The pavement below was a black abyss, punctuated by thin, unmoving lines of yellow. Doug stared into it, his mind a void to match. He was no longer calculating the fall or considering the end. The abyss was simply a reflection of the one inside him. With a sigh that seemed to drain the last of his strength, he placed the half-empty bottle of Scotch on the ledge beside him. He looked down at it, then with a nudge of his fingers, sent it over the edge.
He watched it fall, a dark shape tumbling against the city lights. He began to count in his head. One… The bottle was a speck. …two… The sound of shattering glass echoed up, a faint, final punctuation mark. It was over that fast. The thought wasn't a comfort; it was just a fact.
He got up, his body moving with the stiff, mechanical motions of a machine. The anger didn't hit him like a storm; it seeped in slowly, like a cold fog. It wasn't anger at John, or at Lauren, or at God. It was a white-hot, self-loathing fury aimed squarely at himself. For being so stupid. For being so naive. For actually, genuinely believing that he was allowed to have a life like that, a life with a partner, with a son, with a family. For thinking his heart was anything other than a target, waiting for the inevitable arrow. He was a fool, and the price of his foolishness was this crushing, suffocating emptiness.
Back in the apartment, the silence was a taunt. He didn't bother with the lights. He pulled out his phone, his thumb finding his supervisor’s number with a grim certainty. The call was answered on the second ring.
"Baker."
"It's Doug. That position in Waco. The one no one wants. Is it still available?"
A pause on the other end. "Yeah, Doug. It's still open. The oil and gas litigation docket is a beast. Why? You’re overqualified for it, you know."
"I want it," Doug said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Transfer me. I can start as soon as you need me."
Waco, Texas. The sun was a relentless, bleaching force in a sky the color of pale denim. Doug’s apartment was a beige box in a beige complex, filled with generic, beige furniture. He woke at 5:30 AM every day. The alarm was a shrill, unwelcome intrusion into a sleep that offered no escape. He would stare at the ceiling for exactly ten minutes, his mind a blank slate, before swinging his legs out of bed.
His days were a slow, grinding march through paperwork. The office was a windowless cubicle farm where the only sounds were the hum of fluorescent lights and the frantic tapping of keyboards. His docket was, as promised, a beast. Endless discovery requests, motions to compel, depositions that bled into one another in a monotonous stream of technical jargon and corporate malfeasance. He ate his lunch, a bland turkey sandwich from the corner deli, at his desk, staring at his monitor as he chewed. The food had no taste.
Evenings were a study in inertia. He would drive home in the thick, humid air, the radio off. He would walk into his beige apartment, drop his briefcase by the door, and stand in the center of the living room. The silence was different here. It wasn't the heavy, accusatory silence of his old apartment; it was a vast, empty nothingness. It was the silence of a life with no echo.
He tried filling it. He bought a television, but the flickering images and canned laughter only highlighted his own isolation. He went to a gym, running on a treadmill until his lungs burned, but the physical exhaustion did nothing to touch the deeper weariness in his soul. He thought about calling someone, but who was there to call? He had excised himself from his old life with surgical precision.
One Tuesday, he came home to a leaky faucet in the kitchen. A slow, maddening drip… drip… drip… that went on for hours. He stared at it, mesmerized by the rhythm of the small failure. He knew he should call the landlord. He knew he could probably fix it himself; he’d fixed John’s with a washer. Instead, he just listened. For three nights, he fell asleep to the sound of that steady, pointless dripping, a metronome counting out the seconds of a life that was going nowhere. It was the most excitement he had all week. The drudgery wasn't a punishment; it was a cocoon. A thick, gray, suffocating layer of routine that he had wrapped himself in, hoping it would be enough to keep the pain from ever finding him again.
The first empty weekend arrived with the oppressive weight of a final sentence. The familiar structure of the workweek, the relentless pace that had been his shield, was gone. He was left with two vast, yawning days of nothing. The silence of the apartment was no longer a comfort; it was a verdict. On a whim that felt more like a desperate bid for distraction, he drove to the Texas Ranger Museum.
He moved through the exhibits with a detached curiosity, but the stories of sacrifice began to chip away at his numbness. He read of Rangers who faced down impossible odds, who endured hardship and loss with a stoic resolve that felt alien to him. They had given everything for a cause, for a duty. The contrast to his own self-imposed exile was stark and humiliating. Afterward, he found himself walking along the riverbank to the Waco Peace Officer Memorial. He stood before a simple stone bench, the word "Bravery" etched into its surface.
Bravery. The word hit him like a physical blow. He hadn't been brave. He hadn't been facing his life at all. He had been hiding from it, burying himself in work and routine, constructing a fortress of drudgery to keep the world out. All the anger he had stuffed down, the grief he had refused to acknowledge, came roaring to the surface. A choked sob escaped his lips, followed by another, until he was standing there, shoulders shaking, crying with a force he hadn’t allowed himself to feel since that night on the rooftop.
He felt the firm, steady pressure of a hand on his shoulder. "You alright, son?" a kind voice asked. "You lose someone in the line of duty?"
