Fic: One Minute at a Time

[withthepilot]

Title: One Minute at a Time
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Star Trek XI RPF
Pairing: Zach/Chris, implied Zach/Anton and Chris/Anton
Word count: ~10K
Warnings: AU, torture, explicit violence, S&M, allusions to mental illness and possible suicide.
Summary: Chris is a tourist taking notes on life. Then he meets Zach, a wolf in tourist's clothing.
A/N: Fight Club AU. Written for the third round of Kink Bingo on DW. Prompt: bites/bruises. Lots of dialogue and plot devices borrowed from the screenplay by Jim Uhls, which was adapted from the novel by Chuck Palahniuk. Re-envisioned as a scenario in which the protagonist embarks upon a secret life dominated by sadomasochism and algolagnia (sexual pleasure derived from physical pain). No Project Mayhem because it didn't work for the fic. If you've seen the film, you probably know what you're getting into, but please read the warnings below carefully before you proceed. Big thanks to starsandgraces for her excellent beta work.



The stranger sits in the white-walled room and looks as though he's on fire. Chris sits in the back of the room and spies the elegant slope of the man's broad shoulders, the slicked-back raven hair, and the smoke rising from the seat. Cigarette smoke.

An AA meeting is about to begin. A quick glance around the room turns up at least three different "No Smoking" signs. A few poor wretches—meth heads, failed actors, casual degenerates—are scattered around the room, no one sitting directly next to anyone else.

"Excuse me," a woman says in a reedy voice. She's two rows behind the smoking man and she sounds ticked off. "Would you mind putting that out?"

He turns slowly, as if she's a gnat that he just noticed, buzzing behind him. He takes a long drag off his cigarette and lets the smoke pour from his open mouth, gray whorls emanating from pale pink lips.

"Yes."

He catches Chris' gaze and Chris wants to turn away, pretend that he wasn't looking. The man smiles, like they're both in on a joke. Chris ducks his head and waits for the meeting to begin.

A few minutes later, the man stands and introduces himself to the group.

"I'm Zach and I'm an alcoholic. And I have cancer," he says.

Chris swallows and blinks hard, smoke in his eyes.

*

"I don't have cancer," Zach says.

They're in a seedy diner in West Hollywood. Zach stacks sugar packets in a neat pile until they fall, and then he starts again. The overhead lamp in their booth keeps flickering on and off.

"So you're a tourist," Chris says. Zach smirks at him.

"And you're not?"

Chris looks down into his cup of coffee. It's true that he isn't an alcoholic. He's a struggling actor and that's the most interesting thing about him. He goes to AA meetings because they're good for character research. Also, they make him feel better about himself. He's in no position to pester Zach with questions.

"Why would you say something like that if it isn't true?"

Zach's eyes go wide. "So I can smoke?"

"You can't wait a half hour like everyone else?"

"I could, but I like to feel privileged. You tell people you're terminally ill, they'll let you do anything. Trick of the trade."

"What trade?" Chris asks.

"You ask too many questions. You know that?"

Zach looks around distractedly. He tugs his shirt collar down to scratch at a nasty-looking bruise along the juncture of his neck and shoulder. It's vulgar in color, a hazy purple-maroon against pale, lily-white skin. It looks fresh, too, maybe no more than a day or two old.

"You get that checked out?" Chris asks. Zach turns his head and looks back at him, surprised, as if he's forgotten Chris is sitting there. He smiles blandly and stands, hitching up his belt.

"Thanks for the coffee, Chris Pine," Zach says. He pats Chris' shoulder. Chris looks down at his nametag, left over from the meeting. It only says Chris.

The check arrives a minute later. Zach's nowhere in sight.

*

"I got you an audition," John says. It sounds as though he's eating. His mouth makes loud smacking noises between words. "Don't fuck it up."

"What are you eating?" Chris asks. He peers at his cuticles and glances at the muted courtroom drama on the television screen. He tries to bite at a hangnail. "Sounds gross."

"Gyro," John says. He says it like ji-ro. "Kinda on a gyro kick lately."

"Is it ji-ro or gee-ro?"

"I don't fucking know. Do I look fucking Greek to you?"

Chris smiles. "If the lighting is right."

"You're a tool," John says. "Your audition is on Thursday morning at ten. I'll e-mail you the info. Don't. Fuck. It—"

"Up. Got it. You're so predictable."

"You owe me."

They both hang up. Chris leans back in his ratty old La-Z-Boy and stretches his legs. He looks at the half-empty pack of cigarettes on his shitty excuse for a coffee table.

I am Chris' cigarette addiction. I am Chris' cancer.

"My name is Chris," he murmurs, "and I have cancer."

He lasts about two seconds before he starts to laugh at himself.

*

Chris decides to go to a show. Some hardcore thing that gives him a headache. But it's good to pound back a few cheap drinks and be around people, even if they're just jostling him, jockeying for a good spot to view the stage. He leaves and silently commends himself for being social, even if he didn't talk to anyone.

He walks past an alley on the same block as the club and stops when he hears the unmistakable sounds of a fight coming from the darkness: rough, bitter grunts and flesh hitting flesh, that sickening smack. Chris steps into the alley, against his better judgment, and sees a familiar figure going at it with someone nearly twice his size. Zach grunts as his back hits the brick wall and doubles over when he gets a punishing punch in the gut. Then the larger man looks up, realizes he's being watched, and runs, nothing but a retreating shadow. Chris takes the opportunity to go to Zach, who's slumped against the wall, half-sitting in puddles of dirty rainwater and stale piss. Chris crouches beside him.

"Jesus, man. Come here often?" Chris says, trying to be lighthearted. Zach looks up, his right eye ringed in bruises and blood trickling from both nostrils. Chris' stomach lurches like he's just plummeted off the highest peak of a rollercoaster.

He's surprised to feel his dick swell in his jeans in response. Chris feels a little dizzy, looking at Zach's handsome face swelling with bruises, and he rests his palm against the wall for support.

"Enjoy the show?" Zach asks. He grins a little, though the squint of his eyes tells Chris that it pains him to stretch his muscles that way.

"The music was okay," Chris answers, evading the question. Zach laughs.

"You're a fun guy, you know that? We should have some fun some time."

Chris leans his side against the wall, not knowing what to say.

*

When Chris wakes up, there's a dark half-moon bruise beneath his left eye. He has no idea how it got there, nor does he remember anything about the previous night, other than rescuing Zach in that alley—sort of.

