Archive of Our Own

"He's cute." Amanda catches Phil’s eye, nodding at the guy at the end of the bar. He’s dressed in worn jeans, a plaid jacket, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail. There’s a long, jagged scar on his left temple.

"Mandy-" Phil warns.

"Yeah, yeah." She holds up her hands. "You want to be miserable, right. I'm sorry, I keep forgetting."

“It’s not like I have a choice.”

She reaches for the glass he holds out. Blueberry hooch, her favorite. “We always have a choice.”

“I am so done talking about this.” He wipes his hands on a towel. “And I have customers to serve.”

She smirks.

He rolls his eyes, before turning and making his way to the end of the bar. The scar looks starker close-up. “Welcome to Leafs Tavern. What can I get you?”

“Ahh, hi.” He looks up. His eyes are a deep brown as they take Phil in, and lightening as he must come to some sort of conclusion. He gives Phil a conspiratorial smile. “I haven’t had alcohol in a long time; I don’t remember what I like.”

“I can help with that.” Phil pulls a glass from the bucket of mostly-clean water under the bar and starts filling it. “Strawberry-Wheat. I made it just last night- Taste test for me?”

“Strawberries?” He asks, his eyes wide, as if he hasn’t had strawberries in a long time, either. He probably hasn’t. Strawberries have been pretty hard to find since the war.

“Yep.” Phil pushes the glass towards him, then leans forward, elbows on the bar. “Tell you a secret?”

“Please.” He takes a sip and closes his eyes, groaning. His Adam’s apple strains as he swallows, and Phil has to duck his head to keep from starring. “God, this is heavenly.”

Phil laughs. He twists his fingers in the towel, needing something, anything, to do with his hands. “It’s not that great. Needs barley, but we’re low at the moment.”

“Well, I think it’s great. But, then again, it might just be my unrefined taste buds.”

Phil looks up, narrowing his eyes. “I make the best hooch in town.”

He winks. “I know. I asked around, and everyone said this was the place to go. Seems they’re right.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Bozie, by the way.”

“Phil.” Bozie’s hands are calloused, with dirt caking his cuticles. His handshake is firm.

“Really?”

“Expecting someone else?”

Bozie shrugs, dropping Phil’s hand a second or two past too long. He motions to the sign above the door. “Figured you were Leaf.”

“Nope. I do, however, own this place.”

Bozie’s brow furrows.

“Leafs Tavern is named after a hockey team. From before the war.”

Bozie nods. “Old Toronto, right. I should have figured, with the spelling and all.”

Phil freezes, surprised. “You know your history.”

“I know my hockey.”

Phil doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not so rare, these days, to find guys who like to play on the rink Phil helped build at the edge of Tent City. Sports are still a good way of releasing tension, even after the war. To know the history, though- Phil shakes his head.

Bozie’s looking at him carefully, sipping his drink slowly, and he catches Phil’s eyes, leaning forward. “You said you knew a secret?”

“Hey, Phil,” Reemer calls from the other end of the bar. He motions to the group of Corp Security officers settling at the long table along the back of the Tavern. Phil thinks, for one ridiculous moment, about blowing them off to stay here and chat with this stranger, but the generator’s running low and he needs the money.

“I’ve got it.” Phil leans across the bar, his fingers inches from Bozie’s wrist. “Meet me tomorrow, sunrise, at the loading docks. I’ll show you.”

Phil can’t shake away the feeling of Bozie’s eyes on him as he walks away.

***

The sun rises slowly over Tent City, warm and humid already. Summer is Phil’s least favorite season.

“Phil,” Dion waves him and Bozie over. “My favorite buyer. How’d the strawberries go over?”

Phil shrugs. “Pretty good.” He holds up a litre jug, filled with the strawberry-wheat hooch. “I brought some.”

“Sweet.” Dion accepts the jug, and lifts the tarp on the back of the wagon to pull out a large crate of strawberries. “Breakfast?”

Breakfast isn’t really a fair trade for an entire litre of hooch, but Bozie’s hand is warm on his bicep and his whole body is taught with excitement. “Sure,” Phil agrees, ignoring the way Dion raises an eyebrow at him. “D, this is Bozie. D’s the most important man in New Chicago.”

“I just manage supply runs.” He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Bozie shakes his hand, smiling brightly. “You are the most important, then.”

“I’m sure Phil will disabuse you of that before long.” Dion pulls out a loaf of fresh bread and a jar of milk. He lays it out on the edge of the wagon and motions for Phil and Bozie to start.

Bozie reaches for a strawberry, holding it reverently, before lifting it to his mouth and taking a large bite. “Wow,” he moans, just as he had the night before, as strawberry juice drips down his chin. Phil can’t look away, even when he feels Dion watching him.

“So,” Dion says, slowly. “I haven’t seen you around before?”

“Got in last night.” Bozie reaches for a second strawberry. “Heard there was some good engineering work to be had here.”

“Always is.” Dion winks at Phil. Phil ignores him, reaching for the bread and ripping off a chunk, mostly as something to do with his hands. “Where you in from?”

“Denver.”

“Things as bad there as they say?”

Bozie’s eyes shutter. “The fire was pretty bad. Burned down half the town.”

Phil hands over the milk, his eyes lingering on the scar on Bozie’s brow. “Is that how you got that?”

Bozie’s left hand lifts to trace the skin, light and soft where the rest of Bozie’s face is tanned and tight, the face of a migrant worker. “Nah, this is an old hockey scar.”

“You play?” Dion raises an eyebrow, ostensibly at Bozie. Phil flips him off, behind Bozie’s back.

“A bit, yeah.”

“You should play with us sometime. Phil could use a center, and you have just the build.”

“I’d like that.” Bozie’s cheeks flush, and he wipes his hands, stained pink with strawberry juice, on his jeans. “I’ve gotta line up for work. Thank you for breakfast.”

Phil watches him head back to the City. He feels Dion’s eyes on him. “Don’t start.”

Dion shakes his head. “That kid’s trouble.”

“We’ll see.”

Dion laughs. “Oh, I have no doubt about that.”

***

“It’s not much,” Phil apologizes, motioning towards the field. It’s the size of a rink, muddy from the morning’s rainfall, goal lines marked with logs.

Bozie stares at it. “It’s brilliant.”

Phil shrugs. “Wait ‘til you see it in the winter.” When it’s covered in ice, with large snow banks for boards, just like in the history books, before bombs dropped on Japan and the whole world went to shit.

“If I’m still around, definitely.” Bozie waves at Dion, waiting for them halfway down the field. Phil follows, slowly, trying to temper his disappointment at the throw-off line.

He shouldn’t have bothered trying.

Amanda’s waiting with Dion, and she grabs Phil’s elbow, waggling her eyebrows.

“If you keep that up, they might stick like that.”

“Hah, hah. Dad teaching you jokes now?”

Phil ignores her. “Mandy, this is Bozie. Bozie, this is my sister.”

