#leo.writes

In the closet, he'll find a pair of boots that made Gob look like a clown if he put them on to step outside. Too big, too bulky. Too unwieldy on a frame built for precise dexterity.

In the kitchen, on the top shelf of a cabinet, he'll find a ceramic mug that Gob didn't use but refused to throw away. It's decorated in flowing clouds of red and black and green, painted carefully even though it chipped and flaked with age.

In the bathroom, tucked away from prying eyes, he'll find a second toothbrush. With it, a stick of deodorant and a tin of hair wax only half empty. It never managed to tame Gob's nest of wild blond, usually just made it worse.

Enjin stands behind the couch and breathes smoke until he tastes the filter burning, then snubs it out. One more butt in the tray by the door won't make a difference to anyone. He's rooted to the spot, like a step forward would be a step off a ledge he can't see yet.

It's so quiet.

Ridd told him, warned him, that he didn't have to come here, and he might have been right. The stagnant air feels distinctly wrong, like it doesn't belong between these walls any more than he does. This is supposed to be a place of light and music and art and Gob turning to face him with a stupid, crooked smile that's just started to pull at the corners of his eyes.

Instead, it's quiet. Dead, and it won't wake up for Enjin any more than Gob did. Pale light filtering through the blinds reminds him too much of still, bruised, stained fingers.

The lighter on the windowsill was technically Gob's, but he never used it. A few weeks back, he pressed it into Enjin's palm and told him, "This reminded me of you." It's a ridiculous thing, cheap plastic painted red with a cartoonish yellow dog on one side. The dog's eyes are huge and its tail is wagging. Stupid. He leans over and snatches it up, tucks it into his pocket, shaking his head.

His plan, poorly constructed as it may have been, was to clear out his fingerprints from this place. Maybe stow away some of Gob's more sentimental pieces, or try to guess what he'd have wanted him to keep. The increasingly obvious answer is that there's nothing left, not in any way that matters. Gob left his mark freely and permanently where it mattered, in paint and ink, on walls and ceilings, on Enjin's skin. What's still in this apartment is empty by comparison. Flat. Soulless.

He should've known.

His feet finally get with the program and carry him to the kitchen. He finds his mug where he left it, still chipped. And it is, he can admit to himself, his. Kept around and left behind for him. Gob's tag is scrawled across the bottom and if he focuses, he can almost visualize the practiced strokes he'd have used to put it there. More delicate than when he tags a wall, from the fingers instead of the shoulders, in marker instead of paint.

Sense tells him to leave it, let it go with the rest of the dead things in the dead space of a dead man, but he's never been good at listening to sense.

Standing in a spot of sunlight in Gob's kitchen on the day of his death, Enjin wraps his hand around cold ceramic like he has a thousand times before. Gob doesn't pour him an ambitious serving of coffee into it this time, or ask him how long he's sticking around, or talk his ear off about the mural he's dreaming up. The quiet is suffocating.

His feet carry him back the way he came, steadier than the rest of him, apparently. He locks the door behind him and leaves his key under the mat that proudly lies, "Welcome!" Stuffing the mug into his jacket pocket, swearing when it barely fits, he lights another smoke with the stupidass dog lighter that resembles him in no way whatsoever and breathes.

Abuela and Chris have begun to set the table, and Eddie steps in to help. He’s used to being relegated to things like this; that’s what happens when you’re infamous for a lack of cooking skills. Meanwhile, Buck makes a beeline for the counter, where Pepa presides over a roaring blender full of tomatillos and chiles.

“Oh, Pepa,” he exclaims over the noise. He beams like a kid on Christmas Eve, and it's just so goddamn adorable. “You didn’t.”

Buck loves this salsa, which is precisely why Pepa and Abuela make it every time he’s over for dinner. Eddie’s half-convinced that Buck would drink it straight from the blender, no chips necessary, if he could. Like, if someone gave him an entire batch all for himself and then left the room immediately—yeah, Eddie could see that happening.

“It’s nothing, Buck,” Pepa says. Her tone is no-nonsense, as usual, but Eddie can see the smile she’s trying to hide. “Ya sabemos que es tu favorito.”

Buck peers into the blender. “You still need the avocado, no?”

“And the cilantro and limes,” she says. “Grab them from the fridge, chamaco.”

“You got it, jefa.”