His audition is at ten. He calls Zoe. She arrives at ten after nine with her makeup case in tow.

"Who the fuck gets into a fight the night before an audition?" she asks. She firmly props Chris' chin up and holds him still as she works her makeup artist magic on his bruise, dipping into various jars of concealer with little brushes. "What were you thinking?"

"I didn't get into a fight. I stopped one." Chris tries to shake his head but Zoe's tight grip holds him still. "Maybe the guy clipped me and I didn't realize it? I can't really remember now."

"Were you on something?"

"I just had a few drinks."

"Maybe someone slipped you something." Zoe scrunches her nose in concentration as she finishes up. Then she leans back and surveys her work, her elegant eyebrow arching. "Okay. That should work. I doubt they'll notice anything."

"Yeah?" Chris lifts up Zoe's handheld mirror, checking out the covered-up bruise. "Hey, yeah, that looks pretty good. Thanks."

"Pretty good? Shit. Watch your tongue, boy. You look like total Wonder bread again, thanks to my workmanship." She smirks and starts putting her things away, back into the zebra-print vinyl bag she brought with her. "What kind of movie is it, anyway?"

"It's a commercial, actually." Chris shrugs, embarrassed. "For a kid's cereal."

Zoe laughs and lightly chucks his chin. "You'll slay," she says.

*

Chris' doorbell rings and Zach stands in the threshold, one hand propped against the wall, like he's been waiting for hours. His face is still marred with lingering bruises but for the most part, he looks healthy.

"Hi," Zach says. He tilts his head. "Invite me in."

"What are you doing here?" Chris asks. It's eleven at night and just like the mystery of his surname, Chris has no idea how Zach managed to find his address.

"That's not an invitation." Zach smirks and then shoulders his way inside, looking around. "Wow. Dumpsville, population: you."

"I'm a man of meager means."

"That doesn't mean you have to live in a slum."

Chris doesn't want to argue and he's tired, so he slumps down in his armchair while Zach goes to the kitchen and busies himself with looking in the fridge. He knows he should be suspicious; he should try to kick Zach out, considering that it's late and he barely knows the guy. But something about his presence feels so familiar.

"Hey," Chris calls out. "Do you know how I got this bruise on my face?"

Zach ambles back into the living room with a beer in his hand and a bad excuse for a sandwich: ham between two dry slices of wheat bread. He takes a bite of the sandwich and then swigs on the beer. "Nope. Why so glum, Pine?"

Chris scratches his jaw. "I had an audition today. I botched it. Probably because of this." He points to the top of his cheekbone, where the bruise is now plainly visible, since he's washed off Zoe's makeup job.

"So? Maybe you picked it up because you didn't actually want to land the gig."

"That's stupid." Chris leans forward in his seat. He wrings his hands between his splayed thighs. "I need the money."

"All you need is love," Zach says. He grins at Chris, who can't help but smirk in return. "Seriously, though. When's the last time you got laid? You were so turned on by my bloody nose last night; I thought you were going to rip a seam in your jeans."

Chris blushes and looks away. "What? I was trying to help you, man."

"Sure. There's no such thing as a Good Samaritan. Nothing's worth doing unless you get something out of it."

"What were you even doing anyway, fighting with Andre the fucking Giant?"

"Sometimes it's fun to get into a fight you can't win." Zach takes another large bite of his sandwich and then puts down his food and drink, standing up. He's wearing a plain, white V-neck T-shirt and jeans. "Tell you what. You probably got hurt trying to help me and it's my fault that you didn't nail your Cheerios commercial today. So, I'll give you a free shot."

"Excuse me?"

"Chris," Zach drawls, eyes dark as sin and just as deep. "Listen to me. I want you to hit me as hard as you can."

Chris swallows. "It was Apple Jacks. And I don't want to hit you," he says, though the sudden throb between his legs tells him differently. "Why are you even here?"

"To have some fun with a fun guy."

Zach pulls off his T-shirt and stands topless. Chris can see the dark, patchy blossoms of bruises along Zach's ribs and he wonders how it would look if he added a new layer—if they would all blend and mingle like a watercolor painting on that otherwise flawless canvas. The dark hair scattered over Zach's chest is likely hiding other bruises from Chris' view. He resists the urge to reach out and touch.

"This is crazy," Chris says. He laughs and looks away, surprised when Zach reaches down and grabs his wrist, yanking him upright.

"It's not crazy; it's human," Zach says. He spreads his arms out wide. "Hit me, Chris."

"I don't want—"

"I said, fucking hit me!"

Chris' fist goes sailing through the air, right into Zach's jaw. Zach grunts, his head snapping back. Chris feels a moment of numbness before his hand tenses with fire. It hurts so much. He hisses and pulls it back to his chest. When Chris looks up again, Zach is reaching out for him, rearranging his pained fingers.

"You can't tuck your thumb under your fingers like that; you'll break it," he murmurs.

"Oh." Chris tries to listen but he's entranced by the way the skin on Zach's face is already swelling, blood rushing to the surface. Zach looks up and grins at the expression on Chris' face.

"You're aroused," he notes. "Your pupils are dilated and you're flushed. You like hitting me?"

"I don't—no." Chris shakes his head and tries to will it all away, the telltale signs that Zach can read so easily. "Why would I...? No, no."

"You can admit it. You're like me. You love that surge of adrenaline, that primal sensation of pounding your fist against flesh and bone."

Chris opens his mouth to protest but Zach sucker punches him before he gets the chance. His brain rattles inside his skull and electricity shoots down to his fingertips. Zach catches Chris before he can stumble, a strong arm around his waist pulling him flush against Zach's body. Chris blinks his eyes open and shudders as Zach traces the pad of his thumb slowly over his fat bottom lip. He feels dazed and his cock is hard as nails in his pants.

I am Chris' raging erection.

"Fuck," Chris whispers.

"That's the idea," Zach says. He bites Chris' swollen lip and tugs until Chris is completely lost.

*

"And you think my apartment is a dump? This place should be condemned."

Chris sidesteps one particularly nasty looking floorboard of Zach's house. The place is a rickety mess, cobwebs everywhere and peeling paint on the walls. The whole building looks as though it could give way under any slight pressure; it could cave in on them at any minute. A cat suddenly races between Chris' feet and he jumps back, startled, nearly catching on its tail.

"That's Harold," Zach says. He walks to the kitchen and goes to the fridge. "Want a glass of soy milk?"

