blitzkreig blitz | paxos

[gamemaker kelsier]

p a x t o n .

"Maybe won't you take it back
Say you were tryna make me laugh
And nothing has to change today"

Smoke curled up above his head in odd little wisps only to be called out the window by a brewing storm.

Pax lay with his legs propped up against the wall and his back on the mattress of the bed in his apartment. The weak afternoon sun made patches on the white sheets beneath him and the scuffed-up wooden floor. It was quiet for once as if the world outside was holding its breath; everyone was keeping their heads down.

He took a slow drag of the cigarette before laying his arm back down over the edge of the bed, always careful to keep the ember away from the quilt. It should have been a peaceful moment and it was technically, he hadn't been so well rested in awhile. The gang had insisted on lying low along with the new curfew and so Pax and Amos had found themselves confined to their little apartment only three days after Pax had kissed Amos in that alley.

They still hadn't spoken about that, shit.

It wasn't like he couldn't feel Amos drilling holes in his head every second of the day with his glare but Paxton had always been good at ignoring personal issues until they festered into something rotten and overflowed within, causing permanent damage and this whole situation hadn't taught him anything.

They'd both get over it in a day or two anyway, it was just weird because Paxton had kissed him which was a weird thing to do when you were friends but Amos had yet to leave and so it would all be fine and besides, they really were just friends.

And it wasn't like they technically had to be inside all day but Tank had demanded everyone stay in for at least a day or two in case anyone tried to point the finger at the gang for the explosions in Eight. Pax kind of wondered how his karma continued to be so fucking good that this would all happen a day after kissing Amos but hey, what the hell.

He sighed and flicked ash into the bowl beside him on the bed, fingers brushing on something rubber. Oh. Pax rested the cigarette between his lips and then pinched his fingers together to pick up the little rubber band. It was a good one, pre-stretched for the perfect shot. Pax tipped his head back innocently to mark his target and then settled back to let the rubber band fly towards Amos with a satisfying twang.

Wasn't the first time shooting his shot.

[tick 12a / calla]

A    M    O    S

This curfew is bullshit. Or, inconvenient, maybe. Because I know I'd be out there distracting myself if I didn't think I'd get shot first.

I'd probably even be staying with someone else if the guys weren't all so fucking paranoid. Or I at least wouldn't be here, curled up in an armchair staring at the same paragraph of some beat-up old artillery index and trying not to notice the curls of smoke coming from the bed.

And it's been three days, seventy-two whole hours since the incident, and Pax hasn't said a single thing about it.

There's been about a dozen different times where I almost brought it up myself. There's been about two dozen different times where I thought about just shaking him or screaming at him because I've waited six years too long to have him just ignore us like this.

Except I'd make it halfway across the room before I remembered how cold it had been walking home that night, three feet apart when we were usually shoulder to shoulder. I remembered slipping out of the apartment by myself the morning after, heading back to drop off my ruined jacket, and I couldn't help but look over my shoulder to see if he was following.

(He wasn't.)

And every time I caught his eye, I'd think of saying something, but then the silence would shift and he'd turn away and all the what-ifs started to fit together again like puzzle pieces.

What if he said it was just a joke? What if he was just one wrong word away from taking off and leaving me here and we both know that I wouldn't be able to find him even if I wanted to.

I don't know what I'd do if I woke up one morning and he was gone.

Because he really does know the streets better than I do. He's had half a decade of practice scouring them. I've only ever ran blindly from my problems. I was used to picking a direction and waiting for him to catch up.

I'd never been afraid of getting lost because I knew he'd always be a step behind me.

But now he holds his cigarette between his lips and I'm so suddenly jarred by the memory of his mouth on mine, because sometimes I swear I can still taste the smoke and the gunpowder that sticks to him like sunlight and in the approximately five seconds I take to stare at the pages in front of me, trying to think about literally anything else, something hits the side of my head.

I blink once, and then twice, then look at the floor where the something fell. It takes a minute to process that Pax just flung a fucking rubber band at me. And I don't really know why it pisses me off so much, but it does. Maybe it's because he can't even bother to tell me why he kissed me, but he can still joke around and act like everything's okay when it obviously isn't.

I leave the band on the ground and try to look unimpressed.

If things were different, or maybe if we were different, I'd fling it back at him and take the cigarette from his mouth while he was distracted. I'd kiss him while I reached around to put it out behind his back, and I'd tease him about how the smoke would stain his teeth and ruin his pretty face. He'd whine about wasting a dart even though he knew how much I hated the smell of them. Why? I'd ask him, Do you like them more than you like me? and he'd smile and put his arms around me, laugh through his nicotine cloud and say Of course not.

Of course not.

"Put that out," I tell him instead, "It's disgusting."

I turn back to the ever-intriguing history of Nine's arms manufacturers and tell myself that it's just his health I'm worried about, "Your lungs will thank me later."

[gamemaker kelsier]

p a x t o n .

"Maybe won't you take it back
Say you were tryna make me laugh
And nothing has to change today"

"Put that out, it's disgusting."

Maybe he'd been waiting for that small piece of attention, for Amos to break the silence he was usually so fond of filling up with endless babble so that Pax didn't have to shoot him with a rubber band. He did as he was told anyway and pressed the end of the cigarette into the ash bowl beside his head. Amos was one of three people on the planet who could get away with telling him what to do and Pax was pretty sure Amos didn't realize just how much he was curled around Amos' little finger.

He'd never really been able to handle himself around Amos, despite all the appearances he was so good at propping up. Paxton couldn't remember the first time he noticed how soft Amos' hand was. He'd held it so many times in his own as they ran through Nine's allies. He could only remember the thought of it keeping him up at night, when Amos' hand was curled up loosely on the pillow beside his face.

Long digits on the back of his neck, holding him close in a dark alley, they'd been rough then but not in a bad way.

He wondered how long Amos would be mad at him for this time, how much space he had to give his best friend before things finally went back to normal. Then again, maybe they wouldn't, Maybe Amos would finally decide that he was done with his bullshit and Paxton would wake up one day to an empty apartment.

The idea of that was terrifying, only because he didn't know how he'd respond. An empty apartment just sounded lonely. One toothbrush, only half the amount of groceries and just Pax' shoes at the door made something twist inside of him at just the thought of it.

It was his own fault.