Abuela and Chris bring a stack of plates and napkins to the table; Eddie follows close behind with glasses and silverware. Buck weaves around them, pausing to give one of Chris’s curls a gentle tug. Once he reaches the fridge, he’s in there for thirty seconds, tops. He knows exactly what he needs, and he knows exactly where it is.

Buck navigates the space with ease; Eddie’s proud of it.

“Can I help with the salsa, too?” Chris asks.

Eddie meets Buck’s eyes over Chris’s head. Buck raises a brow: Is that okay? Eddie grins and gives a slight nod. Of course it is. Well, as long as Abuela doesn't mind.

“You done with the table, Chris?” Eddie asks.

Abuela waves a hand. “Está bien, Eddito. Si quiere ayudar con la cena, déjalo.”

“Then get over here, Superman,” Buck says, brandishing a bunch of cilantro with a flourish. “Here, wash this and give it to Tía Pepa, okay? Then you can help me squeeze the limes.”

Chris accepts the task with endearing solemnity. Cilantro is delicate, and he handles the leaves like he knows exactly how fragile they are. His palms, his fingers—they’re so small, still. Eddie glances down at his own. Had they ever been so tiny? Had they ever been so gentle?

And then he remembers, with stunning, startling clarity, the summer after Abuelito’s death.

He’d been—what, eight? Abuela had been planning to move to LA soon to stay with Pepa, but until then, Eddie had spent every spare moment by her side. He’d followed her like a shadow, like a duckling, while she bustled around preparing hominy for posole, sifting through bowls of dry pinto beans, roasting tomatoes and chiles and onions on the comal.

Abuela had tucked him beneath her arm, kissed his forehead—and then, one day, she asked if he wanted to help.

That kitchen, tiny and sun-drenched, was the first place Eddie ever truly felt like he belonged. Soft and warm, dim lights and familiar foods. Gentle hands and gentle voices, and a blend of languages that wrapped around him like a fuzzy blanket.

It hadn’t lasted long; Papi hadn't liked it, had told Mom, when he thought Eddie wasn’t listening, that it would make Eddie soft. Eddie had thought about the worn blue threads of his favorite blanket, Mom’s palm on his forehead when he had a fever. He’d thought about digging his fingers into a bowl of masa as Abuela and his tias rolled little balls and pressed them into tortillas.

Papi’s whispers had been jagged, harsh, like he was pushing his words out around shards of glass; but, back then, soft had sounded like a good thing to Eddie.

There’s a hand on his forearm; he jumps, startled.

“Eddie,” Buck says, low enough for just the two of them. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Eddie says, and he means it, too, except his voice cracks, and when he swallows, he tastes tears. He tries again. “I’m really okay. Just – thinking, I guess. Happy.” He gestures to Chris, still holding the cilantro with reverence. “I mean, look at him.”

“He’s pretty amazing,” Buck agrees. He glances sideways, like he thinks full-on eye contact will make Eddie spook or something. “His dad’s pretty amazing, too.”

Yeah, Eddie thinks, but doesn’t dare say. Right back at you.

“Buck, the limes!” Chris calls.

“Be right there, bud,” Buck says. He turns to Eddie and squeezes his shoulder. “You’re really okay?”

“I’m really okay,” Eddie repeats.

And he is. He is okay. The thing that paces and jitters behind his ribcage, settling heavy on his shoulders, swirling around inside his head—it calms, here. There’s something about the contentment in Pepa’s good-natured protests when Buck juggles the limes before depositing them on the cutting board, and the peace in Abuela’s soft smiles, and the joy in Chris’s pure delight at squeezing juice into the blender.

When dinner is over and the room has emptied, Eddie will step in and wash the dishes, the pots, the pans. He’ll pull out the plastic tupperwares and put the leftovers away while Abuela makes coffee. For now, four of his favorite people in the entire world are here, loving each other; what else is there for him to say?

“It wouldn’t be so different from fighting,” Joe says, as if that makes a single lick of sense.

Terry can only blink at him. “Are you serious? You've gotta be pulling my leg.”

“How come?” And really, Joe is very close. It does kind of feel like gearing up to fight, the way Terry can feel his pulse rabbiting in his chest.

“‘Cause I'm not gay, man,” he says.

“Hey, me neither,” makes even less sense. “You know I'm into girls, and into them, eh?”

“Jesus.”

“Seriously!” Joe insists. “I just thought it could be like… something different. You like a fight, right? A challenge?”

“Sure, but–” fighting isn't fucking, he can't quite spit out. Because Joe gets a hand in his hair, right by his scalp, fisted tight. The pain is grounding, even as he jerks and snarls against it.

