?”

Blurry’s narrow, shadowed eyes remain pinned to a fixed point on the wall across from him. Josh might as well be another speck of dust floating about.

He pushes himself off the table, pinching the filter between his fingers to lower the cigarette.

“What, never taken a real punch before?” He presses—only because he’s bored, and despite their reciprocated animosity Josh has found ticking Blurry off to be quite entertaining. “You salty? Damn near broke my nose and I’m not moping and bitching about it.”

Blurry moves like a lunging rattlesnake; his arm shoots up and finds a forceful hold into the front of Josh’s jacket. Beyond the dead, trained remoteness in his eyes, Josh catches a crack in his front, carving stark lines between knitted eyebrows.

“Watch your mouth.”

Josh just barely manages to swallow the grin that itches insistently at the corners of his mouth. “There he is,” he purrs around smoke.

Blurry’s mouth twitches, and suddenly they’re dunked in straining light. Josh’s gaze rises, squinting against the artificial brilliance of the restored lights overhead. Blurry’s fist loosens a fraction, then releases him altogether. Josh pops his cigarette back into his upturned mouth, and takes a step back after a lingering moment or two.

Within the next few seconds, the fluorescent drone cuts through the silence, until the door swings open, and Keons reappears—the image of self-satisfaction.

“You boys getting along?” He pointedly eyes them both on his brief walk to the nearest table. There, he swings his bag off his shoulder and settles it over the surface. A cloud of dust blooms outward, but he hardly blinks as he zips it open and pulls out two laptops.

“Alright,” he huffs, waving a loose hand to dispel the shroud of dust surrounding him. Josh approaches. Blurry remains behind. “As I already mentioned, this place’ll be our base of operations for the time being. You’ll still make appearances where you normally would, be that the casino or HQ—as we don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves. When it comes to this job, though, we work here . You don’t speak of it anywhere else, you don’t call me on the phone to talk about it, you don’t tell anybody about this place. Capiche?”

Josh takes one last, concluding drag and stubs his cig out onto the tabletop. He risks a quiet glance at Blurry, tight-jawed and far-eyed.

When he looks back ahead, Keons is pinning him with an indecipherable look. Josh shifts, exhales a plume of smoke through his nose.

“Yeah. Capiche.”

He ends up getting home sometime past dawn, when the sun is fully exposed but the sky still carries that mild, early-morning hue of gold and pale pink. Keons drops him off, and Josh feels his exhaustion resettle in his joints the closer he shuffles up to his apartment. The elevator creaks and coughs, and it quivers when it comes to a jolting halt at his floor. Josh drags the heel of his palm down his face, then back up to slide through his hair, stepping out.

Down the hall to the left, Josh’s pace decelerates the closer he gets to his door. The handle, worn and old and silver, doesn’t come into view from beyond the jutting doorway. He takes another step, and another, and instead of seeing his door, he stares straight into a sliver of his apartment.

Stomach a sinking deadweight, Josh lurches forward, anchoring his hand on the doorframe to make a swift turn into his apartment. His door sits wide open, the silver strike plate ripped out of the old splintered wood. His hand flies to his hip, but he must have forgotten to grab his piece when he left earlier. His hands curl at his sides as he ventures further.

The place is wrecked. Lamps lay toppled over in a bed of glass shards, couch cushions flipped and discarded, the TV ripped from the wall, cracked and dead. The vague shape of various boot trails mar the carpet, spreading across the apartment, interweaving.

Josh’s gaze lifts in the direction of the hall that leads to his bedroom and bathroom, heartbeat thundering in his ears—half expecting somebody to leap out beyond the open door of his room.

And although nobody does, his body kicks into high drive nonetheless. He backs up, knocking into the doorframe in his haste to get out. His hand fumbles for his pockets, mind somehow both blanking and overwhelmed with noise and blanketing panic.

Keons picks up on the second ring.

“Josh,” he grunts.

“Someone broke into my apartment,” Josh barks out, wild gaze jumping across the interior from his place out on the hallway. He’s distantly aware of how loud he’s being, and the early hour—but he can feel himself slipping into a preliminary state of fight or flight, limbs tingling with adrenaline and panic, heartbeat thudding in his chest. 

This was targeted. Of that he’s absolutely sure.

“What?” Keons asks, voice suddenly tight.

“I don’t— multiple someones, I think. They fucking trashed my place, kicked the door in.”

There’s the muffled, crackling sound of shuffling and muttered speech at the end of the line. “Are they still there?”

Josh scans the inside again. Shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. What the fuck .”

“Okay,” Keons says, his tone level. “I’m turning around, head downstairs. Do not go inside, you hear me?”

Again, Josh nods to himself. “Okay. Okay.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Josh takes the stairs this time. Keons doesn’t hang up in the impressive three minutes it takes him to pull up to the building front, tires squealing quietly at the abruptness of his break. Josh glances warily over his shoulders, sure he’ll find somebody there—but he doesn’t, and he hangs up and slips into the car without a masked figure pouncing on him and slitting his throat.

His knee bounces in a visual manifestation of his stubborn pulse, still jackrabbiting in his ribcage. He exhales, watching his apartment building grow smaller and smaller in the rear windshield.

“You okay, kid?” Keons asks after a minute or ten.

“Yeah,” Josh utters. “Just… confused.”

“It had to have been the mole,” Keons declares, brow furrowing tightly in the rearview mirror. “They must know you suspect something. Fucking somehow .”

Josh sinks into his seat, head thumping back. The job has only just begun and he’s already on somebody’s hitlist. And his goddamn apartment had to take the fall for it, too.

“So, what now?” He mutters, the panic ebbing to give way to a deep-seated irritation.

“Now we find somewhere for you to stay until you find a new place.” A beat. Keons shoots a sidelong glance at Blurry, and Josh senses an evil amusement there before he can continue speaking. “Your apartment’s pretty spacious, right, Tyler?”

Josh shoots up, ramrod straight. “Keons, there is no way in hell—”

“Listen, kid, it’s all we got. The last person anyone would suspect is Tyler. You’re safest there.”

“You don’t get a say in this,” Josh bites, looking frantically between Blurry and Keons. 

“Actually I do. Consider this my first executive decision, as the superior of you both. It’s that or the zoo.”

Josh’s mouth cracks open before he can even process the counter offer, but as soon as he does his acceptance dies on his tongue. Keons meets his gaze in the reflection above them, wrinkled eyes expectant and sickeningly amused. Josh catches his lip between his teeth, and huffs.

“That’s what I thought,” Keons chirps, then glances over at Blurry, whose expression Josh can’t quite gauge but whose sunken shoulders and curt exhale says enough of his mirrored indignation. 

“So, then,” Keons continues, absentmindedly switching through quiet radio stations and grinning like he just won the lottery, “Tyler’s place it is.”

Chapter Text

Leaning against the far corner of a mirror-encased elevator and listening to the peppy, soulless tune ringing through the speakers overhead, Josh starts to seriously consider how bad living at an abandoned zoo for the time being would really be.

Blurry’s apartment complex is a sleek, modern skyscraper composed mostly of dark tinted glass and lustrous steel accents. The button panel beside the doors damn near takes up the entire wall—and upon stepping inside, Blurry reaches over and crudely taps the very last one: floor 51. Because his egregious wealth and luxury car hadn’t been enough, of course he has to live in a goddamn penthouse, too. Meanwhile Josh uses his ever-expanding collection of late rent notices as coasters.

He allows the cool metal handrail drilled into the wall behind him to lay a mellow relief into the tension locked across his lower back, feeling very faintly the cold seeping through his t-shirt. Blurry shifts beside him, gloves muffling the sound of his curled fingers tapping the adjacent handrail with itching impatience. Despite the elevator’s smooth speed, the rise feels infinite amid the mutually-exacerbated fog of bitterness hanging thick in the space between them. As soon as the doors part with a quiet, announcing ding, Blurry zips out, his footfall near silent as he makes way for the single door at the end of it. Josh follows loosely behind, boots scuffling over the polished granite and decreasing his pace as soon as Blurry jams the keys into the door. He steps inside without a glance over his shoulder, and Josh takes the door left ajar behind him as the closest thing to a welcome he’ll get. 

The space he steps into is hardly a home. It comes off as more of a drab exhibit of ostentatious wealth, with furniture straight out of a luxury brochure, spotless and seemingly untouched—it strikes Josh as though the penthouse came fully-furnished. Blurry doesn’t seem like the type of guy to put any thought into the palette of his interior design, however bleak and gray-heavy that palette may be.

Josh kicks the door shut behind him, gaze trailing up the length of the high-reaching glass walls at the far end of the living room until it reaches the ceiling. Beyond the glass, a cement terrace extends several meters over the city, crowned by evenly-spaced potted shrubs and its borders fenced in with sleek black railings. He approaches the back of the L-shaped couch, and only then registers the notable chill bleeding in through the towering windows.

A quiet sniff across the living room urges his attention away from the morning skyline. Blurry hovers near a shadowed hallway, arms crossed over his chest, lips tight.

“You can,” he starts, then tips his head down in a vague gesture, “take the couch.”

“Sure,” replies Josh, kicking back into motion in order to shuffle around it to the front of the couch. He digs around in his pockets and deposits his phone and wallet on the coffee table—he chastises himself with a tight click of his tongue over having forgotten to grab his car keys in his haste to leave his ransacked apartment. He straightens with a dull crack in his spine and turns. 

“You got blanke—?” He blinks at the spot where Blurry stood seconds prior, now empty. “Okay, then.”

Normally, he’d feel inclined to push, to wander after him, but he’s running on about three hours of sleep and the couch is calling to him like an oasis mirage—so he toes his shoes off and reaches for the nearest throw pillow before landing with a deep huff onto the plush cushions. He’s out like a light despite the chill on his skin.

Time is lost on him when Josh eventually stirs, feeling somehow both uncomfortably warm where his skin presses into the faux leather and prickled with the nip of the cool air. He rolls onto his back somewhat lumberingly, his movement hindered by the couch’s limited width, and blinks blearily at the ceiling. A quiet headache pulses behind his temples, and upon tipping his head back to peer up at the glass wall, determines he couldn’t have slept more than three or four hours; the sun is high and beaming amidst a smattering of clouds.

He scratches his scalp, then smoothes his hand down his face in the same breath he moves to sit up. Once effectively scrubbed the heavy remnants of sleep from his eyes, his stomach gives a tight squeeze of hunger.

He doesn’t hesitate to shuffle into the kitchen, yawning into his knuckles and tugging the fridge door open with his other hand. Blurry’s fridge is nothing to write home about, and after some dissatisfied scouring, grabs himself a canned beer and moves to scavenge the rest of the kitchen. Eventually, after discovering a pantry door that blends near-seamlessly into the rest of the wall, he fishes out a microwavable mac and cheese bowl, which he swiftly cooks up in Blurry’s spaceship-resembling microwave and promptly wolfs down on one of the stools lined by the kitchen island.

For the entire duration of his half-assed meal, the penthouse remains fixed in a fragile silence. At this height, closer to the clouds than the sidewalk below, not even the background hum of the city’s bustling movement can be heard. No enraged honking from the streets, no barking dogs from floors below, not even a far, passing siren. So used to the continual ambience of dripping pipes or creaking floorboards, Josh cracks his knuckles and shifts on his feet—unnerved. Mostly, Blurry doesn’t make an appearance from wherever he’s holed up in the entire time. 

Once tossed the empty bowl into the garbage, Josh briefly wonders if Blurry left while he was asleep, but the thought is subdued soon after it pops up; he doubts Blurry trusts him enough to leave him alone at his place. Still, his curiosity nags, so he makes a quick pit-stop by the coffee table to grab his phone, then shuffles down the hall Blurry retreated down earlier. 

He checks the time—11:26—before closing the low battery notification that pops up immediately after. A closed door comes into view on his right, so he slides his phone into his pocket and approaches. He doesn’t bother knocking, and upon finding it unlocked, peeks his head inside. He notices the black, matted floor first, then the small variety of gym equipment neatly stored inside: a treadmill on the far left, facing the floor-to-ceiling window, a rack housing varyingly weighted dumbbells against the opposite wall, and a tall pull-up bar in between. 

Not quite what he’s looking for, but good to know anyway.

He retreats, then continues down the hall, approaching two more doors facing each other. He notices around this time the peculiar barrenness of the walls—as with the living room, not a single picture nor poster hangs in sight. No framed photographs, no notes or reminders pinned on the fridge with magnets. The closest thing Josh can recall is a large painting on the wall behind the couch—one of those contemporary abstract pieces he’s never been too fond of. It gives the place a splash of color—a stark shade of red on a black base—but other than that, Blurry appears to have achieved the same level of cold, aloof lifelessness in his home as he outwardly displays in his everyday life. It’s fitting, though no less unsettling.

One of the doors at the end of the hall is just barely ajar, and it only takes a weak push of his fingers and a scanning glance to recognize it as the bathroom. He turns to the last one, undoubtedly the one leading to Blurry’s bedroom. He knocks this time around, not very keen on accidentally seeing any more of Blurry than strictly necessary. However, no reply comes for the long stretch of awaiting silence that follows, so he twists the knob and presses forward.

Blurry’s bedroom is much like the rest of his place: gray, clean and soulless. The terrace extends from the living room to the back of the bedroom, accessible via a pair of sliding glass doors framed by black metal. Before him, a king size bed sits unmade—the first irrefutable sign of Blurry’s presence he’s seen so far. He slips inside after a cursory scan of the room—empty, as all the others. Maybe Blurry did leave after all.

It doesn’t take much for him to find a charger, hanging off the edge of one of the nightstands. He plugs his phone in and turns to face the rest of the bedroom. Across from the bed, a flatscreen TV is mounted onto the wall above a dresser. The smooth surface of its wooden top holds nothing but a stick of deodorant, a small stack of folded clothes, and what appears to be a small piece of paper, only distinguishable from Josh’s distance by its contrast on the black-painted surface. Nosy, and distantly aware he’s probably breaching some unspoken boundary, but not concerned enough for his moral integrity to stop, he approaches.

There, half tucked underneath the clothes, sits a grainy photograph, wrinkled and bearing the telltale, weathered line of being folded down the middle one too many times. He pulls it out with careful fingers; something tells him to be mindful with it, and this feeling is only heightened once the full image is revealed. The photo is of a young woman, with kind, bright eyes narrowed around a smile and silky brown hair that brushes just below her shoulders. She’s caught in an eternal laugh, head tipped forward slightly toward the wide-eyed infant in her arms who stares owlishly straight at the camera.

Josh flips it in his hand, hoping to recognize a name or date scribbled on the back, but finds it blank.

“What are you doing?”

He stiffens, alarm flooding him for a split second before he whips around on his heel and sees Blurry looming by the door. He spreads his free palm across his chest.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Where did you come from?”

Blurry’s eyebrows lower even further on his forehead, carving deep, angered creases between them. His eyes drop then, and latch onto the photograph. He blinks, and then he’s storming forward, undeterred and fuming.

“The fuck are you doing with that?” He barks, snatching it from Josh’s fingers and only once it’s safely on his person, meets Josh’s gaze again. He raises his hands in a feeble peace offering. 

“Who is that?” He asks, somewhat surprised he hasn’t been stabbed yet. Or punched, at least.

“I’m being real fucking nice letting you stay here,” Blurry warns, dipping his head forward, voice dropping in timbre. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

A sheepish sort of embarrassment floods Josh, feeling much like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar and subsequently scolded for it.

“Alright,” he forces out, a quiet, vaguely apologetic tone slipping through his voice. Blurry’s eyebrows loosen, a motion near imperceptible were they not standing so close. He backs away then, wordless, and retreats, tucking the photo away into the pocket of his jeans.

Josh begins to seriously regret his midday nap by the time midnight rolls around. He’s drowsy enough for it to press a heavy ache behind his eyelids, but just awake enough to impede his body from keeping still. He’s been tossing and turning for surely over an hour at this point, and he refuses to so much as check his phone for the time so as not to deplete whatever progress he’s made so far. So, he keeps his eyes stubbornly shut, willing his limbs to settle.

He just barely manages to keep them shut even when the sound of keys slotting into the front door crack the silence down the middle. The door doesn’t so much as squeak, but the shuffling footsteps that soon follow are enough to announce Blurry’s return from wherever it is he went to earlier in the evening. Josh is on his side, facing the back of the couch, so even if he were to crack his eyes open, he wouldn’t be able to see who the second, soft pair of footsteps belong to without turning over. Somewhere further down the hall, he catches a jumbled whisper or two, answered only by the sound of a door shutting quietly.

Josh isn’t a religious guy—hasn’t stepped foot in a church since elementary school—but he finds his begging akin to prayer that what he thinks is happening right now isn’t .

He focuses on sleeping. Counts sheep, slows his breathing, visualizes a blanket of serene ease falling over his body—and after a while, it almost works. He soon begins to float away from the warm stiffness of the couch, and the pestering twinge in his back, thoughts bobbing on the surface of his consciousness, shifting into ones far out of grasp and unintelligible.

Until, that is, he hears a low, muffled rumble from beyond the walls. Deep and throaty, and immediately Josh is plucked right out of that peaceful state. He shifts, craning his neck over to face the hallway as if that’ll make him hear better. 

The knocking begins. A harsh, rhythmic thumpthumpthump against the wall. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Josh mutters into the living room, snaking his arms out from under the blanket to scrub at his tired eyes. 

Another rumble rings out, louder this time—now more certainly a groan. Even through the barrier of wall and ample space, Josh catches its lowness, much too deep to be Blurry’s. His befuddlement is short-lived, because in between one knock of the headboard against the wall and the next, the situation invokes an image of Blurry sprawled out on his expensive bed sheets with his tongue down another man’s throat. Either being pounded into the mattress, hips bruised in the shape of fingers and face shoved into the pillow; or on his knees, doubled over and thrusting relentlessly into the faceless stranger, eyes narrowed and sharp with that familiar acute focus.

Josh’s skin burns—he writes it off as a product of his fatigued irritation, and drops his arms brusquely by his sides. He bores two holes into the ceiling, visualizing Blurry’s face there if only to reinforce his glaring.

He shuts his eyes decisively. Screws them tight, then relaxes. Finds himself straining to catch a second voice amid the thumping, but detects none—unsurprising that Blurry’s the quiet type in bed. Immediately after that thought lands, he snaps back into reality and wonders what the hell he’s doing. 

All he can really do is shove his pillow over his head and hope it smothers him in his sleep.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time and two Youtube tutorials for Josh to figure out how to work the coffee machine the next morning. Once he triumphs, however, he tosses two slices of white bread into the much simpler toaster and takes a seat in one of the stools. He’s scrolling through his phone, mid-bite, when the door cracks open down the hall. Josh tethers his gaze to the screen only until Blurry enters his line of sight across the kitchen island. He shoots a silent glare at his back, before glancing down the hallway from which he emerged.

“Where’s your friend?” He asks, aiming for a mildly mocking tone. Blurry doesn’t turn to face him, doesn’t take the bait—just reaches for a mug in the cupboard. His arms are bare, save for his hands, gloved as always, and the sides of his loose black tank top curve steeply to expose the dips of his ribs.

“Not my friend,” he corrects boredly, reaching out to tap something on the coffee machine. “Told him to leave before I woke up.”

Josh chews on his dry toast thoughtfully, latching his gaze onto the back of Blurry’s head until he turns, and then Josh’s attention dips to the dark hickeys littered down his throat and collarbones, peeking out above the neckline. He huffs through his nose, toast dropping ungracefully onto the plate. He dusts his fingers off, and reaches for the warm handle of his plain white mug.

“Barely got any sleep,” he grumbles. Blurry’s coffee spews steam into his face, but he stills nonetheless to hold Josh with a bland stare. 

“Okay?”

“I doubt you fucked a homeless guy. Could’ve gone to his place instead.”

Then, much to Josh’s surprise, Blurry chuckles . It’s dry and humorless, more of a curt exhale through faintly upturned lips, but it gets his point across. His point being that he really doesn’t care in the slightest. 

Blurry raises his mug, and while taking a slow drink, turns his head to the side—as if struggling to snap the wire of their connected gazes. He eventually turns, shaking his head while setting the mug on the counter. 

Josh glances at the last few bites of his breakfast, picking it up only for it to hang idly from his fingers. Blurry tugs the fridge open, bends forward in search of something. 

“Where’d you go, anyway?” Josh finds himself asking with little forethought, “you don’t seem like the Grindr type.”

Straightening, egg carton in hand, Blurry utters, “Why do you care, Joshua?”

It stuns Josh, not just the uncharacteristically casual tone it’s spoken in, utterly bereft of his usual scorn, but the question itself , too. His toast freezes in his hand, hovering above the ceramic. Blurry continues his steadfast drifting around the kitchen, gathering utensils and ingredients for his breakfast. 

Why does he care? Hell, why did he even ask? He couldn’t care less where Blurry went off to last night, or where he found the guy he hooked up with. By this point, his discontent over having lost sleep has dissipated more and more the longer he’s been awake. At this odd, pregnant silence, Blurry twists his torso over, eyeing Josh curiously. In doing this, catches Josh’s narrowed eyes fixed on the darkest bruise on his neck, right in the dip above one of his collarbones. 

He shifts in his seat, feeling exposed despite not being the one walking around brandishing the aftermath of last night’s hookup like a medal of honor. 

His phone, lying idly beside his mug, commences a sudden, mild vibration, instants before ringing cuts through the kitchen. Josh shakes his head and peers down at the upturned screen. He picks up before the third ring. 

“Keons,” he greets, watching Blurry’s shoulders perk up faintly with attention. 

“Good, you’re awake,” says Keons, voice dulled by an indiscernible shuffling in the background, as though he’s moving things or out in public. “I need you two here pronto.”

He glances at Blurry, busy cracking two eggs into a small bowl. “Right now?”

“No, next week,” Keons deadpans. “ Yes , now. I’ll be here.”

The drive to the zoo is brief and uneventful, and Josh wonders how many more times he’s going to sit in Blurry’s car in complete silence. It’s a short distance, fortunately, so as soon as they’re parked, Josh is slipping out and heading straight for the lab beyond the turnstiles. 

Inside, Keons sits by one of the tables, fingers deftly tapping across a laptop keyboard. His gaze drifts up after a beat, and scans the two of them before nodding. He greets them simply, before turning back to the screen and typing in some more. Then, with a final, exaggerated tap, he pulls it shut and offers the pair his full attention. 

“I’ve got a job for you boys,” he announces, then swiftly raises his hands. “Don’t worry, it’s not as life-threatening as the last one you two were assigned. Probably, at least. So long as you don’t fuck it up.”

“What is it?” Blurry pipes up, crossing his arms over his chest. Josh glances at him, and at the tight-collared shirt he changed into before leaving. The show was meant just for him, apparently. 

“Some days ago the family clinic was raided and Dr. Meany was arrested. I’ve been talking to some of the officers on our payroll and apparently he’s being held in a station a few minutes from here until his trial. But , every one of our people have been taken out in their cells within days of their arrest. We cannot afford to lose Meany. He’s one of our best, and not to mention our only doctor.”

“You want us to protect him? Isn’t that the police’s job?” Josh asks. Keons turns to him, perching an elbow over the tabletop with a faint, knowing glint of mischievousness in his eye.

“Better,” he shoots back. “We’re breaking him out.”

Chapter Text

The lit cigarette captured loosely in between Tyler’s lips crackles and blinks. He breathes through his nose, avoiding inhaling any of the smoke as he intermittently reaches up and plucks it out of his mouth with two fingers, before returning it once more. He watches as the warm, glowing end eats away at the paper and leaves in its wake crumbling tobacco ash that drifts to the cracked sidewalk with every leisurely tap of his finger. It’s nearing the filter, albeit slowly given its unassisted pace, but he spares a quick glance over his shoulder nonetheless, to the small, iron-barred window he’s deliberately parked himself beside. Officers drift in and out of the building, most clad in uniforms similar to his own, while others—surely higher-ranking—sport darker formal wear, brandishing various pins and insignias that speak of their ranks. They don’t spare him more than a handful of brief, uninterested glances as they pass by; there’s nothing more to see here than a lowly street cop taking his midday smoke break.

He plucks the cigarette from his mouth, suppressing a grimace at the foul stench. His free hand draws up to hook two fingers underneath the knot of his tie and tugs against the uncomfortable sensation of it pressed so tightly to his throat. The same hand then rises to adjust the black CPD cap on his head. Ash plummets to the ground by his boots, and Tyler shares a tight-lipped, greeting nod with a cop that walks out of the precinct.

The continual, soft buzz of the fluorescent lights bleeding through the window, and the hum of the AC’s outdoor unit stutter in unison before falling into an abrupt silence. Tyler glances at the window again, confirming his signal; the power is effectively out.

He flicks the cigarette to the ground, where he gives it an absentminded squash underneath his heel before he’s making a beeline back toward the main entrance doors. The station is draped in darkness, a bustling commotion following the cops scurrying about like mice. It’s faintly amusing, but Tyler keeps a straight face and a downturned head as he slips inside, undetected. The cool, conditioned air is already beginning to give way under the press of the sticky heat outside; Tyler presumes this fact is what’s causing most of the irritated uproar among the officers.

Once inside, he makes a sharp turn to the right, and with his gaze held low, angles his strides just barely to the side with calculated precision.

He slows, but doesn’t stop entirely, when he bumps into the shoulder of a frazzled cop darting in the opposite direction. Tyler feigns a small stumble, hands shooting up and steadying himself in one swift motion. The cop straightens, hardly spares him a glance as he mutters a rough apology and continues on his path to the front desk. Tyler backs a few steps, still facing the rest of the station, before turning swiftly on his heel and continuing. Sunlight spills through the windows, but they grow smaller and fewer in between the closer he gets to the cell area. It isn’t pitch black, however, so he calmly strolls up to the closed room labeled HOLDING CELLS on a sign by the door, and comes to lean against the wall. His eyes flick up from their calculative scan of his environment to the security camera protruding from the ceiling—showing no sign of its periodic pan up and down the hall, nor of the bright red LED signaling its recording status. Still, somewhat paranoid, he ducks his head when people pass, who mutter their grievances regarding the unforeseen power outage under their breaths. 

He hones in on the sound of approaching footsteps, and looks up when a pair of feet come to stand before the door on his left. Tyler cautiously eyes the side of the man’s face, who reaches for a small card hooked to his belt, and then turns to him.

“Officer,” the man greets him, face unreadable, but the hasty nod of shrewd acknowledgement he gives is enough to reveal himself as the person Tyler’s been waiting for. He nods back, silent as the officer—Grayson, if Tyler’s memory serves him right—swipes his keycard over the reader and shoulders the door open. Tyler lingers, waits. Checks his watch.

Voices filter out through the thick door, mild though approaching. The card reader flashes green again, and the door swings open. Officer Grayson and the cell guard step out—the latter making sure to tug the door shut behind him, and then they’re off down the hall. Tyler waits until they’re out of sight, then turns to the door, and fishes out the keycard he swiped from the cop he bumped into earlier. The small scanner device drilled into the wall blinks from red to green, and Tyler slinks inside.

The holding cell wing of the building is significantly darker than the rest of the place—with the presence of windows even scarcer here, limited to tiny rectangular gaps high on the walls, and only one in each cell. The cells themselves more closely resemble dog crates: cramped and cold, sacrificing spaciousness for the sake of cramming as many as possible into the relatively small room. They hold no more than flat metal benches rising from the floor against the furthermost wall, and about half of them are in use. 

Tyler ignores the resentful glares hurled his way, walking past cell after cell until he reaches the sight of a familiar face behind the closely-spaced bars.

Meany’s face shifts, a dozen expressions shuffling through his aged features before his sharp eyes snap past Tyler and it settles. He holds Tyler’s gaze with a stony understanding in them. 

Tyler says nothing as he approaches, swiping the card through the reader of Meany’s cell and yanking it open. Meany rises from the bench, movements smooth and poised like those of a cat, and turns his back as soon as Tyler reaches for the handcuffs tucked into his tactical belt.

“Come on,” Tyler urges once snapped the cuffs around Meany’s wrists over the small of his back. He secures a firm grip on Meany’s upper arm, and leads him back to the door.

“He sent you?” Meany murmurs over his shoulder, using the irritated clamor amid the station as a muffler for his words. 

“No,” Tyler replies. It isn’t difficult to know who Meany is referring to—after all, there’s not many people who can send Tyler to do anything other than Nico. “Keons,” he huffs upon receiving a puzzled over-the-shoulder glance from Meany. This only seems to further confuse the man, but he knows better than to press at the moment, so he shuts his mouth tightly.

Tyler walks him through the commotion of the station, from one end of the building to the other. They walk past a threshold that gives way to a sprawling floor packed with cluttered desks and bustling officers.

Before they can even make it halfway to the back exit where they’re to slip out through, the overhead lights flicker back on with blinding brilliance. Tyler stiffens, and his eye catches the red gleam of a nearby security camera. He angles his head even lower, hoping the cap does a sufficient job in shielding his face. He discreetly checks his watch, and promptly clicks his tongue.

It’s four minutes too early than the established time.

He continues nonetheless, or tries to, when the pair are stopped by a towering figure intercepting their path.

“Hey,” the officer grunts. Tyler makes half-assed eye contact from under the brim of his cap. The officer’s eyes drop to Tyler’s badge. “Officer… Stephenson. Where’s he going?”

“I’m at ninth District, he’s being transferred there to be closer for his trial.” The practiced lie falls from Tyler’s lips with hardly any forethought, voice blunt and steady. The cop’s eyes narrow, jumping between him and Meany for a long moment.

“I haven’t heard of any transfers being approved. Are you sure it’s him?”

Tyler’s jaw ticks. He glances past the officer’s shoulder at the exit beyond him.

“Unless this isn’t Paul Meany, then yes, I’m sure,” he grumbles. The suspicious stare held on him sharpens, freezes over with instinctive defensiveness. Tyler blinks, mostly bored, as the officer’s lip curls faintly in irritation.

Then, “Stephenson!”

Tyler perks up moments before craning his neck over his shoulder to see Officer Grayson approaching dutifully. He hardly spares his coworker a glance, stopping before them and nodding toward the back exit door.

“Transport’s waiting on you outside. Everything alright?” Tyler nods curtly, then looks back at the other man, whose tension seems to have begrudgingly seeped out of his body. Grayson must be his superior, if the way his shoulders sag and he steps aside begrudgingly is anything to go by.

“Peachy,” Tyler deadpans, holding his gaze on the tight-jawed cop before snapping back to Grayson and offering a silent nod of appreciation. “Officers.” Then, he lightly urges Meany forward, and swiftly cuts through the remaining stretch to the back exit. 

Outside, a small way down the narrow backstreet, sits parked a dark transport vehicle, one borrowed from another one of the cops on Nico’s payroll, one in higher places than Grayson, and who can manage to make a prisoner transport van disappear for a day or two without raising any suspicion. Tyler heads straight for it, circling around the side to tug open the rear and let Meany climb inside. Tyler slams it shut behind him and approaches the passenger side door.

He doesn’t bother with his seatbelt, turning immediately to Joshua as soon as he’s seated.

“What happened to turning the power back on after I got out?”

Joshua is already pulling out of the alley, leaning forward slightly to turn onto the main road. Once speeding down it, he leans back again, hands sliding low on the steering wheel.

“I couldn’t stay by the fuse box, they started comin’ out to investigate quicker than we’d thought.”

Tyler rolls his eyes, not for any reason in particular other than to thoroughly express his prickle of annoyance at Joshua’s easygoing tone. The car smells like cigarettes, and Tyler is certain it isn’t just his own smoke-infused clothing. Of course he sounds so nonchalant about it, he did nothing but sit in the car and wait, surely chain smoking enough to kill a small animal while Tyler did all the hard work. However, with Meany sitting free and unscathed right behind them, and Tyler’s own person intact, he can’t find it in himself to hold onto his exasperation for any longer than it takes them to pull into yet another alley and switch cars. The police van is left abandoned in a shadowed gap between buildings, where Keons’ police contact will soon drop by to pick it up, like it was never gone at all. They shuffle into Joshua’s own car, left there in wait a few hours before the plan was set in motion. Tyler’s almost surprised he even owns one. It’s a lousy piece of machinery, weather-beaten and powered by an engine that coughs and sputters every time it kicks back into motion after a stop.

Sometime during a particularly long red light, Joshua glances over at him, then down at his borrowed uniform. He blinks and promptly puffs out a quiet sound of amusement—as though he finds Tyler dressed as a police officer of all things deeply humorous. Tyler can certainly acknowledge the irony there, but he really doesn’t think it should warrant so many poorly-disguised stolen glances.

Meany doesn’t ask many questions during the ride, but he does raise one very valid inquiry when he notices the fact that Joshua is pulling into the parking lot of a zoo that’s been abandoned for over a decade. Joshua explains, in a somewhat concise manner, the reason for this temporary base of operations, and upon being informed that Keons is inside awaiting their arrival, Meany gives a curt nod. Tyler figures he’s saving the rest of his questions for Keons, who’ll surely answer them better than Joshua does anyhow. They lead him through the entrance and around the laboratory building, where the back door is left cracked open, and Keons sits inside.

He rises out of his seat immediately, gaze latching onto Meany for a split second before swiping across the other two—presumably checking them over.

“Doc,” Keons grins, approaching with an outstretched hand. Meany cracks his first smile of the day, and their hands meet in a firm, friendly shake. Keons reaches up to smack the doctor’s forearm for a second before their hands part. “Good to see you in one piece.”

Meany makes a throaty noise of agreement, eyebrows raising on his forehead. “For a minute there I thought I wouldn’t be,” he exhales, breaking Keons’ gaze in order to take in his surroundings. He turns on his heel, peering at the dusty, empty laboratory, before Keons pipes up again.

“Not on our watch. We’ve lost too many.”

At that, Meany appears to snap back to full attention. “About that,” he hums, glancing back at Tyler, then sparing a more concise look to Joshua. “Nico didn’t give the order for this?”

Keons’s lips press tight, then ease with a mild shake of his head. “Not quite.”

Meany’s face twists, puzzled. He looks between the three faces around him, but Tyler looks only to Keons, who takes the lead. He explains, then, as Tyler and Joshua linger behind in complete silence, everything the doctor needs to know. Keons is efficient and well-spoken, summarizing the last several days— months , really, considering the beginning of his own suspicions—in no more than a minute or two. Meany nods along, eyes sharp and pensive.

“So,” Keons adds, once roughly rounded up the debrief, “if you’re willing, maybe you could work with us.”

Meany simmers in his thoughtfulness for several straining moments, arms crossed over his chest, gaze low. Finally, he gives one pointed nod, a finality to it only exacerbated by his words. “How can I help?”

Keons grins, a crooked, self-satisfied thing, then shrugs coolly. “By telling us about the arrest, for starters.”

Meany nods curtly, then strolls over to the nearest table and turns to lean back against the edge. Tyler watches him shift, as if fatigued—either physically or simply by the memory of his arrest and time spent detained. His lips part to release first a long-suffering sigh, and then he speaks.

“It was the last thing I could’ve expected. Truly,” he gives a dry chuckle, “fifteen years I’ve been working out of that clinic, never had an issue. Not with the police, not with the FBI—not even the goddamn IRS. Then one day I’m restocking as usual, and before I know it there’s a whole squadron of pigs kicking the door in and swarming the place.” 

His voice thickens and snarls with an undercurrent of simmering outrage, nostrils flaring at the mere recollection. 

“They wouldn’t tell me anything, just that they had a warrant and reasonable grounds for arrest. I don’t know who it could have been. Probably an anonymous tip.”

Tyler rolls his head on his shoulders, hoping to soothe some of the tension stretched across his neck. He looks from Meany to Keons, then catches in the corner of his eye Joshua reaching up to glide his fingers through bright red hair.

“Wait a minute,” Keons pipes up, brow taut with concentration. He releases a disbelieving breath, somewhere in between a scoff and a chuckle. “God, I’m an idiot. That does narrow it down. Not everyone in the family has access to the clinic. Most don’t even know the address.”

That’s right. Tyler is so used to dropping by Meany’s clandestine office whenever a rough job leaves him sore and battered, it had completely slipped his mind that not everyone in the family does so as well. For soldiers such as Joshua, or various other low-ranking members, their only access to the family’s only doctor is by way of his public clinic, where he’ll find gaps in between other patients to discreetly offer his services for free. 

“Well, yeah,” Joshua counters, not sounding very convinced by Keons’ realization. “How much does it narrow down, though?”

“More than you’d think,” Keons replies. “Nico’s always been very picky about who to allow access to certain information—the clinic being one of those things.”

“So we investigate everyone who knows about it,” Tyler says bluntly, beginning to tire of this conversation; the uniform is unbearably warm, and the unconditioned lab doesn’t help. 

“Right,” Keons replies, scanning the faces around him with pointed resolve. He stalls on Meany. “In the meantime,” he continues, “I’d suggest you don’t go back to work. Or your house, for that matter. I’ve got a safehouse a little while out you can stay at.”

Meany nods readily, unruffled. “Fine by me. I’m just glad I’m out.”

Keons grins, and steps forward to clap the doctor over the shoulder. Before he can get another word out, Joshua butts in.

“Wait, you’ve had a safehouse this entire time?” Tyler’s attention snaps to him, and notes with quiet amusement the disbelief morphing Joshua’s pinched expression.

“You honestly think I don’t own a safehouse?”

Joshua’s face contorts even further. “Why couldn’t I stay there?”

Keons looks between him and Tyler, who bristles at the wordless, fond implication gleaming in his eye.

“It’d do you both some good to get along,” explains Keons with a lighthearted shrug. He turns to Meany, squeezing his shoulder once more. “C’mon, I’ll drop you off.”

Joshua is left spluttering and gaping like a fish out of water, hands held out weakly at his sides as the older pair retreat, conversing casually amongst themselves.

After the creaking swing and subsequent click of the door closing gives way to a moment of silence, Joshua scoffs through his nose, and his arms fall limply to his sides. Tyler, in the meantime, lets his attention drift to one of the laptops sitting open on the table beside him, its screen dark and faintly reflective of his approaching form. His index finger reaches out for an experimental tap of the space bar, but the screen remains asleep—surely drained of battery. His knuckles drop with a quiet, leather-dulled thud onto the tabletop. 

He attempts to recall everybody who knows the location of the clinic, other than Nico, Keons, and himself. Not very many come to mind aside from Lisden, the closest thing to an underboss after Keons—though Tyler seriously doubts she’s the mole. She’s been working for Nico even longer than Keons has, and from what he’s heard, Nico has gotten her out of more than a few legal messes in the past. Not much room for any resentment to fester there.

Maybe they’re barking up the wrong tree. Maybe the mole isn’t as high-ranking as they’ve been led to believe. For all they know it could very well have been an inconspicuous soldier just stealthy to follow someone to the clinic and drop an anonymous tip on the police line.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Tyler doesn’t even need to turn around—he can hear the grin in Joshua’s grating voice well enough. He clamps his jaw tight and reaches over to fold the laptop shut, if only to give his hands some brief purpose beside tapping his fingers pensively over the tabletop. He then slides one palm through his hair, and snags the other under the knot of his tie in order to finally loosen it.

Behind him, Joshua gives a long-suffering exhale. Tyler turns, weaving his forearms across his chest.

“We’re playing that game, huh?” He hums, head slanting to the side in a gesture immediately analogous to that of a dog. Joshua’s attention isn’t one of intellectually-inferior reverence, though—it’s far more contemplative. The dark glint in his gaze still bears that persistent, teasing edge to it, but alongside it Tyler finds none of the true malice he’s seen there before. Joshua’s eyes dip, and land on Tyler’s arms. He nods vaguely, his tone a terrible attempt at detached nonchalance when he speaks.

“What’s with the gloves?”

Tyler doesn’t miss a beat. “What’s with the hair?”

Joshua laughs—really laughs . His grin is crooked and strangely genuine, eyes crinkled and so amused Tyler almost feels out of place being the one at the end of it. Joshua drops his head for a split second before reconnecting their eyes, brow furrowed but sustaining a milder, open-mouthed smile.

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“It’s ridiculous,” Tyler retorts, following the smooth motion of Joshua carding his fingers through it, feigning self-consciousness. “And it makes you stick out.” The sides, hued his natural dark brown, are significantly shorter than the haphazardly dyed top, but visibly grown out beyond a fresh buzz.

“You like it, though,” Joshua chirps, giving that stupid, cocky head tilt again. Tyler can’t help but roll his eyes, mirroring the motion in half-hearted ridicule.

“Keep dreaming, Dun.”

Josh’s lips press together, but his smile doesn’t wilt—instead it reshapes, becoming one far more brazen. Wolfish, almost. He blinks, slow and deliberate, as his gaze dips, trailing pointedly down Tyler’s figure. Drinks him in openly, joined by a shameless current of lascivious interest that makes Tyler’s fingers twitch against his arms. He manages to keep his own gaze from wandering, fixing his attention unyieldingly on Joshua’s eyes, until they eventually drag back up and reconnect.

“I can’t lie,” Joshua exhales, twisting his lips as if the admission brings him a disheartened defeat. “You look good in uniform.”

Tyler could almost laugh. “Do I?”

Joshua eyes only his face this time, as if searching for something, before he’s grinning again and moving forward with two long strides. Tyler is dragged in by a fist around his tie and their mouths collide moments before their chests do.

It’s filthy right off the bat. Tyler’s hands snake up to find their respective holds on Joshua’s hair and the center of his back, eyes screwing shut. Their lips and tongues move against each other with bruising force, aided by the wet glide of their shared spit. It’s hardly a kiss—it’s forceful and graceless. Joshua’s fingers curl into Tyler’s jaw, prying his mouth open wider to lick past his lips. In response, Tyler tugs sharply on a fistful of red hair, and grins when Joshua’s breath catches.

With neither too keen on relinquishing control, their teeth clink and lips slide occasionally off-center, kissing instead the corner of each others’ mouth or upper chin.

And yet, Tyler’s skin is ablaze. His bloodstream flooded with electricity, stemming from every point of sizzling contact against Joshua’s muscle-firm body. Teeth sink into his lower lip, and Tyler finds himself instantly stunned, mouth falling out of sync. Joshua doesn’t complain, nor does he reconnect—instead, he walks Tyler back until he meets the edge of the table. His mouth wanders, latching onto the hinge of Tyler’s jaw, nibbling and sucking briefly before dipping lower.

Tyler sucks in a lungful of air through his nose, head rolling back slightly to make room for Joshua’s exploring tongue. Meanwhile, his own hand sneaks lower, dipping underneath the hem of Joshua’s shirt and pressing flat against his bare back, feeling even through the material of his gloves the heat rolling off of his skin.

Blinking dazedly at the ceiling, it only strikes him after a minute or so that the spot Joshua has stubbornly anchored his dragging teeth and sucking lips on is right over the last fading bruise pressed into his skin a few nights ago. Arousal surges through him in a low pulse, hips jerking before he can stop himself. 

He swallows, then, and grounds himself. His hand, still cemented in Joshua’s hair, tugs insistently until he feels the wet mouth move off of his throat.

He catches with a trickle of smugness the flushed shade of Joshua’s face, the darkened, hooded need in his once teasing gaze. His eyes flick impatiently between Tyler’s, asking only through this motion why they stopped. Tyler snuffs out the twisted grin that insists at the corners of his mouth; if he’s going to be stupid, he can at least have a little fun with it.

“‘M surprised the cop uniform does it for you so much,” he purrs, sliding his hand out from underneath Joshua’s shirt to press two fingers into one toned pec and push him away. Joshua drifts back, tongue parting out to wet his kiss-swollen lips, thrown entirely for a loop.

“I should get going,” Tyler hums, pulling the bottom edge of his glove down to reveal the face of his watch. “Got somewhere to be.”

It seems to click for Joshua, then, and the dazed confusion in his expression morphs into an exasperated awareness. 

“Course you do,” he deadpans, watching through narrowed eyes as Tyler straightens and moves away from the table’s edge. He doesn’t turn when Tyler circles around him, and before he steps out of the lab, catches him running a frustrated hand through his tousled hair. 

The satisfaction burrowing in Tyler’s chest lingers for hours afterward.

Chapter Text

Two drinks in, Josh is beginning to feel the steady emergence of loose-limbed tipsiness fizzling from within his gut. It warms him from bone to skin—though the club is far from cool, so the alcohol-enhanced warmth comes as more of a curse than anything close to pleasurable. Beneath the shifting and flaring neon lights, a mass of dancing, drunken bodies only further thicken the heat hanging in the air. Josh’s empty bottle clinks on the stained surface of the low-sitting table before him, and then he leans back, throwing his arms over the stiff backrest of the booth seating. The bass blasting through the overhead speakers takes up residence deep in the pit of his chest, thumping through his ribs.

Across from him, Mark and Debby continue their conversation about some new film Josh has no interest in watching—probably something independent and experimental, if he had to guess. Despite the small distance between him and the pair, their conversation tapers off somewhere in the middle, swallowed up by the deafening music. Even where they are, deliberately crammed into a far corner, and on the opposite end from the stage where the highest concentration of hooting, inebriated men mill about, the noise is overbearing.

Josh finds himself caring increasingly less, however, as his bloodstream further absorbs the two beers he’s had so far. His fingertips dance in matching rhythm to the music against the faux leather backrest and he tips his head back to lie upon it.

He’s never been very fond of strip clubs, they just aren’t his scene—but it’s been a while since the three of them went out, and more often than not do they end up coming to one of the several family-owned locations, where they’re usually lucky enough to score a few free drinks. The music is decent enough, too.

A rough smack on his knee draws his attention from the light-patterned ceiling. He lifts his head to see Mark settling back in place, watching him.

“You aren’t tapping out yet, are you?” He asks, lifting his own bottle to his shrewd lips. Josh shakes his head, glancing briefly at Debby across from him, who eyes him with an arched brow over the rim of her glass.

“Just tired,” he says, hardly bothering to sit up from his leisured posture, limbs spread and lax across his side of the booth. “I’m still good.”

“What do you have to be tired about?” Mark lightheartedly derides, extending a leg to toe Josh in the calf. “You haven’t taken another job since your little team-up with Blurry.”

Josh clicks his tongue, casting a muted glare both at him and at Debby, who loudly hums in agreement. It’s an honest testament to his self-restraint, having followed Keons’ order of secrecy to a tee; it’s rare that he keeps anything from either of them, let alone them both, and especially regarding something as significant as this job. From their perspective, he’s been doing nothing these past two weeks or so besides sitting around on his ass, milling about HQ or nagging Debby at work, all while they’ve been working as usual.

Before he can piece together a reply equally dismissive and convincing, Debby pipes up. “How was it, anyway?” Upon earning herself a wordless, puzzled stare, clarifies, “The job. With Blurry.”

“Oh,” Josh exhales, tipping his body forward to balance his elbows on his knees. He reaches for his bottle, but is effectively reminded of its emptiness as soon as he lifts it. Instead of discarding it, however, his fingers move to the damp label hardly still plastered onto the surface.

“It was fine,” he says, shrugging. “He’s not the easiest guy to get along with. Or work with, even—but we got the job done, so…”

When he casts a flimsy glance up at the two, he just about catches the expectant suspicion in Debby’s face, accentuated only by the beam of neon green draped across the side of her face.

“All that bitching for that?” She asks after a brief lull, though her voice jumps with repressed humor. Mark snorts beside her, downing the last of his beer and settling it onto the table with a loud clink of finality.

Meanwhile, Josh sputters, fingers halting their attempt to peel the label off in one piece. “It sucked! I think it warranted a little bitching, alright? And I still—” 

His sudden cutoff doesn’t go unnoticed, much to his dismay. Josh abandons the bottle on the table and cards his hands together between his knees. 

“You still what?” Mark asks, tentative and deductive. Josh shrugs again, hands once again moving—restless and fidgety—to tug absentmindedly at the tunneled gauge in his right earlobe.

“...Nico said he’d keep us in mind for other jobs,” he mutters, cautiously eyeing the two across from him. “So I might have to work with him again.”

He wipes his palms across the sides of his thighs, where the black denim remains intact, as opposed to the threaded tears across his knees and lower thighs. 

“That sucks,” Mark says blandly, evidently tipsy and therefore no longer interested in this conversation. Josh basks in silent relief for a second or two, before smacking his thighs and shooting to his feet.

“I’ll get us more drinks,” he announces, preceding his exit from the narrow space between the booth and table with a brief glance at Debby, who’s doubtfully staring straight at him. As soon as his words register, and she opens her mouth to make her usual order, Josh butts in. “I’m getting beers. That’s it.”

“Josh,” she gripes, shoulders sagging.

He’s already backing away as he calls back, “I’m not blowing the bartender for a free espresso martini, Debs.”

Her defeated glare is the last thing he sees before he’s whipping around on his heel and strolling deeper into the club. He’s immediately hit with a wall of body heat and the stench of sweat, but does nothing more than pull a weak grimace and continue to navigate through the open spaces he can find near the far wall. His feet feel airy, weightless, as he maneuvers through sticky bodies and the omnipresent pulsing of the music overhead. 

The bar reveals itself eventually beyond a shifting gap parting through the crowd, past which a row of TV screens bolted high into the wall radiate the bold, shifting hues of a long-passed football match replay. Beneath them, and the floodlit rows of high-end alcohol bottles lined just below, bartenders scurry about, efficiently serving the small crowd scattered along the length of the bar.

Josh approaches the nearest end, nudging an empty stool aside in order to press himself close to the bartop. The pads of his fingers press and peel off of the sticky surface as he cranes his neck in an attempt to catch a bartender’s eye.

He stills entirely, however, as soon as he catches one particular pair several feet down the bar—she immediately cracks a friendly grin at the sight of him.

“Jenna?” He calls, head tipping in befuddlement as she weaves through her coworkers to approach him.

“Hey, Josh,” she greets. “What can I get for ya?”

Instead of answering, he parries with another question. “Since when do you work here?”

She gives a noncommittal shrug, swiping a damp rag across the lower surface on her side of the bar. “Since last week,” she replies. “Been taking a few days extra here. You know how Nico’s pay is.”

Josh’s eyebrows rise and fall on a ragged exhale. “Do I.”

“So, what’ll it be?” 

“Three beers. Whichever’s cheapest.” He pauses, catches the expectant glint in her eye. “On the house?”

She laughs, shaking her head and tossing the rag aside. “Coming right up.”

“You’re a doll, Jen!”

Over her shoulder, Jenna calls, “Save the flattery for your hookups, Spooky.”

Josh laughs and lowers a fraction of his weight onto his forearm, perched over the bartop. His gaze trails up, focusing inattentively on the nearest screen for a few seconds before it falls away, drifting down the bar. There, he spots Jenna, braced against the bar she’s leaning over, hurriedly murmuring something to a customer across from her, shielded from Josh’s view by a man of rather stocky build. As soon as he’s handed his glass and steps away, though, Josh’s shoulders draw infinitesimally tighter.

The one night he tries to get away from the bastard, here he is.

Josh is moving without so much as a second thought—probably not a first one, either.

He doesn’t bother with courtesies, he simply comes to an abrupt halt, inches from the stool, towering. “What are you doing here?”

Blurry’s eyes languidly drift up to meet his, one arm halfway through raising his surely outrageously expensive cocktail to his lips.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, asshole,” Josh bites, skin crawling in response to the bored, almost casual expression eased into Blurry’s face. His movements are slow, temperate, as he takes a long sip. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He finally deadpans, raising his glass in a half-assed gesture toward it before settling it back on the bar. Josh’s eyes snap across Blurry’s dead expression, searching for something he can’t quite place. His chest tightens. 

“Did you know I would be here?”

That seems to squeeze a reaction out of him, albeit a mellow one: a gentle upward twitch of his eyebrows, a tilt of his head. His lips flutter, unreadably so, before he replies. 

“You think too highly of yourself, Joshua.” 

Before Josh can do anything stupid, Jenna’s voice joins the commotion, punctuated by three dull clinks on the wooden surface.

“Three beers,” she reports, hands deftly jumping from one neck to the next as she pries off each cap with a silver bottle opener. Josh’s heated glare lingers on Blurry for a second or two, mirrored right back at him over the curve of a cool glass, before he manages to turn away.

“Thanks,” he nods to Jenna, who eyes the pair briefly before humming and moving off to the next waiting patron. He grabs two bottles by the neck in one hand, and the third in a loose, palmed grip.

Josh doesn’t spare Blurry a glance as he retreats, but he damn well feels the stare drilling into the back of his head for a while afterward.

He makes his way back to the booth where Mark and Debby await, hands the bottles out, and drinks. Downs half of his beer in no more than three swigs, listening in on the conversation flowing between the others but finding himself unable to participate any further than an absentminded nod or hum. Cool condensation sinks into the warm pads of his fingers, creating a grounding contrast of temperature that lingers even after he regularly wipes his fingers dry on his jeans. It’s exasperating, how the simple fact of knowing Blurry currently sits under the same roof—on the one night he wanted to forget about him, and his current living situation, and whatever the fuck happened in the lab a few days ago—can sour his mood to such an extent. He’s tipsy, on a steady path to being properly drunk, and spending time with his two closest (and only) friends; an equation that should result in an unflappable contentment. But he can’t help it, the more he turns it over in his mind the more irritated he gets in turn. He’s certain Blurry is here for a reason, and though it’s one he can’t yet point a finger to, it makes him no less angry.

He’s fished out of his head by way of a sharp call of his name. He looks over to see one faintly amused Mark leaning back in his seat, brows drawn.

“You with us, man?” He jokes, nodding down to the near-empty bottle dangling from Josh’s damp fingers. “Planning on finishing that?”

“ Yes ,” Josh lightheartedly shoots back, taking a hearty gulp of the lukewarm beer. “Sorry, it’s just that Blurry’s here.”

Mark’s eyebrows rise to his hairline, glancing at Debby to catch her similar reaction. “Right now?”

Josh nods, knee bouncing. He feels vaguely sulky—and that feeling is promptly washed away by one more embarrassingly akin to childishness. “Yeah. Saw him at the bar, dunno what he’s doing here.” He pauses, reconsidering. “Well. Jenna’s here. I think they’re close, but still.”

At that, Debby perks up, almost cartoonishly so. “Jenna’s here?” There’s an inkling of excitement amid the faint slur in her voice, and at Josh’s answering nod, she cracks a composed grin. “You didn’t tell me! I’ll go say hi, wait right here.”

And with that, she snatches her purse from the empty space beside her and hurriedly disappears into the crowd. Josh watches her go, sunken defeatedly against the stiff booth backrest. Mark, on his left, clicks his tongue. 

“Well,” he sighs. “We’re not getting her back for at least an hour. Want another beer?”

Josh shakes his head, swirling the last golden dregs in his bottle before emptying it entirely. 

“I’m good,” he exhales, savoring the mild malty aftertaste lingering on his tongue. “I think I’m gonna head out for a smoke.”

It’ll do him some good, surely. To clear his head, get away from the noise and the crowd for a little while. Once he does that, he’ll get properly shitfaced and hopefully forget the entire interaction with Blurry.

“You comin’?” He asks Mark once extracted himself from the booth seating. Mark pulls an irresolute frown, gaze scanning across the interior while he considers the offer. Finally, he shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand.

“I’m good, man. Maybe later. I think I’ll just hang around here for a bit.”

Josh departs with a nod, patting his pockets to verify his cigs and lighter are still on his person. 

The air outside, in the narrow, alley-like strip of cement behind the building, is thick but notably cooler than inside. Josh makes sure to announce his appearance by noisily rattling the door on its hinges before stepping out, in hopes of giving any possible couples out there time to make themselves decent. He catches, upon shutting it behind him, no sound aside from the muffled music and distant chorus of the city that would signal the presence of anybody else with him. He releases a breath from the deep reaches of his chest and shuffles down the length of the wall. A few darkened cars sit parked, single-file, along the opposite wall, and a weather-beaten, corroded sign drilled high into it confirms his suspicions of them belonging strictly to employees.

He comes to a stop a few meters down, flipping open the pack of cigarettes previously fished out of his pocket and extracting one with his mouth. His arms move like smooth, oiled machines, muscle memory storing the small, flimsy box away and, in turn, pulling out his lighter. It flickers once, twice, meagerly spitting puny flares of warmth against his nose and cheeks, before the flame quivers steadily and catches on the end of the cig.

It’s almost peaceful , strangely enough. While it certainly stinks faintly of garbage and wet cement, and he absolutely could have gone out front or to the terrace upstairs where everyone else goes to smoke, it’s far quieter and sufficiently enjoyable for him to gather his thoughts. 

He tilts his head back until he feels the rough surface of the wall against his scalp, and follows the shapeless figures drawn by the lungful of smoke he exhales toward the sky. His eyes slip shut, as the phantom taste of tobacco briefly overshadows that of the beer’s still lingering on his tongue.

A soft scuffle on the ground across from him startles him out of his short-lived peace. He damn near drops his cigarette onto himself, alarm slithering, frigid and sudden, up the back of his neck.

Blurry eyes him with apathy, motionless and cunningly draped in tamed shadows, stalking him like a heeling dog. It doesn’t help Josh’s pulse fall back into normal step.

“Jesus Christ , man,” Josh snaps, hand to his chest. “What is wrong with you? What are you doing out here? Can’t even have a fucking smoke in peace.”

Blurry’s head tips to the side, bringing his face an inch or two out of the shadow—eyes narrowed with primal calculation. He releases a shallow, curt exhale through his nose, possibly the closest thing to a laugh he can achieve. 

“I was out here first,” he says, and although the uncharacteristic, petty immaturity of his words isn’t lost on Josh, he can’t help but counter.

“I came out for a smoke , asshole. You’re out here doing God knows what, lurking like a fucking weirdo in the dark.”

Blurry’s lips twitch microscopically, otherwise expressionless, but his satisfaction at Josh having risen to the bait is undeniable. Josh’s gut twists, simmers. He takes a long, furious drag, all the while boring an irked glare into Blurry.

“You’re not as clever as you think you are,” he says, twisting his head to exhale. “You knew I’d be here, didn’t you? Hell, you probably knew I’d come out here for a smoke.”

Blurry rolls his eyes—exasperated and spiteful, but a reaction nonetheless. Josh grins, sharp.

“What are you getting at?”

Josh laughs. Smoke clouds around his face, faintly misting the image of Blurry’s pinched expression a few feet before him. 

“You tell me, man,” he sighs, shaking his head. His index finger pointedly taps the end of the cig, angled away from him so none of the plunging ash lands on his shoes. He studies Blurry, before continuing. He studies his eyes, darkened not only by shadow, acute and predatory; the tight draw of his mouth, faint but perceptible in the way the corners furl down; the unblinking, searing eye contact that Josh is certain serves as an attempt to intimidate him. It’s fruitless, when he can distinctly remember the sound of Blurry’s breath hitching when his neck is kissed and the feeling of his pulse jackrabbiting beneath Josh’s tongue.

He won’t give him the satisfaction.

“You might as well head back inside now,” he offhandedly comments, snapping their linked gazes to instead watch the warm orange end of his cigarette flare and waver. “Whatever you had planned isn’t happening.”

“Isn’t it?” Blurry swiftly retorts, a pale lilt in his tone suggesting passive amusement. He approaches a step or two, unfocused in Josh’s peripheral vision. Josh takes another drag, and exhales through his nose—Blurry’s eyes remain fixed on his, not dropping for a heartbeat.

“Why not?” He continues, after a lull in which neither of them do anything other than stare. It’s a challenge, a thinly veiled instigation uttered in a low, scratchy tone. Josh’s skin blazes with aggravation. “Scared you’ll like it?”

He doesn’t quite consider it a defeat when he roughly hauls Blurry in by the nape of his neck. It isn’t taking the bait when their lips crash together, dispersing wisps of pale smoke away from their pressing bodies. If anything, it’s taking matters into his own hands. 

Blurry kisses him with immediate urgency, sandwiching his hands between Josh’s back and the brick wall behind him, his fingers clutching, tugging, wandering. Their hips meet an instant before their chests do, pressed flush against one another from thighs to mouths. Blurry’s fingers snake into Josh’s hair, aiming for a reaction, vying in every deliberate movement of his body for dominance. Despite the way twisting fingers map out a trail of goosebumps down Josh’s spine, he doesn’t succumb. 

Instead, he cements his fingers on Blurry’s hips and whips them both around. Blurry’s back hits the wall with an airy grunt, brows drawn, face flushed. He opens his mouth, surely to complain, but Josh renders him mute with another kiss. Keeping one hand on Blurry’s hip bone, mooring him in place, the other wanders off, creeping featherlight fingertips beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the sliver of skin just above his waistband. Josh feels goosebumps prickle in his wake, and tucks away his haughty grin into the skin underneath Blurry’s ear.

His thumb glides down, circling the cool metal button of his jeans a few times before dipping lower, following the zipper’s path. Blurry’s pelvis strains beneath Josh’s pressing palm, jumping in erratic twitches—attempts at proper grinds against Josh’s teasing fingers. The stirring bulge against them isn’t lost on Josh.

It’s silent. Wholly wordless, the way they move against one another, demand and express. Josh doesn’t feel the need to unfasten his mouth from Blurry’s throat to mutter empty, erotic words into his ear, nor to ask what he wants. Blurry parrots this, clutching onto Josh’s hair and shoulders with nothing beyond shallow exhales escaping his parted lips.

If anything, the flood of arousal that dawns on Blurry’s face when Josh sinks to his knees is far more attractive than anything he could say.

He swiftly gets to working Blurry’s jeans open, uninterested in much teasing, and watches every flicker of movement in his face when he yanks down the elastic of his boxers. Blurry’s half-hard and flushed, and Josh makes quick work of the former problem with a few calculated swipes of his fingers and fist. It feels vaguely like scrutinizing an object of study—paying close mind to every motion his hand does, and subsequently noting down the reactions they garner, however much Blurry may attempt to curb them all. Josh finds his pleasure in the tightening of his jaw, the brief fluttering of heavy lashes, and the flaring of his nostrils on a quivering exhale. He’s fully hard soon enough, and only once Josh is satisfied with his work does he move his hand away. It finds Blurry’s opposite hip, and with no warning at all, he takes him into his mouth.

The choked sound Blurry makes is one more of surprise than anything else, but Josh hums with self-satisfaction anyway. Fingers tighten in his hair, not so as to pull him off, but to ground himself as Josh relaxes his throat as best he can and tips his head further forward. 

Blurry sucks in a massive breath through his nose, and splays his palm across the back of Josh’s head; a faux show of the control he doesn’t have. When his hips instinctively attempt to rock forward, to fuck deeper into Josh’s throat, the hands anchored there bind him in place, pressed roughly against the wall.

Josh slowly slides back, hollowing his cheeks and watching with a gleam of pride as Blurry’s brows warp and twist, his lower lip clamped harshly between his teeth as a means to smother every sound rising from his heaving chest.

He lingers by the head, working his tongue and lips, observing what chips the most at Blurry’s dam—all the while his fingers carve deep indents into his bony hips. Josh sinks back down, slow and torturous, and rises back to the tip. Hopes it drives his point home: that Blurry is going to take what Josh feels like giving.

Briefly, the thought of pulling off entirely and heading back inside, leaving Blurry hard and aching and unsated, presents itself and makes something low and hot simmer in Josh’s gut, but he discards it. More so than that, he wants to pick at Blurry’s seams and watch him unravel.

On a particular hard suck, as Josh is taking him as far as he can without choking, Blurry rocks fiercely against his palms and pulls Josh in by the back of his head. Josh’s fingers tighten, drilling bruising pressure into flesh, and pulls back several inches. A low, near-inaudible string of noise slips out when Blurry raggedly exhales.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, breathless and flushed.

Josh’s grip doesn’t relent, after that. He takes his sweet time blowing him, reveling in the weight on his tongue and the sounds of Blurry’s strangled, poorly controlled breathing as the minutes drag by.

Josh doesn’t quite wrench a moan out of Blurry, but it’s a close thing when he comes: a low, throaty hum that cracks right down the center when he utters it through a lip bitten raw. Josh’s thumbs draw harsh circles into the bare skin under Blurry’s shirt—a tender thing on paper, but cruelly overstimulating over faintly bruised flesh.

He pulls off when Blurry’s nails dig a silent warning into his scalp, and then leans over to spit onto the cracked pavement. His knees protest by way of popping aches when Josh moves to stand, watching as Blurry tucks himself back into his pants with unsteady hands. After a second, his eyes, rounded slightly with the waning aftershocks of his orgasm, snap to Josh, and he reaches out to hook one finger into Josh’s belt loop. He’s stopped, however, when Josh raises an arm and lightly bumps him back against the wall with three outstretched fingers to his chest. Blurry’s eyebrows furrow for a split second, glancing down and then back up at Josh. Confusion flitters over his features as Josh casually backs away.

“See you around, Tyler.”

Hours later, after Josh finally tumbles onto Blurry’s couch and he hears the rhythmic knocking of a bedframe against the wall a few rooms over, he writes off the sour twist in his stomach as his hangover settling in early.

He’s slowly beginning to acknowledge some of the benefits that come with staying at Blurry’s place, as much as he may stubbornly try to stay peeved. One of those delightful benefits is the fact that he isn’t paying for the water bill anymore, so he can take thirty-minute-long scalding showers without a worry in the world. God knows Blurry’s wallet can handle it.

This one in particular comes as a soothing balm to the intermittent pounding in his head and nagging chills that have been assaulting him all day. The air in the bathroom is thick with vapor, the mirror hazy and misted over. He doesn’t bother clearing it, however, simply reaches for his towel, half-assedly scrubs his hair just dry enough so it doesn’t drip down his face, and slips into a pair of boxers and basketball shorts. He leaves the door open behind him so it can clear up.

The TV is on down the hall, droning on at a low volume about something he can only make out once he steps into the kitchen. A curt glance finds Blurry spread out on the couch, socked feet planted on the carpet while he nurses a cereal bowl in his lap and mostly pays attention the news. Beyond the window looming past him, the sun dips below the jagged outline of darkened buildings, leaving in its wake a sky of orange and indigo.

Digging his knuckles into the burning tension lodged deep in his lower back, Josh pulls out a soda from the fridge and shuffles into the living room.

Blurry shoots him a cursory glance as he approaches, but physically falters when his gaze drops to Josh’s chest. His nostrils flare, and he pointedly looks back to the screen. 

Josh sinks onto the cushion beside him, snorting bitterly. “What?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“What!” Josh laughs, incredulous. He glances down at himself, twisting the cap off of his Coke. “What is it about me having a personality that bothers you so much? You’ve never seen dyed hair and piercings before?”

“You’re, what, thirty? And you have nipple piercings?”

Josh knees him in the leg, absolutely harder than necessary. Blurry sears him with a warning glare. “I’m twenty-seven, asshole .” Blurry’s eyebrows raise briefly—an unspoken close enough. Josh swallows his retort in favor of taking a long drink. It fizzles on his tongue, cool and sharp. He rests assured that Blurry’s probably into them, he just has a freakish aversion to anything remotely close to fun, and this is his odd way of coping with it.

He swishes another sip of Coke in his mouth before sitting up and leaning over to set the bottle onto the coffee table. His spine manifests its protest by way of a sharp, burning pinch that makes his teeth grind and quickly sink back against the cushion.

Blurry’s head is twisted in his direction, though his eyes sit fixed on the bowl in his lap. After a second, they bounce to Josh’s face, then drop low between them.

“Where’s the scar from?” He asks tersely, masking his interest with a loose furrow in his brow, feigning exasperation. Josh blinks, watching Blurry shift uncomfortably, and after some struggle, meet his eye.

“You mean my back?” 

Blurry nods. Josh knows that was what he meant; there’s no other scar on his body as prominent as the one lined atop his lower spine.

He sighs, dropping his head against the backrest and feigning interest in the colorful forecast map displayed on the TV.

“I had surgery. A year and a half ago, I think. Spinal fusion. Got screws and shit in there.”

“Oh,” Blurry hums after a beat, as though sensing Josh’s discomfort but still curious. Josh glances at him and confirms the presence of an expectant gleam in his eye. He sinks deeper into the cushions.

“I broke three vertebrae on a job,” he mumbles, resolutely picking at a hangnail by his thumb. 

His gut churns, and this time he doesn’t just blame the last dregs of his hangover. Memory curdles, sour and acidic, deep in his core—his skin crawls with a million invisible insects as his senses draw up simulated imitations of everything they still store. The taste of blood from a busted lip and cracked nose; the cold, polished linoleum against his cheek; the commotion of the fight around him; the pain . The concussion he suffered keeps most of the events veiled in an indiscernible fog, but the basics he recalls with clarity. A simple job, on paper: provide protection (and intimidation factor) for one of his superiors so he and Sacarver’s men could settle a territory dispute. They should’ve known how it would’ve ended before even stepping inside—a Sacarver family-owned restaurant, closed and shuttered for the day to provide ample space to converse. One bitter remark had led to a taunting insult, which triggered the first fist thrown, and somewhere amidst the chaos somebody pulled out a metal bat.

Some nights, usually when he makes the mistake of falling asleep while high out of his mind, he’ll be back on that checkered floor, stunned to weeping silence by the agony radiating from his spine, bulldozing down the backs of his legs. Nothing else happens in these dreams, he just lies there for hours—on his stomach, too afraid to move, to even speak, until he eventually flinches awake, sweaty and trembling but at least a little less pained.

He doesn’t remember when or how the fight stopped, nor how he ended up strewn across the backseats of Mark’s car, sobbing and biting so hard into his fist it bled.

Josh blinks, breathing in deep to ease the knot of upset tightening in his chest. He glances at Blurry, reads his pinched brows and taut lips as something he dares say looks like a frown. Blurry hums, but otherwise says nothing—he just turns back ahead, spoon scraping the bottom of his bowl.

But, something else lingers. Something small and petty, but that finds itself on Josh’s tongue nonetheless. 

“That’s what the pills are for.” He studies Blurry for a reaction that never comes. Their eyes meet with something quiet and new. “It’s not—I’m not a junkie. I’m just… in pain. Like, constantly.”

He’s met with a sincere, silent nod and lingering eye contact that borders on intimate. Tyler hums in understanding, and when they look back at the TV, the silence they find themselves in feels a little less sour.

Chapter Text

Keons’ car sits cloaked in deep shadow, stationary by the curb of a long stretch of rather affluent homes, all dark and quiet in the late hour—some time well-past midnight. Josh opens the door to the chittering of crickets somewhere below, accompanied by the simultaneous shuffling of Keons and Tyler slipping out of the vehicle after him. Josh reaches over his head, glancing down the stretch of sidewalk bracketed by flawlessly trimmed strips of grass and lawn, and tugs his hood over his forehead. The three move in silence and mild haste, though no less vigilant for it. The starless, overcast sky bores down on them, omniscient and frankly quite abetting in their trespassing, blanketing them in a deeper shade of darkness than most nights have been lately. 

Keons leads the way up the path that cuts through the flowery lawn without glancing back once, his footfall light and soundless as the other two follow suit. A few shallow brick steps guide them up to the faded welcome mat, where Keons stops before the front door and fishes a key out of his pocket. Josh lingers behind them both, occasionally tossing a wary glance down the spanning rows of packed suburban homes. Street lamps hum around them, flocked by disoriented moths—the three of them stand situated only just beyond the light’s waning reach.

With a muffled, metallic shift, Keons guides the door wide open, stepping beyond the threshold where a steady beeping can be heard. Josh follows Tyler inside, just in time to see Keons jabbing a code into the keypad drilled in beside the door frame. Upon tapping the number sign, the narrow screen up top flashes green and the beeping comes to a halt. Josh furrows his brow, quietly guiding the door shut.

“How do you know the code?”

Keons shoots him a mellow glance, then looks back at Tyler, who’s wandering deeper into the dark home. “It was in her file in Nico’s office. Not very difficult to find.”

Josh pulls an uneasy face, grunting in acknowledgement. He shouldn’t have expected any less.

They tread deeper inside, weighed down by a nagging apprehension as they map out the shadowy first floor. Keons has repeatedly assured them that Lisden doesn’t have any cameras installed other than one at the back door—and her being out of state for the next two nights grants them the perfect opening to snoop around a bit—but their unease lingers nonetheless. 

Standing just barely below Keons in the overarching hierarchy of things, it’s far from a surprise to behold her opulent way of life. It’s decently evident from the neighborhood alone, but the classy, maximalist decor of the two-story home makes it abundantly clear she makes more in a month than Josh could dream of earning in six. The living room is a sprawling area, with every mounted painting resembling some archaic art movement you only find in museums, and the thick, patterned carpet dampens their clashing footsteps, stark in the late silence. Josh eyes the flatscreen television across the leather couch, when a dull flash of yellow catches his eye. He freezes, alarmed, only to find a pair of round, gleaming eyes staring at them unblinkingly from underneath an armchair, right above straggly white whiskers and two front paws peeking out from the stark border of shadow.

Josh exhales through his nose, forcing the tension from his shoulders—at least it isn’t a guard dog.

He looks back ahead, where Tyler stalls behind Keons. He’s staring straight at the cat, tight-jawed, blank-faced. It lasts no more than a second, however, before Keons is mumbling something at them from halfway down the hall and Tyler’s gaze snaps back ahead. Josh doesn’t linger on it for long, instead following the pair up the glossy hardwood staircase.

It doesn’t take much for the three to locate Lisden’s bedroom and office—really the only two rooms they need—and soon enough they’re splitting between them, working as an unspoken unit, fueled only by their itch to grab what they need and get out as soon as possible. Josh, alone, takes the bedroom, a spacious room which he spares a sweeping scan through before zipping straight to the desk at the far wall. Its surface is pristine and uncluttered, bearing nothing more than a sleek desk lamp, a pen holder, and an aged book near the carved lip, its golden-printed title faded to near nothing. He drops to a crouch by one end, tugging open drawers and skimming over thin stacks of neatly-filed documents and miscellaneous pages. He comes up empty-handed, once finished scouring through all three stacked drawers, mostly barren save for scattered desk supplies and personal files; nothing regarding Nico, or the family, or any other one for that matter. Josh rises back to his heels, working the inside of his cheek between his molars. He darts to the narrow bookshelf next, fingertips skipping over the rough spines of weathered classic literature novels and old dictionaries, even pausing to check for anything hidden in between them. His efforts prove ultimately futile, and in the wake of a final cursory search—under the bed, behind the paintings and pictureframes, in the tiny bedside table drawers—he determines the bedroom to be clear.

Lisden’s office sits located at the very foot of the hallway, the closest door to the arched staircase. It’s ajar when Josh approaches, otherwise silent if not for the muted, swift typing he catches when he carefully shoulders it open. The room itself is surely not much smaller than the bedroom, but the wall-to-wall bookshelves stocked full of novels, stubby potted plants and various types of carved wooden figures make the space feel tighter. At the small desk in the center of the floor, Keons sits at the computer, and right beside him Tyler looms by the end of it, sifting through a separated portion of the thick stack of files placed on the surface before him.

“Nothing in the bedroom,” Josh announces, even though neither of them look up from their tasks, nor otherwise acknowledge him in the slightest. He rolls his eyes and shuffles toward the towering bookshelf lining the right wall. His sweeping eyes snag on a pair of small, stacked wooden boxes amidst the wall of books, and he reaches out.

“I’ve already checked that,” Tyler deadpans behind him, and when Josh cranes his neck over, finds Tyler still fixedly inspecting the documents in his hands. Josh opens the boxes anyway. They’re empty.

He follows the length of the bookshelf down to the opposite wall, then approaches the desk right as Tyler’s setting down the stack in his hand and sectioning off another portion from the larger ream. Josh doesn’t even get to lift his arm from his side this time before Tyler speaks again.

“That, too.” Josh shoots him a withering look, and just barely catches the cheeky twitch of his downturned mouth.

“Alright, give me some of that,” Josh counters, gesturing at the last unchecked part in Tyler’s gloved fingers. Tyler drills him with a cagey look underneath his lashes, harsh but nonabrasive. Not as abrasive, at least, as Josh has witnessed in the past. Josh’s hand waves in silent insistence, still suspended in front of him to receive a half. “It’ll be quicker, man, come on.”

Tyler’s gaze flits back to the top page, and his nostrils flare around a sharp, defeated exhale. He splits the stack and hands Josh half.

They wrap up their respective tasks while sunken in a steadfast quiet following that—Josh finds nothing in his chunk, and by the strained, unsatisfied edge in Tyler’s expression, he doesn't either.

“Nothing?” Keons pipes up, glancing between the two. His arm is extended, fingers curled around the bottom of the monitor to hold down on the power button. Josh shakes his head, and Tyler grunts. “No worries. If we’re going to find anything, it’s sure to be in here.” He plucks out and subsequently holds up a red USB drive, pinched loosely between two fingers.

“We will,” Tyler says, terse and uncomplicated, like there’s no other viable possibility. Josh swallows his reservations, and shares a blink of a look with Keons, who rises swiftly out of the chair. Josh watches him hold an odd beat of shallow eye contact with Tyler, and then step away.

“Maybe,” he muses offhandedly, and that’s that.

Back at the zoo, they hunker down around one of the tables in the laboratory, hedged in by various snacks and gas station coffee Josh insisted on getting when they stopped on their way back for gas. Keons sits before his personal computer, USB drive secured in place while the other two laptops that stay in the lab lie opened and fully charged across from Tyler and Josh. The task at hand now isn’t difficult, per se, but meticulous and miserably time-consuming. Josh downs the last dregs of his watery coffee and crushes the flimsy paper cup in an attempt to stave off the drowsiness attributable to the whopping three hours of sleep he’s working on. It works for the first hour, as they divide the contents of Lisden’s work computer amongst themselves and painstakingly scour through walls of files, reports, and emails. But the caffeine’s effects begin to dwindle right as he’s starting an eight-page legal document she sent to Nico about a month ago. He wonders how he ever thought for a second that this process would be anything short of a pain in the ass; Lisden, above anyone else, is the one who most often manages the family’s legal workarounds, weaving their illicit capital through legislative loopholes and ironing out many of their long-standing alliances with government officials, so it’s to be expected that her work computer be brimming with material. The real question is whether they can weed out any evidence unmasking her as the mole, which Josh is beginning to doubt more and more as the hours drag along, and nothing of value reveals itself.