Doug shook his head, unable to speak for a moment. He finally managed to croak out the words. "No. But they've given so much, and I've not done anything with my life except wallow in my own misery. I'm so ashamed."
The man gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Doug looked up to see an older gentleman with a weathered face and kind eyes. The man smiled at him. "Then you have time to change things, don't you. Don't waste another minute. I tell you, go to the zoo and refresh yourself. And then decide what one thing you can do differently today."
Doug looked out at the slow-moving river, the words sinking in. When he turned back to thank the man, he was gone. He had simply vanished. Doug scanned the area, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Not sure why, but feeling a strange sense of purpose, he followed the directive. He drove to the Cameron Park Zoo, his mind a maelstrom of confusion and fragile hope.
He found himself drawn to the sloth exhibit. He stood there, mesmerized. The creatures moved with an impossible slowness, their faces fixed in what looked like permanent, gentle smiles. They didn't rush. They didn't hide. They simply were, existing in their own quiet, deliberate world. In their unhurried presence, Doug felt a knot of tension inside him begin to loosen. He realized he had been moving at a frantic, internal pace, always running from the pain. He needed to slow down. He needed to open himself up to life again, to just be.
As he was standing there, a man walked up next to him, his gaze also fixed on the sloths. "I don't know why, but watching them energizes me," the man said.
Doug turned to see an ordinary man, about his size and shape, smiling at him. There was nothing remarkable about him, and yet his presence felt grounding.
"I know what you mean," Doug said to him, surprised by the ease in his own voice. "I feel better already."
"I come here when I feel a little off," the man continued, "and it's like a magical cure."
Doug looked from the man back to the smiling face of a sloth, and a genuine smile spread across his own face. It was the first one in months, and it felt like the sun coming out after a long, dark winter.
That night, for the first time in months, Doug slept. It wasn't the drugged, exhausted stupor he’d fallen into after a fourteen-hour day, but a deep, restorative rest. He woke not to the sound of a jarring alarm, but to the soft morning light filtering through his blinds. For the first time since moving to Waco, the silence of the apartment felt like peace, not emptiness. He felt good. The feeling was so alien he had to sit up and take stock of it, as if it were a strange new piece of furniture in the room.
After doing a load of laundry, a simple domestic task that felt monumental in its normalcy, he found himself humming. It was a low, tuneless sound, but it was there. He stood in the middle of his beige living room, the scent of clean cotton filling the air, and for the first time, the beige didn't feel like a surrender. It felt like a blank canvas. He decided he would cook. Not just heat something up, but really cook. He grabbed a pen and a notepad, the act of writing a list feeling deliberate and full of intention. Chicken. Capers. Lemon. Parsley. He grabbed his keys and headed to the store, the list crumpled in his hand, a mission statement.
The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hummed overhead. He was in the produce section, the air cool and smelling of earth and citrus. He picked up a lemon, feeling the dimpled texture of its skin, the surprising weight of it in his palm. As he placed it in the plastic bag, he felt a light tap on his shoulder.
He turned to see the smiling face of the man from the zoo. The same kind eyes, the same easy-going demeanor.
"Hey," the man said. "Sloth enthusiast."
Doug felt a real smile spread across his face, not a forced one, but an automatic reaction. "Hey. Sloth energizer."
"Eric," the man said, extending a calloused hand.
"Doug." They shook hands, the grip firm and warm.
"I'm glad I ran into you," Doug said, the words tumbling out before he could overthink them. "I was about to go home and make way too much chicken piccata for one person, and I don't really know anyone here yet. Would you want to come over for dinner? We can discuss sloths in their natural habitat."
For a fraction of a second, Eric’s smile tightened. It was a flicker of something Doug couldn't read—hesitation? Panic?—before he smoothed it over with a polite, but strained, grin. "Oh. Wow. That's… really nice of you, Doug."
The familiar knot of awkwardness began to tighten in Doug's stomach. He'd misread it. He'd pushed too hard. "I just moved here a few months ago," he explained quickly, backtracking. "Haven't really had a chance to, you know, meet anyone. It's no big deal if you're busy."
Eric let out a long, slow breath, and the tension drained from his face, replaced by a look of profound relief. "Okay. Good. That makes sense. Look, full disclosure, just so there's no weirdness…" He lowered his voice slightly. "I'm gay."
Doug stared at him for a solid second, processing the words, the reason for the hesitation. And then a real, genuine laugh burst out of him, loud and uninhibited, turning a few heads in the quiet aisle. "Eric," he said, still chuckling, the knot in his stomach dissolving completely. "I'm gay, too."
Eric’s relief was so palpable it was almost comical. His shoulders sagged, and a wide, genuine grin broke across his face. "Oh, thank God," he said, laughing with him. "In that case, I'd love to. I'm a terrible cook, so a home-cooked meal sounds like heaven."
Back at the apartment, the kitchen was filled with the sharp, clean scent of garlic, lemon, and capers sizzling in the pan. