Jordan startled out of a deep sleep, out of the same dream again, the dream in which he fought to speak and nothing came out of his mouth, in which the pens refused to write, the pencils snapped, the paper tore, and when he finally, desperately clawed at his skin for blood, he could not bleed. He lay and looked at the ceiling, lit dimly through the curtain by oblique light from a waxing moon, and waited for his heart to stop shaking his ribcage with its frantic pace. Why? One word, all he'd wanted to say. Guilt and bewildered anger rolled alternately through him, and his stomach roiled, and he slid out of bed and bolted for the bathroom.

He splashed water on his face afterward, stood leaning on the sink in the dark, hands braced on its rim, staring at the drain without seeing it. Don't run away. Don't give up. His hands clenched on the porcelain. Then why was it okay for him? You forgave him, every time. Followed him and coaxed him home. He swallowed hard against a second rise of bile. I wasn't there? I didn't ask? Neither did you!

The anger had him in its grip now, his heart thundering painfully, his arms shaking. You gave me a chance and nothing changed? I did everything you asked! I wasn't even your friend? How could I be, when you wouldn't let me? I hurt you. You hurt me too! He was going to break something. He wanted to break something. He made himself let go of the fixture and slide down instead onto the cool tile, racked with deep shuddering breaths. Fury and loss rolled through him unchecked, and he let them. I missed a step. You let me fall and break myself. You looked at the pieces and you turned away disgusted at my weakness. Where was I when you needed me? Where were you when I needed you?

A towel hung beside the sink. He reached up and pulled it down, tore it methodically into strips, one piece at a time, listening to the thick ripping sound and feeling the threads snap under the tension. Slowly, slowly, the tide of anger ebbed, and he let the last piece of fabric fall out of his hands, then leaned against the wall, exhausted and feeling hollow, as though he'd torn something out of himself with the act of destroying the towel. He'd made a mess. He couldn't bring himself to care. The ringing emptiness left in the wake of volcanic emotion would fill again eventually in a slow and steady seep.

You wouldn't even fight, he thought, and understood what he'd been trying to do in that last conversation; whenever something had been wrong in the beginning, they'd fought, found the limits of anger and hurt in sharp words and pushed them back, rejected the accusations that went too far and defined the lines over which they would not trespass. He'd shouted at Rep, pulled out all the worst conflicts, wanted and expected Rep to shout back and refute them, wanted him to draw the lines again: this hurts you, and I reject it; meet me somewhere closer.

Rep had refused, had simply accepted all the awful epithets. Had apologized, but not offered any compromise. Had picked the ring up and kept it, made no effort to give it back, to call Jordan back when he walked away.

Jordan rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Maybe he would have been able to learn how to show his caring in a way Harrison could trust, given time, but his time had already run out. He was glad, in a distant and hollow way, that Harrison had chosen Rep, because Rep needed taking care of and Jordan had not been very good at that, but that knowledge did little to blunt the ache or salve the resentment. I felt like I'd already said my vows too. But I guess you never felt the same.

He couldn't ask now. He couldn't explain. It was too late. He got up slowly and winced at the glare as he turned on the light. He'd shower and get dressed. Somewhere in the world, it wouldn't be the middle of the night. He hadn't taken any leave yet this month, and he needed to get away from himself.