“I wouldn't do it like this with a girl,” Joe says, pulling hard enough that Terry has to lean back into it. “But you and me? We can take some pain.”

It's nonsense. It almost makes sense. Terry's blood sings a familiar, adrenaline-laced tune when his back hits the wall. Wires must cross in his head, because what he says is, “Maybe.”

Joe's smirk goes sharp. “It'll be our little secret.” His teeth are sharp too, when they scrape along Terry's jaw. Sharper still when they find his lower lip and bite harder enough that he tastes blood.

Pain bursts bright and immediate. Copper mixed with whatever swill Joe was drinking earlier. Terry feels his pulse in his temples and across his scalp. “Shit. Alright.”

With that assent, he bites back at soft lips and digs his nails hard into Joe's hip. Then somehow it's a kiss. A rougher kiss than he's ever been dealt, like a punch in the mouth, but nevertheless a kiss. Joe grunts into it, wedging himself closer, and Terry surges to meet him.

Like a fight, he said. The buzzing under Terry's skin agrees. That's what life is, bending toward breaking points and pain that reminds him that he's still in this body. Joe's tongue is in his mouth and his fist is in his hair and his thigh is between Terry's, like pinning him to the gym mat.

———

One night, he meets a man who's only in town for the weekend. In an ill-fitting suit, he introduces himself as Jin. Jin agrees to a drink with him, then lets Terry buy him another three rounds. He watches Terry's hands, like he's studying them, then his lips as he takes unreserved shots of cheap liquor.

When Terry joins him for a smoke, he gets pulled into the back alley. Pushed down to his knees. Jin hard and hot in his mouth, rough enough to gag him. An itch scratched.

He chokes on it because he wants to feel it in the morning, when his lips are bruised and his throat aches. Jin is happy to accommodate that, fucking past his gag reflex and refusing to stop until his nose is buried in coarse curls. With involuntary tears in his eyes and a raging hard on trapped in his jeans, Terry swallows around him.

Then he swallows the rush of spend that coats his throat.

“This didn't happen,” Jin tells him as he tucks himself away.

“Obviously.” Pushing to his feet, Terry leans a shoulder against the wall. “You leaving now?”

To his credit, Jin hesitates. “Are you–”

“I'm good,” Terry interrupts. “Don't worry about it.”

“Fine, then.”

Alone, with his arm braced against the wall and his forehead braced against his arm, Terry strokes himself fast and rough until he finds release.

———

Bob kisses him gently. Too gently, like he might respect what they're doing. What this is. His hands frame Terry's jaw to hold him close while he softly, carefully coaxes his lips apart.

He doesn't push, so Terry does. Both palms to Bob's chest, hard enough that he staggers back. “What is it that you want?” he asks.

“You,” Bob says.

It doesn't hurt and it doesn't relieve the tension that cords stronger through Terry's shoulders every day, but it's something new. Bob yields to him. He's soft and pliant beneath him, and he lets Terry take him.

Even when the words are vulgar, his tone is affectionate. It feels to Terry like watching a stranger fuck his friend, some other man who's allowed to slow down and be gentle in bed, and who receives gentleness in turn. That can't be him.

Bob's body is warm.

Terry feels cold, somewhere deep in his chest.

———

After a couple months, it occurs to him that if he did what he's doing with Bob with a woman, he might call it dating. They don't call it that because they call it hanging out, and because it usually consists of grabbing food then gaming or shooting hoops.

And then fucking. Having sex. Whatever. Then spending the night instead of bailing as soon as everyone's sufficiently cleaned up. Then sometimes breakfast, if he doesn't work in the morning.

He's not sure what counts, or what Bob thinks. By the time he really considers his own feelings on it, he's surprised to find that the cold, aching shame he expected isn't part of it. Maybe that should be concerning, but it's also a relief.

Whatever they have, it's been good. Bob's company is always bright, they're competitive in their shared hobbies, and all the rest is a bonus. More than friends with benefits, less than love.

Dating, maybe, by the time Bob takes him dancing instead of hooping.

Dating, probably, by the time he has a spare toothbrush at Bob's apartment and vice versa.

Dating, certainly, by the time some jackass calls them a pair of faggots, or by the time that same jackass gets some friends and hunts them down. He and Bob win that fight, but go home rattled. Southtown's never been particularly kind to either of them, and it's not really surprising that it would throw this cruelty at them. Still, though.