None of them speak. Josh reaches for a bag of sour gummy worms and hopes the sugar will give him the energy to pull through however many gigabytes he has left to sift through.

By the end of it, Josh’s eyes ache with every sluggish blink—he wraps up his portion with the footnote of a proof of income document, and promptly announces his conclusion by way of a deep, heaving sigh, leaning back in his stiff chair. Knuckles twisting into his lower spine, he glances up at Tyler and Keons, who appear to be similarly wrapping up their searches. Josh doesn’t have to wait long before Tyler’s drawing his laptop shut with arguably more force than necessary.

“So…” Josh exhales, lingering on Tyler’s frustrated brow and grinding jaw for a second before refocusing on Keons. None of them have to even ask. 

Polly Lisden is clean as a whistle.

More than suspicious, Josh feels almost unsettled by her utter lack of a personal life outside of work. The closest thing he found was an email chain exchanged with her sister several months ago, the latter asking (damn near pleading , really) for her to visit, to which she was rather coldly turned down on the grounds of having to stay in town for “very important work”.

“What now?” He cautiously asks.

Tyler shakes his head sharply in Josh’s peripheral. His voice is tight and rumbling when he speaks: “It has to be her. There’s no other explanation.”

Carefully, Josh redirects his gaze back to Keons, who he finds already staring back, his bushy eyebrows taut, carving a deep crease in between them.

“There is…” he starts, with all the confidence of an unarmored man tiptoeing around an invisible landmine, “...one other explanation. One other person.”

“Who?” Tyler immediately asks, sharp, puzzled. Josh watches his narrowed eyes flick between them both, and he can almost hear the cogs turning in his head as he decodes their prudent, cautious expressions. Josh then recognizes the exact heartbeat in which he bristles, eyes freezing over. As dead and glacial as they used to be, before he tentatively began to allow the beating humanness caged behind them to thaw out.

“ Nico ?”

Keons’ head tilts down, raising his palms in a silent request for patience. “Let’s think about this for a second, Ty. Nobody else checks all the boxes. It’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

“No, it’s not worth a try, because Nico isn’t the mole. Are you even hearing yourself?” Tyler rises out of his seat—doesn’t explosively shoot to his feet, no, instead he merely lifts himself with an unnerving steadiness immediately reminiscent of the slow, calculative prowl of an apex predator. His attention then snaps to Josh, who almost feels the instinctive urge to wilt underneath it. Instead, he slightly purses his lips and shoots a wary glance at Keons. This day would always come, sooner or later—but Josh had found himself hoping he wouldn’t have to be here to witness it.

“You’ve always suspected him,” Tyler realizes after a pulse of strained silence. Josh searches for outrage in his face, for betrayal, for anything beyond the wall of hollow absence—like Tyler has mentally checked out, bubbling anger replaced by a dead understanding in the mere bat of an eye. He looks back at Keons, and Josh sees something flash there, dull and clipped and utterly unreadable. But then again, it could’ve been the light for all he knows. “Didn’t you?”

“Tyler…” Keons breathes, scratching his forehead.

“No. Fuck this. We’re not doing this,” Tyler says, simple, as though he has the final word. “This is stupid. We can’t afford to waste any time entertaining this.”

Josh’s chest tightens with a barely subdued flinch when Keons snaps back, the side of his hand coming down onto the table. “Oh Christ , what do you think you are to him!? Truly?”

Josh gawks at the man owlishly, blinking once before hastily snapping over to Tyler to gauge his reaction: not too dissimilar to his own. At his brief silence, Keons continues.

“You’re a lapdog to him, Tyler! Don’t you see that? I can’t keep—” an agitated breath bursts out of his chest as he runs a hand through his silvering hair. “He saw you out on the streets all those years ago as a scared, lonely kid and all he saw was potential . You’re his soldier, not his son, and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve the pedestal you keep him on.”

Josh almost feels as though he’s intruding, listening to Keons scrape off what sounds like years of built-up resentment—not toward Tyler, but Nico— and watching Tyler’s face fall, stranded in the epicenter of the wreckage.

Keons releases a shallow sigh, shaking his head in either regret or defeat—Josh can’t quite tell. 

“I’m sorry, but you have to realize that,” he concludes.

The silence that follows rings in Josh’s eardrums like pressing thunder. He carefully studies Tyler’s face, and laments the hardened mask that slips back into place after a few seconds. It’s an unsettling thing to watch.

“Fuck you, Keons,” he snarls, backing away. “Don’t fucking count me in anymore.”

His swift departure is punctuated by the resounding slam of the laboratory door.

Josh listens to it echo faintly across the high ceiling, biting his tongue and staring loosely, in the meantime, at the exit. He decides, sometime amidst the vacant quietness that displaces Tyler’s retreat, that he’ll wait for Keons to speak first. Not that he has a single clue about what to say, anyhow.

When Keons does finally speak up, his words come airy as though accompanied by a small sigh, but heavy in tone nonetheless.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

Josh allows himself to finally look at the man, thumbs fidgeting over the tabletop. 

“Maybe,” he replies. “You aren’t wrong, though.”

“I know I’m not,” Keons retorts, firm but not rancorous nor unkind. He’s still staring at the door, as if willing it to swing back open by Tyler’s hand. Its soundless inaction starkly presents itself almost as a third mocking presence in the room. “But I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

Josh shrugs loosely, ducking his head slightly to peer down at his restless hands. It would’ve likely garnered a very different reaction, had Keons approached the topic differently, but something tells him that Tyler also had to hear it. Candid and harsh, if only to get it through his thick skull. Then again, Josh knows very little about Tyler’s upbringing under Nico’s wing, so who is he to say? The candid, tired exasperation painted across Keons’ expression, sagging his shoulders and drawing his eyes closed, reminds Josh just how little he really knows about Tyler.

Keons clicks his tongue, and despite Josh’s silence, he carries on. “It’s complicated, with him. This is almost a lifetime of conditioning. I watched it happen, for almost the entire time. I mean—I was younger then, and not anywhere near the rank I have right now, but I don’t think I’ll ever…”

His words taper off with a mild shake of his head, but Josh’s mind silently fills in the blanks, despite himself.

I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.

Keons’ jaw ticks, and Josh decides his own silence has gone on too long. “You care about him,” he offers. “That’s worth something.”

Their eyes meet for a lingering beat, and Keons nods once, succinct. He then looks past Josh, back at the door.

“Yeah,” he manages, his brow faintly furrowed, his eyes glazed over and distant as though recalling something. “But still… every time I look at him I can’t help but see a seventeen-year-old kid sobbing his eyes out as I try to wrap his hands.” He shakes his head again, presumably attempting to disperse the thought, and waves a hand. He doesn’t appear to notice the way Josh perks up, tactlessly curious. “It’s an offense to parenthood itself to call that man his father. I don’t care how legal it is.”

Josh’s mouth gapes for a halting moment before he can muster up any words. He considers discarding the question perched on his tongue altogether, but then Keons looks back at him and waits for him to speak, and Josh reluctantly drops his reservations.

“His hands…?” He meekly parrots, shrinking slightly in his seat, steeling himself for a bitter demand to mind his own business. It never comes, however, but in its place, Keons tilts his head, looking more puzzled than offended on Tyler’s behalf.

“He didn’t tell you?”

A dry, breathy attempt at a laugh wheezes out of Josh. “Not really, no.”

“Of course,” Keons hums, seemingly to himself. He shakes his head then, and Josh unconsciously leans forward to plant his weight on his forearms over the table. He watches Keons’ face warp, in minuscule shifts around his eyes and mouth, from disquiet to a firm, almost angry focus. Josh waits for him to organize his thoughts, to recall and draft out how to explain it—but then Keons blinks and his face is back to normal. His shoulders loosen by a hair’s breadth, and he shakes his head slowly.

“I’ve seen a lot,” he solemnly begins, “but that I don’t think I’ll ever get out of my head.”

The stubborn nip of early winter slips inside the blissfully heated entrance of the family’s newly-relocated headquarters as soon as the door cracks open. Keons feels the mild breeze graze his skin even from where he stands stiffly in the lounge area—once the living room. It’s efficiently swallowed by the building’s hefty heating system, however, and all that remains in the wake of the front door closing shut is the distant shuffling of boots and jackets being shed. 

Keons spares the nearest window a curt glance, willing himself not to boredly shift on his heels. The world outside is quiet and gloomy, everything glossed over with a slate gray tone, from the sky to the asphalt. The sun is soon to set, and the unfavorable Sunday weather has most folks cozily tucked away inside their homes. Keons dreads the walk to his car he’ll have to make when he can leave, however short it is. He’s never favored the cold very much.

The lounge is swathed in silence as the new presence shuffles through the house, a faint humming signaling his approach. Keons glances down at Nico where he sits tucked into an armchair, lazily drawing a lit cigarette from his lips. His withdrawn eyes hold steady on the mouth of the hallway, thumb absentmindedly circling the rim of the filter. They remain fixed, unblinking, until Tyler finally steps into the lounge, hands tucked in his pockets, seemingly set on a direct trail to the kitchen before he catches sight of the people awaiting him. He stops dead in his tracks, looking first at Nico, then Keons, Reisdro—Nico’s stony, burly wall of a bodyguard—before snapping back to Nico. He shoots a hand up to tug the buds of his earphones out by the tangled wire.

“Hey,” he says, eyeing the three once more, lost.

“Tyler,” Nico greets blandly. “Where have you been?”

Tyler blinks, rooted in place by Nico’s barbed stare. “Just went for a walk,” he answers, glancing at Keons for a fleeting moment, as though searching for answers there. Not that Keons has any—but Nico’s tone carries with it a pensive lilt that usually implies something particular is on his mind, and he’s certain Tyler has noticed it as well. 

Nico merely hums, uninterested. “I was meaning to speak with you earlier. Regarding your last job.”

Tyler’s eyebrows furrow, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes drop, puzzled, his mouth opening long before he speaks. “Okay…”

“You know which one I’m referring to, do you?”

Tyler hastily nods. “Yeah, ‘course. The hit.”

Nico grunts, nodding. “Yes. The hit,” he echoes, unamused. His gaze finally breaks away from the puzzled teenager, drifting instead to the cigarette in his fingers. He takes the last drag before neatly snuffing it out in a glass ashtray on the side table. Then, he anchors his palms onto either armrest and hoists himself to his feet. Keons watches as he soothes the front of his suit jacket and turns for the kitchen.

“Come,” he beckons, and Tyler hesitantly shuffles forward. Keons lingers behind the pair, leaning on the doorframe of the kitchen as Nico leads Tyler inside, drifting toward the glass stovetop and cranking two knobs onto high heat.

“Do you remember everything I teach you, Tyler?” He asks, not bothering to turn when he shuffles over to a nearby cupboard and pulls out a plain mug. Keons sees Tyler hesitate, senses an uptick in his unease, visible mostly in the taut line of his shoulders.

“Of course I do,” he replies, but his tone sounds vaguely uncertain. Squeaky, almost. Keons’ gut does a funny thing, forcing his attention off of the kid to watch Nico finish filling a silver kettle and turn to deposit it atop a burner.

“Right,” he says, and finally turns to face Tyler. “So, imagine my surprise when I get a call early this morning from the police department, informing me one set of fingerprints was found at the crime scene of a homicide.”

Tyler immediately blanches, jaw falling soundlessly agape as he processes the news. Meanwhile, Nico retrieves a tea bag and calmly lowers it into his mug. Keons’ skin crawls, perturbed. The reddening twin circles on the stove’s glass surface act as a silent forewarning.

“I’m sorry,” Tyler manages, voice tight. His eyes are wide and horrified. Nico coughs out something like a dry chuckle.

“ Fingerprints ,” he murmurs to himself, shaking his head. “Of all the things you could have failed to remember—”

“Shit, Nico, I’m really sorry, I swear I thought—”

“By some miracle,” Nico interrupts, drilling a cold warning glare into him. “The detective who found them happened to owe me a favor.”

Tyler exhales shallowly, but his shoulders don’t ease. “Oh.”

“While this is great news for you, your sloppiness has cost me a very valuable favor in the police department. Do you understand, now, why I insist these things to you? Even very basic ones, like always wearing gloves on an assassination job?” His tone ramps up slightly in cruelty near the end of his question, frustration getting the better of him. Tyler shrinks, hands restlessly jumping from his hair to the hem of his shirt. He nods, much like a scolded child, and Keons releases a soundless breath, the sight strumming in his chest a pulse of gutted sympathy for the boy.

“Yes—yes,” he stammers. “I understand. It won’t happen again, Nico, I’m really sorry.”

Nico sighs, irked, and raises a palm to silence him. He turns back to the stove, and upon seeing the thick steam billowing out of the top, removes it from the heat.

“I’m not interested in apologies, Tyler. They’re useless to me. What I need is for something to change.”

Keons frowns faintly, glancing between the two. Nico slowly pours himself a cup of water, and for a suffocating moment it’s the only sound that occupies the kitchen. He sets the kettle down on the polished granite countertop.

“I think it’s about time we eliminated the risk entirely.”

The realization strikes Keons like a blow to the chest, horror running acidic in his veins. Tyler, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to understand at first, leaning slightly to the side in an attempt to get a better read on Nico’s face. Then, when the man steps aside, steaming mug in hand, he notices the pair of scorching, bright red circles awaiting him. For all his jittery nervousness earlier, Tyler goes deadly still between one heartbeat and the next.

“There…?” he croaks. Nico nods boredly.

“Yes, there. Go on, most of my men have this done. You’re old enough.”

Tyler swallows thickly, curls his fingers into tight fists at his sides. He takes a shuffling, hesitant step forward, then another. Dread weighs in Keons’ gut, sinking deeper with every wary inch Tyler drags his feet forward. 

He stops just before the stove, raising his hands from his sides to hover them a safe distance above the searing surface, his hanging fingers lined up over each burner. Keons shoots a desperate glance at Nico, whose attention lies fixed intently on Tyler, empty eyes a silent order.

With a wavering breath, Tyler begins haltingly lowering his hands, descending swiftly a few inches before instinctively freezing up, hesitating. Keons watches him shift, all while gnawing harshly on his shredded lower lip, and finds his own voice to be utterly, lamentably out of reach. His tongue stubbornly moored in place, as though his body would sooner swallow it than rise against Nico.

Tyler’s fingers continue to sink, losing impulse the closer they get. His face warps into a tight wince around the last inch or two, and Keons has to look away when he catches the trembling of his hands.

A strangled sound cuts through the silence. “I can’t ,” Tyler hisses, snatching his arms back. He looks at Nico, devastatingly beseeching. “I can’t, I swear I’ll be more careful next time. Please, Nico, I can’t do it.”

They hold each other’s eyes for a brief moment, Tyler backing away from the stove, pale as the tile underfoot. Nico’s jaw ticks, and he tuts in unspoken disappointment. He takes a long drink of his tea and glances right past Keons, to where a fourth figure has been silently observing this entire time.

“Reisdro,” Nico calls, nodding once, and Keons is damn near toppled over by the brusque manner in which he’s immediately shouldered aside. Tyler barely has time to react before both of his forearms are captured in a vice-like grip by Reisdro’s massive hands, and he’s essentially dragged back to the stovetop.

“ Wait —wait, wait, stop!” He shouts, voice kicking up an octave with the panic that’s making his legs kick out, uselessly skidding against the pristine tile. Keons doesn’t flinch, and Reisdro’s grip doesn’t falter. Tyler shouts, pleads, writhes in a futile attempt to free himself.

Keons can’t quite see it, shielded by Reisdro’s broad figure, but he still pinpoints the exact moment Tyler’s hands make contact with the searing burners; his frightened yelp cuts short with an agonized wail. His legs continue to kick, ramping up for the first few seconds before they begin to falter, slipping and buckling. It isn’t even just his fingertips, his entire hands are pinned firmly onto the glass, from his palms to the pads of his fingers, blistered and bleeding despite how he may try to lift them away. In refusing to do it himself, Tyler has inadvertently shifted Nico’s ultimate goal from singeing his fingerprints off so as to avoid another problem, to simply punishing him. Both for his slip-up and his later lack of self-discipline. 

Keons’ stomach lurches, vaguely convinced for one terrifying moment he’s going to vomit—and Tyler just keeps screaming, crackling and wet and throaty, a sound so raw and animalistic it sounds like it’s tearing his chest cavity open.

Above all else, strangely enough, when Tyler can manage to form intelligible words amidst his suffocated sobbing, all he does is apologize. He doesn’t beg, doesn’t curse, just caterwauls gutting cries of I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, ‘m sorry, Nico .

It’s when Keons catches the faint, acrid scent of burnt skin that he finds his voice again, stepping closer to the scene.

“Nico,” he says, hesitant, heartbroken above Tyler’s weeping. “That’s surely enough.”

Nico seems to struggle to tear his eyes from the stove for a second, before lazily dragging them up to Keons. They pin him in place, silent and unblinking. Keons, somehow, challenges his gaze. He doesn’t flinch, despite the way his skin crawls.

Nico nods curtly, eyebrows twitching once. “You’re right,” he simply says, and with that, Reisdro releases Tyler’s arms, backing away just enough to let the kid crumble onto the floor, brutal sobs jolting through his chest. Keons twitches in an aborted attempt to help him off the floor—but he waits. Tyler curls his arms to his chest, sweaty forehead pressed flush against the floor, cries punctuated by occasional dry heaves.

Nico’s fingers tap coolly along the ceramic, looking down his nose at him. “Let this be a lesson, Tyler,” he declares, before stepping around him and out of the kitchen. As soon as he and Reisdro are out, Keons drops to a hasty kneel, curling a gentle hand around Tyler’s upper arm. The sounds of his hitching, rasping breath and harrowing weeping wholly breaks Keons’ heart.

“I got you, kid,” he murmurs, guilt threatening to seal his throat shut and root itself behind his sternum. “I know. I got you now.”

A new silence settles over the dust in the lab. Not one tense nor awkward—but deeply perturbed, instead. That’s what it feels like to Josh, at least, who sits frozen in his seat, uneased by the retelling.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, brow tight. His hands have stopped fidgeting at some point, stationary and interlocked over the table. Keons nods in agreement, the signs of age in his face appearing carved even deeper after recalling the event.

“Meany was out of the country at the time, and hospitals are off-limits when it comes to non life-threatening injuries, so…” he shrugs, looking awfully guilty. “I tried my best to clean and bandage them but… he could barely use them for weeks. Then one day he put on the gloves and I haven’t seen him without them since.”

Of all the things Josh had expected when he allowed himself to wonder, scarring or some other form of mutilation had certainly crossed his mind, but he never could’ve expected something as harrowing as this. This was downright sadistic . He wills the mental images away with a deep scrub of his tired eyes, sighing. 

“We should go,” Keons murmurs, standing swiftly. The legs of his chair scrape piercingly against the tile. “It’s pretty late.”

Josh nods and mirrors him. “Yeah,” he hums, opting to let the man’s sudden dismissal pass without any more prying.

They gather their things and step out into the clouded night, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with nothing around them but the whistle of wind and aging cement. Josh peers up at a few scattered rifts in the sheet of dense clouds overhead, the sky beyond it devoid of stars. Their silence is strangely comfortable, despite Josh still feeling quite plagued by this new information about Tyler. He has a feeling this quiet unease will persist longer than necessary, and he half-hopes Tyler isn’t home when he gets to his place, if only to avoid however it is he’ll feel the next time he looks him in the eye. They weave through the turnstiles, and halfway to Keons’ car, he stops.

“Where’s your car?”

Josh nods toward the lot’s exit. “I don’t leave it here. Just in case, ya’know.”

Keons hums in acknowledgement, absentmindedly fishing his keys out.

“Right,” he says, then cracks a faint, proud smile. “Smart. Want me to drop you off?”

Josh is quick to shake his head, slipping his hands into his pockets. “No need, it’s just outside the lot. Thanks anyway. I’ll see you then?”

Keons nods right as he’s drawing the driver’s side door open. He salutes with two lazy fingers and ducks out of view. Josh starts his walk across the parking lot, and waves again when Keons drives past him on his way out.

His walk is about half a block down the bordering zoo wall, his car tucked underneath the foliage of an old, way overgrown tree that leans slightly over the sidewalk and rests on the top of the zoo wall. His car unlocks as he approaches with a single, chirping beep and two brief pulses of his headlights.

A blissed sigh escapes him when he slips into the cushioned seat, already longing for a night of bountiful sleep on Tyler’s admittedly kind of comfortable couch. Now that he’s broken it in, it’s not half as bad as it was. He might just be sleep deprived.

After some blind struggling, Josh succeeds in sliding the key into the ignition, but he barely gets the chance to even turn it, when a blur of white sweeps into his vision—and suddenly there’s a thick cloth clasped over his mouth and nose. The hand holding it harshly yanks his head back against the headrest, pinning the damp towel unyieldingly in place despite his arms frantically shooting up, reaching back, swinging. He scrambles for his attackers fingers, hoping to snap them back, panic piercing like a leaden stone in his chest. 

He tries to hold his breath once his brain kicks back online, but his initial gasp and subsequent huffs of alarm have already done their damage. His feet kick out, useless where they’re trapped under the steering wheel, and in a last ditch attempt, he slams a heavy, uncoordinated fist into the center of it.

The horn slowly choking out, as though growing further and further away, is the last thing his senses cling onto before everything shuts down.

Chapter Text

Josh’s consciousness threads itself together with sluggish delay, neither abrupt nor spasmodic as one would jolt awake from a night terror. Senses float in and out of focus, accompanied by the vague, phantom pulse of pain—or maybe that’s just his turbulent heartbeat drilling into his sternum. Some things are fairly clearer than others: pins and needles pricking at his fingerprints, a damp warmth plastered across his back and upper chest, the distinct scent of humidity and age permeating the surrounding air. Through it all, above the impossible weight strung from his neck and limbs, above the ringing drumbeat of dull pain in his head, what most brutishly sharpens his awareness is the burning, gnawing agony cinched into his lower back. Whether he has this prolonged crumpled position or the complete absence of opiates in his system to thank for that, Josh isn’t certain. He figures he can decipher its cause later—preferably once he isn’t zip-tied to a rickety metal chair in an unfamiliar dim room.

Lifting his head off his chest triggers a sharp spasm down the stiffened muscles along his spine, and he grits his molars hard enough for his roots to ache. A shallow, somewhat strangled breath is brusquely expelled through his nose while he blinks away the film of dull cloudiness glazed over his vision.

Josh studies his current situation, refusing to allow his chest to constrict with panic. The room he’s in is quite spacious, and appears to have once been a living area of some sort: the hardwood floor underfoot is dotted with aged water stains and deep, overlapping scrapes, and to his right, a wide, barren fireplace emerges a foot or two from the sandy-colored brick wall. Devoid of any windows, Josh deduces that the room must be in a basement, or otherwise underground.

The three cable ties cinched around each of his wrists refuse to budge at his probing tugs, and he swiftly discards any attempt to tear himself free at the acute sting that doing so brings alight. His fingers are turning faintly blue, skin pale around the tight plastic restraints.

His head tips back, heaving a strained sigh up at the marred ceiling. 

He gathers his pain-muddled thoughts, straightening his neck and flexing numb fingers. The good news is that, chances are, he’ll find out who the mole is, because nobody else really springs to mind while deliberating who would want to kidnap him. The bad news, however, is that the knowledge will most likely die with him.

He expels a low grunt through gritted teeth when an especially deep breath makes his pain flare in warning.

What the fuck did he get himself into?

Across the room, a door he hadn’t even registered thunderously flies open, striking the wall with a resounding slam. A pair of men storm inside, though one seems blatantly more furious than the second, making a beeline for Josh with long, heavy strides.

Josh studies their hardened faces, brow tightening as he skims through his memory. His attempt at a blasé “Hey, fellas,” is promptly cut short by a strike to the nose.

His head jerks back, neck momentarily slack as heat and pain rushes forth, immediately discharging a thick flow of blood to trickle down his nostrils.

“ Ah —fuck!” he croaks, angling his head low to wipe some blood off on his shoulder. His nose throbs, pounding at its own tempo, discrepant with both his heartbeat and the pulsing of the rest of his head. It’s a jarring, disorienting feeling.

“Motherfucker,” the man spits, backing up a step when the second nudges him away.

“Fuckin’ hell, Frank, will you relax? We’ve got plenty of time for that. If you can’t control yourself, I’m fine doing this on my own.”

The first guy—Frank, apparently—raises his palms in mock surrender, shaking his head once. “I’m good. All good,” he grumbles.

Josh furrows his brows, wondering if the chloroform did more neurological damage than he thought, because he cannot for the life of him recall either of these guys’ faces. He usually prides himself in remembering people, and he’s been in the family for long enough to be able to at least recognize most active members. He seriously doubts the mole is a soldier such as himself, though—there’s no way they’d have access to all that information—and he’s certain these guys aren’t any of his superiors.

“Who are you?” he promptly asks, weakly cringing as blood dribbles onto his tongue.

“Who do you think , asshole?” Frank barks, eyes cold and spiteful. “You thought you could kill our men, take our product, and we’d sit back and let you get away with it?”

Josh’s muscles immediately lock up, and the bolt of dread that strikes him is so much so, that he hardly acknowledges the bump of pain it brings forth, searing and acute. He breathes out through his mouth—nose too clogged with its unyielding outflow of blood.

“You’re Sacarver’s guys,” he mutters, in less of a question and more so a hollow cementing of his own defeat.

“There ya go,” Frank replies in a faux cheerful tone, “you ain’t as stupid as you look, after all.”

A weighty, foreboding unease pools deep in Josh’s thorax, building upon itself as he pivots his head to spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor beside him. If there was a mere sliver of the possibility that he’d get out of this alive before, when he thought the rat had been the one to abduct him, now it’s been squashed right out of existence. As far as these guys know, Josh killed several of their guys, their boss, their supplier, and stole fuck knows how many kilos of their coke.

Well, that wouldn’t make them wrong, necessarily—but he’d really been hoping that killing every witness would spare him from a long, torturous death at the hands of these guys.

“Wait,” he carefully says, eyeing the two before him. “That wasn’t me.”

The nameless man scoffs dryly and glances at Frank, thin lips twisted in something of a cross between a sardonic smile and a snarl. 

“Don’t try it,” he snaps. “We’ve got our sources, Dun .”

Shit . Well, it was worth the try. It raises yet another question, however.

“Who?”

“ We’ll be the ones asking questions here. So if you wanna keep those nice teeth of yours in your head, you’d better start answering.”

Josh sinks back into the metal seat, staring intently at one of his hands, curled into a weak fist. Blood follows the curve of his chin, thick and sticky as it only further sinks down the front of his throat and seeps into his shirt.

He hardly sees it coming, the subsequent punch. Fortunately, it lands on his cheekbone—saving his nose from fully shattering. Still, his neck aches as the force of it lurches his head too far to one side.

“Who do you work for?” Frank asks, stepping closer to tower over Josh, flexing his reddened fingers. He reaches into his pocket and theatrically slips on the gleaming brass knuckles he pulls into view. Josh’s head rolls low on his shoulders, panting.

“You both know I’m not telling you,” he sighs, lifting his head in order to meet the pair’s eyes. His shoulders draw tight despite himself—bracing for another hit. Frank gazes down at the lustrous steel hugging his fingers, as though musing. The other man pipes up before anything else.

“You’d make this a whole lot easier on yourself, kid,” he says, and Josh knows better than to take the tinge of leniency in his tone as something kind; this is merely work for him. Work he’d like to get over with swiftly and efficiently.

“You tell us who sent you to intercept that deal and where the cargo is and you’ll save yourself a whole lotta pain.”

Josh laughs humorlessly, spewing some more spit and blood onto the floor. His head shakes loosely. “Not like you’ll let me walk if I do. I’m dead either way, aren’t I?”

The man’s head tips to the side, lips pursing in enough of an answer.

“Your choice,” Frank says. “You wanna find out how long it takes to be bled dry?” He turns to his partner, elbowing him in the arm with amusement. “Hey, if the kid’s curious, who are we to stop that?”

Josh’s jaw ticks with the constraint to swallow his words. The severity of the situation is rapidly settling over his subconscious mind, hastening the erratic thumpthumpthump of his heart in his skull, and drilling unrelenting tremors into his bloodless hands. He curls them into fists, squeezing tight so as to hide his instinctive panic. 

Frank nods at the other man, who wordlessly moves to step behind Josh. The hand that cruelly threads into his hair to yank his head up sends chills across his shoulders. 

“Just in case,” Frank declares, “I’ll ask one more time. Who do you work for?”

Despite being forced to face him, scalp faintly stinging, Josh bites his tongue and levels his gaze, unblinking, hopefully unfeeling. Frank gives him several agonizing seconds to change his mind, and grins frenziedly before swinging again.

Josh jolts awake with a ragged gasp, the sudden influx of available air making his head spin violently for a few seconds. He screws his eyes shut, chest aching with every tense spasm—trying simultaneously to hack up the water in his stomach and swallow down massive lungfuls of breath.

As soon as his head is released, he curls into himself, chin knocking against his upper chest. His back is burning , every minute twitch or jostle of his body sending merciless pangs through his tired muscles. Water clings to the ends of his hair, dripping off of his nose and quivering lower lip, tinged pink.

“Thought we lost ya for a second there, buddy,” Frank chirps beside him, handing off the empty bucket to someone else. His hand comes down in a rough pat upon Josh’s shoulder, who finds himself too out of it to restrain his flinch. A hacking cough seizes his chest, still a little lightheaded when he finally manages to crane his neck up.

“Ah, he’s still kickin’,” says Frank, looking sickeningly delighted. He steps back, observing his work while his hands wring out the grimy hand towel that just moments prior sat stretched over Josh’s face. “You,” he continues, wagging a finger at him, “are one tough nut to crack.”

Josh glares at him with all the vitriol he can muster, swallowing thickly in between his open-mouthed gasping.

“Fuck you.”

“Let’s try this again,” Frank sighs, bunching up the cloth and tossing it aside where his discarded phone and jacket lie on the floor. There’s a certain tension to his voice now, one that’s been swelling since the first beating—he’s getting annoyed at Josh’s refusal to cooperate, and despite having had some time to process it, Josh doesn’t find it any easier to come to terms with his impending death.

Frank steps in front of him, sliding his piece out of the holster on his hip and calmly training it an inch from Josh’s forehead.

“Where is the shipment?” He asks, very slowly, enunciating every word with painstaking clarity.

Josh’s breath wavers as it escapes him, teeth chattering from the sudden cold that has at some point swathed him wholly.

“I told you,” he manages, hoping his tone doesn’t betray his concealed fear. He can’t hear much over the blood rushing in his ears. “I don’t know .”

Frank’s lips twist to the side: dissatisfied. He studies Josh for a moment or two, shaking his head in tiny, near-imperceptible motions. Then, his thumb slides up the back of the grip and thumbs the safety off.

“Not the answer I’m looking for.”

Josh bites his tongue. He’s long given up arguing. He’s going to die here, taken out like an animal and subsequently discarded like nothing. No funeral, no mourners.

He knows better, though—he knows talking wouldn’t just get Nico in trouble with Sacarver, truly he couldn’t give less of a shit about him, but no doubt the entire family would inevitably crumble. Who knows what would come of Mark, Debby, Keons, Tyler. A full-blown war between families would be kind to no one—and would spare very few.

“We could work something out, ya’know,” Frank says, feigning sympathy. “You could walk, if you just answer my questions.”

Josh dips his head, shutting his eyes. It’s a cruel lie, but he supposes the man has reached his wit’s end. He doesn’t bother replying—surely his sturdy silence is enough—and instead wills the lump in his throat down.

Then, a crack.

No, not quite; a shot .

Frank pauses, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. His arm lowers slightly, craning his neck over to face the door.

“What was that?” The second man says, more puzzled than alarmed. Frank’s arm drops loosely to his side, and he nods at his partner. 

“Goddamn rookies are always messin’ around with their guns. Go see that nobody’s dead,” he grumbles, scrubbing at his temple with his free hand. Josh watches the other man drift across the room and step outside.

Not even five seconds later, two more shots erupt in rapid succession. At this, Frank visibly stiffens.

“The fuck?”

Josh’s gaze frantically snaps to the closed door, a terrible, cruel feeling emerging amidst all his aches and terror; something wretchedly akin to hope. It spreads and sticks, for the briefest of moments soothing his pains, or at least distracting him from them.

In the corner of his eye, he notices Frank check his watch, and then dart over to where his phone sits on the floor. He spares it a brief glimpse, then clicks his tongue with exasperation.

He glances over his shoulder, and halts upon spotting Josh—as though having forgotten he was there at all. His expression does something funny, jaw clenching so tight his temples twitch. 

Like this, obstructing Josh’s view of the door, is when it slams open, damn near ripped off its hinges with the force of its swing. Frank’s gun-bearing arm lifts from his side, lightning-quick in Josh’s direction—but the intruder is even quicker.

Another gunshot precedes Frank’s agonized shout. A bullet carves straight through his forearm, embedding itself into the floor by Josh’s foot and spraying him with a warm, fine mist of blood. The gun clatters to the ground as Frank cradles his wounded arm against his chest. He falls to one knee, and Josh really hadn’t been expecting anyone to come for him, let alone Tyler .

“You sonuvabitch!” Frank roars, voice throaty and tight with pain. Tyler’s expression gives nothing away as he darts through the threshold toward the kneeling man. He holsters his gun with smooth efficiency, never tearing his eyes away from the scene before him. In the same motion, his hand reaches for the back of his belt and slides back into view bearing his distinctive red switchblade.

Noticing this, Frank lunges for his gun again, uttering an animalistic sort of roar, but Tyler catches him solely by the hair, and vigorously thrusts it back to expose his throat.

The stark red blade sinks into his carotid like it’s warm butter—the image so gruesome and undaunted that Josh has to look away so as not to puke. Frank’s initial wet, agonized sounds are promptly muted when Tyler slices the rest of his throat open, severing his windpipe. He collapses with no struggle at all, and suddenly Josh finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from the man at his feet, and the way blood spurts in high arches and erratic surges from his gaping throat.

Josh burns. His skin crawls in a way not entirely unpleasant.

He jumps when a touch comes to rest on his knee, biting down so hard on the inside of his cheek he’s certain he punctures flesh.

“Hey,” Tyler says, firm, attentive, calculative. Josh feels suddenly dissected underneath Tyler’s jumping, scrutinizing eyes—torn open and shamefully exposed. However, Tyler’s gaze reveals no judgement or abhorrence at what he sees. It mostly reveals nothing, but Josh is quick to note the twitch in his brow and the flare of his nostrils on a carefully controlled inhale. “Can you walk?”

“Cut me loose and we’ll see,” he manages, voice hoarse and raw but his tone suggesting lightheartedness. He’s not very sure it lands. 

Tyler’s hands are surprisingly gentle when he angles the switchblade to snip through the cable ties—smearing blood across Josh’s wrists but not once even scraping his skin. He moves down to free Josh’s ankles next, and in the meantime Josh rubs the pad of his thumb across the deep, irritated indents left in his skin, encouraging bloodflow.

As soon as he feels his legs are free, he plants his palms on either armrest and moves to haul himself to his feet. Tyler stops him with a hand to his chest.

“Stop,” he orders calmly, pinning Josh with a mildly stern look. “Take it easy.”

He rises from his kneeling position, but quickly bends over, one palm moored on Josh’s thigh. He cautiously takes Josh’s jaw with the other, angling his head to the side in order to closely inspect his injuries. Josh hardly realizes he’s holding his breath, staring owlishly into Tyler’s narrowed, brooding eyes. It’s probably not the best thing to do, not even ten minutes after being waterboarded into unconsciousness, but he really can’t help it. Tyler’s thumb carefully grazes over his split lip, and Josh’s stomach does a funny thing.

Bearing now an odd edge to his expression, Tyler straightens, and glances down at Frank’s corpse. It’s frankly quite disturbing just how fast he bled out.

“Should’ve done it slower,” Tyler muses quietly, and Josh guesses he wasn’t meant to hear it, so he doesn’t comment.

“You’re sure you can walk?” Tyler asks after a beat, offering a steady arm to help Josh to his feet.

“Yes, mom . Christ.”

“Don’t push it. I’m not carrying you if you pass out.”

Josh tucks his answering smile into his shoulder as he hobbles beside an amusingly cautious Tyler.

“Sure.”

They decide, in the time it takes them to get to Tyler’s car, that Josh’s injuries aren’t severe enough to warrant bothering Paul at this hour—that is, Tyler decides. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Josh during the entire walk through the sprawling estate, and Josh pretends not to notice it, instead dazedly commenting on the bloodbath that was left of the place. He’s certain he saw more brain matter and pooled blood in those five minutes than he has in the last few years combined. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce that Tyler was worried —although he’d surely never admit it. He plays it off with a bountiful display of disgruntled reserve, but as soon as they’re both seated in his Mercedes he announces he’ll be taking Josh back to his place to keep an eye on him, just to be safe.

Josh also knows, along this, that getting Paul involved would surely get Keons involved, and that outcome is certainly one Tyler’s avoiding.

He doesn’t complain, doesn’t ask questions; he’s far too drained and sore, so he simply sinks low into his seat and uses the car door as a temporary pillow for the whole drive.

“Sit.”

Josh hops—or more so disjointedly hauls himself—onto the dining table, planting his hands on either side of himself as he watches Tyler swiftly retreat down the hall. Sighing, Josh lets his head droop and his eyes slide shut. With the threat of imminent death passed and his adrenaline faded, every throb and sting and ache swings back into the forefront of his awareness at full force. He lifts his head when the stabbing shocks in his lower back demand it, and raises his hands to gingerly probe at his nose. Each push and press make it throb weakly, but he’s broken it before, and he’s fairly certain it’s still intact. 

Silver linings, he supposes.

Tyler returns carrying armfuls of medical supplies. Josh is about to ask why he even owns all of it, until he remembers both of their jobs and their current situation. He wonders if Tyler has ever had to stitch himself up on this very table, battered and accompanied only by the unsettling quiet characteristic of this penthouse.

The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, so he wills it away with a tiny shake of his head.

Tyler settles the hefty med kit onto the table and thumbs the latches open.

“Wait,” Josh chimes in, reaching out but not quite touching him. He feels, overall, pretty sharp and mostly lucid, but speaking comes with some challenge—like all the hits to the head jumbled up the neural pathways from his brain to his mouth. “Do you have… um, Ibuprofen, or something?”

“You’re out of meds?”

Josh just nods, and Tyler, after a pause, mirrors the gesture. 

“I might have some stronger stuff, I’ll check.”

Josh hums and once more as he watches Tyler dart off. As always when he’s in this much pain, Josh is reluctant to even breathe too hard. It feels like he’s lived with this for an entire lifetime, and he reckons he should have learned, at this point, which movements make it worse, which positions make it tolerable enough to sleep in, which to avoid—but he hasn’t. So he always finds himself borderline paralyzed, afraid to move his head, his legs, his arms above the elbow, to breathe too hard or laugh or speak too loud, all so as not to make the pain flare any further.

He doesn’t turn his head, or in any other way acknowledge Tyler when he speaks up from the kitchen behind him.

“Is Oxycodone okay?”

“Mhm. Give me three.”

