Never Meant To Be Gone So Long

📅 March 28, 2018

【ᴛᴡ ғᴏʀ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴ ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ sᴇx ᴡᴏʀᴋ】

Concrete As A Painkiller, as an album, had ended up landing on its feet—despite the haste with which it’d been recorded. The shows in the wake of its release were selling well, sometimes selling out, and tonight Anarchy had seen that the club was packed. Songs about heartbreak had clout, and maybe how rushed and raw Concrete came out was part of the appeal. The lyrics Kohao had written almost half a year ago certainly still had power enough to bend his spine onstage as he sang into the mic, eyes closed and teeth bared;
“You loved me like chloroform!” 
Anarchy recognized his cue to back the cleans, and as he stepped to his mic, he felt it too; that resonant, lyrical chest-punch of love-gone-wrong...that’d ended up hitting so close to home.
“My head is spinning; I can’t breathe!” he screamed, muscle memory alone keeping him on tune with his bass as he leaned into the emotive undertow of the music and gave himself over to it.
“My vision’s black and I can’t see—” Kohao sang with Sethfire, both preparing to close the chorus with Anarchy, who leaned towards his mic again and raised his eyes to the audience.

He opened his mouth but before he could lend his voice to the next line, Anarchy caught a glimpse—or maybe it was even a split second of eye contact—with a man at the very back of the crowd, just before he turned and slipped out the door.
Pale skin, stupid hair; long and black and only halfway under control. That same tilted, ever-present half-smile.
“CHEY!” Anarchy yelled. He ripped the strap of his guitar over his head and threw the instrument off him as he launched himself off the stage. He could barely hear Athena‘s words as she drew back the audience’s attention, (“Well, that’s the most genuine emotion I’ve seen from Anarchy since Zayn left One Direction”) as he pushed his way through the crowd—he just trusted her to buy him time.
He finally fought his way to the door and flung it open, his heart hammering in his chest as he looked around wildly in the mild evening air of early spring. His breath caught in his lungs when he caught sight of Chey—god, could it really be him?—slowly walking away down the street. 
“CHEY!”

The black-haired man stiffened at the sound of his voice—then turned around, and Anarchy could’ve sworn he felt his heart stop: It was unmistakably Chey, from his thin frame to his mop of hair to the scars across his neck. It was Chey, there, alive, and Anarchy sprinted straight into him without hesitation and nearly took them both to the ground with his hug. 
“I thought you were fucking dead!” he half-gasped, half-yelled, unable to keep the ache from his voice as he choked out; “It’s been over seven years, man, where the fuck have you been?!”

“Hey, ‘Key,” Chey replied, sounding choked up himself—but his voice was quiet and familiar and Anarchy barely resisted burying his face in Chey’s chest the way he’d used to. The painful awareness that they were seven years out as strangers now hit him like a truck and he forced himself to step back—but kept a hand on Chey’s arm; afraid that if he let go he might lose him again.
“Sorry, I just, you know—” Anarchy said haltingly, struggling to swallow the needy note of desperation that kept creeping into his voice, “Where—Where did you go, Chey? You just—you vanished. Everyone told me you had to be dead but I—” 
“No, I know, I’m so sorry—” Chey interrupted, sounding—to Anarchy’s guilty relief—equally stuttered and desperate. Anarchy suddenly noticed that he also wasn’t the only one ‘holding on’: Chey’s fingers still clutched his shirt sleeve as he continued; “—I got picked up by some cops; I guess something about a skinny teenager wandering the streets barefoot in December rubbed them the wrong way—”
“Did you have dope on you? Or—no, they didn’t send you back to your foster home, did they?! Fuck, Chey—” Anarchy exclaimed. He couldn’t keep the distress out of his voice or expression, and Chey swiftly shook his head in reassurance.
“No, no! I didn’t have anything they could actually charge me with—not that they didn’t threaten to. And...I mean, they tried to send me back? Or they would have, but...it turns out she died. My foster mom, that is. One of her kids, uh, killed her, apparently.”
“Killed her?”
“Yeah...The police didn’t tell me that at the time, though, just said ‘died.’ I had to find an article on the web and the news didn’t name names since they were a minor, but one of the kids in her care...well...stabbed her to death. Just a few months before the cops nabbed me, actually, so...Good timing, I guess?” Chey had sounded somewhat detached, recounting what he knew, and suddenly let out an awkward, close-cropped laugh. “Sorry, I know that was...dark. I’m not—”
“No, I mean, that’s fuckin’ deserved,” Anarchy said hurriedly, “The joke and...I mean, I dunno...all of it, maybe, what with the hell she put you through—but if she’s dead and they didn’t send you back...then...where have you been?” The pleading note that kept welling up in his chest seemed to darken Chey’s eyes, and his grip on Anarchy’s shirt sleeve tightened.