That kiss held too much weight to be ignored forever but every time that Pax opened his mouth to bring it up, he felt something else slip out instead, inane shit about the weather or how they were almost out of eggs. He saw the disappointment on Amos' face every single time and he wished that he was a different person, that he could stop making up excuses for his own cowardice but he felt like he was stuck. He had no idea what Amos was thinking.

What if he poured his heart out to his best friend and Amos hated him for it.

Paxton didn't even really know what he wanted to say to him, his head had been empty for three days as he'd tried to sort out what he was feeling. That kiss had come out of fucking nowhere but despite everything he didn't regret it. But how was he supposed to tell Amos that kiss was the best one he'd ever had and not make it weird between them. The situation felt impossible like he'd be losing Amos either way.

He needed a drink.

Pax rolled off the bed and landed on his knees with a soft thud. He was tired of the stupid curfew and of being stuck inside with Amos when he was in a mood. They both could use some loosening up. He stretched slowly and felt his back crack as he pushed the air up over his head and then did a small shake to ease some tension out.

Amos was focused on an old ammunitions textbook that Pax had mainly bought to prop up the coffee table and didn't seem to be moving with him. That was just another thing that was off, the two of them had always moved in tandem and it was a rare thing that Pax actually had to get his attention. There was a reason they were always partnered for missions, they always showed up everywhere together anyway.

He grabbed his jacket off the hook by the door and slipped his feet into his shoes. Amos still didn't move and Pax felt something weird shift inside him, an odd sort of panic that he hadn't felt before around Amos. He didn't even know what to name it.

"You coming?" he asked, a hand on the zipper of his jacket.

Uncertainty.

[tick 12a / calla]

A    M    O    S

Pax reaches over to put his cigarette out and somehow it just makes me angrier. Because he doesn't even say anything. He doesn't fight it or tease me or complain, he just does it.

The past three days have felt like three weeks and I don't know how much longer we can keep this up. I'm close - I'm so fucking close to just shoving us both in the hall closet and jamming a screwdriver between the hinges so he'll have to talk to me, and then at least if it's dark in there I won't have to see the look on his face when he tries to let me down easy.

Then at least he won't have to see the look on my face.

And I don't know why I can't just do it. I've always been reckless but not brave, stupid but not an idiot. I've always been the deadweight and maybe I was scared that if I fucked up, or if Pax ever figured that out, if he decided that he didn't need me anymore, I'd suddenly lose everything.

Because that's what he is - everything. From the first time he showed me the streets of Nine, exasperated when I kept wandering off because I'd never seen the district's underbelly before, to now, when he put out that fucking cigarette and didn't say a damn thing about it.

The bed rustles and I can suddenly see the shape of him move in my peripheral. He stretches long in the dying light and his shirt rides up and I grip my book a little tighter.

I try not to track him, try not to watch and wait and sit on the edge of my seat, but I can't help it. Because he's suddenly slipping his shoes on and putting his jacket on and it hits me so suddenly, so sharply, that he's leaving.

He’s probably going out to get laid, to get the taste of me cleaned from his mouth and the thought makes something burn in my gut. There's something acidic on my tongue, bitter, the image of him in someone else's arms and someone else in his arms rising in my head and when I try to beat it back down it just comes back stronger.

Maybe he’ll finally go out on his own and meet someone new, someone capable, and realize how much better his life is without me trailing two steps behind.

"You coming?" He asks, and I want to scream.

I want to laugh and cry and throw this stupid fucking book across the room because he's still avoiding it.

"No." And I really wish I could shut up for once, "I want to finish this." It's not like I could ever lie to Pax anyways, but this one is so bad, I know it is, and I can't even look at him because he'll see right through it and he'll see that the same page has been open on my lap for over twenty minutes.

He'll see something I don't want him to see. Something I don't want him to see. I watch his hands fiddle and when he turns back to me I look away, back down into my lap because I'm selfish and if I meet his eyes right now I might break.

I choke over the breath in my throat and try not to imagine him under the lights of a bar, I try not to imagine him carefree and laughing with some girl on his left and a drink on his right.

"Have fun."

[gamemaker kelsier]

p a x t o n .

"Maybe won't you take it back
Say you were tryna make me laugh
And nothing has to change today"

His zipper wasn't enough to keep his hands from shaking a little bit at the acid in Amos' voice. Normally he'd say something back, maybe like, 'Hey, I know Adroxis Ammunitions is your absolute favourite but no one's that slow a reader'. Paxton hadn't heard the page turn in the whole half-hour he'd been holding it.

Amos wasn't really reading the old book, they both knew that. It was a prop, in the same way how Pax used it to hold the table up. He knew that he probably shouldn't go, that he should say something. The air in the apartment was trying to choke him though, even with the window down it wasn't enough. He'd never noticed the size of the place before but it felt as if the walls were closing in on him.

He needed to go out but he didn't want to go without Amos. In the end, nothing was fun without him.

Even if he did go out, he'd probably just worry about him the whole time anyway. Still, he knew that tone and exactly how much anger was laced behind it. There was no talking to Amos when he was like that, just talking near him and Pax hoping to god that he was listening.

And maybe Pax was a little bit angry too.

Because Amos hadn't brought it up either and for all the years they spent together, Pax still couldn't read his mind, despite years of trying to. How was he supposed to know what his best friend was thinking about now that Pax had crossed a line he'd never even glanced at before?

Maybe Amos didn't want to come because he wanted to go out and fuck someone else, makeout a little to get the taste of his best friend's mouth off of his.

Pax's hand curled around his zipper so tightly that he could feel the little metal ridge digging into the palm of his hand. He wished so much that he could be enough for him.

"Yeah, cool," he muttered and pulled on a baseball cap, "Catch you later then."

He pulled the door open and waited for a breathe, fingers ghosting over the doorframe briefly, waiting for Amos to change his mind. But the moment grew old and he didn't say anything.

So Pax left.

[tick 12a / calla]

A    M    O    S

I don't know how long I sit there after the door closes. I don't really know how long it takes me to realize that the sun has gone down and the room is dark and I'm still staring at one of the little scuff marks on the floorboards but my eyes have gone unfocused because I'm looking but I'm not really looking.

I guess I never realized how quiet the place is without Pax puttering around. The room feels a lot bigger when he's not here taking up half of it and I'm suddenly overcome with a suffocating kind of quiet. I guess that's why I always used to run my mouth, just spat out idle chatter that fit into the gaps between us because it was better than nothing and silence had always made my skin crawl.