“Nice to meet you,” Bozie says, formally, bending down to kiss her hand, the corners of his mouth twitching as he does so.

“Oh, this one’s nice. I might just keep him.” She elbows Phil in the ribs, her voice dropping. “Unless you’ve called dibs.”

“No dibs, just misery, remember?”

She rolls her eyes. “Right.” To Bozie, she adds, “I think Phil has an extra stick around here somewhere. It’ll be a little short for you, but-”

“It’ll be fine, thanks.” Bozie follows her over to the pile of sticks lying on the sidelines.

“I call Mandy,” Dion says, when they’re out of earshot. “If you’re gonna try out the new kid.”

“One game,” Phil negotiates. “A tryout.”

Three games later, mud is drying under Phil’s shorts, his muscles are aching, and he’s grinning as he lines up at center field opposite Mandy.

“Nice try,” he offers.

She glares at him, dropping into faceoff position, making sure to draw her stick down, hard, against his wrists. “Oh, sorry, did that hurt?”

“Don’t be a sore looser.”

She snorts. “I am not taking advice on losing from you.”

Phil shrugs, dropping his stick to the dirt field and using his shoulder to push past her when Bozie wins the draw. He runs wide left, then cuts back in, pivoting past Dion and catching Bozie’s pass on the heel of his stick before flicking it over Riems’ shoulder.

He raises his hands, pointing to Bozie in celebration, before Amanda sticks out her ankle and drops him to the mud. Reaching out as he falls, he pulls Amanda down with him, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and rolling them so that she’s lying on her back on the ground.

She lies back, shaking with laughter, allowing Phil to pin her wrists. “You’re happy.”

Phil shrugs. “It’s hockey.” Easy, simple, feel-it-in-his-bones hockey. The way it’s meant to be played he wants to add, looking up to catch Bozie’s eye. Bozie winks at him.

He’s distracted, and she bucks her hips, flipping them, and sitting, heavily on his knees. “Like it was, in Wisconsin.” Before you were sick goes without saying.

“Okay, I’m calling this game,” Dion calls over to them. “Losers buy the first round.”

There’s a line gathering outside Leafs Tavern, and Phil excuses himself, pulling Reemer behind the bar to help with their first round of customers. When he returns to the team table, laden down with drinks, Amanda’s and Bozie’s heads are bent together. His chest tightens.

“Nah, I’m not fertile.” Amanda shrugs. Phil freezes. There was a time, not so long ago, when she wouldn’t have been able to say that without choking up. “Never gonna be one of the 10%, but, there are other ways to serve.”

“Mandy’s a genetic scientist, with the NHL Corporation. One of the best in the world,” Phil says, proudly, as he hands glasses around the table.

Amanda winks at him. “I have a lab and everything.”

“Really? That’s impressive.” She shrugs, and Bozie leans his elbows on the table. “I’ve never been tested.”

“Never?”

Bozie shakes his head. “I’ve never stayed around in one place long enough to need to be.”

“But- Don’t you want to know?”

Bozie catches Phil’s eyes over Amanda’s head. “It wouldn’t matter, either way.”

It’s reckless, dangerous, something Phil hasn’t heard, here, in Tent City, right outside of NHL Corp headquarters, in a long time. His hands are shaking, and he buries them in the dishcloth he always has slipped into the waistband of his jeans.

“Huh. Well, if you ever want to be, just let me know. I’m pretty gentle with needles.”

Phil forces his shoulders to relax, and his hands to stop shaking enough so that he can hand a glass to Amanda. She takes it, her fingers brushing his gently, reassurance or a warning, he’s not really sure.

Then, she leans forward, her voice dropping so that only Bozie can hear. “They thought I might be fertile, since mom had three kids. That was rare, even twenty years ago. But, Phil was the fertile one.” She shrugs. “Until the cancer, at least.”

Phil shivers. It’s not something he tells people, not a week after he’s met them, not ever. He tries to catch Bozie’s eyes, but Bozie’s staring at his hooch, avoiding him.

“Right,” Bozie says, slowly.

She stares at him, then up at Phil, her eyes narrowing. “He didn’t tell you.” It’s not a question.

“No, ahh- No, he left that part out.”

Phil takes the seat next to Amanda. His knees feel weak and he feels his cheeks flush. “I cost my family everything.” As if Amanda needs the reminder. “It’s not something I talk about.”

“My brother the martyr, ladies and gentleman.” She shakes her head. “We may not be the 10%, but we’ve done pretty well for ourselves.”

“I guess.” Phil tries not to think of the rooms, high in the rafters of the old Chicago Stadium, with running water and trustworthy electricity, with mattresses for his dad’s herniated disk, and enough food for his mom to bake all day. It had seemed so real, once, when he was 18, young and ego-driven, wanting nothing more than to play the savior, before they found the lump on his testicle and he discovered, rather quickly, how fragile a reality that really was.

Amanda’s hand finds his knee under the table, and she squeezes.

“You got us here, at least.” She turns to Bozie. “He’s why we’re in New Chicago. His fertility levels were off the charts, and the NHL Corp paid for us all to re-locate, here, to Tent City. Sure beats rural Wisconsin.”

“What happened?” Bozie asks, leaning across the table as if this is the most interesting story he’s heard in all his travels, which, Phil highly doubts that. Migrant workers have all the good stories.

Amanda leans forward conspiratorially, her voice lilting up, teasing. “We were able to save him, but not-” She motions at Phil’s lower body.

Bozie chokes on his hooch. “They took your-”

Phil frowns and, before he realizes what he’s saying, “My dick is fine, asshole.”

“Good.” Bozie’s cheeks are red, his eyes a deep, muddy brown, before he glances away from Phil. “That’s- ahh, good.”

Amanda pushes her chair back, throwing up her hands. “You two are both idiots.”

Bozie watches her leave as he finishes his glass. “Is she-?”

“She’s fine.” Phil shrugs. Going to get him in trouble someday – soon, by his reckoning – but fine. “Hotheaded.”

“Runs in the family.” Bozie winks at him. He spreads his knees under the table, brushing Phil’s, his eyes glancing between Phil’s legs.

“I’ve- ahh-” Phil feels vulnerable, his emotions simmering just below the surface, and he gets up, pointing behind him. “Customers. I need to, ahh, help them.” Bozie laughs as he joins Reemer to help the small crowd at the bar.

***

“Shit.” Phil stares at the piece of the generator that comes off in his hands. “What do I pay them for, again?”

Reemer shrugs, squinting into the sun and staying a step back from the pool of grease and oil forming around Phil’s feet. “It’s getting warm. The stores are going to go bad in a couple of hours.”

“You slipped the guard an extra $20 this week?”

Reemer nods. “$40, actually. For that extra bit of power he sent our way Saturday night.”

The generator lets out a low whistle, and Phil steps back, stepping on someone’s boot and reaching out to catch himself, twisting and wrapping his hand around the person’s hip. “Sorry, I- Bozie?”