“Everywhere else, ‘Key, I’m so sorry. They just shoved me back in the system, ya know? No rehab, no nothing. I was still a fuckin’ junkie, I kept getting kicked to new homes for swiping pills or trying to sneak out; ended up in jail a few times after I ‘graduated’—”
“Are you still using?” Anarchy interrupted, his voice taught, his throat closing. It was the most important question of all of them, and he found himself terrified of the answer.
“Heroin? No,” Chey said with a sharp, serious shake of his head, “No. I’m still on methadone, haven’t been able to get off it yet, but I haven’t touched dope for almost two years.” Anarchy’s sigh of relief shook.
“Okay...Okay. Thank Christ,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“And you?” Chey prompted, chancing a tentative smile as Anarchy relaxed, “You can’t be using, still, you look...you look alive.” 

Anarchy had always found Chey’s smiles contagious and it seemed nothing had changed; he ended up grinning his response:
“I am alive. And clean, yeah. Six years; off methadone for four. The band saved me—fuck, the band!” Anarchy clapped a hand to his forehead and nearly laughed, “C’mon, we gotta get back, I just bolted in the middle of our set—” He tugged Chey by the arm back towards the club, and his heart lifted seeing Chey’s previously-timid smile grow brighter.
“Speaking of your band!” Chey said, falling into step beside Anarchy and sounding more relaxed as the topic shifted away from the past, “You guys are excellent! I have so many questions, shit, like...When did you learn to play? How do you not destroy your voice screaming like that? Have you ever thought about adding in synth? How did you meet everyone, what’s your life like now, just—” Chey shook his head, still smiling, as though in disbelief, “I guess I want to know everything.”

“That makes two of us!” Anarchy replied, “I still can’t believe that you’re here, that you’re alive, that you’re—” he had to pause to keep his voice from cracking, “...that you’re okay. Sorry,” he said with a head-shake and returning smile, “God, uh. K-O and Athena taught me to play bass—that was basically six years ago, now. And I’m still working on not fuckin’ my throat up when I get carried away screaming. Synth—” Anarchy stopped short: They’d reached the entrance to the club again and Anarchy was an inch away from closing his hand on the door handle when he suddenly recognized the muffled singing voice from inside. 
“Whoop. That’s not us; they must’ve had that Minneapolis band—ØDIUM—take over. We should head to the back,” he said, turning and pulling Chey down the side alley towards the back door. “What was I saying? Right, synth. None of us really have the skill set for it, but Kohao’d love to do Everyone Dies In Utah covers. The kid would be our best bet; he can learn just about anything, but—” Anarchy suddenly snorted and cut himself off. “God, what am I even talking about? E-fucking-nough about my life and music shit, who cares? What have you been doing, Chey? Where have you been, what’s your life like, I—?” 
Chey laughed.
“I care!” he said smilingly, “About all of it, actually, the music included. As it turns out, my life involves that, too. I’ve been trying to stay fed by doing some tech stuff; learning a bit of coding, but mostly I do post-processing for indie artists, y’know? Sound editing, post-recording synth, tuning, that kinda thing. And, I mean, I don’t know—but if you don’t have someone doing synth already...It would be a bit of a jump from digital soundboard and keys to physical, but I could try to learn…” Chey suddenly stopped in his tracks and laughed. “Listen to me. Already trying to worm my way back into your life.”
“The fuck’re you talking about?” Anarchy replied, “I nee—I want you in my life. It’s been rough without you.” Anarchy saw Chey’s smile, knew that his slip hadn’t gone unnoticed, and when he went to raise an awkward hand to the back of his neck he became suddenly aware that at some point between the front door and here, he’d slipped instinctively back into the familiarity they’d known as kids and taken Chey’s hand. He hastily dropped it, but the distance instantly felt like too much so he grabbed Chey’s shoulder again.
“Sorry, just...Come in, meet everyone, please. I’ve missed you,” he said.
Chey’s smile didn’t falter; his lips twitched slightly and something warm and gentle glittered in his gaze as his eyes flickered from Anarchy’s hand back to his face.
“...No reason to say sorry. I’ve missed you too, more than you know. I want to meet your friends, ‘Key, I want to know what I’ve missed, to talk to you. I want—” he swallowed. “I want to know you again.”
Anarchy stared back at Chey and squeezed his shoulder, hoping his earnest eyes would convey the weight behind his murmured: “...Yeah. I really want that too.” 
There was a beat before he opened the door. 
“Come on.”

