Title: Defeat
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse, post-VA5
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob, Bob/Holden
Rating: Songfic. R, definitely, R for Rotten Trick. S, maybe, for 
Shit, how could you do this to Bob and Jay? T for Try it again and 
we'll break your fingers? *Psigh.*
Status: New
Archive: Drop me a note and it's yours. And on that note...
Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequels: In order: this follows "Broken Promises", which 
followed "Barely Breathing", which followed "Silent". And, FUCK, but 
there's another one lurking in here. STUPID Holden!
Disclaimers: All parts of my fannish being are enriched by the 
presence of Kevin Smith, Jason Mewes, Jason Lee, Ben Affleck, and all 
the merry characters at View Askew Productions (including their 
current master, Miramax,) save for that pesky financial part of my 
being, which receives no compensation whatsoever for these tawdry 
little tales.
Notes: OH MY GOD THE ANGST!!! Killer levels of angst, I mean 
really. This should come with warnings. Do not ingest. Take with 
chocolate. Use of sharp things after reading this story not 
recommended. Do not drive under the influence of this story. Do not 
kick the puppy.
Summary: Bob needs answers, and for some reason, Holden McNeil 
springs to mind.
Warnings: ANGST. ANGST ANGST ANGST. LETHAL angst. Bob getting 
drunk. Holden losing hope. Jay clueless as usual. Bob breaking up 
with the boy, AGAIN. AIIIGH!!

Additional Notes: This is not the story I originally wrote. I saved 
the story, as I've always done, to disk and drive. Sometime between 
starting the final story, and saving, both copies of this story 
scrambled beyond any hope of restoration. I am...'extremely upset' 
doesn't begin to cover it, especially when I'm counting up how much 
of everything I've written exists in not-yet-posted form on this 
drive. I've done the best I can, but I really don't remember exactly 
how everything went.

Additional additional notes: Sometime between the last rewrite of 
this and saving it, it scrambled again. Hate my hate my hate my comp 
now. I'm going to try and unscramble, but I am fucking SICK of this 
story now.

"Defeat"
by Kelandris


*the wind is ruthless
the trees shake angry fingers at the sky
the people hunch their shoulders
hold their collars over their ears and run by*

**You always cry when your heart is broken...**

The bed shook with the sobs Bob was trying to suppress. His wounded 
heart taunted him with images of Jay, images of a Jay he was never 
going to have again. He pressed his face to the pillow, trying to 
fight back the sobs that racked his shuddering form. 

**Shut up,** he told himself, clutching the pillow, clenching his 
eyes shut. The bed he lay facedown upon sagged with the additional 
weight of someone he wanted anywhere but next to him. Right now, he 
would almost rather Jay were in the next room, making love to 
Justice, than sitting beside him waiting for him to turn around. He 
felt Jay reach out, touch his hair lightly, and he shivered.

**Go away,** he thought. **Go away, go away, go away. *Please* go 
away.**

And finally, Jay did.

*it's a cold rain
it's a hard rain
like the kind you find in songs
I guess that makes me the jerk with the heartache
here to sing to you about how I been done wrong*

And Bob completely broke down. It wasn't bad enough that he'd left 
Jay for three months, left Jay with the intention of *never* coming 
back, left a part of himself behind when he did so, hacked and 
bleeding on the cold Jersey streets. It wasn't bad enough that Jay 
had managed to find him, find him and bring him back from his self-
imposed exile, find him and bring him back to what he might always 
consider as "their apartment"--and apparently had had no problem 
treating him like shit for ever leaving in the first place. It 
wasn't the worst of it that Jay had made a promise to Bob, a very 
important promise, *not* to treat him like shit in the sanctuary of 
their living space, and had broken it within moments of reassuming 
his relationship with the convent from California.

No. The worst of it, the very worst of it, was that it had all been 
a waste. Every bit of it, every scrap of his bartered heart he'd 
offered to the blond, every moment where he spoke aloud rather than 
remain safe in silence--all of it, every bit of it, wasted. Wasted 
on a boy who would never change, who would never love him back, who 
would never understand what loving someone--the pain and the risk of 
it, the joy and the fear of it, the deep need and the deeper 
connection--meant.

