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He remembers the ticking of the clock. The groaning of the termite-eaten wood, the dust and smell of the old books. The squeal of the springs in the mattress, the scratchy bedsheets. The way the outside world felt distant, left behind to wallow in its never-ending misery, while the two of them found a momentary solace here, in each other's arms.
He remembers his fingers on pale skin, tracing old scars, studying the constellations of them. The air that was too humid, the body heat that kept the chill from creeping into his bones...
***
It was the day they brushed with death for a thousandth time, high on adrenaline and buzzed from the cheap wine they celebrated with. It was always days like this. Being reminded that they're alive and how easily it could change – it never came easy.
And so it went. A hand brushed against a hand, eyes met, and some invisible force pushed their lips together.
Fabric rustled when the long fingers dug into it, pulling him closer still, seeking... Comfort? Reassurance? Simple distraction? Did it matter?
He followed nonetheless.
Whatever Garrett was looking for – he delivered it, choking back the bitter knowledge it would never be the same thing he so desperately craved.
He acted as if it was all in the name of plain carnal pleasure, even as he secretly savored it for being the closest thing to vulnerability he'd ever get from the other man.
He played pretend, like he wasn't kissing timid hopes into his skin and listening with bated breath to each held-back moan.
He took in the body spread out under him – so much smaller and thinner than his own, – with all intention to burn it onto the back of his eyelids, yet kept his face carefully blank.
He tried, really tried, to keep it business like usual... But he knew it was in vain. He was doomed from the start.
***
Later, panting in exhaustion into a sweaty neck, he would wonder if Garrett noticed. And then he'll laugh at himself, because of course he did.
You cannot fool Master Thief. Even less so, when he called you out as a bad liar from the day one.
***
There was no hushed conversations held among the tangled bedsheets. No one asked him to stay as he collected his things to leave. They didn't exchange goodbyes before he vanished into the first rays of City's sickly sun.
No, he'd never got to have those things.
All there is for him – just those memories, stolen, as is fitting for a dilettante thief like him. The sounds, the smells and ghosts of a touch.
...That, and a yawning void in place of a heart.
It's long since joined the neat rows of shiny trinkets displayed at the Clock Tower. Another trophy for Master Thief.
He could only hope he'd exceed his teacher someday.