——

Chey found the other members of Anarchy’s band were already gathered in the back room that Anarchy gestured him into: All eyes turned to him as soon as he entered, and he offered up a smile of greeting with relative ease, but was still relieved that Anarchy stepped in before he had to come up with an actual introduction.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to fuck up the show—” Anarchy said, “ØDIUM’s crew is okay playing an extended set?” His tone was easy and he loosely hooked his left thumb through a belt loop; the hand resting on Chey’s shoulder had become relaxed, casual: Any tension from outside had been dropped. Chey cast him a sidelong glance, but Anarchy’s eyes were elsewhere: Trained on a tall man who’d turned to face them from where he stood near the center of the room, next to a girl who—though she stood a good foot shorter than him—shared his dark complexion.
Siblings, Chey thought to himself. 
“Could ask if we’re okay playing a shorter one, too, but alright,” the girl ribbed Anarchy with a good-natured grin, while the brother waved an unconcerned hand. 
“Don’t worry about it, Anarchy,” he said, a British accent making itself apparent in his deep voice, “What happened?” He turned and met Chey’s eyes. “And who is this?”
“Chey,” Anarchy responded, the smile on his face growing brighter, making Chey’s heart rise, “This...This is Chey. I think...I think I always just said ‘my friend’ when I talked to you guys about living on the streets. He’s...He’s the friend.”
“Oh shit, that’s you?” the girl exclaimed, beaming at Chey; “No wonder he nearly trashed his bass, I always got the vibe you were dead!”
Anarchy gave Chey a gentle push forward, and though the girl bounded forward to greet him, the tall, dark-skinned man beside her managed to take a single long stride and just barely beat his excited potential-sister to the punch.
“I can’t truthfully say that I’ve heard a lot about you, either,” he said, extending a heavily scarred arm for a handshake, “But what little I have heard about Anarchy’s ‘friend’ from the past has only been good. It is a pleasure, Chey.” Though rather bemused by his way of speaking, Chey took his hand and shook. He had to tilt his head back to meet the other man’s eyes and blinked at the scars criss-crossing his throat.
Huh. Twinsies. Kind of.

The taller man’s bespectacled gaze was searching and analytical; his eyes briefly flicked down to the scarred track-marks on Chey’s inner arm, then up again.
“Are you using, still?” he asked bluntly as he released the handshake. Anarchy began to unfold his arms, looking ready to reply in Chey’s stead, but Chey beat him to it with a brisk head-shake and a fraction of a laugh.
“No, no. I’m done with dope: Been clean for going on two years, now. Still on methadone, haven’t quite kicked it, but fuck heroin,” he said. The other man nodded shallowly, as if assessing Chey’s honesty.
“Alright. Good,” he responded. He looked like he might say more—perhaps his name or an actual introduction—but before he could, he was suddenly crowded backwards by the girl he’d been standing next to earlier, who bounced forward, smiling, her hand outstretched towards Chey.