*I am sitting, watching
out the window of the coffee shop
and I'm waiting, waiting
waiting for it to let up*

Jay had left him long before he'd ever wondered about Minneapolis, 
about just packing up and moving out, moving away, never coming 
back. Jay hadn't been a part of his life since before he'd left. 
And wasn't there some deep, corrosive irony there? The whole winter 
in Minnesota he could have skipped entirely by staying in his 
comfortable apartment and being frozen by the boy there. How fucking 
stupid *was* he that he continued to love the fuckwit known as Jay? 
Even after the revelation of his defeat, at the hands of Jay's 
mistrust, Jay's degraded emotions, Jay's contempt for all other life 
that was not his?

And even now, even realizing all this, he realized that he no longer 
had the strength to leave. Jay would keep him here, keep him here 
until he died, poisoned by Jay's disaffection, because where else, 
really, could he go? Back to his sister's? Jay would only track him 
down again. Over to some friend in town? Jay knew where to look, 
and would look everywhere--he'd fucking proven that, hadn't he?

No. There was no hope. Game and fucking match, the dim bulb with 
the death wish. The brainiac on the bed had no chance, had no hope 
of escape, no matter how many interesting things he could do with a 
soldering iron and some circuit wire. There was...no hope in the 
universe.

At least not for him.

And drowning in these poisoned thoughts, he finally passed out until 
the morning.

The next morning had the gall to dawn bright, and sunny, and 
perfect. Cloudlessly blue, and shining vapidly in Bob's eyes as he 
blinked the pain of the glitter away, staggering to the bathroom. 
From there he went back to the bedrroom, from the bedroom into 
clothes and out to the kitchen for breakfast. Mechanically he 
watched dishes, mechanically he fixed eggs and bacon, toast and 
coffee, mechanically he moved through setting the table, scooping 
food onto plates, removing them when they were empty, washing them 
and stacking them in the strainer to dry.

All through the steady, progressive action, Jay had tried to talk to 
him, And he'd answered, if possible, even more monosyllabically than 
usual. Finally, Jay sighed, and started talking about the mall.

"Have fun," Bob said softly.

"Well, you too, fuckhead, or else why'm I goin', ya know--"

"Not coming."

"What?"

He turned, drying his hands on the dish towel, laying it carefully 
aside. "I have to see someone."

"Who?" There was sudden, high-pitched, strained jealousy in Jay's 
tone, and he was intrigued. Not enough to hang out with someone 
who'd only brought him back for the convenience of having someone 
else around, though. He shook his head, turning back to the kitchen, 
closing cabinet doors, wiping down the counters. And finally, Jay's 
questions unanswered, he grabbed his coat and walked out the door. 
He could still hear Jay screaming as he walked down the stairs, but 
it was getting fainter, and look--right on time, there was the bus.

He paid his fare, tilted his cap down, and pulled the collar of his 
coat up to wait.

*and before it gets so cold
that the rain turns to snow
there's just a couple things
I'd like to know*

The building still looked like it should have been deserted, the door 
hanging off its hinges, the winds howling inside. He was never sure 
whether that was just the character of the building, or the 
occupant. The heavy corrugated walls were covered in spots of rust, 
and there was a slight wind, cutting through his coat to prick at his 
skin.

He knocked, the metal booming under his knuckles, and waited.

From deep within the building, he heard steady cursing, and steps 
coming his way. He waited, wanting a cigarette with every fiber of 
his being, counting off the steps as they drew closer. And finally, 
the door slowly opened.

The man that answered the door looked more miserable than he felt, 
actually. He was thin, driven-looking, as if all he did all day was 
run laps with his nightmares for company. He hadn't shaved in a few 
days, the dark stubble roughening his pale skin. His eyes were 
sunken pits in his head, and his dark, spiky hair was unwashed.

"What? Come back to gloat or something?"

Bob blinked at him. What?

"I heard. Little bird told me about the licensing deal you struck 
with...in Hollywood."

Oh. Bob shook his head. That wasn't why he'd come out.

"I needed to ask something."

"That's a first," Holden McNeil said, leaning against the door 
frame. "What's that?"

"Did you ever tell Banky you loved him?"

Holden bent over slightly, hand gripping the door, as if the words 
themselves had physically struck him. He slowly straightened, 
staring at Bob.

"That's your question?"

He nodded. Concern filled his eyes and Holden just frowned. Then he 
opened the door wider, walking off down the hall.

"Might as well come in, then," he tossed back over his shoulder. 
Gingerly, Bob stepped inside.

*like how could you do nothing 
and say, I'm doing my best
how could you take almost everything
and then come back for the rest*

Holden walked down the hall, gesturing towards the place on the main 
floor where furniture was, and the place on the main floor where the 
hotplate was. In other locations, these things would be 
named `living room' and `kitchen', but here they were just breaks in 
the larger space.