I pick up the rubber band on the floor and throw it on the table, start pacing the room because I feel weird. I feel out of sync and foreign and like none of this is right. Maybe I thought he would've tried harder, or that he would've stayed in when I wouldn't go with him, but he just gave up and left. Because he always saw right through me, even when I thought he wasn't looking. And now he's gone.

He's gone, probably out with the guys somewhere, and he'll meet someone new and then he'll eventually come back and tell me that I've been his charity chase for too long and it's about time I moved out. It's just like back in that alley, when it had happened, when he'd turned around and walked away and I had to prepare myself for being left behind for the first time.

If I died tonight he wouldn't even know because he left me here by myself and it doesn't even really matter if he was here or not when it happened because he probably wouldn't care anyways

I think about the way his name is carved into the bones of my ribcage and ignore the way I've been burning a hole into the rug.

I go through the routine instead - close the curtains, lock the door, shut off the lights. If Pax wants to stay out all night that's fine. I'll wake up on my own even if he doesn't. I don't care. In fact, I'll finally get the bed to myself. Because I always told him that it was too small for the both of us, complained about it for months on end and always made him move over, but we just never had the time to go get a new one

I grab one of Pax's old shirts, soft and worn and familiar, pulling it on because mine are all dirty and we haven't gone down to do laundry yet this week. That's all. I let the smell of smoke and cedarwood wrap around me and fall face first into the bed, determined to fall asleep and forget about whatever the fuck it is that's going on in my chest. I don't need this - I don't need him.

But I pull the blankets around me and the bed suddenly feels too big. It feels like a war zone, or an open field, and there's no cover so I just lie there out in the open on edge. The air feels hollow and stale and every muscle in my body feels tense while I stare at the wall through the dark.

I watch the shadows make shapes and try not to think about what he's out there doing right now.

There's a sound in the quiet then, maybe just because I'm listening for it, but there's a rattling at the front door that makes me shoot up and I can feel my heart rate ramp up. I know that if it was Pax at the door he would've just come in. He has a key, and he's not stupid enough to leave without it. I shove away the traitorous little part of me that hopes it's him anyways, because if it isn't-

There's a gun in the bedside table, on the other side, his side, but there's a baseball bat tucked under my half of the bed. It's one of those metal ones, a joke gift because Pax and I both knew that I couldn't be trusted with a gun. He always said I'd accidentally shoot one of us before I even got close to shooting an intruder.

But I roll out of bed and grab the bat, feel the chill of the ground as I creep to the door. And when I get to the little window beside the doorframe and pull back the curtain slightly it takes me about five seconds to register who it is. I let out a breath, half-relieved half-annoyed because it's just Pax. Of course it's just Pax. It's just that idiot, my idiot, sitting against our front door.

I sigh and move for the locks, turning the deadbolt and the latch and moving the chain because apparently being in a gang makes you paranoid about shit like that. I wrench the door open, ready to give him piece of my mind because it's late and my head still hurts from thinking too hard about what he was out doing, but he just tumbles backwards, clumsily lands on my feet and I blink down at him in surprise.

He's got this big doofy look on his face but I notice the flush on his face first, the red of his face glowing under the streetlights and it make something inside me churn because I was right. He was out drinking and probably having the time of his life while I was stuck here worrying and bored and half out of my mind.

"Are you drunk?" I ask him, even though I already know the answer, "You idiot, where have you been-"

But then I notice something small and furry tucked into his jacket and this great big sinking feeling comes over me.

"What the hell is that."

[gamemaker kelsier]

p a x t o n .

"Maybe won't you take it back
Say you were tryna make me laugh
And nothing has to change today"

It was weird to walk out of their small apartment alone, to clatter down the steps that ran along the outside of the building and hit pavement without the familiar sound of Amos following him. Pax didn't turn back though, not until he was the furthest he could be without losing sight of home. He stopped on the corner of the street and looked back, eyes on the still open window, the curtains moving slowly in the wind.

Amos wasn't leaning out of them, yelling for him to wait up, he wasn't even at the window. Paxton kept on walking, turning the collar of his jacket up as he did so. No one would look twice at him anyway, it was strange for him to be without Amos, they were always together.

He didn't know where he was going at first. There was just a crumbling inside of him brought on by the way that his heart felt as if it had been replaced with a sheet of paper that someone had folded into the shape of one. It made sense that he was in pain, a paper heart couldn't be expected to work as well as one made of flesh and blood. He walked until he wasn't certain of where he was.

Pax knew Nine well, better than most probably. It wasn't hard for him to have explored every inch of it, he hadn't had a curfew since his father had died. The gang cared of course, but not enough to force him to listen to a thing they said. When he was sad, walking was easier than talking to someone. Amos was the person he would have spoken to anyway.

He slid down a quiet alley and knocked on an old metal door three times. There was a beer in his hand a few moments later, a clap on his shoulder from another gang member, someone asked, "Amos not feeling well?"

Downed the beer in minutes, wanted something stronger so he went for whisky next, two fingers. Just one big ice cube cold against his lips made him think about Amos still, about how his lips had been so warm. So Paxton laughed and slung an arm around Trent and challenged him to a game of darts. Someone lit a cigarette up so Pax did too and held it between his lips as he aimed at the target.

Then another beer, or two maybe. Trent left, said curfew was coming but Paxton stayed. He sat at the bar and ordered two tequila shots. Maggie sat down beside him, "One of those for me?" she asked and batted her eyes. Pax just shook his head and downed them both, one after another. Five minutes later he was sitting with Cecilia in a back corner having a heated discussion but Pax kept on losing the plot.

It was his turn to argue but he couldn't remember what they were talking about. "Kid, you ok?" Cecilia asked, motherly concern etched all over her face.

"Yeah, yeah, just need a water," he said and left her there but when he got back to the bar he forgot about that and ordered another whisky instead. If Amos was there, maybe he'd have taken the whisky glass while Pax wasn't looking and switched it out for water but he wasn't and dammit, he was still thinking about him. He dropped the glass on the counter and it broke, glass shattering and skidding across the wooden top slowly.

Or maybe it was fast.

"Okay kid, get your ass home," Tank said and guided Paxton over to the door, "You've had more than enough."

Suddenly he was outside and it was quiet and there were stars above him and a breeze pushing through. He put a hand on the wall, red brick and rough and waited for the ground to steady a little bit but it didn't, not really.