“Stop hogging him, Seth!” she quipped playfully to the tall man before locking eyes with Chey again, “Sorry that my brother’s imposing and talks like an android; I promise he means well. Didn’t even manage to introduce himself, so rude. His name’s Sethfire—Seth. I’m Athena. Is Chey short for something?” 
Chey decided immediately that he liked Athena, with her bright grin and humor-lightened tone. 
“Oh, it’s—”
“It’s short for ‘I’m a fucken whackjob who wants to make life hard for people who ask about my name,’” Anarchy interrupted from Chey’s periphery, an amused smile playing on his lips. Chey couldn’t help but laugh, the ease with which he and Anarchy were falling back into step warming him like the California sun they’d first met under, and making his heart feel lighter than that desert sky.
“Don’t be an ass, Ari!” he smiled over his shoulder before facing Athena again and replying, “My middle name’s ‘Cheyenne,’ I just chopped off the first four letters—C-H-E-Y—and started pronouncing it wrong. Asking to be called ‘Shy’ would be misleading.” 
“Got some first name issues?” Athena asked, “Not that you have to tell me if you do. Kohao could probably relate, though.” She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder in indication of a lanky, heavily-tattooed man who lay sprawled over half of the couch against the back wall. 

“I’d thank you to not go sharing all of my fuckin’ business, Athena,” he said sharply, before fixing his cold gaze on Chey. “You heard her. Kohao,” he flatly reintroduced himself, jerking his chin in something that could have been either greeting or challenge. Despite his disposition, Chey offered him a friendly smile and partial wave that went unreturned. Unperturbed, Chey shrugged and looked back to Athena. 
“Not issues with it so much, at least these days,” he said, “I just don’t really identify with the name ‘Kaspar.’ ‘Key still calls me Kas sometimes, though—or, uh. He used to.” Chey frowned for a split second, suddenly realizing how much it felt like his life had continued to revolve around the past for him, the last few years—and how little it seemed that Anarchy’s life had done the same.
“Still will, Kas,” Anarchy replied dryly, and his voice broke through Chey’s thoughts, bringing the smile back to his face. Athena glanced between the two of them and Chey felt distinctly like her eyes were a little too keen. She looked away, though, and gestured to a quiet boy—surely no older than eighteen or nineteen–who sat in a chair to the right of the couch Kohao occupied. 

“Last but not least, the silent one over there is Aetos. I didn’t forget you!” she said, smilingly directing the second half of her sentence to him. 
“I didn’t think you did!” Aetos grinned back, flicking his hair out of his face before turning and offering Chey a nod of greeting. “Hey. Yeah. I’m Aetos. You can just call me ‘Tae though, if you want,” he said softly, something shy or apprehensive behind his eyes.
“Oh, it’s gonna be ‘Tae! If I’m given a nickname I’m gonna use it,” Chey laughed kindly, “But for real: It’s nice to meet you, Aetos.”
Aetos looked pleased; his smile brightened, and the apprehension left his eyes.
Chey decided he liked him, too. 

Anarchy cleared his throat. 
“So. Chey’s been doing post-processing work for indie artists,” he said, an undercurrent of excitement to his casual tone, “he knows a thing or two about the tech involved with synth. I was thinking if we got him a soundboard, he could—”
“Holy shit, ‘Key, you’re already on this? I said I might be able to learn,” Chey laughed in interruption, “I know a bit, but don’t set the bar too high for me! I can do post-processing if you all want that but—”
“God, I am begging,” Kohao drawled, his tone one of mock-reverent plea, “Please learn to do whatever shit it takes so that we can finally cover fuckin’ anything off of Polarities or Seeing Clearly.”
“He sounds sarcastic but he’d suck dick for us to do synth,” Anarchy said smirkingly to Chey.
“I’d suck dick without us doing synth and the whole world knows it, Keystone,” Kohao replied from the couch, and Chey laughed aloud; hard enough that Kohao’s sullen expression from earlier changed to something begrudgingly pleased at how his sarcastic joke had landed. 
Athena rolled her eyes at Kohao’s comment—but smiled herself, and faced Chey again with an easy-going shrug.
“I’m down with doing synth; I dig it. We’d have to get you trained up and start practicing together, but that’s about it. Even without live shit it’d just be good to have someone else to do post. Where are you living at, Chey?”