"Sit down, have some coffee if you want. I'm gonna go clean up."

**'Make yourself at home,'** Bob heard in Holden's hollow voice. He 
shook his head, wondering how long it had been since Holden had. He 
looked around, seeing that the kitchen area was fairly clean, so he 
hadn't completely broken down. Studio looked good--that is, messy 
with half-completed projects and works in progress and--he pulled out 
the corner of something that looked like a check, dated last week, 
for a staggering sum of money--Holden was getting paid, so that was 
something.

Dizzied by the thoughts circling in his head, he made his way back to 
the couch, looking around. He saw magazines on the coffee table, 
which reminded him of Holden's offer. He walked to the kitchen, 
found a cup, washed it out, dried it off, and poured coffee. He 
didn't feel up to anything beyond black.

By the time Holden returned downstairs, freshly showered and shaved, 
he'd gone through two issues of Popular Photography and was deep in 
an old issue of Popular Mechanics, reading an article on camera 
mechanics.

*how could you beg me to stay
reach out your hands and plead
and then pack up your eyes and run away
as soon as I agreed*

"So," Holden said, sitting down and looking nervous. Bob looked at 
him, folding the magazine closed and setting it on the table. He 
nodded. Holden licked his lips. Bob waited.

Finally, after several moments had gone by with no words from either 
man, Bob stood.

"Look, it's not my business, I can go if you want--"

"No, it's not--it's just--ah, shit." He beckoned Bob back to the 
couch, ruffling a hand through his damp hair. "It's difficult. Why 
do you want to know?"

"You had the night where things fell apart." At Holden's start, Bob 
shrugged.

"Bank's told Jay some of it, so assume I know some of what happened. 
Probably not accurately--I'm filtered through Bank and Jay, who 
*rarely* gets things entirely right." For a moment he smiled, 
thinking of Jay, and then the smile died, and he set the cup of 
coffee down.

"Plus there's this," he said, pulling out a copy of Chasing Amy.

Holden took the book from him, stroking his fingers across the 
plastic. "You actually bought a copy."

"I actually read it, too," Bob said drily. "And it wasn't exactly 
hard to break your secret code."

"Never thought it would be. So your main question is, did I ever 
tell Banky I loved him?"

"Yeah."

Holden looked down at the book, shaking his head, then handed the 
book back.

"No. I never told him. I never...No." 

"If you had...hypothetically--told him..."

"Right," Holden said miserably.

"You think he would have left, then?"

Holden's eyes were razors, cutting deeply into Bob's core, but he 
held the gaze until Holden looked away.

"You mean," he whispered, staring at his hands, "love conquers all, 
and all that shit?"

"Maybe. Maybe less than you think. But maybe."

"Not in that situation." For a moment longer, Holden stared down at 
his hands, clenched in his lap. Then he looked up.

"You want a drink?"

*it just all slips 
away so slowly
you don't even notice till you've lost a lot*

"Sure." He watched as Holden walked into the kitchen, grabbed two 
old-fashioned glasses, and a bottle of...Shit. Bushmill's. But the 
desperate look in Holden's eyes when he returned silenced any 
protest. Bob just sighed, cringing inside.

Holden poured for them, downed his neat inch of whisky, then poured 
another. Bob simply rolled careful sips of golden heaven around his 
tongue, hoping against hope for the known effect to be absent this 
time. Whisky was bad on the best of days. Here...it could further 
destabilize everything. Him. Holden. Jay. Everyone. Hell, even 
Bank could potentially freak out, depending on how word filtered back.

They sat for a bit, watching anything but each other, until finally 
Bob looked up and caught Holden watching him.

"Why?" Holden asked carefully.

"Why what?"

"Why are you asking? You and Jay aren't--"

Bob blinked, then raised the tumbler, downing the whisky within. 
Hell with boundaries, now; that had *hurt*, and if he was still that 
close to the source of his pain, he needed a little distance.

"Oh," the other man said. Holden silently filled his glass again; a 
little over three inches, this time, and he just nodded.

"Jay and I...He's...This is difficult, too." He turned burning dark 
eyes up to meet Holden's, sparkling like chips of frozen cola. "I 
love him," he said simply. Holden said nothing. Bob inhaled and 
continued.

"And, when I couldn't take being around him any longer without him 
knowing, I told him. And I knew who he was. I knew *what* he was. 
I thought he'd freak out and leave, or hit me, or run off, or...
something. Instead, he was...overjoyed. And we were happy...for a 
while."

