The image before his eyes looked remarkably familiar...the face that he had been seeing for years, features that moved in a peculiar tandem with his thoughts, a mouth that sounded off to the involuntary stimulus of neurons igniting. It was a thing that was known — yet apart from him. No doubt Dr. Yves would tell him that it was normal to feel this way. No doubt this shit happened to everyone once in a while; sooner or later everyone took a glance at themselves and felt that disconnect between the I in his head and the it in the glass.

Or they could just forget about checking with the mirror altogether. Casey couldn't actually recall the first time he had noticed that everything around him seemed to have been drained of authenticity. Once in a while he tried to dredge up a memory of that moment, as though that would somehow sort him out; he thought that he had been very young, probably a kid. Whenever it had started, he figured that it was like noticing something that was true and scary and once his eyes learned to apprehend that truth, they could never unlearn it. They could just forget to see it for a while.

Okay, then maybe it wasn't the experience itself so much as it was the frequency of it, and the abnormal was merely the normal taken to extremes. Suffering from existential doubt once a month or less could only mean that you were a participant in the human condition. On a regular basis...okay, perhaps that made you unusually neurotic. But suppose that every time you peered in a mirror you wound up in a state of panic — it was not good news for your viability as a functioning human being.

If he had been in a movie or a music video, this would be the moment where he smashed the mirror and bled artistically on his parents' cream-coloured floor. Hearing that terrible sound, his lanky, action-oriented boyfriend would break the door down and find his disturbed lover bleeding — not fatally, but in a volume sufficient to be poetic. The boyfriend would then fell to the floor and cradle his lover, crying loudly but attractively, pouring words of regret and adoration.

But Casey wanted to believe that his reality was a bit less melodramatic — marginally, at least.

As he watched, his features stretched and reformed into a toothy imitation of a smile then immediately flattened, returning to their previous contours. "I'm here," he whispered, watching his mouth make those shapes. "I'm here...I'm..."

I'm standing in the bathroom working myself into a dither when I just came in here to take a piss.

He averted his eyes from the mirror and washed his hands with the brown sugar and vanilla hand soap that his mother currently preferred — yes, the olfactory nerves worked, and the soap smelled good. He dried his hands on red and green festive towels that were thick and soft. He could feel that too, and why wonder about it, why think that the messages he processed in his brain were no real proof —

"Oh, just fucking stop it," he told himself.

He returned to his room — not his old bedroom, Zeke would be sleeping there tonight now that Aunt Clarissa and Gram were gone — but the extra room that he was sharing with Sasha, the one where he and the iron had once gotten to be on very close terms. He'd certainly felt that; it was a bright, biting memory etched out of a mash of sensations and moments from late August. It was kind of funny, but touching too, how his dad had been in such a big hurry to remove the ironing board when he and Sasha first arrived, like his dad didn't want him to be traumatized by the presence of the iron or that pile of wrinkled clothing that was fated to become its next string of victims.

Or maybe he was just concerned that Casey might burn himself again; that was much more likely. Both of Casey's parents had been attentive to the point of smothering during this visit. They had even asked Casey's permission before they went to the Day After Christmas Open House at the Johnsons' just down the street, the same party that they had attended every single year since time immemorial. He'd been very careful not to sound too eager when he told them it was okay. It was nice that they wanted to spend time with him this holiday and he wouldn't mind their company at all if they weren't radiating that constant, fitful worry. He already had Sasha drowning him in solicitude and the cumulative effect of all that concern — plus the contributions of his aunt and his grandmother over the past few days — was to put Casey in a not-so- constructive frame of mind. He occasionally wondered, half-seriously, if he should do something to give their anxiety a really solid rationale.

With his parents out of the house and nothing on his social agenda, Casey wondered if this might be the ideal time to delve into that collection of Orson Welles' films — except that right now Sasha and Zeke were in the rec room and they were very likely debating The Casey Situation under the camouflage of the Emeril Holiday Marathon, or whatever was on...Casey could hear the television chattering in the basement, not loud enough that he could make out the program but well enough to be sure that it was doing a fine job of obscuring his friends' voices.

They must have started their discussion while Casey was out with his parents earlier, accompanying Aunt Clarissa and Gram to their train; when the Connors returned, Sasha and Zeke had made a brief, furtive appearance in the front hallway and then quickly subsided once again to the basement. If and when they required Casey's participation, he expected they'd come looking for him.

So he might as well catch up on some journalling. He'd promised Yves that he'd continue it while he was away, and he'd like to think that he was capable of keeping at least one promise.

The spiral bound, red-covered journal — his second now, the first one had been filled in early December — was on the floor next to his side of the bed, slipped halfway beneath. Casey draped himself across the bed, hanging briefly over the side to retrieve it, then rolled up into a cross-legged position. He opened it at random and, as often happened, was lured into re-reading his previous entries for a few minutes.

December 20th

Zeke didn't phone last night. Sasha's making like it's probably nothing but something has to be wrong, Zeke always phones and I can tell Sasha's lying. Oh, I can just hear Yves now. "You don't know what Zeke is thinking so there's no point in assuming the worst, you're making your own stress. And even if it turned out to be what you fear, you would live through it. It may seem impossible but you can do it, you won't die from being alone or being afraid, your heart will keep beating, you'll keep breathing and you WILL be fine."

Fuck you fuck you fuck you. FUCK. YOU. Just suppose for a second that it's possible to die from being alone, that it could hurt so much that your heart actually stops. Just consider it, how about. Yeah, I know what someone like Zeke would say. He would say no one dies from being alone unless they will it to happen. He'd be right, I guess. I remember when Roy told me it was over, it seemed like I couldn't breathe, like I really was dying but the truth is my organs kept doing their job as usual. The thing that a person fears most can happen and the machine just keeps pumping away, doesn't it? It's total betrayal.

There has to be a reason that I'm not freaking out right now, and I'm pretty sure it's pharmaceutical. Sasha asked me yesterday if the Klonopin was helping me, and now I know it's doing something. It feels strange, like I'm more clear and more fuzzy at the same time. I've actually had whole minutes here and there without thinking about how everyone might be an alien but then when I remember, I'm more certain than ever. I feel quite sure that someone is going to grab me but instead of running away my body just stays still. I don't know if this is a good thing. I still think the same thoughts. Everyone still might be one of them and Zeke is still going to leave me but I'm not so READY for it as I was before. Thank you, medical science, for helping me to meet my fate without all that embarrassing bitching and moaning.

Of course, Klonopin doesn't count if someone actually does touch me. That's a whole other thing.

Due to some interruption that Casey no longer remembered, the entry stopped there. He paused to listen to house noises for a second and having determined that all was exactly as it had been a minute ago — parents partying, Zeke and Sasha deliberating in the basement — he turned the page to December 21st.

Zeke arrives today. I hope. He told me he was celebrating the other night but I don't think so. I think he's still hurt and upset and that's why he was getting shitfaced. If we could just fuck again it would be better. When we do, he'll remember one reason why he's with me, and he won't look at me that way he was doing, like he expects something and he's mad because he can't have it. I know he wants me, he just wants to punish me more. At least I only have to put up with it until January 3rd although maybe he could be convinced to . And to think that for the first two weeks it was almost easy. I can't say this to Zeke or Sasha, evereverever, but there were a bunch of times during those weeks that Zeke touched me accidentally or just hugged me and I wanted to punch him and run away. I'll never let them know that because it doesn't matter, that was just me being angry over nothing. Of course, if he actually said he wanted to fuck, I would have torn off my clothes and assumed the position.

That was all for December twenty-first, and he'd missed December twenty- second altogether. It had seemed that after Zeke arrived, he had much less free time — which was ridiculous since they'd done little but hang around the house eating and watching TV, but upon a casual survey the past several days seemed thoroughly action-packed. After all, they were filled up with Zeke being here, Zeke being with him, Zeke looking at him, him looking at Zeke...oh, and his aunt and grandmother had arrived around that time too.

He turned to the last thing he had written, back on the 23rd of December.

I feel so empty all the time. I need it so much, ever since he got off that train it just gets worse every day. The crazies are getting the better of me. Whenever he looks at me I feel hot all over and I go a little insane, thinking about what he might want from me and how to be whatever he wants and how to make it okay for him to have it. Except Sasha is AROUND absolutely all the time and I can't disappoint him. Not when he gives me so much, not when he and Jerry have just broken up because of me. Sasha said it isn't my fault. Yeah, right.

I know Zeke would say this is something I should talk to Yves about. Fuck you. Well, I did tell her that Zeke and I are having a little break from sex and she seemed happy with that. It didn't seem necessary to tell her any more than that and she didn't ask. I think she's trying to figure out what to do with me right now. We had four sessions after the Big One and we've never really gotten around to talking more about the aliens, not yet. The session after Zeke's party I felt so depressed I could barely talk but she kind of forced me to tell her what happened. So I told her how I totally ruined his birthday, how Zeke found out that I told her about the aliens. She couldn't do much with me and to tell the truth I can't remember much else from that session. Yves has said that the reason I felt so low that day was partly because of all the sedatives in my system, and I did feel a little more awake the next day.

She also said she didn't know what to do about my alien story, that she had to "think about what it meant". That doesn't sound good. It may turn out that Zeke is completely right and I shouldn't have told her. He usually is right, but I just don't know what else I could do if I wanted to keep going to see her.

Shit, I just realized something. I DO want to keep seeing her. I want to tell her things, and there's something very soothing to me about the way she talks, so calm and uninvolved. I don't know when this happened. I don't think Zeke would like it.

So at the next session after that I was back to my old, panicky self. I went on and on about Zeke and Winona and how he must hate me and how terrible I am, how I was dreading being separated from him and terrified about L. A. All we did from then right up until I left for home was damage control, but she told me that when I get back from L. A. we have to sit down and work out some goals and a plan for me. We took up one whole session making that stupid list. And it is a stupid list because even though it's all true, it's also just dead wrong.

I can't stop thinking that it's happening again, just like with Roy only this time it will be worse. Zeke probably spent that whole time while we were apart thinking about how peaceful it was not having me around. Right, he acted happy to see me but he's so angry. And I'm NOT mind-reading here, it's pretty obvious that he's still pissed. And why would he be angry about that, Yves? Let's see, I disobeyed him, I ignored his advice and I hurt his feelings. I'll bet he's remembering about how it was before I was in his life, how things were so much more tidy and manageable.

Zeke would say I'm irrational, that my thinking is all messed up by Roy. He would say I need to talk to Yves about "how I am about sex" instead of aliens. Okay, so I know maybe some of the things that happened make me act a bit crazy sometimes but I know some things in me have changed and can't be changed back. I admit that I used to be a more logical person. Not at Zeke's level of course, but not quite so insane either. I don't think I'll ever remember how to think that way again. Maybe I'll learn to go around without being afraid, go to school, do everyday things but I don't think I'll ever be "my old self", whatever that was. I'll always have this THING inside me and to tell the truth I don't think I want to lose it. Being able to see and feel something different, sometimes it feels like the only thing I've got going for me. So what if I'm afraid of being touched and I can't stand being around most people. It doesn't matter because I only want to be around Zeke and Sasha. And my family, I guess, and a few friends. And I would like to go to school.

Zeke and Sasha will never get that. They would say that's no way to live and I need to confess to all the terrible things that Roy did so I can get over them. But what if the most terrible thing might just also be the best thing that ever happened to me? Like I remember once when Gabe was holding my arm up behind my back and he had me down on the ground and it was hurting so much I was afraid I would break my arm if I moved, and he was saying all these things to me, calling me a shitstain and cocksucking sissy but I suddenly had this moment where I felt so, so sorry for him. Because I understood him but he'll never, never understand me. So from the outside it looked like something bad was happening but I had this moment of realization and it was beautiful.

Casey rubbed his neck, pondering what he had written. He had been in quite a philosophical mood three days ago — and he had to wonder what Yves would do with it if he told her that story. Or what if he told her about one of those times when Roy was holding his arms so hard and biting his neck while he fucked him and he had been begging Roy not to stop because it felt so good. In fact, the only thing that had hurt was having to come back to the so-called "real" world where stuff like that had to be judged. And, of course, it had hurt that Roy left soon after and Casey remained sore and bruised and helpless with his own incompleteness, knowing very well what the world at large would think of him and unable to change anything.

Now he had fallen to sitting absolutely still, with his journal in his lap and his pen in hand. He was staring at the wall, at the same brass-framed triptych that had hung in this room as long as Casey could remember; it matched the maroon and black theme of the curtains and bedspread. He didn't know what the medium was — his mother had probably bought it at K-Mart and it wasn't a watercolour or a print or a photo but the image depicted a pseudo-oriental landscape. The wall itself was a bland colour that probably had some overwrought name like "sand water" or "oatmeal dream". Basically, it was beige.