"No...thanks."

"Suit yourself. Hey, I've got some paperwork to do. Go get lost."

"Asshole."

Chris busies himself with exploring the house. He walks up its creaking stairs slowly and dodges a few more cobwebs directly in his path. The bathroom is a veritable cesspit aside from the sink and the tub, which are so clean compared to the tiled walls and floor that they seem to sparkle. Chris finds the master bedroom next, the bed unmade and clothes scattered along the floor. There are a few opened magazines and condom wrappers on the bed.

"Charming," Chris murmurs. He looks down when he feels a warm weight pressing against his leg. It's Harold, wrapping around his ankles and purring loudly. Chris reaches to pick him up and cradles him in his arms. "You like it here, huh?" he asks. Harold meows and Chris smiles.

When he goes back downstairs, Harold perched on his shoulder like a pirate captain's prized parrot, Zach's smoking at the kitchen table and pushing papers around. He's taken off his cardigan and is sitting in a plain white wifebeater, his brow slick with sweat from the heat. There's no air conditioning in the house, as Chris has noticed, and most of the windows are broken.

"Hey, there's the guy," Zach says. He grins and folds up a small stack of papers, rising from his seat. "You ready?"

"For what?"

"I'll show you. C'mere."

Chris steps forward into the kitchen and watches Zach, handsome as ever as he leans against the counter and pushes his dark hair back from his forehead. Harold hisses when Chris gets close to Zach, which is weird, considering he's Zach's cat. Zach laughs, not bothered at all. He swipes at Harold to shoo him off Chris' shoulder. The cat jumps down onto the table and flicks his tail before he walks off.

"Fucking cat," Zach mutters. "Figures he'd like you more than me."

"He seems sweet."

"I'm glad you think so. Here, hold this for me?" Zach unzips Chris' jacket and shoves the folded papers into the inside pocket, built into the lining. He smiles and zips the jacket back up, patting Chris' chest.

"What are they?" Chris asks.

"Just something that might come in handy later."

Zach tilts his head and lifts Chris' right hand, running his fingertips over the knuckles in a gentle caress. He brings them up to his lips for a kiss. Chris swallows, thinks of all those discarded condom wrappers, and trembles with anticipation.

"Right-handed, yes?" Zach asks.

Chris nods. "Yeah, why?"

Zach shrugs one shoulder, his face impassive. He drops Chris' right hand and picks up the left one, brushing his lips against the skin once again. His expression doesn't shift at all when he grips Chris' wrist firmly and pulls his hand down to the exposed, greasy surface of the countertop grill beside them. The power is on and it's hot like fire. Chris cries out hoarsely and tries to wrench his hand away but Zach holds him still and gets in his face, his sharp canines bared.

"Don't shut out the pain," he whispers. Chris convulses, tears flooding his eyes. He can feel his skin screaming in response to the intense heat of the grill, the flesh bubbling and breaking apart to reveal what lies beneath.

I am Chris' blinding, excruciating pain.

"Oh, god, what is this? What—what are you doing?"

"Enlightening you. Narrowing your world to a central focal point." Zach presses his mouth to Chris' ear. "This is your pain. It's what you need. It's all you need."

What happened to love? Chris wants to snarl. He sobs instead. "Please, Zach! Fuck!"

Zach's free hand snakes down between Chris' thighs and cups him without mercy, squeezes hard. He feels Zach adjust his hand on the grill and bucks helplessly, his mind an active minefield of pain and lust and confusion, all the synapses exploding like bombs. Zach rubs him hard and fast, and Chris' world narrows, just as Zach just said it would, the edges crisping and burning away until it all goes up in flames and nothing's left but stark, blank white.

When Chris opens his eyes again, he's slumped over on the dirty floor. Zach lifts Chris' hand and wraps a bandage around it, tying it off at the wrist.

"The fuck...?" Chris whispers. Zach tilts his head and lifts up Chris' undamaged right hand, kissing the middle knuckle again. He presses Chris' palm to his stubble-dark cheek.

"Congratulations," Zach says dryly. "You ruined your jeans."

*

He's walking to meet Zach when his phone rings. Chris feels the now familiar pang in his hand when he digs into his jeans pocket with his left hand, the bandage rubbing against his burned skin. It hurts but it's a good hurt; something that reminds him of Zach and the odd pride in knowing Zach has chosen him. It's something that will last.

Chris' plan B has always been to become a hand model if acting doesn't work out, but those dreams are over now.

"Hello?" he answers. It's John.

"You've got some fucking nerve, getting into a fucking fistfight before an audition."

"I walked into a wall," Chris says.

"Like hell. Zoe told me the whole story. What's your fucking problem?"

"It wasn't intentional, man. I tried to cover it up as best as I could."

"I stick my fucking neck out for you time and time again, Pine, and this is the—"

The phone lifts away from Chris' ear, out of his grip. Zach whistles softly as he takes control of the device, as well as the conversation.

"Hello, John?" Zach says, casual and calm. "Yeah, Chris can't talk right now. Call back in a year. Maybe two." He hangs up the phone and slips it into his own pocket. "I'm confiscating this."

"What the fuck?" Chris blinks rapidly and frowns. It's like Zach appeared out of nowhere. "I need my phone."

"Why, so your agent can keep harassing you? You don't need it. You need food and a good fight, followed by a good fuck." Zach hooks a thumb behind him. "So let's start with a burger."

The burger hits the spot, greasy and messy. Chris tries not to stain his bandages with any of the condiments. Zach keeps nudging their legs together under the table and it's so close to normalcy that Chris wants to laugh. He looked under the bandages and checked the damage the other night. Zach had maneuvered his hand in order to burn a perfect "Z" into his flesh. They're nowhere near normal.

Zach orders a vanilla milkshake for the road.

They end up in a deserted parking lot on the edge of town. Zach strips off his shirt and that's how Chris knows it's time to fight. They trade punches and elbows and knees to the stomach until Chris is winded, doubled over and wincing at a pain that will blossom into a black eye. Zach hisses and rubs at his jaw. His front teeth are bloodied.

"Jesus, I think you broke my crown," he says.

Chris laughs and coughs at the same time. "You look better this way."

He's just about to suggest they go elsewhere when he realizes a small crowd has formed near them. The men clap and whistle and holler for the fight to continue. Chris looks them over with his good eye. He sees a young kid with curly hair and a guy that he recognizes from the AA meeting, all dark hair and piercing eyes. He can visualize the man's nametag in his mind, the hurried, scrawled handwriting that spells Karl.

