Chapter 3

Houston, May 1973

The next day, after a night-long dithering and tossing and turning and wondering, Bill's mind was made up.

He was going to formally ask Bobby to dinner, and then, with the facilitating wine and food in between them, he would be able to talk.

He got up, showered, shaved and put on some cologne. He picked the nicest bow tie from his suitcase. Then he went down to the lobby as early as he could manage, and waited. At about eight, the conference participants started coming down, numbers growing with time, and Bill was the only one left standing next to the reception desk, stupidly waiting on his own, hands crossed over his belly.

Then finally, a familiar silhouette, only obscured by that god-awful facial hair, filtered through the crowd and suddenly Bobby was there, flesh and bone next to him again, leaning over the counter to hand in his room key.

"Oh, hello again," he turned to Bill as soon as he noticed him, and relief flooded Bill that the other man still hadn't chosen to ignore him.

"Hello."

God, Mercer, get some more words out of your mouth.

Bobby stood there with an awkward smile, likely wondering, like Bill, if there would be more to come from him. When it took too long once more, his shoulders dropped and he hummed:

"I guess I'll…"

"Please have dinner with me!"

Bill would have struck himself across the face if he hadn't been standing in a room full of people. Hopefully he hadn't said that too loud, or the desperation hadn't come through his tone of voice.

Bobby frowned one elegant eyebrow and turned to face him fully.

"Today?"

Bill pulled at the hem of his blazer, anything to settle his nerves, even fraying his clothes.

"It's the last night here, isn't it? Unless you're staying longer?"

Bobby shook his head, the waves of his hair brushing against his forehead. Bill waited for an answer, but realized after a few seconds that he was the one making the offer, and he still hadn't elaborated on it.

"Right, so… Would you want to go for dinner in town? Tonight, maybe at eight? Leave the hotel for a bit?"

His words came out clipped and breathless, his chest rising and falling at an uneven rhythm. He stood perfectly still, vaguely aware of other bodies moving around him, some brushing against him as if he was part of the hotel furniture. But only Bobby's keen gaze on him mattered.

"Alright."

Bill's heart skipped a beat.

"Really?"

Bobby's shrug was nothing but nonchalant.

"Why not. You're inviting me, right?"

"Oh, of course. My treat," Bill nodded, as if this was about money, of all things.

"Can't say no to a free meal, can I," Bobby smirked, and began to turn away. "Eight? Meet here at quarter to?" he threw at Bill over a slender shoulder.

"Yes. See you tonight?"

Bobby didn't answer this time, and simply moved away and beyond the crowd. Bill leaned a little harder against the desk behind him, paying very little mind to the clerk's disapproving stare.

He wiped his sweaty palms onto his pants and took a deep breath.

Right. Now he only had to find a restaurant. And get a grip on himself.

It was seven forty pm, and Bill felt like he had already walked around the lobby a dozen times. When, or if at all, Bobby came, there was a good chance he would have walked through the soles of his shoes. He at least felt like he was well acquainted with the plants populating the place, now, and knew which ones were in quite urgent need of water.

He was actually lost in the contemplation of a drooping ficus when a touch on his shoulder made him jump and turn around.

Bobby's arm was still extended towards him, long fingers unfurled and stopped mid-air, and he offered Bill a sheepish smile.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

Bill nodded, mouthing a few unknown syllables in silence before he was able to speak for real.

"Are you ready?"

Bobby smiled and put his hands in his pockets.

"Lead the way," he said.

Truth be told, Bill was still quite unsure about the way they needed to take to head to the restaurant, and he did his best to call to mind the directions that the receptionist had given him for an Italian place situated a ten-minute-walk away. He wasn't sure he would even be able to drive with Bobby by his side, right now.

The air outside had barely cooled down from the day of scorching sun they'd had. It was really too hot for a full suit, but both men seemed reluctant to take layers off in front of the other, as they fell into step on the sidewalk, keeping a reasonable distance between them.

"So, what did you think of the talks of the day?" Bill asked as they were waiting at a crossroads.

Bobby stared at him a little, unblinking as if trying to see something in particular, then scoffed.

"Are you really going to ask me about work right now?"

Bill's skin prickled with unease. He was already mucking this up. His first instinct told him to shut down and run, find any excuse to cancel their plans, but he remembered his early morning determination. More than anything, he owed this to Bobby, and perhaps, deep down he knew that he needed it for himself too.