Bozie smiles, catching Phil’s weight for a long moment, until Reemer coughs. Bozie shakes himself, trailing his hands over Phil’s waist as he steps around Phil to peer at the generator. “Doesn’t look good, huh?”

“Not to me, no.” Phil shrugs, looking away as Bozie bends over to get a closer look at the machine. “But, I’m not an engineer.”

Bozie smiles over his shoulder. “Good thing Director Nonis sent me to help then, eh?”

“We’ll send him a thank you note.”

“Anything in it for me?” Bozie winks, actually winks, at Phil.

Reemer rolls his eyes. “That’s my queue to leave.”

“Be back by seven. We’ll open late, but I don’t want to lose an entire night. That is, if Bozie has what it takes to fix this thing.”

Bozie scoffs. “It’ll be fixed.”

Phil shrugs, turning on his heel and heading back into the bar. “I mean it, seven sharp,” he calls to Reemer’s back.

Phil spends the next few hours busying himself with his barrels of yeast fermentation. They’ll take a few more weeks yet, but don’t require refrigeration, so Phil allows himself to get lost in the new flavors.

He was never much of a student growing up. Amanda was always great at calculus and genetics, Blake at English and public speaking, but Phil was always better with his hands than with his mind. He was perfectly suited for the farm, back in Wisconsin, good at planting and seeding and harvesting. He always liked the mindless way he felt productive, useful.

He was fifteen when he’d stumbled onto the fermenting barrels in the unused barn on the East end of the barley fields. Which is where the farm’s manager, Brian Burke, found him a few hours later, blitzed out of his mind, and writing drink chemistries in his notebook.

“You’re a natural,” Burke has said.

“I’m not.” Phil had argued. “I’m not a natural at anything.”

“You’re wrong.” Burke had been good at telling Phil he was wrong, and then proving it to him. Phil owes him everything.

“Phil?”

Bozie lays a hand on Phil’s shoulder, and Phil tightens, shaking himself out of the memory. “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

“So you do have those.”

“Asshole.” Phil’s fingers are stained with the charcoal from his pencil and he wipes them on his jeans. “How’s my generator?”

“Good. I had to replace-” Phil scrunches his nose, feeling his eyes glaze over, and Bozie stops, looking at him and laughing. “You don’t need to know what I replaced. It’s good as new.”

“All I need to know.” He reaches around the bar for a large jar. The last of the strawberry hooch from a few weeks ago. “Do you have to get back?”

“Nonis thought this would take all afternoon, so, if you’d like to find some way to thank me-”

Phil knows a number of ways he’d like to thank Bozie, but, hooch is safe, comfortable, something he knows he’s good at. “On the house.”

Bozie looks like he wants to argue, to push, but he must see something in Phil’s expression, because his shoulders drop and he sighs. He reaches for his glass, eyes dropping, lighting on the notebook Phil had been working in. He pulls it towards him. “This looks impressive.”

“It’s not.” Phil shrugs. No one’s looked at his equations since he’d left Wisconsin, and he feels uncomfortable with Bozie pouring over them, like they might reveal something more than gastronomic elements. “Just some ideas, for new flavors.”

“I was never very good at chemistry.”

“Me either.” Bozie raises an eyebrow at the notebook and Phil shrugs. “A farmer, back in Wisconsin, he took an interest in me. Taught me everything he knew.”

“Do you miss it? Wisconsin?”

“Sometimes.” Phil doesn’t think much about what could have been. It never seems like a productive use of his energies. “Life was simple there.”

“It’s not here?”

Phil snorts. “No.”

Bozie looks at him, more knowing than Phil’s comfortable with. “You have a generator.”

“People like hooch.”

“True.”

“And-” Phil doesn’t really share much of himself, but, there’s something about Bozie, the way his eyes light when he enters the Tavern, the way his thumb, warm and calloused, is tracing circles over Phil’s wrist. “My cancer, it put my family in danger, and I needed to keep my family safe. I’m not proud of my choices.”

“There’s nothing shameful in surviving.”

“I guess.” He turns his hand, leaving dark streaks of charcoal over Bozie’s palm. “I don’t like playing politics. I’m not good at it.”

“You’re better than you think you are.”

“Sure.” Phil pulls his hand away, reaching for the jug. The hooch is already going to his head, making him feel warm and compliant. “More?”

“Please.”

“So,” Phil says, slowly, searching for a way to turn this conversation away from him and, in the end, giving up on subtlety. “We haven’t heard much news out of Denver these last few months.”

Bozie shivers. Phil can feel it, even though their bodies are inches apart now. “There isn’t much to tell.”

“What was it like? The fire.”

“It spread so quickly. Just a normal forest fire, the kind we see all the time, but the wind wasn’t right, and half the city was gone in 24 hours.”

“That must have been horrible.” Phil reaches out this time, his fingers light on Bozie’s elbow, leaving smudged streaks of charcoal over Bozie’s tanned skin. Bozie leans into the touch.

“I’ll never forget it, the screaming, the smell of ash- when I close my eyes, I can still feel it.” Bozie’s entire body shivers, Phil feels it in his fingers.

“Is that why you left?”

Bozie turns his head to look at Phil. “No, I just- I’ve never stayed in one place too long.”

“Oh.” Phil looks away. He’s an idiot.

Bozie shakes his elbow out of Phil’s grasp, reaching out to pull Phil’s chin towards him. “I’ve never had a reason to.”

Bozie leans down slowly, giving Phil time to pull away, but he doesn’t. He closes his eyes, tilting his head, and then Bozie’s lips are on his, chapped and rough. Phil leans into it, turning on his stool so that his knees are bracketed by Bozie’s, his hands pulling at Bozie’s hips, slipping into his belt loops and tugging him closer.

Phil hasn’t kissed anyone in years, and never like this. Not hot and needy and undeniable, and he groans when Bozie’s tongue plays at the corner of his mouth, asking for entrance. Phil parts his lips, opening for Bozie, pushing into his mouth, tasting strawberries and hooch, smelling grease and dirt. Bozie’s hand reaches up, caressing the stubble on his chin, and Phil wants nothing more than to lean into it. But then he remembers Amanda, Blake, their parents, the Tavern, and he flattens his hand on Bozie’s chest, pushing him away.

“I can’t.” He shakes his head, licking his lips. Bozie’s eyes are dark, his pupil’s wide and, Jesus, Phil did that to him? “I’m sorry, I just- we can’t.”

“Phil-”

Phil shakes his head, slipping off his stool and standing behind it, out of Bozie’s reach. “If we were caught-”

“We won’t be.”

“You can’t guarantee that. This isn’t Wisconsin or Saskatchewan or Colorado. Commissioner Bettman has spies all over New Chicago.”

Bozie drops his head, closing his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, they’re a dark brown, closed off. “I like you.”

“I know.” Phil’s throat feels thick. He swallows. “But, I’ve already cost my family enough. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk you.”