———

He doesn't see Bob as much after that. They still hit the courts sometimes, or run into each other at Pao Pao, but they drift. There's no big breakup. None of their friends ever knew.

Life goes on, that pain as a reminder, and leaves Terry both changed and the same as ever.

———

He meets a stranger at a bar a long way from home. This stranger knows nothing about fighting but a lot about rope, and he's more than happy to demonstrate. Terry goes home with him and learns a few things about himself that he probably would've gotten to eventually, just slower.

The rope is good. It's rough on bare skin, tied too tight, with knots that threaten bruises. He squirms against them to make sure he can't free his wrists, and to feel them hurt.

The guy is fine. The sex is good. He fucks Terry hard and leaves his skin a mess of scratches and bite marks. His dick is big enough that it leaves a dull ache inside him that will last through at least the next day. When he finishes, he pulls out and paints Terry's back with it.

The next morning, back in his own room, Terry finds a wad of cash and a scrap of paper with an unfamiliar phone number scrawled on it. They're tucked in the pocket of his jacket. He leaves them, showers, and still feels dirty.

Pride screams that he should return the money – he's not that – but a new ache has joined the rest. Hunger gnaws at him, loud and angry for having been ignored, and he knows his wallet's light. Been a while since he found a stable job. So he pockets the cash and he doesn't think about it.

———

What he has with Mary is good, but when she decides to sit out a tournament, he goes ahead without her.

He meets Ken Masters, who reads as three existential crises in designer clothes. Still, the guy can fight. He can fight really damn well.

After the tournament, when everyone piles into the nearest bar, he seeks Terry out. The liquor Ken buys him is probably more expensive than Terry's apartment. Unsurprisingly, he talks a lot. About cars and Los Angeles, but also about training and fighting and his record against Ryu. And his master, or his father, or some old man he respects. And his own reputation back home.

The lot of it turns into white noise after a while, but Terry toughs it out. Ken keeps looking at his hands, so maybe there'll be some payout for his resilience.

Eventually, the offer comes, “Hey, you want to get out of here?”

Oddly, Ken brings him to a gym. It's closed, but he has a key, because of course he does.

“You looking to spar or something?” Terry asks around a laugh. He looks around for someone lurking in the shadows, waiting to jump out and reveal the joke.

But Ken says, “Yeah, why not? I saw you in the tournament, you're good. Winner takes all.”

The heat in his voice suggests that he means it, so sure.

They spar, and Terry even wins. Through blood on his teeth, he grins down at Ken Masters, flat on his back on the mat. Turns out he didn't mean winner takes all, but he lets Terry loom over him and work him to hardness with a spit-slick hand. He's so much quieter in defeat, reduced to hissed curses and muttering under his breath. Meaningless challenges, now. Not enough venom to get under his skin.

Bracing his free arm and shifting his balance, Terry manages to get his own cock out and take them both in hand. It's too dry, but Ken's length burns against him and he's content to chase it, fucking the snug loop of his fingers. Ken even relaxes enough to counter his rhythm and they get to the edge together.

When Ken cums across his ugly, expensive shirt and Terry's knuckles, he calls him Ryu. That's fine. Terry drops his flagging cock and pumps himself to completion, adding to the stains on Ken's clothes. That is satisfying as hell.

“About that,” Ken says afterward, while he scrubs at the mess on his shirt in the sink. “It's not what it sounds like.”

Terry splashes the back of his neck with cool water and straightens, retying his hair. “I don't really care, it's fine.”

“Right. Good.” A beat. Terry glances sidelong at him and is ignored. “Ryu and I aren't close like that.”

“Alright.” On the wall, the clock reads a quarter to one. Later than he'd meant to stay out, but he's made do with worse.

“I've got a girl back home, anyway. This is just…”

“Sure.”

“Letting off steam. You know. It's almost like a fight– it was a fight, just with a more fun ending.”

Terry hopes he never sounded like that, if he ever tried to explain this drive to anyone outside of it. Unfortunately, he gets what Ken's saying. Even more unfortunately, he doesn't have a shred of insight to offer. “It's really fine, man. Shouldn't do your girl like that, but I'm not here to judge you.”

Hypocrisy tastes like ash on his tongue.

———

He thinks Mary can smell the deviancy on him. They don't talk about it, but she's always been sharp and he's never been subtle. It's all in vague questions and sidelong looks. Nevermind that he hasn't fooled around on her since that night with Ken, the guilt of it eats at him.

She must sense it, one way or another.