Blinking several times, Casey put his pen to work, watching the lines take shape through a film of hot moisture.

December 26th, he scrawled. He wiped his eyes and tried to Reflect on the Positive — that was his assignment from Dr. Yves, his tribute to Stuart Smalley as it were. Every day, he was supposed to start by writing down all the things that had happened that were positive, or at least neutral. And he could engage in that exercise, sure, just as he was capable of acting happy at Christmas. The secret to lying, after all, was simply to temporarily convince himself that the lies were true. No one had more practice at that than he did.

What a fucking show I put on yesterday. If they gave Oscars for faking Christmas spirit, I'd have a dozen already. Not that everything was terrible, far from it. Being around everyone all day made it easy. I didn't have to say much, just join in whatever was going on. I could forget everything for a while because — well, I had to. It was the least I could do for everyone.

And I'm still playing along, or at least I tried to until this afternoon when we took Aunt Clarissa and Gram to the train. Aunt Clarissa was sad that they couldn't stay longer, she said, but she had to get back to Santa Fe for work. She told me she wished we had more time to talk. I don't know about talking, but it was good to see her again. It was kind of neat to do yoga too, it's not easy but it seemed a lot more relaxing than relaxation therapy. I remember when I was little and she still lived in

The pen was on the fritz. Casey shook it and tried scribbling a shape in the upper corner of the page. There was some improvement but the ink still didn't flow in any way that gave satisfaction.

Herrington. She was around a lot then and I thought she was IT. I don't remember much else, except that she always wore that really bright lipstick and I used to believe that her lips were naturally that color! It was nice to see Gram too, although I've never really felt like I know her that well. She lived here until Grampa died and then she went to live with Aunt Clarissa. I remember thinking that she was very stern and scary when she came to visit. I don't think she approves of me much. When I kissed Zeke in front of her she made that disgusted sound. I guess it's a bit much for her to take but I have to say, I don't much care what she thinks.

Here's some actual good news, Yves. Sasha and Jerry are back together. I heard Sasha talking on the phone to him yesterday morning. Everyone heard him, actually, but Sasha didn't seem to care. I'm very relieved of course, which is totally selfish of me because it has to do more with me not feeling guilty than Sasha being happy. Although I do want him to be happy. Of course, wanting him to be happy didn't stop me from breaking the rules, it just required me to do it when he wasn't looking. I don't think he has any idea, probably because he's so good and honest and always wants to believe the best about me. He assumes I'm much less of a slut than I actually am even though he should know better after I told him about

Casey's hand stilled. Some things were too shameful to be put on paper.

It wasn't like he hadn't tried to be the Casey that Sasha wanted; he had been good for entire weeks...well, except for when he and Zeke got overwhelmed when they were saying goodbye that day...and that other time when they were reunited in the train station...and the looks that he would give Zeke when Sasha wasn't watching, or at work....okay, he was a miserable, conniving little shit. Maybe he had done nothing overt, nothing that Sasha could have caught him at, but he had gloated inwardly every time Zeke seemed close to caving. Incredible that Sasha seemed to feel that Zeke wasn't trustworthy; Zeke was the strong one, as always.

Casey resumed writing, his hand shaking so much this time that his script degenerated quickly into near illegibility.

Yves, you said above all to be honest with myself when I write in here, and so here it is: I'm a hopeless slut. I need men, any men. I manipulate and twist things around to get what I need, I lie, I whine, I try to get under Zeke's skin, and I'm not even sure that I love him. I'm nothing, and the only thing that stops me from knowing that is to disappear for while, which is why I have to go begging and manipulating and whining to those men. You will say I'm exaggerating and distorting but

Christmas Eve I

I tried to

I almost broke Zeke.

It was no revelation to Casey that Zeke was severely discontented. Casey had seen it and felt the brunt of it long before he and Sasha left Seattle, but it seemed like Zeke got off the train in Herrington with an edge that had been honed deadly and sharp; every day he seemed more bitter. By Christmas Eve, it was obvious that he was ready to do something outrageous. With every disapproving expression of Sasha's, Zeke's hands became a little more intimate, a little more daring. Casey was sure that he could have Zeke that night if he wanted — he knew Zeke the rebel, Zeke the bad boy who liked to play at being a criminal. He knew that Zeke, in his heart, still wanted nothing more than to stick it to the establishment.

Sasha had weapons of his own, though; without even speaking he let everyone know of his misery at having to be what Zeke was rebelling against. If Zeke fucked Casey then Sasha would feel that he had failed, and he would promptly blame himself, Zeke and Roy, in that order — anyone but Casey.

So it was that Casey found himself standing in his parents' front hall at the conclusion of their Christmas Eve, backpedalling from everything he'd implied earlier at Stokely's. For those few hours he had luxuriated in Zeke's touch and basked in the greedy stare that came with it. He expected Zeke to be angry by his about-face once they were home, but he was jolted all the same by the glare that came his way. It was need and anguish, it was rage and resentment and it might even have been hate. It was a ferocious split second before Zeke stalked out the front door for a cigarette and it left Casey quaking.

As he got into bed with Sasha, Casey was trembling and anticipating a cuddle as some slight compensation for what he had just sacrificed — but the rum and eggnog put Sasha down almost immediately. Instead of offering comfort, Sasha collapsed, mumbling something about how...Zeke misses you, kitten...

Meanwhile, Casey and sleep were not getting along. There were images that had gotten purchase in his head, clawing away at any pretense of repose — of Zeke downstairs, Zeke alone and separate and blaming Casey, Zeke typecast in the role of the villain when he really wasn't like that. Zeke misses you, kitten... Like that was supposed to help. Zeke missed him... then Zeke should have him and he didn't know what everyone was trying to protect him from anyway. It was like they all expected him to only ever feel wretched, like joyful oblivion was off the menu. It wasn't fair and he sincerely couldn't remember why it should be that way so finally, near the middle of the night, he carefully removed himself from the bed and crept downstairs to the living room.

Days ago, Casey recalled, he had conceived a warm, fuzzy feeling whenever he was in this room, especially at night with the walls cast in the glow and shimmer of the lights glinting off multi-coloured decorations. This room was Christmas, transported straight from childhood. He'd been enchanted by it — but now there was only one thing in it with the power to enthrall him.

He padded over to the couch and knelt down beside Zeke, who appeared to be deep in sleep. He looked upon Zeke for what could easily have been an hour, submerged himself in the familiar, strong features. Every once in a while he would get down close and take a long, voluptuous sniff. He could easily wallow in the fragrance of Zeke, the sweet spiciness that was a whole greater than the sum — not just the combination of aftershave/shampoo/soap/deodorant, but something simpler and still more exotic. From time to time as he knelt there, Casey would almost convince himself that he was bold enough to lick Zeke's skin.

Casey's dark presence must have permeated Zeke's sleep, for his eyes popped open suddenly. "Casey!" he gasped. He lurched upright, propping himself on one elbow, blinking hard. "What's...wrong — ?"

"Nothing," Casey murmured.

Zeke remained braced on his elbow, gazing up at Casey. He rubbed his eyes once. "Something," he corrected softly.

Casey swayed slightly on his knees.

A tiny frown formed in the corners of Zeke's eyes. "What?" he whispered.

Gravity accomplished its work; Casey listed towards Zeke. His body collapsed inwards, sinking down and into Zeke's chest. His mouth sought blindly for some flesh to adhere to and made contact with Zeke's jaw.

His arms were clamped by a pair of iron bands — they would cleave him and pull them apart and his mind screamed no — but they did not, rather they brought him closer still, claiming him, crushing him against Zeke's body at an awkward angle...so he worshipped his way around the jut of the chin towards something even better, a tremulous and receptive opening. Finding it, he tried to implode his entire self and deliver it there. That place was slick and a little sour but still delicious, seeking to envelope him, grinding into his even as he sought it in return.

But now something wrenched it away from his mouth, moving him back with an inexorable pressure, tearing a whimper from his throat. When his eyes cleared he was several inches away, staring at Zeke's hands on his arms. They were holding him steady, waiting for him to catch his balance — but he didn't want his fucking balance. He would be unbalanced and content if he had any say in anything at all.

Zeke edged his body upright against the back of the couch while he rotated his legs, removing himself further from Casey. "Fuck," he whispered, gasping.

Casey had let his hands fall open at his sides, helplessly brushing the tops of his thighs. "You can," he mumbled, barely able to get the words past the feeling in his chest. "You can..." tear me open erase me consume me "...you can..."

Zeke shook his head as his chest heaved and he wiped at his mouth, erasing Casey. "What...What are we doing?"

It was a baffling question, but Casey figured that he could state the obvious if that was what Zeke wanted. "Kissing," he answered, and honed in on Zeke's lips once more.

A hand on his chest absolutely interfered. "Yeah," Zeke said slowly. "I get that."

Apparently, Zeke had more ways of saying no than anyone Casey had ever met. He abandoned his advance, knowing finality when he heard it. He didn't quite know what he was going to say or do in response — until he heard himself laugh.

"You think this is funny?" Zeke asked.

"Oh, yeah," Casey returned, with a slight giggle.

"Well...I don't."

"C'mon, Zeke...first I push you away, then you push me...every time I'm ready, you're not, and every time you're ready..." He shook his head, unable to press the hysterical grin off his face. "It's funny."

"Or you could say lucky," Zeke suggested, but he didn't sound like he believed it.

Casey's mirth departed as abruptly as it had arrived. "Lucky for you, maybe."

"Casey — just don't, all right? No outbursts, no arguments."

"But why won't you — why not?"

Zeke slid sideways, presumably to make room for Casey on the couch. Resting his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hand, he produced a smothered groan. "You know why not. We made a promise."

"You promised. I had no choice but to go along."

"And you've been very good about it. It's a good thing you pulled back earlier tonight because I was having a bad moment...I couldn't have stopped myself."

Feeling the sting of missed opportunity, Casey rose stiffly from his knees and perched himself on the couch next to Zeke. "I know," he said.

Zeke lifted his head and pierced Casey with a look.

"I'm sorry about that," Casey fumbled. "I didn't mean to — to — "

"Yank my chain?" Zeke said mildly, but there was nothing at all mild in him. He finished Casey off with his bitter stare, then saved him from having to muster a reply by answering himself. "I suppose you're entitled — and backing off was the right thing to do."

"I — I just — "

"Case...forget it, okay?"

"I couldn't — not — "

"I said forget it."

"— not with Sasha there."

"And since when do you do everything Sasha wants?" Zeke demanded, catching Casey entirely by surprise.

"I — I don't."

"It kinda seems that way to me."

Casey faltered, "I don't want to disappoint him."

"Huh."

"It's just...Sasha and Jerry broke up."

Zeke didn't appear terribly sympathetic. "Did they?" he said only, tilting his head and considering Casey.

"Yeah...Sasha's trying really hard to act like he doesn't mind and be merry for Christmas but he's not..." not happy, and it's my fault.

Zeke pronounced, "If you do something — or don't do something — do it for your own sake, not because you want to make Sasha happy."

As though Casey were a free agent who made all his own decisions, as though Zeke weren't continually making decisions for him. Still, Casey would make what he could of the statement. "Okay, then," he said. "Then I want to fuck...right here, right now."

"Casey," Zeke said. "That is not what I meant at all."

"No one's watching. No one has to know."

"I would."

"But I'm better now," Casey pleaded. "All the bruises are gone and it's been more than three weeks..."

"Case...you have no idea how much I want to buy into that."

He lightly fingered the drawstring waist of Zeke's pajama pants. "Then...why can't we...Sasha's asleep..."

Zeke captured his hand, put it gently aside. "C'mon, Case. This isn't what you want...you're just looking for an escape right now. You'd be sorry by tomorrow."

"No, I wouldn't. I really wouldn't."

Zeke chuckled bitterly. "Okay, you wouldn't...but I guess I would."

Casey wrapped his arms around himself and spat, "So it was okay when you decided you wanted it but now that I'm asking you have to say no so you can be in control. You always have to have everything your way."

Zeke heaved a sigh that seemed nothing to do with anything like tolerance. "You're right, I guess."

Remorse wasn't immediate, but when it came it was just a small part of the whole, of a feeling so absolute and rotten, so completely awful that Casey could barely move. His insides were running with black tar and he croaked, "I'm sorry, Zeke...I'm so..." He couldn't even finish saying it. So sorry, his mind whispered. Sorry for everything I am, everything I've done.

His head was down now but he felt Zeke shift beside him and heard the annoyance in his reply. "Stop apologizing. You've said that over and over, it's enough. I don't want to hear it — " In mid-sentence, something changed. Zeke coughed and went quiet. Casey glanced up and saw that Zeke seemed to be staring at him with a keenness that should have been reserved for peering through his microscope. "But there's something I'd like to ask," Zeke finished.