Bozie takes an aborted step forward, and Phil backs up, stopping at the door.

“I should open the Tavern. It’s getting late.” He opens the door, the sun streaming in, staining his boots with lines of bright light. “Thank you for fixing the generator.”

Bozie squints into the sun, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Anytime,” he says, like he means it, like he’s meant everything. Phil hates himself, more than a little.

***

Tent City is actually row-upon-row of symmetrical, low, cement buildings, designed to withstand the winds and precipitation of global warming and the raider attacks and bomb scares of modern warfare. It’s built west of Old Chicago, the original city decimated by Japanese militants, intent on destroying the place where the atomic bomb was conceived. Fitting, Phil thinks, for the end of the world to end where it began.

Oppenheimer, it turns out, knew about radiation poisoning and blast ranges, but not about the longer-term, world-wide effects of the bombs. Biological warfare they called it, in the end, as if nuclear wasn’t a strong enough word.

The whole thing, Phil thinks, is best approached with his head down. He wants to run his Tavern, provide for his family, maybe play a little hockey when he has the time.

Phil’s never been so lucky.

Amanda had taken his cancer as a cue to save the human race or, at least, their little corner of it. She was good at chemistry, biology, calculus, and was recruited by the NHL Corporation when she was sixteen.

“You can’t. They’ll own your life,” he had told her, when she came home from school brandishing the letter of intent. He was still recovering, holed up on their family’s only mattress, with an ice pack between his legs that had cost over a day of their father’s wages.

“They already do.” She hadn’t been wrong. After the war, the NHL Corporation took control of North America, serving as government, security, and center of all scientific discovery.

Phil had been outvoted. Phil is almost always outvoted. It still stings, as he stands in Amanda’s lab in the old Chicago Stadium, built strong enough to tower over Tent City, sixty years after the bombings. Inside, the Stadium has been rebuilt to house barracks, labs, offices, and homes for the 10% of the population still able to conceive children.

Phil shrugs off his light jacket, throwing it over the back of Amanda’s chair. It’s warm, the Stadium running on a series of high-powered generators, providing the heat and light denied to the City outside. The Stadium makes Phil uncomfortable, and he wraps his arms around himself, rubbing his elbows and rocking, gently, on the balls of his feet.

Amanda enters, clipboard clutched to her chest, and she rolls her eyes. “The lab isn’t going to bite. We keep the dangerous experiments locked up. Promise.”

“It’s not the lab.”

“Yeah.” She sits on a stool, dropping her clipboard and reaching for a plate of bread and cheese. “I didn’t get lunch today, so I’m gonna eat while we talk.”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

She wipes crumbs off her lab coat and rolls her eyes. “Spill. You’re making me uncomfortable, just looking at you.”

Phil digs his hands into his pockets, leaning his hip on the table in front of her. “Do you ever wonder it would have been like? Before fertility rates began to drop?”

“You mean, would you have been able to date Bozie?” Her eyes are dancing at him.

Phil shrugs. “I mean, would it have been so bad to be gay, in a society not based around procreation?”

“Society’s always been based on procreation.”

“Yeah, but-” Phil shakes his head. “Never mind.”

She reaches out, resting her hand over his. “I think society’s never been very good at handling difference.”

“Yeah.” Phil knows. He paid more attention in history than their parents accused him of. “Yeah.”

***

“Bozie came to see me today.”

“Oh?” Phil studiously doesn’t look up from the glasses he’s washing behind the bar.

“Asked me to test his fertility levels.” He can feel Amanda’s eyes boring into the top of his head. “Was just wondering if you had something to do with that?”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s a shame.”

The sun is setting, spectacular oranges and pinks across the mud-streaked ground, framing the doorway when Bozie waltzes into the Tavern a few minutes later, climbing onto the stool next to Amanda without being waved over. Phil has no idea when Bozie’s presence became as natural as Amanda’s in his life.

“I was just telling Phil about your test today,” Amanda says. She’s never been one to beat around the bush. “I got your results, if you want?”

“Ah,” Bozie glances at Phil, then drops his gaze to Amanda’s hands, where they’re tapping against the bar. “Hit me.”

“Low.”

Bozie tries to hold in his grin, but, it’s at the corners of his mouth, making deep wrinkles that Phil wants to kiss away. Bozie raises his eyes, catching Phil’s, and Phil can’t look away.

“I’m assuming,” Amanda continues, oblivious to them both, “that’s a good thing?”

“Yeah.” Bozie nods. “A very good thing.”

“That’s not the way people normally respond.”

Bozie shrugs. “Fatherhood was never on the table for me. I have other plans.” His eyes narrow, pupils wide and dark, and Phil has no question about what those plans might be.

He flushes and clears his throat. “What would you have done if you tested high?”

“Wasn’t going to happen.”

“You’re so sure.” About the test, about this, about us.Phil’s voice breaks. Bozie’s face softens.

“I am.” He shrugs. “Besides, I didn’t have a choice, about the test. Had to take it if I’m thinking of sticking around.”

Phil doesn’t want to know, to hope, but, he asks anyway. “Are you?”

Bozie shrugs. “I think, maybe, I finally have a reason to?” It’s worded as a question, and he’s still staring at Phil, waiting for an answer to something Phil can’t give him. Phil looks down, giving a little nod of his head, anyway.

***

“I haven’t seen that new kid around lately. What happened to him?” Dion asks, leaning on his stick by the edge of their makeshift rink.

Phil shrugs. “He’s around.” He hesitates, but, he wants to tell someone, so, “he’s thinking of sticking around for a while, actually.”

“Oh?” Dion raises an eyebrow, as if he knows exactly what that means.

Phil shrugs again, hiding his smile as he grips his right elbow, pulling his arm into a deep stretch. “New Chicago’s as good a place as any to spend some time.”

Dion snorts. “New Chicago’s a dump.”

“It’s home.” It comes out more sincerely than Phil means it.

“You’re going soft on me, kid.”

“Hey, Phil,” Reemer calls, from halfway down the field.

Phil ducks out from under Dion’s noogie, reaching for a stick and taking off down the field to catch Reemer’s pass. “Thanks, I needed-”

“To get away from D’s hounding about Bozie?”

Phil stares at him. He needs new friends. “Can we play some hockey?” Phil likes hockey, it’s simple and easy and isn’t fraught with sexual tension and innuendo.

“Can I join?” Bozie’s voice is soft, smiling, from behind him, and Phil groans.

Reemer throws Phil a meaningful look. Phil remembers a time, at least, when hockey wasn’t fraught with sexual tension.

The thing about it, though, is that they make beautiful hockey, the three of them. Bozie isn’t, objectively, the best player Phil’s ever played with. For that matter, neither is Reemer. Together, though, they form the kind of line Phil’s read about in the Corporation library, the Soviet dream teams and 1920s Canadian Olympians.