"The sleeping around got to you," Holden hazarded.

Bob sighed, putting the glass down. He ran his hands through his 
shoulder-length hair, shaking it over his eyes for a moment. Shit, 
why was everything barbed today? Every single fucking thing he did...
And Holden has one pending, boy-o, you should at least answer him.

"Kind of...I mean, at first, I was incredibly jealous. It took me a 
few months...on my own...to work it through enough to know that it's 
just part of who he is. I'm still jealous, but if they don't mean 
anything to him, is he really cheating? What he does...well, in 
better words than mine, it's the equivalent of a genital sneeze."

Holden laughed, surprised, and Bob just shrugged again, barely 
smiling. 

"Hey, people used to pay him to induce sneezing, so he's at least 
slowly figuring *that* part out...No, the worst of it was his fear."

"Jay's afraid?" Holden looked at him like he'd lost his mind.

"Of certain things, he's terrified. Change that he doesn't control. 
People who want to control him. Any hint of authority. And what is 
someone you love in your life? Someone who changes you, who controls 
your actions, who, ultimately, if you're honest with yourself at all, 
has a certain authority over what you do. Jay couldn't handle that."

Both glasses were empty, and the bottle was half empty. Dangerous. 
They both refilled their glasses. More dangerous.

"So what happened?"

"I left him."

"You left Jay."

"For about four months."

`Because he was afraid."

Bob shrugged again. "Maybe. Maybe because I had to get a larger 
perspective on everything. Maybe because I wanted to force his hand, 
see if he really cared for me. Maybe I just couldn't deal with his 
dishonesty."

"Dishonesty?"

"Holden...Bank was with you for, how long, total?"

"Least ten years," he said quietly, drinking.

"Right. And in all that time, how many people told you there might 
be something you didn't know about Banky?"

Holden sighed. "Everyone saw it but me. I didn't even see it that 
night, not totally. Not until I..."

"Kissed him."

"Shit," Holden whispered.

*I've been like one of those zombies
in vegas
pouring quarters into a slot*

"Okay. So what happened when Banky finally faced what everyone but 
him knew?"

"He shut down. He tried to...I was a wreck, Alyssa had left, and Bank 
was trying to pretend that nothing had happened, and one night..." He 
swallowed, looking up at Bob.

"I know Bank wouldn't have said this to Jay. You wouldn't have left 
him if he had."

Bob cocked his head to one side, waiting.

"One night, I...shit, this is fucked up...I went to Bank's room, and 
I...I crawled into bed with him. And..."

Holden swallowed, Bob still watching his face. The frozen cola was 
melting; condensation pooled on the surface glass, ran down the arch 
planes of Holden's face.

"I made love to him. And the next morning, he left."

"He couldn't handle it."

"I think he could have...if I'd been in there for him. Instead, I 
was in there trying to chase Alyssa's ghost away."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Broke the partnership, I packed up everything, gave Bank 
control of the Bank-Holdup properties, and...here I am."

"Yeah, but you were in New York between then and now." Bob lifted 
the book. Shrugging off his trench, he put it on top of the coat, 
putting both on the arm of the couch.

"Yeah, but I thought just getting away, thinking things through, 
would be good. I got a little loft on the west side, had some steady 
work as a fill artist, even did some company books. I...called Bank 
once or twice...it wasn't good. And finally, I had to write the book. 
I had to get it out of my system."

"And you published it."

"And then I took it to Alyssa at a con."

Bob blinked, completely floored by the simple words. Holden looked 
up, face still wet, mouth twitching.

"Yeah. I know. I never learn. I didn't then, either. I don't know 
what I thought...what I expected...giving her the book was...torture 
for both of us. It took her months to read it, longer still to call 
me, and by then...She just wanted me out of her life. She never said 
it in those words, but...Bob, it would have been easier to chop off 
one of her arms, screaming, than to give her that damned book. And, 
of course, Bank saw the book, even talked to me at the con about it. 
Man...I fucked everything up."

"So...?"

"So I turned in the keys and came out here. I own this place 
outright. I can work when I want to, flake if I don't, and if I 
start screaming until I can't scream any more, nobody's around to 
hear or care."

"That happen often?"

"Off and on."

"Think it helps?"

"Sometimes."

"Right." Bob stared at the amber swirling fluid in his glass, 
thinking. He had his answer, even if it wasn't the answer he wanted.