Chris lifts his hand to wave them away, tell them the show's over. Then Zach steps out from behind him, egging on the crowd.

"Who's up next?" he shouts. Every single man there volunteers with enthusiasm.

Chris sits on the hood of a strange car and watches as Karl and a tall Australian guy duke it out on the blacktop. He presses his good hand to the unattended bulge in his jeans and shoots Zach annoyed glares whenever he looks over.

Eventually, the other men disperse, bloody, battered and charged up, and Zach leads Chris to the other end of the lot by the scruff of his neck. Zach shoves Chris face down against the hood of a Cadillac and holds him there as he yanks Chris' jeans down. He fingers Chris in a hot, twisting series of jabs and pointed thrusts until Chris wails and shoots all over the car's faded, slate-blue paint job, fingers curled and white-knuckled around a broken windshield wiper.

They part ways soon after and Chris hobbles in the direction of home. When he gets to his block he hears an ominous rumble, and then a loud, booming noise. He looks up just in time to see his fifth-floor apartment exploding to bits from the inside, broken glass and random objects flying into the street. Fire licks its way out of the shattered windows, followed by a plume of dark smoke. Something lands on the ground with a bang a few feet away. Chris leans down to pick up the object. It's his television's remote control.

He shows up on Zach's doorstep a half hour later. The door creaks open and Zach peers out, chewing on something with one side of his still-bloody mouth.

"What's the password?" he asks.

"My apartment blew up."

"That's not the password," Zach says.

He lets Chris in anyway.

*

Zach soaks in the tub and smokes while Chris sits on the grungy toilet and flips through an old magazine. It's quiet, save for the constant drip of the sink's faucet. Zach exhales one cloud of smoke after another, until the room turns hazy.

"Do you miss your stuff?" Zach asks. Chris looks up from his magazine. He rubs at a fading bruise along his bare chest.

"I think I miss the idea of my stuff more than I actually miss the stuff. You know, it's like...you figure you only have to buy one sofa in your entire life. Then you buy it and you're set, right? That's one thing you'll never have to do again. Dinner plates, coffee table...same."

"That shit was cheap and ugly anyway."

Chris shrugs. He tears at a corner of the page. "It did the trick."

"I suppose." Zach takes a long drag off his cigarette. His brows furrow and he looks at Chris with bright eyes. "If you could fight anyone in the world, who would you pick?"

"Tough question," Chris says. "I'm not sure."

"Okay, we'll start easy. Pick any celebrity."

Chris purses his lips. "Alive or dead?"

"Either."

"Shatner. William Shatner."

Zach gives him an odd look. "Why Shatner?"

"I dunno. He bugs me. All chubby and shit. And he's got that weird cadence. Drives me nuts."

Zach throws his head back and laughs. Chris echoes it. The sounds bounce off the tiles of the room. Chris tosses his magazine away and it lands in a dirty puddle.

"What about you?" Chris asks Zach.

"Michael Jackson."

"Seriously? Dude made 'Thriller,' that doesn't mean anything to you?"

"He touched little kids."

"Allegedly!"

Zach laughs again and puts out his cigarette on the wall. He flicks the butt away and then he lights a new one. Zach nods at Chris as he puffs and stretches lazily in the tub.

"C'mere," he says.

Chris stands obediently, shucking off his jeans. He steps into the tub and straddles Zach's hips, runs his hands over Zach's chest in the lukewarm water. Zach smiles lazily and lets Chris touch him for a minute. Then he takes hold of Chris' hips and shifts so Chris can slide down onto Zach's half-hard cock. Chris goes easily, still slick and stretched from an earlier fuck, and he moans low in his throat. They haven't been using protection. Chris can't bring himself to care.

"God, fuck me," Chris whispers. He feels wanton, being fucked in Zach's filthy bathroom, but he loves it somehow, loves being the center of Zach's attention, the one bright spot in the room.

"Fuck yourself," Zach replies, grinning. He takes his cigarette in his right hand and presses the fingers of his left hand hard against the bruises along Chris' ribcage. The painful sensation is an electric jolt that travels straight to Chris' cock. He bucks and works his hips harder, his cock slapping in the shallow water against Zach's stomach. Zach groans in appreciation. "Fuck, look at you," he murmurs. "So beautiful with my marks all over you."

Chris shuts his eyes and thinks of Zach's fists, their solid punches. He thinks of the sting of Zach's open palm. He rides Zach's cock faster and breathes in the smoke Zach blows in his face. He takes himself in hand and jerks roughly until his entire body seizes and he comes in the water, painting Zach's chest in long, white spurts.

Zach leans up right after Chris is done, while he's still panting for breath, and bites his nipple viciously. Chris yelps, his spent cock twitching between his legs.

"Fuck," Chris hisses. He watches blankly as Zach finishes his cigarette and grinds the ashes against the wall again. "You didn't come," he murmurs.

"Don't worry about it. You're a pleasure to watch, Chris Pine."

They drain the tub and towel off. Chris finds the one part of the mirror that's not clouded over with grime and looks at the nasty bite mark around his nipple. He touches it gingerly and winces. Zach comes up behind him without a sound and smiles at him in the mirror.

"You didn't answer my question," Zach says. "Anyone in the world?"

Chris blinks and remembers. He leaves his swollen nipple alone. "I guess...my dad. I'd fight my dad."

He looks in the mirror and sees Zach's eyes are dark, like a brewing storm. Zach sweeps his finger over Chris' nape and kisses him just beneath his hairline.

"I knew I'd get it out of you," he says.

*

Chris wakes from a nap and spies his phone on the bedside table. He realizes he hasn't checked it in days, not since Zach hung up on John and confiscated it.

He has nine new messages and fourteen missed calls from John. Two missed calls from Zoe. Chris goes through them all and deletes John's voicemails before each one begins to play. He listens to Zoe's messages.

John's worried about you. I am, too. You get in another fight, baby? Call me so I know you're okay.

Okay, seriously, Chris. Where are you? No one's heard from you in days. Fucking call me.

Chris considers this. He has no idea what day it is. The past forty-something hours have been a blur of fighting, fucking and deep, deep sleep. Occasionally, he and Zach find something to eat. Sometimes they just fuck through the hungry spells.

He turns the phone over in his hand. As if sensing his curiosity, it begins to ring. Chris checks the call screen. It's Zoe again. He's about to answer when Zach swoops down and yanks the phone away from him.