"What...?" Casey said, his gut beginning to churn.

"I need to get something cleared up...I should have before because it's been bothering me and making me act like a bastard and that's not very fair to you. I should get it off my chest and be done with it." In direct contradiction to these words of judicious intent, however, Zeke's eyes were getting hard and hot. Accusing.

"Wh-what is it?"

"Do you remember way back in September that day you snuck out to get a coffee from Zorba's...I saw you talking to this guy there...he's black, has a sort of Caribbean-sounding accent?"

For an instant, terror froze every cell in Casey's body — then, adrenaline rose and swamped him, providing him with the capacity to respond. He nodded, composing a frown that — he hoped — resembled vague curiosity.

"Have you run into him since then?"

There was only one other occasion in Casey's life that he could remember thinking this quickly — a monster from outer space had been chasing him at the time. In that heightened state of consciousness he had been able to run, bearing in mind that the soles of his shoes were wet and slippery and he didn't have time to fall on his face and mentally scanning the layout of the building ahead of him, all while visualizing potential weapons and strategies that involved maximum use of the few scat pens he had left. He'd known when he entered the gym that he was going to try what he had tried. He didn't know how the idea had come to him — just that he needed it and it had arrived.

This situation felt nearly as dire, and he replied, careful to sound appropriately anxious as though he were only distressed to be challenged about something so apparently insignificant. "I — I think I've seen him on the street a few times."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Maybe...why, Zeke?"

Zeke sucked a huge breath, still watching Casey narrowly. "Because I ran into him the other day. I think he's nuts. He looks like he's living on the street and he sounds really out of it..."

The new data was non-stop and Casey couldn't process it...Thomas living on the street even though he'd been sleeping in his car before and he seemed to have enough money to survive, he had his business...but he did seem to be unwell and ogodogod what had he said to Zeke what had he told him, Zeke might just be waiting to see how far he could lie before he got caught —

Casey shoved those thoughts far from consciousness, where they couldn't distract or agitate him. He needed absolute clarity now.

"...he mentioned you, Casey. He said you've talked."

"Oh."

"Oh? Is that all you want to say?"

"No — just — I did see him in Zorba's a few times and he would say hi or something. I — I don't know what happened, why he's —

...what did he say...what else did Thomas say...

"So you had to answer him?"

...what else did he say...ogodogod tell me no don't tell me...

"He helped me before, Zeke. He was nice."

"Did you have to tell him your name?"

"He asked me so I just told him — not my last name."

"And you didn't bother to mention this to me."

Casey let his shoulders slump and his head sink. "I knew you'd be upset."

Zeke went silent for a long time, assessing Casey who could only wait to find out if he'd just lied himself into a confession or if Zeke had accepted it. Casey couldn't fathom how he was managing to sit here with his vital organs stuttering and still cooly conclude that his developing narrative didn't require him to be too casual because it was perfectly in character to become a little hysterical right now. "Zeke..." he started, not sure what he was going to add but figuring that some embellishment was needed.

"It's okay, Case. He kind of accosted me on the street and implied a bunch of things that I knew I shouldn't take seriously. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions, I should have just asked you." Zeke shrugged. "Just being a total prick again."

"You're not!"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Zeke replied with a wry smile. He twisted his body to dip his head low, where he could meet Casey's eyes. "Hey, do you think there's room for the two of us on this couch?"

"You said you don't — want — "

"If you're going to remember everything I say, at least remember it accurately. We're not going to fuck but I think we can manage sleeping together for one night without losing control." Zeke lifted his hands and, contradicting the sternness of his words, cradled Casey's face, brushing his cheeks with his thumbs. "I always want you with me."

"Oh."

"I'm wiped...and you do look like you could use some sleep, Case."

"Yeah...I just...I just need to...to piss."

Zeke snorted. "You don't need my permission or anything."

Casey nodded and bolted off the couch and up the stairs. His legs were shaking so badly that he could have just folded there in the hallway — but he needed to get into that bathroom, just in case Zeke was monitoring his footsteps and calibrating his position. He went in and shut the door, not bothering with the light. He let his legs crumble under him and sat on the floor, hugging himself into a tight, quivering shape. The analytical part of him was still functioning beyond all expectation, passing on the requisite information. It told him he had no more than five minutes to make the mental arrangements necessary to sustain his lie.

Again, absolute need drove him to get it done. Over the next few minutes everything that he had just told Zeke was transformed into the emotional truth. The crux of it was that, since Zeke had not asked him outright if there was anymore to his interactions with Thomas, he was essentially no more of a liar than he had been fifteen minutes ago. Fifteen minutes ago he'd had his equilibrium with that, and now he must have it back. He would not dwell on this conversation or he would be done for. Once he walked down those stairs, the thoughts associated with this subject would be scoured from his immediate consciousness. It was a matter of survival.

After what felt like a suitably short length of time, he got up off the floor. He flushed the toilet and ran the water as though he was carrying out his normal ablutions, then returned the living room.

It took some major contortions to make them both fit comfortably on the couch without loss of circulation; in the end he was almost lying on top of Zeke although Zeke didn't seem to mind. He claimed that he could still breathe — in fact, he was breathing a lot...and rapidly, his skin pouring heat. Casey could almost feel the blood raging beneath the surface, and he didn't fail to notice the hardness at Zeke's groin as they lay there. He knew he was supposed to ignore it, just as he was ignoring his own.

"When we're in L.A..." Casey whispered.

"Yeah..." Zeke answered warily.

Los Angeles wasn't a topic that Casey was particularly keen on. He was very keen on what he could get from Zeke while in another city thousands of miles away from Sasha, but otherwise for the past three weeks he'd been doing his best not to think about it. He'd packed extra clothing for that leg of the journey but he'd ducked the topic every time Sasha or someone else brought it up. The important thing, the thing that he kept in mind as constantly as possible, was that Zeke wanted him to come with him to his father's wedding. Zeke needed him.

"Think about it," Casey murmured, nuzzling Zeke's throat. "No Sasha, no one else around...just us." He moved his leg slightly so as to cause a bit of friction against Zeke's cock. Zeke's pulse jumped under Casey's lips; his body stiffened.

"Let's not think about that now," Zeke said, shifting just enough to put an inch of space between the strategic parts of their bodies.

"Why? You said one month and the one month will be over...on the third, right?"

"Something like that."

"What do you mean?" Casey started to lift his head, straining as Zeke's loose embrace pressed lightly on his upper shoulders. "But you said a month."

"I just think..." Zeke said. "It feels silly to do this by a calendar. The important thing is how you're feeling."

"I told you how I am," Casey sulked. "If that's the measure then we could be fucking right now."

Zeke's hand made a swirling motion on his shoulder blade, like that of a parent desperately trying to calm a fussy infant. "Case...what I want to do right now is sleep. Okay?"

"Okay," Casey muttered. He wasn't exactly comfortable with letting it go, but he also knew it was paramount that he not push Zeke to the point that he started questioning the schedule he'd imposed. One month's penance, Casey could do. He could not do more.

He traced nonsense patterns on Zeke's chest for a while, listening to Zeke's heart clamoring in his ear. To his surprise, his arousal began to lessen a bit as fatigue finally asserted itself. A sense of security and calm, not unlike what he felt at times when sleeping with Sasha, diffused his body; he managed to get a few hours of sleep. When he opened his eyes it was Christmas Day, and for the next twenty-four hours all of his thoughts were occupied by the project of having a merry time.

"Reflect on the positive, Casey," he mumbled to himself. "Reflect on the positive...reflect on the positive." It was the mantra of Dr. Helen Yves, and it so happened that it was a good way to keep his avoidance mechanism in good working order. In his opinion, avoidance was fucking underrated.

When his hand had more or less stopped shaking, he wrote, I want to change. I should be able to change. Look at my dad. If he can change, anyone can. That sounds kind of off-hand but I'm really amazed by him when I think about it. He never used to say much to me. He just didn't say much, period, but the night that we decorated the tree together, he suddenly got up and made a speech. I was terrified that he was going to tell me it was physics or nothing but that's not what it was about. He said he was sorry for what happened last year at Christmas, that he shouldn't have let it happen, it was wrong. Mom apologized too but I've never heard him say those actual words. He was all shaky like he was going to cry and I didn't know what to do but I said something about how it wasn't just him, I was the one who ran away. That's true too. They tried to call me a couple of times when I was back at school but I was always at Roy's and I didn't call them back. Anyway, they told me they loved me no matter what. It's hard to know what to say to that. "Sorry I'm gay and not very manly and that I saved you from those aliens. I'm glad you love me despite all that."

I sound all sarcastic and bitter but it was nice to hear, really. And just to make everything more surreal, Dad suddenly wanted to teach me to drive yesterday. Dad teaching me anything makes me nervous...like when he used to want us to just "throw a football around" in the backyard when I was a kid. We tried it for a while but it was always kind of disastrous and by the time I was ten I think we both gave up on it. I remember he used to yell at me for not holding the ball right and there was that time that he hit me in the chest with the ball and I started to cry. He was so disgusted. I don't want to disappoint him anymore so I was kind of jittery about the driving lesson — but it was actually fun. My dad has an adventurous side. And at least I've proven that I have SOME testosterone in my body.

Yeah, okay, it was a not too bad a day. Christmas, I mean. Zeke got me a digital camera which I haven't had a chance to really experiment with yet. I can't believe my parents got me Orson Welles movies. I didn't think they even knew he'd made movies other than Citizen Kane, if that. We played trivia and ate and just hung around all day, and it felt a little bit like time had stopped. But I was totally bagged by the end of it, I could barely keep my eyes open past nine o'clock. It was funny, I'll bet, me and Gram both snoring away in the living room. I feel a little bad that I never got a chance to spend a bit more time with her or Aunt Clarissa, but I just crashed and then they had to go today.

I'm such a fucking liar. Even to give my dad tickets for a football game or promise Sasha that we'll cook him dinner feels like a lie because I can't imagine anything after Los Angeles. I can't imagine a week from now, never mind a month. I don't want to go to Los Angeles, I don't want to go to the fucking wedding. I just want to be with Zeke.

So the problem with avoidance — and funny how he had learned this but it never stopped him from applying the same strategy time and time again — was that it never made anything better in the long run. Now that Casey could no longer duck thinking about the events that were inexorably approaching, he found that their scariness had become truly monumental. The reverberation of those four syllables... los...an...ge...les...across his mental landscape was enough to set him off. The panic was now straining in its cage, just barely leashed by Warden Klonopin.

It would probably help to make a list of the things that scared him, tackle them one by one. Well, for a start he was scared about being at LAX — if he was separated from Zeke he would surely die. He was scared of the L.A. driving too, not that he was expected to drive but what if Zeke rented a car and something happened and Casey was forced to take the wheel? It could happen. And he was scared of Zeke leaving him alone while he did wedding things, something that was perfectly inevitable. He might be attacked by an alien, or he might just think he was being attacked by an alien which was all it took for him to make a real mess of things. He would hurt someone again and embarrass and frighten Zeke, he could be dragged off to jail or to a hospital. Lately, he was having more frequent urges to lash out, and it wasn't that he wanted to hurt anyone but he just couldn't know that some kind of action wasn't a necessity. That day when he went shopping with Delilah he had almost shoved a man who stood too close to him in a checkout line, and at one point when Delilah touched his arm he had nearly shrieked out loud. If it had been an option he would have stayed in the house the entire time he was here, leaving only for walks...preferably in the middle of the night.

Sasha was right — this house is the safest place I know. I know I freaked Sasha out with that panicky bit when we first got here...because everything was just feeling so strange, I had that weird feeling like I didn't know where I was, or even my name. It's funny — our home in Seattle feels safe to me too but in my mind it's like a cave that shelters me from everything outside while I'm afraid the pressure will make the walls crumble one of these days. Maybe I just don't have what it takes to be a true big-city person — but god don't let Sasha and Zeke decide I should stay here, please. I know they've considered it, or Zeke has at least. He could be talking to Sasha right now about how to tell me that he's leaving

— which was her fault, she basically took him away by getting in the way and making him think all sorts —

Casey sucked a breath. He closed his eyes and gripped the plastic tube far too hard for writing.

No, it wasn't her...it was him. He didn't give Zeke what he needed, he couldn't and never could and then he had to act extra doubled fucked in the head and attack the — the — well, Winona. Not W-Monster and that was really him hitting her like that. He was the monster. He had hit a woman, a person who — no, it wasn't like she did nothing, but she wasn't going to actually physically harm him.