He was probably going to be sick eventually but not at the moment. A muted blanket of quiet settled over him and Paxton shut his eyes, listening carefully for his little paper heartbeat.

It crinkled quietly with each breath, or maybe that was just his lungs, bent out of shape from smoking cigarettes mare often than he should. He started walking again, hand running along the wall as he did so. He knew he was supposed to be careful, that Peacekeepers were just waiting to catch anyone out after curfew, but Pax carried a knife and he wasn't afraid to die.

He never really had been.

Normally he'd be looking for a fight anyway, pour enough alcohol into Paxton and instead of losing his inhibitions, he was just punching someone in the face. The anger he'd felt before was gone though, or maybe still there but just weighed down.

Suddenly all he wanted to do was be at home in bed with Amos. Pax would probably be kicked onto the couch for the night, Amos silent and cuddling that stupid ammunitions book. He didn't want things to be as they were between them now but he also didn't want to go back to before the kiss, not really for all his insisting.

He just wanted Amos to look him in the eye again. Maybe the best way to do that was to be honest, to just get all of his feelings out so they could start to heal past it. Pax wasn't a talker though, he never had been.

Maybe for Amos he could be.

"..."

His head turns, ear caught on a soft sound coming from one of the trash cans on his walk home. There're a couple of bags tied up beside a silver can, not enough room inside to hold all of them. He gazes for a moment, pretty sure that it's just a raccoon, when he sees one of the bags, smaller than the rest and knotted at the top, wiggle.

It wasn't his business.

He knelt down in front of the bag anyway, knees slowly going wet in the gutter and pulled his switchblade out. He lay a hand down on the wiggling lump and dug his blade into the knot carefully.

"Ah," he said softly as a furry little head slowly poked out of the black bag, "Shit, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry." A tiny kitten crawled from the plastic, fur slick with sweat. It mewed quietly, tail between its legs. Paxton put the knife away and held a hand out, fingers extended in a relaxed way for the little cat to sniff. "Who did this to you, little guy?" he whispered, "Who do I gotta kill, hmm?"

Paxton scooped the kitten up carefully and slipped him into his jacket against his chest. He zipped up just enough for it to poke its little head out for air. He didn't really know what he was doing, just that he couldn't leave the poor thing there. Amos would know what to do probably.

When they were almost home, it started purring and Pax felt the vibration against his chest. His head was empty, the purring calming him somehow after days of anxiety. He'd never really thought much about animals. He liked them enough but he'd never considered getting one. Dogs required a lot of care and cats seemed like assholes but he'd done a pretty good job of taking care of Amos. A cat couldn't be much harder.

He took the stairs slowly, they were waving quite a bit more than usual and there was a burn in the back of his throat from the whisky and cigarettes. Pax was vaguely aware of the fact that he smelled like a bar.

It was late, he knew that, but he didn't know how late. The lights were all off, Amos wasn't home or he was but asleep and it all seemed like a lot to figure out, so he didn't. Pax settled down, back against the front door and scratched gently under the kitten's chin. It had large blue eyes which shut as Paxton scratched and he wondered how anyone could think to leave a kitten like that.

How could anyone do something so cruel?

Pax shut his eyes, drink making him sleepy. He would have just stayed there all night too if he hadn't suddenly lost the support behind his back. Pax fell back unceremoniously and cupped a hand around the lump in his jacket even as he felt its tiny claws dig in for support. He blinked slowly, a smile spreading across his face at the sight of Amos standing above him in one of his old t-shirts, baseball bat in hand.

"Yeah!" he said and a chuckle climbed out from between his lips to jump into the air between them, "Yeah dude, I'm fucked, like.... really fucked... like worse than New Years!"

That was funny, he laughed again.

"Mmm this? I found her!" he said proudly and pulled the little cat out of his jacket by the scruff of her neck. Her legs stuck out stiffly and she mewed loudly before clawing and biting at his arm. "Found her on my way home, hey I gotta talk to you," he said in one breath.

Pax tucked the cat back into his jacket and rolled over unsteadily onto his knees. He crawled into the apartment, shoving past Amos' legs and the baseball bat. "Don't worry, I didn't even fight anyone," he said and climbed to his feet. The room swam a little and somehow Paxton felt like he was even drunker than before, as if all the alcohol inside of him was sloshing around and tunnelling right into his head.

"We got tuna?" he asked and pulled open a few cupboard doors without really looking into them, "Hey can we talk?"

[tick 12a / calla]

A    M    O    S

It's a kitten.

He walked out on me and stayed out past curfew and didn't come back until dark because of a kitten.

His eyes are still unfocused though, and I wonder if he found it before or after that came into play. He must have a thing for picking up strays, and as I watch the way the little thing nestles into his chest and glares up at me with those beady little eyes I resolutely tell myself that I am not jealous of a cat.

Absolutely not.

I listen to him laugh and watch the breeze brush the hair from his forehead and try to ignore the little thing breaking inside of me instead.

He says New Years and I cringe without realizing it. Because I remember that party, and I remember those drinks and that music and the way that Pax had started a stupid argument with Trent and they ended up breaking half of the furniture in the bar that night. By the time someone had called me over to try and calm Pax down he was already lying on the floor with Trent, laughing away together in the heap that used to be the table.

Our roles always seem to reverse when liquor gets involved; then he's the one out picking fights and I'm the one trailing behind trying to stop them, apologizing to whoever he decided looked his way wrong and then taking him home and patching him up.

But he's always been like that. A sort of adrenaline seeker. He doesn't stay mad long, not really, and he's so so good deep down. If he hadn't been born here, I know he could've done anything. He could've had everything and been anyone, been with anyone, and I've spent the last six years trying to live with the fact that it was me he got stuck with.

Maybe that's why I keep running. Because then when he follows, I know it's because he wants to, because he chooses to. And maybe it is pity, or some misplaced sense of responsibility that he has for me but that's still something.

It still makes him stay.

It's not like I'm glad he's home now - I'm still mad at him. But it's dangerous out there, especially with the curfew and all, and I know Pax can take care of himself, I know.

But just because he can doesn't mean he always does.

"Found her on my way home, hey I gotta talk to you," he says way too fast and in the time I take to decide which half I actually want to focus on he's already up and moving. So I watch him pull himself to his feet and prepare myself to try and catch him when he falls. He just tips over a little, eventually makes his past me and I'm so busy watching him trip over his feet that I almost forget the thing in his jacket.