Tyler is silent for a moment, pausing even in the rustling sounds of his scouring, before he guardedly replies, “I’ll give you two, and see how you feel.”

Josh is too tired to argue.

When Tyler returns, it’s with an upturned palm and a glass of cool water in the other. He tips the round pills into Josh’s hand and offers him the cup; Josh swallows them dry, but downs half of the water in one swig anyway.

Next, he sheds his tattered, bloodied T-shirt and Tyler gets to work. Within the first fifteen minutes, as Tyler stitches up some shorter gashes along his torso attributable to a while of Frank playing around with a pocket knife, Josh comes to notice two things: Tyler’s hands are astoundingly steady with a needle and thread, and that his guise of aloof detachment slips almost entirely when he’s really focused on something. It’s dark, and Josh is so exhausted he’s surprised he hasn’t yet keeled over, but he still watches with the weak little thread of his attention the expressions of deep concentration that flitter across Tyler’s face. The tells of the humanity he refuses to let show. He bites his lip, expresses with miniscule twitches and pulls in his eyebrows, sporadically narrows or widens his eyes in response to a neat stitch being pulled taut or a quiet hiss of pain from Josh.

It feels almost wrong to watch—Tyler so unconfined, so unapologetically expressive and reactive without even realizing it. But Josh can’t look away, and once his torso’s fixed up and Tyler moves up to his face, the dopey curl of his lips is entirely unconscious and arguably inevitable.

Tyler pulls a mild face. “What?” 

Josh merely shakes his head, shoulders jumping once in a slackened shrug. “Nothin’. You’re good at this.”

One of Tyler’s brows raises slightly, absentmindedly fishing around the med kit at his side. “I’m good enough ,” he corrects, reaching up with a damp pad of gauze to gingerly swab over the shallow nick on Josh’s cheekbone. “I’ve had practice, but I’m no doctor.”

“You’d make a good one.”

Tyler looks faintly amused at that, though his face reads more of mild incredulousness. Josh’s smile spreads a little.

“Okay, so you might have to work on your people skills first, but look at you.” He nudges the outside of Tyler’s leg with his thigh. “Give it to me straight, doc.”

Tyler rolls his eyes melodramatically as he tosses the small gauze pad aside and grabs a packet of wound closure strips.

“You’re a moron.”

Josh releases a tormented sound, dropping his head into one open palm. “Oh, God —” he mourns.

“Shut up, look at me.”

“Am I gonna make it? How long do I have, doc?” Tyler swats his hand away and firmly draws his face back up.

“Not long if you don’t sit still,” he grumbles, steadying Josh’s head with one hand on his jaw and carefully taping the wound shut with the other. “Stop smiling like that.”

“Why are you such a grump?”

Satisfied, Tyler backs up, studying his work with a soft crease of focus in his brow, and Josh wants to kiss him.

When Tyler grabs a damp washcloth and starts wiping the flakes of crusted blood off of his nose and chin, Josh reaches up to snake a finger through his belt loop.

“Hey,” he hums. “I didn’t thank you.”

Tyler makes a soft, noncommittal sound, swiping the soft edge along the dip between Josh’s chin and mouth. “Don’t,” he simply says. “You’d do the same for me. Just be more careful from now on.”

“I want to, though,” Josh counters, tilting his head to the side. Tyler’s hand drops to the table, meeting Josh’s eye at last with a relenting edge of unspoken permission in it. Josh’s thumb sneaks up under the hem of Tyler’s shirt, if only to feel the warm curve of his waist.

“Okay,” Tyler acquiesces. “Go ahead.”

Josh knows his smile is anything but friendly, far from lighthearted or teasing—he can tell by the weight of it, the tenderness of its pull that it’s far more affectionate than anything they’ve permitted themselves before. He attempts to snuff it out, but it’s a stubborn thing, and unfortunately stronger than him at the moment.

“Thank you,” he murmurs with one pointed nod. Tyler doesn’t smile back, but there’s a certain ease to his expression that, in a way, assures Josh that he isn’t making a complete fool of himself.

Josh wants to kiss him until he’s red in the face, until his false front slips so far it becomes forever unreachable, and he has no choice but to adopt a raw, broader spectrum of humanness and vulnerability. His mom always insisted he had something of a savior complex, and maybe she was right. Something tells him, though, that after seeing this Tyler—this protective, careful, placid version of him—Josh will become insatiable for it. And what’s worse: Tyler might not ever let it show again, if he so decides. 

“You’re welcome.”

Josh doesn’t kiss him. He misses his chance, while weighing whether doing so would be too intimate, too out of place, and before he knows it Tyler’s moving out of his space to clean up the mess on the table.

“I’ll take the couch tonight,” he announces, not lifting his gaze for a second. Josh pauses.

“What? Why?”

At that, Tyler does look at him—a blinking, prolonged look of contemplation. Smugness burns warm and satisfying in Josh’s ribs. “... I don’t want you to get any blood on it. It’s easier to get out of bedsheets than cushions.”

Definitely , Josh thinks. It doesn’t take much consideration to accept the offer; a bed does sound absolutely heavenly at the moment. So, he shuffles down the darkened hall and nudges the door at the end of it open with two fingers.

Tyler’s bed is unmade on one side, the pillow bunched up and crookedly angled against the headboard as though haphazardly tossed aside in a rush. The sheets are dark gray and fairly rumpled, but smell faintly of detergent even before Josh collapses into them. For a split second before doing so, as he toes off his shoes, he hesitates climbing in and dirtying a bed that isn’t his—but he’s far too tired to take a shower, and Tyler was the one to offer in the first place, so Josh discards all reservations.

As soon as his face sinks into the pillow, a deep, heaving sigh escapes him, consciously ridding his limbs of their residual tension and forcing them to relax into the mattress. After a few seconds of gathering energy, he rolls onto his back, scrubbing his fingers against his eyes in wide circles before sliding them down his face.

Across the room, Tyler steps into view, and Josh watches silently as he fishes out some clothes from his dresser before slipping into the bathroom. Josh figures a shower is more than called for after all the murdering and whatnot. He soon finds that the steady hum of the running water acts as a shockingly lulling background noise for him to drift in and out of sleep to.

One that, once cut off, draws Josh right back awake—much to his dull irritation. He blinks sluggishly at the ceiling, then looks out toward the balcony moments before the bathroom door quietly cracks open. Josh’s head rises off the pillow, catching the moment Tyler—sporting only a pair of basketball shorts—halts by the threshold, holding a damp towel to his hair.

“Thought you’d be asleep,” he comments after a short-lived pause, shutting the door behind him while his other hand continues scrubbing his hair dry. Josh grunts, taking advantage of Tyler’s distraction in order to openly gawk at his bare torso, and then, to study his gloved hands. 

Taking his lower lip between his teeth, Josh pushes himself up and shuffles down to the foot of the mattress.

Tyler catches this, and shoots him an odd, sidelong glance from where he hovers by the dresser.

“C’mere,” Josh beckons quietly, tipping his head in an encouraging nod. Tyler’s eventual approach is heralded by a thick, wary pause. His footfall is silent as he dubiously comes to stand before Josh’s spread knees, and although his slightly narrowed eyes hold silent questioning, he refrains from breaking this new silence.

Rationality vaguely subdued by the anchoring effects of the painkillers, Josh curls one hand around the back of Tyler’s knee, his thumb tracing the stiff cord of tendon there. Slowly, and keeping an ever tentative eye on Tyler’s face, he guides him closer—not by much, only the half-step missing for him to plant himself between Josh’s knees. Tyler indulges him with little urging. Once satisfied, Josh’s free hand smoothes up the outside of Tyler’s thigh, and lingers by his hanging hand.

He studies the glove, never minding its unassuming plainness. There’s much to see in it, beyond its tight fit and solid black hue, much to be learned of its wearer; the faint, faded marks of use in the crevices on the fingers, the weathered stretch of the seams by his wrist, not quite torn nor fully unfastened, but slightly less secure than the stitches higher up. He figures Tyler must slip his thumb underneath when he takes them off.

He wonders, then, when he removes them. If Tyler sleeps with them on, or if he keeps them on even when there’s nobody else around—the crux of Josh’s curiosity stems, ultimately, from the matter of whether Tyler is embarrassed by his scarred hands, or if he himself can’t bear looking at them.

Even so, as forthright as the painkillers have made Josh, and as unguarded Tyler is at the moment, he doesn’t ask. He doubts Tyler would answer, anyway.

Josh does, however, reach for his hand, movements slow and predictable. Warm leather twitches subtly under his fingers; restraint, or possibly apprehension.

Josh searches in Tyler’s expression, but finds only pliant contemplation in the soft rumple between his eyebrows.

His thumb runs over the hills of Tyler’s knuckles, wonders if they have matching scars there from one too many inexperienced, bare-handed punches in their younger years. If his fingers are calloused, or if the scars keep them soft.

Curiosity grates at him like a feral animal’s fangs, though it’s not born from a place of invasiveness, but of an itching need to continue to watch Tyler unfurl before him—expand into his own complete, unshackled person, instead of this cagey, heartless pawn.

He takes the risk. Cupping the back of Tyler’s hand, he sinks two fingertips into the mouth of the glove, dipping underneath in the weakest of pulls. More of a question than a true attempt to remove it.

Despite being wordless, Tyler’s answer is firm and unequivocal: his fingers stiffen a split second before he carefully twists his hand and dislodges Josh’s exploring fingers. Despite the clear rejection, it’s unexpectedly merciful—he doesn’t snap or wrench his arm away. He doesn’t so much as take a single step back. Josh shoots a cautious glance up at his face. 

Not yet.

Josh understands, so he doesn’t push.

Instead he repositions both of his hands low on Tyler’s hips, and proceeds to tip his head forward until it falls against Tyler’s bare stomach.

“Thanks for getting me out of there,” he mumbles—his voice a jarring slice into the charged silence, even to his own ears. He briefly shuts his eyes, breathing in the scent of bodywash instead of humidity and blood.

“You already said that,” Tyler drawls, in a tone that suggests he’s trying to sound irked, but ultimately misses by a mile. Josh cranes his neck up, propped up on his chin. He feels fingers thread into his hair at the crown of his head, holding but not quite tugging.

“I know,” he bites back lazily, “I mean it. For a while there I thought I was toast. You got there right on time.”

Tyler hums once, curt, and after a beat tips his head with sarcastic deliberation. “Well,” he retorts, “I doubt they’d kill you so soon. They probably would’ve kept you alive for at least another day.”

Josh glares. “Good to know, thanks.”

Tyler scratches his scalp once in some sort of apology, though the amused glint in his eye doesn’t waver. Josh exhales through his nose, thumbs circling solid hip bones.

After a weighty pause, he murmurs, “I owe you,” and punctuates his words with a lingering kiss to Tyler’s navel, keeping intact the tether of their gazes. His tongue feels heavy, words vaguely slurred and thick. Tyler’s fingers flex momentarily in his hair—a tiny jerk of aborted movement. He swallows, and Josh’s eyes slip shut, mouthing at the sharp cut of his hip.

“Go to sleep, Joshua,” Tyler hums, tapping his scalp twice with his thumb. Josh’s head dips on a quiet sigh. He leans back, catching his weight on one arm, but keeps one hand on Tyler’s hip.

“Sleep here, don’t be stupid. There’s plenty of room.”

The corner of Tyler’s mouth jumps, but he swiftly rolls his eyes to mask it. 

“You scared of the dark?”

“Terrified.”

He hooks one finger into the elastic of Tyler’s shorts, snapping it against his skin as he shuffles back up the mattress. 

“You’re gonna leave me alone right after I got kidnapped?” He mourns, falling back on his elbows. Warmth floods in easy bursts underneath his skin, the world bearing the pleasant haze of exhaustion and opioids around its edges. His limbs move like molasses, giving out inch by inch as he settles on his back, playfully eyeing Tyler the entire time. “What if I have a nightmare?”

Tyler releases a long-suffering sigh, before dipping a knee into the mattress to crawl up its length and pull back the tucked covers.

“As long as you don’t wake me up,” he grumbles, drawing the comforter over himself once settled a comfortable distance from Josh, who only smirks groggily at him against the pillow. His gaze drifts past Tyler, through the balcony window where the sky is just beginning to lighten. Already half-asleep, his thoughts ping-pong from one thing to the next, laden and sluggish with drowsiness. His eyes droop, but manage to drag back to Tyler’s darkened profile. At this height, the gleam of the streetlights can’t reach the window, but the moonlight reflecting off the marble floor of the balcony is more than enough to define the curve of Tyler’s nose and the sweep of his fanning eyelashes.

“You should talk to Keons,” he hears himself mumble into the quiet. “He really cares about you.” Tyler’s blurred face does nothing more than a minuscule twitch—the only sign he heard Josh at all—before he rolls his head to look back at him. Josh is out like a light before he can even catch Tyler’s murmured reply.

“Get some sleep.”

Chapter Text

With a great, gratuitous sigh, Josh flumps listlessly back into the hills of dark rumpled sheets, limbs sprawled far out into the unoccupied mattress. He debated putting off his much needed shower when he’d first stirred about an hour ago—the bed blessedly warm and cocooning around his battered, sore body. But his attempts to fall back asleep had been rendered futile by the nagging, glaring feeling of grime on his skin and in his hair, impossible to evade.

He’s glad he ultimately hauled himself out of bed, however. Now, scrubbed clean and smelling faintly of Tyler’s woodsy body wash, the sheets feel softer and fresher against his mottled skin.

He exhales again into the pillow, additionally thanking his past self for taking a preemptive oxy before stepping into the shower—an action which now grants him the freedom to fluidly roll onto his back and tug the weighted comforter over his legs, unburdened by any pains too sharp or debilitating.

Some time after sliding his eyes shut, one hand pillowed underneath his head, his stomach utters a demanding rumble, only then reminding him of his incessant hunger. He doesn’t even want to try and count how many hours it’s been since his last meal; it’ll probably only make him hungrier.

Josh groans into his palms, already mourning his impending departure from the bed, when the door hinges whine softly from across the room. He peers down to see Tyler shuffling in, a steaming mug in one hand and a pair of silvery packets in the other. He hardly spares Josh a glance as he rounds the foot of the bed and carefully sets the mug on the nightstand. 

“Move,” he grumbles, voice still faintly tinged with sleep as he smacks at Josh’s leg, far extended out of his unofficially designated side. Josh drops his head back onto the pillow and begrudgingly shuffles aside. Staring at the smooth ceiling is how he’s suddenly startled when something cool and crinkly lands squarely on his sternum.

“ Dude —!” He starts, propping his torso up on an elbow and peering down at himself. His brows draw slightly, plucking it off of his chest before refocusing on Tyler, now settled comfortably against the headboard, mug back in hand.

“Pop-Tarts?”

Tyler gives a one-shouldered shrug, and mumbles behind the rim of his mug, “It was that or plain toast.”

Josh’s gaze lingers on him, despite Tyler keeping his own held pointedly ahead, somewhere around the mounted TV and bathroom door. Josh’s stomach growls again, but he keeps staring, narrow-eyed and somewhat amused, at the side of Tyler’s face. It’s a long enough lull that Tyler takes another sip of his coffee and eventually shoots him a tiny sidelong glance.

“Don’t get crumbs on the sheets,” is all he says before settling the mug aside and prying open his own packet.

Josh chuckles, maneuvering so he’s also sitting up, and tears the plastic open. “Dude,” he laments immediately upon pulling one out, “unfrosted?”

Tyler’s gaze snaps to him with something like defensiveness in the glint of his eye. It’s a little difficult to take seriously with the bedhead situation he’s got going on.

“The frosting sucks.”

Josh gapes. “You really are a psychopath.”

“Just eat your damn breakfast,” Tyler grumbles, tearing a corner off of his own sad, beige Pop-Tart and tossing it into his mouth. Josh huffs, but takes a bite anyway. At least the filling is solid; artificial blueberry a shade too vibrant to be in any way natural, but sweet and satiating on his tongue nonetheless. The sealed corners of pastry are soft and crumbly—and immensely dry.

Not long after finishing his first, Josh glances at Tyler beside him, lower face obstructed by the smooth curve of his mug’s lip.

“Ran out of coffee?” He snarkily asks, tilting his head when Tyler’s own pivots slightly to face him. A beat passes, sturdy and silent, on the tail end of which Tyler seems to pick up on Josh’s implication.

“I wasn’t gonna bring you coffee in bed,” he scoffs, face pinching with mild affront.

Josh cocks an eyebrow. “You brought me Pop-Tarts.” He glances down at the half-empty mug, gesturing at it by way of a tiny jerk of his chin. “C’mon, I’m recovering!”

“Don’t push it,” Tyler gripes, but otherwise does nothing to impede Josh from smoothly prying the mug from his curled fingers. He nibbles on the pastry with a disarmingly endearing glower aimed in Josh’s direction, who merely hides his smile into the mug’s mouth. His precursory inhale is promising—the scent of freshly brewed coffee warm and familiar, sanding down the ragged edges of his lingering drowsiness—but as soon as the drink hits his tongue, his face twists at the sheer uncurbed bitterness of it. He manages to force down a few small swigs, if only to get some caffeine in his system.

“Jesus, man!” He croaks, blindly jutting the mug back in Tyler’s direction. “No wonder you’re so cranky all the time—you drink that? Willingly?”

Tyler gladly accepts his beverage, furrowing his brow with something like snide amusement. “Cranky?” He parrots, scoffing. “I’m not a toddler. It’s just black coffee. Cuban.”

“Yeah, never mind, no toddler would drink straight motor oil every morning.” He stuffs the last quarter of his Pop-Tart in his mouth to combat the lingering bitterness. He chews with mounting exasperation, now craving some proper, enjoyable coffee. “A little sugar won’t kill you,” he grumbles, crumpling up the wrapper in one palm and tossing it onto the nightstand on his side of the bed. On his right, Tyler chuckles, a sound shrouded and breathy, and when Josh straightens back against the headboard, catches his eye over the tilted mug, acute and all-consuming; twin sepia-colored, ruminative black holes. Dangerous, Josh knows. Already lured in, in the space of mere heartbeats, and having been swept in before, Josh parries this sudden density in the air with a microscopic cant of his head, and an even briefer glance down at the mug. Tyler hardly blinks—predacious, almost feline-like in nature—as he angles his upper torso so as to leave the empty ceramic by the bedside.

Annihilation sounds like a fair trade, so long as Tyler keeps looking at him like that. 

Tyler’s eyes linger, then dip, jumping across Josh’s bare torso. He reaches out with one hand, musingly feeling around pads of taped gauze and mottled skin with leather-clad fingertips.

“Pain?”

Josh’s only answer comes as a stiff shake of his head, throat sealed shut and skin peppered with rising goosebumps. Tyler glances at him for a split second, just in time to catch the motion, and then hums to himself. After a short lull, his gaze slides even lower, and he deadpans, “You got crumbs on the sheets.”

With a discrete eye-roll, Josh tips his weight onto an arm, angling his head low to slip into Tyler’s view. 

“You complain too much.”

For once, Tyler is the one to physically initiate—briefly stunning Josh into a standstill when his hand sharply glides up his chest and hauls him in by a firm grip on his jaw.

His stupor doesn’t last long, however, his brain kicking into high gear in order to snake his hand underneath the hem of Tyler’s shirt, smoothing around the curve of his hip and settling on his lower spine. Tyler’s mouth is insistent against his, only breaking away in short, calculated pauses to breathe against his chin. His fingers eventually release Josh’s jaw, combing through his hair to firmly cement themselves on the back of his head.

Josh’s skin burns in weak surges of staticky, mounting lust, and he only deepens the kiss, fingers flexing against Tyler’s skin to urge him closer still. It doesn’t take much for Tyler to yield, soon readjusting himself effortlessly onto Josh’s lap, his smooth, lean thighs bracketing Josh’s hips. The faint, compact muscles stretched underneath the skin there shift and ripple as he settles, and Josh is quick to indulge himself with both greedy palms. 

He tastes artificial blueberry and that godforsaken Cuban coffee on Tyler’s tongue. Fortunately, it’s faint enough, and his own blossoming need sufficiently fervid so as to dampen his distaste for it. If anything, Josh kisses him harder, deeper—feels the bestial urge to swallow him whole rise behind his sternum by some bone-deep hunger. In some crazed, inane fantasy, to keep Tyler all to himself—that way bringing home some brawny airhead he found at a club won’t even cross his mind again. 

Christ, Tyler’s not even his to begin with.

All delusions of possessiveness are promptly washed away when Tyler’s teeth latch fiercely onto Josh’s bottom lip, a second before he leans back, and in a swift flurry of arms sheds his tank top. His hands are quick to find Josh again, fixing them both on either side of Josh’s neck and drawing him back in. Josh takes advantage of this new exposure with little forethought, hands sliding up, exploring planes of warm, lightly scarred skin, feeling the knobs of Tyler’s spine and the shifting of his shoulder blades. 

Meanwhile, Tyler’s mouth wanders, dropping fleetingly to Josh’s chin before dipping lower, withdrawing both hands to make room for his lips and prying teeth. 

Josh tips his head back, forcing out a shallow breath at the blade-like canine that sinks into the skin over his pulse point, that pleasant, buzzing warmth currently  swimming under his skin surging fiercely and pooling low in his gut in response. Tyler’s hands come back down on him, one twisting into a fistful of red hair and the other splayed across the nape of his neck. His teeth relent, but are promptly replaced by suctioning lips and an accompanying tug of Josh’s hair. A choked grunt slips out of Josh despite himself, fingers flexing on Tyler’s back—and it’s only then that he realizes the lack of rough, cooler-than-skin leather on his neck. 

Tyler’s gloves are off. 

Clearly, this realization is far more impactful for Josh than it appears to be of any importance to Tyler—he doesn’t mention it, doesn’t even stop sucking a deep mark into Josh’s skin for a second when the latter tenses in quiet disbelief. Josh blinks irregularly at him, honing his focus on the strangely-textured warmth of the palm on his neck—as long as he can manage to, anyway. With Tyler still adamantly painting a bruise into his neck, intermittently tugging and twisting at the root of his hair, thighs squeezing against his hips, it’s hard to reel his attention in and wrangle it down for more than a couple of seconds at a time.

Sensing his sudden abstraction, Tyler pulls his head back, pivoting to nose at the opposite hinge of Josh’s jaw and sliding one palm down the front of his chest. It weaves blindly around tender bruises and dressed stitches, tracing featherlight knuckles down the dips of tensing muscles and eventually dropping below his navel. With little warning, Tyler’s palm settles over Josh’s crotch and gives a firm squeeze at the length of his clothed dick, applying titillating pressure near the base.

Immediately, a quivering groan cuts out of Josh through gritted teeth, his pelvis jumping minutely in a fruitless attempt at a grind into Tyler’s palm. His hand twitches on the small of Tyler’s back, and swiftly adjusts its grip on him to draw their hips flush.

Pleasure bursts in a languid hum up the base of his spine, triggering a soft shudder in him and, inversely, a fractured moan from deep in Tyler’s throat, buried into the side of his neck. It’s more so that sound, rather than the insufficient grind of their stiffening erections, that makes Josh’s cock twitch in his boxers. That sound, foreign and seldom uttered—Josh certainly has an idea, what with all those restless nights spent on the couch—is enough of an approval to repeat the motion, only this time while finding Tyler’s parted lips once more. The kiss is hardly anything besides a series of wet, forceful slides of their mouths, agape and huffing into each other, hips uncoordinated where they jerkily grind against one another, but still somehow creating a string of mounting pleasure which gets them both to full stiffness within minutes.

Meanwhile, Josh’s hands wander, mapping out a slender waist and the smooth cut of a limber but no less powerful back; it’s been a recurring fixation for him, Tyler’s body. Whereas he has always found himself on the burlier side, heavyset and sturdy, training anything he could get in whenever it was that he had access to a gym, Tyler’s build speaks of his diligent tenacity. He’s thin, and possibly allusive to a sort of scrawny tenuity when dressed in multiple layers, but in truth Tyler has meticulously fashioned his body into something reminiscent of a spring-loaded bolt; unassuming at first glance, but balancing a lethal dose of power with nimble agility on something like the tip of a blade.

It, alone, bespeaks the source of the fearful respect he’s earned in the family: his actions, rather than physical intimidation. And Josh has him here, perched on his lap, hard and shuddering through strained groans. The thought alone makes his stomach twist with blissful self-satisfaction. 

A sharp sting in his lip snaps Josh out of his head, absentmindedly palming at Tyler’s ass as he pulls back, tipping his neck back against the headboard. Tyler’s pupils are blown wide, dark and wolfish the way they appear to swallow his irises whole. A smear of bright red shines on his lip, streaked slightly down the corner of his mouth, and Josh feels a sick thrill crawl through him at the sight of his own blood on Tyler’s mouth, and at the raw, lecherous hunger in his half-lidded gaze. 

Tyler’s hand draws up slowly, bracing beneath Josh’s chin to drag a thumb against his split lip, sliding a warm wetness along its length. The sting works only to heighten Josh’s suffocating arousal. It should be frightening, the way Tyler’s gaze darkens even further—and Josh suddenly recalls how he looked the night prior, as he’d gouged a man’s throat open without so much as blinking—but it’s not. It’s anything but.

So, when Tyler eventually murmurs against his mouth, “You gonna fuck me or just keep staring?”, Josh’s rationality takes a decided back seat.

It’s within seconds that they’re rearranged: Tyler on his back, fully nude and lounging with his weight on his elbows, Josh kneeling over him with a bottle of lube retrieved from the nightstand in hand. Both his eyes and free hand travel on their own accord, committing every pale scar and twine of lean muscle to memory before he hooks a hand underneath Tyler’s knee and hoists his calf up to rest on his shoulder. 

He doesn’t waste time. As much as he enjoys wearing Tyler’s nerves thin, sexually or otherwise, Josh’s own arousal demands haste, so hard in his boxers he damn near aches. Settling back on his haunches, Josh clicks open the bottlecap and squeezes a healthy glob of lube onto his fingers. The bottle is swiftly discarded somewhere around the foot of the bed, as Josh quickly finds himself unable to tear his attention from the flushed, bare body beneath him for so much as a heartbeat.

Smoothing one palm down the tense expanse of Tyler’s thigh, Josh leans down to mouth up his ribcage, faintly aware of the path of pinkish blood and spit that doing so leaves behind, but roused all the more by it. Meanwhile, his other hand trails lower, slick fingers pressing against, but not quite breaching Tyler’s rim. He grins against a nipple at the shuttered inhale Tyler makes above him, threading his fingers into Josh’s hair for purchase.

“C’mon,” he curtly urges after a beat, tugging once in something like a warning. Josh’s cocky, toothy smirk doesn’t ebb, but he nonetheless relents. He wanders higher, biting down roughly on Tyler’s collarbone right as he sinks his first finger in, down to the last knuckle. 

Tyler makes that sound again; quivering and sharp and airy, only this time lightly muffled by the skin of his forearm, clamped between his teeth.

If Josh’s ego could possibly swell any larger, it would.

Thrusting in and out with fluid, steady motions, Josh kisses and bites up Tyler’s throat, nudging his arm away when he reaches his jawline.

“What’s the matter?” He hums. “Can’t keep quiet?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” comes Tyler’s strained reply, brow furrowing slightly with the unspoken frustration more evident in the restless roll and twitch of his hips. The request—or more appropriately demand —isn’t tricky to pick up, so Josh continues nipping down Tyler’s chest, pulling his finger out to the third knuckle.

“I wanna hear you,” he presses against Tyler’s sternum, subtly working a second finger in, and feeling the chest under his mouth stutter. Tyler is hot and tight around his fingers, spasmodically clenching at anything Josh does; a soft bite at his nipple, nails dragged down the side of his thigh, open-mouthed kisses trailing dangerously low. All the while, his fingers spread and curl in tiny increments, mapping out the inside of Tyler’s body, just as he’d done before with the outside of it.

Then, in the same breath, Josh presses both fingers as deep as they’ll go in order to curl sharply upward, just as he dips down to mouth at the reddened head of Tyler’s cock. Tyler jolts, fingers tightening cruelly into Josh’s hair as a breathless moan cracks out of him. His head drops heavily onto the pillow, visibly torn between thrusting up into Josh’s mouth and grinding down onto his fingers. His chest heaves in the fading aftermath, muttering a low “ fuck ,” to the ceiling.

Josh continues scissoring his fingers, spreading Tyler while pointedly avoiding  the previous angle. He straightens, withdrawing his hand from Tyler’s hip to palm at his own dick through his boxers, sighing shakily at the scarce bout of relief it brings alight. His head wilts, keeping half a mind to keep his fingers moving, twisting, spreading.

A foot nudges his leg then, and he lifts his gaze to find Tyler on his elbows and holding a stringent stare on him, flushed all the way down to his chest.

“That’s enough, c’mon.”

Josh cocks an eyebrow. “You sure? With just two?”

Tyler nods hastily, eyes darting off to the side with a few swift blinks. Josh pulls his fingers out, studying the microscopic flutter of Tyler’s eyelashes. A settling, understanding amusement tugs at his lips finally, and he reaches over with the same lube-slick hand to take Tyler’s dick in his hand. He leans down, savoring the close-lipped groan Tyler just manages to clamp down. He pumps him with torturous slowness, stopping once at the head to swirl his thumb around Tyler’s slit. His hips jump, arms slowly giving out underneath him.

Tyler is absolutely not prepped enough. That said, it should’ve hit Josh sooner that that is precisely the type of thing he’d be into. 

“You’re sick,” he teases, languidly kissing the corner of Tyler’s half-scowling mouth. 

“Not any more than you,” he bites back, and Josh merely huffs, amused. He won’t deny that. And if Tyler wants him to fuck him now, he’s certainly not going to oppose.

So, he leaves with a nip on Tyler’s jaw and lifts himself just enough to clumsily shed his boxers and toss them aside. He doesn’t bother searching through the folds of rumpled bedsheets for the lube—merely uses what’s left on his fingers to slick himself up. Tyler’s legs draw up a second or two before Josh even reaches for them, upon which he settles both broad palms to the underside of his thighs and effectively folds him right in half. 

The sight alone makes Josh’s belly plunge, so with little fanfare he lines himself up and presses forth; a firm drag of unshifting pressure, met with some weak resistance. Josh feels the muscles hugging his hips and legs jump under his skin with the restraint it takes not to sink inside with one rough grind. Tyler is dizzyingly tight around him, so warm it draws chills across Josh’s shoulders. He sinks down until their skin presses flush, not a gap of air between their bodies when he curls forward to half-heartedly nip at Tyler’s neck. 

Tyler, who, when Josh cranes his neck up to study his face, bears an expression that Josh can’t quite discern. A balanced cross between pain and pleasure, tight and glossy-eyed. 

“You good?” He asks, reluctant to let the mist of developing disquiet harden into legitimate concern. 

Tyler blinks once at the ceiling before meeting his eye, brows knitting even tighter. His voice is breathless and rigid when he speaks, but never lacks that distinct edge of his. 

“Stop being so fucking nice,” as though to punctuate his words, his legs shift just enough to lock his ankles around the small of Josh’s back, “and fuck me already.”

That does it. Whatever blossoming phantom of compassion had been solidifying in Josh’s chest is immediately dissolved, allowing his own neglected arousal to take the wheel again. 

Josh clicks his tongue, exasperated, before lifting himself on his arms, one hand moored onto the mattress and the other pinning Tyler’s thigh to his side. 

He doesn’t bother warning him—between one breath and the next his hips draw back and roughly snap back into Tyler, who immediately chokes on an inhale and scrabbles to drill blunt nails into Josh’s arm and shoulder. 

So Josh sets a rough pace, a rhythm not quite aggressive but relentless nonetheless, occasionally driving in just right and managing to draw an unrestrained groan from Tyler’s throat. 

Josh’s entire body beats with pleasure—every deep thrust only feeding the flames in the pit of his gut, fizzling out across his nerves like live wires. Tyler, for all his usual poised pride, lies like clay underneath him: warm and malleable. The sounds he makes seem punched out of him, face twisted in both pleasure and the struggle to appear collected and impassive. Josh huffs through gritted teeth, glancing down at Tyler’s dick, bobbing on his stomach, reddened and leaking into the faint dips of his abdominal muscles. He considers reaching for it—working Tyler to an early orgasm and continuing to fuck him through the aftershocks—but he refrains for the time being. He wants to see just how far he can unravel him like this, completely untouched.

To do this, he slows his thrusts momentarily in order to lean forward and drag a pillow down from beside Tyler’s head. It’s a brief struggle, but eventually aided by Tyler lifting his hips so Josh can stuff the pillow underneath them. This marginally shifted angle, along with Josh now hooking both of Tyler’s legs over his shoulders, allows him to pick up a brutal, impossibly deeper rhythm. 

A stunned moan tears itself free from Tyler’s chest, the tail end of which is slightly muffled by the crook of his own elbow, shoved against his mouth. His brows twist and curl upward, expressive in their own right as his eyes squeeze shut and the lower half of his face remains obscured. His chest jumps with each erratic pant, and Josh is certain the new pace has him ramming into Tyler’s prostate relentlessly—not granting him a moment to catch his breath.

The pride blooming in Josh’s chest damn near rivals the coiling knot of pleasure just below it, blending to create an all-consuming brew of pure satisfaction—both physical and mental—Josh could very easily see himself growing addicted to. 

It’s Tyler that does this to him. Only Tyler.

He ducks down, releasing one of Tyler’s legs to grab a hold of his forearm and anchor it firmly into the mattress by his head.

“You’re loud,” he ribs into the soft, papery skin below Tyler’s ear, rhythm unfaltering.

“Shut up,” croaks Tyler, arm tensing weakly under Josh’s grip, but not employing much of an effort to free himself anyway. Josh teasingly bites his earlobe before moving up to his face.

“I like it,” he grunts, licking the pale traces of smeared blood off of Tyler’s chin. “Can’t help yourself, can you?”

Tyler’s nails harshly carve down Josh’s shoulder blade, teeth grinding down so harshly into his bottom lip he, too, might start bleeding soon. “Shut up , fuck—”

Josh’s back stings in the wake of Tyler’s nails—a pain he, for once, welcomes, as it kicks up the magnitude of his immense bliss. It triggers a chain reaction that upon conclusion, Josh aches to recreate; he thrusts in sharper, a near savage thing, at which Tyler keens, and his nails sink down the side of Josh’s ribcage, unknowingly dragging over a tender bruise.

Josh’s hips finally falter, choking on a moan of his own as the bone-deep ache settles in a disorienting, albeit amplifying fusion of raw pain and unceasing pleasure. His head droops, forehead coming to rest upon Tyler’s sweat-damp chest, and tries to find a steady rhythm again.

“Then I’m the sick one,” Tyler roughly purrs above him, ever vigilant, even as he’s folded in half and stuffed full. His fingers ease into featherlight grazes, sliding across the front of his chest and blindly locating a neat edge of taped gauze. 

Josh’s thrusts are losing their stability, turning rougher, increasingly erratic as his orgasm grows clearer in the distance. He’s distantly aware that Tyler is slowly, cleverly turning the tables; all it took was one small slip-up for him to take the lead of this strange, unspoken tug-of-war they’ve been playing.

Josh is far too dazed and close to really care, and when Tyler’s thumb tentatively drives into the taut row of stitches underneath the gauze, his brain goes positively blank.

His pelvis jerks, slamming deep into Tyler with erratic bursts of frenzied energy, grinding deep between every thrust—and Tyler’s pressing so hard into his stitches Josh wonders if they’ll burst under his fingertips. Tyler’d likely keep pressing, keep twisting, until he was two fingers deep into Josh’s ribcage, feeling the ragged swell of his lungs, blood cascading gruesomely between them. Josh wouldn’t mind, so long as Tyler keep squeezing around his dick, coaxing him to the precipice with a patient balance of pleasure and hurt.

Josh chokes on a groan, muffled as his teeth latch onto the skin above Tyler’s collarbone—and it really doesn’t take much after that. He keeps half a mind to reach down for Tyler’s neglected cock, releasing his arm in the process, and works him as he tumbles toward release.

It’s sharp and seizing, his orgasm. Like electricity racing down the expanse of his body, cementing in his gut and groin, though still reaching out into his twitching limbs. He rolls his hips in, legs tensing as he spills deep inside of Tyler—squeezing him once below the head and subsequently feeling the way his own orgasm slams into him, too. 

Tyler’s half-sob is swallowed by the thrum of blood rushing in Josh’s ears, but the way he clenches around Josh and the swiftness with which his arms surge up to cling to his back are more than enough to make up for it. 

Aftershocks cling to him like static, even after mournfully pulling out and rolling onto his back beside Tyler. All his aches rush back to him with unforgiving urgency, now that the shielding haze of sex has begun to dissipate. Still, Josh can’t find it in himself to complain; that might have been the best sex of his life.

Not that he’d ever say it aloud. Tyler’s ego is already big enough.

He allows his eyes to slip shut for a minute, catching his breath through deep inhales and sustained releases. He can feel his heart walloping against his ribcage, and he’s fairly certain that if he were to lift his head, he’d be able to see it. He does so, eventually, but not to watch the steadying thump of his pulse between his ribs—instead, to peer down at the bandage still somehow clinging to the skin on his side. He doesn’t see any blood seeping through, which he figures is a good enough sign that his stitches are intact.

“They’re fine,” Tyler grumbles on his right, voice endearingly spent. Josh lets his head fall, rolling it over to meet his gaze. “You think I’d ruin my hard work to get you off?”

Josh feigns a moment of contemplation, mouth twisting to the side. “I wouldn’t put it past you, honestly.”

After shooting him an unamused glare, Tyler’s arms drift up to scrub tiredly at his face, knuckles circling around his eyes before sliding higher to push his sweaty, messy fringe out of the way.

Josh watches, hawk-like, the lazy motions of his bare hands, and despite both of them being not only fully nude, but covered in several bodily fluids, this feels far more private, strangely enough. A moment so candid and casually vulnerable it makes Josh feel almost inadequate to be witnessing.

This meager diffidence is cut short, however, when Tyler swiftly pushes himself upright, shuffling to the edge of the mattress. Seated there, he bends forward, surely gathering something from the floor. Josh rolls onto his side, about an arm’s length away, and abstains from reaching out, but not without permitting himself a greedy eyeful. Tyler’s back straightens, halfway through tugging his discarded gloves back on—privately to Josh’s disappointment—and then stands to slide his underwear up his hips.

Josh breathes out, burrowing his face deep into the pillow and sliding both arms underneath it. He’s seriously considering taking a post-coital nap when there’s a distant but undeniable string of knocks at the front door. Josh doesn’t bother lifting his head, but listens absentmindedly at the irritated tsk Tyler gives before the sound of rustling replaces the silence.

After a moment, a lump of cool fabric lands unceremoniously on Josh’s ass.

“Make yourself decent. It’s probably Keons.”

At that, Josh’s head perks. “Keons?” he parrots, but Tyler’s already slipped out of the bedroom, leaving the door cracked behind him. He has no time to wallow in his self-pity, because he did get kidnapped yesterday, and he owes it to Keons to let him know he’s (mostly) alright.