“Ah.” Some of Chey’s confidence ebbed at the question; feeling suddenly vulnerable, he averted his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck.  “Technically,” he mumbled, “the empty lot across Park Avenue from Best Value.” 
“What?” Anarchy asked.
“Uh…West Bronx? Near Tremont?” Chey tried again, despite knowing the lack of specificity on his borough wasn’t what had made Anarchy’s eyes go wide.
“No—You’ve been living in an empty lot in West Bronx? For how long?” Anarchy demanded, obviously distraught, “How long have you been out on the streets?! Why the hell didn’t I ask before—” The half-panic of his tone seemed to land as out of place to his friends; even as he hurried to reassure Anarchy, Chey noticed raised eyebrows and Athena’s almost impressed expression.
“It’s not—it hasn’t been constant, ‘Key, don’t worry!” he said, waving his hands, “Sometimes I can afford a hostel, and my sister put me up for a grip but I didn’t wanna crowd her, and since then I, uh...I’ve had a few different...roommates...” Chey trailed off, trying to decide if he wanted to say more. Kohao decided for him.
“Do you keep getting kicked out? Why?” he challenged, his hostile eyes cold and distrustful.
“Because I get sick of paying with my body just to have a roof over my head, mostly,” Chey replied with a grimaced, one-shouldered shrug, keeping his tone fair despite the topic. He didn’t miss Anarchy’s sharp intake of breath or the way Athena’s eyes widened sympathetically. 
“I have room in my apartment,” Athena said, clearly concerned; “I mean—it's a one-bedroom, but if you need somewhere to stay...I have a couch.”
“Yes, if you need a room, I—” Sethfire started to offer as well, only to be talked over.
“He could crash with us, I guess, seeing as we’ve got an empty bedroom now,” Kohao said brusquely. He sounded brooding and irritable but less aggressive—though he still directed his words to Anarchy rather than to Chey himself, who shook his head and started to wave off the offers; 
“Really, you guys are too kind, I can just—” He was interrupted by the return of Anarchy’s hand to his shoulder.
“No. I’m not losing you again,” Anarchy said firmly, “Me and K-O have room. It’s yours. Just…Consider it a favor. To me, not from me.” His eyes and tone both were steadfast and strong, but he gave an involuntary, anxious twitch of his fingers that Chey felt almost certain only he could notice: The same familiar I-don’t-want-to-let-you-go twitch against the fabric of his hoodie that he remembered from their shared past, now over seven years deep: 
“Come back safe.” 
“I will. You stay safe too.” 
Hug. Finger twitch. 
“See you soon...”

“...Okay,” Chey finally murmured, blinking away the recollection, “Yeah, I...Thank you, ‘Key.”
There was a beat afterwards where things felt tense or awkward; as Anarchy relaxed his grip, the others seemed to know the moment had been more personal than meant for a half-crowded room. Athena finally broke the tension, though, her ember eyes glittering and warm.
“Good thing you agreed. ‘Key might have some qualms about using force or something but I’d have no reservations about dragging your skinny butt up to their apartment kicking and screaming,” she half-laughed, looking equal parts amused and astute, “You’ll get to know the rest of us, Chey. We don’t just leave people out in the cold. Even if they want to be there.”

📅 March 28, 2018, the same evening as above

【ᴛᴡ ғᴏʀ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ʜᴇʀᴏɪɴ ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, sᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏsᴛɪᴛᴜᴛɪᴏɴ】

Anarchy felt on top of the world. Having Chey back was everything: Talking to him again, seeing him, hearing him laugh and have it sound so genuine; familiar, yes—but clean and full and so unlike the half-hollow laughs they’d shared all those years ago. Anarchy didn’t want to have to stop talking to him: Wanted to stay awake for days and catch up on all seven years’ worth of disconnection. The night was eventually running late even for a nightclub though, and later still once they got home to the apartment; Kohao had headed straight to bed without even a “goodnight”—though that was also explainable by his aversion to both people and change. As soon as Kohao’s door shut, Anarchy turned to look at Chey, who he found gazing as though in wonder around the apartment; his eyes alighting upon noticing the balcony door. 
“You have a balcony!”
“Yeah, it’s a decent view. Cypress Hills doesn’t have much of a skyline, but it still looks nice at sunset,” Anarchy said, touching Chey’s shoulder, “Late for that, though. C’mon. I’ll show you your room.” Chey nodded, suppressing a yawn, and followed him past the kitchen, where Anarchy pushed open the door to Athena’s old bedroom and flicked on the light. 
“‘Thena moved out in December, and K-O and I are settled, so. This is yours—has a bathroom and everything. We’ll get you a bedframe and all that shit ASAP, but for now you’re gonna have to deal with a floor mattress,” he smiled to Chey, who stared into the bedroom for a beat, then turned and blinked nearly disbelievingly at Anarchy.
“God, ‘Key,” he murmured, sounding serious and sobered, “I still don’t know what to say...I know you’re sure, but are you sure? Like...I just...Thank you.”
“I’ve never been surer,” Anarchy replied easily; he couldn’t stop smiling, even as he stifled a yawn. “Damn, though...it’s gotten late; I need to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?” he half-said, half-asked, anxiety rising in his chest at the idea of letting Chey out of eyesight again.
“Of course,” Chey responded with a reassuring smile, and Anarchy tried to relax.
“Okay, yeah. Good. Come get me if you need anything.”

