[When Harlan finally climbs on the bed next to him, some of the pressure sitting in his chest eases, reminds him he can actually breathe if he just tries. He takes the joint and eases his legs down to a crisscross-applesauce position and takes a long, deep drag.]

You have no idea how hard it was to make myself come here instead of doing something so fucking stupid.

[He passes the joint back and stares at his own fidgeting fingers in his lap.] And then you weren’t here... and it was everything to just stay put. Wait you out. Kept telling myself...any minute now, you were gonna walk in that door and it wouldn’t matter. I don’t even know how long I sat here, or what time it was when I left my room... but I didn’t know who else to go to. I knew you wouldn’t mind...if I could just make it til you got back...

[Is that weird? He isn’t sure. It all feels somehow strangely possessive or obsessive on his tongue; it also tastes desperate, like the last hope of an already intensely hopeless man.

Harlan’s wrong, he thinks, he is weak, for so many reasons his friend can’t even begin to know yet, but also for this. For not being able to handle anything that bothers him on his own. He has to be around someone else, he isn’t strong enough to stand on his own against his own desires.]