Hart doesn't come home to sleep. This is for the first time in my memory. Maybe he learned his lesson and decided to stay overnight at his girlfriend's so that we would not get robbed again.

The next morning I leave for work. And at the end of the day, I get a phone call.

Oddly enough, this is Hart.

"Listen, can you do me a favor?" his voice sounds weak.

"What do you need?" I say, looking at the photos I've made today.

"Call my mother, I can't get through," he says her number. "Tell her I'm in the county jail..."

I look away from the samples.

"Where?! What happened?"

"Just call my mother."

Why is Hart always making me worry? It's good that my work is over for today. I wouldn't be able to concentrate anyway. All my thoughts are occupied with Hart only.

I dial Hart's mother's number. She doesn't answer right away.

"Mrs. Anker, you probably don't remember me. I was a photographer at your daughter's birthday party, Natalie."

"And?.."

Again, she is not very friendly.

"Uh... Hart asked me to tell you that he is in jail. He needs you to..."

"I don't care!" She interrupts me. There is tired anger in her voice.

"But..." I'm not sure if I should object, and yet I say, "But he is your son, Mrs. Anker, and he..."

"He's not my son, damn faggot," she hangs up.

I sit for a minute processing. Who did her last phrase refer to? Me or Hart? Did she mean it or is it just her favorite curse? How would she know I'm gay? And Hart... is he?..

I don't understand what is happening.

I come home only to pick up the remains of what I have been saving for more than three years.

Hart is taken out into the corridor, and his handcuffs are removed. He has bruises all over his body. It hurts me to look at him. Seriously, my heart's aching... I have never seen him like this.

A taxi is waiting at the exit. Hart sits in the back seat, clenching his teeth to keep himself from moaning. He grunts from time to time screwing his eyes.

At home, the first thing he does is empty the bottle of painkillers and then he falls onto the couch, eyes closed.

"Maybe you wanna tell me what happened?" I ask. Hart only breathes noisily. I decide to leave him alone, even though I feel so damn hurt. All my money went to pay for the bail. His own mother did not want to help him. And I didn't deserve any thanks or the story about what happened to him.

He pisses me off.

Hart seems to be sleeping. I approach him. There are bruises on his face and a couple of scratches. The eyebrow is cut again, and there is dry blood on it.

What an idiot!

I take off his shoes and cover him with a blanket.

And then I realize that the idiot here is me. Because I care... too much.

I sit down next to him. I did not notice how I started to think about him. I note every feature of his face unconsciously, his voice sounds in my head. I even see him in my dreams!

And it's all wrong.

I look at his face. Now it's relaxed, even serene. His age-old crease between his eyebrows is gone. I notice all the little things, I thoroughly studied his face. In my room, his photographs are staring at me from the walls. Why did I hang them around?..

I reach out to Hart's face. I'm scared as I was never before in my life. I feel like a kamikaze but stroke his dark disheveled hair. He doesn't wake up. His breathing is even. My heart is aching, craving for another touch.

Come on, Hart, wake up! Push me away. Throw a couple of curses in my face. Kick me out of this loft. Share a couple of your bruises with me.

Sober me up.

Because I have this kind of elusive feeling that we are alike... that we're both in pain. And this pain binds us. And I'm drawn to him... I rest my palm on his hand and close my eyes. Just breathe this closeness I once felt but lost.

I pull away from Hart and go to my room to lie sleepless all night long, despising myself for weakness.

Hart doesn't go to work the next day, and neither do I. He has an excuse. I have pitiful attempts. Fortunately, there is no work in the studio today.

By noon, hunger drives me out of the bedroom. I cook dinner. Hart appears when almost everything is done. My eyes are riveted to his face. It feels like an obsession.

Without even asking him, I put two plates on the table. He sits down opposite, and we eat in silence. There is something strange about this.

"You look like shit," I say finally. Maybe that's pretty harsh on my part. Maybe I am completely insolent and lost my mind. But I think Hart owes me. We passed the 'Polite Detachment' stop way too long ago to bow and scrape now. Hart pulled me into his life, made me a part of it. Made his problems mine, although I have no idea what's wrong with him. So such familiarity on my part is the smallest pay.

The most interesting thing is that Hart does not get angry, he smiles at my phrase. The smile comes out sloppy - the swelling on the broken lip has not gone away.

I have many questions for him. I'm pondering where to start, and I'm not entirely sure that Hart will answer even one.

"Why were you in jail?"

Hart frowns at my question, but the part I played in the fact that today Hart slept at home, and not in a cell, makes him moderate his moodiness.

"For the fight," he says curtly.

"You won?"

"Didn't lose." Hart pauses. "Mother refused to help?"

"What do you think?.. She also called me a damn faggot."

Hart jolts and glances to the side.

"Isn't she right?" he says not looking at me.

Well, Hart, you shouldn't have... I don't deserve it from you.

"Does it piss you off that I'm gay?" I say flatly. "Or the fact that I allow myself to be and do not hide?"

It's a random shot, but I feel like I hit the mark.

"Rather, that you allowed yourself to grope me because you thought I was asleep."

It was my turn to jolt... He was awake?.. So why didn't he stop me?..

I'm losing by pause length, Hart caught me off guard. It's too late to play it cool. And there are no other options. It's not like I wanna confess or something! There's nothing to confess!

"I... didn't grope you," I finally say.

Hart grins wryly. To be honest, I didn't expect this from him. Any of this!

"So it's normal for you?" Hart finishes eating and turns to me. I have a lump stuck in my throat. I do not doubt that he is studying my face.

"No," I don't have much choice. "I... couldn't hold back."

"Do you think my mother called me a faggot? I'm not like you," he says severely. And for the first time, I start to feel how horrible it is to be me. It just couldn't get any worse. "Next time you better hold back, otherwise I won't hold back."

He gets up, leaving his plate on a table.

"Thank you for lunch," but his voice does not sound grateful, but rather it's a final shot. I go into my room. I feel like a beaten dog. Now I definitely don't want to live here. Screw Hart. I'm over it.