Hank's got to be crazy going back to the Bookhouse tonight.

Scratch that. There's nothing crazy about what he's doing. About what he's been doing all day – all week, all year. There's nothing crazy about survival, and there's nothing crazy about wanting to explain it. That's what he tells himself anyway. He wants to explain. Doesn't he?

Hank finds it difficult to be honest with himself on the best of days, but if he really tries, he can admit he's not looking for understanding, or atonement, for what he did. He's not sure what he expects, but something's going to happen, alright. You don't sell out your friends' dreams, no matter how insignificant in the scheme of things, and get away scot-free. It changes you. Or reveals your true colors, depending on your point of view.

He parks his motorbike and heads straight around the house, because he knows the boys will all be back there, sitting around in a half-circle like always, only this time he's not sitting down with them, beer in hand, stuffed between the Truman brothers like he has any right to be there.

Here they are, anyway, neat in a row with a Jennings-sized hole in the middle of them. Tommy with his almost-grin ever present even as his eyes tell he'd like nothing than to clock Hank for the stunt he pulled. Big Ed with his arms crossed. Frank fixing him with a look of pure, distilled disgust. And Harry – Harry with his eyes cast down, hands in pockets.

Yeah, understanding's not the thing he's looking for here.

"Look who's finally crawled back to civilization," Tommy says, after spitting out his gum towards where Hank's still standing, a safe distance from them. "Thought you'd crossed the border by now."

Tommy's an asshole as a rule, so Hank doesn't mind him. His reaction will be reasonable, anyway. Ed's, too. It's Frank and Harry he's cautious about. It's the nice ones you look out for.

That's the thing about the Trumans. They've never been nothing but nice and fair to him, never let his name stop them from including him in their little circle, even if Hank's often sensed a hint of steel underneath Frankie's amicable veneer.

Harry, on the other hand – he's the only one whose reaction had Hank almost reconsidering his pact with that slimy devil of a Canuck. Not because of what it would do to Harry, because in the end, it doesn't affect any of them. Only Hank. It's his sacrifice, and if he truly was looking for understanding it's this he would have them understand. The rest of the Bookhouse Boys will go on with their lives as was destined to be. It's him that's jumping out of the train to freedom. He had his chance, and he blew it, and that's destiny as well. There'll be some wounds to lick but it's back to normal, then. Mind old Jennings on the floor, he's passed out again.

No, what's eating at him still is that after this, there'll be no more of Hank and Harry, Harry and Hank. Alliterative and always so egalitarian, thick as thieves through thick and thin. His friendship with Harry was always a key part of why he felt like he could be the one who would break the Jennings curse and drag himself out of the shithole that was his gene pool.

"Yeah, why don't you go back to your tee-pee on the rez, Hawk," he counters Tommy's half-hearted jibe, deliberately breaking the rules with a real insult.

It's a lame one, because they all know Tommy hasn't set foot in a reservation in his life, but they all get the gist of it, anyway. It's a shame, because he likes Tommy, really. But you use what you got.

It does have the desired effect, too. Tommy drops his smile and looks ready to actually attack him.

"Fuck you, Jennings," he says automatically, but without the camaraderie. That was always their thing. Hank'll miss it, eventually, he's sure.

Frank is eyeing them both like he's not sure if he should stop Tommy if he decides to lunge at Hank. Hank imagines he can tell Frankie's struggling with his role as the group's big brother, and his desire to join Tommy in mauling him.

"You've got a lot of nerve showing up here, Hank," Frank says.

It sounds like a rehearsed line from a 50s movie. Now look here, buster. Hank suddenly feels like laughing.

"What was I supposed to do, send you a postcard?"

Frankie's hands ball into fists, but he stays still.

"Don't try to joke your way out of this. You don't get to do this. Whatever entente cordiale you've struck up –"

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," Hank says, coolly.

He's not here for a Frank Truman rant, and this time, he's free to stop him mid-sentence. Frankie looks taken aback. He's assumed his old man's mantle with confidence, already carrying the air of a commanding officer, which makes his floundering now all the funnier. Hank used to look up to him, honestly, but it strikes him now that there is very little Frankie has actually done to deserve that sort of admiration, apart from dutifully following in his father's footsteps. Still, he's the venerable leader of this pack, and both Big Ed and Tommy look ready to pounce if only Frank gives them the go.

But no, Hank's not here for any of them, and they all know it.

Harry finally lifts his gaze and looks at Hank.

"Could you leave us alone for a moment?"

Harry says it quietly but with determination. No one reacts, so he looks at his big brother. It's not a pleading look, Hank thinks abjectly, but a polite command.

"Please."

After a beat, Frank nods slowly, and then glances at Tommy and Big Ed. Like loyal puppies they follow him into the Bookhouse, Tommy shooting a final glare at Hank over his shoulder. If they worry for anyone's physical health, they're not showing it.

They both wait in silence for a while. It's getting dark and the moon is hidden in the clouds, so Hank can't see the look in Harry's eyes from this distance. He's got to be angry and disappointed, but Hank suddenly realizes it's hard to picture him that way. Never had too much to be disappointed about, and isn't that all there is to know about one Harry S. Truman?

Eventually, it's hard to bear the thing hanging in the air between them.