So he slips into his boxers, shorts, and a clean T-shirt rummaged up from Tyler’s dresser. Before heading into the living room, he pauses to duck his head into the bathroom and check that his lip isn’t still bleeding and that his mouth isn’t suspiciously smeared with it. Once in the clear, he steps out.

As expected, padding into the kitchen feels like trudging through molasses, what with the palpable, antsy tension hanging between the two men. Keons is hovering by the marbletop island, features seeming far more aged than he is with the stark lines of stress carved into them. His eyes snap to Josh as soon as he emerges, eyebrows loosening a touch.

“Hey, kid,” he breathes out, sidestepping the counter’s edge and stopping before Josh. His hand comes to rest on Josh’s upper arm, giving it a weak squeeze as his gaze sweeps his frame.

“I’m fine,” Josh is quick to insist, hoping the beat of unblinking, wholly earnest eye contact they share thereafter is enough to reassure the man. “Honest. Tyler fixed me up afterward, nothing world-ending.”

At his mention, Josh glances over at Tyler, who stands leaning against the counter with an empty stare directed at neither of them, fingers tapping restlessly on the marble. Keons squeezes his arm once again, before stepping back.

“Right, that’s good, then,” he says, nodding to himself. His eyes drift off, darting briefly to a shuttered Tyler before his eyebrows jump upward. “Oh, that reminds me—” he pauses to reach into his jacket pocket “—this is from Paul. Managed to score this from one of his pharmacist friends.”

Josh takes the little white box labeled ‘ULTRAM’ with an involuntary sigh of relief, flipping it over in his hands as though he hasn’t been closely acquainted with it for the last year and a half. He thanks Keons, and makes a mental note to personally thank Paul later, as well. In the meantime, he sets it on the counter and draws up a stool. Across from him, Tyler’s facing the coffee machine with a clean mug in hand.

“Mind making me one too this time?” He jabs, crossing his forearms over the countertop and cracking a sardonic half-smile when Tyler turns to glare, narrow-eyed, over his shoulder. The coffee machine beeps, and he straightens, sighing like Josh is nothing but a coffee-demanding nuisance. He reaches for another mug nonetheless.

“Coffee?” Josh asks, turning back to Keons, who observes the interaction with a musing look on his face. He lightly shakes his head.

“I’m good. We should talk, though. About what happened.”

“Right,” Josh replies, angling his head to the side so he can run his fingers through the hair above his nape. “Well. Wasn’t the mole, I can tell you that much.”

Keons’ expression falters, shifting through various rapid stages of confusion. He looks over at Tyler, who doesn’t so much as breathe his way, leaning against the counter as a thin stream of coffee trickles into his mug beside him.

“It wasn’t?” Keons murmurs. “I was sure…”

“Yeah, me too,” Josh butts in, straightening and dropping his hand. “Imagine my surprise when I wake up tied to a chair in a Sacarver - owned basement.”

Again, Keons’ face shuffles through a dozen expressions in the span of half a second. Eventually, it settles on disquieted surprise.

“Sacarver?” he mutters to himself, settling his hands on his hips. His eyes droop low, unfocused and troubled. “It must have been his men who trashed your place, then.”

Josh hums. “How would they know to target me, though?”

Keons’ lips press tightly, reaching up to rub at his temple in a gesture that suggests a blossoming headache. “Maybe you left some sort of trace behind. I don’t know.”

“He didn’t,” Tyler pipes up—his first spoken words since Keons stepped inside. Josh’s head swivels to face him as he approaches, two mugs in hand. He’s shaking his head, tiny, repetitive motions as he slides one toward Josh, careful so as not to spill any coffee. “I would’ve noticed if he had. We were in and out. No cameras, nothing.”

He hardly spares Keons a glance, limiting the direction of his gaze to either Josh or a narrow point in the near distance between them. Keons expels an audible sigh through his nose.

“Shit,” he mutters, smoothing a palm through his graying, cropped hair. There’s a sudden edge of frazzled weariness in his gravelly tone, and Josh doesn’t blame him; this development throws a sizeable wrench into their work, as now they have Sacarver and all his surely outraged men to worry about, on top of the informer in their ranks. And as he has learned, unfortunately the hard way, Sacarver is not a man you want to upset.

“Alright, well…” Keons continues, dropping his hand back to his hip. “I’ll speak to Nico, see if he can schedule a meeting with Sacarver. Until then, we just stay extra careful. You think the zoo is compromised?”

Josh shakes his head. “I doubt it. I parked a block away—they probably just traced my car down and waited in there for me.”

Keons grunts, nodding once. Silence befalls the kitchen, then, as Josh downs his coffee and Tyler lingers a healthy distance from them both, nursing his own steaming mug. Their eyes meet for a split second, before Keons speaks up again.

“Last thing. I’ve got a place ready for you, whenever you feel like moving out. An apartment downtown. Let me know and I’ll help with the move-in.”

Josh’s shoulders sag, lowering his mug onto the counter. “Seriously? Shit, thanks. How much do I owe you?”

Keons firmly shakes his head, dismissing the offer with the show of an open hand. “Nothing. Got the first two months covered, and I’m friends with the landlord. Just give me a call when you get tired of the couch,” he grins, nodding over at the piece of furniture in question, a glint of humor in his eye. Josh considers insisting—but he is, financially, in no place to pay for even one month of rent, so he relents with an appreciative grin.

“Thank you. Seriously.”

Keons steps forward and claps his shoulder. “Don’t mention it, kid. I’m glad you’re in one piece.”

Josh answers with a singular nod, and watches as Keons throws another tentative glance Tyler’s way. It’s met with cold distance.

“I should get going, then. You need rest,” he announces around a light sigh. Josh takes the last sip of his coffee, eyeing Tyler across the kitchen island, who makes no move to accompany Keons to the door.

“Door’s unlocked,” is all he says, and Keons nods dejectedly, silent as he backs away. Josh’s gaze doesn’t stray from Tyler as they’re once again left alone in the penthouse, steeped in a silence not necessarily uncomfortable, but more so loaded, and difficult to navigate.

Josh’s fingers shake. He slides the empty mug in Tyler’s direction and rises to his feet. He’s distinctly aware of Tyler’s vigilant eyes fixed on his every move, but he pays it no mind, instead shuffling to the couch where his jacket lies strewn over the backrest. Some fishing around in its pockets results in a half-empty box of cigs and a lighter in his hand as he steps out onto the balcony.

He’s greeted with the breeze’s bitter nip as soon as he steps beyond the sliding glass, the wind at this height potent and droning. He pops one between his lips before reaching the glass parapet, in front of which he stops to light the cigarette, using his free hand to shield the flame from the cool breeze.

The ground at this height strikes him as immediately reminiscent of those miniature city models, complete with tiny flecks of green trees and the ant-like dots of distant pedestrians. Smoke curls and dissipates around his face, carried off by the wind, where its grayish hue blends into the faintly overcast sky above. 

Josh leans forward, bracing his forearms on the rail, right as he hears the door slide open behind him. He smiles around the filter before plucking the cig out of his mouth and turning his neck when a figure comes to stand beside him.

Tyler’s gaze sweeps over the cityline, before dipping to Josh’s face.

His expression is unreadable when he says, “You shouldn’t smoke.”

Josh’s smirk returns, placid and light on his lips. The curl in the corner of his mouth persists, even when he seals it to take a deep drag. Tyler—impressively so—keeps his eyes locked solely onto Josh’s.

“Careful,” he purrs, flicking ash off the burning end of his cig, “you’re starting to sound like you care about me.”

Tyler huffs with something like dull humor, shaking his head. “Funny. I don’t want my couch smelling like smoke.”

Josh straightens, rolling his shoulders once before turning around on his heel. He leans back against the railing, studying the side of Tyler’s face. “Like hell I’m going back to the couch.”

Tyler rolls his eyes, sliding one hand along the smooth curve of the parapet railing. Josh exhales a plume of smoke away from him, watching the glowing end eat away at the tight roll of paper and tobacco. 

“Anyway,” he continues, “I’ll probably get out of your hair tomorrow.”

He observes Tyler’s face as he says this, and finds himself fascinated at the microscopic shift in Tyler’s energy. It’s hard to pinpoint what it is exactly that alters, because his demeanor remains expertly blank, and his face, in typical Tyler fashion, betrays nothing of whatever is going on in his head. He blinks twice in rapid succession, brows twitching upward.

“Finally,” he deadpans, and Josh chuckles, yielding. 

“Yeah, sure. I give it a week before you’re begging me to come back.”

Tyler snorts, mouth curling faintly. It’s so ridiculously unlike Tyler that Josh can’t help but lean into it, continuing.

“You’ll be throwing rocks at my window and playing love songs on a boombox. Mark my words.”

“Won’t you be in an apartment?”

Josh shrugs, twirling the cigarette between two fingers. “You’re a smart guy. You’ll figure it out.”

Tyler rolls his eyes, though the meager curl at the corner of his mouth betrays his disguised amusement. Josh looks ahead, peering into the living room through the towering glass. 

“You should do something with the place, by the way.” Tyler glances at him, the crease in his brow suggesting confusion. Josh’s thumbnail traces the edge of the filter. “It needs some life. Thought I’d walked into an Ikea catalogue the first time I came here.” 

With eyes narrowed against the mounting wind and one eyebrow slightly raised, Tyler exhales shallowly through his nose, and answers with a quiet, “Sure.”

Sure enough, the next day finds Josh hauling armfuls of cardboard boxes into a roomy, pre-furnished single-bedroom apartment. He’s glad he doesn’t have to move any larger furniture other than a well-loved armchair he got years ago for free from a neighbor who was moving out and just wanted it off his hands. The rest is really just clothes and smaller personal items scavenged up from the sealed-off mess that was his old apartment. Keons had insisted on helping, dismissing Josh’s multiple reminders that there really wasn’t much to move in anyway. Not that he doesn’t appreciate it, but Keons has done so much for him already, and wondering how the hell he’s going to repay him for all of this makes his head hurt.

The apartment is comfortable and homey—clearly refurbished down to the carpet, but lacking the impersonal, modern coldness of Tyler’s penthouse. It has a small balcony overlooking the street, a bathroom with a complete tub, and a living room spacious enough to comfortably fit a handful of guests.

Keons emerges through the front door carrying the last box from Josh’s trunk.

“Where do I leave this?” He asks, and Josh, with half an arm buried into the backpack he brought along, absentmindedly nods in the vague direction of his bedroom. 

“It’s probably clothes, just leave it in my room, thanks.”

With a wordless nod, Keons nudges the door shut behind him and makes his way across the floor. Upon finally finding the plastic pouch Josh has been searching for for the last five minutes, he heads to the bathroom, a door down the hall from his room. He tugs the zipper open and begins stocking the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink.

He doesn’t even notice Keons lingering by the threshold until he speaks, startling him.

“So…” Josh pauses, arm lifted halfway to depositing his cheap cologne onto one of the thin shelves. “You and Tyler finally got your heads out of your asses, I see?”

Josh blinks owlishly at him, slowly setting down the bottle but not tearing his puzzled attention from Keons. At this prolonged bewilderment, Keons nods in a vague gesture, completing the insinuation with a pointed glance down Josh’s neck. After a beat, when it hits him, Josh’s hand darts out to swing the cabinet shut and searches himself in the reflection. There, peeking out beneath the collar of his jacket, lies a stark hickey that leaves not an inch of room for doubt.

He rubs at it half-heartedly with the pads of his fingers, as though wiping it away, before he carefully looks back at Keons, gauging his reaction.

“It’s not…” the words ‘ what it looks like’ wither away on his tongue as soon as he considers them. Keons is many things, but stupid is not one of them.

Fortunately, Keons’ face broadcasts no outrage—nothing even remotely similar. Instead, he laughs, a sound hearty and wholly fond, and Josh feels his face heat up in spite of himself. Keons crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head.

“I don’t give a shit what you two get up to in your free time,” he reassures. “In fact, I’m glad whenever Tyler does anything other than work, and that includes getting laid.”

Josh groans into his hand, head wilting. He’s a grown man feeling absurdly embarrassed at having been found out by his not-partner’s not-father. Keons chortles again, which draws Josh’s attention back up to him.

“Seriously, kid. Good for you two. It took you long enough, I’ll say that.”

“Shut up, man,” Josh grumbles, though his attempts at defensive snark fall painfully flat. He finds a weak amusement tugging at his mouth, despite his attempts to curb it.

“Look,” Keons sighs after a beat of lighthearted silence. There’s a weight to his tone now, not strict, but sincere and grounded. He appears to hesitate briefly before speaking. “Don’t take this as… as a shovel talk , or anything, because I’m not his father and we both know he can take damn good care of himself, but…”

Josh wonders if this is really happening, or if he actually had his brains blown out in that water-stained basement—because there’s no chance he’s about to get a shovel-talk-adjacent speech from Keons, of all people.

“Just,” Keons exhales, “be patient with him. He didn’t grow up like most people did. This life is all he knows. So what may seem strange to you is usually just…” he struggles again to find the words, gesturing noncommittally, “the only way he knows how to show that he cares.”

Now, with the hardest part out of the way, Keons’ face shifts; his taut vacillation slips away to give room for a warm-eyed, teasing endearment. “I see the way he looks at you,” he sings, lifting his eyebrows slightly.

Josh falters, frowning. “Wait, what do you mean?”

Keons’ fond gaze lingers on him for a painfully long moment, studying every plane of Josh’s expression before ultimately releasing an airy chuckle and ducking his head.

“Forget it,” he dismisses, pushing himself off of the doorframe. “I’ve told you enough about him behind his back. He’s going to kill me.”

Josh tries for a casual chuckle, but manages instead something far closer to a weak puff; he’s still caught up on what Keons said. How the hell does Tyler look at him? What does that even mean? 

Keons gives his arm a lighthearted punch, gently urging his attention back to himself. 

“So, lunch?”

Chapter Text

Rain buffets like icy barbs against Tyler’s face, a downpour just cold and diffuse enough to denote cruelty simply for the sake of it. It stings upon landing on his exposed skin, and lingers long after as the chill nips at his shot nerves. His teeth chatter softly in his head, although not from the cold itself; the presence of tiny, migratory tremors is one he’s had to grow accustomed to over the last week, sprouting mostly from his hands, but hardly limiting themselves to. Whether it’s a product of stress, sleep deprivation, pain, or a cocktail of all three is a question he hasn’t had the energy lately to ask himself. 

Thunder hums quietly in the distance, a prelude to the fiercer incoming storm. It wasn’t raining when Tyler left—he probably would’ve stayed in if it had been, the impetuous compulsion which fueled his hike dissolved under the sleet long before he would ever reach his destination. 

He wanes by the time he reaches the lawn, a tidy square of grass, marred with faint patches of dry yellow and, conversely, dotted with sprouting white clovers in its farther reaches. At the end of the lawn, propped up on a base of weathered brick, a familiar bungalow stares back at him, towering despite its single-story stature. Maybe it’s just that he’s been feeling inexorably small these days. Childlike, somewhat, as he is at the moment, soaked through and trembling in front of a home that isn’t his own, but in the most literal sense of the word, too. Misguided and fundamentally lesser. Like something, some opaque, unutterable, load-bearing thread has been stripped from him, and he’s been unraveling, limbs first, ever since.

It’s too late to turn back now. Entombed inside of his skull, though somehow observing the feedback loop of his eyes, brain and legs from a dozen miles away, he staggers forth. The toes of his beat-up sneakers manage to catch on every tiny irregularity in the concrete path and the subsequent brick steps laid before him. It’s a miracle he remains on his feet all the way to the front door. Its surface is bright red but faded and chipping, as though painted many years ago by half a countless careful hands and protectively awash with warm laughter in place of varnish.

His chest squeezes pathetically at the thought, though it is swiftly succeeded by a distinct sourness creeping up his throat that he refuses to acknowledge as envy. He was raised to exist above such asinine, futile emotions.

His arms jerk in an aborted motion to pull his hands out of their resting place in his hoodie pockets, tremulous and dead still in their careful positions. A particularly violent shudder snaps through him, and in a burst of disassembled frenzy, stumbles forth to jut his elbow out. It knocks disjointedly against the doorframe, harshly against the plastic casing of the doorbell—and the throb is so muted it’s as though it feels ashamed to ring louder. 

It’s nothing. A singular swirling ember next to a blazing wildfire.

He finally manages, and the sing-songy chime falls thoroughly muffled across the door. Tyler shoots a glance over his shoulder, breath coming out of him haltingly, in sparing puffs. 

The soles of his feet crawl with bug-like flutters—an itch to run, possibly, or maybe just lie down. But above the cold, settling like an airborne blanket, and beyond the pain (a constant—a vicious, untiring constant) Tyler feels dismantled, undid. Functioning, barely, as a cohesive whole but not out of any sense of cognitive impetus on his end. His body has been driving him, thwarting his tendencies toward self-destruction, but other than that not doing much else besides existing between his bed and the bathroom.

There is only so much the body can do on its own, without the assistance of the mind.

The doorknob rattles suddenly, turning on its axis a half-moment before the door cracks open, stopped by the dull silver chain still hooked in place from the inside. Tyler’s head ducks, despite his best attempts not to cower. Rain water drips off the tip of his nose, landing arhythmically on a bunched-up fold in his hoodie.

The voice that pipes up, buried underneath the swelling rainfall, is shrill with surprise. “Tyler? What the hell are you doing here? It’s almost midnight.”

Tyler’s neck wobbly cranes over, but not upward to face her—not yet. Instead, to catch the tail end of a car sweeping down the road, briefly bathing damp asphalt in a fading neon red glow before it’s swallowed back up by pale darkness. The nearest streetlight is mostly out, but still hums subtly with an unmistakable struggle to stay alight. 

“Finally decided to give me the time of day again, hm?” Jenna continues sourly, face half-obscured beyond the narrow gap. Tyler thinks he could still leave, if he really wanted to. She couldn't stop him. She would certainly try, though. “Why have you been ignoring my texts?”

Quickly, Tyler tries for an apology, but his voice comes out as more of a dry, quivering croak he’s immediately flooded with humiliation for. He clears his throat, and tries again as he meets her eye.

“Sorry.”

Her one visible eyebrow furrows low over her electric blue eye, acute with that shrewd disposition of hers and a lingering glint of irritation. One which is short-lived, as it swiftly shifts into a guarded sort of concern upon sweeping his agitated figure.

He doesn’t know why, at this change, he speaks up again, voice no better than it was seconds prior—if anything, only more pitiful in its precarious hesitance. 

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Jenna’s face hardens, but her gaze does the exact opposite. She ducks out of the gap, and then the door swings shut.

Tyler’s gut lurches, welcoming in the continual nausea he’s just barely been managing to keep at bay, lurking in the outer reaches of his throat like a coiled snake waiting to strike. It’s mortifying to acknowledge, and even more grueling to admit, but he’s desperate, and it must have shown itself in his tone if not everything else about his outward appearance.  

He wouldn’t want to deal with someone as wretched and pathetic as himself, and it was foolish to believe Jenna would ever be up to such a thing either.

His spiral is hastily curtailed by the door flying back open, this time uninhibited by the chain lock. Jenna steps forward, curling one hand around the back of his elbow and tugging softly.

“Come in, it’s freezing out here.”

He allows himself to be gently herded inside, staring blankly down at the smattering of spreading puddles his soaked clothes leave on the hardwood underfoot. He’s greeted by the press of warmth in the air, crowding in all around him—somehow, it only makes him shiver even more.

“You’re lucky my parents aren’t home,” Jenna’s saying, sliding the lock in place behind him before returning. “Did you walk here?”

By the toe of his right shoe, two round, light-trapping drops of water expand, millimeter by millimeter, until their borders connect and morph into one in the bat of an eye. Tyler’s gaze lingers on it and the magnified texture of the wood through it, until Jenna steadies a palm on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about the floor,” she says. “You with me?”

Tyler wipes water off his brow with his shoulder, absently registering the curled lilt of a question and nodding torpidly before the words themselves can take any root in his scattered awareness.

Jenna is quick to catch this, of course; nothing ever gets past her, and the more Tyler tries to outsmart her unnerving scrutiny the easier he unintentionally makes it for her. Her hand, still moored firmly on his shoulder, slides up, never fully withdrawing her touch, and resettles on the side of his neck.

“ Hey ,” she tries, angling her head down, forcing herself into his vision, “you with me?”

Tyler blinks, throat clogged up with shame, and nods again. “I’m with you,” he whispers back, unconsciously mirroring her deep, steady exhale.

Her hand parts again, and he doesn’t have a chance to stop himself from leaning into the subsequent contact when she presses her palm to his forehead.

“Jesus, you’re burning up. Are you sick?”

Tyler certainly hears her words, but it takes him a few mortifying moments to gather their drifting definitions and begin to string together a somewhat intelligible reply. He doesn’t get to voice any of the dazed answers he considers, however, before she’s reaching for the zipper beneath his chin, shaking her head with worry poorly masked as exasperation.

“Let’s get this off, it’s soaked.” 

She tugs the front open, and he hesitates before pulling his hands free. He does, eventually, choking on a fragile inhale at the white-hot throb brought alight by every drag of fabric against his thick dressings. A tremor cements itself in the hollow space of his wrist bones, more vigorous in one hand, but not sparing the other one to any extent either. 

This seems to stun Jenna; both the haphazard bandages wrapped firmly around his palms and taped down to each finger, as well as this uncharacteristic, unending trembling, possibly in equal parts even. She’s seen him injured before, witnessed every progressing shade bruises can take on his skin, pretended not to notice the slivers of gauze that would peek out from underneath a hem or sleeve, but never this. Tyler can hardly recognize himself most days; a matching pair of non-lethal wounds somehow rendering him utterly sapped and humiliatingly tenuous. Tyler doesn’t tremble . He doesn’t quiver like an autumn leaf clinging to its branch, and he doesn’t gasp and choke through his breaths like a blubbering child.

It’s possibly this that ossifies her previously budding worry, seeing as she takes his forearms in twin holds and begins guiding him deeper into the house.

Somehow, in the transient flicker of black mid-blink, Tyler finds himself sitting on the edge of a too-soft bed, the give of the mattress beneath him gradually threatening to swallow him whole.

Jenna is gone, but then she’s back before the question or ensuing panic can take hold. She enters the bedroom clutching a small white box and bearing an expression of shuttered unease. 

“Let me see,” she says, cracking open the box—a first aid kit, Tyler quickly realizes—and shuffling up until his knees knock against her shins. In shifty, spasmodic motions, he raises his hands off his lap, straightening his fingers as far as they can without tearing open the fragile wounds and emerging blisters. He doesn’t manage very much. 

“Don’t worry, I just washed my hands,” Jenna declares, right as she begins to peel up a corner of medical tape with maddeningly deft fingers. Tyler forces a hollow grunt through the unyielding knot in his throat, parched and ever tightening. 

Jenna peels and pulls and unwraps—so careful it’s almost as though she herself would feel it too, were her motions any harsher. Still, when the last layer of gauze is peeled off raw skin, Tyler’s face crumples at the bone-deep, itching sting it triggers. It takes all of his wasting willpower to refrain from ripping his hands out of her hold and nursing them securely to his chest. 

There are two extremes to the reaction one could have at the sight of his hands—in a way, despite their apparent dichotomy, Jenna and Tyler ultimately find themselves on the same end of the spectrum. Jenna, in a moment of inattentiveness in which her cautiously collected front loosens, lets a quiet gasp slip, hands freezing between them before she can raise them up to cup her mouth. At this, Tyler flags, diverting his gaze from her expression—not appalled nor resentful, but exhibiting a sympathy so fiercely sorrowful it borders on pity. He looks at his palms, fingers relaxed but still not able to shake the jumpy tremors embedded into them. It’s an unsightly thing. Never gets any kinder to look at, even after days of Keons doing his best to clean and rewrap them.

He risks a tiny glance up at Jenna, whose fingertips have floated down to cup the backs of his hands—and upon finding a sudden sheen on her waterline feels the knot in his throat set into a heavy stone, suffocating him. 

It’s completely in spite of himself that his eyes, too, begin to burn. Jenna’s bedroom warps and blurs around the edges. Not for the first time, he scrambles for the opposite extreme, clawing and scurrying like an exhausted prey animal. Indifference, here, is what he searches for, what he tries to haphazardly sculpt together with the echoes of the apathy he’s learned to operate under for years. Crying won’t repair his seared tissue, nor give back the feeling to the various areas of extinguished nerve endings. Self-pity is the furthest thing from absolution, and no amount of indulgence will reward him with it. 

Jenna’s expression is splintered; she’s out of her depth. Of course she is—at seventeen, it’s a blessing (or, more accurately, a cross to bear; the burden of knowing him) that she even knows basic wound care. This isn’t basic. This isn’t something a store-bought first aid kit can solve. 

He shouldn’t have come here. All he’s done so far is made a pitiful fool of himself and upset the one person who can stomach consorting with him—something he has yet to understand.

He withdraws his hands, because Jenna certainly won’t be the one to do it. He knows better than to expect any degree of malice from her—anything above shallow, adolescent squabbling at least, the likes of which he was never very familiar with, but they regularly face nonetheless. He wishes she would, sometimes. Often tries to taunt her into cruelty, even. Dangles himself before her teeth, goading her like hooked bait, and braces for the strike. Violence is simple. Violence can be met with in kind, and while it can’t always be avoided, it can be countered, warded off. Tenderness, meanwhile, is a tricky thing to receive. A foreign, shapeless element he doesn’t know how to hold, how to give back. It’s pointless, leaves nothing in its wake but a bone-deep feeling of inadequacy and unsettling docility. Brutality is blood and cracked teeth. Bruised knuckles and a heady rush of adrenaline—raw power, in its most organic form. 

But that’s the difference between them, isn’t it? It was once frustrating, meeting people his age—at twelve, fifteen—who were all infuriatingly inept. Puerile and naive. He’s long come to learn, however, that he’s just… fundamentally different to the rest of the world. Even to those similarly involved in the country’s criminal underbelly; none of them were reared this way. They weren’t pegged as a blank canvas of potential at such a young age and consequently cultivated into the perfect epitome of that potential. Many of them—including Jenna—grew up gently. With affection in spades; something predestined and unconditional, as opposed to Tyler’s upbringing, where decency was something to be worked for and earned, and benevolence was a rarity.  

Tyler thinks this makes Jenna soft. She thinks it makes him a victim. This dissent, although never bluntly addressed, covertly taints many of their exchanges and quietly dwells in the outskirts of their relationship like its own disembodied presence. A latent catalyst toward their inevitable crash and burn.

“Do they hurt?” Jenna asks then, not yet reaching for Tyler’s hands again but clearly itching to, her gaze fixed on his face. He senses a slight quiver in her words, somewhere around the end of the question, though it doesn’t overshadow the newfound solemnity in her tone.

Tyler pauses, glancing down at the gnarly sight as though searching there for his answer. They do hurt. They always hurt. Even through the allaying fog of combined painkillers and exhaustion, the sting still makes itself known. In varying degrees, naturally, but ever present nonetheless. 

He doesn’t say all of this. Couldn’t possibly without the unshed tears cinching his larynx shut and rendering him fleetingly mute. So he shakes his head, lips sealed shut.

“Have you cleaned them today?” is her next question, as though working off of a mental checklist. Her voice rings steadier this time, if only slightly. She grabs the underside of his forearms.

Tyler nods. “Keons,” he grates in some meager parenthesis. Jenna’s mouth twists slightly with contemplation, eyeing his upturned palms for a moment or two longer before resettling her attention on his face. He squirms beneath her soft scrutiny.

“When was the last time you showered?” she asks, pointed but expertly tactful still. He can’t find it in himself to be offended when he knows exactly what she’s noticing now, in the warm wash of her bedside lamp: the drab shadows harshly carved into the skin below his eyes, the flat, unwashed quality of his damp hair, and the scraggy dark tint along his jaw and lip, a product of days spent unshaven.

“I haven’t—” he falters, lips faintly aquiver with all the undeclared words that flash across his mind and shrivel up before ever making it to his clenched teeth. He gathers himself and attempts to recall—but the last several days have felt so muddled it’s as though this cognitive obfuscation has existed his entire life, and everything before that afternoon is equally as lost on him as the day before is.

“I dunno,” he admits, shaking his fallen head, agitated and disgusted with himself.

“Okay,” Jenna says, voice presenting neither of these things. “Right. Get up.”

“…What?”

Her fingers squeeze his arms once, right as she takes a step back. “Come with me.”

Her gentle urging acts as an anchor for Tyler’s deteriorating lucidity, her commands basic and explicit enough for his body to take action with little necessary forethought. 

He blinks, and he’s standing on the cool jade tile of Jenna’s bathroom; again, and he’s snapped from his absent trance by the sound of water running, pooling into the tub. 

Jenna, now hovering before him, drops her hands from her hair, at some point gathered into a loose ponytail, and reaches for the hem of his shirt.

Having possibly taken notice of this uncharacteristic obedience, Jenna continues with these firm, straightforward orders, and Tyler responds to each with a removed sort of malleability— arms up, hold on to me, foot, foot.

His waterlogged clothes are discarded, piece by piece, onto tiny square tiles as rain patters against the clouded window and the tub exhales plumes of inviting steam. He’s down to his underwear by the time Jenna speaks again, guiding him by the upper arm.

“Keep your hands out of the water, okay?”

He sits. Feels cold ceramic against his forearms—starkly opposed to the hot water enfolding his lower body. The surface inches up his chest as he slowly collapses against the tub wall, replacing goosebumps with miniscule twitches of unwinding warmth. The heat itself continues up its path, gathering in his cheeks and prickling in the corners of his eyes.

Jenna sits on the tub’s lip. Reaches, then, for the cluttered, varied array of bottles tucked into the two far corners. He hears the quiet click of a cap, and breathes in the sweet, familiar scent of her floral shampoo.

It’s humiliating, how immediately his face morphs once soapy fingers delve into his hair—muscles warping and straining, burning hotter than his submerged skin. So much so, that he hardly registers the searing path of his prefatory tears. Hitching sobs soon come out as convulsive gasps, snuffed out somewhere in his throat with abating struggle.

He weeps, and Jenna, in a continued bestowal of kindness, doesn’t mention it.

“She’s gonna say yes to this one, just wait.”

“ No way, this is the worst one by far.”

Tyler shoots Jenna a sidelong glance, sipping loudly at his near-empty Pepsi. Her eyes remain doggedly trained ahead, drawing one bare leg up to her chest. She shakes her head resolutely, wholly unpersuaded by his insistence.

“It’s got everything she’s described from the beginning. Just look at her face.”

Chewing on his flimsy plastic straw, Tyler rolls his eyes and looks back at the TV, where, upon an overly dramatized build-up, crammed full of quick cuts and corny sound effects, the teary-eyed, wedding-dress-clad woman on screen enthusiastically announces her decision.

“Aw, what!”

“Told you!” Jenna boasts, extending her leg to lightly kick his own a few times. Tyler jerks it away, throwing a brief glare her way.

“That’s so stupid.”

Jenna swings her leg straight, planting both socked feet onto the weathered carpet below. Eyeing him with a teasing smirk curled into her mouth, she says, “It’s not stupid. You just don’t know what a satisfied woman looks like, clearly.”

He huffs through his nose, lowering his cup to rest upon his thigh. “ Ha .”

Jenna pushes herself to her feet, bending over to scour through the mess of her coffee table until she fishes out a plastic pouch and lighter somewhere amidst the last vestiges of their late-night dinner.

“This show sucks anyway,” he grumbles when she heads over to the narrow, rickety balcony doors, turning back to the screen.

“You always say that,” Jenna shoots back, cracking the ancient doors open. Immediately, a pleasant breeze slips inside to join them in the space of her modest living room. “And you’re always hooked by the end of it.”

“I might as well. It’s that or zoning out for an hour while you talk to yourself.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Tyler’s head goes lax against the cushioned backrest of the couch, thumbnail carving a dent into the styrofoam of his cup, retaining only half-melted ice at this point. He watches Jenna’s deft fingers finish rolling herself a narrow cigarette, drawing it briefly along her tongue to seal it shut, before pinching it loosely between her lips.

“Speaking of,” she hums, in a tone that suggests a casual, random thought—but he knows her better. Reads her concise, probing glance at him within a heartbeat; she’s been meaning to bring this up, whatever it is. Her rolled cig glows weakly between her lightheartedly upturned lips. “Anybody special in your life lately? Unsatisfied woman or otherwise?”

Tyler squeezes out a dry snort, resorting, once more, to chewing on his flattened straw. He feels more than makes his eyebrows knit together, watching her take a long, expectant drag. “No,” he states bluntly. “What kind of question is that?”

She answers first with a weak shrug, withdrawing the cigarette from her mouth to further reply, “A friendly one. A small-talk-between-close-friends one. Am I not allowed to ask?”

“You’re allowed to, it’s just a stupid question.”

Her eyes narrow faintly, face veiled by a released plume of smoke. “Everything’s stupid tonight, huh?”

“Yes. Including you.”

“ Ouch ,” she gasps, bringing her free hand to brace her chest. A sardonic smile graces her features, short hair whipping lightly as the breeze picks up behind her. A beat slips by, right before Jenna pipes up again. “You should tell me, you know. If you were— hypothetically —seeing someone.”

“Why? So you can approve of them?”

Her response is immediate, thrilled. “So there is someone?”

Tyler flashes a dead-eyed, lipped smile. “No. I told you. And I’m not interested in doing so, either.”

Jenna gives a long-suffering, theatrical sigh, expelling a lungful of cigarette smoke. Her fingers tap against the railing behind her, loosely leaning her weight against the aged metal. Tyler, meanwhile, glances back at the television, where a new woman has taken the spotlight and examines herself in the fitting room mirror.

“Y’know, there might come a day where hookups just won’t cut it anymore,” Jenna chants, looking awfully brazen as she tilts her head to the side.

“Yeah? Where’s your special someone, then?”

Jenna catches the barb with unflinching grace—if anything, smiling even harder at it. “On her way, I hope. But I’m not the one acting all weird and smitten.”

An affronted sound, a cross between an incredulous laugh and a scoff, kicks out of Tyler’s chest. “ Smitten ?”

“I can’t think of any other way to describe it. You’re all… lively. And less hateful, I guess.” She pauses, visibly reconsidering. “Well… for your standards, at least.”

Tyler scoffs, shaking his head while he sweeps aside his discarded gloves, stacked on the corner of the coffee table and replaces them with his crossed ankles. A particularly sturdy gust of wind carries the acrid smell of nicotine to him, enveloping his senses and undoubtedly seeping into his clothes. The breeze is nice, at least. He casts a cagey, unamused look to Jenna, which she catches and raises one dark eyebrow at.

“Unless I’m to believe you’re just… turning over a new leaf all on your own?” She muses, smiling through smoke. “Finally dropping all the mopey brooding?”

A mild fondness plucks at the corner of his lips, but he smothers it by returning the straw to his mouth, planed and bumpy with the indents of his molars. He holds her discerning gaze with something like an undeclared challenge palpable in the ensuing stretch of silence. He gives a relaxed shrug.

“Maybe I am.”

Tyler’s lungs squeeze out a raw, depleted sigh as his arms go boneless beneath him. His torso sinks lower, lower, until it settles finally with another quieter huff of caught breath. Little quakes of fading pleasure ripple along his spine, spreading out into loose limbs and skipping over goosebump-riddled skin, tacky with sweat.

It’s less than a minute before Tyler’s raking in another deep inhale and summoning the vestigial threads of his remaining energy to lift himself onto his knees and shuffle off of Josh. His abandoned pillow cushions the abrupt plunge of his head, puffing up against the side of his face. The sheets are cool on this side of the bed, rumpled and in desperate need of a wash—but he swiftly decides to dwell here a moment or two longer, if only to catch his breath at least.

His eyelids droop, but soon are urged apart when Josh hauls himself into a sitting position, scrubbing one rough palm down his face. Tyler’s gaze lazily trails across his bare figure as he inches toward the opposite end of the mattress, pale light catching faintly on freckled, sweat-damp skin, highlighting the shifting muscles of his arms and upper back. It sweeps lower, to the gradual taper of his waist; the short, knotted scar tracing his spine, not yet taken on the paler tint of old wounds; the swell of his ass as he gets to his feet and slips into a pair of tight boxers.

Tyler shuts his eyes. Josh’s pattering footsteps fade, and then subside entirely after he catches the stifled whine of the door hinge. Sleep crowds in, cementing itself first in his limbs, leaden in the marrow of his bones, and sweeping even further in as the seconds drag by. He exhales into the memory foam, snaking an arm up through the sheets to rub the drowsiness from his eyes. He maneuvers onto his back, when leftover warmth clinging to him begins to ebb and goosebumps emerge across his bare skin. At that, Tyler’s hand smacks blindly around the mattress in search of the rumpled comforter. He’s in the middle of dragging it over himself when Josh re-emerges through the doorway, brandishing a hand towel and a pack of cigarettes.

As he shuffles back around the bed, he asks, “Why is there a bobcat in your living room?” 

Tyler winds one arm underneath his pillow, the other shooting up just in time to catch the towel Josh tosses him. His brow furrows, but only for a moment, before the realization registers.

“Oh, that’s Ned.”

Josh pauses, full-body. He’s sat on the edge of the mattress again, upper torso twisted over to pin Tyler with an incredulous look. “ Ned ?”

“Yes,” Tyler replies blandly, warily eyeing the flimsy box of cigs secured loosely in Josh’s fingers. “Don’t smoke in here.”

Josh looks stunned, his expression sustained in an unwavering pinch of bewilderment. After a few processing seconds, he shuffles back, angled now against the headboard.

“You got a cat and didn’t bother to mention it?”

“Didn’t know I needed your permission. Don’t —” Tyler grumbles, dropping the hand towel in order to briefly emerge from his blanketed cavern and pluck the box out of Josh’s hand. “...smoke in here.” He barely catches the crestfallen dip in Josh’s face before craning over and tossing it onto the nightstand. While he’s at it, slips his gloves back on. He then reaches for the discarded hand towel, and as he half-heartedly wipes himself down, hears Josh click his tongue beside him.

“That’s not what I meant. Why a cat? You seem like more of a fish guy.”

Tyler shrugs, bunching up the gray washcloth and tossing it onto the floor. He smoothly sinks back into his previous spot, stretching a spent ache out of his thighs.

All he says is, “Felt like it.” And after a small lull, adds, “Didn’t you tell me the place ‘needed some life’?”

Josh’s head tips to the side. “I was thinking more, like, a plant. Or some band posters…”

Tyler doesn’t reply, but has the decency to acknowledge Josh by way of a muffled grunt pressed into the pillow. His eyes droop shut again. He reckons they should both probably take a shower, but he’s been up since before dawn, and the steady weight of the comforter stretched over his back, the lingering repose of being thoroughly and enthusiastically fucked, and the faint sounds of Josh’s steady breathing beside him fuse into an unexpectedly soothing scene to unwind inside of.

This pleasant tranquility doesn’t last long, however, as right before he can submit to sleep, Josh speaks up. To his credit, he lowers his voice into a cautious rumble when he does.

“How did you find me?”

Sighing through his nose, Tyler cracks one eye open, narrowed as it locks onto Josh’s abnormally solemn face. “What?”

“Last week, when I was taken. How did you know where to find me?”