Anarchy gave Chey a swift, one-armed hug before turning down the hall to his own bedroom, where he stripped down to his boxers and ran his fingers through his hair. He was happy. Ecstatic wouldn’t be a stretch at all. But it had been over seven years—he needed to sort out his other emotions; figure out where things stood with him and his old friend. God, I hope I’m not overstepping any boundaries, he thought to himself, somewhat anxiously. Then Chey walked into his room, shirtless himself, his faded jeans hanging rather low on his hips—as though he’d started to get undressed for bed and become distracted. 
“Holy fuck my dude, doors,” Anarchy exclaimed, startling at Chey’s sudden appearance in the floor-mirror’s reflection of the doorway, “Knocking exists for a reason.”
“As if we didn’t sleep next to one another as kids for over two years,” Chey replied unconcernedly, “I just wanted to say thanks, again. Like, I really—oh shit, ‘Key. Those weren’t there the last time I saw you.”
Anarchy knew Chey was looking at the not-yet-faded friction burn scars on the back of his knees, and felt an uncomfortable prickle of self-consciousness.
“Oh. Yeah,” Anarchy said with a forced shrug, trying to keep his tone casual as he turned around, “That was a crazy night. Maybe a month or two after you vanished? Dude was also off his face on smack, nodded out and left me hogtied for, like...a little over seventeen hours, I think. I thought he’d fuckin’ died. Started getting dopesick myself, too... I shouldn’t have thrashed around so much, though. The scars are gnarly.”

Chey frowned, looking deeply troubled and near wartorn; Anarchy’s attempt at an indifferent tone hadn’t seemed to cushion the topic. Anarchy couldn’t stand the sadness in his eyes, though, and tried for a lighter tone, wanting to see Chey smile again.
“Don’t worry about it, though. The guy paid me, like, half a grand and a weeks’ worth of tar, ‘for the trouble,’ so, hey. Worth it,” Anarchy half-joked, before his eyes went wide with sudden recollection. “Wait, that reminds me—” he said, turning on his heel and making for his closet.
“...What…?” Chey asked.
“One sec, gotta find something,” Anarchy replied, digging through the accumulation of several years’ worth of clutter. In the back, somewhere… He moved shoes aside, tossed junk directionlessly out of the way, and finally found what he was searching for: He pulled out the old, tattered hoodie from his time on the streets, and saw Chey’s eyes light with recognition when he turned around with it. From the pocket, he pulled out that half-forgotten roll of bills that he’d so carefully collected and bound for safekeeping through 2011. He walked back over and held the cash out to Chey, who took it before looking down, confusion blooming across his face.
“...What’s this?” he slowly asked, looking back up.
“Uh, about twenty-five hundred dollars, if memory serves,” Anarchy said. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling self-conscious again. “I…uh. After you disappeared, I took some of your Johns so you’d have money when you got back. And...now…You’re back.”