He didn't even remember hitting her. He remembered screaming and being terrified and fighting the arms that were trying to control and take him. Gradually he became aware of Sasha's voice in his ear and he argued with it and fought it a bit but he knew he had lost. He had failed.

He forced himself to compress something of this soundless discord into blue ink on a page.

I don't even remember doing it. The last thing I remember clearly was her walking by me and being sure that she was going to hurt me. I could actually feel her hands on me, it was so real. I can't think of the right words to describe what that felt like, I just knew that I couldn't bear it.

It was a haze that he couldn't entirely remember and couldn't entirely forget, a nightmare that had faded but was back now and wouldn't go away so he couldn't stand to have someone's eyes on him if he didn't know them — sometimes even if he did know them. And sometimes he wanted to bite Sasha or kick Zeke except he would be starting something he didn't have the strength to finish and he didn't want to hurt them. It was the one thing he could get his head around lately, not wanting to hurt them.

I remember what I was thinking, mostly. I remember and I still think those things but I can't say them out loud and I then sometimes I do forget, until the next time I remember. I'm so very fucked. I need to tell Dr. Yves some of this but I — no, I fucking CAN'T. She'll think that it was something that it wasn't. I didn't tell her I hit Winona, just that I was terrified and angry enough that I wanted to hurt her. Yves got that look on her face that means she's considering what she should do and in the end she told me to try and concentrate on having a holiday with my family. She asked me if I tended to get depressed around Christmas because so many people do and I just laughed. I told her no, I like Christmas. Anyway she gave me her phone number to call if I started feeling like I was going to hurt someone or myself. Zeke doesn't know about that. I think he would

A knock, accompanied by Sasha's voice: "Kitten?"

From pure reflex, Casey slammed the journal closed — even though Sasha was not in the room yet and not, to the best of Casey's knowledge, possessed of super x-ray vision. "Yeah."

"Can I come in?"

"Of course."

The door creaked slightly, introducing Sasha's face. "Your folks went to their...thing?"

"Mm hmm."

"What would you like for supper?"

"I dunno. Leftovers."

Sasha winced. "That would make sense, I guess." He remained in the doorway, as though he were bashful about entering the room, as though it were not his space just as much as Casey's. Casey compelled himself to wait and not twitch or jitter in place. "Kitten, there's something Zeke and I need to talk to you about. Can you come down to the kitchen?"

"Right now?" Casey asked, pressing his journal against his chest.

"It's the perfect time...your parents are out, the others are gone...and I'm leaving tomorrow morning, remember?"

Just another thing he was trying not to dwell on — Sasha going back to Seattle, himself and Zeke on their own — well, that part was okay, more than okay, but it was the whole business of getting on a plane for Los Angeles that Casey didn't want to think about. Or being in Los Angeles, but he had no choice if he was going to be with Zeke and be fucked on January 3rd —

Which, of course, was exactly what Sasha would be wanting to discuss right now.

"Okay," Casey answered at last.

He rolled off the bed and followed Sasha downstairs to the kitchen. Zeke was already waiting there at the table, sitting in Casey's usual chair with his hands folded and resting there. From the set of his jaw, he was ready for battle — or already at battle and this was just the next round.

"You want some tea or something, kitten?" Sasha asked.

Casey's stomach did a twisty, nauseous thing; his pulse quickened, then re- settled at a trot. Kudos for Klonopin. "No...thanks," he said, sliding into the chair that his dad usually occupied.

"Zeke?" Sasha said.

"What?"

"Do you want something?"

"Yeah," Zeke snapped. "I want to get this over with."

"All right," Sasha said mildly, joining them at the table. He didn't waste any time, jumping in with, "Kitten, it's about L.A."

Casey nodded. "You don't think it's a good idea."

Sasha blinked once, then returned gamely, "That's right. Can I tell you why?"

Zeke had tilted his chair onto its back legs. He huffed audibly while looking up at the ceiling.

"Obviously, Zeke and I have already had words about this," Sasha continued, apparently unconcerned by Zeke's display, "and Zeke disagrees with me. But I'm worried and you know I'm not going to keep my mouth shut about it."

Zeke let the chair fall forward, with a meaningful thump. "And I think...Sasha...that all you're doing right now is undermining his confidence."

Sasha's mouth fell open, depicting indignation.

"Not that you'd do it on purpose," Zeke amended. "But all the better if he stays at home with you, right? That way you won't have to let him out of your sight."

Sasha rolled his eyes. "You think if you keep bringing that up eventually I'll admit you're right?"

"I'd love to stop bringing it up," Zeke replied acidly. "If you'll just let something go for once. It's not like I'm thinking this trip will be a walk in the park, you know."

"I know you don't think that, but maybe you don't realize — "

"I realize all sorts of things, Sasha."

"But still you insist on dragging him — "

"Just — just — stop it, both of you!" Casey said. It would have been ideal if it came out as an authoritative shout but the stammer was good enough to get their attention. They gaped at him and he added in a whisper, "Please."

Resting his elbows on the table, Sasha scrubbed at his face and said, "Okay. I'm sorry, kitten. I didn't want to have a fight with anyone." He turned one of his classic, expectant faces on Zeke, who ignored it and said nothing in the way of apology.

It was up to Casey to assert himself now; he knew that. He began, "Sasha, I promised I would go. I — I want to go — and yes, I'm nervous but I do want to go — "

"All right," Sasha allowed, "but isn't it possible that the main reason you want to go is that Zeke wants you to? And not that that doesn't count for a lot, but when you consider what's going on in your life right now..."

His gentle tone shouldn't have triggered anger; none of the content was a particular surprise to Casey, and over the weeks and months Sasha had said all sorts of things that were far more intrusive and suffocating than this. Plus, it just so happened that Sasha was right — but Casey found himself seething nevertheless. "You don't think I can handle it," he accused.

"That's not what I mean, not at all."

"Yes, it is. You're worried that I shouldn't be around people — and you're right, I shouldn't, I'm a fucked up, scary thing that you shouldn't let out in public but I'm sure if Zeke keeps me locked up in our hotel room I won't do too much damage."

"Oh, kitten," Sasha sighed.

"Casey," Zeke said, his voice weary. "You know Sasha is just trying to think of what's best for you."

His unscheduled pinch-hitting for Sasha felt a lot like betrayal. It was almost like...Zeke didn't want him, Zeke didn't want him... and Casey ground out, "How about you let me tell you what's best for me."

Sasha's voice was so clotted with smarm, it should have been choking him. "Of course you decide, Casey. If I didn't respect your opinion, I wouldn't be trying to change your mind."

The logic was just novel enough to catch Casey by surprise, and he spent some time sorting through it. He supposed it made a certain amount of sense; Sasha was assuming that he could hold his own in an argument, listen to reason, weigh the pros and cons...which just went to show that Sasha was far too trusting.

"Okay," Casey said, giving him permission to continue.

"You're working harder than ever right now, kitten. I see it, Zeke sees it, we all see it and we think it's...really encouraging. You have new medication, you're doing all these things for Dr. Yves...and you know how important routine is. I just think it's better to be closer to your doctors right now....just not push it."

"So in other words I'll fuck everything up if I go."

Sasha winced slightly. "I know that you're capable of getting through this trip, Casey, but it's not going to do you any good. It may set you back."

Zeke was just sitting there being useless instead of helping but Casey did his best to ignore that and be at his most persuasive. Jittering and stammering were not going to aid his cause. "I can't change if I don't try," he said, aware that he was mining some quality bullshit. "And this is something I want to try."

This earned him a regretful look from Sasha.

"I've never seen Los Angeles," Casey added, laying it on as thick as he possibly could.

Unexpectedly, Zeke had something to offer. "Casey...you would tell me if you really didn't want to go, right? Because if you didn't...you could just tell me and it would be okay. I could cancel the trip and we all go back to Seattle tomorrow. That way everyone will be happy."

"It's not what you want," Casey whispered.

"I'll be fine. It isn't like this wedding is something of major importance in my life."

Sasha very conspicuously did not comment on that and Zeke did not expand on it, while Casey simply knew he had to be there for Zeke. Even if Zeke seemed determined not to admit it, this trip was meaningful to him; trying to re-establish ties with a parent was momentous and Casey owed it to Zeke to give him the same kind of support that he had given Casey. And if they had some sex while they were in Los Angeles...well, that was merely what they needed. Casey was quite well aware of Sasha's real reason for not wanting him to go, and surprised that Sasha hadn't put that on the table. His and Zeke's sex life was a topic that Sasha never hesitated to raise when he thought it was necessary; perhaps Sasha had recognized the futility of it in this particular instance.

After a prolonged silence Casey realized that they were both waiting for him. Casey tried to keep his chin up as he said, "I'm going with Zeke." He was pleased that his voice didn't wobble.

Sasha gripped the edge of the kitchen table with both hands. "All right," he sighed. "I guess that's that."

"Are we finished?" Casey asked, making like he didn't see Sasha's disappointment and ignoring the voice that kept screaming: There's no place like home...there's no place like home.

"I suppose," Sasha replied heavily.

Casey heard his journal beckoning. "Um...I was doing my homework."

"Go ahead, kitten. How long will you be?"

"Half an hour maybe."

"Okay, I'll warm up the leftovers around then."

Casey trudged upstairs, resisting the urge to turn around and give Sasha what he wanted, or to skip that step and stow himself in Sasha's luggage. There was just no way to make both Sasha and Zeke happy at the same time.

Slipping back into his room, Casey flopped on his stomach on the bed and yanked his journal within writing range. Flipping it open, he scrawled hurriedly, Zeke needs me to come to L.A.. That's what — The fucking pen wasn't working again; despite several good, hard shakes, the ink was coming out in fits and starts. Casey growled in frustration and just pressed harder, forcing the words out of it. — I have to remember. I can do this. I have to do this. I have to get something right.

Tossing pen and journal aside, he rolled over onto his back and put his hand over his eyes to block out the late afternoon brightness that slanted in the window. So much to not think about right now. Like the fact that he'd fucked up everything, he would fuck up Los Angeles, Zeke wouldn't forgive him and it was nothing less than he deserved —

Do not. Think. Do not.

He had other things to dwell on...how he was safe in his parents' home and it was still the holidays...not that they were all secretly conspiring — don't think don't think to leave him here and go on with their lives shut up don't think already, fuck but he wasn't with Zeke, it was over and Zeke hated —

No, you don't know that he hates you.

But I will be with him in Los Angeles. I will.

"I have to," he breathed.

With that there was another knock, announcing the next intrusion. Casey had learned the different styles of knocks of his various loved ones — so this would be Zeke coming to make sure that Casey was really prepared to step on that plane to California in two days. Casey didn't know about that, but he was prepared to keep lying if that was what it took.

A slight creaking told of Casey moving around upstairs, and Zeke pushed back his chair. "I guess your work here is done," he told Sasha as he stood up. He was surprised to find that he wasn't really angry at Sasha anymore. Okay, not too angry. The man wouldn't be his loyal, maddening self if he didn't interfere, and he wouldn't interfere if he didn't believe wholeheartedly in his cause.

"Not hardly," Sasha returned. "Where are you going?"

"Out on the porch for a smoke."

"I'll join you."

Zeke wasn't about to infer that Sasha wanted to share a cigarette; they weren't back to that exigency just yet. He scrounged for some reserve of patience he had yet to tap. "Sasha," he said tiredly. "I don't think there's anything left to say."

"Try me, sweetheart."

Zeke gave up; he went into the front hall and dug his coat out of the closet, not commenting on the fact that Sasha was right behind him. It was not a good day to be a smoker — blue-skied and clear but brutally cold. The endless grey and moderate temperatures of Seattle were holding more appeal for him all the time.

In more ways than one, actually. He didn't think Sasha would believe him if he were to say that he wished that they could all just go home tomorrow, but he did. All other things being equal, he would have enjoyed a trip to California, sure, but right now seemed like the worst possible time and it was only his promise to show up that prevented him from cancelling. His relationship with his father was simply not his highest priority, whatever Casey and Sasha might choose to believe. All Casey had to do was say the words: I can't do it, and Zeke, please don't go either , and Zeke would comply in an instant. But Casey hadn't said them, so Zeke was stuck. If he were to ask Casey to stay home it would be a disaster — and besides, he didn't want Casey to stay home, not if he wasn't there. Right now the only thing scarier than Casey with Zeke in L.A. was Casey in Seattle while Zeke was in L.A....Yves closing in on him with her straightjacket, Sasha providing all the snuggles, strange men eying Casey up and Casey perhaps eying them back, thinking that they might be able to give him what Zeke couldn't or wouldn't...

No.

He wouldn't go there. He had decided that he would not indulge in that most pathetic sort of jealous guy stuff. He had resolved not to think about Thomas anymore.