Phil reaches out, using his stick to cradle the ball they substitute for the puck during the summer. He knows, instinctively, that Bozie’s behind the net, waiting for his pass, and Reemer’s camped out on the far post, ready to bank in a rebound. It’s in the back of his mind, without having to think about it, or look up, or take his attention away from his own stickhandling.

He sends the ball to the back of the net, watching as Bozie banks the pass off the side of the goal. It lands on Reemer’s stick and he stuffs it in the short side, raising his arms and grinning as Bozie hugs him with a wild “whoop” that takes years from the lines around his eyes.

Phil jogs to them, and Reemer punches him in the shoulder, but Bozie wraps his free arm around Phil’s back. He lingers, his thumb rubbing warm, calloused circles into the skin of Phil’s neck and Phil shivers, leaning into it, until there’s a cough behind them.

“Sorry,” Phil apologizes, at the same time as Bozie waves Dion away, “No need to draw sticks today. Phil, Reemer, and I are gonna play as a line.”

“I’m sure you will,” Phil hears, from his left. It’s low, but in a deep register that carries, only semi-familiar, and Phil glances over to see John Scott, one of Kaner’s friends from the security corp, 6’8” and with over sixty pounds on Phil.

Phil ignores him, for his own safety.

But, as he lines up across from Phil as Bozie drops his stick for the opening face-off, Scott continues, low and threatening, “Although, I hear you don’t even have anything to test down there. That true?”

“I have more than you’ll ever have,” Phil retorts even though, if things are even semi-proportional, that is patently not true.

“No need to answer. I’ll just ask Bozak.”

Phil’s chest tightens. He remembers a time when hockey never made his chest tighten. “Leave him out of this.”

“Oh, did I touch a nerve?” Scott’s eyebrow rises and, honestly, Phil can’t tell if this is simple trash talk or something darker; either way, it’s rooted in the modern homophobia that Phil has just about had enough of. “Tell me, does he like it hard? Or does he require rose petals and violins?”

“You wouldn’t know romance if it burned your ass.”

Scott laughs.

“Besides, Bozie’s twice the man you’ll ever be.”

Scott laughs. “You prepared to fight for his honor?”

“If I need to,” Phil answers, and, before Scott can make the first move, he tightens his hands around the butt of his stick and chops, hard, against Scott’s ankles.

“Fuck.” Scott bends at the waist, and for one, naïve minute, Phil thinks he’s gotten away with it. But then Scott is in his field of vision and there’s a sharp pain in his jaw. Instinctively, Phil clenches his hands into fists and punches out, the way his father taught him, when he was a young, dorky kid, good at sports but little else.

Scott has six inches on him, though, and Phil can’t do much more than pull Scott down with him when his ribs burn with pain and he collapses to the ground. And then there are voices and feet around them, hands pulling them apart and shoving Phil toward the edge of the field. He feels tight and woozy, leaning hard between Bozie and Reemer.

“Fucking asshole.” Phil turns to see Amanda standing in front of Scott, who’s being held back between Tazer and Dion. Her hair is falling in her eyes, her hands at her hips, her cheeks flushed with anger. “If you come near my brother again, you’ll have to face me first.”

And then she’s in front of Phil, her hand on his cheek. “You’re so embarrassing,” Phil says, weakly.

She rolls her eyes, pushing against his waist and leading them away, back to the Tavern. “What’s gotten into you?”

Phil frowns. “He’s an asshole.”

“Well, yeah. But-” She bites her lip. “He’s always an asshole, and you’ve always been so quiet and steady.”

He shrugs. It hurts and he winces, feeling Bozie’s hand tighten over his bruised rib, holding him steady. Phil takes a deep, calming breath.

“Everyone has a breaking point,” Reemer says, his eyebrows knit as he helps Bozie lower Phil to sit on a barrel in his room, behind the bar. Phil has no idea how much Reemer heard, but he has the sneaking suspicion that it’s more than Phil would like.

“Will you open tonight?” Phil nods towards the Tavern. They should be opening in a few minutes, and there’s probably already a line out front. “I’ll be out once I-” He motions towards his rib and winces.

Reemer holds up his hand. “Rest. Amanda and I can take care of the Tavern.” He grabs Amanda’s wrist, winking at Phil as he pulls her out of the room. He definitely knows more than he’s been letting on. It’s imminently embarrassing.

“So, ah, this is where you live?” Bozie says, when they’re gone, digging his hands into his pockets. “It’s nice.” His eyes take in the room, the thick mattress, barrel-table and barrel-chairs, and built-in shelves for Phil’s clothes and notebooks. It isn’t big, but it’s enough for Phil, enough, even, for two, if there was ever-

Phil shakes his head, pressing his hand against his side. “Yeah, it’s, ahh, close to the Tavern.”

“Here, let me.” Bozie kneels in front of him, pushing Phil’s hand aside and lifting Phil’s shirt over his head. Phil groans, lowering his arms slowly, and Bozie suddenly looks angry as he rocks forward, his fingers going to the bright red bruise that stands out against Phil’s pale skin.

Phil reaches down, his fingers trembling as he places his hand over Bozie’s.

Bozie starts, pulling his hand back and reaching for a dirty t-shirt lying on the floor, ripping it into long strips. “What were you thinking?”

“Bozie-”

“He’s-” Bozie takes a deep, steadying breath. “He’s twice your size. You could have been hurt. For real.”

“It was-” Phil swallows. He wants to tell Bozie, but he also doesn’t want Bozie to go after Scott and get hurt, himself. “It was trash talk. I let it get to me. It was stupid.”

Bozie’s motions are jerky as he finishes ripping the shirt and starts twisting it tightly around Phil’s chest. “Defending your honor is a stupid reason.”

Phil winces, straightening his back so that Bozie can reach behind him for the bandage. “It wasn’t my honor I was defending.”

Bozie freezes, his hands cold and shaking against Phil’s skin. Phil lets himself twist his fingers in the hair of Bozie’s bent head.

“Don’t go after him. He’s not worth it.”

Bozie leans into Phil’s touch, for just a moment, and then his body loosens and he starts bandaging Phil’s rib. “Don’t do that again. Ever. And certainly not for me. I’m not worth it.”

You are, Phil wants to say, but instead, he settles on, “I can take care of myself.”

“Sure,” Bozie snorts. He ties off the bandage and reaches up, dragging his knuckles along the already-purpling bruise on Phil’s jaw. “A little worse for wear, though.”

“I can handle it.” It’s softer than Phil intended.

“That I don’t doubt.” Bozie laughs, getting up to find a dishtowel and a bucket of water from yesterday’s rainfall. He dips the towel into the cool water, then rings it out, before stepping between Phil’s knees and pressing it, gently, against Phil’s jaw. “Sorry there isn’t any ice.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t want to think about that.” Bozie leans forward, slow, steady, ready to pull away if Phil stops him, but Phil doesn’t. For just one moment, he wants this, a reminder that he’s okay, Bozie’s okay, and Scott isn’t here, can’t touch them. Phil licks his lips, a little dry and rough where he’d been worrying his lower lip against the pain. Bozie groans. “If you’re going to stop me-”

Phil closes the distance, catching Bozie’s mouth against his. This kiss is desperate, a reminder that Phil isn’t crazy, that he was just beaten up by John Scott for something real, legitimate. He feels Bozie’s hands flutter at his sides, not wanting to hurt him, but Phil’s body is racing with adrenaline, and he grasps at Bozie’s hips, pulling him closer.