"Don't answer that," he says.

"She's worried about me."

"Which is silly, because you're fine." Zach pulls off his shirt. "I'm hungry. Get on your back."

Chris rolls over on the mattress and licks his lips. They're raw from being split open and left to heal, then split open again. Zach grips Chris' battered muscles without mercy, which gets Chris hard, fast. Chris spreads his legs at Zach's urging.

He groans as Zach splits him open completely.

*

"The first rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is...you don't talk about Fight Club."

Chris watches Zach pace the creaking floorboards, speaking to the group of men gathered around him. They're in the basement of Karl's restaurant. Apparently, Karl makes his living as a chef while overindulging in cooking wine. He offered up the space so they could meet without attracting unwanted interest from the cops or passersby. Karl's here now, as well as the tall Aussie man, Eric. The curly-haired kid is here, too. Chris doesn't know his name but he calls him "Angel Face" in his head because he's too innocent looking for words. He probably doesn't belong here.

"The third rule of Fight Club is," Zach continues, "when someone says 'stop' or goes limp, the fight is over. Fourth rule is only two guys to a fight."

He's parading around in a wifebeater and jeans, barefoot. Chris leans against the wall, directly behind him. He observes the faces of the other men. They devour everything Zach says. They devour his body and his presence with their eyes.

"Fifth rule: one fight at a time. Sixth rule: no shirts, no shoes. Seventh rule: Fights go on as long as they have to."

The air smells acrid, tinged with electricity. Chris hears someone pop his knuckles in anticipation.

"And the eighth and final rule," Zach adds, a dangerous smirk on his face. "If this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight."

The first few fights among the newcomers are fairly tame. They each end after about a minute, someone succumbing to the pain and crying out for a full stop. Eric gives a gray-haired man a royal thumping and when he's done, he and Karl exchange a meaningful, starved look. Chris wonders if they're fucking. When Angel Face gets up to fight, the other guy takes it easy on him. Chris supposes that no one wants to fuck up such a pretty sight. Or no one has the guts.

He goes outside before the end of the fight for a cigarette break. He gets two puffs worth before John stomps up to him on the sidewalk.

"Where the fuck have you been?" John demands. He's fuming, a vein protruding from his forehead. "I saw you across the street; I almost had a fucking heart attack! What the fuck is this place and why haven't you—"

"Well, this must be the infamous John," Zach interrupts. He steps behind Chris and lays a possessive hand on his shoulder. "What an unexpected honor."

John wrinkles his nose and looks confused. "What the fuck are you talking about? You know who I—"

"You know, you seem really wound up," Zach says. He wraps an arm around John's shoulder and leads him through the basement entrance to the stairs. "I know just the thing to help with that."

"Oh, jesus, Zach," Chris says. He spins on his heel. "Don't."

But Zach does.

A half hour later and John's officially indoctrinated. His lip is busted and his left eye is swollen shut. He can barely get up from the floor. Chris rushes to John's side. He throws Karl, the winner of the fight, a dirty look.

"It was his first fucking time," Chris says. Karl steps away and looks somewhat chastened.

"Shit," John whispers. He licks a thick stripe of blood from his mouth and peers up at Chris. "Sorry. I didn't know. I get it now. I get it."

Chris blinks and looks away. He can feel Zach's stare on him from across the room.

Once John's safely out on the sidewalk again, Chris hails a cab and helps him inside. It drives off and leaves a cloud of exhaust behind. Zach emerges from the fog. A cigarette dangles from his lips. He gives Chris a questioning look.

"Don't talk to me," Chris says, turning away.

"Christopher," Zach chides. "He had a good time! He's one of us now."

"I don't fucking care. You had no fucking right. I don't want to talk to you right now."

He starts to walk away. He knows Zach is watching him and laughing.

"No? Then when? I've got time, beautiful!"

Chris tunes him out and keeps walking.

*

He wakes up on Zach's sofa. Harold is curled on his torso, sleeping. Chris sniffs the unmistakable odor of bacon frying and his stomach growls, loud enough to rouse Harold. He wipes the sleep from his eyes.

"Zach?" he calls. He hears a clatter in the kitchen and then Angel Face walks out, a spatula in his hand.

"Hey," Angel Face says. He smiles and tilts his head. "Did you just say 'Zach?'"

Chris adjusts Harold on his lap and sits up. "What are you doing here?"

"Making breakfast. Want some?"

"Kinda," Chris says. He scratches his scalp. "Smells like bacon."

"And scrambled eggs and toast." Angel Face smiles, his cheeks ruddy and hair wild. He looks freshly fucked. "I had to give your pans a pretty hard scrub. Looked like they hadn't been used in ages."

"They're not mine."

Angel Face smirks. "You're weird, you know that?" he asks. He turns and walks back into the kitchen, out of sight.

A few moments later, Zach comes bounding down the stairs, cigarette in hand. He's only wearing jeans again. Even just passing by, he reeks of sex.

I am Chris' boiling bile duct.

"Good morning, starshine," Zach says. Then he goes into the kitchen. He emerges a minute later with a strip of bacon between his teeth. He takes a bite and nods to Chris. "Kid's a pretty decent cook. You should try some."

"Fuck you."

"I forgot you're not a morning person."

Zach disappears up the stairs again. Angel Face brings Chris a plate from the kitchen, filled with hot food, and sets it down on the table. Chris reaches for a strip of that bacon and eats it as Angel Face looks at him expectantly.

"You want a medal or what?" Chris grouses. Angel Face's smile dissipates and he steps away.

"You really are weird," he says. "I should go anyway. I'll see you later."

Chris flips the bird in the direction of the front door when it slams shut. He eats a large forkful of eggs. He feels a flicker of pain in the back of his mouth as he chews on the toast.

When he's done eating, Chris goes upstairs. Zach sits on the edge of his bed, clipping his fingernails.

"Done being pissy?" he asks when Chris walks by the bedroom. "You chased him away, didn't you?"

Chris doesn't reply. He goes to the bathroom and finds the clean spot on the mirror. He peers at the reflection of his open mouth, red and sore on the inside. Chris reaches into his mouth, feels around and carefully extracts a loosened tooth. He stares at the gleaming kernel in his palm. It's so small yet evidence of something so much bigger; like a remnant or casualty of a war.

Chris looks up and sees Zach leaning in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. Zach glances at the tooth in Chris' hand and shrugs.