"You're right, better not. I'm just… unsure if there's things you'd rather avoid talking about," he confessed.

The light turned to green for them and they stepped onto the road, weaving through more pedestrians and exhaust fumes. Once they were on the other side, Bobby stopped abruptly, and Bill nearly walked into him, stopping just in time to look up at his face and see the frustration there, once again. Deep brown eyes were framed by creases, as were the corners of a thin mouth.

"Listen, Bill. I'm not the one running after you, here. So unless you figure out what you want from this evening, I'm afraid it's not going to go extremely well."

The sternness in his voice hurt. It was too close to the one Bobby had used twenty or so years ago when he'd cornered Bill in his office and told him without any detours: ‘I can't do this anymore, Bill. We're done. Have a good life.'

He fought against the painful memories, dug his fingernails into his palms to anchor himself into the moment. He needed to answer, and this time, he needed to get it right.

"I want to spend time with you. I want to know how, and who you are today, and if you'll let me… I want to apologize. For a few things, at least."

He kept his eyes trained on Bobby's mouth, his usual trick for avoiding eye contact which didn't help him read people's emotions. There was a tremor at the corner of Bobby's lips, and here, in the middle of the street, Bill did his best to tell himself this was the worst time to remember what it felt like to kiss them.

He'd expected Bobby to sigh, or lash out at him. He would have deserved it, and more. Instead, he watched the other man rub two tired hands over his face, looking suddenly weary with the whole world. He'd certainly not expected Bobby to heave a: "I'm sorry. I wish I could be better at keeping it together, but it's you and…"

Bobby waved a hand between them, a wide, encompassing gesture that could have meant anything to an outside observer. Bill knew to take it for what it was. The weight of the past. Two decades of a friendship he'd heartlessly let wither and die, because being brave in this world could sometimes be a death sentence, and Bill hadn't felt ready for it, twenty years ago.

Hell, he certainly didn't feel ready for it now.

"You don't have to be sorry about anything," he said, his own voice croaking unattractively.

Bobby winced and looked away, angling his face upwards.

"Let's just go get that dinner?"

They walked again, in silence this time. Bill figured it was probably a good idea to wait until they were there to make more attempts at conversation, lest he actually drive Bobby away in the middle of the street.

They reached the restaurant right on time. By then, Bill's shirt was soaked through with sweat, and he knew there would be no removing his blazer now. They were led to a little table for two in a corner of a long room, too brightly lit to be comfortable or really welcoming.

They settled on metal chairs, at a square table with wobbly legs and a thin paper cloth. Thankfully, their order for a bottle of red was promptly brought to the table, and Bill hastily filled both their glasses. He'd probably need his fair share of liquid courage for tonight's plans.

Once he had taken a first sip of the wine, the tanginess of it tickling at his taste buds, Bill strived to move his focus away from the jaunty music playing in the background, and onto the handsome man expectantly watching him.

There was already so much he'd messed up, since he'd seen him again two days ago. Piled on top of what he'd done wrong for thirty years, it felt like an unassailable mountain climb.

"Can we start over?" he asked with a wavering voice.

Bobby's eyes narrowed and Bill immediately understood the ambiguity in what he'd just said.

"I mean, this evening."

He saw Bobby relaxing slightly in his seat, and that hint of a smile coming back on his mouth, top lip overshadowed by his mustache.

"Fine."

Bill nodded to himself, took one short breath and began:

"Hi."

It was silly enough that it pulled a real, spontaneous smile from Bobby, who planted his elbows on the table and echoed back:

"Hi."

"How are you?" Bill asked, worried about leaving the slightest lull in the conversation.

Bobby pouted, throwing a pensive look up at the ceiling, then reclined and slid an arm over the backrest of his chair.

"Oh, you know, just a normal day of medical conferences followed by being asked to a mysterious and very important dinner by an old friend," he drawled, putting an emphasis on the last word that Bill didn't know how to interpret. "And how are you?"

Bill felt the need to point at himself but there was really no doubt as to who Bobby was looking at.

"Oh, I'm, well… nervous?"

Bobby cocked his head.

"Nervous? What about?" he smiled before taking a sip of wine himself.

It was teasing, but the gentle kind that Bill could handle. It was fond, which seemed impossible after, well… everything.