Bozie’s thighs are strong between his, and Phil feels himself semi-harden in his pants. He presses up, with his right knee, against Bozie’s answering hardness, and Bozie groans into Phil’s mouth, his body shivering under Phil’s touch and Phil pulls away.

He feels cold, clammy, his chest heaving as the pain comes rushing back. Bozie’s palms are warm and flat over the bandage, and Phil presses his forehead into Bozie’s collarbone. “We can’t.”

“I know, I know.” Bozie turns his head, pressing a kiss under Phil’s ear. “I’m not going to give up.”

I don’t want you to, Phil tries to say, with his breathing, with the press of his thighs against Bozie’s, with the way his fingers are still wrapped in Bozie’s t-shirt.

Bozie pulls back, offering a half-smile. “I should go, let you rest.”

Phil’s almost disappointed when Bozie respects his wishes and doesn’t try to kiss him again.

But he just nods, leaning, hard, against Bozie’s chest as he helps Phil to the mattress, and then he’s gone.

Phil’s still half-hard, and he slips his hand into his boxers, wrapping his fingers around himself. There’s a sharp, piercing pain from his ribs when he pumps his fist, though, and his jaw is still raw and aching. With one, last, half-hearted tug, he rolls onto his front, folding his hands under his pillow and willing himself to a good night’s sleep.

***

“Philly Cheesesteak.”

“I have-” no idea what that means, Kaner doesn’t give him time to finish.

“It’s a delicacy, from Old Philadelphia.” Kaner slaps him on the back. Phil grits his teeth and flinches. His bruises are starting to heel, but his rib is still pretty raw. “You should read a history book, buddy. Put those eyes to good use.”

“I put them to plenty of good use, beating your ass on the rink.”

Kaner shrugs. “Sure, since Bozie arrived and you started that-” Kaner waves his hand, “mind melding thing.”

“Telepathy’s a myth.”

“So everyone tells me.” Kaner sighs, slumping on his stool. “I think it shows a general lack of imagination around Tent City. It’s sad, really.”

“They used to lock people up for conflating fiction and reality like that.”

Kaner raises an eyebrow, accepting the glass Phil hands over. “Been reading that word-a-day calendar on Mandy’s desk again?”

He has, actually, and he uses the discarded days as scrap paper, to jot down equations. He’s not about to admit that, though. “Maybe.”

“Besides, shouldn’t you be more sympathetic to my plight?”

“Why?” Phil narrows his eyes.

“I don’t know, it’s a bartender thing.”

“Then I’m not a good bartender.”

“He’s really not,” Bozie agrees, as he takes the stool next to Kaner’s, slapping Kaner on the back and smiling softly at Phil. “Hey, Kaner.”

“Bozie.” Kaner nods. “Just the man I was looking for. They need you back at the Stadium.”

“I’m off today.”

“Not anymore.” Kaner downs half the glass. “There’s some sort of generator-emergency-thing.” He frowns. “I wasn’t really listening.”

Bozie sighs, downing a shot before standing up and throwing a few coins onto the bar. “I’ll be back later. You should take the time to work on that whole bartender-who-hates-people thing.”

“Only most people,” Phil protests, because it’s true. “I love Mandy.”

Bozie laughs.

“And I don’t hate you,” he adds, feeling reckless and stupid.

Bozie leans over the bar, his fingertips brushing the yellowing bruise on Phil’s jaw. “That’s nice to hear.” It’s more sincere than Phil’s really ready to handle.

“Ugh.” Kaner finishes his glass and slams it down against the bar. “This is on the house, as payment for having to watch that.”

Phil shakes his head, pulling out of Bozie’s grasp slowly. “Like I don’t catch you and Tazer all the damn time.” He shivers. It’s not an image he’s ever going to be able to forget.

“We’re smokin’, don’t try to deny it.”

“I’m never gonna be able to forget, Kaner, for as long as I live.”

“That’s right.” He reaches for Bozie’s elbow. “We gotta go, before the generator blows and it’s all my fault for letting you try to flirt when you should be fixing the City’s power.”

***

Phil hears about the accident before most of Tent City. Perks of being a bartender.

“Hey, ahh, I don’t want to be the barer of bad news, but-” Reemer’s fiddling with a coin, twisting it between his fingers in a practiced, unconscious rhythm. “I overheard table three and, there was an accident.”

“Hmm?” Phil doesn’t look up from the glasses he’s filling. Accidents are commonplace in Tent City.

“In- Phil, it was the generators. In the stadium.”

Phil freezes.

“I don’t know- They didn’t name any names, but, Kaner just called him in for that job, and, well, I figured you should know.”

“Can you-?” Phil’s not sure what he’s asking. He’s not sure what he’s thinking, even, except that Bozie was here, not two hours ago, joking and flirting. Phil saw him, talked to him, touched him.

“I’ll take care of Leafs.”

Phil’s pretty sure he says, “thank you,” and shoves the two glasses he was filling into Reemer’s hands, but he doesn’t remember much between the Tavern and the waiting room outside the Stadium’s medical wing.

“Tyler Bozak?”

The receptionist looks up, smacking the tobacco between her teeth. He wants to yell about sanitation and health, but he wants to find Bozie more. “And you are?” Her eyelids are painted green and pink.

“A-” He hesitates. Partner. Friend. “Brother,” he lies, and it’s not entirely untrue, not in some ways.

“Medical disclosure is limited to direct family members.” She’s testing him.

He straightens his shoulders. “He’s my brother. Is he here?”

She sighs, but starts digging through a pile of papers next to her. Finally, she pauses on one, pulling it to the top. “He was in that generator fire? Awful thing.”

“Yes.” He wants to reach over, grab the paper from her hands and, maybe, strangle her on the way. “Is he-?” He can’t say it.

“Dead?” She shrugs. “Not yet. He’s in surgery.”

He feels relief settle deep in his chest, forcing a ridiculous laugh out of him. “He’s going to be okay?”

She looks up at him from under her pink and green eyelids. “Do I look like a doctor?”

“No,” Phil agrees. “You really don’t.”

“Well, then, I suggest you have a seat and wait for one, huh?”

He walks back to his seat, feeling weak and wired. He wipes his sweating palms on his thighs, crossing his knees and staring, fixedly, at the doors to the surgery rooms.

***

“Phil?”

Phil pulls himself bodily from his dream, trying to lift his head, but stopping when he feels a stabbing pain. “Ugh,” he moans, reaching up to hold his neck as he turns to look at Amanda.