"Even the Mona Lisa's falling apart," he says.

*

They're about to leave for the restaurant when there's a knock on the front door. Chris is surprised the knock doesn't bring the whole rickety house down. He goes to answer it and finds Zoe on the doorstep. Her hands are perched on her hips, her head cocked.

"For real?" she drawls. "This shit hole is where you live now?"

"I'm staying with a friend," Chris says. Zoe looks so petite, standing there before him. He squints down at her. "How'd you find out where I was?"

"Not by any powers of deduction, that's for sure. And definitely not from you, Mr. I Don't Answer My Phone Anymore." She huffs petulantly. "John told me."

Chris doesn't know how John would find out, either. Then he remembers that John is a member of Fight Club now. Angel Face was here this morning—last night, too. Word probably spread fast.

"Listen," Chris says. "Don't worry about me."

"Don't worry about you?"

"I'm fine! I mean, my apartment blew up and all, but I'm—"

"Oh, hell no."

Zoe moves past Chris, into the house, and looks around in disbelief. She's so floored by the surrounding pigsty that she doesn't notice Zach standing on the staircase, looking down at them with eyes like blades. Chris gives him a warning look and shakes his head firmly. Zach rolls his eyes and goes into the kitchen.

"You're living here?" Zoe asks, incredulous. "Who the fuck is your friend? That dirty kid from Peanuts? A rabid dog?"

"He doesn't really have time to clean," Chris says. He hears Zach snort in the kitchen.

"This is some bullshit." Zoe looks around and spots Harold approaching. She gasps and bends to pick him up. He nuzzles her chin. "And he lets a poor cat live in conditions like this? That's cruel."

"The cat likes it here," Chris says. He feels tired, suddenly. "I asked him."

Zoe arches one of her shapely eyebrows. "You asked the cat?"

"Yes. No. I mean, sort of."

Chris leans against the wall that separates the living room from the kitchen. He hears a low rumble of laughter and knows that Zach is pressed against the wall on the other side, listening to everything.

"She's cute," Zach whispers. "Ever fuck her?"

"Chris, do I need to worry about you?" Zoe asks.

"No," Chris says, answering both of them.

Zach whispers again. "Then what's going on here?"

"It's not like you to disappear off the face of the Earth like this." Zoe sighs. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing," Chris says.

"Nothing? It isn't fucking nothing, Chris," Zoe insists. She steps close, her eyes wide and searching. "Just tell me."

"This conversation," Zach begins.

"This conversation," Chris repeats.

"Is over," Zach says. Chris clenches his jaw.

"Is over."

Zoe stands and stares for a few tense moments that feel like an eternity. Then she hands Harold off to Chris.

"Fine," she says. "Call me when you're done being out of your damn mind."

The door slams as she leaves and Zach emerges from the kitchen. He whistles low and claps slowly.

"That was quite a scene," he says. He pins Chris with an amused look. "So, why haven't you fucked her?"

Chris grabs his jacket from the sofa, pulling it on. He can feel the folded papers inside the pocket that Zach placed there the other day. He hasn't bothered to look at them yet.

"She's an old friend, that's all."

"Aha." Zach moves close to Chris and lightly flicks Chris' bruised nipple, the one Zach almost bit off the other day. It hurts, even through the thin layer of cotton that covers his skin. Chris can't help his responding shudder, nor the faint moan that escapes his mouth. Zach smirks. "See, that's not why," he says.

I am Chris' complete lack of surprise.

*

He gets paired with Angel Face for his next fight and it's not fair, the way the kid looks so damn cherubic, even with his dukes up. Chris thinks of the way Zach looked at the boy earlier, his hand strong and sure on Angel Face's shoulder as they crossed paths, the smile on his face one of his most debauched, and Chris barely has his shirt off before his fists are flying and he grapples with the kid, pulling him down to the splintered, dirty basement floor and just wailing on him. His hands are murderous and everywhere and Angel Face is kicking, crying out, like he wants his mother, and Chris feels precious bone crunching under the force of his blows, flexes his fingers to scratch at exposed flesh, feels his knuckles getting wet just as Angel Face parts his lips to beg for a stop to it all but Chris can't stop now, he doesn't want it to end, so he punches his pretty mouth shut and punches and punches and growls and beats him and beats him until red splatters Chris' cheeks and Angel Face is covered in it so he's broken now, just ugly as the rest of the world and twice as gruesome, absolutely dripping in blood and angel-faced no longer.

Chris catches his breath and blinks. He feels his body sway and then right itself. An invisible rod and reel pulls his brain back from where it's taken shelter in a dark corner of his skull.

Everyone's quiet. It's the worst sound he's ever heard.

He moves off of Angel Face's still, unconscious body and makes his way through the crowd. Zach shifts so they brush shoulders.

"Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est?" Zach murmurs in his ear.

Chris swallows before he answers. "I felt like destroying something beautiful," he whispers.

He doesn't miss Zach's knowing look.

*

Zach shoves Chris through the front door and slams it shut behind them. The whole house shakes. Harold spooks from his perch on the sofa and scurries out of the living room.

"You want to fight?" Zach asks, baiting him.

"No," Chris whispers. He's tired and his hands are killing him. For once, the pain isn't pleasurable. His mind keeps flashing images of Angel Face's bent and bloody nose, his blackened mouth. "I want to go to bed."

"You think I give a shit what you want, Chris?"

"You just said—"

"This is about what I want," Zach growls. "It's always been about what I want."

The first punch comes out of nowhere. Then a second one strikes him from a completely different direction. It's like Zach is floating in the air around Chris, unaffected by something as common as gravity. Chris doesn't attempt to defend himself because he knows there's no defense on Earth that he deserves. He wobbles and grunts as Zach rains blows on his body, taking him apart with his powerful fists. Blood bursts from his nostrils and fire erupts in his chest. He's about to buckle to the floor when Zach grabs his torso and hauls him forward. He throws Chris face first against the wall. Chris' forehead hits the plaster with a dull thud and he sees fireworks behind his eyes. They pop and flicker like the sparkler his parents once gave him on the Fourth of July. They let him hold it until they decided it was no longer safe and took it away.

Chris slumps into Zach's arms like a discarded rag doll. He feels weightless. His numb hands hang low as Zach hoists him over his shoulder and carries him up the stairs.

I am Chris' broken heart.

