Eobard finds him on the warehouse roof.
Barry doesn't ask how; they have an odd pull toward each other, even with suppression collars on to keep them from accessing the Speedforce, like opposing magnetic poles. That closeness might have disgusted him once. Indeed, it has fascinated and repulsed the scientists in both of them in turn since they became aware of it – being bonded to your greatest enemy is not a simple thing.
Tonight, it eases the ache in Barry's chest. He is still miserable, because company will never be enough to change that, but he is also not alone, and being able to share that without pretense means more to him than it should.
Eobard sits to his right, cross-legged. "There's a lot of betting going on down there."
"You'd be great with poker, if you wanted to learn." But that will not be his Reverse's game, not now and not ever. Eobard hates it when he can't see all the pieces on the board. "So. Who's winning?"
A soft hum, a cocked shoulder. "It's early yet, but Mardon still hasn't figured out that his back is to a mirror."
Barry laughs. "Not him, then."
"Not him."
Silence settles between them for a moment. Then Eobard sets a hand on Barry's shoulder.
"Bottle cap?"
It's a question that wouldn't make sense to anyone unfamiliar with T.A.M.E collars, of course. But in addition to their passive deadening effect on metahuman abilities, there is another, more standard use for these particular pieces of technology. One that is, in Barry's opinion, far more unpleasant than being cut off from the Speedforce. If a felon's stress level goes above a certain threshold, the collar will give a warning beep, then – if their heartbeat is not calmed quickly enough – deliver a brief shock to 'snap them out of it'.
Barry has to still his hand before it can move to tug at the thick, resilient polymer around his throat.
The shock mechanism isn't foolproof, after all. Hence bottle caps.
"Here," Barry says, handing one over to Eobard and reaching up to slot another in between his own collar and the sensitive skin it rests against. This way, if their heartbeats exceed 'normal' levels, any shock will spark off harmlessly between the prongs and that new insulating layer.
Needless to say, capping is illegal. He trusts Eobard not to tell, though.
Relief blooms across the other's face, muted but there nonetheless. "Thanks. I've been losing my mind trying not to get dragged into Shawna and Hartley's bantering."
That's not the real reason. Still, Barry doesn't pry. Eobard always makes himself clear with time.
"Star Wars v.s. Star Trek again?" He asks to keep the conversation flowing.
"Worse." Eobard's theatrical shudder almost makes him smile. "Cake boss or Great British Baking Show."
A cool breeze caresses their faces as the industrial sector hums with automated night life below. This place is rarely quiet. Construction and production and distribution go on at all hours, so much so that it makes Barry's head spin when he pays too much attention. There are definite perks to not having to deal with people apart from his roommates, though, and it doesn't hurt that when all five of them chip in rent is practically nothing. So this warehouse with a makeshift communal bathroom and the tiny kitchenette setup he and Eobard have rigged will do for now.
"GBBS is the only way to go," Barry agrees, crossing his heart.
Eobard squints, grey eyes alight with joking suspicion. "You aren't just saying that, are you?"
"Hell no. You'd divorce me."
"Damn right." Then that hand is back on his shoulder, and concern creeps into Eobard's voice. "Did something happen? The others didn't see, but I could sense the blood on your arms."
What happened? Barry chokes back a harsh noise – he refuses to call it laughter – and shakes his head. Life has happened, that's all, and the scars it leaves on his soul with every passing day. But then again, he should be used to that by now, shouldn't he?
Pathetic, a cold voice whispers in the back of his mind.
Barry sighs, running a hand through his hair to ground himself. Before Eobard found him, his plan had been to come up here and calm down, then rejoin the others as if nothing had happened. That's only going to take longer if he has to revisit these memories when they're too fresh to bear. And if there's one thing a person like him cannot show under any circumstances, it is weakness.
"Barry."
A warning beep sounds. His collar, or Eobard's? Neither speedster cares enough about the answer to tell.
"It all happened, Eo. That's it. Just hits me harder at some times than others."
The warmth he feels increases as Eobard shifts closer, their heat mingling in the space between them. He feels emotions so differently than most people, but he still looks like he's trying to understand, and in that moment Barry both loves and hates him for it.
He gestures at the undersides of Barry's arms. "So your..."
"Clean. And bandaged. I was going to put a fresh shirt on, but I got distracted."
Not that blood shows through the long-sleeved black shirt he's wearing to begin with. Eobard doesn't need to see it to know, though.
"I miss them too, you know."
Barry bristles instinctively, then forces himself to calm with slow breaths. Even that general mention of their former family is closer than they have gotten to discussing the past in a while. But he also feels selfish for having such a reaction, because it's true. Eobard loved – loves – Caitlin and Cisco and even Joe and Iris in his own way, whether it's due to their brilliance and loyalty and steadfast support in a crisis or the unwavering will to butt heads with him if need be. Those people are not Barry's alone to love, and in many ways they never were, even if he might wish otherwise at times.
Yet the raw scabs around his heart threaten to break open all over again if they linger on the subject too much longer.
As if he senses this, Eobard stares off into the distance, a mild, perturbed expression marring the mask of neutrality he so often wears. Grief strikes people differently, Barry supposes: none more so, perhaps, than a self-proclaimed psychopath with no real conscience to speak of and a former hero who has fallen from grace. He can respect his Reverse's loss all the same, though, just as the other man respects it when he sees it in him.
He hooks an arm over Eobard's shoulder, and doesn't try to hide the tears that leak down his cheeks.
Central City moves on around them.
FIN.
Author's Note: Hi, fellow Flash fans. I am... very much late to the party, it seems. Anyway, if you enjoyed this please give me a shout and let me know. Hope you all have a nice and safe holiday season.
Best,
RoT
P.S. - According to Google translate, divexo means 'to worry at, to pick at' in Latin. I thought it seemed fitting.