“...You did what?” Chey asked, so softly that if he’d been a step further away, Anarchy was sure he’d have missed it. And he almost wished he had: There was a brokenness to Chey’s tone that cut at his heart to hear.
“...I took some of your Johns,” Anarchy repeated quietly, “So you’d have money. I just told the Boss, ya know, I’d be a good enough stand-in, probably? That he could just...see if they’d book me…if they asked for you...” He trailed off in the face of Chey’s devastated expression.
“Was it one of them that did that to you?” Chey choked out, gesturing with a shaking hand towards the scars on Anarchy’s knees and ankles, “Was that one of mine?”
“No! I mean, I don’t think so, I think it was someone different—” Anarchy stuttered, but Chey made a shattered, grief-like noise at the back of his throat anyway as a couple stray tears escaped his eyes.
“Who did you get, then, ‘Key, you saw what some of mine did—” he said, fiercely gesturing to the laceration scars that scattered his neck and torso, his eyes glistening.
“I never got him!” Anarchy said in a rush, reaching for Chey’s shoulder and desperate to offer any kind of comfort, “He never booked me, I dunno why. But I never got him.”
Chey nodded and swallowed hard in response; took a clear moment to calm himself: Drew a couple slow, shaken breaths while looking down at the money in his hand.
“...And you didn’t spend this,” he finally said when he looked up, thrusting the money back toward Anarchy, “For over seven years, you didn’t spend it.”
“...It would’ve felt wrong. It’s yours.”
“...I don’t want it,” Chey all but whispered, “I don’t want you to have done that for me.”
“...Then I’m sorry, but I already did,” Anarchy replied, pushing Chey’s hand back, “So take it. That way I’m not apologizing for nothing.”

Chey silently stared down at the roll of bills again, then jerkily raised his free hand to wipe the salt from his cheeks.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, I don’t want you apologizing,” he choked out, looking up. He drew another shaky breath and more words poured out, rambled into an eventual, tearful rush; ““It’s just—the idea of you getting hurt—and I just thought you were dead, ‘Key, I thought you were dead for so long, with how you were using when I got taken in—and I couldn’t get out, Anarchy, I couldn’t get out, and I saw at least three articles about bodies getting found near the squat and I was so sure one of them was you—”

“None of them were, though!” Anarchy interrupted, finding Chey’s pain unbearable, “None of them were! I’m here. And you’re here.” His own voice cracked and Chey was suddenly clinging to him, desperate, their bare chests pressed so close that Anarchy couldn’t tell their heartbeats apart. He supposed it should’ve felt awkward, but it didn’t manage to: He hugged Chey back on instinct and realized tears were threatening his own vision. He tried to blink them away. 
“I know I already said it, but I really thought I’d lost you, too,” he said shakily, finding the lump in his throat difficult to speak around, “Everyone told me. Everyone who knew us at all told me to give up hope.” 
“...I’m so sorry, but God, I almost wish you had,” Chey eventually whispered into Anarchy’s shoulder, “I wish you had before you went and put yourself through whatever it took to earn this.” He slowly withdrew and swiped the back of his hand across his cheeks again, but when he started to hold the roll of bills back out, Anarchy already had a hand up to ward it off.
“Forget about the money. Or spend it and then forget about it. I’ve waited over seven years to give it to you and I thought I’d never end up getting the chance: It feels like a fucking miracle to get to. It’s yours. And I don’t regret it.” Anarchy closed Chey’s fingers over the money and pushed it back to his chest. 

Chey blinked back at him with a slow, shallow shake of his head that made Anarchy think he might continue to argue—but instead he finally seemed to give in:
“...Thank you,” he all but whispered. There was a heavy somethingness that settled into the quiet room around them, there: Anarchy felt distinctly like one of them was supposed to say something more, or do something more, but it was too unreadable a feeling to act on. Chey’s eyes seemed searching, but he finally glanced away, to the door. 
“I’ll let you sleep,” he said softly, taking a half-step backwards that made Anarchy’s heart lurch without warning; feelings of fear and abandonment from seven years ago welling up in his chest. 
“Wait, Chey,” he said, raising an anxious hand on instinct, but hesitating; “I…”
Chey looked back at him questioningly and Anarchy fought with the impulse to ask him to stay. Stay there, in his room with him: Near and breathing and proven alive. But despite what Chey had said—(“As if we didn’t sleep next to one another as kids”)—Anarchy felt certain that it would be crossing some line. So he settled for firmly squeezing Chey’s shoulder one last time.
“...It just...It means the fucking world to have you back,” he said.
Chey didn’t let the shoulder squeeze stay just that, and leaned in for a swift, hard hug.
“It means the fucking world to be back, ‘Key,” he replied, and Anarchy was relieved to finally see him smiling again when he stepped away.
He paused in the doorway as he left.
“...That is what it feels like, you know,” he said, still smiling, “‘Being back.’”