Zach kicks the bedroom door open with the sole of his foot. Chris' body bounces when it hits the bed. He groans and waits for Zach to push him onto his stomach and take him. He waits for more pain, though he's not sure he can take much more.

Chris once read that a human being can die from overexposure to pain. The body takes drastic measures for self-preservation: shutting down, packing its bags, calling it a day and going home. He's almost certain it's not true, but he likes the idea.

Nothing happens. Chris opens his eyes halfway and spies Zach standing by the foot of the bed, gazing down at him.

"Come on," Chris rasps, his throat dry beyond belief.

Zach tilts his head as he regards Chris. "Do you know why I'm here?" he asks.

"To kick my ass?"

"That's just a bonus."

Zach smirks and climbs onto the bed. He crawls up the length of Chris' body so they're nearly flush, separated by a mere inch. Their lips are so close. Chris wonders if he could enter Zach through his open mouth, curl up inside him and live there. Would that be the same as packing up and going home? Would he be throwing the game?

"Just tell me already," Chris whispers. Zach smiles, lightly caresses a cut on Chris' temple.

"If you died right now," he says, "how would you feel about your life?"

"I would feel nothing about my life," Chris says. He swallows heavily. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"I want to hear the truth. That's why I'm here: to tell you the truth and for you to tell it back to me. Why do you think I blew up your apartment?"

Chris' eyes snap open at that. He feels lightheaded, unanchored. "What?"

"You were denying yourself the things you really need. Things I can give you." Zach lays his hands flat on Chris' chest, pressing down on all the fresh bruises. Chris gasps hoarsely, squirms on the bed in pain. He wants to give up. He wants to go home. Zach laughs lowly. "Don't tell me it doesn't feel good," he says. "You're not a beautiful and unique snowflake, Christopher. You're just like me. You're me and I'm you."

"No," Chris says. He feels Angel Face's blood again, slick and warm on his hands, and he knows it's not true. It can't be. "Let go," he whispers, voice tight with pain. He's not sure who he's trying to convince. Zach presses harder and constricts Chris' breathing.

"Forget everything you think you know," Zach whispers. His voice is soothing, as though he's sending Chris somewhere far away. "And just remember how it feels to be covered in my bites and bruises. To be painted in me."

Chris sucks in the last breath he can manage. Then it gets too hard. All the sparklers are extinguished.

*

In the morning, Zach is gone.

Chris tries to take a shower. At first, the hot water feels good on his scars and bruises, but then the pain becomes too much. He gingerly dresses himself.

He sits and reads magazines all afternoon and waits for something to happen. It's stupid.

Harold follows him around as if Chris has lost his best friend. The constant meowing starts to annoy Chris. He makes a conscious decision not to feed Harold. He's Zach's cat and Zach should suffer for leaving Chris alone. Then Harold climbs over the back of the sofa and lightly butts his head against Chris' bruised jaw in affection. Chris goes into the kitchen and fills the empty food and water bowls.

Angel Face shows up around four. His face is a massacre.

"What?" Chris asks flatly.

"Can I come in?"

"Zach's not here."

"What the fuck, man?" Angel Face squints and the darkened skin around his eyes creases. "Why do you always have to be so weird? What's your problem?"

"He's not here!" Chris shouts. He leans into the kid's space. He knows he must appear as crazed as he feels. "Zach's not here! Zach gone, okay? Zach go bye-bye!"

Angel Face steps off the front stoop, bewildered. He looks almost hurt as he leaves.

Chris shuts the door and paces the room, running his hands through his hair. He finds his jacket on the floor and picks it up, pausing when something falls out of the pocket: the papers Zach gave him. Chris unfolds them and looks them over.

It's the lease to the house. Zach's house. Signed in Chris' name.

In his own handwriting.

What are they?

Just something that might come in handy later.

Chris runs upstairs and tears the bedroom apart, searching for his phone. When he finds it, he calls Zoe.

*

Zoe agrees to meet him at Karl's restaurant. Chris gets there first. He orders a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich, even though he isn't hungry. He hasn't eaten anything since that breakfast Angel Face made. It was the best breakfast he's had in ages.

Karl gives him suspicious looks from the other side of the restaurant. Chris glances over at the window to the kitchen and sees the on-duty line cooks peering out at him. They all wear bruises and cuts on their faces like badges of honor. Chris sips from his coffee and uses the mug to shield his face from their stares. He feels exposed.

Zoe shows up with John trailing behind her. Chris thinks briefly about bolting.

"Stay right there," Zoe commands. Chris listens, of course.

John looks like hell. His face is marred with fading bruises, though Chris assumes he doesn't look much better. Zoe looks between them, concern sparkling like diamonds in her big eyes.

"John told me everything," she says. "Shit, Chris. What's happening to you?"

"Keep your voice down," John says. He darts his gaze around the room nervously. "The first rule. Big man here thought of it himself."

Chris thinks back to the lease still burning a hole in his jacket pocket. "I don't know what's happening."

"Why do all the cooks and waiters keep staring at us?" Zoe asks. She shifts uneasily in her side of the booth.

"They're all in the club." John looks accusingly at Chris. "His club."

"You're in it, too," Chris says. He takes a bite of his sandwich and chews. It doesn't even taste like anything, just plastic, plain American cheese. He thinks of Zach and wonders if he'll ever enjoy anything again.

John leans forward in the booth and scowls at Chris. Chris swears he can sense the entire staff of the restaurant physically tense in response, jaws set and shoulders squared. His heart starts to beat faster.

You're a fun guy, you know that? We should have some fun some time.

"I joined to keep an eye on you," John says. "To make sure you didn't get yourself into trouble. You're running an army of twisted, pathetic losers who get off on pain."

"It's not just me," Chris whispers.

Zoe squints at Chris. Her face is creased with pity. "What is he talking about, John?"

Chris' fingers tremble on the handle of his mug.

Well, this must be the infamous John. What an unexpected honor.

What the fuck are you talking about?

"It is just you," John says. "They worship you. You've got them all addicted to pain and now they'll do anything you tell them."

"You've got it wrong." Chris pushes his plate his away. He feels nauseated. His stomach churns in revolt. "They don't listen to me; they listen to Zach."

Did you just say "Zach?"

"Who the fuck is Zach?" Zoe asks.

"I forgot to tell you." John exhales and leans back in his booth, casually glancing between Chris and Zoe. "That's what he calls himself now."

Chris blanches. "What?"

Fucking cat. Figures he'd like you more than me.