They split as friends and even that feels miraculous, because he never really deserved her.

———

Relationships come, fail to stick, and go. He has more important things on his plate, between putting food on the table for Rock, training and planning a route to vengeance for his father, and competing to test himself against the best in the world.

“You're not getting lonely, are you?” Andy asks him one morning over coffee, out of the blue.

“Lonely? Me? Course not,” Terry says. He even means it. “In case you forgot, I live with a teenager. Never a dull moment.”

With a tilted nod, Andy cedes that point. “I wasn't sure at first, but it seems like it's been good for you to have someone to take care of. You were never much good at taking care of yourself.”

“I'm still here, aren't I?”

“I guess.” He swirls dregs around the bottom of his mug, avoiding eye contact. “I was just thinking, it's been a while since you brought a girl around.”

While not unexpected, the subject isn't one he's looking to talk about. “Can't a guy have a dry spell in peace? Jeez, Andy.”

What he won't be telling his brother is that it's easier for him to keep things casual. By the time he'd be bringing a girl around, or a guy with a cover story, it's about time to cut ties. He's content like that.

He is.

———

Kevin sets their dynamic off to a strong start by accusing Terry of murder. They get the facts sorted eventually, but it's not the kind of thing a guy just forgets about.

Unfortunately, Kevin is broad and strong and rough around the edges. His hand fits neatly around Terry's neck when he pins him on his back. It must be lack of blood to the brain that drives Terry's hips up so fervently to grind against him, but he keeps doing it until Kevin gets impatient and undresses them just enough to fuck him properly.

And there's that blurry line between a good fight and a good fuck. Kevin makes no effort toward prep and goes in too dry to feel good, but Terry arches on him like he touched a live wire. It hurts like life hurts. Hard, hot, rough, fast. More of everything than he's felt in a while.

Terry torques his hips and flips them to straddle Kevin's body. Like this, he can get a better angle. Kevin fucks up into him with more force than he can match, but it finally finds the right nerves. Pain twists into pleasure and Terry escalates it when he gets a hand on himself. He needed this, and he needed it from someone like this bastard cop. Someone doing this for himself, just bringing Terry along for the ride.

After, while he smokes at the ceiling, Kevin talks. About his job, about the injustice in Southtown, about bad things happening to good people. All the right words with no follow through, nothing about any meaningful difference he's made.

Terry grits his teeth until he finishes a cigarette, then peels himself off the bed. “I need to get going. Good luck with your manhunt, sounds like the guy's slippery.”

He's practiced about making a quick escape from pillow talk like that and leaves before Kevin assembles a description of his ever-evasive perp. All in all, worth the detour for the satisfaction in his bones and the ache between his thighs.

On the way out, he catches a glimpse of a polaroid hung on the fridge. Then he double takes. Because that sure is Mary posted beside Kevin at a cookout or something, laughing brightly. There's a group around them, but no one else Terry recognizes. Across the bottom, messy handwriting declares: “Fourth of July, 1995”.

“Shit,” Kevin blurts when he rounds the corner. “I thought you were gone, you startled me.”

“Sorry,” Terry says, startled himself. “I'm going, just saw the picture. Gotta appreciate a grill master.”

Stepping up, Kevin looks for himself and smiles, softening his entire face. “That was a good party. I've been so busy lately, I haven't gotten around to seeing family much.”

See, Terry thinks, it's not so hard to dangle bait and get someone to answer an unspoken question. “I think just about everyone's in that same boat, honestly. Tough to find time.”

“Yeah.” Kevin sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. “Parents are one thing, you know, but extended family? Mary's always on my ass about calling more and there just aren't enough hours in the day. That's her – Mary, I mean.”

Yeah. That's her. At least there's no way Kevin ever tells anyone about this, much less his own family.

Shame curls behind Terry's sternum and purrs like an old friend.

———

There are more new entrants to World Warrior than familiar faces every year, and Terry has to consider that he might be getting too old for this shit. He loves the thrill of competition, nothing beats the blood pumping-heart racing-nerves singing rush of barely winning a fight, but the writing might be on the wall. One year, working through a busted knee, he goes out early against some young blood.

More power to him, Terry thinks. Then the guy wins the whole tournament and he feels less sorry for himself. It was a good time in its own right to watch him mop the floor with an uncharacteristically raggedy-ass Ken Masters.

Going to the afterparty doesn't make him feel any younger, but some traditions die hard. Mister World Warrior himself even waves him down.