She’s trying to hide a grin behind her hand. “You’re too old to sleep in hospital chairs.”

He glances around himself, taking in the secretary, the closed emergency room doors, Amanda’s white coat. So, not a dream then. Just his luck. “Is he-?” He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Okay? Dead? Asking for me?

Amanda’s fingers are warm on his knee. “He’s going to be fine.” Her nose wrinkles and Phil’s chest tightens. “Eventually. He has a few broken bones, a good percentage of third degree burns, probably a concussion. We’ll know more when he wakes from surgery.”

“Oh.” He tries not to picture it. Tries really hard, but is entirely unsuccessful.

“He’s gonna be here for a few days, but, if you want-?” She points behind her, to the closed doors.

“I told them he was my brother.”

She laughs. “Hardly.” She gets up, brushing her long hair off her shoulder, and offering her hand. “Come on.”

All of Phil’s muscles are screaming at him, stiff and aching, but he forgets all about it when she stops in front of a low of curtained-off beds.

“It looks worse than it is,” she says, before she slides open the second curtain. “I’ll check on you in a few hours. Just- don’t jostle him too much.”

Phil holds up his hands. “I won’t touch.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” She winks as she closes the curtain around them both.

Phil moves forward slowly, as if, maybe, a wrong move could send Bozie into something worse, something more dangerous than a generator malfunction, a few burns, a broken bone or two, wrapped and cast, waiting for time to heal. To heal, Phil repeats to himself, under his breath, as he reaches Bozie’s bedside.

Bozie’s skin is dark against the bandages and the sterility of his white bed sheets, but his cheeks are pale, devoid of his normal color and life. His chest is bare, wrapped in bandages from armpits to waist, and Phil takes broken bones to mean broken ribs, and a number of them at that.

Slowly, Phil hooks his ankle around the visitor’s chair, pulling it close and sitting heavily in it. He reaches out, placing his hand on Bozie’s blankets and daring only to spread his fingers so that his pinky and index finger are just brushing Bozie’s.

***

Phil dreams about a grave. A wooden cross, held together by packing twine, twisted into fresh dirt. There’s mud in his fingernails and his palms are aching and blistered from digging.

When migrant workers die, there aren’t more than a handful of people to pay their respects. They are nomads, always moving, never settling down, never meeting people for long. Phil stands next to the cross, though, as all of their friends and family throw a handful of dirt onto the grave, cross themselves, and squeeze Phil’s shoulder.

It’s a long line.

“He was one of the good guys,” Dion says, his fingers lingering on Phil’s shoulder.

Kaner pulls him into a hug, as Tazer twists his hands in the background, murmuring, “he won’t be forgotten.” Phil appreciates the sentiment.

“I’ve taken care of the arrangements. You-” Reemer has to swallow, hard, not meeting Phil’s eyes when it’s his turn. “Just, don’t worry about anything.”

“He’s planned a nice party,” Amanda says, slipping her elbow through his. She’s the last, and Phil allows himself to lean into her.

“I don’t want a party.” He sounds angry, petulant, unappreciative even to his own ears, through the haze of his grief.

“Hey.” She pinches his forearm, glaring at him when he looks at her. Her mascara is smudged under her eyes; she’s been crying. “Bozie would want a party.”

Phil stares at the cross for a long, careful, angry moment. Then he bends down, grabs a handful of dirt even though he did the bulk of the digging, already. He holds his hand over the top of the mound, letting the dirt fall, slowly, through his fingertips. I love you. I’ll miss you. I’m sorry I never told you.

“He knew.” Amanda’s voice is soft, choked.

Phil shakes his head. “He’ll never know, now.”

“He knew.” He can feel her shakes her head behind him. “Come on, Phil, give him the credit he deserves. He knew, just like you knew. Know, still.”

He shakes his hand, the last of the dirt falling, and he wipes his hands on his nicest pants and takes Amanda’s elbow again. “He would have liked a party. A big one,” he finally agrees.

“Good.” She squeezes him close. “Cause that’s what we’re giving him.”

***

“Hey, hey.” Phil’s body shakes and he wakes, raising his head to see Amanda in front of him. She’s on her heels, her hands on his knees, her brow furrowed.

His fingers are cramped and he stretches them, pulling them out of the grip he must have taken on Bozie’s while he was dreaming. “I, ahh, I feel asleep?” He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the dream’s hold on him. His chest still feels tight with sadness and guilt and anger.

“Yeah.” She holds out a tissue and, as he takes it, he realizes that his cheeks are wet. “Bad dream?”

Phil nods, not wanting to talk about it, pretty sure that he’s not actually capable of talking about it. He’s seized by fear; of allowing himself this, of needing Bozie, giving up everything – his family, his Tavern, his freedom – only to lose him, to feel that bone-deep sense of loss and pain, that nothing will ever be okay again. Phil’s had enough pain in his life already. He can’t handle any more, not now, maybe not ever.

“I’ve gotta get back. Open up for the day.”

Amanda frowns. “I’m sure Reemer will cover for you.”

“No, no.” Phil shakes his head, pulling himself out of the chair, tripping over it as he hurries to move away. He catches himself on the edge of the bed, and he tightens his fingers, once, around Bozie’s ankle before letting go and backing away. “I can’t be here- I can’t- I’ve gotta go.” He turns, before Amanda can call him back.

It’s better this way. She’ll see that. With time, so will Bozie.

***

“Hey boss.” Reemer’s eyes squint, that way they do when he’s not sure if it’s his place to push. “Thought you were gonna be at the hospital today,” meaning, probably, isn’t your place at the hospital today?

It’s not actually a question, though, so Phil pushes past him and starts re-stacking the glasses behind the bar. “It’s a mess back here.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t look sheepish. “I was starting a new brew in the back.”

“We have a bar to run.”

Reemer watches him carefully, before nodding, finally. “Right.”

***

“He asked for you.” Phil hears her before he sees her. “In fact, he asks for you every day.”

“We’re not open yet.” Phil starts wiping down the bar so he doesn’t have to look at her.

“You can be a real asshole.” Amanda reaches out, placing her hand over his to stop him. He stares at their fingers, pale and calloused against the dark blue of the rag. “My brother isn’t a coward.”

He glances at her, tilting his head just enough to see her. She looks angry, sad, disappointed. She can make him feel worse than anyone else. Not any worse than that dream, though, and he says, quietly, “Maybe I am.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

Phil, he realizes, has been angry for days, maybe, even, since the day Bozie walked into his bar months ago. Suddenly, he’s overcome with the hopelessness of the situation, with the fear and the worry and the decisions he never thought he’d have to make. He had a good life, simple, uncomplicated, running the Tavern and taking care of his family and playing hockey, loving quietly and not at all. He never expected otherwise, until Bozie walked out of the bar that first night, taking any hope of the quiet, simple life with him.