"No no no, don't bring it inside, shit Pax, it's probably got rabies." Put he's already swaying his way into the kitchen and throwing the cupboards open.

"There's no tuna," I tell him slowly. "You hate tuna."

And we were supposed to go get groceries yesterday, I don't say, but you wouldn't even talk to me.

If this was yesterday, or the day before, it would be different. But it's been three whole days since we kissed and that means I've waited nearly three days too long for an explanation. Now that he's here all my frustration seems to leave me. I just feel empty instead, something kind of like sadness but I know I'm not sad. I guess I had worked myself up, he made me work myself up, and now I'm just tired.

I'm just tired, that's all.

"You wanna talk now?" I squint at him and then at the clock on the wall, "Pax, it's past midnight."

I move towards him and then remember that I'm still holding the bat, so I prop it up against the wall and take him by the shoulders, steering him away from the sharp corners of the counter and dutifully ignoring the fact that this is the first contact we've had in the past handful of days. I nudge him towards the couch and make sure he sits down, going for his jacket and recoiling when the cat in it fucking hisses at me.

Stupid thing.

"C'mon shoes off." And I point at the ball of fur he's still cradling, feel my eyes water from the alcohol practically wafting off of him, "That's not touching the bed and neither are you."

I'll let him keep the mangy runt for the night, because with the way he's been looking at it I don't think I could take it away if I tried. He'll come to his senses in the morning though, just like he always does, and then he'll set it loose and I won't have to worry about it anymore.

I think that's been my favourite lie throughout all of this - that everything will be fixed come morning. Because I swear I've used it every night since we were in that alley, and every morning I still wake up feeling the same. Every morning I still feel hollow.

"Just stay there okay? I'll get you a blanket."

[gamemaker kelsier]

p a x t o n .

"Can you tell me a secret
Can you tell me what's wrong with me
I know I should be angry
But I can barely feel a fucking thing"

His words felt too fast and then garbled, like a river filled with too many stones, the meaning leaked out. He moved through the kitchen and dug through the cupboards, smile lukewarm but still beating.

When he asked for a can of tuna it was just repetition. Hey I want to talk to you, I want to talk, I want to talk, I want to tal-

The kitten probably just wanted milk anyway. It still purred against his chest, body so small and malnourished that the whole thing vibrated with it. Pax's hand was still cupped around its small form within his jacket and he'd already named it in his head. He didn't say it out loud though, Pax knew he was going to have to warm Amos up to the idea of a cat in the apartment; baby steps.

"Nooo, Amos," he whined as the other boy started to steer him across the apartment, "Please not the couch I hate it." He did his best to dig his heels in but wooden floors never led to much purchase and he stumbled forward all the same. Amos was fond of making him sleep on the couch and Pax could sleep anywhere, so it was alright. Even though he could though it wasn't the same, he didn't wake up rested. He felt sore and his mood was always bad after sleeping alone on the couch.

And it was too cold at night, even in summer.

"But I wanna talk now," he said too quietly and let Amos help him get his shoes off. He kicked them away carefully and then shrugged out of his jacket, not letting go of the little kitten. The sweat had dried a little bit and it was softer than he thought it'd be. It was comforting to run his thumb over its tiny head as Amos didn't make eye contact with him. "I'll get tuna in the morning," Pax said louder.

He didn't know if he'd be able to talk in the morning, if he'd be able to say all the things he wanted to. Paxton watched Amos walk away from him to go and get a blanket. His old t-shirt didn't fit him quite right, it was a size too big for him and his shoulder was almost fully showing. His hair was slightly mussed from laying down, the seam from the duvet had embedded its pattern into the skin of his calf.

Pax just wanted to lay beside him on the bed and stare at Amos' back until he was too tired to stay awake, his eyes too heavy to stay open. Then he wanted to wake up in the morning and do all of it again.

He knew the words that he wanted to say to him but when Amos came back with the blanket, all he could muster was, "That's my shirt, y'know?" He slid down on the couch and the little kitten reorganized itself into the crook of his arm. "You can wear it though, you wear it really good, looks better on you"

And he knew that he had to keep Amos talking because if he didn't, Amos would walk away from him and go lie on the bed. The bed might as well have been one hundred miles away and Pax' world was already spinning, he wasn't sure he could make it there. He didn't want to be alone though, not that night, there was something wrong with him, he felt wrong.

Like there was a hole inside of him that he was finally able to see and everything important had fallen out of it.

"I'm gonna name the cat Tuna," he said, "...unless it doesn't like tuna, then... I dunno."

His hands found the hem of the t-shirt and Pax grabbed it with both, holding his best friend in place.

Please don't go.

He wanted to say it.

He was a coward.

[tick 12a / calla]

A    M    O    S

We have a special couch blanket folded somewhere in the linen closet. It's this dark green knitted thing that Mrs. Harris down the street gave us back when we first moved in. I'd never thought it was weird that we shared a bed until about a week after, when I saw her on the way to the grocer and she asked how we liked the blanket, if it was warm enough for the both of us. I told her it was, and I thanked her again because I still thought that it was sort of an odd gift to give a stranger. She patted my cheek and said it was nice to see such young families moving into the neighbourhood.

I told Pax to sleep on the couch that night, said that I thought I might've caught some kind of bug when I was in the square and he didn't fight it because he never did. He knew that I was just like that sometimes. But I remember he took the blanket from the bed and used it on the couch that night, and then in the morning he draped it over the back of the couch and everything went back to normal. It ended up back in the closet and we never really talked about it.

But it became the couch blanket eventually, I don't know how, and it was the one I threw over him when he fell asleep there and it was the one he grabbed when I kicked him out of the bedroom.

"I'll get tuna in the morning," I hear him say as I dig through the linen closet and I snort at the way he's so certain.

"I don't think you're gonna wanna do much of anything in the morning." And I know that means tomorrow he'll squint up at me with messy bedhead and a splitting headache and I'll be the one caving, pulling my shoes on and going out to find something for the stupid cat to eat.

I find the blanket and bring it back to him, just in time for him to notice my shirt and maybe that's when I notice it too because putting it on was just sort of a habit.

"Shut up." I mutter and drape the blanket over him, let it fall over his head so he can't see the way my face gets all hot. But he brings the dumb cat back out and I ignore how smug it looks. Tuna, he says he's going to name it. Like we're going to keep it.

I scoff.

