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and late at night when both of them have too much law on their minds or when Mark whines too loudly over the perfection of Patrick’s muscles and the softness of his own. They run and run through the undulating streets of Patrick’s neighborhood and when they get home Patrick always pushes Mark up against the bathroom wall and gives more to him than usual. He licks the sweat from everywhere on Mark’s skin, forcing him to accept every whispered, worshipping compliment by kissing him into silence when he starts to protest.
    ***
    The first Friday after Christmas, Mark forgoes the usual trip to the bar, not caring that it’s obvious his friends are starting to suspect something approximating the truth. He catches a bus toward San Jose, and Patrick is waiting for him when he gets off.
    They go back to Patrick’s. As much as Mark feels like shit, weighed down with work and family bullshit, Patrick, for once, looks worse for wear. He didn’t make it home for Christmas at all and when Mark asks, all he’ll say is that it’s “work.”
    Patrick doesn’t talk much about what that means, having explained to Mark once that his professional life and his fun stay completely separate and that’s how he likes it. Mark is, of course, the one small exception to that rule. And that rule is one more reason Mark can no longer see himself with Patrick. He needs to share someone’s passion, to hear about it, to fall in love with it. Even though they talk plenty about law in the abstract, not knowing what makes Patrick tick is infuriating.
    “What do you want?” Mark asks, already starting to tug his belt loose.
    Patrick stops him with a smile and a raised hand. “Wine first.”
    They hardly ever drink wine. This one is a nice, rich red and its warmth goes straight into their veins, warming their bellies. When Patrick opens a second bottle, it’s obvious he’s trying to get Mark drunk, and Mark doesn’t try to stop him. His eyes keep flitting to the coil of climbing rope sitting on the kitchen table. He thinks—if he’s honest, he hopes—Patrick is going to get him drunk, tie him to the bed and fuck him until he’s incoherent and lost.
    When the second bottle is almost finished, he asks, point-blank: “You’re getting me drunk so you can tie me up?”
    Patrick laughs and says, “You’d do that sober.” He waits a beat, watches Mark swallow. “Tell me about the guy who broke your heart, back in Illinois.”
    Mark feels himself tense all over, his skin tighten and his stomach drop to his feet. He hadn’t expected the question or his own overreaction. “He didn’t break my heart,” is all he says.
    Patrick just rolls his eyes and snarks right back: “Fine, whatever.” The anger and disappointment from Patrick only add to Mark’s hurt. Still, Patrick finishes his glass and goes to get the rope.
    He only lets Mark come once that night, but it feels so good anyway, and the glide into sleep feels even better. So it doesn’t really matter.
    ***
    “What was his name?”
    Mark stares across the bar at the liquor bottles lined up in technicolor and avoids Patrick’s gaze. He tries to remember what they’re talking about. He can’t and his head is starting to ache. “Who?”
    “The boy in Illinois.”
    They haven’t talked about it in a couple of months, but Mark knew it would come up again and he’s been thinking about whether he should shut down the conversation for good and risk truly pissing Patrick off or whether it’s time to try telling the story out loud. He knows it so well, but he’s never spoken the words, never let someone on the outside judge him for his fuckups and feel sorry for his aching. Perhaps it’s time.
    And Patrick is not the kind of guy who’d be okay with not knowing. Mark sighs and signals the barman for another of his usual. He winces, and then dives right in: “He’s in New York now.”
    Patrick makes a noise that sounds as if he’s choking on a surprised laugh. Everyone knows New