"About this dinner. About… knowing what I want, and trying to reconnect with that old friend. I'm wondering what he's thinking of me…"

"Maybe you could ask him."

Bill's gaze shot up to find Bobby smirking again, without a hint of mockery. Still, it was too soon. To breach a twenty year gap, the bridge he needed surely would take longer than one evening to build.

"I don't think I'm drunk enough for that…" Bill whispered, and right on cue, downed half of his glass.

Bobby let out a noncommittal hum, and looked away at the menu.

"What will you be having, then? I do say, the hotel food hasn't proven very…" Bobby trailed off with a grimace.

"Edible?" Bill provided, making the other man laugh.

"That may be a little harsh, but yeah, something along those lines. I'm dying for a good steak, honestly."

Bill let his eyes trail over the rows of dishes displayed on the paper menu he was holding, and found that he really wasn't hungry. He still picked a mushroom risotto, when the time came to give an answer to the owner who was going round the tables taking the orders himself.

Bobby was staring at him again when they were left alone, so much so that Bill could only ask:

"What?"

Bobby bit into his lower lip, then shook his head.

"Nothing. It's just… weird to see you. Like this."

"Like what?"

"Older."

Bill knew time hadn't been clement to him. Certainly not as much as it had been to his companion. His hair had gone entirely gray – a dark shade of it, yes, but there still was not a lot left of his former deep chestnut tones – and his crow's feet were deep valleys. He knew the little roll of fat peeking under his chin and the round shape of his belly. Not to mention the bags under his eyes on days like this one, whenever he worried himself sick enough that he couldn't sleep.

"Well," Bill said, "it's lovely to see you. Older, and at all."

"Is it really? I mean, it's not like…" Bobby trailed off, as if he realized he shouldn't finish his sentence. "Nevermind."

Bill could feel the bitter undertones of doubt creeping between them, and like a bad wine, he chased them down with something sweeter.

"It is. I wouldn't be here if I didn't mean that, would I?" he tried a smile, hoping it came across as something more than a forced rictus.

"Fair enough," Bobby winced. "Sorry, I'm…"

"Nervous?" Bill provided, heart pumping blood so hard that he could feel it in his fingertips.

Bobby was still for long enough that Bill could have started to count the light spots on his cheeks that must have been brought out by the unforgiving sun of the south.

"Yeah."

"Then we're in the same boat, at least," Bill chuckled nervously, and raised his glass between them.

Bobby mirrored him, and at last, when their glasses met with a sharp, crystalline sound, it felt like some of the tension was purged from the room, and they were just two middle-aged men having a drink of Chianti, catching up. Bill did his best to bring their conversation back to normal waters with his next question:

"What's life like in St. Louis, then?"

Bobby wrinkled his nose.

"It's… normal. I go to work, I come back home. I feed my cat."

"Oh… you have a cat?"

Bobby's smile then was a knowing one, a I know you're latching onto the easy topics one, but it might have been what they both needed to ease into this, if Bill believed the way Bobby went on about Poppy for over ten minutes after this. He didn't quite carry a photograph of the animal in his wallet, but it sounded as if man and pet were quite a tight unit, and when Bobby told him about the evenings he spent reading outside, with his cat sleeping curled up on his chest, Bill couldn't help the jealousy that sprouted to life under his sternum.

But he'd made that choice for himself a long time ago, hadn't he?

It wasn't Bobby's fault that nobody had held Bill to their chest for a long time.

A waitress brought their food with a flirtatious smile that failed to land with either of them. Bill's face was hot, and he knew that under his shirt, his neck and torso must be flushed pink from Bobby's unrelenting staring.

"So, do you still see your ex wives and kids?" Bobby asked, knife slicing through his steak and squeaking unpleasantly on his plate.

Bill cringed and saw Bobby's silent smile of apology for the noise.

"Well of course, I still see the children… The first three are all grown up now, though… I um… got three boys and one girl, actually. The youngest is Agatha, only four years old… So I'm not much use to her yet, I see her every few months."

"Is that what you're telling yourself, or what your ex told you?" Bobby jumped in.

Bill frowned: "What do you mean?"

"That you're no use to your kid."

Bill thought back of the time he'd spent living in the same house as his first three children, and how very little he had taught them even then.

"To be honest, I don't think I'm useful to any of them. More of an obligation for them than any real help," he admitted with a bitter laugh.

