They turn in at the same time.
Waylon is last to sleep on the couch. Miles wakes up from an hour's sleep, hiding away from the world as long as he can in a rundown motel. Only Waylon finds Miles and Miles always opens the door for him. They don't do this out of love.
When Waylon and Miles embrace, mouths crushing against one another and tongues slithering over each other, it's raw and desperate and intense. The animal instinct is what's left. Waylon pushes Miles to the wall or to the bed, neither cares where it happens, but their hands are fast on each other's pants.
This isn't love. This is an understanding between men that escaped hell but still live it. Waylon cries at night sometimes when he's alone in the living room of the new seedy apartment or his beat-up car. He can't remember the last time he made love to Lisa. Ever since Gluskin, Waylon hasn't been the same, only Miles understands.
Miles knows the worst has yet to come since their footage went public. Waylon can't consult in protection programs, fearing another Jeremy Blaire in the line of business that would do worse than leave him to die in a nuthouse of failed experimentation. Miles can't consult to anyone else but Waylon, because of what he is now. He'd just become another test subject to another corporation seeking profit.
They're jerking each other off. They never go past this. Waylon someday hopes he can make love to his wife as proudly as he once did, no psychological scars attached. Miles knows this is as close to human contact as he'll ever come to. It's somewhat comforting, because it beats drinking himself to blackout oblivion at bars and going back home cold and all alone.
They kiss each other hard, tongues engulfing and stroking in a pace that matches the race of their hands on each other, and when they come, a somberness stings their eyes, and they can't help wondering, is this the last time? They'll never know what other hell awaits in a foggy future that is their own.