"You'll get attached if you name it." I watch him hold the kitten so gently and try not to follow the way his hands cradle its little body in the dying light. I think about the way he had pulled me by the wrist through alleys when we were kids and how it's been a full three days since he last touched me. He grabs the hem of my shirt, his shirt, and then the room seems to get quieter, and I feel like I have to get quieter with it.

"You should know that." I whisper to him, sigh deep in my chest and sit in front of the couch.

It's just until he falls asleep. Just so I can make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit or something stupid like that.

Because he's an idiot but I guess he's my idiot.

I rest my head on the arm of the couch and watch his eyes focus and un-focus and then refocus again, "Sleep," I tell him, ignoring the way that we're so close I can practically feel the waves of ethanol coming off of him, "We can talk in the morning."

Even though I know we won't. Even though I know that in the morning we'll go back to sitting on opposite ends of the couch and then he'll get up and leave again and I'll be stuck here all on my own, waiting and watching by the window for him to come back.

I guess I didn't know watching someone walk away could hurt so much.

But I haven't seen him like this, this drunk, for a long time. I don't really know what I'm doing but I reach out and brush his hair away from his forehead, feel the way my fingers shake just slightly against his skin. There's something heavy in the air and I wonder if he'll even remember any of this tomorrow.

"You drive me crazy, you know." I say quietly, half because I know he's out of it and half because he's probably half asleep already. It feels like something I shouldn't be saying, it feels like some secret that I shouldn't even be letting out in the dark space between us.

There's a part of me that knows what this sinking swooping feeling in my stomach is, the same feeling from when he kissed me in that alley. There's an even bigger part of me that beats it down and waits for a sign that'll never come because I can't tell him, I can't lose him, I can't, even if it means dealing with this for the rest of my life.

I close my eyes and turn my face into the couch and try not to think about the way I know I look at him when he's turned away. I can't really breathe like this but it's ok because I'm trying not to think about how different my life would be if I'd never met him and the way the colours burst behind my eyelids helps with that.

"You're so clueless sometimes." I tell him all muffled and convince myself that he's the one I'm angry with.

[gamemaker kelsier]

p a x t o n .

"Can you tell me a secret
Can you tell me what's wrong with me
I know I should be angry
But I can barely feel a fucking thing"

The couch blanket was too heavy, he liked the blanket on the bed better. He liked to lay beside the window and let the breeze from outside in so that he'd have more reason to burrow down deeper under the covers and up against Amos. The couch blanket was knitted by the neighbor up the street, Mrs. Harris or something. The wool made his skin itch slightly but sometimes in the winters it went on the bed as well to keep them extra warm. Paxton still didn't like the blanket.

Mainly because it meant that it was final, that he was sequestered to the couch. He sighed in defeat, an encroaching heaviness falling over him and glueing him to the couch. How much had he ended up drinking anyway? More than he had in a while. He couldn't remember why he'd done that, just that he'd felt kind of hollow so it'd seemed like a good idea at the time.

Amos hadn't been there to stop him or something, tug on his arm, tell him it was enough and drag him back home before he got too hammered. He needed Amos there always, a tether or an anchor or something.

Pax kind of felt like he was going to be sick, everything was wrong, he'd had so many intentions when he'd left the bar only an hour ago. He was going to talk to Amos about everything, tell him how he felt. He couldn't though, the words were trapped beneath the blanket, bunched up in the folds.

"I'm attached already," he muttered and shifted slightly so that the cat was tucked more under his chin. Part of him wanted to curl up beneath the wool and just shrink into the couch, disappear maybe. The comfortable haze that came with being drunk was receding, the euphoria dwindling until he was just left feeling mildly sick and wishing to be anywhere else. "I am gonna get her tuna," he said stubbornly. He would, he'd drag himself to the store if he had to.

Paxton gazed at Amos, watching as he sat beside the couch, knowing full well that as soon as he shut his eyes Amos would be back in the bed. So he resolved not to do that, just stay awake for forever so that he couldn't leave him. His eyes were heavy though and all the alcohol in his system was making it hard to keep them open. He wanted to do as he was told, just fall asleep like that with the kitten purring so loudly up against him.

"I'm afraid for the morning," he mumbled, "Cause I'm not gonna be able to say it." He snaked a hand out from under the blanket and brushed a hand against Amos' cheek lightly, the absence of him for three long days almost too much to bear. Then Amos was brushing his hair back and Paxton shut his eyes, a breath caught in his throat. "I'm sorry," he breathed.

He could feel himself fading, he hadn't even had any water and in the morning he was going to be paying for it. All of it was worth it for this though, Amos' fingers in his hair and a moment of honesty from him to accompany it.

"Can't stop thinking about that kiss."

He knew it was taboo, an unspoken thing that had happened that they were just supposed to get past. Maybe he didn't want to though, he couldn't. He'd been trying to convince himself that he just wanted things to go back to normal but he didn't want that either. Normal was just a lie anyway, a band-aid they'd placed on things years ago.

"About you."

[tick 12a / calla]

A    M    O    S

I jolt at his hand against my face, suddenly all too aware of the fact that he's still awake.

“You won’t even remember this in the morning.” I tell him, because it’s true. He’s never been able to recall the fights he starts or the property damage he’s caused or the stupid things he says after he drinks like this.

Although it’s never been quite like this before.

And say what, I almost ask him, like I don't know the telltale signs of being blindsided.

'Can't stop thinking,' he breathes into the quiet of the room, and I sigh, about to retort that all that thinking's going to rot his brain but he keeps going and I can practically feel my stomach give out the moment he does and the sofa tilts to the side when the ground goes the opposite way, all topsy turvy and I blink at him fast and then slow and then fast again, trying to catch my breathe and figure out if I heard him right.

But I did. And there it is. The thing we’ve been dancing around and ignoring for the better part of three days.

It feels like a giant pit’s just opened up in front of me and if I move even the tiniest bit I’ll stumble down into it. I'm reaching for him before I even realize it because he's always been a kind of security blanket in situations like this He's the only constant I've ever had, like an anchor that doesn't quite weigh you down more than it keeps you safe. Our fingers are entwine but our palms don’t touch and I don’t know what I’m doing, I just kind of hold him there and breathe him in.

Because this is the part where he tells me to get out. This is the part where he tells me that he hates me now, and even though he won’t remember it, I will, and I'm so selfish on the surface that I don’t think I could live with that. The fondness that was tucked away in my chest shrivels up suddenly, swirling and rattling against my ribcage.