"That's bullshit," Bobby cut in with a frown. "I bet they miss you."

"I doubt that, Bobby. I'm really not good with children."

To his surprise, the other man actually laughed at that.

"Well no offense Bill, but you're no good at people in general. Doesn't mean you stop trying though, does it? Just because something's hard doesn't mean it's not worth it."

Bill looked into Bobby's eyes for a second, looking for a hidden meaning he was sure was there, somewhere in Bobby's words. Though his companion still seemed reluctant to mention their shared past, so when Bobby didn't blink, Bill gave up.

"Can we please… move on from the subject," he begged, keeping his voice low.

Bobby gave a dejected shrug.

"Sure. Why don't you ask about my kids?"

Bill felt his eyes threaten to bulge out.

"You have…" he stammered, only to be interrupted by Bobby snickering.

"Of course not! I've never slept with a woman in my life."

Cold filled Bill's chest and he looked around, desperate to make sure nobody had heard them.

"Bobby!" he hissed. "You've got to be careful here…"

"How about you let me handle what risks I take for once, hm?" Bobby lashed out, sitting back and fixing an angry gaze on Bill, who in turn lowered his eyes.

This wasn't good. All the important topics were too slippery, they were never going to have the honest heart-to-heart he was hoping for. And he didn't even know what he hoped to get out of it, so what was even the point?

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, unsure if he wanted to be heard.

Across the table, Bobby heaved a deep sigh, then grabbed his wine glass and downed it in one go. He smacked his lips as he put it back down and finally had enough mercy to redirect the conversation:

"I think I want to get wasted. Let's get another bottle?"

He didn't wait for Bill's answer and waved for a waiter. Bill stared at his own plate in shame until they were brought a second bottle, and their glasses were full to the brim.

"You're not eating?" Bobby asked.

Bill's eyes focused on the rice that had gone cold on his plate.

"I uh… I forgot," he frowned, and picked up his cutlery.

The truth was all of this talk had killed his appetite. But he didn't want to start on another controversial matter and so made himself eat, little by little, whilst Bobby got drunk. Bill figured after a while that he might as well join him, and at least have a good reason for feeling awful the next morning.

"I never got in trouble, you know," Bobby said just as Bill was finishing up his steak.

He glanced at the other man in confusion, only to find him making an elaborate grimace, and understanding finally dawned. If they were referring to their last subject of conversation, then that meant Bobby had never… got caught, as it were.

"Oh… I'm glad," he said, his voice breaking on the last word and triggering a coughing fit.

His eyes were watering when he felt a hand lightly slapping him between the shoulders.

"Okay?" Bobby asked, too close, enough for Bill to get lost in the contemplation of his irises, the lighter, golden circle around his pupils edging out into a richer hazel.

Catching himself, Bill nodded frantically, quickly wiping his tears away and downing a large gulp of water. His head was beginning to swim with too much wine and he wondered what they were supposed to do, now. He'd tried to have a normal evening with an old friend, but he clearly was incapable of that too. Yet the idea that they would part after such an insipid dinner was breaking his heart again.

"Would you like to get more drinks after this?"

Bobby looked at him under heavy eyelids. He was sprawling a bit, one arm thrown over the backrest of his chair, movements slowed by the alcohol. Locks of his hair were fanning over his forehead and temples, sticking to the skin there in a way that made Bill's fingertips itch with the need to push them back.

"Sure," Bobby shrugged. "I said I wanted to get plastered, didn't I?"

It drew a smile from Bill, then, that his old friend would still use purely English expressions despite having lived all his life in America. What he'd learned from his few years of staying with his extremely British father seemed to have stuck for good.

They left the restaurant without having made much progress. But Bill's heart was in his throat with hope when they stopped in the hotel's lobby and he asked, eyes somewhere on Bobby's jaw:

"Actually, there's a few bottles up in my room… if you'd like. The bar gets a little noisy and overcrowded, at this hour…"

Bobby squinted, then turned to look at the bar that was almost empty. It seemed that the hotel residents had decided to take their drinking elsewhere, tonight.

"No."

It was as good as a stabbing, the pain Bill felt in his belly, and if they hadn't been in public, he'd probably have crumbled to his knees.

"My room, I think. I don't trust myself to get back to it if we go to yours first," Bobby added with a pensive pout.