‘Taken’ , in particular, stands out to Tyler, even amidst his drowsy, irked daze. This, and the reticent crimp of Josh’s expression, a mellow pinch in his facial muscles that wasn’t there before. For all intents and purposes, Josh is not a very well spoken individual—Tyler would pay a generous sum of money to watch him attempt to draft a formal email—but this feels deliberate. The shuttered disquiet he exhibits, though not lacking in the curiosity that incited the question in the first place, speaks louder than his dismissively blasé act.

Josh was kidnapped. Abducted, taken hostage, and tortured.

Whether this faux disregard comes from a place of inner turmoil; his psyche shielding him from the expected mental aftermath by downsizing the severity of it, or simply from a fragile ego, bruised in honor but intact—Tyler can’t be sure. 

He could very well be reading too much into a simple, innocent question. Or, Josh could truly need the answer—could need the reassurance of knowing the extent to which Tyler has his back. Could need the certainty that his absence is noticed and his presence fought for.

So, Tyler says, “Keons called me about an hour after you two left the zoo. Told me he’d heard a horn, and then saw your car driving off in the wrong direction. He said he was a few blocks ahead then, but by the time he turned back he couldn’t find where you’d gone. You wouldn’t pick up your phone after that, so he called me.

“He came here, explained everything. I checked the traffic cameras around the area near that time, and traced your car roughly back to where they’d taken you.”

Josh’s expression holds during the entire report, but somewhere around the end loosens microscopically. His mouth twitches, mostly with bewilderment.

“You have access to traffic cameras?”

Tyler shrugs. “I have contacts.”

Josh barks out a small laugh at that, and something silken eases in Tyler’s chest. Josh’s hands meet over his lap, picking pensively at his thumbnail, and when he opens his mouth again, Tyler butts in.

“Don’t thank me again.”

Josh’s eyes narrow sharply. “I wasn’t going to.”

Across the bedroom, the door creaks again, and Tyler cranes his neck over to see Ned peeking his head in through the narrow gap, sniffing at the floor, and trailing up the doorframe with twitching whiskers. Tyler tuts a few times, rising up to rest on one elbow and reaching out to pat the mattress with his free hand. Ned perks up, endearingly large ears swiveling in the sound’s direction before he trots over to the bed. With a smooth, graceful hop, he lands on the creased comforter. His white coat stands starkly opposed to the darker-hued bedsheets, something Tyler realized too late, only upon seeing the sheer amount of cat hair that somehow coated the couch cushions on Ned’s very first day upon arrival.

Once close enough, Tyler reaches out and smoothes a hand along Ned’s flank, petting in long, slow motions from the top of his head to the base of his feathery tail. In the silence, his purr vibrates resoundingly between them. He continues padding up the bed, before finding an adequate spot by Tyler’s hip to curl up on. 

“Why does he look like that?” Josh asks suddenly, brows cinched but a pale trace of fondness tainting his tone of voice. Nevertheless, Ned narrows his eyes at him with suspicion.

“Like what?”

Josh points at his face, as though it’ll clarify a single thing. “Like that! Look at his face! You have an ugly fuckin’ cat, man.”

Tyler rolls his eyes, letting his head fall as his fingers scratch underneath Ned’s blocky chin. “He’s a Maine Coon, that’s just what they look like.”

Josh dwells on this for a minute. In the meantime, Ned continues glaring at him, even as his purring at Tyler’s soft petting kicks up a notch. When Tyler spares him a sidelong glance, he’s met with Josh’s gaze trained on the scene before him, gleaming with something akin to awe. Tyler knows it must be a jarring sight, this foreign gentleness he’s displaying. But it’s always been easier with animals than with people. They don’t expect anything from him.

Fortunately, Josh doesn’t point it out, but he does speak out again. 

“Who names a cat Ned ?”

“If you have a problem with him you’re free to leave.”

Josh cracks one of those unnervingly charming half-grins of his, raising both palms in surrender. “No, no. My bad.” Then, as if to further demonstrate his complete lack of a problem with Tyler’s cat, he extends a relaxed hand and lets Ned sniff at his fingers. Ned eyes him and settles his head on top of one paw, blinking slowly when Josh pats the flat top of his head. 

They sit like this for a while, steeped in a silence neither tense nor awkward, but strangely easy . Ned sleeps, Tyler dozes, and Josh drums soundless fingers against his hitched knee. 

At some point, fishes the remote from wherever it had ended up, lost somewhere among the sheets, and turns the television on. Tyler, at first, doesn’t bother looking over at first, content to let Josh browse through Netflix while he gets some sleep. That is, until he hears a strikingly familiar voice ring through the speakers. He peers over at the TV without lifting his head.

Nico’s face takes up a significant portion of the screen, sporting a tailored suit and fiery red tie. Below his shoulders, around the bottom half of the screen, he’s thronged by variously-sized microphones clutched by the steady hands of reporters. Further beneath that, the news ticker sweeps in bold lettering along the screen.

‘SENATOR BOURBAKI PROPOSES BILL TO INCREASE FUNDING FOR FEDERAL LAW ENFORCEMENT AND THE DEA’ 

Glancing up at Josh, Tyler finds him absorbed in the interview, thumb hovering over the Netflix-labeled button on the remote as though frozen in his curiosity. Tyler sighs shallowly.

“Senator!” One reporter calls, snagging Nico’s attention through the clamor. “What is your response to the growing discontent being shown amongst your voters? Organized crime is still a prominent issue, and many have criticized your unaccomplished promises to topple it over your many terms.”

It’s an unoriginal, rehashed type of question, the type more often used to test a politician’s ability to work around more barbed questions than to get an insightful answer out of it. Tyler expects Josh to switch channels, for Nico’s graceful reply to be cut short—but Josh watches, enrapt.

“I don’t blame any of the people feeling frightened or unsure. I often feel the same way. But I do ask—“ he turns to face the camera, brow taut with noble severity, “that you be patient. Corruption and violence is a disease in this country, one that has existed for many decades. Weeding it out takes time and deliberation… I have a feeling much of our hard work will pay off soon enough.”

“Where is he?” Josh asks as soon as the following reporter rattles off her question. Tyler’s fingers pause in Ned’s fur, eyes darting up to study Josh’s odd, stony expression. 

“He’s in DC until next week,” he slowly answers, glancing once more at the screen before shuffling closer and hoisting himself higher. His hand smoothes up Josh’s thigh beneath the sheets; he itches for Josh to aim that honed focus back at him . “Put something else on, come on.” His words fall muted into the smooth curve of Josh’s shoulder, kissing innocently enough up to the rounded edge of his collarbone. Josh’s hand falls onto his lap, and Tyler feels the feathery brush of his hair as he turns his head. As the flat tops of his teeth pointedly graze a cluster of freckles, Tyler slips the remote out of his hand, thumb instinctively locating and tapping the power button. Instantly, they’re submerged in complete silence again. Tyler nips his way up the warm plane of Josh’s neck, nosing gingerly at the hinge of his jaw. He hears Josh crumbling in the tight, unsteady quality of his reacting exhale, and soon enough feels those calloused fingers curl up the nape of his neck.

Josh stills entirely, however, when a shrill tune booms to life by the bed. Tyler’s already tamping down the frustrated groan that swells in his chest when Josh twists over for his phone, but not without shooting him a meek, apologetic glance first. Tyler sags against the headrest, pushing himself further up so he’s properly seated. Josh doesn’t pick up, though, instead he continues blinking down at the screen, just barely out of Tyler’s view. This time, Tyler doesn’t bother swallowing a peeved sigh.

“It’s Keons, isn’t it?”

Josh’s head pivots slightly, revealing his torn expression, lip tucked loosely underneath his upper teeth.

“I should probably…”

In truth, Tyler couldn’t care less about whatever he and Keons have planned—so his objective isn’t to put it off when he leans back in. He’s already whittled at Josh’s (already pretty flimsy) integrity enough, and Tyler’s not the man to leave a job half-done. 

Mouthing more brazenly now along Josh’s heated skin, inching his hand higher to graze the tip of a finger across the crease of his thigh, Tyler murmurs, “He can wait a little while, right?”

Josh swallows and wavers. His muscles twitch infinitesimally under his pink-flushed skin. He releases a quiet sound of breathless uncertainty into the room, the air in it stirred, like something familiar cracked loose in between breaths. His hand returns, this time groping fitfully at Tyler’s waist. It reads as a fractured assent, a testament to Tyler’s triumph. 

“Alright… Make it quick.”

Tyler straightens, nibbling teasingly at Josh’s lip, whose lashes sweep low. “I can work with that.”

Josh kisses him, phone muted and disregarded, and cradles the back of Tyler’s head with an indulgent asperity. Sizzling gratification accompanies the initial rolls of heat that surge up through Tyler’s gut. He tugs absentmindedly at the roots of Josh’s curls, and just barely manages to quell a fond smirk when Josh mumbles into his mouth, anxiously eyeing Ned.

“Get the cat out of here, he’s looking at me funny.”

Chapter Text

Cold. 

Hands. 

Clock.

Bile.

Gunpowder.

Beneath Tyler, the uneven-legged stool tips back and forth, over and over with every microscopic shift of his weight. He doesn’t recall sitting down, but he was in his car before this. Some opaque, indefinite amount of time ago. That single snapshot only soundly tethered to his conscience thanks to the jarring sensation that had been slipping into his seat; crowding into the viscous mass of heat that had simmered in his car, left to bake beneath the sun for hours.

Now, though, he’s… here. Here in this cold place, where the antique grandfather clock ticks at an unyielding, metronome pace; this place that smells like gunpowder and tastes like bile. 

No. No, that’s not this place: that’s him. It must be his tongue that’s been dabbed with acrid bile, and his clothes that smell. It clings, gunpowder. Loiters around, snagged in the senses long after it’s been thoroughly washed out of clothing, hair, skin, hands. Possibly fictitious—a trick of the troubled mind—but no less haunting for it.

Tyler blinks forcefully, pointedly, as though a single conscious effort will moor him back into his body and relieve him from this severed remoteness. He focuses again, even though these intuitive methods have never worked well for him.

Cold. Hands. Clock. Bile. Gunpowder.

Realizes, around this time, that this list has become more of a memorized mantra, rather than an active cataloguing of the meager stimuli his scattered senses can grasp. Promptly decides it’s no use trying to count new ones. His senses aren’t so much a docking point for his distant cognizance as they are the fragmented remains of his once-afloat raft. They aren’t inaccessible nor intangible, but they are splintered. Existing in a vacuum, or a calm, vast ocean. Even if he were to reel them in, to lug them into something more akin to a single, functioning unit, he’d still be left stranded among the waves.

He’ll wait it out, the way he always does. As of right now:

Cold. 

Hands.

Clock.

Bile.

Gunpowder.

…

Cold.

Hands—

“Tyler.”

New stimuli slice through the fog: a hand on his shoulder, firm and unannounced, and a voice; familiar, achingly so. Tyler’s head twists on his taut shoulders.

“Hey, man,” Josh carols, pearly teeth flashing through a loose smile.

Tyler strains for his voice—caught somewhere, surely, in the depths of his throat. Beyond the pooling bile, past the mulish knot in his trachea. He doesn’t even manage a grasp on it before Josh continues, either oblivious to or unconcerned by Tyler’s uncharacteristic torpor.

“Do you have a second? I need your help with something real quick.”

Tyler glances down at the hand still casually planted on the stiff curve of his shoulder. Hears himself mumble out, on reflex alone, a bland, “What?”

Josh's fingers flex into muscle, a miniscule, encouraging squeeze. “I’ll show you, it’s downstairs in the lounge.”

It’s a true testament to Tyler’s state, that he doesn’t know any better to exhort Josh for more details—that he simply complies. He drifts out of his stool and trails after Josh, whose grin doesn’t wane for a second as they silently tread down the stairs and into the dim lounge. Unconsciously, when they reach the floor and Josh’s stride decelerates, Tyler passes him, sweeping a quick glance across the empty space.

Not empty, he quickly comes to realize. Leaning against the compact bartop by the far wall, he finds Keons, bearing the guise of unperturbed bemusement in the faint crumple of his eyebrows. Tyler’s footsteps flag, then halt entirely. Keons looks at him, something longer than a passing glance, but not by much. 

When Tyler hones his focus enough to turn on his heel, Josh is already towering atop the short staircase, half-angled behind the door. 

“Sorry in advance,” he voices into the room, the tilt in his mouth suggesting a sliver of genuine remorse. Still, it curls in that infuriatingly suave way of his, before he adds, “but you guys are too stubborn to do it yourselves. I’ll be back when you’ve patched things up.”

“Joshua—”

The door slips shut, and before Tyler can even string together the idea to dart after Josh, the lock resoundingly snaps into place. For a moment possibly too long, Tyler merely blinks up at the doorway, as though willing it to grant him an escape. Behind him, Keons chuckles lowly; not much more than a muffled sound swept out under his breath. Tyler wills his fingers into tight fists, fleetingly hoping he could feel the bite of nails into his palms.

He refuses to turn around, glowering at the polished doorknob as he evaluates just how angry Nico would be if he were to kick it in. He doesn’t reach a final conclusion, but he shoots forth anyway when the phantom sensation of Keons’ gaze trained on his neck starts to scorch.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Tyler stops. Turns around, only because he still doesn’t feel very tethered and staying faithful to his adamant disregard feels a near-impossible task. Keons, at some point, has meandered around the bar, hands resting low and obscured by the polished granite surface. His eyes stall on Tyler for a few seconds, as precise and inescapable as a pin skewering through the thorax of a nailed insect, before dropping to where his hands jump into motion.

“Drink?” He asks simply, glass clinking softly behind the bar. Tyler furrows his brows, glancing over at the rest of the space, where two warm-lit pool tables lie neatly arranged beside a small collection of side tables and leather armchairs. Vacant and drab; nothing there to keep him moored, to impede him from drifting out any further.

“Fine,” he curtly mutters after a dreadful beat, dragging his heavy feet forth toward the nearest stool. As soon as he settles, toes braced against the hewed spindle, Keons lifts a pair of rocks glasses into view. Tyler reaches for the one placed in front of his crossed forearms, absentmindedly gyrating the clear, bubbly liquor inside the tumbler. Exhaling, he swiftly raises it to his lips and gulps down a few half-mouthfuls. He hardly tastes it—only certain it went down at all when he registers the mild buzz and burn on the back of his tongue. It returns to the bartop, cradled between motionless palms.

Keons, upon taking a significantly smaller sip of his own, watches Tyler as a hawk would its heedless, unsuspecting prey.

(Though in truth, does so in a much kinder manner, neither predatory nor malicious as one might be led to assume; this truth is one far more difficult to address, however, so he hauls his well-acquainted defenses into place and bristles beneath the look.)

“How was the job?” asks Keons, glancing down at Tyler’s glass, encased between leather-bound fingers. Tyler’s chest shrinks, the air siphoned from his lungs within one blink and the next, so abrupt it feels like a blow to the diaphragm. It expands soon thereafter, albeit reluctantly. He just about manages not to choke on his subsequent inhale by sheer force of will alone.

“What’s it to you?”

Keons doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink at the warning snap of teeth and the rumble of a threat. There comes a point when a person has seen enough of you—seen you small and mean and splintered—that they stop being afraid of you. Tyler has known this truth for many years, but being faced with it never gets any less mortifying. Never stops trying to push further than it can bend, still.

“It was a hit, right? Everything go smoothly?”

Tyler’s body contracts, straining as though attempting to wither away, to curl itself out of existence. He tries for another inhale—cut short by the gunpowder that coats his lungs. 

He offers a noncommittal grunt in response, staring blankly into his glass.

“Oh, who am I kidding, of course it did,” Keons huffs, tone just barely alight with toiling humor. He doesn’t go so far as to laugh, however, and neither does Tyler.

It had gone smoothly. Until he had his finger poised over the trigger and a terror-stricken face at the end of the barrel. His target had moved—flinched and jerked and flailed with panic—and he had faltered. His shot slipped no more than a few inches, enough to maim, incapacitate, but not kill. Not instantly, at least.

She split, then, as soon as he stepped forth to finish her off. To correct himself. A grown woman, reduced to a frenzied, pleading, blubbering child, palm slipping against the side of her throat. Trying every angle to save herself— I have money, I won’t say anything, I have a little boy at home .

Tyler only recalls the taste of vomit and the chafe of tremors in hazy, shuffled snippets after that.

He does not tell any of this to Keons. He’s not entirely unconvinced, however, that in those inscrutable, omniscient ways of his, Keons already knows.

Silence settles like dust around them as they drink and avoid each other’s eyes. Time passes to an indistinguishable degree—hours, minutes, seconds blurring together, superimposed into a single fused emulsion, impossible to dissect. Down here, dim, quiet, dull, Tyler struggles to ground himself. Clings to the hypnotic sight of the last dregs of his liquor swishing around the glass as his senses once again fail him. His jaw clamps shut, drilling molars into the spongy flesh of his cheek. Beneath Tyler, the tall stool remains fixed in place, utterly still. 

At some point, Keons says something, mumbled and smooth. Tyler hears the rumble of his voice, muffled as though underwater, or trapped behind dozens of layers of glass, but doesn’t register a single thing until—

“ Hey .”

“What?” Tyler barks, reflexes eternally inclined toward hostility. 

“Talk to me, kid.”

“Jesus.”

“In more than one-word sentences, preferably. You know we aren’t getting out of here until we have an actual, adult conversation, right?”

Were Tyler any more clear-headed, he’d immediately read through the insinuation slipped in so cleverly it could very well be a calculated inducement. The veiled remark suggesting childishness on Tyler’s part; immature, stubborn petulance. Aiming to rile, to poke at the bear and that way assess just how far away Tyler is at the moment.

His continued silence provides more than sufficient of a verdict. Keons’ brow creases, glancing down again at Tyler’s glass. 

“You alright?” he tries again, setting his own aside to lean forward on his hands. Tyler, conversely, stares unblinkingly down at his hands.

Hears himself say, “I’m fine.”

“I’d believe that,” Keons hums, eyebrows twisting in a cross between humor and pity when he nods his head at Tyler’s glass, “if you had noticed that’s Sprite , not gin.”

Tyler blinks. Once, twice, and then haltingly drops his gaze to the tumbler. 

Isn’t it? He downs the last bit—fizzling on his tongue, a burn striking but far from the piercing bitterness of straight liquor. Something foul and distressing cuts fiercely through all of it: through the layers upon layers of isolating frost and timeless abstraction.

“I don’t…” he fumbles, craning his head low to harshly squeeze at the nape of his neck. Leather; warm, weathered, smooth. Neck; aching, mountingly so.

He doesn’t notice Keons’ swift series of movements until he’s back in front of him, prying his hand away and flipping his arm up and onto the bartop. His second drifts down to Tyler’s exposed forearm, cupping the skin a half second before pressing down with his palm, fingers latching firmly—but not painfully so—around his arm. Immediately, Tyler hisses, tensing at the shoulder in an aborted, knee-jerk reaction to pull away. Keons’ fingers tighten, palm pressing the chunk of ice slightly deeper into goosebump-peppered skin.

“That hurt?” he asks, intently studying Tyler’s face, prepared to remove it if he deems it necessary. Tyler inhales through his teeth, watching a single drop of water glide down the inner curve of his forearm, leaving a smooth path of icy moisture in its wake.

“A little,” he manages, not needing to be told to focus on the feeling, on the cold, progressing into a bladed numbness. On the trail each melted drop draws on his skin, a shade of frigidity still jarring, but not as biting as the ice cube itself. 

Audibly across from him (possibly intentionally so) Keons draws in a deep inhale, and Tyler finds himself unconsciously mirroring it; second nature, a habit he never recalls after the fact, but one forged in far too many occurrences similar to this.

He is certain, as says a drifting voice in some far recess of his rooting mind, that this will become yet another piece of kindling used to feed the unending bonfire of his immutable shame. Eventually, in a few hours or days time, this will haunt him, and he will have to hole up to lick his wounds before he can look anybody in the eye again.

For now, though, time straightens itself out like a wide, tangled cloth. He drifts back, no longer flailing and grappling for purchase, but relaxing as the tide naturally carts him back to shore.

He exhales in an abrupt release when his lungs start to spasm, wriggling his arm pointedly.

“That’s enough,” he grumbles, drawing it close when Keons releases him, cupping the half-melted ice cube in his palm.

“Good?” he asks again, looking a little more at ease, a bit more himself with the faint gleam of fondness amidst amber eyes. Tyler nods jerkily, dismissively.

“Yeah. Fine. I was just…” 

Keons waves a loose hand, extending his final blessing in the form of omission. “I get it. Happens to the best of us. You just needed to come back down to Earth.”

Silent, Tyler stares up at him, drawing shapeless figures into the numb patch of skin on his arm with his opposite thumb. Keons’ mouth slants, shrewd and understanding.

“Yeah.”

That’s the end of it. Keons doesn’t press or pry; he knows better. And if he’s planning on doing so, it certainly won’t be now. So Tyler forcibly uproots the tension out of his soldiers, wresting it out like clumps of leeches, as Keons continues.

“I might have to thank Josh after this, actually.” He takes Tyler’s quiet, puzzled look as further momentum. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Right , Tyler thinks. I’m supposed to be mad at him .

“I’m sorry,” Keons continues, the words bleeding together as they’re thrust out on a shallow exhale. That’s one thing they’ve always had in common: their mutual bullheadedness. Apologizing, taking accountability is a tricky thing with a stubborn pride rooted in the way. Tyler chews on his tongue and waits for Keons to sort his thoughts.

“I shouldn’t have said any of that shit. I was just… frustrated. And you know Nico has been a great friend to me, but there are certain things concerning… you, really, and the way he chose to raise you, that I can’t stand by. But it’s only because I care about you, kid. Maybe a bit too much, considering we’re technically just coworkers.”

That manages to draw a humored huff out of Tyler, twining his forearms together over the polished granite. The diffident curl of Keons’ mouth spreads into a lighter grin, reaching out to smack at Tyler’s arm.

“You know I can’t stand you being mad at me. It kills me to see my favorite subordinate so grumpy.”

Tyler tuts, lazily swatting Keons’ hand away as he leans back in his stool. “You’re hardly my boss,” he grumbles.

“Still am,” Keons chirps back, shrugging.

“Whatever.”

A beat slips by, smooth and unraveled. For all the comfort its familiarity brings, Tyler’s anger is an exhausting thing to bear.

“So,” Keons hums, “we’re good?”

Tyler sighs gratingly, feigning deep consideration despite having really forgiven him weeks ago. Keons reads right through him, in typical fashion, and cracks a grin before Tyler can even answer.

“Yeah, yeah. We’re good.”

The next week finds Tyler continually absent. Trapped in an ambiguous state of dreariness, keeping the cogs of his cyclical, indistinguishable days moving merely out of muscle memory. He isn’t assigned any new jobs during this unremarkable week—Nico tends to grant him the courtesy of a few days off after heavier commissions—and Tyler, for once, finds himself relieved by this fact. He’s certain this leech of fog trailing after him would only bring him trouble if put back to work. He has to shake it soon, he knows, but at the moment, his couch is far too comfortable of a nesting place to do anything about it.

Outside, rain falls in pale sheets, dousing the cityscape as the sun dips low past the horizon, curtained by thick, swirling rainclouds that appear tinted a drab plum hue. The TV drones on before him, but Tyler pays it little mind; he really only turned it on in the first place so the penthouse would feel a little less engulfing in its permeating, deserted silence. Ned purrs by his hip, eyes narrowed into fine slits but for whatever reason refusing to put his dozing head down.

Feeling mountingly drowsy himself as he blinks up at the ceiling, Tyler considers calling Jenna. Then Josh, fleetingly—but he’s far too tired for sex, and doubts Josh would come over expecting anything less, so that option is promptly discarded. His mind circles back to Jenna, only to scrap the notion in a similar hasty manner. He doesn’t feel like talking , either—and while Jenna is often more than happy to just sit in silence with him, he’s certain she would instantly read through his shuttered demeanor and spend the next hour or so meticulously trying to fish some cloying feelings- talk out of him. Which, oddly so, sounds even more exhausting than sex.

Ned is just about losing his fight with sleep when Tyler’s ringtone goes off, muffled where it’s swallowed somewhere among the blanket and cushions. His palms dart around, feeling through scratchy fabric until his thumb grazes a hard, cold edge and he draws it out.

His stomach does a funny thing at the sight of Nico’s name displayed in bold, white lettering on the screen. He accepts the call before the third ring. 

“Hey.” His voice grates into the quiet, throat rough with too many hours of dormancy.

“Hello, Tyler,” Nico says, his own clear and steady—so much so that, if Tyler were to close his eyes, he could almost believe the man to be standing right before him. Taking in this pitiful state with steely blue eyes hardened in unspoken reproach. “Do you have a moment?”

“Uh…” Tyler’s gaze drops to Ned, who’s finally settled his chin onto the top of one paw, eyes shut but his tall ears swiveled slightly toward the newborn sound. Tyler reaches for his sleek white flank, brushing the backs of his knuckles along it in order to better get a feel of its softness. “Yeah. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard already,” Nico begins, while Tyler tries and fails to get a read on his stony tone, “but Detective Price’s cause of death went public this morning.”

Something , unfolding under his skin. Brewing, not quite dread or anything of the sort, but a trained recognition—a sixth sense, of sorts—of Nico’s dissatisfaction. Feeding into a well-oiled domino effect they’ve watched deteriorate countless times before: Tyler’s stomach plunges low, leaving an empty, gaping chasm behind his sternum; more than enough space for an icy weight to make itself at home. 

He hadn’t thought about the cause of death. Of course it would go public when a seasoned detective is found shot dead in her garage. In truth, Tyler hadn’t thought of much at all after pulling the trigger.

“No,” he manages, willing his voice to come out on a single, steady note. “I haven’t.”

“Would you like me to read it to you, then?” Nico asks. “In particular, an excerpt that stood out to me.”

Tyler knows he has no choice. Despite the deceptive tint of placid sincerity in the question, Nico will take nothing less than compliance.

“Okay.”

A small beat, chilling, before Nico continues. “ The autopsy revealed the cause of death to be exsanguination, as a consequence of a single gunshot wound to the throat, which lacerated both the internal and external carotid arteries .”

The stream of silence that follows is agonizing. Tyler parts his lips to say something, the same way one’s arms shoot out mid-fall, but not a single squeak makes its way out of his sealed throat. 

It feels like a lifetime, but it’s surely no more than a handful of seconds before Nico speaks up once more. “Now, what I found particularly curious about this, was that you not only missed the shot—a shot a child could take, no more than ten feet away from a target taken by surprise—but you then refused to finish the job after the fact.”

The cold pit in Tyler’s core freezes over, springing in needle-fine icicles up his throat, frosting over his skin, functioning as a numbing balm for firing nerve endings. When it comes down to it, merely a nascent insubordination, one which won’t bloom into anything of true substance; only certain of this because it never has , in the past. Always either nipped in the bud by his own self-preserving judgement or Nico himself will thwart this itch of defiance with various means that never fail to leave Tyler with his tail tucked between his legs and his head sunken low between stiff shoulders. Rendered obedient once more, and sure to stay that way for the foreseeable future.

“I did finish the job,” he bites, careful to keep his voice from rising too much, but failing to maintain it neutral. “She is dead, isn’t she? Why does it matter how I did it?”

In lieu of flaring up, of bellowing and belittling, Nico’s voice hardens. Drops to a grave snarl that makes Tyler’s spine stiffen despite himself. “Don’t start this. You’re getting sloppy, and you’re doing a laughable job at hiding it. You’re on the track to becoming a liability , rather than an asset.”

Just like that, all that ice shatters—splintering into nanoscopic shards that embed into his very bones, paralytic in nature. 

His hand stills in Ned’s fur, ribcage expanding and deflating in slow, steady breaths under his knuckles.

“Was this some sort of attempt at mercy ?” Nico asks, expertly threading a gossamer of cruelty into his voice that translates unerringly through the phone. “It’s a bit late for humanity, don’t you think, Tyler?”

Tyler shrivels. Asks himself if it was . If he somehow believed that leaving that woman to choke on her own blood and die in terrified agony was some sort of compassion —or if it was purely a moment of weakness, and nothing more. A fissure in his focus, through which the pleading wails of a desperate victim wormed into his psyche and threw him off balance. He can’t be certain; hardly recalls the job, let alone what he was thinking at that exact moment. But it is somewhat of a harrowing thought, the possibility that even at kindness, he would fail so colossally.

“I need to know that you won’t flounder under higher stakes,” Nico says, back to base now, his voice flat and eerily calm. It gives Tyler the space to gather himself, to strip the turmoil from his chest like trimming fat from meat. “That you won’t grow afraid of the trigger, the way you were as a boy.”

Tyler swallows, thick and strained, but manages to find his voice again. Firm, as though to convince himself, even more so than Nico. “I won’t.”

“Good,” Nico hums. Then, casual and dismissive, “And I’ll need you to stop by sometime next week to pick up some files for your next job. I’ve already gathered the intel, so your task will be really quite simple…”

Tyler checks out right around then, exhaling shallowly through shaky lips as he leans to the side, easing against the backrest. His hand continues stroking along Ned’s side.

He feels heavier than he has in a long, long time.

This weight persists. Trails after him like steel cast shackles, clanging resoundingly as he lumbers through the subsequent days, doing little to stop himself from plunging deeper and deeper into this quiet sinkhole.

He does nothing, so, naturally, somebody else does for him. That somebody , who’s currently knocking on his door at nearly 9 PM, apparently won’t take his emphatic cold-shoulder as an answer. 

Tyler sharpens and aims his coldest glare as he drags his feet through the living room, reaching the front door and yanking it open with a nasty reproach ready on his tongue.

It dissolves like a bitter pill, however, as soon as he sees the two standing beyond the threshold. 

“Hey, kid,” Keons greets, glancing briefly at Josh beside him to add, “Told ya’ he was home.”

“Were you ignoring us?” Josh asks, though the accusation isn’t bladed, just teasingly incredulous. Tyler’s eyes snap between the two, brows drawing lower as the quiet seconds tick by.

“What is this?”

“We come in peace,” Keons replies, lifting his arms from his sides to reveal two plastic bags in one hand, and a six pack of beer dangling from the other. “Mostly. I can get confrontational with one too many beers.”

This, for all its superficial harmlessness, does little to soothe Tyler’s trepidation. He remains rooted in place, door held half-open by his palm.

“You know I want no part in your guys’ shit, right? I’m still off the team,” he says, slowly and through his teeth. 

“We know,” Keons counters smoothly, nodding. “This is completely unrelated. Just a friendly get-together between pals.” He visibly falters, glancing from Tyler to Josh—Tyler sees it coming as soon as his mouth twists into a tiny smirk. “Or… whatever the hell you two are to each other.”

Josh tuts, shooting Keons an unamused glare before stepping forward. “Are you gonna let us in or what? The food’s gonna get cold.”

Tyler hesitates, cautiously studying their demeanors before allowing his eyes to dip toward the takeout bags. He’s definitely hungry, and he can’t remember the last time he had a proper meal—or a beer, for that matter—so he sighs yieldingly and steps aside, drawing the door open completely.

“Fine.”

The pair grin in those exasperating, respective ways of theirs and shuffle inside, making a bee line for the kitchen. Slowly, though predictably, the sound of their casual chatter ripples through the well-established silence of the apartment, like a pebble tossed into a stagnant pond, but instead of flattening out eventually, the waves persist in a comfortable ebb and push. Tyler quietly shuts the door.

In the kitchen, Josh is standing by one of the countertops, dutifully plating the food by the looks of it, while Keons lingers near the kitchen island, gingerly petting the top of Ned’s head. He glances up when Tyler emerges.

“Can he be on the counters?”

“No,” Tyler replies, approaching warily. “But he’s stubborn.”

Keons turns back to the cat, swiping his thumb over the bridge of Ned’s nose as a loose smile swells on his face. “I like him.”

Tyler blinks. Still blindsided by whatever this is; if anything, even more taken aback by it now, knowing of their good-natured intentions. Across the space, Josh tosses his head back and pops a few fries into his mouth, before returning to his task. Ned decides he’s had enough of the socializing and hops onto the floor, bushy tail swaying behind him as he trots over to the couch. 

“Don’t just stand there,” Keons says, snapping Tyler out of his reverie. “Get yourself a beer.”

Wordlessly, Tyler drifts forth, sinking into a stool by the island and sliding the six pack closer. He tears three bottles out of the flimsy, damp cardboard hold and makes quick work of opening them on the marble edge of the counter.

Upon hearing this, in some frustratingly endearing Pavlovian-esque response, Josh turns on his heel and drifts to the island, flashing a charming smile as though that’ll get him anything. It does, of course, as Tyler is quick to slide a bottle his way, but not without rolling his eyes first.

“What have you been up to?” Josh asks after his first swig, watching Tyler with an unblinking suggestion in his eye. “Been ignoring my texts.”

Tyler cocks an eyebrow, aiming for carpingly unamused while he scrambles for an answer. The truth—that he’s been doing nothing but sleeping and drifting aimlessly from room to room for over a week—sounds mortifying to admit out loud.

Fortunately, however, he doesn’t have to draw up any shallow lies, because Keons pipes up first with a teasing, girlish coo.

“You been texting him a lot, Dun?”

Josh’s expression flitters through a series of funny twists, finally settling on a defeated irritation.

“Shut up, old man.”

“Who the hell are you calling old?”

“Who else?” Josh bites back immediately, face pulled into a lighthearted sneer. Tyler sips at his cool beer, deeply amused but choosing to remain a mere observer as Josh gathers their plates.

“Bold thing to say to a man who could take you out before you even get the chance to cry for your Ma,” Keons grumbles back, approaching Tyler to grab his beer, and leaving a stack of napkins on the polished surface.

“I’ll pass. Personally, I draw the line at elder abuse.”

Tyler laughs soundlessly into the lip of his bottle, feigning an itch in his jaw to conceal the stubborn smile curling at his mouth. Keons’ voice is saturated in laughter when he replies,

“You son of a bitch.”

Josh turns, balancing all three plates in his arms, and the sheer radiance of his easygoing smile is enough for Tyler to—if only briefly—allow himself to mirror it. Like a cinch relieved from his shoulders, Tyler eases, and when Josh meets his eye, settling into the stool across from him, he just tips his head and drinks some more.

Chapter Text

One could quite reasonably think, what with the life Josh has led since graduating high school, that he’d be more attentive of his surroundings—or that his fight or flight response would kick into gear quicker, at the very least. That way, when he’s suddenly halted in the middle of his hasty march toward Keons’ office and hauled into a dim room, he might feel even half a kindling of fight. Instead, his heart stumbles against his breastbone in a single knock of surprise before his back strikes the door and it rattles shut.

The singular word that rolls up his tongue is promptly squashed before it can emerge, ricocheting right back into his chest by way of an urging mouth crashing against his. His eyebrows slide high on his forehead, stunned motionless before familiarity kicks in and he kisses back.

For all of his prior self-restraint—or repression, call it what you may—Tyler can be quite insatiable when he wants to be.

Pinned, essentially, between Tyler’s firm chest and the door at his back, Josh’s hands hover, indecisive and addled, before ultimately finding easy purchase at the small of Tyler’s back. He breathes in through his nose; shallow little pulls that do little to curb the newborn ache of breathlessness in his chest, crowned by a swarming heat he’s almost embarrassed rolls in so quickly. Tyler’s hand smoothes up the outer curves of Josh’s arm in order to root itself firmly into scarlet curls, tugging insistently—demanding wordlessly.

“Ty—” Josh manages between spit-slick breaks. “Tyler—”

Tyler grunts once, a sound rough and low in his chest—one indicative of annoyance, Josh immediately recognizes—and bites down on Josh’s lower lip, either to shut him up or distract him from wherever the rest of his sentence was headed. He succeeds at both, anyway. Driven by impulse, a thoughtless knee-jerk reaction born by the pleasant cocktail of mild pain and resulting spark of heat, his fingers clamp down against Tyler’s back, jerking him in. The press of their hips has them both gasping out of the kiss, trading breaths as they cram in as many drawn-out, open-mouthed kisses as their lungs will allow them.

At some point, Tyler’s free hand (until now flattened inoffensively against the nape of Josh’s neck) quietly dips low until Josh feels the graze of a palm drag teasingly over his crotch.

It’s this blazing glint of pleasure that manages to snap him out of it—not for lack of wanting to indulge; in fact, Josh isn’t sure there’s a single thing he wants more at the moment than to bend Tyler over on the desk at the far end of the room. But Keons was already pissed enough when Josh dodged his call two weeks back—and he’s sure as hell not missing their meeting today, of all days.

“Tyler,” he tries once more, craning his neck back until his head thumps against the wood. Tyler’s affronted puff falls warm and sharp against Josh’s neck, withdrawing his hand to instead sit at his hip.

“What,” he mumbles, still mouthing along the line of Josh’s throat, who only tips his head farther back and squirms with the internal struggle to bring this to a complete end.

Biting down on Josh’s pulse point, Tyler tugs once, expectantly, on his hair. Josh’s hands relax against Tyler’s back, sliding loosely around to his hips.

At this, Tyler fully pulls away, meeting Josh’s eye with a level gaze. Not nervous, necessarily, but knocked off-center.

“Is something wrong?”

Josh shakes his head jumpily, squeezing Tyler’s hips once. “No. No, sorry. All good. I was just…” his expression crumbles, tightening apprehensively. “Y’know. Kinda busy. I got somewhere to be.”

Tyler blinks at him, unmoved. Flushed and lips kissed red.

“Like… right now.”

Right before he ducks in again, Josh catches the glint of an indifferent eye-roll. Tyler nips at his jaw, thumb curling into the soft dip by the contour of Josh’s hip bone.

Insists, with a murmured, “What’s a few more minutes?”

Josh’s head thunks back against the door, staring pleadingly up at the ceiling as though any higher power would care to help him out at the moment.

“I’m already late,” he counters pitifully, eyes sliding shut when their hips fleetingly brush again. Tyler doesn’t say anything else at that, but he returns to Josh’s mouth as though magnetized, kissing him brazenly, all whetted teeth and coaxing tongues.

Josh cracks his eyes open in order to shoot a hesitant glance down at the scuffed face of his watch—and sags defeatedly. It’s with monumental effort that he finally plants both hands on Tyler’s waist and firmly guides him back, no more than a few inches.

“Look, I really have to go,” he reiterates, brows pinched. His eyes dart down to Tyler’s pursed lips, mourning the feeling of them near instantly. “I’ll make it up to you, okay? I’m busy tonight, but I’ll stop by your place tomorrow,” he tries, leaning in to peck at the twisted corner of his mouth.

In the face of Tyler’s sore silence, continues insisting by way of a few lingering, wet kisses following the line of his jaw. When he reaches its hinge, hovering just below Tyler’s ear, murmurs, “I’ll let you fuck me.”

This, unsurprisingly, appears to be enough for Tyler to grunt his assent and step back, arms pulling in like snakes, twined against his chest.

“Fine.”

“C’mon.” Reaching out, aborting the motion halfway; curling hesitant fingers into an irresolute fist between them. “Don’t be like that.”

Tyler shrugs, the image of severed neutrality. “I’m not being anything.”