He would own up that he was desperately jealous — of Sasha. Yeah, he was jealous, he was irrational, resentful, insecure, petty, he was all of it. It wasn't even that he worried about Casey and Sasha getting it on because obviously that was nonsense. It was just that they were so close, and getting closer all the time. Every time Casey graced Sasha with the patented I-can't-wait-for-you-to-hold-me face, Zeke wanted to howl because that face that was his. And he found himself becoming deeply concerned about the sheer volume of hugs that Sasha dished out; Zeke had been on the receiving end of quite a few Sasha hugs himself, so he knew they were pretty damned addictive. Also, as far as he was concerned, Sasha called Casey "kitten" way more often than was strictly necessary. Zeke needed to take Casey away from Sasha for a while, have Casey with him, where he could see him and be near him, touch him maybe...not at the expense of Casey's recovery, of course.

So there was really no option but to have Casey with him in Los Angeles if that was what Casey wanted. Zeke would respect Casey's choice — and as Casey had very aptly demonstrated on several occasions now, he was capable of making his own decisions. They might be reckless, self-destructive, dead wrong decisions, but he made them with a certain conviction, that was for fucking sure. He could spill about the aliens to his shrink and delude himself that it was about getting better if that was what he wanted. Of course, Zeke knew perfectly well it was really about getting revenge and being in denial — but that was Casey's prerogative.

And it was done now. They'd just have to deal, and one way of dealing was for Zeke to keep Casey away from Yves as much as possible.

Sasha was stamping his feet and jamming his gloved hands in his pockets for supplemental warmth. "It's friggin' cold — and you say you aren't ready to quit smoking yet?"

The really annoying thing about this was that even though Sasha had to realize that Zeke knew it all backwards and forwards, he was going to go right ahead and beat it to death. Shrugging, Zeke retrieved the plastic ashtray that Allison had left out on the porch for him, no doubt to prevent his polluting her flower beds with ash and dead butts. Holding the ashtray in one gloved but numb-fingered hand, he attempted to smoke with the other. He made every haul count while he waited for Sasha to get to the rest of what he was going to say. Whereas some people had actual patience, Zeke had tobacco and nicotine.

"Zeke." Sasha was using a hushed voice, as thought Casey might be able to hear him somehow. "I don't want you to think that I don't trust you, or that I...don't believe in him."

Zeke couldn't offer more than a non-committal grunt to that, because it sure as fuck seemed like Sasha didn't have an iota of faith in either of them — and especially not in Zeke. But then, Zeke had long since accepted that whatever went on between himself and Casey, Sasha's interpretation would always be skewed towards seeing Casey as the victim and Zeke as the victimizer.

"I'm afraid Casey's on the edge," Sasha whispered.

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Zeke...I'm serious."

"So am I. Just saying that's nothing new."

"But it's like there's this...I don't know, it's just a vibe and it only comes out once in a while but it makes me nervous. I don't remember seeing it before — and when he was sleeping with you, did he have nightmares?"

"Not really, no..."

"Well, he keeps having these...episodes. It'll be the middle of the night and it's like he's panicking but he never really wakes up. I think something's changing and I don't know if it's good or bad."

Zeke felt obliged to note, "He'd done okay with everything this month... everything since my birthday, I mean." Well, notwithstanding that little blip on Christmas Eve —

"I know," Sasha agreed. "I feel very proud...and he's made such an effort this week, for the holidays."

"Yeah," Zeke said, letting some of his scorn emerge for this stupid preoccupation with everyone being pleasant and full of smiles at Christmas, even when in reality they just wanted to tear off their skin and run around screaming. He almost added, "That was something he did for you," and at the last second he figured it was better left unsaid. It had been at some cost to Casey, Zeke was sure of that, but he was just as sure that Casey didn't regret it. It had clearly been important to him.

Sasha threw a knowing stare at him. "I'm not an idiot, Zeke. I know that nothing just goes away...as much as I'd like to think that being at home with the family makes all the difference."

"Of course it makes some difference..." Zeke saw that Sasha had angled away from him just enough that his expression couldn't be seen and he was muttering something. "What's that?" Zeke said.

"Nothing." Sasha turned back. His eyes were a bit shimmery, his nose a little reddened. Nothing that couldn't be explained away by the cold. "The big question is — now what?"

"Now, nothing," Zeke declared. He tapped cinders into his ashtray. "Casey and I have to do Los Angeles and then we'll get to 'now what'."

"We need to talk to him about...that stuff he told us."

"I think you would agree with me that he's going to be nervous enough about this trip without dumping that on him just now. It's just going to have to wait."

"It doesn't feel right."

"I know you believe that everything should always be blurted out right away..."

"Eat me, sweetheart, I do have some discretion...it's just, that was a major piece of information he shared with us."

"And I'd rather wait until we were back at home before we have that discussion."

Zeke was permitted to smoke in peace for half a minute, while Sasha shivered and stared out at the road again. A car or two passed by, emitting exhaust that was thick and white in the bitter cold. That same cold had now penetrated Zeke's coat and sweater and was well into his bones. It seemed that every year they had a week or two like this in Herrington, and Zeke didn't miss it in the slightest.

"Okay, you're right," Sasha conceded, still facing the street. "Now's not the right time...but I still have a problem with you and Casey going on this trip together."

"You don't say."

Sasha rotated and pinned him squarely with a look that demanded accountability. "Are you going to make me spell it out?"

Rolling his eyes, Zeke said, "I like to hear you spell it out, so yeah."

"What are you going to do about the sex issue?"

"You — " Zeke inhaled a bit too far and coughed into his sleeve " — you can do better than that."

"All right, then — are you planning on having sex with Casey? Are you just biding your time until you can get back down to it? Planning to ring in the new year?"

Zeke couldn't quite restrain a grin. It wasn't so much that he was amused — more that he was delighted by Sasha's absolute determination and consistency when it came to this subject. The alternative was another level of resentment, which he didn't really want to feel. "Where would I be without you?"

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Never." Zeke mashed out the remains of his cigarette. "The answer is I don't know."

"That's not acceptable."

"But it is my answer, and it happens to be the truth." Zeke confronted Sasha's fierce stare. "I know all the arguments for and against. I know why you'd much rather have Casey in Seattle with you and not with me. You don't have to say any of it."

Sasha raised his brows. "But I don't know what to say if I don't say any of it."

"Don't say a word. Just let me sort this out."

With a deep sigh, Sasha asked, "Will you do one thing for me?"

"What's that?"

"Talk to Casey, ask him if he really wouldn't rather come home with me tomorrow. He might, but he just might not want to say it with both of us there at the same time. He's protective of you, you know, he won't let anyone say anything even remotely like criticism."

Zeke was ridiculously pleased — especially given some of the words Casey had been known to use to describe Zeke when they were in private. "That's nice to know...and yes, Sasha, I was planning on talking to him." More than ready to get out of the cold and into the warm house, Zeke turned towards the door. He stopped halfway, struck with a need to say one more thing. "Sasha — regarding the sex issue. You don't need to keep getting in my face about it."

"Hmm. I have to say, at the risk of pissing you off, that it didn't look that way to me on Christmas Eve. And it sure didn't sound that way a month ago."

All sorts of pettiness leapt to mind but Zeke managed to contain it — just barely. "I know what I said a month ago...but I've had lots of time to myself, to clear my head as you say. Yeah, I came close to losing it a few times, but I think I'm doing a pretty fucking fine imitation of a eunuch and I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut."

And he stormed into the house, not slamming the door in Sasha's face although he really, really would have liked to.

Oh, yes, over the past month he'd had ample time to reflect, even with exams looming and Casey's mood filling the apartment like a black miasma. He'd remembered some important facts — such as he was the one who made the decision to let go in the first place. He was the one who had allowed himself to lose control and, as much as it might be tempting to think otherwise, he was responsible for his actions. Just as it had been his decision to start, it could be his decision to stop and he would abide by that even if it meant that he became a frustrated quasi-monk who took icy showers and whipped himself daily. Wanting felt much cleaner than having. Wanting, he could handle.

But, fuck...he wanted so fucking much. He didn't recall wanting quite like this before, or perhaps over the months that he'd been having regular sex he'd simply forgotten how it felt to walk around aching. Either way, all he knew was that he could barely concentrate on what Casey said because he was so busy watching Casey's mouth move. He was slow in catching on to Casey's moods because he was far too busy watching the play and flush of Casey's skin to actually notice what it signified. And simple little things made him crazy. Like Sasha giving Casey earrings as a joke. Like Casey's father taking him out for a driving lesson. Like Sasha getting to sleep with Casey, like...pilfered sensations of Casey's skin under his fingertips and the take-me look that Casey seemed incapable of shutting off.

There was no question that things were getting to him far more than they should. He was appalled by his overreactions and embarrassed that he couldn't restrain the compulsion to ask Casey about something that he should have been able to shrug off. Even after he'd asked and Casey had reassured him, he was still thinking and stewing and suspecting, and it absolutely demeaning that he had permitted something as irrational as jealousy to have power over him. It was fucking pathetic.

So he told himself every time he replayed the encounter with Thomas Kirton.

There was no forgetting the man from Zorba's who had struck up a conversation with Casey that day in September. Zeke remembered all too well how the man — handsome, well-dressed and professional-looking — seemed to take a more than neighbourly interest. He hadn't thought about the guy more than a few times since, but whenever he did, there had always been a flare of possessive heat in his gut; there was something in the man's expression, in the charisma he brought to bear even in the act of being polite, that left Zeke incensed.

It happened a block away from Zorba's this time, where the man was leaning back against the brick facade of the pharmacy, just minutes from their apartment. He had obviously fallen on hard times. He was wearing a fine suit that was still mostly intact but was dirty, wrinkled and ripped in the knees. Oddly, he was still wearing his tie, and the knot was perfect, which only served to make the rest of him look more scruffy. Apart from a scarf and a pair of gloves, he was lacking any outdoor wear.

Maybe Zeke was an idiot to give the guy more than a glance, but it was entirely unexpected and somewhat alarming to see this alteration in someone who had previously been so poised. Still, Zeke didn't really have the energy to dwell on the moral and social implications of pausing for more than that extra second; he had just finished his last exam, he was exhausted and on his way home to crash, and it was more than evident that this was not a well person.

Except for the whisper that arrived in that distinctive, almost genteel voice with its carefully enunciated syllables, Zeke wouldn't have broken stride as he passed by.

"I know what you treasure."

It stopped Zeke instantly — both the words and the fact that Casey was the implied subject of the remark. However, he was not fully committed to a conversation yet; he remained with his feet still pointing homeward. "What?" he asked.

There was a grin etched on the man's face. "You're Zeke, right?"

He thought about trying to bluff but it struck him as silly given past history. "You're that guy from Zorba's, that time," Zeke noted.

"Thomas," the man said, and was sounding angry. "My name is Thomas Kirton...Thomas Kirton!"

Zeke's body went on the defensive even before his head could catch up and issue an appropriate warning. There was an edgy jitter in the body opposite him, a sense of imminent explosion. "Okay, Thomas...take it easy."

"But I haven't seen Casey," the man blurted.

Shock took hold of Zeke, freezing him from the inside. "Who?" he said before he could think about his reaction. He'd already acknowledged the man, for fuck sake, but he instinctively felt that Casey should not be known by him. Call it protection or possession, he didn't care as long as Casey's existence — or his name, or his history or his relationship to Zeke — was not within the knowledge of this Thomas Kirton.

Thomas smiled at Zeke's attempt at a bluff. "There's this little treasure with funny hair, you know the one."

"I don't."

"The one you have locked in your tower."

"I...what?"

"You have treasure in your tower, someone's gonna have to rescue him." Right before Zeke, Thomas started to shake with a visible, violent passion. "You can't do that to him, you...you cannot, someone's going to bust break battle down and take him away!"

At this, Zeke couldn't maintain the charade any longer. "Thomas, I'm just going to tell you this once. Don't talk about him, don't look at him, don't even think about him."

"You think I would hurt him...He thinks I would hurt him, just as that fucking Rob Roy thinks I would hurt his cappucinos and his lattes. I don't hurt, I help. I help not hurt, not hurt...not hurt!"

"Then leave Casey alone," Zeke said quietly. He was managing, for now, to regulate his speculation as to how much of this man's blathering was fantasy or whether there was a kernel of truth to it. Thomas might never have spoken to Casey; if he had been hanging around this neighbourhood as he was apparently doing, he would have had plenty of opportunity to watch Casey coming and going, without Casey ever knowing it.

"We talk, we don't look or think. Casey-Treasure says 'Who are you are you one of them?' over and over." Thomas tilted his head, showing all of his teeth in his next smile while he bounced in place. It appeared that he had far more energy than he could keep in check. "He's really very disturbed-disturbed-perturbed you know you know like I would ever be one of them, poor treasure, so mixed up."