Bill blinked a few times to make sure he'd heard right.

"Oh! Alright, yes, okay, you… lead the way."

Bobby winked at him, clearly well on his way to drunk, and went to collect his room keys from reception. Bill froze at the thought that they would be seen going into the elevator together, and wondered if that might raise suspicions.

The desk clerk didn't even glance in their direction, but Bill's cheeks were too warm when the elevator doors closed on them. Maybe they should have taken the stairs.

When they reached the fourth floor – so, above Bill's room it had been – with a loud ding, Bobby swayed out into the corridor. He wasn't so intoxicated that he couldn't open his bedroom door without assistance, but he still spun on himself as he invited Bill in, and made a ‘tadah' gesture after Bill had closed the door with clammy hands.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Bobby drawled.

It was really the same room as Bill's – one double bed with a lavish, wooden headboard pushed against the wall, a mini bar, a desk and a mirror – except the smell of the other man's cologne lingered near the bathroom door, and there was a pack of cigarettes on the console.

"Oh, do you smoke now?" Bill asked, keeping his eyes away from where Bobby was toeing off shoes and socks.

"Hm? Oh yeah, well, not really, just you know…" Bobby made a vague gesture that wasn't coordinated enough to mean anything. "Socializing."

Bill followed Bobby's example and took his shoes off. He still kept his socks, for propriety's sake. He wasn't sure what his heart would do if they were both barefoot on the carpet. Bobby went to the sleek mini bar that stood in a corner of the small suite, and crouched to retrieve two glasses and a tall bottle of amber liquid.

"Scotch?" Bill asked.

Bobby closed one eye and made a face at the label.

"Rum."

Bill tentatively made his way to the desk, and pulled the chair to sit down. He shouldn't be going anywhere near the bed, tonight.

Bobby placed a glass in his hand, and made him clink it together with his.

"Cheers," he slurred, then dropped on the edge of the mattress, slightly bouncing on the springs.

"Cheers," Bill told his glass.

"Can I ask you something?" Bobby asked, pulling his tie off, as if he wasn't distracting enough as it was.

"What?"

Bill's voice sounded far too high for his liking.

"Do you miss being married?"

Bill scoffed.

"For someone who professes that he has no interest in women, you're very invested in my past marriages, I think."

Bobby scrunched his nose and shook his head.

"It's curiosity, right? Not something I'll experience first hand but now I've got a specimen in front of me who can answer my questions."

It felt like more than this, but since Bill had no other idea of what they could talk about, he dug into the messy pile that were his emotions and looked for something there.

"Not really…" He paused to think of his empty flat, and the precious company of his dog. "I mean… it is… lonely, somewhat."

Bobby was now reclined on his elbows, hair in disarray over his forehead, and a sheen of moisture on his mustache where it overshadowed his upper lip. Bill wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, then, or his usual clumsiness that made him blurt out:

"God I hate that mustache on you…"

Bobby remained frozen for all of three seconds, then burst into giggles.

"Oh man," he wheezed, wiping at the corner of his eyes. "I haven't been slain like that in a long time. Thank you. Oh and by the way? I'm not a big fan of those muttonchops of yours either."

Bill instinctively raised a hand to scratch through the coarse hair covering up his jaw, finding himself smiling just because Bobby was, too.

"Those? Yes, they weren't my idea."

"They make you look like a…" Bobby waved a finger between them, "nineteenth century navy captain."

"Oh? Well, that's distinguished, isn't it?"

"Ha!" Bobby scoffed. "For two hundred years ago, maybe."

Bill pouted, "Call me ugly while you're at it."

Bobby's eyelids drooped slightly as he gave Bill a slow once over, and the way he licked a drop of rum off his lower lip didn't help the way Bill was beginning to sweat.

"Never," Bobby said, in the same childish stubbornness he'd used to dare Bill to try something new.

Bill cleared his throat and looked away long enough to get his composure back. Of all the ways he'd imagined tonight going, getting slowly drunk in Bobby's room hadn't been one of them. But then again, Bobby had always been the surprising one.

Bill's ability for spontaneity was… limited, at best.

As if to prove his point, Bobby scratched at his mustache and shrugged.

"I could get rid of it, actually. Wouldn't miss it."

Bill blinked at him slowly. He wasn't sure he would survive the sight of a clean-shaven Bobby, all loose-limbed from the booze, the base of his throat showing under his open collar. Still, it must have been the rum that made Bill open his mouth to say:

"Have you got a razor?"