Fist falling limply to his side, Josh exhales cuttingly through his nose. “Tomorrow.” He casts an absentminded glance around the room, only now recognizing it as Tyler’s own office, one which spends most of the time unused, save for when its holder needs a quick nook to fuck in, apparently.

Refusing another look at Tyler, lest he caves and draws him back in, Josh quietly slips out of the office, gaze sweeping the vacant hall before picking up a brisk pace back on his original path.

Fortunately, Keons’ office is a mere corridor and left turn from Tyler’s, so he reaches the door within a handful of seconds. He knocks twice, solely out of politeness, while his free hand blindly smoothes down his hair. He can only hope that Tyler’s teeth—often too rough without realizing—haven’t left their indents too garishly along his throat. He doesn’t wait for clearance to crack the door open, peeking in a split second before stepping fully beyond the threshold.

Immediately, a pair of pale brown eyes snag onto him, narrowed mildly, severe and honed as a fish hook reeling him in by the jaw. 

Josh beats him to the punch. “I know.”

“You’re late.”

“I know,” he parrots, flashing his palms in an ask of mercy. “Sorry. I got—caught up.”

From where he leans on his desk, palms flattened against the polished mahogany, Keons is near unreadable; his expression as well as the rigid lines of his posture fashioned into blatant indications of his stress levels. Josh can’t help but feel a little bad, above the underlying disquiet of observing such an uncharacteristic display.

“If tonight—”

“I won’t be late,” he stresses, and then, so as to put a dent in the foreboding mood, cracks a facetious smile. “C’mon, man. Have some faith.”

Keons doesn’t smile back, but as he turns away to fish around in one of his desk drawers, Josh catches a pitch of good-naturedness in his answering grumble, “Yeah, well, forgive me for doubting that.”

Easing his shoulders, Josh approaches the front of the desk, gaze fixedly trailing Keons’ obscured arm for a few seconds until it draws out fully. With a muted thunk, he drops a Glock and a plain black balaclava onto the surface between them. Josh’s brow furrows, puzzled, but he can’t help reaching out for the sleek pistol, feeling its weight in his palm. 

“Keep that,” Keons says, nudging the drawer shut with his knee. It drives Josh’s gaze to jump back up to him, his lingering curve of a smile shifting into something bemused and uncertain.

“You’re serious?”

Keons nods, drifting to the other side of the desk to gather a file sat neatly near the edge.

“I have my own piece.”

“I know,” Keons replies, without looking up. “Do me a favor and let the damn thing go.”

An airy scoff knocks against the back of Josh’s teeth, twisting his head in indignation. “Dude, what’s wrong with my gun?”

Keons’ motions come to a subtle halt, mouth parting around nothing, as though deciding against whatever he was going to say after a few seconds. He blinks slowly, suggestive of a suppressed eye-roll—and it’s in flitting little moments like these that Josh is reminded where Tyler must’ve gotten his attitude from.

“Alright,” Keons sighs. “How many rounds does yours have?”

“...Nine.”

“Great. The Glock has seventeen. If worse comes to worst, God forbid, you’ll need it. And I’ll rest easy knowing for certain it won’t jam.”

Josh holds his gaze for one long stretch of time, challenging the inflexibility there until he finally buckles. Glances down at the arguably very nice pistol in his hand, balanced and graceful in the way his own sorry, jam-prone piece he bought second-hand at 18 isn’t.

“Fine,” he grumbles, checking over the safety before tucking it into the back of his waistband. From there, his attention falls again, latching onto the thick cotton mask bunched up on the desk. “Are the masks really necessary?”

“Better safe than sorry. It should be pretty simple, but since he’s gotten back from DC I haven’t had a chance to speak with him, he could have people over for all we know.”

Josh’s lip curls into the rolling hold of his teeth, reaching for the balaclava. Across from him, Keons slides the manila folder—harboring all of his collected intel from their hushed investigation, all laid out and neatly organized—into another drawer.

“We’re just aiming for a confession,” he reiterates, his countenance tautened by a complicated expression Josh has no clue where to start deconstructing. “But if the chance presents itself, and we’re right, we end it there.”

Josh nods, silent. For the first time, despite this plan having been in motion for weeks, feels a weight lodge itself stubbornly into his gut, hanging off his ribs—a deep-seated apprehension, possibly, if not just plain jitters.

“You remember everything?”

“Ten PM sharp, at his personal home—not here—meet you around the back.”

Keons hums, evidently satisfied, and leans forward onto his hands. That familiar gleam of mirth ripples across his face a split second before he speaks again.

“Do not be late.”

With his hooded head angled low, Josh follows the path of darkest ground through the quiet streets. He weaves around the reach of warm streetlamps and through vast expanses of dewy grass; contained wooded areas functioning only as cushioning between the small smattering of luxury homes and mansions. Nico’s house can be reached by way of two paths: the main road, well-lit and asphalted, which winds through the trees and up to his sprawling driveway, and by a narrower dirt path, dimmer, deserted, and steering up a gradual hill to the side of the building. This is where Josh finds himself, peering up at the looming mansion as his hands busy themselves with pulling his mask out.

He checks his watch when his feet hit the loose gravel lying at the end of the path—9:56.

He finds Keons exactly where they’d devised: near one of the back corners of the house, where a breaker box emerges from the textured beige wall. Josh steps over the short, sheared shrubs delineating the entire side of the house, watching as Keons’ hands burrow into the small box.

“Told you I wouldn’t be late,” Josh says, in lieu of a greeting. Keons spares him a brief sidelong glance, a series of quiet clacks following the swift, deft motions of his fingers.

“Just about,” he replies, right as the glaring driveway lights all the way at the front of the building power down—extinguishing completely the scarce illumination they’ve been standing in. Josh cranes his neck up, eyes darting from window to window, ensuring they’re all dark beyond the gaps of their pulled blinds.

They don’t speak beyond that, their footsteps the closest possible thing to soundless as they continue down the length of the mansion, stopping only when they reach a small window, cracked open a few inches. Keons curls his fingers in, palms up, and quietly guides it open the rest of the way. 

“This window’s been open since the first time I came here,” he whispers over his shoulder, never one to allow silence to take root for very long. Josh hums in acknowledgement, watching him nimbly climb through the tight gap, head first. Josh approaches behind him, planting both hands on the cool wooden sill and flashing a teasing smirk at Keons through the opening.

“Looking spry, old man.”

Inside, Keons tuts, exasperated, and waits until Josh has mostly hoisted himself through the window to swat the back of his head once.

Once on his feet, Josh looks around the compact bathroom, catching his reflection in the mirror—effectively reminded to slip his mask on right before Keons cautiously guides the door open. Their eyes meet briefly through the darkness, a two-way tether of silent anticipation.

They slip out like shadows bound to the wall, into a short hallway that gives way to what seems to be the ample living room. When Keons pauses in his tracks in front of him, Josh takes the opportunity to lift his gaze high, darting along the intricately chiseled cornices until he catches the distinct spherical shape of a security camera drilled into the ceiling in a far corner of the living room. He holds a lengthy stare on it, knowing for certain it can’t work without power but still waiting until he finds no blinking light or scanning motion before he can allow himself to settle. 

The ground floor remains entrenched in an overabundant silence, so thick and complete it makes the dullest of creaks and rustles ring out like echoing thunder. Every footstep, wary to land, heightened tenfold. 

When they reach the foyer, a narrow, marble-floored space with walls lined with various overpriced, expressionistic paintings and sculptures, Keons turns on his heel.

“He should be upstairs,” he whispers, sharp eyes never settling on one spot for too long, “either in his bedroom or office. You remember where they are?”

Nodding hastily, Josh recalls the slipshod layout of each floor Keons had roughly sketched out for him a few days prior, mainly so he wouldn’t be too in the dark in the case they decided to split up.

“Good.” As they continue through the foyer, toward the high-reaching, bowed threshold that grants access to the arced staircase. “I’m thinking you should—”

An explosion of movement, springing out of a darkened, yawning doorway beside him. Josh hardly has any time to react before he’s wrestled into an oppressive chokehold. In the initial breathlessness, panic swells—cold and electric throughout his nerve endings. Deep-rooted, stifling pain throbs where an unyielding forearm clamps down on his windpipe. His arms shoot up, fleetingly; an impulse decided for him, by the jarring, instant dispatch of fight or flight.

Reining his focus in, Josh plants both heels firmly against the ground and sharply pivots back. By his ear, a guttural, stunned grunt peals out as soon as he rams his attacker against the wall. The pressure in his throat—his windpipe threatening to collapse into itself—slackens for less than a split second. It’s more than enough.

In two smooth, darting motions, Josh reaches for the pocket knife at his hip and promptly swings his arm back. Feels, immediately, the mild resistance of flesh and bone the blade sinks into. His attacker yelps, and Josh is quick to rip out of the flagging hold, drawing his knife out with him.

The efflux of swallowed air that rushes through him on his series of hacking, gasping coughs is potent enough to make his head spin violently. The shrill whistle in his ears abates, just enough to catch the sounds of another struggle some small distance behind him. He whips on his heel, fingers strangling the handle of his knife.

Several feet down the hall, Keons straightens from a low crouch, shoulders drawn tight and jumping with every ragged exhale. At his feet, a dark-clad figure lies prone on the hardwood, emitting a low, dimming wheeze. Josh meets Keons’ eye, swallowing thickly—willing the throb there to quell.

“What the fuck was that?” He croaks huskily.

Keons doesn’t even manage a response before more sounds of inbound footsteps ring out. Alarm prickles at the nape of his neck, and Josh whips around right as the barrel of a gun reveals itself in his direction. He pivots to the side, slashing instinctively at the outstretched arm. In his opponent’s brief withdrawal, Josh’s fist collides with their side, aiming for a liver shot. As soon as they crumple forward, Josh reaches for the loose-gripped gun. His second opponent collapses with a bullet through the forehead.

He sheathes his pocket knife and tosses a glance over his shoulder. Keons approaches with hurried, silent footfall, expression hardened.

“I thought you said he didn’t have security,” Josh spits under his breath as they skulk through the darkness, pistols in hand, safeties flicked off.

“That’s the thing,” Keons is quick to reply, “he doesn’t.”

Josh steps around a corner, gun first, and just about manages to win in reaction time to the shadowy assailant at the end of the corridor, shooting them down with two rounds to the chest. Long adjusted to the darkness, it’s hard to miss the thick spray of blood that paints the wall. 

Behind him, “Go, go.”

Josh goes. He zips through the foyer, eyes jumping from dark corners and hallways alike—blood rushing like rumbling machinery in his ears. He doesn’t let his focus stray for a moment. His hands stay steady.

In the living room, he’s greeted by two more men—they notice him a moment too late. He lunges for cover behind one of the wide leather couches, the shower of cracking rounds fired in his wake missing him by centimeters. He crawls along the length of it, coiling himself into a tight crouching position when he reaches the end. He lets them keep firing, unable to curb the rigid flinches that seize him whenever a bullet whizzes too close past.

The exact instant the gunfire lulls, Josh takes a leap of faith, hoping that they’re reloading and not waiting for him to pop out, and springs up. Of the three rapid-fire rounds Josh aims their way, two meet their marks; one, firing straight through one man’s upper chest, and the other burying itself in the second’s shoulder. Crying out, he drops his own pistol, and Josh rises to full height, finishing him off with a headshot.

Somewhere deeper in the house, sporadic shots echo out; Josh doesn’t know when he and Keons split up, but his scattered recollection is cut short when he’s yanked back by the shirt. He stumbles, narrowly missing a hurling fist by letting himself fall to the floor, rather than steadying himself right into its path. A grunt knocks around in his chest at the rough landing, pulling in a sharp inhale through his nose before angling a kick to his masked opponent’s knee. They crumple, he aims, and—

Click. Clickclick.

He hears more so than feels the subsequent strike to the head: a sharp, dry thwack at his temple. Whether the result of a knife’s hilt or the butt of a gun, he doesn’t know at first, as his head jerks roughly to the side. It’s within seconds that the initial, fuzzy throb bursts into a piercing blaze of pain—a narrow, red-hot chisel hammering into his temple. The ringing flares back up tenfold. 

He has just enough of a grasp on his awareness to block a bladed attack with his forearm, leveled straight for his face. His free hand takes a hold of his attacker’s wrist, curling fingers and digging nails as hard as he can into the brittle bones and tender tissues of the inner wrist—to the point his forearm burns with the strain. Above him, he hears a muffled grunt of pain, and within seconds the knife clatters to the floor by his head.

Right then, his free hand barrels up, catching the side of their head and in a wide, lightning-quick arc, slams it into the ground beside him. Out cold with a throaty, garbled groan.

Josh pants, arms falling limp on his heaving stomach. His heart kicks erratically against his sternum, low in his throat, pulsing in tandem with the throb in his head. He blinks pointedly at the tall, far ceiling, searching for any shapeless shadows crowding into his vision or the telltale blurring of incoming syncope.

Upon finding neither, he hauls himself to his feet, using the back of the couch as support. Warmth dribbles down the side of his jaw, and when he gingerly prods around the area beneath the cotton mask, his fingers return stained and sticky, like vermilion syrup.

The house, once again, sunken in silence. He treads carefully, retracing his steps in search of the staircase—or better yet, Keons. He doesn’t call out, however, far too on edge still to risk giving out his location to any lurking stragglers.

He finds the stairs deserted, save for the two cooling bodies in the hallway before it. Wiping blood from his brow, Josh unholsters his gun with his free hand, thumbing the safety off just in case. His head pounds. The carpeted steps underfoot allow no room for any unveiling creaks or scrapes to announce his careful ascent. His second hand braces itself beneath the other.

At the top of the stairs lies a body, face-first in a ballooning puddle of its own blood, seeping into the carpet and trickling down the first few steps. Keons’ work, no doubt; the gnarl in Josh’s chest loosens at the thought, just a bit.

It continues easing, in microscopic albeit allaying degrees the further he wanders into the second floor, finding two more bodies sprawled on the floor and slumped against a wall, respectively. Neither of them Keons.

In hindsight, he gets a bit too comfortable, in those slow minutes of apprehensive respite. As he’s shuffling past one of the bodies—the man half-propped up and limp by the wall—it snaps into motion. With a hand latched onto his ankle, and too distracted for his own good, Josh topples right over. In the thoughtless reflex to brace his fall, his pistol slips out of his grasp, sliding across the tile floor. Just out of reach.

The man behind him howls in pain as he wrenches Josh back, a second hand coming down to root into the back hem of his shirt. Fingers scrabble against the floor, clawing in vain struggle. Bile crowds up the back of his throat, acrid and simmering.

He rolls onto his side, only enough to get a look at the guy and aim a brutal kick square in the face. The wet crunch that erupts from his nose is immediately succeeded by a snarling cry. Finally free, Josh scrambles forth, graceless like some wounded, exhausted animal, and loops his fingers around his gun. With a bullet to the temple, the man goes down for good.

Into the resounding silence, Josh utters a low, long shout—half frustrated, half pained. It does very little to mitigate the throbbing in his head; in fact, does quite the opposite. So, he clamps his mouth shut and catches his breath. He’s certain one more fright like this would make his heart leap right out of his ribcage and onto the glossy tile.

Before he can properly get to his feet, a shrill, long tone cuts through the space. It pauses, and repeats. Josh’s face pulls into an automatic frown, turning back to his assailant and noticing there, through the thin material of his vest, the faint glow of a screen.

His lip curls back into his teeth, glancing down the corridor, where he’s almost certain Nico’s office is, and hopefully Keons, too. And yet…

He doesn’t give it any thought whatsoever. As he’s zipping open the man’s chest pocket, he half-assedly rationalizes to himself. He has no clue who these people are, why they’re here, who they’re working for; maybe with this he’ll scrape up some answers.

He blinks at the white, emboldened contact on the phone screen for a few seconds: ‘BOSS’

He accepts the call. Draws it to his ear. Waits.

“Jesse,” comes a gruff voice at the end of the line, irritated by the sound of it. “About fuckin’ time. Try picking up my damn calls, will you? Talk to me—you got Dun yet?”

A shallow puff slides out of Josh’s parted lips—something one could almost call an attempt at a dry chuckle. His hand dips slightly from his ear, head sagging. It’s Sacarver’s guys. Of course it’s Sacarver’s guys. Because he just can’t seem to catch a fucking break.

Over the line, the man keeps speaking, demanding an answer—maybe Sacarver himself, for all Josh knows. He’s never seen the guy, let alone heard his voice enough to know for certain. Shaking his head, he hangs up, bloodied thumb sliding across the screen, smearing it red.

A low “fuck,” slips out of him underneath an accompanying sigh, wiping his fingers on his cargo pants once before shooting to his feet. The ground tilts, briefly, before balancing out below him. He pays it no more mind than the ringing note slowly ebbing within his skull. 

It does give him pause, however, then it recedes just enough for a new sound to sneak through. Illusory or not, he can’t immediately tell, stopping in his tracks in the middle of the hall. He squints, tips his head, and strains his ears.

He reaches two back-to-back conclusions in the space of a cut-off breath. One: this new sound is definitely existent—neither a trick of the mind nor a product of his likely concussion. Two, bouncing immediately off the first: the sound is that of approaching sirens. 

His gut lurches, abandoned somewhere by his feet as he zips ahead to the nearest window. There, beneath the foliage of towering, wind-swept oak trees, in the near distance, the flickering glow of red and blue.

“Fuck—” he repeats, backing away. “Fuck!”

Sufficiently reinvigorated, Josh pivots on his heels and sprints down the hall, mentally mapping out what he can remember from Keons’ haphazard blueprints to locate Nico’s office.

If Keons is even there, to begin with.

Fortunately, it doesn’t take him long to find the door—even more so, that he doesn’t find any more of Sacarver’s soldiers to deal with. With every second that hastily sweeps by, the sirens grow louder, challenging even the ringing; their destination becoming gradually more unquestionable the closer they screech. Josh damn near runs into the door in his rush, catching himself on the doorframe and clutching at the brass doorknob. It rattles stiffly in place.

Locked.

A frustrated fist shoots out, bangs against the wood. He glances restlessly over his shoulder; the window behind him, beginning to catch the first stray beams of bicolored LEDs.

Then, in front of him, the knob clatters dully. Josh takes a healthy step back, fingers flexing on the grip of his piece, steeling himself. When the door swings open, however, it isn’t another assailant that reveals themself, nor is it Nico. Keons slips out, frazzled eyes swiftly scanning Josh’s figure before jumping around the empty hall. Wired fingers tug and adjust at his own balaclava, betraying his quiet agitation.

“How the hell—?”

“I don’t know,” Keons rasps, shaking his head clunkily. He steps out fully, sliding past Josh to peer out the window. Past the doorway, Josh catches a glance of Nico, ostensibly untouched but tied to a chair in the middle of his office. He meets Josh’s eye, stony, watchful, and profoundly disturbing—rattling through Josh’s very bones like some deep, foreboding resonance thrumming from deep in the Earth’s core. Like something ancient and apocalyptic cracked right down the center. He steps out of the man’s line of sight, turning to Keons.

“We have to go. Now.”

Josh could not agree more. They holster their guns and bolt for the stairs, bounding over bodies and narrowly sidestepping glistening pools of slippery blood. Police lights spill in through the front windows. The sirens swell into piercing cacophonies. 

Josh follows closely at Keons’ heels, wincing as the impact of every harsh footfall rattles up his body and exacerbates the tender throb blossoming from his temple.

They reach the bathroom within seconds, all but lunging outside through the narrow window and booking it for the sparse cover of the trees. Out of the house, at last, but not yet out of the woods—literally nor figuratively. Neither of them speak as they scurry through the underbrush of Nico’s property, avoiding the set dirt path just to be safe. The darkness offers them some cover, but as they approach the road, the warm glow of streetlights begins to slither up their feet. Struggling to catch his breath, Josh reaches up and yanks off his mask, gulping down the cool, unfiltered nighttime air.

He doesn’t notice Keons coming to a halt at all, until he feels two hands bolt firmly into his upper arms.

“Hey. Are you good to drive?” Josh blinks somewhat torpidly. “Don’t lie to me, I’ll know.”

Josh shrugs his hands off, bunching up the fabric to press heedfully at his temple. As he considers this, his attention drifts off, latching somewhere over Keons’ shoulder. They’re standing a mere few feet away from the sidewalk, at the foot of the hill that leads up to Nico’s estate, hardly obscured by the slender trees but at least not out in clear view. Across the street, though, sat perfectly beneath the radiance of a streetlamp, is a car.

A joltingly familiar black Mercedes. Toward which he quickly notices a figure approaching, head downturned and keys in hand.

It might be the concussion, or the stress, or the temporary stupor of crashing adrenaline, but Josh moves without a moment of thought once he understands what he’s looking at. He storms across the street without so much as a cursory glance, ignoring Keons’ stern though hushed calls after him.

He beats Tyler to the car. Without a moment of forethought, he reaches up and grabs two fistfuls of Tyler’s shirt, backing him up roughly against the cool metal.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Tyler’s expression, fleetingly suspended between bewilderment and affront, buckles after a second or two, dark eyes fluttering across Josh’s face. It settles, ultimately, on something firm and too complicated for Josh to decode at the moment.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Answer my question, asshole.”

Tyler’s gaze continues its examining sweep, following the smear of red drawn along one side of his face, down his surely bruised throat, and jumping then, to his shoulder.

“Were you shot?”

Josh falters. With some hesitance, haltingly follows Tyler’s gaze down to his own arm. He finds there, on the curve of his deltoid, the mangled handiwork of a bullet’s close path, shirt torn open to reveal the nasty wound. A graze, essentially, but an unpleasant, dissonant sight to see, especially when he had not been aware of when it happened or conscious of its stabbing burn until now. 

“Ah, shit,” he bleats, vision warping as he watches the wound cough up thin trickles of blood.

Tyler’s arms shoot out, this time—steadying him before he can even notice he’s beginning to tip over.

“Easy, hey.”

Behind him, Keons catches up, his voice rasping as a testament to his tired chagrin.

“Don’t pass out on me, kid.”

“‘M good,” Josh grumbles, blinking harshly several times to rid his vision of its flocking fog. He releases Tyler’s shirt, forcing them to drop to his sides instead of lingering. He mirrors Tyler’s gaze, but only succeeds in holding it for a second or two, finding the stony, almost-concern there too heavy to bear. He looks at Keons instead, whose own confusion can be seen in the deep frown lines etched into his face.

“What—?” He starts, but cuts himself off with an audible click of his teeth. The singular shake of his head is nearly imperceptible, likely only meant for himself. “Look, we’ll talk about this later, yeah? We have to get out of here before the cops come searchin’. Drive him to the zoo, alright? Paul should be there to fix him right up.”

“What about my car?” Josh asks, feeling not too unlike a petulant child with the way his shoulders sag melodramatically. Both glances shot his way in response are faintly crabby and amusingly synonymous. 

“We’ll have it picked up tomorrow,” Keons dismisses, squeezing Josh’s unwounded arm once. He directs his gaze, and subsequent words, to Tyler next. “Don’t let him pass out. Could have a concussion.”

“I can tell,” Tyler retorts lowly, frowning at Josh’s temple as though it’s personally wronged him. Only then, upon backing Josh up to allow room for the passenger side door to open, do his steady hands leave Josh. His expression remains dented by some inscrutable emotion; Josh is used to having trouble reading Tyler, but this feels like off-puttingly new territory. Wholly non-combative, but certainly not placid either. 

As they settle in the car, Josh studies him. The engine purrs to life, not so much shattering the silence as underlining it; elevating, somehow, the unexpected comfort found within it. Josh’s head thumps back against the headrest, rolling the window down.

He pretends, as they roll out of the neighborhood, that he doesn’t notice the hasty, intermittent glances Tyler sneaks his way. At least until he gets bored, that is, and stares staunchly back at him until their eyes inevitably meet over the center console. He smirks when Tyler briskly looks back ahead, fingers twitching restlessly on the wheel, quick to fall back into familiar terrain, when he says,

“Try not to get blood on the upholstery.”

“No promises.”

Chapter Text

“Over here, this way.”

At some point during the bumbling trajectory from Tyler’s car to the doors of the zoo’s repurposed animal hospital, the grousing, half-slurred protests that previously poured freely from Josh’s mouth have since tapered off. Lost mostly amid his Herculean focus not to puke, but partly in the form of a reluctant surrender. He’s almost certain, had Tyler conceded to his irked demands and let him go, that Josh would have tipped right over. 

This sudden muteness, however, doesn’t seem to be sitting right with Tyler, who keeps prodding him with pinched glances and elbowing him in the side whenever his head droops too low.

Ahead, Meany hauls one of the windowed doors open, swiveling past it to hold the doorway clear for the pair behind him to follow.

“Sit him on that table,” he tells Tyler, nodding at a steel operating table nearby, hedged by smaller, wheeled tables bearing glistening medical supplies. They approach, and once reached the final stretch Josh locks his knees and drifts out of Tyler’s hold. Being coddled makes his teeth hurt. He shuffles to the table and clambers onto it himself, swallowing down the bubble of nausea trapped high in his throat as he grips the cool edge of steel. The door rattles shut as soon as Meany slides in front of him, snapping on a pair of gloves, with his sharp, incisive gaze latched onto the side of Josh’s head—no longer bleeding, as far as he’s aware. He supposes that’s a good sign.

Meany slides a penlight out of his shirt, clicks it on. Checks Josh’s pupils with a fluidity so swift Josh hardly has time to curl away from the flare it brings to his headache before Meany’s already thumbing the light off.

He turns away. Returns, after a small stretch of time, with a damp gauze pad, soaked in what Josh assumes is saline. “What did this?” 

He winces at the cold feeling, not painful but clashing against the warmth of his own blood. “What?”

Briefly, Meany’s gaze snaps to Josh’s, more diagnostic, as opposed to judgemental. His attention soon returns to his efficient task. “This wound here. What caused it?”

“Oh,” Josh grunts, slightly abashed, “a knife, I think. The handle. Obviously.”

Meany merely hums, continuing to clean the wound, as well as the entire side of Josh’s face.

Standing off to the side, Tyler is a wall; looming and unshifting. No longer watching Josh, but Meany instead, following every miniscule action, that clear, honed gaze trailing after him when he turns to discard a bloodied piece of gauze and tear open a new packet. Hypervigilant—endearingly so. Thinking, surely, that his presence acts as an implicit, menacing incentive to the doctor, but coming off, to Josh at least, more as a shifty, protective dog made to sit out of a situation it has no power in and just watch.

“Good news,” Meany says, now peering down his nose at the clean wound. “Doesn’t look like you’ll be needing stitches.”

“Lucky me,” Josh deadpans. Tyler stays silent.

Little changes as Meany gets to closing the gash over Josh’s temple with a few adhesive strips; Tyler observes, and Josh, in turn, ignores the shrill ringing in his ears, amping up the longer the silence distends. At some point, once satisfied with his work, Meany moves to Josh’s shoulder—a pain so mellowed by that of his head and back, he’d almost forgotten the wound entirely.

“Can you tell me what year it is?”

Josh can’t help but sigh. “It’s not that bad.”

“Still have to make sure. C’mon, easy questions.”

Josh aims for another sigh, but a red-hot poker pricks in warning against the dip of his spine and swiftly shuts it down. He clamps his jaw shut, molars grinding. “2025.”

“Recite the months of the year backwards.”

Josh rubs at one sore eye, starting at December and visualizing a paper calendar in his head so as to distract himself from the unpleasant bite of his skin being lanced through and pulled taut. Fortunately, by the time he reaches January, Meany’s polished motions are already drawing to a close, deft fingers tying down the sutures. He pats down a tape-lined square of gauze over the wound and backs away, hands hovering.

“Nothing I’m missing, right?”

Glancing down at himself, Josh shakes his head. “Nope.”

From there, Meany wraps up his succinct concussion exam with a few more questions—any nausea, dizziness, confusion, blurry vision? —and hands him two rough white pills for his small collection of pains. Throughout it all, still, Tyler hovers just within Josh’s peripheral vision, arms crossed stiffly over his chest, only backing away when Meany excuses himself to go check on Keons.

The stillness left in his wake is dense and stuffy. Josh looks for something to say, possibly something quick and snarky, to jab some reaction into Tyler, but pain keeps him brittle and frozen on the table, tongue lodged onto the roof of his mouth.

Instead, to his faint surprise, it’s ultimately Tyler who breaks the silence. “Do you know basic hand-to-hand combat?”

It takes Josh a second or two to react, fairly slower than usual in his tired daze, but when the question sinks through the fog he frowns.

“Are you serious?”

Tyler’s palm lazily draws off of his bicep, fingers splayed out as his shoulders climb. “I’m just asking. A knife hit? Really?”

Josh scoffs dryly. “Oh, go fuck yourself.”

And Tyler—the asshole—snickers. Josh leans back to irately retrieve his phone from whichever one of his pockets it’s in, jaw ticking. In the filmy edges of his vision, he notices Tyler approach on soundless feet. Josh forces his eyes not to fall from the screen, marred with cracks that cobweb out from the corners. The time announces it’s a mere handful of minutes to midnight, and right as he opens to his home screen, something else roils up his throat.

“‘Basic hand-to-hand’—did you want me to parry a fucking bullet?”

Tyler isn’t smiling when Josh caves and snaps his head up, but it’s a damn near thing. Brows slightly furrowed still, the way they’ve been since Josh first ran up to him by the car, but his gaze narrowed and alight with a quiet self-satisfaction. Amusement, possibly.

“Alright, maybe not that,” he replies, mouth slanting. “But this is the second time in—what, a month? That you’ve gotten your ass beat.”

“I’m aware, thank you.”

Tyler’s head tilts faintly in the direction of Josh’s straying gaze, the motion sweeping an uncombed fringe across his forehead.

“I can’t always be around to get you out of trouble.”

“Okay,” Josh grumbles, tone growing barbed at the hands of a wounded ego. “You wanna play the damsel in distress next time? That some weird thing you’re into? Cause I’m sure we can work it out.”

Tyler’s expression doesn’t outwardly shift, but the sneering amusement dusted over his face drops notably.

“Funny.”

Josh’s eyes crinkle at him in a flat, sardonic smile. Tyler rolls his eyes, and it strikes him, suddenly, just how much things have changed. The way that habitual gesture a few months ago irritated Josh to no end, and how all of their strained conversations would take on the form of scorched battlegrounds, flinging icy, vitriolic munitions and ducking into their dugouts in wait for the answering ones to land. Josh recalls how he’d count down the days until they’d never have to look at each other again, and now all he can think is how terribly he wants to kiss him.

Still, there are lines yet to be drawn—lying in wait to be addressed, to quit being tip-toed around—so he doesn’t. Instead, he speaks.

“We still up for tomorrow, at yours?”

Tyler cocks an eyebrow and straightens his head.

Josh adds, “I’m a man of my word,” and Tyler’s mouth purses slightly, laying his fist onto Josh’s knee.

“Let’s make sure your brain won’t bleed out of your ears first.”

Josh clicks his tongue, nudging Tyler’s leg with his toe. “Don’t be dramatic. Meany said it’s only a mild concussion, if anything.”

“Whatever you say.”

“No,” Josh retorts, waggling his finger, “whatever the doctor says, not me.”

Tyler blows out a fond huff through his nose, before his eyes snap the cord of their gazes and they drift off to the end of the room. They linger, there, on the shut double doors that open to the stony pathway and lead straight to the lab, where the other two men surely find themselves.

Tyler’s fist stays in place for a few seconds, countenance shuttering marginally, as though reminded of their situation. Josh thinks to ask, even feels the question solidify behind his teeth, but he grinds them tightly shut when Tyler taps the side of his knee once and takes a step back.

“I should go pick up your car,” he says, turning back to face Josh. “Before somebody gets suspicious.”

Josh nods, reaching into his pocket. “Right… Here.”

Tyler accepts the keys and absentmindedly swings them around by the keychain looped over his finger. They jingle thunderously in the meteoric silence. His shoulders rise minutely on the draw of a breath, but sink after a second, as though deciding against whatever he was about to say. 

He backs up another step, and within a few seconds, he cuts through the floor and steps outside. The door shuts very quietly behind him.

Josh’s head wilts, chin knocking against his sternum. He exhales once, a sustained, bone-deep release, before laying himself down atop the creaking table. Maybe a nap will do him some good.

Sleep doesn’t quite come, unfortunately for him, though it perches on his limbs and clouds the edges of his cognizance for a while, never fully taking root. He drifts, waiting for one of two things: to fall asleep, or for the meds to kick in. He figures it must be the remnants of stress, or just the rigid stainless steel table he’s lying on, but after some indefinite stretch of time, it’s only the latter that finds him.

He cracks his eyes open, blinking boredly at the distant ceiling before hauling one heavy arm from his side to check the time on his watch. It can’t have been more than half an hour, and Tyler’s sure to get back soon, so he lumberingly sits up and slides off the table. As he shuffles toward the door, he peers down at his shoulder, hooking one finger through the hole torn into his sleeve to get a better look at the gauze blanketing the sutures. He experimentally pokes at it with the tip of his finger; a little tender, somewhat achy, but nothing terrible. His back feels fine, too. He’ll have to ask Meany what exactly he’s got him on, later.

Outside, the windswept trees beckon in snarled, incoming storm clouds overhead, slate gray juxtaposed with dark, star-speckled navy. The air is dense with a stifling blanket of humidity; it’s supposed to rain all week, he recalls. He picks up his pace down the winding trail, drifting past the sagging foliage of overgrown trees and weathered, mostly faded murals of various cartoony animals painted onto every available wall.

He reaches the lab’s back door in no time, joined only by the sound of his own footfall and the mounting wind. The creak of the old door announces his entrance.

Inside, he spots Keons and Meany located by the nearest table, the former perched on a stool with his hands knotted tightly over the tabletop. The two perk up when he steps inside, conversation cut short, and only upon a brief, cursory glance around the space does Josh notice Tyler as well, lingering a small distance away, arms crossed against his chest.

“Oh, good,” Keons says first. “I was just about to go lookin’ for you.”

“When did you get back?” Josh asks coolly, gaze nailed on Tyler as he drags his feet further inside.

“Just now,” Tyler replies, glancing away. Shifting on his heels as though standing on hot pavement. Josh feels a mild stitch tug at his brow, before he turns back to the others. Meany, poker-faced, stares twin holes into the side of Keons’ head, only breaking away intermittently to glance warily at Tyler. The silence, suddenly, takes on a whole new face—strained, charged, somehow even more so than the staticky air outside. He feels his frown deepen, in spite of himself.

“Alright,” he says briskly, facing Tyler again, “since we’re all here now—mind telling us what you were doing at Nico’s?”

Despite his continued remoteness and uncharacteristic behavior overall, Tyler is quick to levelly reply, “I had to stop by to pick up some intel for a job I’ll be taking. He told me last week to drop in when I could.” 

He’s just as composed, though starkly hawk-eyed, when he follows up with, “What were you two doing there?”

Josh gapes, then dithers. He folds his lower lip into the hold of his teeth, releasing his knee-jerk answer in the form of a shallow breath. Recalling how rattled Tyler had gotten when he found out they suspected Nico at all, he glances at Keons, who meets his eye and gracefully takes it in stride.

“We need to know, Tyler. Everything we have so far points to Nico, that’s what we were trying to find out.” His fingers untwine, palms drawing up to emphasize his next words, “We were just looking to get a confession out of him—” Josh bites his tongue, “—until the others showed up. That wasn’t us.”

In the deliberating quiet that follows, Josh closely studies Tyler. Watches his brows draw tight, ever so faintly, but besides that reveals no other outward display of wrath or shock. Scratch that, he looks… 

Josh frowns. He cannot at all read what exactly flitters over the muscles of his face, then. But it’s far less angry than he’d come to expect.

It’s Meany who pipes up next, thinking out loud, “Who were those guys anyway? You said they seemed trained, right?”

Keons hums affirmatively, hand bracing his chin as he holds a careful stare on Tyler.

“They were Sacarver’s guys,” Josh declares, drifting over in order to lean his good shoulder against a nearby support pillar. “They were after me.”

“Shit,” Keons breathes out, eyebrows contorting. His head tips, meeting his rising hand halfway in order to comb his fingers through unkempt, silvering hair. 

Sensing a blanketing dread sinking over the room, Josh pipes up again. “Look, it’s fine. We were wearing masks, the security cameras were off—nobody even saw us leave. If we’re lucky, Sacarver will take the fall for it. Nobody knew we were there.”

Then, to his right, Keons shifts pointedly in his seat—a motion likely fueled by the intention of discreetness, of soundlessness, but the foot of his stool scrapes piercingly against the linoleum and all three heads in the room snap to him. His head remains pillowed on his palm. He doesn’t lift it, doesn’t address the pressing eyes on him. An inexplicable thing, the manner and swiftness with which his entire demeanor changes, with hardly any physical clues to draw from. All that Josh manages to catch of this newborn, withdrawn tension, is the working of his jaw; miniscule muscles jumping and fluttering microscopically under his temples. 

He can’t help the way his chest freezes over, nor quell the wary apprehension that snakes its way into his tone. “Keons. What is it?”

Keons shuts his eyes for a second, two, three, and then lifts his head. Faces them head on, but keeps his eyes trained on a point in the middle distance.

“In Nico’s office, when he was tied to that chair and we were talking, I… I don’t know, I just knew, at that exact moment, that it was him. That it’s been him this whole time.”

Josh can’t look away, can hardly breathe, frozen in suspense—though a quiet, magnifying part of him already knows.

Keons manages to meet Meany’s eyes for a fleeting second, and then Josh’s. Never Tyler’s.

“I got so angry. I’d—I’ve dedicated my whole adult life to him, and this family, and he just…” he gestures noncommittally with one hand, dismissing the sentence entirely. His expression hardens. “I was going to kill him. I swore I’d do it. But I wanted him to see… Wanted him to know.”

Josh has to forcibly sever the caught breath out of his chest, some deep, gnawing beast in his sternum holding hostage every shallow inhale until it throbs. His own voice sounds disembodied when it erupts from his knotted throat; “He saw your face.”

Keons wilts; a man utterly defeated. His nod is nearly imperceptible. But he confirms it anyway—he owes them all that. “Yeah, he did.”

“Jesus Christ, Keons,” Meany chunters, a sound muffled by the palms sliding down his weary face. The far, towering walls and harsh fluorescents offer them no reprieve, not an inch of cushioning for the sudden dread curdling amongst them. Outside, distant thunder hums. Dread, that soon gives way to fear, spreading like mold. It sows into Josh’s throat, his lungs—suddenly feeling them too dry. Rough in a way that makes passing air grate like ground glass along his insides.

He says nothing. Asks nothing. Nothing would come up, were he to even try.

Then, “Are you—? What the fuck.”

Heads swivel around again, this time toward Tyler. And Josh has seen Tyler angry before, he’s familiar with his specific brand of fury: glacial, vicious, mathematical.

What he sees in Tyler now is completely new.

“Are you fucking stupid?” He barks, stalking forward with thunderous steps—eyes wild, brows brutishly warped. “What is wrong with you?”

Tamely, and very slowly, Keons rises to his feet, hands hovering ahead of him placatingly. “Tyler—” 

“Why would you do that!? Fuck—why would you do that?” Tyler demands, voice rising in pitch, and as he approaches Josh catches the faint, erratic jump of his chest, stumbling on every word and lurching breath. His own hands dart up involuntarily, suspended between them. 