"Chris—Zach," John says, looking cautious. "Zoe and I want to help you. That's why we're here, okay?"

Zoe gapes. "Fuck. Is he sick? This is crazy. This is beyond—"

This is about what I want. It's always been about what I want.

"Oh, god," Chris chokes out.

He gets to his feet and jumps out of the booth suddenly, not looking back to see how John and Zoe might react. At least two waiters are by his side immediately but he brushes past them, heading for Karl on the other side of the room. Karl looks up from his paperwork. One of his brooding hazel eyes shines at Chris like a target, rimmed in black and blue.

"Those two bothering you, sir?" Karl asks gruffly. Chris breaks out into a sweat. The other men only ever call Zach "sir."

"No. Sort of. I mean...no. No." Chris shakes his head brusquely. "Just...tell me. Who do you think I am?"

Karl's nose is slightly crooked. Someone did that to him, maybe Eric. Maybe Chris.

"Is this a test, sir?" he asks.

"What? Uh, yeah. Yes, it's a test."

Chris glances behind them and sees Zoe and John looking on from the booth, both of them turned awkwardly in their seats. Karl looks over, too, and frowns deeply.

"Are they part of the test?"

"Forget about them, okay? Just tell me who you think I am!"

Karl blinks and looks perplexed. He holds up his hand to reveal still-healing singe marks on his skin, purposely arranged to form the letter "Z."

"You did this to me on one of the grills in my kitchen," Karl whispers. "Z for Zach. You're Zach."

This time, Chris doesn't think about bolting. He just bolts. He hears Zoe and John calling after him, yelling for him to come back. But he's already too far gone.

*

The house smells like rot. For once, it's comforting rather than disgusting. Chris reaches into his jacket for the lease. He looks it over and drops it on the floor. It lands in a dark yellow puddle of cat piss. Harold's nowhere in sight.

Chris locks the front door and slowly makes his way up the stairs. He's exhausted, his muscles aching. He thinks about drawing a bath, lying down in the water and never getting out. John and Zoe are bound to come looking for him at some point, but he doesn't know when. Maybe they won't.

He pulls off his shirt as he walks into Zach's—his—bedroom. When the fabric leaves his line of vision, he sees Zach on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette. Chris drops his shirt in surprise.

"This is your life," Zach murmurs, "and it's ending one minute at a time."

"Shut up," Chris says. His clenches his teeth—the ones he still has. "Why do people think I'm you?"

Zach looks up. His deep brown eyes are guileless behind a wall of smoke.

"You might as well enjoy it," Zach continues. "Before the minutes run out, you know? And you weren't. Enjoying it, that is. But things were different after I came along, weren't they?"

Tears prick at Chris' eyes. "Answer me," he whispers.

"People think you're me because we inhabit the same body," Zach says. "And I got tired of you trying to deny who you really are. I mean, look at you." He gestures with the hand that holds the cigarette, swirling smoke throughout the air. "You're beautiful like this."

"But you fucked someone else."

Zach squints and shakes his head. "Technically, that's not true."

Chris shuts his eyes and sees Angel Face arch beneath him, his pale, skinny body reaching for him, his rose-colored lips parted wide in a throaty moan, a hand whipping out to strike his face. Chris sees himself perched above, working his hips feverishly, sweat dripping from his temples and down across his scars, the salt burning. Why do you always have to be so weird?

"I went too far," Zach says. He shrugs one shoulder. "I see that now."

"It isn't true," Chris protests weakly. "We were around other people; they heard us talking..."

"No one ever saw us speak to each other."

"John, John saw when you pulled him into the club and made him fight."

I didn't know. I get it now. I get it.

Zach smiles ruefully. "John thinks you're looney tunes."

Chris exhales, pushing all the air out of his chest. He reaches out for the dresser behind him, to steady himself. Zach is there in a second, his firm arms wrapped around Chris' torso. He kisses every bruise, mark and scar on Chris' face, lightly strokes down the curve of his spine. Zach pets the peach-fuzzed skin above the waistband of Chris' jeans and presses his thumb to the small of Chris' back. Chris sags in Zach's embrace. He presses his face to the crook of Zach's neck and breathes in until the oxygen is completely replaced with Zach's scent. It belongs to a world he'll never truly know.

"Come on," Zach says. He leads Chris to the bathroom.

Zach runs water for a bath, as if he can read Chris' mind, and they slowly undress each other. Chris takes the time to run his hands over Zach's bare flesh, every inch of the pale and the gorgeously discolored, all that solid muscle that feels so real, he can't believe it's anything but. Zach is a figment of his imagination—a mirage, the byproduct of lusty madness—but he's statuesque and beautiful. Chris has no idea how he could have ever constructed something so beautiful out of nothing. Zach smiles to him, likely reading his thoughts again. He lifts Chris' hand and runs his tongue over the scar on the back of his hand, slowly tracing each line.

"You made me the same way I made you," Zach murmurs. "Hit by hit. Bruise by bruise."

Zach steps into the bath first. The water is boiling hot. He extends his hand to Chris and Chris takes it, stepping in. They sit in the water and Chris feels his skin tighten in response to the temperature. It's not an unpleasant sensation. Now that Zach is here, the pain is good again.

Chris leans against Zach's side and they intertwine their outstretched legs. Zach pulls two cigarettes from somewhere, likely mid-air, and lights them both. He hands one to Chris and Chris accepts it gratefully. He sucks down the nicotine and tar and it sizzles throughout his lungs.

My name is Chris and I have cancer.

"Maybe I have a tumor," he murmurs. "In my brain."

"Maybe." Zach blows smoke out of the side of his mouth. "You could name it after me."

Chris almost smiles. He relaxes against Zach, Zach who isn't really there. He sinks a little further into the water. Zach doesn't attempt to pull him back up.

The last working light bulb in the room flickers, its lifespan nearly spent. The walls, already dark with grime and mold and rot, seem to blacken further. The water laps gently at his bruised and aching skin. Chris looks around and thinks that he's never experienced a stranger time in his life. He reaches for Zach's hand under the water and their fingers link together. Zach's grip is surprisingly tight.

Chris shuts his eyes, breathes smoke into the dank air.

"I wish you were real," he whispers.

Zach wraps both arms around Chris again, his embrace steady and warm.

"As far as you're concerned," he says, "I am."

The clean porcelain of the bathtub is a cradle. Chris leans into the water, Zach's body—anything that will hold him close and keep him after the light goes out.