"Well, aren't you gonna ask me why?"

Harry looks at him then, takes a step closer, and his eyes are guarded, almost hard like Frankie's. He shakes his head, barely.

"No need."

Hank wouldn't admit it, but he had a little speech half-prepared at the back of his mind, ready to spring it on Harry at the face of his inevitable confusion. Only it turns out there's no confusion, no line of questioning to meet.

Hank realizes he's been burning up with the need to tell Harry exactly why he dropped the ball. And now that he isn't being interrogated, it all starts boiling up inside him. Does Harry really think he's got Hank all figured out? Is he really ready to accept at the drop of a hat that all along, his closest friend has been a petty criminal in waiting, just like his old man?

Maybe it truly doesn't even register with Harry that there could be a reason for things men sometimes have to do. Of course, he's never had to choose. Never had to save someone by corrupting himself. It's evident in every fiber of his being – in both of the brothers – that they can afford to be nice and fair, can even lower themselves to the level of the Jenningses of the world without worrying if they'll catch anything.

And so, of course, nice and fair Harry Truman would never take the first swing. Hank should have known, and yet it sets him on edge. Is this really all his betrayal amounts to Harry, deserving of nothing but quiet resignation? Maybe Hank's been a fool to think Harry's interest in him really amounted to nothing but pity and curiosity – maybe he'd wondered if he could somehow save Hank from himself, and finding his hopes crushed is truly nothing more than a mild disappointment.

Hank lets himself be filled with the swirl of dark thoughts, chasing each others' tails. If Harry's not angry, fine. He'll be angry for the both of them.

Harry doesn't try to dodge him or block the first punch. They hit the ground, Harry with his back first which must knock the air right out of him. He makes no sound, though, when Hank's fist lands on his jaw, just rolls with it. The second, he's ready to block but Hank gets it in anyway. Blood roars in his ears.

It's not really a fight, or even a beating up, even if Harry's merely trying to stop his blows from landing anywhere vital. They've hurt each other worse on the field. No, this is just Hank letting out some of the steam, uncoordinated and ungraceful. They roll around a few times, but it feels half-hearted. Hank can't seem to get over the thing holding him back, this thing that binds him to Harry, a friendship he knows he'll never experience again.

On his back again, Harry lets him pin his wrists to the muddy ground. He's panting from exertion, but not looking any worse for wear beyond a smudge on his cheek. It all adds to the frustration, his unwillingness to fight. Like there's no fire in him, nothing to burn Hank with. But perhaps it's all good, in the end – let him see Hank as weak, unreasonable and at the mercy of his moods, like he is. That's what he's here for, he suddenly knows. That's all the explaining he needs to do.

Then there's the other thing, the unnamed, untouchable form that's taken shape between them this past year. At least that's what Hank would like to think. He is certain Harry senses it too, and knowing Harry, he'd be about a hundred times more willing to let it become something tangible, over time.

Hank can't leave any stone unturned, now. He'll have to take this, too, ruin it so Harry can't hold on to it or try to use it as a springboard for fond memories later on. He won't let this turn into anything good, so he'll make it ugly.

Hank slams his mouth against Harry's. His teeth clamp around Harry's bottom lip and he can feel more than taste a blood vessel bursting under a canine. Harry gasps and sputters and tries to push him away but Hank's got him pinned. He kisses Harry, hard and deep, the blood mingling with saliva. He kisses Harry, careful not to let it resemble anything gentle, keeping it hungry and caustic. He kisses Harry, for the first and the last time.

When he pulls back, Harry gulps for breath like a man drowning and Hank eases his grip. That should do it.

"Hank…"

Harry can't get anything else out through his heavy breathing. His jaw is shiny with blood and spit. Hank finds himself wanting to wipe him clean. But there's no washing away anything anymore, now.

"That how you thought it would be?"

He stands up and lets Harry become nothing more than a heaving lump on the ground. He makes no effort to get up, anyway. Hank continues, the tang of blood on his tongue. It'll wash away with whiskey.

"You thought we could kiss and make up, huh? Don't think I haven't noticed. Fucking fag."

There's no heat enough in there to be a real taunt, but it's enough for Harry to scramble to his feet. Hank's not sure what he expected, from Harry or from himself, but it still feels like there's something missing. Everything he thought Harry would be, it's all there, but muted, somehow. Like he's holding something back. Like Hank's still worthy of some care.

"You don't need to do this, Hank."

Harry's voice is soft and, above all, infinitely sad. No trace of shock or fear. He looks Hank in the eye, and this close, Hank can see his eyes have the same soft sadness in them.

Fair enough. Hank knows he should be happy, because he's clearly achieved all he can here. No reason for him to linger anymore. He leaves Harry standing there in the dark, not bothering to reply. He doesn't need to deal with the rest of the boys, they'll get the message.

His bike's still parked in front of the Bookhouse, not even a victim of a childish act of sabotage he was half-expecting.

There's a light in one of the windows of the House, in the kitchen where he's sure the rest of the gang is now huddled around Harry, tending to his wounds. They'll coalesce into an ever tighter group soon enough and forget a Jennings was ever let in. Hank is sure of it. They'll just need some time.

Hank gets on his bike and revs up the engine. He doesn't look back as he drives off into the night.