“I know, kid, I’m sor—”

“Don’t—” Tyler bites instantly, stopping dead in his tracks. His jaw audibly clamps shut, but he seems to struggle to hold his lips still. They twitch and wobble, eyes ablaze with conflicting hues of ire and horror.

Josh reaches out. Immediately upon making contact—nothing more than a graze of two fingertips against Tyler’s wrist—he wrenches back, hands fisted and tight-knuckled.

“Don’t touch me.”

He whips back to Keons, who again, won’t meet his eye. And then, with one heaving breath, he tears through the room. None of them can get a single word in before the door’s ramming shut with a deafening slam.

Josh blinks at it for possibly too long of a moment. Feeling off-kilter, like something’s dislodged between his ribs—originally by Keons’ admission, and only even more so now. He chews on the shredded inside of his cheek, turning slowly to gauge the other’s reactions.

Meany’s fingers slide back and forth along the ridge of his brow, tight-jawed. Beside him, slumped back into the stool, Keons’ locked hands writhe and roll over the table, head stooped low. For his sake, Josh pretends not to notice the sheen in his eye, catching the light from above.

He waits for a second, for one of them to speak, to go after Tyler—and it strikes him, when the silence swells enough, that they aren’t going to.

So, he airily announces, “I’ll check on him,” and ducks out of the lab.

It’s just beginning to rain outside—little needle-like shards of a cold drizzle biting into his skin, gathering and growing on his clothes. He picks up a steady jog, cutting through the zoo’s ample entrance and weaving through the ancient turnstiles. His gaze sweeps across the parking lot when he reaches it, skipping over abandoned cars until he hears the familiar rumble of an ignition turning on. He hurries toward it before Tyler can pull out of the lot, and without so much as a knock on the glass, slides into the passenger seat when he gets there.

He huffs, easing into the leather backrest as he takes in the sight beside him. Tyler, sitting ramrod straight in his seat, fingers strangling the top of the steering wheel, and his face, back to dead indifference, anchored straight ahead. The rain that strikes the windshield and roof, amplifying timidly, offers a kinder alternative to all-encompassing silence.

“What was that about?” Josh asks finally, aiming for innocuous neutrality.

“What do you want?”

Josh palms his hair back, curbing a sigh before it can sound out. “I want to know what that was about. You okay?”

That doesn’t seem to land well. Tyler’s face tightens, as though woven through with a pulling thread. His fingers flex, tighten on the wheel.

“Get out.”

“Something’s up with you, man. You snap like that and then expect me not to ask? Come on.”

“Joshua,” Tyler says, his tone low and simmering with the only warning he’s willing to give. His head twists joltingly on his shoulders, to meet Josh’s gaze. Glazed over with raw, haunting exhaustion, but still hardened with a severity so profound it almost circles right around to pleading. “Get out of my car.”

Faced with this expression, Josh finds himself wholly incapable of pushing any further. So he steps out, and watches beneath the gauzy rainfall as Tyler’s tail lights disappear beyond the gate. 

Republican Senator Nicolas Bourbaki said to give statement on Monday following violent break-in at his Chicago home. Investigators suspect Sacarver family involvement.

“Dun.”

Josh perks up from his phone, arm dipping as he searches for the source of the unfamiliar voice. He finds it, staring boredly down at him from where he looms a few feet away from the bartop, in Reisdro’s face. It’s lost on him, at first, what Nico’s bodyguard could possibly want from him on an uneventful, rainy evening such as today, until he speaks again.

“Bourbaki wants to see you in his office.”

He swallows. Right.

Still, as he slides out of his seat and follows the stone-faced, burly man to the staircase, Josh refuses any preliminary panic to take root. He reminds himself, with every slow, muffled step, of the facts: They’ve been careful, Nico never saw Josh’s face and would have no reason to believe he’s in any way aligned with Keons. Upon reaching the second floor, Josh unclenches his jaw and tells himself it’s probably just an assignment. It’s been a while since his last one, anyway.

This works, somewhat, to assuage the relentless weight of turmoil that’s been thrumming through him for the last two nights. Reisdro says nothing as they navigate through the floor, and keeps to his silence even when they reach Nico’s office door. Closed, and the blinds beyond the glass pane pulled low. Josh releases a breath, forcing it level, and hopes it’ll be an easy job.

Reisdro pulls the door open, and steps aside.

Nico awaits at his desk, fingers loosely knit together atop the smooth surface. Moored in place at his side, Tyler stands like a soldier in wait—though one battered and wilted. 

“Joshua,” Nico greets blandly, nodding at him once. Josh looks away from Tyler in order to glance over his shoulder. Reisdro, too, steps inside behind him and shuts the door. 

Josh will not panic.

“Hi,” he replies, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. His attention drops to the pair of chairs facing Nico’s table. “Should I…?”

“If you wish, be my guest.”

Josh doesn’t sit.

He searches out Tyler’s gaze, but it isn’t met. Tyler might as well be another piece of furniture, moored in a frozen stance by the desk, shoulders drawn, lips ever so faintly pursed. Josh finds no answers there, so he opens his mouth to ask—

The door creaks open again. He turns, and in steps Keons.

There is a strange air of mellow resolution he gives off, that Josh notices immediately but refrains from commenting on. Not necessarily found in anything he says, as he remains completely silent while he shuts the door behind him and steps forth to stand beside Josh, but more so in his expression, in the way he carries himself. Here he stands, in front of the man he tried to kill two nights ago, and above an array of countless other flashes of feeling, Josh doesn’t sense a single modicum of fear emanating from him.

It could almost soothe Josh, were he not so painfully aware of the peculiarity of the situation, and so busy attempting to figure out what it might extend to.

Nico doesn’t beat around the bush.

“As you all may know by now, two days ago several Sacarver family soldiers broke into my personal home for reasons yet unbeknownst to me. Made quite a mess of the place. Luckily, the police arrived right on time, saving my life.”

Unease, unfolding in Josh’s ribcage, blossoming exponentially despite his inner attempts to tamp it down. It’s futile, like holding smoke in one’s hands. He chances a sidelong glance at Keons; upon finding nothing there, redirects to Tyler. Tight-jawed, pale suddenly.

“However,” Nico continues, granting each one of them equal amounts of his attention, “much to my surprise, the person who broke into my office, where I was at the time, tied me to my chair, and threatened my life was not any of Sacarver’s men… but Keons himself.”

It takes every ounce of willpower for Josh to keep a straight face—for his shoulders not to droop with the sudden constriction of dread that incloses him whole. It bursts, cold and acidic, in the space between his lungs, before branching outward into the tips of his fingers. He shuts his eyes—the only reaction he allows himself.

“I really must let it be known how hard this is for me.”

Dismay, thick and cloaking, slowly floods into the room. Pooling at their ankles, and rising with every passing moment, silent or spoken. Josh opens his eyes, and locks them firmly on Nico. Besides a mild crease between his brows, his expression is hewed into an impeccable front of apathy.

“...As Keons has not only been my most loyal advisor and right hand man for twenty years, but a good friend, as well. It hurts me, truly, but this is something I would not let slide for anybody else, so I must be fair.”

Movement, then—jarring in the rising waters of slow apprehension. Nico leans back, reaching down into a drawer.

“Cutting loose ends is, after all, what has kept this family afloat for decades.”

Metal glints a split second before Nico deposits a small handgun over the desk. Rain patters clamorously against the window behind him. Thunder rolls through the floor, weaseling into the hollow spaces of Josh’s bones. His breath snags on the seal in his throat. He glances fleetingly—desperately—at Keons, who merely keeps staring unblinkingly at the pistol.

Nico clears his throat sedately. “Tyler. Do me a favor, and won’t you cut this loose end?”

Tyler freezes abruptly, almost unnaturally so. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, does not so much as twitch in the drag of time that follows. Josh’s chest aches; a tangible, throbbing thing.

Tyler’s wide eyes flick between the pistol and Nico’s face several times. He makes no move to reach for it.

“What?” he manages after what feels like an eon, the word poorly balanced, grated out on a breathless croak.

“Go on, Tyler. You understand what I’m telling you.” Nico presses. 

Then, with jolting, wary bouts of movement, Tyler reaches forward, takes the gun. Stares down at it, frowning, for a very long moment, almost as though unfamiliar with it as a whole. It’s a profoundly discordant thing to watch, when Josh has witnessed him, first-hand, not even bat an eye after blowing a target’s skull open. 

A dry crack of thunder startles him, eyes finally breaking their set path between the pistol and Nico’s face in order to dart up instinctively toward Keons’. In the corner of his eye, Josh notices the man give Tyler a tiny, near imperceptible nod of reassurance. Josh feels the ground give under his feet: the initial, foreboding tremors of an imminent, cataclysmic seism. 

Tyler’s resolve splinters. “Nico, maybe you should reconsider—” 

Nico won’t have it. He grows impatient, and Tyler’s unwittingly playing a risky game just by hesitating, just by testing that patience; balanced on the tip of a very lethal blade. 

“I won’t ask you again, Tyler,” he growls, reaching back into the drawer at his side in a lightning-quick movement. 

Within one blink, Josh finds himself staring down the barrel of a second gun. His heart stumbles over itself, tangling up in sinewy arteries, and he bristles despite himself. 

The storm outside only seems to amplify, creating a relentless, dissonant cacophony, underlined by the intermittent flashes of lightning and subsequent crackle of thunder. It makes it hard to focus—to think. Above it, the only thing Josh can hear is his own blood rushing past his eardrums. Everything else, swallowed. 

“Your impotence will only cause more bloodshed.”

Suddenly, Tyler shrivels, and the quiver in his gun-bearing hand isn’t lost on Josh. There’s a certain edge of thrashing hysteria in his eye, a budding, panicked frenzy devastatingly reminiscent of that of an animal caught in a snare. Anguish and helplessness overlapping in the restless flicker of his expression, working as crashing waves on a drowned tide; as soon as one recedes, the next one surges forth. The harder he fights it, the more he wrenches away, the tighter the wire noose becomes—the deeper it scores into his throat.

“Do it now.”

A single crack, buried under the storm. Josh flinches anyway, for a split second unsure whether the bullet struck him or not. 

Until, that is, Keons stumbles beside him, and collapses against the door. Josh’s chest constricts, forcing out sharp, jagged pants of shock. Keons’ legs quiver like mere blades of grass, horrible, wet sounds of agony rippling up his throat. 

Josh darts forward, head spinning—but he’s caught by Reisdro’s cruel hand latching onto his arm. He hardly registers the ache. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes out, muted to his own ears. The bullet echoes and echoes in his skull, somehow growing louder with every mocking reprise. 

Keons’ palm slips clumsily against the gaping hole in his upper chest, back skidding down the door as sweat dots over his brow. 

Josh strains against the hold, skin awash with prickling panic—this is all so wrong, and there is simply nothing he can do about it. It’s already been done.

He manages to rip his eyes from the scene just enough to study Tyler. Tyler, and his ashen face, and his trembling hands, and his round, glossy eyes. 

Below, Keons buckles onto his back, and his sounds of struggle only grow more nauseating, heightening tenfold. A terrible position to be in, given the nature of the wound, but his limbs twitch and jump occasionally as though unable to move them. He chokes and sputters, gurgles on the blood that’s drowning him. Josh tastes bile. His vision warps around the edges, growing unfocused and dull. 

Keons’ head lolls, eyes half-lidded and visibly struggling to focus, but finding their way to Tyler, even still. His lips twitch and wobble, a low sound in his throat bubbling up, but it’s almost immediately snuffed out by a hacking cough. Blood sprays across his cheek, his nose, his stubbled chin. Rich crimson, stark against ashen skin, almost ghostly already. 

Keons dies ugly. He dies ungracefully, struggling and choking and seized by agony. He is not permitted, in his death, an ounce of the honor he’s earned himself during his life. Like a struck animal in the middle of the road—though even those, sometimes, go with the grace of comfort, with the kind hand of a stranger smoothing down its shattered ribcage in its final moments. Keons is denied any semblance of comfort, made clear to them all by the forbidding grip on Josh’s arm. 

And then: with a final, wheezing exhale, Keons falls silent. 

And then: with a bleeding hollowness scooped into his chest, Josh watches Tyler shut down. All the various tremors and tensions caught in his body evaporated in a second, eyes drooping low, suddenly vacant again. Tucking himself somewhere far and desolate, somewhere safe. 

Josh can’t look at him anymore. Can’t make himself look at Keons, either. So he simply shuts his eyes, harshly ripping his arm out of Reisdro’s hold. If there’s anything he can tell himself to be grateful for, it’s that it was at least quick. Every blinded breath cruelly grounds him; the metallic, pungent stench of blood oozing into and lingering in his nostrils. His eyes burn terribly.

Nico speaks. “Good. Reisdro, clean up the mess, would you?” A beat. “And Joshua, you are dismissed.”

Chapter Text

Accompanied only by the intermittent squeak of his ratty Vans against the waxed tile, Josh tries his hardest not to let the heft of his apprehension fold him inward; he’s certain he looks suspicious enough as is, sticking out like a sore thumb with his hood pulled low over his brow and his jeans thready and torn. He doesn’t mind any of the shady looks tossed his way by haughty residents, he only hopes that Kenny—the doorman posted at the end of the lobby, right before the elevators—still remembers him. He tugs his hood off as he approaches the reception desk, the fabric dampened from the early-autumn drizzle outside.

“Evening,” Kenny greets offhandedly, without looking up from his computer screen. Josh’s knuckles tap the cool marble, releasing his bottom lip from the ceaseless grind of his teeth.

“Hi.”

For a brief second after Kenny looks up, Josh is certain his luck’s run dry—not that he’s had much these past few weeks, anyway. But then, he watches the man’s brows rise toward his hairline, wrinkle-lined features twitching with recognition. He raises a vague pointer finger up at Josh.

“James,” he says, somewhat stunned.

“Josh.”

“Right—Josh, sorry. It’s been a while since you’ve dropped by.”

Josh nods unevenly, drumming his fingers atop the desk’s elevated surface. He swallows the bundle of nerves rooted in his throat, one that’s only been curdling. “Yeah, yeah it has. Is, uhm… is Tyler in, do you know?”

Kenny’s expression does a funny thing, at that; mellow friendliness dimming to make way for something more troubled, something tighter. It does very little to alleviate Josh’s continued unease. 

“Yeah, he’s in, alright. You can head right up.”

Josh pauses, only half-aware of his own expression fluttering with confusion, as though on its own volition. This is new—for as long as Josh has been coming here, even when the penthouse was his own temporary residence, Kenny would need explicit permission from Tyler in order to let Josh up, and as far as Josh is aware, Tyler hasn’t even opened his texts for the past two months. 

“He’s expecting me?”

Kenny waves a hand. “No clue. His orders—open entry.”

Josh lingers on the man, examining his drawn appearance, the hand he brings up to scratch at his patchy beard, the clipped sigh he gives as he leans back in his clicking swivel chair. Considers pressing further, asking what exactly he means by open entry, but he doubts Tyler’s doorman of all people would know any more about what he’s been up to than Josh does, so he simply nods once, curt.

The side of his fist thunks lightly against the desktop, clearing his throat against the tightness there, sinking down his airway and coiling firmly against his sternum. “Alright, then. Thanks.”

Kenny nods, returning to his computer as soon as Josh pivots to skirt around the reception desk.

He avoids his own gaze in the elevator—a tricky pursuit, given the spotless reflective walls and mirrored ceiling, feeding him his own scruffy image from every angle despite his best attempts to disregard it. He knows he doesn’t look great; these two stagnant months have not been kind to him, and this whole half-baked plan is currently only serving to make him feel worse, so he doesn’t need to stare at himself any longer than he does in passing while brushing his teeth or washing his face in the morning.

The elevator dings once, right before the doors smoothly part, effectively cutting short any fastening thoughts of turning around and going home before he can even earnestly consider them. He shuffles out, taking the well-traveled path down the dim corridor that leads to the sole front door. He slows to a halt before the plain welcome mat, sparing a cursory glance down at his phone screen to confirm what he already knows: no messages, and no missed calls.

He knocks twice before he can think himself out of it.

The thing is: Josh had hesitated, at first, to be the one to reach out. Doing so wasn’t just breaking the ice, but it meant instead to cleave through a monstrous glacier, and one that wasn’t even nearly as colossal to him as it was for Tyler. He wanted to avoid what could have been received as an unsolicited obtrusion, as some egotistical savior complex poorly disguised in mawkish linen. Overstepping was what he’d feared those first few weeks, but that trepidation has been slowly sanded down the longer he’s gone without so much as a text from Tyler. Without a single sign of life since he dazedly dragged his bloodied boots out of Nico’s office two months ago.

He realizes, upon a minute or so, that he’s received no answer. So he knocks again, sharper. He tips his weight forward, leaning in to try and catch any sounds or voices through the door.

“Tyler, I know you’re home, just open up, man,” he calls out before swiftly returning his ear to the door. He waits for a few more seconds, backing up to glare at the door, as though willing it to open.

When it decidedly does not, Josh doesn’t bother knocking again—instead he reaches for the knob. What he certainly doesn’t expect when he does this, is for the door to be unlocked.

He hesitates, half a step through the threshold, hearing now the soft music drifting through the space. He pushes the door open a little wider, eyebrows crumpling.

“I’m coming in,” he announces into the silence, slowly stepping through and shutting the door behind him. “Please be decent.”

What strikes him before anything else, within his first few steps into the penthouse, is the smell. The stench of alcohol and tobacco, paired with the dense stuffiness of poor circulation is impossible to miss, and only works to bring alarm bells to blaring life in Josh’s head.

The shirtless stranger in the kitchen, really only amplifies it. He doesn’t notice Josh at first, too busy lazily working open a beer bottle with unsteady fingertips, sniffling noisily. Josh’s gaze sweeps over to the kitchen island, crowded with plastic cups and crumpled napkins and empty bottles of just about every liquor brand on the market. The sink is overflowing with even more, and he’s fairly certain there’s a discarded bra on the floor by the fridge. Did Tyler throw a party? Here Josh thought he’d gone and gotten himself in serious trouble—or worse—but here he was, apparently, drinking beer and getting laid.

“Who are you?” He asks, words coming out snappier than intended. The guy turns, mid-swig, and rather brazenly leers at him, hooded, red-rimmed eyes sinking down Josh’s figure.

“Who’s asking?” He slurs, which Josh meets with an eye-roll and irked tsk. He diverts his attention, shrugging the drunken man off as he slips out into the living room.

It’s instantaneous, the way in which his creeping aggravation recedes, and that previous cluster of begrudging nerves clamp back down onto his chest cavity. The living room is just as much of a mess as the kitchen is, only here he finds the rest of the party guests. Most half-asleep or passed out where they lie sprawled out on the couch, the armchairs, the carpet, and a few awake, staring emptily at the distance or drunkenly chatting. Josh’s heels prickle—he storms toward the heart of the space, eyes combing through every face in search of one in particular.

He doesn’t find it, exactly, but a faint movement in the corner of his eye summons his attention to the far end of the couch, where a dark-haired woman sits straddled in somebody’s lap. Josh approaches the coffee table, brimming with bottles, overflowing ash trays, cigarette butts, and a powdering of chalky white stuck in the crevices of the wooden engravings.

To say Tyler’s kissing the woman back would be to give him far too much credit. His hands sit lax on her smooth thighs, head tipped back against the leather-cushioned backrest as she grows seemingly tired of shoving her tongue down his throat and moves to his jaw.

Josh cycles through several options, before finally uttering a flat, stunned, “Dude.”

The woman pays him no mind, manicured hands snaking up the sides of his neck to meet at the back of his head. By extension, Tyler gives no acknowledgement either, other than a lazy squeeze of her upper thigh.

Josh’s skin crawls. There were many ideas his overtired brain had fed him on the drive here, quite broad in variety—ranging from a made bed and an empty suite, to the buzz of trapped flies knocking against closed windows. This, somehow, was certainly not one of them, and he really doesn’t feel like dealing with it any more than he has to.

He whirls on his heel and swiftly locates the speaker, set on the edge of the TV stand. He cuts the music off with a harsh jab of his thumb, and turns back to the pair on the couch.

“Tyler.”

At that, miraculously, the woman straightens, aiming an acidic glare his way as she brushes her curls over her shoulder. Josh ignores her, attention trained solely on Tyler, whose fingers merely twitch on her once, eyes half-lidded.

Josh snaps his fingers brusquely, leaning slightly over the coffee table. “Tyler, what the hell is this? What are you doing?”

Finally, with sluggish, spacey motions, Tyler’s head lolls to the side, eyes dragging up to latch onto Josh’s. Even in the somewhat dim lighting, pale and subdued from the overcast morning sky outside the ceiling-high window, Josh can see the gaping disks made of his pupils, ringed by fine brown.

His brow twitches minutely, as though taking a minute to let the sight settle in through the fog. Sour irritation cracks through Josh’s limbs, crawling like termites.

“Alright, that’s it,” he bites out, tone hardening. He turns, glancing at each of the plastered guests as he raises his voice, unforgiving. “Party’s over, everyone. Get the hell out of here, come on.”

For a split second, nobody moves. Until he storms over to the nearest person—a rather scrawny guy lounging on the opposite end of the couch—and hauls him to his feet.

“Dude, watch it!” He yelps, stumbling to steady himself when he wrenches his arm free. Josh nods sharply toward the direction of the front door.

“I said get out. Go.” He twists back over, finding the woman in Tyler’s lap blinking owlishly up at him, as he expected to find her. “That includes you.”

It’s within no more than a minute that all the guests have stirred and staggered out of the door, most of them surely high on God knows what and likely thinking he’s a cop. He’d almost find it impressive how fast they sober up enough to retreat, were he not so preoccupied by fruitless attempts to mitigate his snowballing temper.

Tyler doesn’t lift a finger during any of it; only blinks up at the ceiling, boneless and dead quiet. As soon as Josh hears the door slam shut, he faces Tyler, crossing his arms so as not to do anything rash with his hands.

“Wanna try this again? Look at me.” He starts, words shredding through clenched teeth. He only continues when Tyler exhales hollowly and meets his eye. “What is this, huh? Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get in contact with you? I come here, expecting to find you dead or some shit, and instead the place looks like a goddamn crack house—which means you’ve clearly had the time to respond to your texts.”

Tyler blinks a few times, before his joints seem to finally shrug off their blanket of dust and kick into action. He pushes himself up, and then springs to his feet, face pinched tight in focus as he rounds the coffee table with heavy limbs. 

“I even asked Jenna if she’d heard from you.” Josh is half-aware of the fact that Tyler is most likely not listening to a word he’s saying, but with exasperation and a quiet stream of relief clashing under his skin, he can’t bring himself to stop. “She stopped by a few times and you weren’t here. She’s been worried sick, you know.”

He fails to get anything else out before Tyler half-stumbles into him, one hand weaseling up to curl into his hair and before he knows it, Tyler’s kissing him. Though, it’s hardly a kiss—broken and uncoordinated. Josh regains his footing, steadying Tyler by the upper arms and pointedly craning his neck back.

“Tyler—”

“Shut up,” Tyler mumbles, sluggishly nipping down the expanse of Josh’s neck, utterly lacking the meticulous precision he always exhibits. His free hand curls into the small of Josh’s back, pulling back for a fleeting second before promptly dropping to his knees. “Lemme blow you.”

Josh is quick to reach for Tyler’s wrists, tugging them away from where his fingers have darted up to fumble with his jeans.

“Jesus fucking—get off the floor, you’re embarassing yourself.” Replanting his grip underneath Tyler’s upper arm, he hauls him off his knees, hesitating to let go for a second afterward. “The hell’s the matter with you?”

Like a switch flipped, Tyler’s expression steels and he jerks away, pivoting on his heels in order to storm into the kitchen, evidently focused on curbing his stumbling. With a flat sigh, Josh follows suit, skirting around discarded solo cups and empty bottles.

“You need to leave,” Tyler barks once in the kitchen, denying Josh a single moment of regard. He tugs the fridge open, and Josh makes use of Tyler’s turned back to rush up behind him and pluck the can of beer he pulls out right from his fingers.

“No, I don’t. And I think you’ve had enough of that.”

Tyler, still, doesn’t face him, drawing his hands up to sullenly scrub at his face. Josh sets the can on the counter, lingering nearby in case Tyler makes a move for it; unsure, still, of just how deep his craving runs. He crosses his arms, staring fixedly at the back of Tyler’s head, and the sweat-slick, overgrown hair unfurled against the nape of his neck.

He keeps going at him—keeps gnashing his maw, waiting to snag his teeth against the rigidity of bone—and it seems almost laughable that he was ever concerned with appearing overly pestering. “You couldn’t pick up one call? Seriously? Better yet—open your damn texts so we could know you haven’t fallen off the face of the planet?”

Tyler plants his palms on the edge of the opposite counter, head steeply wilting between the rigid set of his shoulders. Shut off in the bat of an eye, in his typical fashion. Josh thinks that should alleviate him, if only a little. It doesn’t.

“You don’t get to be angry at me, not after this shit you pulled.”

“Did you just come here to yell at me?” Tyler snaps, angling his head to the side, but not fully turning.

Josh’s reply melts behind his teeth, welding them tightly shut. His shoulders suddenly stripped of their tension by way of a small sigh. Bubbling, steaming frustration extinguishing, and its residual smoke curling into something blunter: guilt, almost. He works his jaw against the inside of his cheek, watching Tyler slowly, gracelessly fold inward—distantly on par with the slow collapse of an old tree. He braces his elbows on the countertop, the heels of his palms circling against his eyes. Josh didn’t come here to yell at him, as much as doing so may seem cathartic—and this might not have been the outcome he was expecting, but he still has to work with it. It’s either that, or walking right out to let Tyler fall back into the pit he’s found himself in, and that is certainly not happening. Not on his watch.

“No. I didn’t,” he finally replies, stiltedly lowering his tone of voice and approaching guardedly.

Tyler, yet again capsized: threading in gradual, irregular breaths; slumping a little more on each rasping exhale, as though slowly giving out in spite of himself; his tank top soaked through with sweat when Josh’s hand descends onto his back.

“Hey,” he hums, tight with arising concern as he ducks forward to get a good look at Tyler’s stooped face. His palm smoothes up the protruding curve of his spine, unruffled by the warm sweat he feels stick to his fingertips, and cups the back of his head. “Not looking too hot there.” His crack at lightheartedness falls abysmally flat. He gently angles Tyler’s head over, catching a glimpse of unchanged dilated pupils before they slip shut. “Tyler, what did you take?”

Lugging in a sharp breath, Tyler straightens abruptly, twisting out of Josh’s mindful hold. Bitter, then, when he speaks. “‘M not fucking overdosing, asshole.”

Josh’s jaw ticks, hands falling helplessly to his hips. “Good to see your dashing charm still intact.” Tyler doesn’t bother answering as he drags his feet over to the island and promptly plops himself down in one of the stools.

Josh watches him dump his elbows on the counter and catch his temples in his gloved palms. In those wearisome seconds that ensue, Josh drafts a haphazard game plan, and turns toward the cupboards.

The thought of a zookeeper faced with a restless, pacing tiger at feeding time springs tacitly to mind as he approaches Tyler with a cool glass of water in hand. “Drink,” he orders, half bracing himself for Tyler to lash out.

His concern only deepens when Tyler instead takes the glass without objection. Studying him as he downs half of it in one swig—tremulous, clammy, and addled, as though severed by exhaustion and whatever else he may have pulsing through his bloodstream.

“You know I don’t carry Narcan with me.”

The glass lands on the counter with an abrasive clink. “Can you relax?”

“No, Tyler, I can’t,” Josh snaps. “Take a good look at the place, will you? Right now you look like you’ve got one foot in the grave already, so don’t ask me to relax.”

Tyler says nothing. He adheres to his staunch silence for a while afterward, once Josh half-demands, half-herds him into the bedroom. There, he finds Ned sprawled out on the rumpled bed, contentedly oblivious to the whole unfolding situation, and when Josh ducks into the bathroom, he finds a litter box pushed into a far corner and a food bowl near overflowing with kibble—as though replenished faster than it could be eaten. Josh’s chest gives a flimsy squeeze at the sight, but he makes no comment. 

After checking the tub in search of any passed out stragglers, Josh slips out, ensuring the door is left open a few inches for the cat’s easy access. He finds Tyler posted right where he left him, rooted in the middle of the floor and staring emptily at nothing in particular. Appearing disembodied, far removed. To anybody else, a standard front for him—but Josh isn’t anybody else, and he has always understood Tyler as somebody who operates far more in his own head than in the surface mechanisms of his anatomy. Now, he seems completely absent from both. Josh, in a very private, visceral manner, hopes it’s the drugs and the booze and the freshness of it all, that’s rendered him so astray, and not that he’s finally been robbed of the last surviving shred of his spirit.

His movement appears to snap Tyler out of his daze, rolling his head up to face him. Bristled, all of the sudden; mood not so much swinging as darting from extremes.

“What are you doing? What’s your angle here?” he asks, flat and gravelly, though the jump of his shoulders betrays his paranoia. “Tell me the truth. Did Nico send you?”

Josh can’t help it—his greatest shortcoming has always been his propensity to anger. “Did Nico—? Are you serious? Jesus, don’t you fucking get it?” He approaches, merely a long stride or two, but Tyler instinctively turns away. “I haven’t even seen you at headquarters, nobody has. I thought you were dead, Tyler. I came here preparing myself to have to watch you be taken out in a body bag. Do you know how—”

He swallows stiffly, harshly dragging his palm across his forehead over and over. Like the erratic spitting of a fire, he flares up again, parroting, “‘What am I doing’. What are you? Are you trying to kill yourself, is that it? Do you think any of this is what Keons would want?”

It truly speaks of his own blazing agitation, that he doesn’t even see the punch coming. He only stumbles back when it lands, nose pulsing—and soon thereafter his foot catches on the edge of the rug and he goes down. Tyler’s on him in an instant, landing another pitiful punch on Josh’s cheek as he curls his other fist into the front of his shirt. Josh’s arms soar up, reflexively blocking his face. Iron clogs his nose; he gasps through his mouth, twisting his head in order to give the faint trickle of blood somewhere to go that isn’t back down his nose and throat.

Tyler’s fist rams over and over into Josh, aimed anywhere he can reach—though progressively growing sloppier and looser, graceless in a way he never presents himself as. Weak punches soon morph into half-hearted thumps against Josh’s chest. 

“Fuck,” he croaks out, curving into himself, “hit me.” 

Josh’s arms fall to his sides, huffing through his open mouth. A tender point along his cheekbone pulses in tandem with his galloping pulse. The snarl made of Tyler’s strained features decays.

“Come on,” he urges, clutching one of Josh’s forearms. He raises it up between them, vaguely mimicking a defensive maneuver. His expression crumbles. His words quiver on ragged breaths, sounding impossibly suffocated. “What are you doing? Fight back, hit me—hit me—”

And just like that, he collapses. A quivering breath saps the strength right out of him, and he slumps forward, spine curling in a way that almost seems painful. Josh feels fickle breaths seep through the fabric of his shirt and unkempt hair graze the underside of his jaw. Tyler’s hands jerkily scramble for purchase, soon finding it in Josh’s shirt, fists cinched over his ribs.

Finally, Josh’s hand drifts up again, this time willingly, and promptly moors itself lightly on Tyler’s clammy neck. Blindly searches around with the pad of his thumb, until it locates a frenzied pulse point, and roots itself in place.

It’s for quite a vast stretch of time, uncounted and borderless, that they lie like this.

Josh does about as much as he can for now—some time later, after coaxing Tyler off of the floor and into bed, and scouring through the penthouse for trash bags. He slides the balcony doors open as far as they’ll go, granting some much needed circulation to the stale interior, and gets to tidying the place up. He stuffs bag after bag with plastic cups, cigarette butts and joint filters, piles of combined ash, and disposable paper plates. He tosses out bottles in varying levels of repletion; he’d usually be disinclined to throw out perfectly good liquor and whatever exactly it is in the little baggies he finds scattered across the coffee table, but strangely enough, he can’t find it in himself to care now. He wants all of it out. The place is in desperate need of a proper deep clean, but he figures that can wait—Tyler’s asleep for the first time in who knows how long, and he doesn’t want to risk waking him up by vacuuming. So, he leaves the place decent enough. Nothing left on the floors, or in the sink, or on any table or countertop. 

By the time he wraps up by spraying a generous amount of air freshener throughout the living room, the sky outside is mottled with deep purples and a vivid streak of underlying pink, clouds scattered and dark, faintly resembling the skin of a bruised peach. The setting sun pours tinted, angular shadows across the floor, dipping between gaps in the rupturing clouds. He checks the time, then hauls the packed trash bags over to the front door, halfheartedly pinning up a mental note to throw them out later. 

For now, he turns to see Ned sitting watchfully on the floor by the yawning mouth of the hallway. The tip of his bushy tail sweeps placidly against his paws, tall ears tipped forward with curiosity, if not scrutiny. He squints slightly, before smoothly turning back and gliding down the hall to the bedroom. Josh follows unthinkingly, which is to say, driven by a sudden compulsion the likes of which tugs at his joints just as fish hooks would, and which festers almost as a phantom ache.

He stays mindful of his footfall, taming as much sound as he can while keeping a steady pace toward the cracked door. Ned slips briskly inside a second before Josh reaches it, but his attention doesn’t linger on the feline—not when he peeks inside to see the bed rumpled and empty. He refrains from sighing, though the odd twinge of disappointment that breathes through him doesn’t go unnoticed. Stepping inside, his eyes execute a rushed sweep of the interior, finishing on the sliver of visible bathroom through the doorway—also empty.

What he does notice, soon thereafter, is the balcony door beyond the bed feeding a mild breeze into the billowing curtains. Josh approaches, wary but not uncertain, and this time lets his footsteps gently broadcast his arrival so as not to startle Tyler.

Josh finds him tightly ensconced on one of the cushioned wicker chairs lining the whole balcony, facing the bruised-peach sky. His approach is met with an unnerving stillness; with the way Tyler is folded into the chair, legs drawn up but lax, one arm crossed over his stomach, and the other paused mid-motion at his neck, pinching a tuft of hair between his fingers, he seems frozen in time. Josh spends a handful of seconds studying his chest, and its slow, even rolling, if only to recenter himself.

From this angle, and in this delicate lighting, one could almost be convinced that this is not a man in ruins; that he is not a person who has been nurtured on inconceivable violence. How could he? Like this—however haunted—with the delicate bend of his nose and the wispy fanning of his eyelashes, Josh can only think two simple things: that Tyler is beautiful, and that he wishes everything had laid itself out differently. 

If he had never started dealing in high school, and if Nico had never taken a liking to a grieving foster child twenty years ago—maybe then things could have played out kinder. He will choose to think of it like this, in basic, sweeping terms, because it’s a far easier pill to swallow as opposed to the idea that they were always meant to end up here, and no amount of shuffling or thwarting could ever have changed their outcomes.

He sits. The braided straw rustles softly beneath him.

The sun is setting and the deepening chill nips insistently at his forearms, almost as though urging him back inside. He chances a skirting look at Tyler, and finds his own limbs, exposed from the tank top and shorts he dons, prickled by its same effect. He says nothing, but the resulting quiet is short-lived anyway.

“It was never like this,” Tyler rasps, voice thick and scratchy from his prolonged silence. Perhaps from his grief, too. His eyes remain trained ahead, but Josh doubts he's focused on the view. “I don’t remember much of my mother, but it was… I don’t remember it being like this, then.”

Josh quells any outward reaction beyond a mellow nod, though he can’t quite help but perk up. It feels of staggering importance, this exact moment: the first time Tyler is opening up about his mother, or of his short time before Nico. He comes up dreadfully blank when he attempts to string together an appropriate answer. Figures, within a few seconds, that Tyler doesn’t expect him to at all. So he listens.

“It’s just so…” Tyler’s hands twitch to life, drifting before him in a vague, nondescript gesture near his chest. Josh watches this intently, and returns to his face just in time to see his brow crumple with frustration. “I don’t even know where to start… disassembling it.”

And that’s just it, Josh thinks, you think you can still fix this. You think this can be fixed.

Instead of saying this, he replies, “I don’t think you can. I think you just have to wait it out.”

Tyler utters a very quiet sort of scoff, shoved out beneath a tight exhale. “Easy for you to say.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” He’s wavering, Josh can tell, ever so slowly. Finally, he twists to face him. Teeth bared, nostrils flaring; falling back into old, old habits. A stubborn enough game animal will growl until its very last breath, even as it faces down the barrel of the shotgun.

Faced with Josh’s silence, Tyler splinters further. “Really, Josh, do you know?”

“Alright, fine. I can’t say I do, no—I’ve never had to shoot the man who raised me on orders of my piece of shit father. But I know death.” Tyler flinches, but in the way one would when splashed with frigid water; his expression doesn’t constrict with any real hurt, so Josh continues. “You did what you had to. Nico would’ve killed me and then Keons himself if you didn’t. You can’t just pack it up, and you can’t beat yourself up over it forever either—you’re never gonna get anywhere like that.”

Tyler, yet again: vacated. Small in a way that is beyond merely physical, shaking his head in tiny, continual motions. It’s a jarring whiplash to witness, though not as disheartening as it is to watch him keep falling back into the same pit. Josh doesn’t blame him, however. Grief has a habit of keeping you in place.

“That’s not it,” he hums, thready and uneven. Josh frowns. Tyler leans forward, planting his bare feet on the ground and perching his elbows on his knees. Fists locked together, furled tightly into one fingered mass between his knees, he murmurs something else—low and stifled. Josh hums in question, leaning in and mirroring his position.

“I called the police.”

A beat slides by, hurried. Two, then three. Josh studies the side of Tyler’s face, slackened but still somehow emanating a profound, agonized rue. 

“What?”

The admission pours out of Tyler with little inhibition, as would a blood clot that’s been starving the heart. “I saw them, when I stopped by to pick up that intel. I saw them moving inside—the one time I didn’t have my gun on me. I figured they were Sacarver’s men, and it would’ve been suicide to take them on alone. So, I—I called the cops. Reported a break-in.

“I thought it’d be a good chance to do some real damage to them. I didn’t know you two were—I didn’t know.”

His head plummets, caught on the tangle of his white-knuckled fists. Within a second, they unwind to cup the lower half of his face. A shuddering, muffled breath eases out of him, vibrating through the steely set of his shoulders. Josh sits on this for a moment, processing, chewing. Eventually, once it has saturated enough, he finds no fury has risen. No outrage, no sizzling spite, not even an itch of frustration. Instead his stomach hollows out, pitted with a shared affliction.

Tyler continues staring out, eyes wide and horrified—reminded of and once again utterly consumed by his catastrophic misjudgement. Josh truly doubts, had the police not shown up when they did, that Keons would have gone through with it. Whatever oscillation he was caught in that night, with his finger poised over the trigger, Josh is nearly certain that mercy would have won either way. But he knows that won’t soothe Tyler. Nothing he could say right now would bring him any semblance of peace. All he can do, really, is sit here with him as the sun stores itself away and the sky bleeds blue. 

And he’ll do it as long as Tyler will have him.