This was beginning to feel more and more like a nightmare. "You and Casey..."

"Oh, yeah. I see him, we talk-talk." The grin was knowing. "Some things need to be talked about, tower-man."

At that point Zeke shut down every reaction, because it was either that or start raging. "What?"

"Maybe he's your treasure but you need to let him talk you can't just look at him and run your hands through him...pretty-pretty, gotta play, gotta touch, pretty- pretty..."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Zeke ground out, while he was afraid that he knew all too fucking well what Thomas meant.

Perhaps alerted by the tone in Zeke's voice, Thomas ceased his bouncing for the moment. "It's hard not to touch sometimes, hard not to..."

Zeke snarled, "I don't know what you're talking about and I'm walking away — but you stay away from Casey and me."

He took the first step away from this mad person and was stopped by a hard, firm grip on his shoulder and a clear, intact sentence: "It's hard not to touch when he asks you."

His mind eradicated of everything but fury, Zeke spun, breaking Thomas' hold, and with a roar pushed him back into the wall of the nearby building. Thomas slammed into the brick with a nearly audible thump. Not satisfied with this, Zeke raised a clenched fist — and just barely managed to keep from using it. "You get the fuck away from me. Don't ever come back here. If I see you around Casey, I'll kill you."

Thomas had stopped smiling. "I am sorry," he said, trembling with something that incorporated both sorrow and violence. "I just wanted to help."

Zeke was beyond accepting any demonstrations of remorse. "Fuck you."

The man nodded but Zeke saw a renewal of danger in his slitted expression. It occurred to Zeke that he had just narrowly avoided getting into a real brawl on the streets of Seattle. There were no less than three people hovering nearby, standing back in the hope of not having to intervene but concerned to see the outcome. "Yes, I will fuck off now quite naturally..." The grin broke out again. "I will fuck off, will fuck off, off I fuck...fuck..." He meandered away, leaving Zeke heaving with panic. The spectators got out of his way in a hurry.

Zeke brushed off the inquiries of the well-meaning and set out for home but almost immediately lost track of where he was walking, lost track of everything but those words...It's hard not to touch...pretty pretty...hard not to touch when he asks...I see him, we talk... He stalked right past his building, barely feeling the sidewalk, not seeing anything but the dreadful, until-a-few-minutes-ago-unthinkable pictures that crowded his head...Casey on his back with that man on top of him...or on his knees...or in their bed, and from a logistical perspective, it easily could have happened, Casey had all sorts of time and Thomas Kirton was very attractive. No doubt his insanity made him just that little bit more appealing to Casey. So he had all sorts of time and opportunities to make an idiot out of Zeke, make him stupid, make him weak...It was Casey abusing himself to the point of breakdown to get revenge on Zeke, it was just more of the same where Zeke was being Mr. Restraint and Casey was fucking around. Zeke had fucking had it, he didn't want to be a part of it anymore. He was through being a chump.

Eventually he realized that the liquor store was his destination; he found himself there almost without having made a conscious decision. Going in, he picked up a forty of vodka. He had found his purpose for tonight.

Once he was home, he sat down to systematically empty the bottle. He would not call the Connor residence as he had the previous nights. Casey could chew his nails, throw a fit, fuck Sasha or Gabe or some guy off the street if he liked. Zeke was not calling.

There had been a time when he was in control. When he chose to order his mother out of the house, when he chose to fail at school, when he chose to sell drugs...or later on when he chose to finish high school, it might have seemed like he had sold out but the fact was that he had chosen everything, right up until he walked willingly into Casey's domain. Before that no one, man or woman, had gotten the drop on him because he had learned his lesson about emotions at an early age. He was clear and free of all that garbage; he was his own person. No one needed him and he needed no one.

Now he was murdering several million brain cells because some person — a mere person, an ordinary human being who just happened to be easy to look at and occasionally fun to be with although it was getting difficult to remember the last time fun had been anywhere in evidence — had lied to him.

It was his own fucking fault for fucking letting it happen. At some point he had stopped seeing Casey and started seeing something so precious that he would organize his choices around the prospect of getting a smile on that face. He had given more of himself than he'd ever given in his life; he had given Casey his opinion about what was best, he had fought with him and gotten afraid and angry and irrational over the fucking aliens because he cared so much about Casey's well-being — and then Casey just ignored him. Oh, yeah, Casey liked to act all willing and submissive but at any moment he could and would go his own way and to hell with everything that Zeke had tried to do for him until the next time he needed to be held, or he needed a fuck.

This was not the love of his life — because there was no such thing. There was no such thing as an emotion that never changed and this was not some grand, gay romance. This was him being manipulated and used, a thing that he had sworn when he was twelve years old would never happen to him again. He'd watched as his mother pulled all sorts of crap on his father and for years his father had let her get away with it. He'd known that he absolutely was not going to be that way — and eleven years later, here he was.

So okay, he would grant that he was the product of his upbringing and like anyone he could fall back into the old patterns. It was correctable, at least. The solution was obvious: He would not be with Casey anymore. They could still be friends, once his wrath had cooled a little. He would still care for Casey because they had a connection and he was just that kind of guy. But he couldn't be with him.

He would tell Casey tomorrow. No need to beat around the bush.

He passed out before he could finish the bottle and it occurred to him, when he woke up later with vomit cascading down his front, that this was probably a good thing. As it was, he had drunk enough to be well and truly fucked; he had to drag himself to the bathroom while barely controlling the heaves and drape himself over the toilet. The puking went on and on until there was nothing left in him and he was lying, drained, on the bathroom floor. He forced himself to drink two glasses of water and swallow three Tylenol before stripping to his underwear and passing out again.

The next time he woke up, he came to the understanding that it might actually be possible to die from a hangover. His stomach muscles ached from all the heaving he had done last night and his skull seemed to have shrunken so that it was squeezing the contents; if he moved, his brain would explode like a grape. Food was out of the question, of course. He lay flat on his back for hours, contemplating the ceiling, learning the various, faint striations and discolourations in the paint.

Mid-morning, the phone rang; he knew it was Casey calling in a frenzy but he just couldn't make himself move. However, he was struck by the fact that he actually wanted to speak to Casey, to just hear his voice. It was probably more due to habit than any real desire — but then, reviewing his behaviour of the previous night, he wondered if he might have overreacted a tad. Or maybe more than a tad. So what if that Thomas had implied something, it didn't have to mean what Zeke had immediately assumed it meant. Thomas Kirton was a mentally ill person who had probably seen both Zeke and Casey on the street, who had started spouting words just because Zeke was within earshot and it suited his hallucination of the moment. It had been terribly unjust, not to mention irrational of Zeke to jump to such conclusions.

He could put his overreaction down to having been extremely fatigued — but it wasn't just that. His essential epiphany was not incorrect: Being in love was making him nuts. Which was fine, he supposed, except that he could have damaged Casey severely as a direct consequence. He was no romantic who believed in the purity of love, but there was something about the prospect of harming someone out of love for them that offended his notions of consistency and common sense.

And so, for the first time he allowed himself to conceive of the impossible while in a serious and sober mind, of not being with Casey.

Solely as a concept, it had a lot going for it. There was no question that he would always be Casey's friend. He would always support him and be there for him but if they were not together he could retreat to a more sane distance that would be better for both of them. It didn't have to be permanent, and it would be so much healthier. For his own part, Zeke would like himself a lot more when he wasn't flipping out over random events such as the rantings of a homeless person, or Casey choosing to do what Casey thought was best — which he was of course completely entitled to do. Zeke could concentrate on actually helping Casey without all the complications engendered by his own emotional demands. He'd promised Casey his help and, if he was going to be successful in keeping that promise, he must no longer indulge himself in this big experiment with romance.

Not very long ago, Casey had entrusted him with a secret. Casey had been stoned on sedatives at the time but Zeke wasn't going to let that detract from the magnitude of that act of confidence. And Zeke now had an immense and terrible task ahead of him: To convince — compel, if necessary — Casey to talk about that trauma. Ideally it should happen with Dr. Yves but to accomplish this Zeke would first have to get Casey to talk about it with him. Unfortunately, there were huge obstacles in the form of Christmas, New Year's and the wedding in Los Angeles, things that inevitably deterred Zeke from making that happen. When their mutual social calendar cleared up a bit, that difficult conversation would be the first priority. It would cause major turmoil to be sure, but the essential and critical factor was that Zeke keep his head clear and his motives pure. Meanwhile, the evidence clearly showed that ever since he had fallen for Casey, his head had been anything but clear, and his motives far from pure.

So given that reasoning, they should "just be friends" from here on in.

On the other hand, a straight objective inquiry revealed that Zeke's vital statistics went ballistic at the prospect of losing Casey. If that happened, Zeke would have to work out a way to ensure that if Casey was not with him, Casey was not with anyone else either. It would be a tricky, difficult business. No doubt, if Casey survived the break-up, Yves would advise him to see other people, and chances were reasonably good that other people would want to see him. Zeke couldn't have that.

Of course, these considerations were little more than an intellectual exercise once you took into account Casey's expected reaction if he and Zeke were no longer together. In theory separation could be healthy, sure, but Casey tended to burst most of Zeke's theories.

When the phone rang a second time, Zeke made a supreme effort to get to it. He had a brief, curt conversation with Sasha, who told him that Casey had gone shopping with Delilah, of all things. He promised to call later then collapsed again, and this time he had the foresight to bring the cordless phone with him so he wouldn't have to get up again.

It was a hellish day but by six o'clock he finally was able to eat. He ordered a pizza and dragged himself to the fridge, saying a prayer of thanks to the Gods of The Hangover for having given him the prescience to stock up on orange soda and coke after Sasha left town. Once he had gulped down a gallon of sugary, cool liquid, he was ready to call the Connor residence.

It was Casey who answered; he must have been lurking around the phone, waiting to pounce. "Hello?"

And two syllables from an adored mouth had the power to rearrange Zeke's mental infrastructure. The not being with Casey premise was instantly downgraded from unlikely to impossible. Also, he'd been thinking that the next time he had Casey on the phone he was at least going to demand an explanation for the things Thomas had said, but now that he was in a position to ask, his will started to go to mush, compromised by the pleasing sound of Casey's voice.

"It's...it's me," Zeke said weakly.

"I tried to call you today...wh-why didn't you call last night?"

"Sorry, Case. I was...stupid." Yeah, that was true enough. "I decided to get drunk...to celebrate the end of term, you know, and I ended up passing out."

"Oh."

"I paid for it, though. I was in major fucking pain today."

"Oh...sorry."

"It's my own fault. I heard you went shopping with Delilah — how was that?"

"Okay."

Casey wasn't saying much, and Zeke knew it was incumbent upon him to make amends for last night's behaviour. "What else did you do today?" he asked, cringing at the sound of himself trying to make idle conversation.

"Not very much. I was freaking out all day."

"Case...it was one phone call, why let that get to you?"

"Because, you know...I just...miss you."

"You know that sometimes things are going to happen and I won't be able to call...it doesn't have to mean anything."

"I know...I'm trying...Zeke, will you call tomorrow? I know I'm just being crazy but I start thinking all these things and I can't stop — "

"Hey. It's okay. I'm not going anywhere."

As he said it, Zeke came to a humbling realization: It was quite possible that no matter what shit Casey pulled, what he did to Zeke or who he slept with, Zeke would still want to be with him.

"Kay."

"Except to Herrington, of course," Zeke mused, breaking off as the doorbell rang. "There's my pizza...I gotta go, Case."

"Okay...talk to you tomorrow."

Hanging up, Zeke scarfed the whole pizza and guzzled another gallon of soda. All the while, he pondered the probability that, despite his best efforts, he was becoming his father. Even worse — knowing it wasn't enough to stop it.

As he soaked up the exceedingly pleasant warmth of the Connor home and removed his boots and coat, Zeke wondered if it were not too late to save himself. Perhaps he was not entirely weakened, not yet. Certainly weakness could not be his main problem, not when he'd managed to survive almost an entire month without sex other than with his own hand.

One thing for sure — abstinence was a learning experience. For instance, he'd learned that he could hold grudges better than most folks. Also that he was capable of the worst kind of unreason and that it could be disguised all too easily as logic. Mainly, he'd learned that he was not immune to those flaws of human nature that afflicted other people, and he needed to be wary of himself. He had serious control issues, yes, and he was inherently capable of being just as angry, jealous and petty as any other guy. Possibly more.