'I’m sorry', he had said, soft like he couldn’t bear to finish the thought. I’m sorry but this is it. I’m sorry but I’m not like you. I’m sorry but I think you should go.

I'm sorry but I have to go.

Maybe he’s taken these three days to work up the courage to say it, or maybe he thought I would just take the hint and leave on my own.

I guess I’m good at that.

But he couldn’t even say it to me sober. He had to go out and get drunk and then come back to shatter whatever it is that's left between us and at least this way he doesn't have to deal with the pieces of it in the morning. And it makes something writhe in my chest. If he wants me gone he has to say it to my face, in the daylight, and that way I can look into his eyes and then I’ll know for sure. That way he'll remember the way he hurt me and he'll have to live with it just the same.

I’d always thought that, out of the two of us, he was always too slow to anger. That he took his time with it and by the time he actually got mad it was too late and I'd already taken care of whatever mess he started. It was a baseless assumption, really. Borne out of a dozen frustrated apologies and stumbles home. It was always me snapping, me shouting and then immediately caving, me lashing out and then running away. I’ve never seen him angry. Not really angry. Because his anger is a simmering thing, and he's been pissed off at me sure, but not in the way that makes the shutters shake and the stairs creak.

Stocks said he nearly shit himself when he saw Pax storm out of his meeting three days ago.

Maybe my temper is just shorter, I don’t know, some kind of short fuse that fizzles out faster than it lights.

Every summer I would lay out on the fire escape and soak up the sun rays. Sometimes it feels like all that energy seeps into me and builds up until it explodes out all at once. It's exhausting living like that. Destructive. I can feel the sunlight pulsing under my skin now and maybe it's not him I'm angry at, but he's here and he's looking at me with those sleepy knowing eyes and that's good enough.

"Stop, Paxton." His full name stings a little and I go to stand up but my legs don't move so I just keep sitting there watching him. His hand is still dumbly stuck to mine and so I pull it back and run it through my own hair just to calm down. "Just stop."

It'd be so easy to let him go on, so cruel of me to let him say what his foggy mind wants him to say. I should let him lie here and choke on his own spit because everything is his fault and he's the one being selfish, hiding his own weak will behind liquor and the night air and fuck knows what else.

But all I want to do is go curl up under the duvet and let my heart break and forget about the past week. I'm losing the person I thought was my best friend but the room smells like ethanol and it makes my sinuses burn. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he's not clueless, he's just a coward. I thought he respected me more than this - taking the easy way out and then washing his hands of us. I thought he cared more.

And just as suddenly as it came, the anger is gone, flowing out like a tide and it's just replaced by a hollow sense of something else. I didn't realize how late it was, or how early it is I guess, and the darkness outside suddenly feels too heavy. It hurts to look at Pax so I don't. He hasn't said it yet but I know that if I sit here any longer he will.

"Go to sleep." I tell him again, but all the gentleness of it is gone. "You're just tired." It's all rough edges and glass shards now, and when I get up from the hard floor my knee almost buckles, protesting at the sudden movement. But my chest aches and my head feels leaden and my eyes are getting wetter the longer I think about what it means, so I step out of his reach and turn away because if he sees me cry then he's won.

I don't remember dodging his hands and I don't remember walking to the other side of the room, away from him, but when I open my eyes again I'm just sort of lying on the bed, looking at the wall, and I'm not even under the blanket but I don't think I could even move if I wanted to. It takes me a second too long to realize I fell on Pax's pillow instead of my own and I stifle a half-sob into it. Every worry I had about where he was tonight comes crashing down, every stray thought and every lap of pacing rushing down and crushing me. I'm suddenly glad that I didn't crawl under the quilt because if I did, I doubt I'd be able to breathe from the weight of it.

I try not to listen to Pax's breathing the same way I try not to listen for my own. Unconsciously. In a futile sort of way. I know he's there, so close, because his presence is like a giant lighthouse and sometimes I feel like a little sailboat tossing and turning in the waves. But now I just feel like I've crashed hard into the rocks, lying here all broken and unmoving with all the fight forced out.

I don't know who that person is. I don't think it's me.

[gamemaker kelsier]

p a x t o n .

"Can you tell me a secret
Can you tell me what's wrong with me
I know I should be angry
But I can barely feel a fucking thing"

He'd made amos angry again and as per usual, Paxton wasn't really sure what he'd done. Sometimes he felt like he was always just making Amos mad at him and then he wondered why Amos even bothered with him. More often than not, he found himself staring up at the ceiling from the couch. It never really bothered him though, somehow he always knew that Amos would calm down and things would go back to normal between them.

It had always taken a lot for Paxton to get mad.

If you were a friend, he always managed to give the benefit of the doubt and despite being raised in a gang, he had a lot of patience. Tank told him that he used to creep him out a little, he'd just sit in the corner of his dad's office and watch people. Never really having been a man of many words, Pax had just figured that he was stupid and maybe that's why it took so much to get him mad.

Really it was just because he had something, a dark little secret that should have been squashed out of him years ago. Empathy had managed to poison him, its tendrils reaching in and entwining itself around the base of his spine to take root there. It was too easy for him to understand why, for him to accept someone's actions.

He'd always been slow to anger, like a pot left to reach a boil on low. He could simmer forever until a tipping point was reached and suddenly he was bubbling over and destroying the stovetop.

He'd been mad before, he could count on his fingers at least two times in the past year. Neither of those times had been Amos.

"Stop Paxton."

He could pick apart the disdain, the cold in Amos' voice. It lay there heavy in the air, a thick cord to wrap around his neck signifying the end of the conversation. Paxton never really argued with that tone, there'd never been much use. So he lay there, silent, hands reaching as Amos stood up and left him there.

And unfortunately, he was reminded once again how brittle he was, how easy it was to crumble in the dark when no one was looking at him. Pax felt his chest go concave, felt the ceilings of his vatican heart crumble into itself to let the night air in. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he slowly came to terms with just how hard he'd been shut down.

The cat's purring suddenly seemed way too loud, the sound of the clock on the wall ticking driving him mad. He wasn't sobering up but things did suddenly feel more clear. That wasn't supposed to have gone that way. Amos was supposed to love him back.

Maybe he couldn't read his best friend at all.

He lay there for a long moment, eyes on the ceiling and the water stain from the leak that he'd patched last spring. Then he sat up slowly and set the limp, sleeping kitten back down on the couch. Foliage grew in the cracks and crevices of the cavity in his chest. He could feel vine leaves unfurling, pathos curling around ivory bone.