"You know," he said softly, "Banky and Jay are a lot alike. I think 
it's why they're friends."

"Yeah, but you're better for Jay than I am for Bank. 

"Am I really?"

They stared at each other, and Bob felt tears threatening, himself. 
Finally Holden laughed, another humorless sound.

"Oh, shit, Bob. How the hell should I know? I'm the fuck-up, 
remember?" He stared at Bob, then turned, walking into the kitchen 
again. "Let's just get drunk, what do you say?"

Bob stared down at his emptying glass. Had that been three? He 
thought it was three. Was it three? He rose, grabbed the coffee 
cup, and walked into the kitchen. He ran some water in the cup, 
sloshed it around, and put it down in the sink. He turned around 
then, to find Holden standing directly in front of him.

What the hell. What did it matter, right?

"What the hell," he whispered.

"Good," Holden said, and leaned forward. He pressed against Bob for 
a long moment, and Bob could smell the clean, spicy scent of the soap 
he used, the tang of the shampoo in his hair. Smelled like pine and 
some exotic citrus mix. He inhaled, watching the man who was not 
watching him, and was almost disappointed when Holden leaned back. 
He had a bottle in each hand.

Oh. Right. They walked back to the couch.

*and now I'm tired
and I am broke
and I feel stupid and I feel used
and I'm at the end of my little rope
and I am swinging back and forth
about you*

"How many was that?"

"I dunno. I only brought over four glasses."

"No, you only brought over two glasses. You also brought over two 
shot glasses. That makes four drinking vessels total, but only two 
glasses. Unless you're talking about objects made of glass--"

`Bob, you have too many thoughts."

"Mm," Bob said aloud. His brain took over from there. **That's 
always been the problem.**

Shaking his head, he tried to sit up and slid down from the couch. 
Holden, laughing, tried to catch him, and ended up laying horizontal 
behind him. Bob blinked dazedly, looking around, and suddenly 
stopped breathing.

"You have...really great hair. Anyone told you that?"

Idly, Holden lifted strands of his hair, running those long, artistic 
hands through his hair. Lifting strand after strand of dark hair, 
his curved fingers grazed the sensitive hairs on the back of Bob's 
neck, and he froze in place, barely daring to breathe. Sensation 
swept over him in waves, heat and shivers, need and want. He bit his 
lips, staring straight forward until Holden lifted his hands.

*and before it gets so cold
that the rain turns to snow
there's just a couple things
I'd like to know*

"Maybe you'd better leave."

"What?"

"I have this distinct sensation I'm...that we might not be precisely 
safe, drinking together. You and Jay...and Bank and I...it could get 
complex. Beyond complex. And, maybe, it could hurt people."

"Who?" Bob asked, before he could stop the word behind his lips. He 
already knew.

"Me, for one. Yourself. Your Jay. Anyone who wants to spread 
rumors in this tiny little town."

Then Holden's hands dropped back to the back of Bob's neck, caressing 
him lightly, while the thinner man laughed. It was a barely audible, 
nearly whispered sound that tore at him.

"Besides," he said, nearly speaking in Bob's ear, "if you stay much 
longer, I might try to...get you upstairs. And that might be another 
bad night. I'm still getting over the last bad night I had."

**Oh, shit.** For a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could 
do nothing but stare at Holden until Holden's eyes glazed over, and 
he laughed ruefully, looking down at the bottle.

"Almost out. Wanna switch?"

"To what?"

"Glenlivet."

**SHIT.**

Bob just shrugged, and watched as Holden got up, weaving only 
slightly to the kitchen to get a third bottle down from the 
cupboard. Unbidden, the sensation rose in him, Holden pressed 
against his chest, Holden so close he could smell the shampoo scent 
in his drying hair, hints of pine and neroli. Holden pressed so 
close he could smell soap and fainter hints of chlorine and rust in 
the water and some indefinable, grapefruit-rind bitterness, like 
licking the edge of a dagger. Strong presence on its own, but muted 
somehow, made subtle by the surrounding scents of organics and 
chemicals and Holden's own body scent.

