Two months passed. I saw him… not often. Not more than once a week. I would go to the bus stop and look for him, and if I could see him through the window, I'd go inside. If I didn't see him, or if the sun blocked my view, I'd go home to my studies, and to Sandy.

Sandy and I shared the same taste in music, and had the same humor. She reminded me a little of Cy. She had several times as many piercings and tattoos. But we never came as close, of course; we were friends and shared expenses, but had very different social lives, and only a few common friends.

December came, and Sandy went to spend Christmas with her parents. I was going to spend one more night in the apartment, and then go back to my own family. They had invited me only a week earlier, and that had broken up something cold inside me that was now slowly melting away after an ice-age in my chest. They didn't hate me for avoiding them for three years. They had forgiven me.

I had spent the last winter holidays alone in the crummy little apartment I lived in for nearly two years. Now I had a family again. And right now, if I had to choose between my family and a person I loved… I don't think I would have made the same mistake again.

Or maybe I would. I don't think I remembered what it was like to love anyone.

Mik had invited me out. It had taken me completely by surprise; neither of us knew where the other lived, and we had only met on the café, on neutral ground, until now. But we were only going as friends, to a club that wasn't too noisy for him and not too foofy for me.

As friends… It had been five years. We had both moved on. We could be friends.

But I was – terrified. That it might become something more. I didn't dare, couldn't take it any further, but some part of me wanted and needed a relationship now, a safe one, like the one I had with him once… But whatever I wanted was irrelevant, right? Because he probably wouldn't touch me with a red-hot poker.

Friends. Just that.

I went to fetch the mail before I showered.

The doorbell rang. I walked over, and opened it. My eyes didn't communicate with reality; they hung about his chest-height, trying to understand what they saw.

"Harley?"

I looked up, meeting his eyes, jolting back to reality. "Mik? I… shit, what time…"

"Two hours since you were supposed to meet me." I barely heard the tone of his voice, but he probably took it as an insult. I looked down at myself, realizing that my plans of showering and changing had evaporated hours ago. Hours? Where did all that time go…?

"I'm -- I'm sorry. This really isn't a good time… How did you find my address?"

"Never mind that. Why didn't you come?"

He was angry now. Suspicious. But I didn't have room for guilt, even if I wanted to feel guilty, feel awful about forgetting him like that. It would be better than everything else.

"I don't think I can go out tonight," I said, looking away. "I'm sorry, something came up…"

He said nothing for a few moments, and I looked up, wondering what he was waiting for.

"Is he in here with you?"

'What? No!'… was the answer bursting through my head and never reaching my mouth. My breath hitched, stopping any words I might want to say, anything I wanted to tell him or explain. I thought he'd turn and leave before I slowly managed to shake my head.

"Harley? What is wrong?"

"N… nothing. I just got someth… some shocking… news. That's all. I'm sorry I didn't call you…"

"I called you."

"You did?" I remembered it the moment I heard him say it. "Oh… yeah… um, it said 'Unknown number', and I…" I knew I didn't have to explain. He saw the scattered pieces of cell phone on the floor behind me, and the remains of the mirror I had thrown it into.

"Do you want me to come in?"

He could have said 'do you want me to leave?' I just nodded and stepped aside to let him in. He might laugh when he saw it, savor that I was hurting like he did. But I didn't care; I needed a human being to be around right now.

When we came into the living room, I pointed to the box before he could say anything. He was inside, he'd find out anyway. I drifted to the other end of the room, like the area around him was infected. I fingered with one of Sandy's odd, metallic decorations, and heard him touch the wrapping paper, pick up the card.

"Are these…?"

"No. They died years ago. These are new. Poor buggers."

I heard the dry rustle as he picked up the box, making the contents move. I shivered, the three dead tarantulas still a picture etched into my retinas. Not as much gross as symbolically terrifying.

"Do you want me to throw them away?"

I nodded, still not looking his way. He didn't take them to the trashcan, but left the apartment with box, card and wrapping paper. How long until he would return? I stood still, wondering when I could be sure that he wasn't coming back, when I could do something – anything – to remove any sensible thoughts I might have left.

He came back a few minutes later, and I hadn't moved. He stood in front of me, and I wanted to look up, but I was afraid of what I might see. Glee? Pity? I stared at his chest, suddenly remembering how broad and warm and comforting it used to be whenever I was down. My arms were folded, and my nails dug into my own arms as I restrained myself. Then his hands were on my shoulders, pulling me close, and I flung my own around him, pressing close to the unmocking warmth of his embrace. I shook violently, air heaving its way in and out of my lungs as the shock and terror flooded out from their imprisonment like a million spiders. I babbled, and I knew it was babble, I knew that there wasn't a single coherent word in it, but the mouth murmuring comforting sounds against my forehead and the hand gently rubbing my back told me that he knew and understood like no one else ever had.