“Hey, I don't think we've met,” he says with a wide smile and an extended hand. “I'm Luke.”

“Don't tell me our fight had that little effect on you,” Terry counters. Joking. Mostly.

“No, no, of course not,” is not a relief because he was joking. Totally. “I meant before that.”

His hand is still out, so Terry shakes it. “If you say so. Alright, Luke, I’m Terry. I've been to a few of these things, just not really up to form this year.”

Luke beams. His teeth are very white. “I don't doubt it, you put me through my paces.”

And so on and so forth, through enough alcohol that he feels warm but not drunk. Luke matches his pace and seems to be in no hurry to get back to his friends. Or, presumably his friends. Terry recognizes a guy with a sharp undercut and a long braid and a girl sporting two of her own from the tournament. The guy keeps shooting him the stink eye.

But Luke either doesn't know or doesn't care, happy to share his story – military, then MMA, now this – and listen to Terry's. For his contagious enthusiasm and pretty smile, he even gets a less abridged version than Terry tends to hand out at these events. More about Southtown and how he got here in the first place, sordid as that tale may be.

Luke says all the right things. Then he says, “I'd pay good money to see you fight healthy, I bet that's a sight.”

Which is forward. Slightly slurred, but forward. “Yeah? I'm sure a sight could be arranged for you, if you're interested.”

A blush seeps across his face, a splash of warm color painting his nose and cheeks. “How long are you in town?” Luke asks.

“I fly out tomorrow.”

“Ah.” Their knees bump when Luke adjusts in his chair.

“Bright and early.” Terry nudges into the contact to be sure it won't retreat and smirks when it doesn't. “Might be time to blow this joint. I've got a motel room though, if that's the sort of sight you like.”

The blush darkens, but Luke's voice is steady when he accepts.

That motel room is nothing to write home about, but Luke's knees make the carpet look better. He makes up for inexperience with the same focused enthusiasm he's shown all night. Terry's never minded the threat of teeth, within reason, and Luke's mouth is warm and wet around him.

He asked for guidance, so Terry provides it gladly. A hand in his hair and murmured direction are received well. Luke proves to be a quick study, but he's obviously into instruction – visibly straining the crotch of his pants. He doesn't touch himself though. He hasn't been told to touch himself.

It's hotter than it has any right to be. A power trip he's distantly surprised he enjoys. Luke lets him rock between his lips and only has to back off to cough a couple times, all while he shifts and adjusts himself without letting his fingers linger.

Terry caves when he feels heat pool in his gut. “Luke,” he starts, then pauses to tip his head back against the wall when Luke offers a roll of his tongue. After a long breath, he can look back down. “Get your cock out, I want to see you.”

He feels more than hears the rumble of a groan. Below the view of clever lips wrapped around his shaft, Luke's cock stands at attention. Red and swollen and drooling.

“Good,” Terry manages. His hips stutter. “Touch yourself for me. I can tell you're close already, got close just from this– but I want you to finish with me.”

The curl of Luke's hand around his cock makes it jump and Terry's mouth water. He swallows.

Swearing roughly, he pulls Luke off him by his hair and takes himself in hand. “Mouth open.”

God help him, Luke obeys, breathing hard. His brows knit as his hand speeds up.

Terry watches and wants and says, “Now. Fucking hell– cum for me now, baby.”

Because he can't hold back the tide of his own orgasm anymore, painting stripes over the flush of Luke's face, and his lips, and his tongue. With a punched out groan, Luke follows suit and sits back on his haunches, freed from Terry's grip on his hair. He looks completely debauched. A mess from his knees up.

Until he stills entirely, Terry watches the rise and fall of his chest. Bare, broad, and tattooed under his dogtags. Impressive, still. Luke slowly collects himself and blinks up at him. “Damn,” he says.

Terry can only offer a breathy laugh. “I know you said you want to see the sights, but I think the real view is of you.”

It gets him a renewed blush that he kind of wants to taste for himself. Instead, he helps Luke get cleaned up and loans him an unstained shirt. Satisfaction at seeing him wear it, tight around his waist but loose around his shoulders, hums under Terry's skin.

Seeing him off is almost a shame, and he seems to agree. In the doorway, he stops. “If you're ever back in town, look me up? We'll see about getting a rematch.”

“I'll do that,” Terry promises. Unlikely to come true, but who knows. Maybe he'll make a point to come back outside of tournament season.

———

“You know, you don't have to stay in and babysit me anymore,” Rock informs him without looking away from the game he's playing. “I can take care of myself.”