**What the hell are you doing? How do you think this is going to end?
**

**Shut up,** Bob thought back sullenly. Damned interfering brain.

**What, you think you and Holden together make more sense than you 
and Jay? You think Holden's ready to give up girls forever?**

**Well, he's certainly given up *living*, all alone out here like he 
is--**

**And you think baring your fat bod is going to change that? You 
have some big romantic vision of how this is going to turn out? 
Flowers and chocolates and happy ever after and shit?**

**I--**

**'Dude, you are *such* a chick,'** his backbrain said, in a 
distinctive Jay tone.

*like how could you do nothing
and say, I'm doing my best
how could you take almost everything
and then come back for the rest*

Quickly he upended the bottle, drinking the last of the whiskey, 
resenting the other half of his brain for speaking out. Holden 
hadn't turned around yet. For a moment he played it out in his head, 
the seduction, the acquiescence, the morning after. Shit. This 
*wasn't* going to work, and what had he been thinking?

Holden returned, and Bob, still thinking, didn't respond to his 
shoulder being tapped. Holden tapped it again. Bob looked down at 
his shot glass. It was full. What had he said?

"Just to break into the new bottle." Holden poured another shot, 
downing it, watching until Bob downed his. Bob stared into the empty 
glass, thinking. The air in the room felt heavy, leaden in his 
lungs, and gravity dragged at them both.

"I should go," Bob said softly.

Holden shrugged, leaning back against the couch. He carefully 
crossed his legs, his long and elegant feet lying against each other.

"Yeah...I've been thinking that too."

Something in that simple phrase hurt for some reason, stabbed at Bob, 
took his breath away as he raised chocolate-dark eyes to Holden's. 
Shit, they'd talked about it before, what the hell was he so 
sensitive for suddenly? He grimaced, and Holden shook his head.

"Shit, that's not what I meant--" He leaned forward, all humor flown 
from his countenance.

"What did you--" "I just think--"

Both of them broke off, laughing slightly. Holden leaned back, 
shaking his head.

"It's just...you're here because Jay hurt you. And I've been thinking, 
maybe I'm here because Banky hurt me. Or because... I hurt Bank, maybe, 
and I can't figure a way to take it back."

He looked down, poured a second shot, and downed it.

"And," he whispered, not meeting Bob's eyes, "if you stay here I'm 
going to be seriously considering how to get you into bed."

"Get me into--" Bob's eyes widened, and he stood suddenly. The 
sudden surge of energy that had propelled him upwards almost sent him 
tumbling down again, and Holden rose, bracing him, holding him fast. 
It had been intended as stabilization. It didn't stay that way.

There was a moment, a single, elongated moment, when both of them 
could have shrugged and walked away. Bob felt it coming. Bob felt 
it pass. And then Holden kissed him.

He'd never felt despair in a kiss before. Used to Jay's open-mouthed 
dives of hunger and desperate need, he wasn't prepared for this 
gentle teasing open of his lips, the shy slide of tongue against 
teeth, the trembling that ran through Holden as he pulled Bob 
closer. All of it, tentative and unsure, was incredibly arousing, 
but there was an undercurrent of pain to it, a poisoned flavor of 
loss. Holden's loss of Banky, loss of self-respect, his loss of 
Alyssa. Worse than all of those, Holden giving in to physical 
attraction, when Bob suddenly knew he wasn't the one-night type. If 
this started, it would hurt everyone involved--him, Holden, Jay. 
Maybe even Bank. This definitely qualified as a not-good thing.

Every fiber of his body cried out against it, but he stepped back. 
It hurt to do it, physically hurt to do it, because the first brush 
of Holden's lips against his had made him so hard, he wasn't going to 
be able to walk for a while. But...the pain. The loss. He couldn't.

"What?" asked Holden. His voice was thick, and his chest rose and 
fell rapidly.

*how could you beg me to stay
reach out your hands and plead*

"Can't, Holden," Bob said, choking the words out. "You don't want 
me. You want--"

"Don't say it."

Bob just stared at him and Holden crumpled, falling onto the couch.

"Shit," he gasped, and silent tears trickled down his cheeks. Bob, 
torn, looked behind him at the door.

"So," Bob said brightly, surprising them both. "Thanks for...the 
drinks. And the talk."

"Right. Sure," Holden said, shaking his head clear. Both men 
staggered to the door, and Holden opened it.

"Okay, then. Hey. Come by any time..." Then he leaned forward, 
looking at Bob, sadness and something else in those dark eyes.

"I mean it," he said softly. "Sometimes you need to scream to 
someone else."

"I'll do that. Thanks again."

And Bob walked out of the door, walked down the strip of pavement, 
and away from Holden's, only then wondering, how the hell was he 
going to get home?

*and then pack up your eyes and run away
as soon as I agreed*

END
(Song is "Done Wrong" by Ani Difranco.)
*****
Kelandris the Mad
there are jars of Barbies in the bathtub