For another thing, he hadn't quite realized that he had been going around resenting Casey for depriving him of his sex life; it was immensely unfair of him and he'd only realized it on Christmas Eve when he was tested and just barely passed. When Casey lead him on all night and then disappointed him, his initial response had been How dare he? And when, later on, Casey was intent on not disappointing him, there had been a few terrible seconds in which there was no consciousness of anything except what Zeke Tyler wanted. Nothing else was of the slightest relevance to him and the only reason he'd pushed Casey away, initially, was the desire to assert his authority over the situation. It had been his plan to grab him and mash him into the couch, to turn the situation around so it was entirely on his own terms. Casey had been entirely right about that.

The only thing that had stopped him from diving back into Casey at that moment was the needy sound that Casey had made. It brought back some vestige of reason, and fear too, because Zeke apprehended that he felt just as Casey sounded, and he was not supposed to be the needy one, he was supposed to be the one who had some kind of self-possession.

"I'm going to go warm up the leftovers," Sasha announced, breaking into Zeke's ruminating. Zeke glanced over at him and saw him looking afflicted at the prospect of more turkey and potato and gravy.

"What's wrong with leftovers? Turkey's better the second day anyway."

"Yeah," Sasha agreed. "But I just know I'm going to make a pig of myself again is all." Noticing that that Zeke had put a foot on the stairs, he added, "Are you going to — ?"

"Sasha," Zeke interrupted, pausing in mid-step.

"Yes?"

"Don't nag."

"Oh, but I can't help it."

"Try."

Zeke climbed the stairs and knocked on Casey's door. There was no answer so he knocked again, harder. "Case...it's me."

There was a shuffling and a rustling, and then Casey opened the door. He had never looked quite so much like a person with secrets; Zeke felt the flutter of suspicion and stomped on it. He couldn't actually be so preposterous now that he suspected Casey of having a man stashed under his bed or in his closet. What a paradox that after all this time, after all the intimacy between them, Casey still could appear as a stranger to him. This had to be a conundrum that had outfoxed many millions throughout recorded human history; it was the mistake of thinking that just because someone let you inside their body, they were known to you.

"Can I talk to you?"

Casey stepped back, not saying a word.

Zeke penetrated the room in two strides and sat on the bed, leaving Casey standing near the door.

"What?" Casey asked suddenly, in a small voice. His hands moved, wavering uneasily before settling on his upper arms. Pretending not to notice his anxiety, Zeke patted the bed beside him. Casey drifted a little closer but didn't sit.

"Just tell me, Case. Are you up for a trip to Los Angeles?"

Another thing about Casey these days was that he seemed to get angry with the greatest of ease. "I told you," he said, his face shouting hostility. "I told Sasha. I'm tired of telling everyone."

"I know, Case, and I'm sorry to keep asking. But I have to say this...You don't have to do it if you don't want to. Nothing bad will happen if you don't, I won't be mad."

Casey was rocking in place very slowly, as though he were straining to hear distant music. He said, "I want to be there for you."

"I know you do."

"It's your father, you can't tell me it doesn't mean anything."

Zeke considered saying just that — except he knew that Casey wouldn't buy it. They'd had this discussion already, months ago. "Okay, it does mean something, and having you there would mean something too. It would mean a lot — but I'll settle for doing the right thing, Casey. I just need you to tell me what that is."

"It's what you want."

"No, it isn't, not necessarily."

"But Zeke — "

"No, it doesn't matter, Case — don't you get it?!" Zeke didn't even realize he was getting angry until he found himself on his feet. "What I want is not at all relevant, I think that's been clear for a while now so just tell me you can't do this and let's get on with things!"

Casey stood rooted to a spot on the carpet, eyes huge and bruised. He tightened his arms over his chest and said, "I can do it. I want to do it. I'm going with you." He blinked several times, dissipating emotion and moisture through his lashes. "I mean...please let me go with you."

So it was an impasse; Zeke had known it when arguing with Sasha earlier and this conversation was the reiteration. The only option was to concede and let things unfold while doing everything possible to sustain Casey. "Okay," Zeke said, letting his voice soften. "Yes, I want you with me. Let's go to Los Angeles..."

"Thank you," Casey gulped.

"You don't have to thank me, Case, I'm the one who should thank you. The wedding's going to be incredibly dull, I'm sure."

Casey shook his head — in denial of what, Zeke couldn't quite ascertain. Hesitating only for a second, Zeke crooked a finger and gestured for him to come closer. He opened his arms and sighed as the slight, pleasing warmth that was Casey curled in against his chest. Predictably, Casey was trembling but perhaps much less than he would have two months earlier. Zeke stroked and toyed with his hair, daring to think that maybe, just maybe, this trip wouldn't be a complete disaster.

The new medication did seem to be having a marked effect. Not only was Casey physically much healthier, he seemed not nearly as agitated about things in general. He was more talkative, he had either taken pleasure in the Christmas activities or done a really good job of pretending, and he'd even demonstrated the capacity for restraint. He couldn't be faulted for losing perspective that one time, not when Zeke had long since forgotten what perspective looked like. Most encouraging, Casey hadn't had a panic attack that Zeke knew of, not since the bad one a few weeks back. Not a real one anyway — bad dreams didn't count. And Casey hadn't assaulted anyone lately. Sasha could be overestimating the potential risk in the situation. It had been known to happen.

"So what do you want to see in Los Angeles?" Zeke asked, plying his fingers against the back of Casey's neck. "Hollywood Boulevard? The Chinese Theatre?"

"Maybe," Casey said, his voice muffled against Zeke's sweater. His fingers were clasped in it, grasping and releasing handfuls of it.

"We're going to have time to do some tourist things."

"Yeah..."

Zeke had to ask himself just what it was about Los Angeles that most disturbed Casey. He guided Casey and himself to sit on the bed with only a slight stumble, keeping Casey attached to him — ah, well, so he loved it when Casey tucked himself in as close as he could get, he loved that Casey still clung to him.

"Case."

"Mmm."

"Can you tell me what it is that makes you so nervous about this trip?"

There was no answer. If Casey's face had not been buried, Zeke would have been looking to see what it was projecting right now — probably disgust at being asked such an obvious question.

"Is it just that it's new," Zeke pressed, "or is it the size...or something in particular about L.A.?"

"Yes."

Zeke had to chuckle. "Would you say that's an exhaustive list, or is there more?"

"Yes."

"Wanna tell me?"

Casey's breath quickened slightly. "I...guess."

Zeke waited. When nothing was forthcoming, he gave Casey a bit of a jostle. "Hello? Earth to fruit loop."

"Okay, okay..." Casey parted his face from Zeke's torso. "You shouldn't make that shoulder so cozy if you want me to talk." He looked away, towards the window. "It's all that stuff and...and...I don't want to screw up again."

"You got through the dinner with my dad just fine."

"But your birthday..."

Zeke scrabbled for something honest to say that was also comforting. "That's past. Stuff happened, it's over, it's not going to happen again."

This in a tiny voice: "What if it does?"

"I don't think it will. It was almost a month ago, Casey, and since then nothing has happened."

"Because I've been here."

"Because you've been working at it — and you were only here half of the time. C'mon, Case, you telling me you feel like attacking someone else?"

"What if I said yes?" Casey whispered.

Zeke's tentative optimism died on the spot. So during this entire trip he was going to have to watch Casey constantly, keep him away from most people and run interference for him with those who couldn't be avoided...he was weary just at the thought.

"Okay," he said, as lightly as he could manage, "But the important thing is that you don't do it. I have urges to punch people all the time...and I'll bet your dad would love to punch me."

This won a tiny smile from Casey. "It's that bad attitude of yours."

"Hey...I think I've been pretty respectful on this visit."

"Yeah...you have."

"I've been saving all the attitude for Sasha," Zeke mused, and felt regretful.

"It's not funny, though," Casey said. "I'm the problem, I make you and Sasha unhappy so you argue...but it'll be so much better when we — when we can be together, just the two of us." Zeke had been oblivious to the fact that he was being seduced until this moment when Casey went for the kill with all his guns blasting, eyes shimmering, voice tremulous and needy. "Sasha won't be around after tomorrow..."

"Whoa, stop." Zeke took hold of Casey's hands and squeezed them hard in the hope of halting that flow of words. "Stop."

"But you know it will help, we don't need to wait — "

"Casey, shh." Zeke tried to pull him in and rock him, feeling like an idiot all the while. He wished he knew how Sasha could always do this with such an absence of self-consciousness. "Stop it."

"But I — "

"I know you can control yourself, Casey. You did before."

"Sasha was watching." Casey propelled himself backwards, out of Zeke's arms. Sullen and desperate at the same time, he said, "I don't know how to...not lose control."

"You just don't."

Casey shook his head, hissing, "I don't know how. And don't tell me it's just another few days because a few days is too fucking long!"

Whatever Casey had intended with this, Zeke heard a very clear, very real warning, and he suddenly knew the answer to Sasha's question of just half an hour ago. He and Casey would not be having sex in Los Angeles, nor any time soon. More to the point, Casey really should be going home with Sasha tomorrow but Zeke couldn't admit that out loud. He wanted Casey with him and only him, even if it was going to be hell.

The current of sinister energy that animated Casey from time to time had already run its course, leaving him limp and regretful. His posture devolved to an abject slump and he didn't speak another word — neither of temptation, nor anger, nor even apology. It had all been said before.

Zeke said quietly, "I have an idea. Let's not make assumptions about how things should be in Los Angeles, we'll just let it be whatever it is, all right?"

The noise that Casey made then was probably intended as a laugh, albeit rather obscured by tears. "You and Yves...sometimes I think you're the same person." Zeke wasn't sure that he liked the comparison. "I just don't want you to make it harder on yourself. You don't need to...I just want you with me."

At this, the bright, bitter quality in Casey's eyes melted into a more common species of misery. "I want to be with you too."

Acting entirely on impulse, Zeke took Casey's hand and, holding it palm up, pressed a kiss into it. "I do love you," he said. "Don't forget it."

Casey said, "I won't," but he wasn't meeting Zeke's eyes, and Zeke didn't remember ever having felt quite so unsettled, unsafe, or altogether unhappy.

December 27th. Sasha is leaving today and Zeke hates me.

Casey rested his forehead on the page and fought down the urge to fill the page with black blobs. He shivered and scrunched his body backwards a few inches under the sheets, curling around his hands. How pleasant it would be to huddle here with the blankets over his head, abiding all day in a dim, private silence. It was a plan that made a fuck of a lot of sense but unfortunately everyone else in the house was already up. They were getting ready to take Sasha to his train and they'd come looking for Casey soon enough.

Sighing, he unfurled and returned to his journal, lying open on the mattress just on the other side of his pillow. He wrote lying on his stomach, while hugging the pillow under his chin.

Okay, maybe Zeke doesn't hate me yet but things still aren't right between us. It's me, I'm the sickness. I don't blame him for wanting to keep me at a distance, I'm telling myself not to hurt him but I know I will. Once Sasha leaves there'll be nothing to stop me.

"Hey, pal."

Casey lifted his head and saw his dad standing in the doorway.

"Yeah, Dad."

"Are you dressed? We're leaving for the station soon."

"I'll be right there," Casey said, shivering in anticipation of losing the warmth of his bed; their house could be a little chilly in the mornings, especially this room. He made haste to layer on the clothing — two t-shirts, a long-sleeved shirt and a sweater, two pairs of socks, even long underwear.

Downstairs, Zeke and Sasha were sitting with his parents at the kitchen table. His mother wore the grieving face that was always associated with the last day of vacation but he thought that his dad still had a few days left. As on most mornings, Zeke was looking groggy and cranky, not like anyone who was in a mood to communicate. Sasha was having some toast and coffee, and given his drawn expression and the shadows beneath his eyes he must not have slept very well. He welcomed Casey with a wan smile. "Hi, kitten."

Casey nodded, because he was afraid that if he spoke he would say something impossible like Please don't go, don't leave me here, I want to go home with you which was ridiculous because he was supposed to go on an adventure with Zeke tomorrow and he was supposed to be happy about it. He was supposed to be ecstatic, in fact.

I will be with Zeke...I will be with Zeke...have to be...

"Are you feeling okay?" Sasha asked him.

Something about the way it was asked triggered a memory of last night when he had been struggling through a dream of dark muck and there was a voice: It's okay, Casey, it's okay, stop kitten please, you're safe. And he, Casey, had been crying at the time. He remembered hearing himself now; he had sounded inconsolable.

His face burned as he said, "I'm...oh-okay."

"How about some breakfast?" his mom asked of him.

"There's no time right now," interposed his dad before he could reply. "We have to be going. You are coming with us, right, pal?"

"Yeah." Casey glanced at Sasha and felt like crying in the daylight now, or maybe screaming.