Phil hates him for it. He hates the antiquated laws, hates how much they scare him, hates how weak he is. He hates the nuclear war that set the whole world on this regressive path, and hates the parts of human nature that led to the war. He hates Amanda for pushing him towards Bozie, hates how much danger Bozie is in every time he’s on the job, and he hates Bozie for making him care about any of this.

“Maybe you don’t know me, then,” he bites out, all vinegar and vitriol and overflowing with feeling.

She doesn’t flinch away. She sees his anger and raises him hurt and pain and worry and all the things he hasn’t let himself feel since his cancer diagnosis.

“If I don’t know you, then who does?” She drops it, softly, into the air between their bodies, letting it fall onto the bar like a gauntlet.

He doesn’t pick it up, but he doesn’t leave it, either.

***

“Come on.” Kaner grabs Phil’s wrist, pulling him towards the field. “It’ll be good for you to play. An outlet for all that-” He waves his free hand to encompass the new rage simmering under Phil’s skin.

Phil wants to argue, but, really, it’s not the worst idea. “What do you know about it?”

Kaner laughs. “I like Sassy Phil.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He shrugs. “Part of my charm.”

Phil snorts, but allows himself to be led to the field. It’s late fall, the mud hardening under the first frost and the field’s covered in orange, yellow, and brown leaves. They’re slippery, wet and muddy and cold, and Phil spends most of the game struggling to stay upright, and his thighs and hips are aching after the last ten minutes. It feels good, physical, hard. And it’s the first ten minutes he hasn’t thought about Bozie since the accident.

It continues to feel good even though his team loses. Badly. Sharpy’s not a bad center, but without Bozie, Phil and Reemer’s line is no match for Kaner and Tazer. Bozie’s absence feels heavy between them and Phil misses him with a deep, wrenching pain that breaks through the anger long enough for him to ache with it.

By the end of the game, Phil is muddy and soar, muscles aching from use and the continual pulse of Bozie’s absence. He wants nothing more than to go back to his room, scrub his skin raw and clean and numb, and take the day’s longest nap. Which, of course, is when Tazer steps in front of him, shoes squeaking in the mud, holding a hand out to hold Phil up so he doesn’t fall, again, at the sudden stop.

“I don’t really know you. But, Kaner likes you and, um, I’m Tyler’s doctor. I like him, he’s a good guy.”

When Phil looks up, Tazer looks as awkward as Phil feels, and Phil takes pity on him. He nods. “How is he?”

“Good. Better. He should be discharged today.”

“Today?” That’s soon. Phil thought he’d have another few days to get himself together.

“Yes.” Tazer eyes him. “He really cares about you.” The if you don’t, you need to tell him is said with his glare, and Phil feels his hackles rise.

He snaps back, defensive, before he can stop himself. “And I care about him.” The back off is more than implied.

Tazer, though, just smirks, as if this is exactly the reaction he was going for.

Phil is about to demand some answers from him, when Kaner joins them, his hand resting, gently and surreptitiously, on the inside of Tazer’s elbow. “Everything okay?”

“We’re good,” Tazer tells him, and Phil just nods absently.

“Good, ‘cause I’m a mess and you should probably take me home so we can do something about that.” Kaner is smirking in a way Phil never, ever wants to think about.

Phil groans, covering his eyes and waving them away. “Go, go. I don’t wanna see that.”

Tazer wraps an arm around Kaner’s waist, turning them back to the Stadium. Kaner turns, throwing a grin back at Phil, who just shakes his head before turning the other way to Tent City.

The game had been a good distraction, but now that it’s over, Phil’s mind is filled with images of Bozie. Smiling at Phil over a glass of hooch, his long body pressed faux-casually against the bar. Lying in his hospital bed, alone and pale, tan skin covered in stark bandages. Eyes fluttering and mouth red and swollen when Phil pulled back from their first kiss.

The Tavern is already busy when he passes it, and he washes quickly in the bucket out back. His skin pimples from the chill water, raw and red where he rubs at the mud and the images. He’s still damp and shivering a little when he pulls on his pants, hangs up his wet, muddy clothes, and heads inside.

And freezes.

“Did you have a good mud bath?” Bozie tries to joke, but his voice is low, his body swathed in bandages, and he’s clearly struggling to keep himself upright on the edge of Phil’s bed.

It terrifies Phil.

“What are you doing here?”

Bozie’s face twists, angry or pained or resigned, Phil’s not quite sure, and it hurts that Phil can’t read him anymore.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, still dripping cold droplets down his neck. “Tazer said you were just getting out today. You should be resting.”

Bozie raises an eyebrow. “So you have been keeping tabs on me?”

“Someone needs to,” Phil bites back. “You’re shit at doing it yourself.”

Bozie grins in the face of Phil’s anger. “Wasn’t sure you wanted the job.”

“Of course I do.” As if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and, in the end, maybe it is. “Of course I do,” he repeats, quieter.

Bozie’s smile softens. “Phil-”

“I’m terrified.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

Bozie sighs. “Can we-? Can we just try? You’re so set on us failing, but, we haven’t even started.”

The dream, the fear, the threat of pain and hurt, Phil feels them anyway, he feels everything, whether or not he gives into this, lets himself touch and kiss and bring that smile to Bozie’s mouth.

Phil wants to. When Bozie is sitting here, looking at him like this, like Phil is everything, even while his chest marked with burns and bruises, Phil wants nothing more. “I’m sorry. For leaving you, in the hospital.”

Bozie shrugs, then winces at the pinch from his bruises. “Mandy told me you were there. In the beginning.”

Phil nods. “But, then, I had a dream and you were dead and-” The dream still fills Phil with dread, even a week later, and he takes a deep, steadying breath as Bozie reaches over, takes Phil’s hand. Phil shakes his head. “How can you forgive me, just like that? I left you. You needed me, and I left.”

“I love you.”

Easy. Simple. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world to say, like it’s as simple to feel as breathing.

Phil can work with that. Maybe. Probably, if Bozie gives him a little more time to figure his shit out.

“Okay.”

Bozie smiles. “Yeah?”

Phil nods. “Yeah.”

“I really want to kiss you, but,” he motions to his bandages and Phil leans forward, careful to hold his weight on the bed rather than on Bozie, and kisses him.

It’s slower than last time, gentler, tentative, a promise that they’ll do this again, in a minute, in a day, in a year. Phil wants to pull him closer, wants to feel Bozie’s body under his, wants to kiss him until he can’t remember where his breath ends and Bozie’s begins.

But, Bozie’s still recovering, and he sways against Phil, his tongue sluggish against Phil’s mouth, his chest sagging under Phil’s hands. Reluctantly, Phil pulls away, his own exhaustion falling over his shoulders.

“Okay, okay, I’ve gotta get you to bed before Mandy has my neck.”

“I can-” Bozie swallows, then pushes through. “I can stay here?”

Phil pauses. He thinks about Corp security officers barging in, thinks about his family and the Tavern, and then he pushes it away. He wants Bozie here for as long as Bozie wants to stay.

“Stay.”