"But I think I love you," he said.

[tick 12a / calla]

A    M    O    S

The expanse of the bed holds a special kind of suffocation. I feel like I'm drowning in it, the blanket tangled around my left leg and my face in Pax's pillow.

There's a part of me that knows, deep down, that this will be my last chance to lay here like this. Maybe it's weird that we've always shared a bed, at least in retrospect, but it had seemed like a no-brainer at the time. It was cold the year we moved in, and the apartment was small and there were two of us.

It just made sense.

But the more I let myself be dragged down into the mattress, the more I think I'm going to miss all that. Pax already let slip that he'd been wanting to say something for a while, can't stop thinking about it, he'd said, and I'd never wished that he'd keep his mouth shut more than I did in that moment. It just confirmed my suspicions, the ones that ate away at me at night. He's been waiting to kick me out, to bring up the subject of me leaving, but I've been too much of a pain these past few days to even let him breach the topic.

It figures.

Because it's always been Pax and Amos. Amos and Pax. One dragging down the other and I've always known that that one's been me. And here I am doing it again. He'd probably be head of this whole stupid gang if he wasn't so busy chasing after me all the time. 

So the decision to leave in the morning, to slip out before he's properly sobered up, is an easy one. It's the coward's choice, maybe, but the idea of having to confront him in the daylight sends a sharp pain through my chest. I don't know where all my bravado from an hour ago went - when I was going to march out on those streets myself and drag him back home, give him a piece of my mind and make him finally just listen because I thought maybe that he just didn't understand.

But he did.

Does.

He understands what that moment in the alley meant, he just doesn't want it.

He doesn't want me.

And suddenly I'm glad that I stopped him when I did. I'm glad that I got up and walked away and left him on his own. If I had let him keep talking he would've put those words between us and that would've made it so much more real and so much more painful and I don't think I could bear hearing him say it.

Because then I'd hear it for the rest of my life - the way his voice sounded when he broke my heart, the curl of the syllables when told me how little I meant to him. I think it'd haunt me for the rest of my life.

So I'll just go instead, on my own, and that way he doesn't have to say it and I won't have to hear it and we can just ignore anything ever happened. I'll go in the morning, as soon as the sun comes up, I'll just keep walking until I can't see the apartment anymore and then I'll walk some more. The idea soothes something sadistic in me. I've always been so fucking good at running away. And maybe it's naive of me, but I'd always thought that Pax could find every time because I let him. Because I wanted him to. But he won't this time.

I need to leave on my terms, with my dignity still in tact, without my last image of him being a door slammed in my face.

The more I think about it, the more the room spins. The room gets colder and my arms get heavier and I wonder a little if this is what it feels like for a piece of you to die. I don't know when I closed my eyes, but there are sudden sun spots everywhere, little patterns exploding in front of me that just make my head hurt worse.

Everything's foggy now, and some distant part of my brain knows it's because I'm falling asleep. Pax is still over there mumbling to the kitten, the one that's going to take my place, and I'm stuck lying here with cotton in my skull, the walls of the apartment all tumbling down around me and the dust from their collapse sticks to my skin like ash.

It's not that I thought he'd follow me when I got up, I'm just used to it, that's all.

The bed feels too big and the room feels too empty even though he's right there, but I lose awareness in little pieces, too slow to notice but too fast to count, and so I just let it happen instead.

In the morning, I promise myself again, clutching his side of the quilt before I fall asleep here for one last time. I'll go in the morning.

[gamemaker kelsier]

p a x t o n .

"Can you tell me a secret
Can you tell me what's wrong with me
I know I should be angry
But I can barely feel a fucking thing"

He sat in silence as the clock ticked on, as the cat's purring turned into snores, as the sound of Amos falling asleep filled the apartment.

He waited for a long moment for an answer but it didn't come.

That was alright, now that he'd said it, he knew the words were true. Paxton cupped his hands together in front of him as if he were trying to catch falling drops of water but really it was his heart crumbling to the floor.

"I know I do," he whispered, the sound of water dripping from the faucet in the kitchen mingling with his words. They entwined themselves downwards into the floor, words he'd felt for so long but didn't really understand.

Because it had always been Paxton and Amos, Amos and Pax. They'd done everything together for the past six years, give or take. Amos was the person that he wanted to come home to until he died. It was strangely unbearable to live without an answer despite only just having come to the conclusion.

It should have been a joyful thing to learn about himself but he only felt a little bit sick. Nausea could have just as easily come from all the drinking he'd done but it wasn't that, he knew it. He'd never really felt anxious before, never had a reason to, but he was. If Amos didn't love him back then he'd leave him.

Because it'd never be the same between them and that's all Pax had ever wanted during the last three days since he'd kissed Amos, it was for things to be just as they were.

It was strangely an unbearable thing that Amos could not love him back, it felt as if his insides were filling with water even as he could feel a weight pushing him into the couch. Pax curled his hands into fists in his lap as his eyes screwed up with tears, hot and heavy things that rolled down his cheeks silently in the dark.

It'd been so long since he'd cried he'd almost forgotten what it was like. He was still good at keeping quiet though, still so reserved.

The kitten's claws found the hem of his shirt and he jumped a little as his skin was caught in the crossfire. A hitch in his breath, he waited silently, wondering if Amos heard the little sound of surprise he'd made. There was just quiet and Pax' disappointment that he hadn't.

His head spun, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had water. Pax had hit that point in the night at the party where everyone's gone to sleep and you just want to go home, but he was home. It just didn't feel like it. So he slipped off the couch, so unsteady on his feet that he decided to just crawl across the floor instead, leaving Tuna behind.

The bed was probably off-limits but that was alright, even if it was for forever that was fine too as long as Amos didn't leave him. If he had to come home to an empty, cold apartment again it'd be too much. He'd lived alone for too long already, Pax didn't think he could handle it another time, not without becoming something else in the process.

He pulled the spare pillow out from under the bed and lay in the moonlight on the ground below Amos. It was hard but drink was enough of a cushion, he didn't mind it.

He could hear Amos sleeping, the ticking of the clock far from them.

It was kind of nice to finally have a name for the things he thought before sleep, the brewing feelings within him. As he lay there in the dark, in the safety of the apartment, with Amos right there above him, he knew he was just falling in love a little bit more.

He wasn't afraid anymore.

end.