But he didn't cry and he didn't scream. He followed the crowd to his dad's car and joined Sasha and Zeke in the back seat. It was not a satisfying arrangement for those who were long-legged but it was fine for Casey. Sandwiched between them, he was in sensory overload, accepting input from two men who felt and looked and smelled exactly as they should. Houses and street signs floated past him, along with the other little details that were so perfectly known and recognizable but were somehow hostile to him.

At the corner of Front and Bay, he admitted it to himself: He wished he was getting on this train with Sasha. He was terrified of being without Zeke, yes, but he was certain to fall apart without Sasha — and once he fell apart, Bad Stuff would be the inevitable result.

He grabbed Sasha's hand, as if that would keep him from going anywhere. Sasha squeezed back and said, "It's okay, kitten."

"Wh-where are the — the Xanax?" Casey blurted.

"Zeke has them."

"Oh."

He kept holding Sasha's hand until they were at the train station. Upon arrival, they all got out of the car and his dad went to the back to unload Sasha's three suitcases from the trunk. Sasha didn't travel light; it was just one of those qualities that was either endearing or annoying depending on who you asked.

As the luggage was hefted from the trunk, Casey reached for a suitcase but Zeke snatched it out from under him, and Sasha already had the other two. "I can carry one," Casey said.

"That's okay, kitten — "

"I'm not a fucking cripple!"

His father reared back in shock. "Casey!" his mother exclaimed from a few feet away.

Zeke and Sasha just shared a look, not bothering to disguise it, and Sasha offered Casey the smaller of the two suitcases. Casey took it without looking at anyone and moved himself and the heavy piece of luggage into the train station as quickly as he could manage. Once he was out of the cold air he felt slightly less temperamental; he turned to face Sasha and Zeke, formulating his apology. His parents were just behind them, still looking a bit shell-shocked.

"Well," said his mom, a bit too briskly. "I think we'll say good-bye here and go wait in the car."

"Oh," Sasha said. "Well, then...Thank you, Frank...Allison...It was truly a wonderful holiday and I'm very grateful."

Casey's mom and Sasha shared a hug imbued with all their usual, easy affection. "You're welcome," Casey's mom said. "You're always welcome."

Sasha actually looked humbled, something that happened only rarely. "So we'll see you in Seattle at the end of January," he said.

"Yep," Casey's dad agreed with enthusiasm, no doubt at the prospect of attending the football game. He presented a handshake that was considerably warmer than what he had once offered to Sasha.

With another round of waves and goodbyes, Casey's parents left the train station. Then, while Sasha went to the counter to buy his ticket, Zeke directed Casey in the project of rounding up a trolley for the luggage. With the trolley and luggage secured, they found a relatively discrete space against a wall, where Casey could view most of the people in the station at the same time. When Sasha returned, the three of them stood there awkwardly together for a few minutes. There was nothing left to do but to say good-bye.

Sasha turned to Zeke first. "Have a great time in L.A."

"Yeah, sure."

Eyes narrowing, Sasha said, "Take care of him."

"Thanks for the tip."

Sasha shook his head slightly. He turned to Casey and almost got as far as a hug, hesitated, then said, "Can I talk to you privately for a second, kitten?"

Zeke puffed and shifted his weight. "Haven't you said everything ten times already?"

"Maybe I feel like saying it again," Sasha returned smoothly. He steered Casey away from Zeke, taking him just out of earshot.

"Sasha," Casey mumbled right away. "Sorry to be such a hag."

"Never mind." Sasha's long fingers touched Casey's face; he flinched before he could help himself and Sasha's hand fell away. "Tell me again. You're sure you want to go on this trip."

From a few feet away, Zeke's glower was palpable, the message shouting from him: Get on that fucking train, Sasha.

Casey steeled himself and answered, "Yes, Sasha."

"All right," Sasha said. "Kitten, I'm sorry if it seems like I don't believe in you — I do, you know." He looked up at the skylight overhead, obviously lying and fighting tears himself. "I don't know what I'm so worried about...you're way tougher than me. Just, please...remember what Dr. Chakri said about...taking care of yourself...and if you want to talk to me, you call me, no matter what the time."

"Okay."

"And don't forget to do your homework — I know you'll be having far too much fun hunting down the homes of the stars, but try to remember."

"Yes, Sasha."

"And don't forget to eat."

As he was expected to, Casey scowled.

Sasha's grin looked more like a grimace. "I'll see you in a week." He tilted his head. "There's my train, they're calling..." Casey hadn't even heard the announcement. He flung himself at Sasha, holding on with all his strength. Sasha seemed to be holding onto him just as tightly — but then suddenly he pushed him back and said, "Oh, fuck it, I can't do this upbeat thing right now. Just be okay, kitten."

"I will," Casey said.

He wished that he believed it. He wished that he wasn't such a liar.

They returned to where Zeke was waiting and smoldering. Sasha leaned in and extracted a quick hug from Zeke, just wrapping his arm around Zeke's neck and squeezing once before letting go. He canted a final look Zeke's way, one that could only be considered a warning, then grabbed his trolley. "Bye, kitten. Bye, Zeke. See you in a week or so."

He walked away with a tense set to his shoulders. Stifling the mad urge to run after him, Casey watched until he turned a corner and could no longer be seen. Something touched his shoulder; he whipped around, belatedly bringing Zeke into focus. Zeke held up his hands briefly. "Ready to go?" he asked.

Casey nodded, and fell in beside him.

The next item on the morning's agenda was to drop off Casey's mom at her work. She was the office manager at a local insurance firm, and had been for the last fifteen years. Prior to that she'd been an administrative assistant at that same firm. She'd never worked anywhere else, other than selling popcorn at the Odeon Theatre when she was a teenager. Casey remembered, years ago, wondering how she could ever stand everything being exactly the same, day in and day out. He'd wondered the same about his dad, who had worked for twenty-two years selling flooring. He'd almost been contemptuous of them but he was getting his just reward for that attitude now.

Once Casey's mom had been delivered to her office the three of them were homeward bound and there was now a vast wasteland of time looming before Casey that he didn't know how to manage. With each block that passed he was more hunched and more tense in his seat. He could almost taste hysteria rising in him, ready to burst its chemical bonds, clamouring for an act of degradation. Far too soon they were back at his house, the three of them standing just within the front door and the grotesque pressure was pressing against the back of his throat. He looked over at Zeke who was standing there in the front hall looking back at him and he very nearly said something that would have driven his father screaming from the room, something like Don't let me be empty anymore, help me, fuck me now, there's nothing to stop you.

Words tumbled from his lips nonetheless, tripping out, increasing speed as they fell. "S-so what — what should we do today, Zeke?"

They could have been harmless words except that he was switched on; he heard the demand, the invitation in his voice, and he knew that Zeke heard it too. Even his father must have heard something in that tone, for he shot a troubled look at them.

Zeke licked his lips once and said, "I don't know...get packed for tomorrow, hang out. I'll go for a walk with you if you want."

"Nah..." Sasha don't be gone why did you leave why didn't you insist...you know I can't, I can't, fucking help me I can't stop "...It's too cold." Casey found his eyes travelling slowly, making a map of Zeke's body, planting themselves on Zeke's crotch while he added softly, "You can help me pack if you want, though."

"I — don't know," Zeke said, clearing his throat.

"You know how I am." Casey thought he saw a growth, a swelling outline of Zeke's cock under his clothes. Branding himself as hopeless, he let his voice degenerate to a purr. "I'm a total sl-l...slob."

"I'm sure you can manage on your own."

"Oh, no. I need your help."

Zeke was shaking his head but he couldn't seem to not stare either. "Later, Case."

"When?"

"Much later." Turning away from Casey, Zeke said to his father, "Frank, do you think we might borrow your car — ?"

Casey felt a shudder go through him, a thrill that began in this stomach and shot instantly down into his cock...oh, yes, Zeke was just concerned about what his father would think but he was going to give Casey what he needed, he had to —

"Where are you going?" Casey's dad asked.

"Just for brunch...I thought," Zeke added, raising his brows in inquiry at Casey.

For a long second, Casey couldn't think past a haze of rage — but he hadn't lasted these almost-twenty years without learning that he could wait if he had to, so he shrugged his agreement.

Zeke went on, "I'll just call around and see who wants to join us...if it's okay."

Casey's dad was still frowning but evidently couldn't think of a reason to refuse. "Okay...I guess so."

"Thanks. I'll fill the tank up."

"Oh...well, that's good." With a final, uneasy look, Casey's dad said, "I'll be in my den..."

Zeke wandered into the kitchen to find the phone; Casey trailed after him, taking a seat nearby at the dinner table. Zeke picked up the handset, then put it down and considered Casey. "I just realized...I'm not sure where we're going," he said slowly.

"The Jam," Casey said, because it was obvious.

"I wasn't sure if we should go there."

"Why wouldn't we go there?" Casey heard himself sounding irritated and didn't care. It's for you, isn't it? It's all for you...and maybe after, you'll finally be willing to do something for me. "It's your favourite and we are leaving town tomorrow."

"But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Yeah," Zeke insisted. "What do you want?"

"Zeke, I don't care. You're the breakfast king."

Zeke's eyes suggested that he was scanning the comment for insult. "The last time we were there was not very pleasant for you."

"I hardly remember," Casey retorted. "We can go there." He dropped into his most sensual register, aware that it would needle Zeke even further. "You know you want to."

Zeke's expression tightened. "Fine, then."

It turned out that Stokely had already returned to Seattle, but Stan was still around; upon calling his house, Zeke learned that he wasn't leaving until this afternoon, and moreover, was happy to fill his last few hours in Herrington with brunch. Delilah was at work but was willing to take early lunch and meet them at eleven.

"Do you want to drive?" Zeke asked Casey as they were heading back to the car.

Casey shook his head. "No, I like it when you drive."

Zeke came to a sudden halt. Standing on the walkway in front of their house, he said without even looking at Casey, "Is this what it's going to be like?"

"What...what'll be like?"

"I know you're nervous about Los Angeles but coming on to me isn't going to make anything easier."

"I'm not coming on to you, Zeke...and I'm not nervous about Los Angeles."

"Oh, no?"

"I'm..." Casey was now standing by the passenger side door, waiting for it to be unlocked. Fuck, but it was cold, and he wanted so much to be in Seattle, in his apartment, in his bed...or at least on his way there.

"You're what?"

"Never mind. Can you unlock the door, please?"

It was peaceful in the car for several bocks. Then, when they were almost at their destination, Zeke asked, "Case...are you sure — ?"

"Yes!" Casey exploded. "Fuck, yes, I want to, and why doesn't anyone believe me when I say I want to do something?"

Zeke shot back, "Who knows, maybe it's because it usually turns out that you're only doing it for me, not because you actually do want to?"

"I want to go to L.A. and I want to go to The Jam." Casey folded his arms. "I miss the pancakes."

After a moment of charged silence, Zeke snerked.

"Is something funny?" Casey snapped.

"Yeah. You are."

"I am not."

"Tell me you didn't intend that as a joke."

"I didn't. I don't make jokes."

Zeke snorted.

Casey would have said something else, but at that moment they were turning into the parking lot of The Jam. His vision snagged on the neon marquee, the old-fashioned diner style lettering and he instantly understood something that he hadn't understood before — that there was a difference between not remembering something and making oneself not remember. He had built a thin, brittle wall around certain past events, but with the physical setting laid out before him, the record of those minutes and hours burst through his pitiful barrier in an instant. The reel started turning and he was helpless to do anything but watch.

He knew he was sitting in a car staring at those glowing letters in daylight but at the same time he was half-naked and on foot with the letters a shimmering spangle of colour in the night sky, drawing him forward. He didn't feel at all like himself but it must have been him because there were impressions of pain, from his feet, his arm, his ass, pretty much his entire body. The rest of what he felt could be categorized as pain but the actuality was an emptiness so terrible that the word "pain" barely applied. He stumbled forward, falling and walking and crawling and thinking he might find help — find Zeke — in there.

"...all right? Case?"

Vinyl dash. Bright sunshine, faces in the diner window.

"Casey?"

He had found Zeke...no, Zeke was here and now, and now was four months later.

"Yes," Casey said thickly. "Sorry, I...my h-h-head hurts a bit."

He had to make an effort still, even though the reel was still spinning, images unfolding — Sasha gone, Sasha not here, mad at him, would never forgive him — shit, he couldn't...think straight...barely think — crooked all crooked, so filthy, so empty, so many people looking at him looking looking looking but why look when they knew him — fuck, he wasn't making any sense.

"Are you getting out of the car?"

In answer, he fumbled with the latch and the door. He thought he was doing fine but when he found his feet there was a solicitous wall of Zeke before him, reaching for him. He slapped the hands away and staggered into the restaurant, just like he had done before —

— just like before, when