“Does this feel like I'm babysitting you?” Terry asks, because that's the most surprising sentiment there. He only just sat down with their pizza order.

“Well. No, but in general. Ugh.” On screen, his character falls over in dramatic fashion. “Like, if you wanted to go out.”

Cutting a glance at him, Terry fails to draw Rock's gaze. “I go out plenty. I was out earlier.”

“Sure, at Pao Pao. Was Mary there?”

“Not today? Why?

“Just wondering. You see her much anymore?”

Terry resists the urge to sigh and grabs a slice of pizza. Rock can help himself whenever. “Sometimes. Why?”

“Well, do you see another girl now?” Impressively, Rock still sounds like his focus is on his game instead of this conversation.

“I don't have a girlfriend, Rock. That what you're asking?”

A noncommittal noise and a shrug. “But do you want to have one?”

He delays answering that by inhaling his food and watching Rock get digitally exploded into blood and gore. “That was gross,” he says with a nod at the screen, because it was. Hard to look away from, but gross.

“Terry.”

“I'm not looking for a girlfriend, no. Have you been talking to Andy?”

“No? What about a boyfriend?”

Terry chokes on nothing but air and spit. “What?”

“Because that would be okay too,” Rock raises his voice along with his shoulders. Defensive.

“I'm not gay,” Terry says, albeit with less surety and fewer teeth than the assertion had twenty years ago.

“Okay!” Rock blurts. Finally, he lobs his controller at a pillow and faces Terry. “That's cool! But it would be cool if you were, is all I'm saying. Either way is cool, right?”

This has all spiraled in a strange direction. It occurs to him abruptly that he's supposed to be setting some semblance of an example for Rock, but fuck. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

Awesome. Well said.

Rock squints at him. “My buddy dates guys and girls, and that's cool, right?”

“Yeah, Rock,” Terry says with as much sincerity as he can inject into his voice. “That's cool, as long as your buddy's careful.”

Once, twice, Rock nods sharply. “So you don't have to be gay to go on a date with a guy, ‘cause you can date girls too.”

“You're right, that's my bad.” Carefully, Terry collects his composure. It's easier once he starts to suspect that this isn't actually about him.

“Okay. I just wanted to talk about it. With you.” Hugging his knees to his chest, Rock works his jaw to spit out, “Even if you're not into guys, to make sure you're cool with other people being like that.”

Jesus Shit. “I'm cool with it, I promise.” He takes a breath and keeps it smooth. “I'd just worry, because some people are assholes and I'd hate to see someone I care about have to deal with that.”

“Yeah.” Then all at once, in a rush, “I think I might go on a date with that buddy.”

“I think that's great, kid. If you're safe and happy, that's all that matters.” Maybe not the heartfelt conversation they're supposed to have, but it's true. And he'd lie if it wasn't.

His handshake is firm and heavily calloused, but at least it's an organic hand. "You must be Viktor Vektor."

“And that makes you Eyes.”

His smile is a sharp thing, a razor slash of teeth that doesn't quite reach his eye. Name aside, it's a shock that he even has the one standard optic implant. “So it does,” he says. “I’ll admit, I was surprised to hear you wanted to meet. Didn't think you got out to this neck of the woods.”

“I don't, usually.” For the purpose of avoiding Eyes’ crowd. It goes without saying. “I need equipment, heard you could help me.”

“Must be some equipment.” Mr. Hands assured him that there would be no questions, and Eyes doesn't ask. Just lets the implication hang in the air. “Well, you're in luck, I'd be happy to help you out.”

Vik does his damnedest to mirror Eyes’ plainly relaxed body language, but the fact of it is that he's deep in Maelstrom territory. He's gambling with his life for this gear. More than his life, if the stories are true. “What's it going to cost me?”

Eyes hums like he hasn't thought overmuch about it. “You came in with a referral, made my life a little easier, so I'll give you a discount. I respect you, Viktor, you're good at what you do. Not to mention your days in the ring – I was such a fan.” His expression twitches toward something that might even be genuine. “How about this, I'll dig up this chrome for you and you'll owe me a favor.”

“A favor,” he echoes. It's a terrible idea. “What kind of favor?”

He laughs in lieu of answering, rough and harsh. Vik recognizes the tells of modded vocal chords, not fully cybernetic, but the root of at least some of the gravel in his voice. “A favor,” he reiterates. “Nothing scandalous, I promise.”

