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Walt slid down Hollis’s bedroom door to sit on the ground. They pulled out the picture of Walt’s face that Yulia had printed and cut out for them in the library.

What are you thinking about?

You. You were very brave today.

That’s all you’ve got to say about it? Second-worst day of my life.

Hollis smirked.

You don’t mean that. Besides, there’s still time left.

He traced the edges of the photograph, then folded it up and put it in their wallet.

Walt was still nervous, Hollis could feel it rolling around in their chest.

Calm down, it’s fine.

I can’t. Sorry. I’m trying.

Hollis sighed. He stood up and turned on the lamp by his bed. He closed the shades, ran a finger down them so there were no more gaps. Then he locked their bedroom door.

What are you doing?

Hollis sat on the edge of their bed and took off his socks. Took off his watch and belt, put their phone on the nightstand. Then he went to stand in front of their full-length mirror.

Hollis had never liked what he looked like.

He tried not to think about it most days. Even after Walt blew in and made a bunch of nonconsensual changes, Hollis still felt apathetic about the whole thing. But this was different, it wasn’t about him.

He peeled off his sweater and stood there in his T-shirt and jeans.

Hollis, you don’t have to—

It’s time, I think.

Hollis tugged his shirt over his head, unbuttoned his jeans and the rest, and threw it in a pile by the bed. The way he knew Walt hated, did it that way just to make Walt angrier than he was scared.

Hollis pushed all the opinions he’d gathered about himself away until their head was silent. Then he tucked himself in deep inside, pulled himself back to the place he’d been trapped in on the first night they met. Sitting in a prison in his face, a witness. Shrank even smaller when Walt tried to tug him out.

Go on. Do it.

Walt used Hollis’s face to grimace, but eventually looked down.

Oh.

Walt darted closer to the mirror, the way Hollis had when he noticed Walt’s eyes. Touched the surface, smearing it, careless.

You have freckles! They’re everywhere...

They’re on my face too, I don’t know why that’s what you’re surprised about.

Hollis leaned back into the darkness and felt Walt’s joy. His curiosity and the rightness of his satisfaction. Walt turned Hollis’s arms so he could study the fronts and backs, gave them goose bumps accidentally when he skimmed the hair on their bicep while checking a scar.

Broke my arm while falling out of a tree. They had to put in a rod.

Jesus.

Walt twisted to look at Hollis’s back, the long curve of his thigh and the rough patch of skin at the back of their ankles.

You’ve already seen that.

It’s different with context.

Walt tilted their head from side to side, angled their shoulders, checked under their arms, touched all their crevices, respectful and exploratory. The museum of him.

Do you like it?

Of course, I like it—

Do you like our house ? Hollis clarified.

Hollis reached out and took himself back in all the ways that mattered, settled down on the hardwood floor. Crossed his legs and leaned back on his palms to look Walt in the eye. Immodest and indolent.

Do you like our house? Is there a garden for your roses? Do you want to paint my fences white?

Walt wrinkled their nose.

You talk like no one else I’ve ever met. How did you get like this, Hollis Brown?

Hollis tilted their head to one side and then the other. Licked at their eyeteeth the way Walt had once, when he was in Sam. Careless. The way a human never thinks to.

Walt made a small wistful sound, then palmed the side of their face. Hollis pressed into it with a sigh.