Bobby let his head fall to the side to better look at him, lazily blinking.

"I mean, yeah. Obviously."

And despite the way his mustache hid his upper lip, Bill could have sworn he recognized that smile. It was the same one he grew up looking at, the sign that Bobby had just had the idea of something that would make Bill laugh. Something to make him happy.

"We could…" Bobby said, nodding towards the bathroom.

It was too much, didn't make sense. The day before, Bobby would barely talk to him. But the pull was too strong. It was never by sheer choice that Bill had stayed away.

They got up without saying anything, understanding each other once more. At last.

The door was too narrow to let them in both at the same time and they went through that timeless dance, ‘you go', ‘no, you first,' until Bobby rolled his eyes and went in. Bill squeezed himself behind him and they found themselves facing the mirror.

Bobby was laughing when he pulled out a razor from a small toiletry bag, and some shaving soap. Bill watched him open the tap, and get enough foam to cover his mustache until he looked like a Santa on drugs and Bill was laughing too.

It was stupid. The stupidest thing Bill may have done in many years, and he'd gotten married to his former mistress on a whim after getting her pregnant.

They could have hurt themselves terribly.

But something, a sharp focus that came out of nowhere, steadied Bill's hand as he took hold of Bobby's chin and brought the blade close to his skin. Because of course they would be shaving each other. They didn't even think to ask, or mention it aloud. Bobby's belt brushed against Bill's belly as he breathed deeper, and Bill kept his eyes trained on the blade's journey.

It took a few attempts, and he nearly laughed himself silly at the sight of Bobby with only half a mustache. Bobby held his wrist and grinned at them in the cabinet mirror.

Then, all of a sudden, it hurt. When the thought crept in Bill's mind that this is what they could have had, if he hadn't been such a miserable, pathetic man. If he hadn't been so scared.

He swallowed, then carefully finished shaving Bobby's mustache off, wiping the excess foam with the corner of a towel he wet under the tap, revealing a strip of skin he hadn't seen, or touched in two decades. He stilled his hand just in time, before he could swipe his thumb there to feel the smoothness.

There he was.

"There you are," he said, sounding worshipful despite his best effort.

Bobby's eyes crinkled, but there was a wistfulness there, too, that pulled uncomfortably under Bill's ribs.

"I was never far, you know."

Skin suddenly prickling with unease, Bill turned away to rinse the razor under the light stream of water. When he looked up into the mirror again, Bobby was gazing at his own image, rubbing two fingertips on the now exposed skin under his nose.

"Hmm. Your turn, now," he said and motioned for Bill to hand him the razor.

They faced each other once more.

Bill felt as if his heart was pounding right under his skull, and that the first touch of Bobby's hands would rip him apart.

Instead, a light shudder rippled through his back when Bobby cupped his jaw.

"Careful," the other man chuckled. "Better keep still."

So Bill closed his eyes. Pretended he was at the barber's, getting his usual haircut and shave, summoning the scents of shampoo and cologne that tended to give him headaches, and not the gentle, rhythmic ebb of Bobby's breathing, too close to him.

The scraping of the razor against his skin had no right being this… erotic. And how he hated what it said about him, that such a simple, hygienic touch could send him reeling with emotion.

Another sharp glide of the razor later, and he could feel fresh air on both sides of his face. He felt Bobby tilt his head backwards, then release him. When Bill opened his eyes, the other man's smile had vanished and he looked far too serious as his eyes followed the same path the razor blade had a few seconds ago.

"Much better," he exhaled.

Bill pulled back, putting more space between them. If he felt Bobby's body heat against him for any longer, he was fairly certain he would go mad. If he hadn't already.

They made it back into the bedroom, somehow, followed by a new, awkward sort of silence. The kind that squeezed around Bill's chest and prevented his mouth from making any more words.

Thankfully, Bobby went straight back to the bar and poured two more drinks for them. He was quiet, too, when he padded to Bill's side and handed him one of the glasses. They clinked them without looking at each other. They didn't need to, to know that what just happened was folly, and wouldn't lead to anything good.

"I should probably head back after this drink," Bill forced himself to utter, each word grating at the back of his throat.

He saw Bobby nod in his peripheral vision.

"Yeah, you should."