It's a horrible idea. “Fine.”

"Echo," Nocte cuts him off, finally redirecting his attention from his screen to Echo's face. "Can it wait? I'm almost off shift, I'm sure someone else–"

"I wanted to request access to Fives' autopsy report," he blurts all at once in a jumbled rush.

And Nocte stares at him, face unreadable, for a moment that seems to stretch out long between them. His expression doesn't so much as twitch and the drumming of his fingers freezes. “Why?”

“He was my brother."

“I'm your brother. Why?”

He carefully doesn't purse lips. “He was my brother and he died.”

“We're at war,” Nocte's voice is sharp, almost a warning, “and he was a soldier.”

Why?

It's more resistance than Echo expected, two appeals more than he thought would be necessary. While Nocte has a reputation for many things – questionable bedside manner, gruff demeanor, variable patience – callousness isn't one of them. The family card should have worked. “Haven't you lost anyone you cared about in all this?”

Barely there, his expression tightens. “Watch yourself, lieutenant.”

“I thought you'd understand,” Echo snaps before he can stop himself. “I thought–”

Bastra pays no mind to the gentle fall of rain – it won’t soak through his clothes any time soon, and he can’t be bothered to move from his perch on the roof of a dilapidated inn. With one leg tucked close to his chest and the other dangling over the edge, he has a comfortable vantage point over the bustle that never ends, no matter the hour.

He hears Jaro huff a sigh and sees him, out the corner of his eye, sit cross-legged at his side. Almost close enough for their thighs to touch. Into the space between them, he asks, “What are you looking for? Something, or someone?”

Scowling, Bastra tears his gaze away from the street to look up at Jaro’s face, which is angled further up toward the clouds. “I can multitask, can't I?"

"Of course," Jaro grants, "I only hope you've thought this through."

That makes two of them, for whatever it's worth.

"More or less. I need credits to travel, so I need a job. There's not much else to it."

He watches Jaro's ears twitch back, the surest sign of his disapproval. For a man with a face like a locked vault, his ears always cracked the combination. Saved Bastra from putting his foot in his mouth more than once.

"I wonder if you're chasing these goals you claim are so straightforward, or if you're still running away."

"Fuck off."

"I will not."

"I'm not running away," Bastra hisses, then deliberately unclenches his jaw. "There's nothing left to run from except death, and I'm not currently interested in letting that catch up with me."

Imperial efforts to hunt down the few Jedi who escaped the Purge ebb and flow, but have generally waned over the years. He can travel relatively freely, as long as he keeps his head down and doesn't draw attention. Odd jobs keep him going. It's aimless, at times, but it's something.

Jaro bristles, scratching idly at his beard. An old habit that never died. "It seems to have caught up with you, all the same."

Bastra snorts, even though it's not funny. "Sure, your death follows me relentlessly. My own will have to work harder to catch up."

He's still only halfway convinced that he hasn't lost his mind, and these visits from Jaro aren't just complex hallucinations. At best, the Force truly does work in mysterious ways. At worst, well. He gets a very convincing construct to talk to.

The first time it happened – whatever it is – he shut down, couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The second wasn't much better. Jaro stopped trying to explain and simply shared his space after a few more, and something eventually clicked in the back of Bastra's mind. Whether it clicked into or out of place is up for debate.

With fear and shock and confusion worn away, the hardest part is how real it feels– how real he feels. The illusion is incredible, but not perfect.

Jaro's eyes don't reflect the glaring neon lights of Daiyu when he meets Bastra's gaze. His clothes and hair and fur are unmoved by the wind. Every detail of his features, all the way down to signs of age, is exactly as Bastra remembers from before. He's a snapshot, displaced from his time and stubbornly refusing to rest.

"You shouldn't taunt fate, Bastra," he chastises, but there's fondness in his tone. Relief, maybe. "She comes for us all, in the end."

They're close enough that their thighs could touch, but an insurmountable cavern apart. Fate will come for him in the end, but maybe his family will be there too. "How long do you have?"

Before they lose this strand of connection.

Jaro's shoulders drop, almost imperceptibly. "Not long enough."

"Hm." He can't tangle their hands together, but his fingers itch with sense memory, and he would, if he could. "Thank you. For being here at all."

There are nights when thinks it won't be the price on his head, or hunger, or exposure, or a stray blaster bolt, or a speeder crash, or anything else that kills him. When he thinks it might be the loneliness that does it.

This, at least, is the exact opposite of alone.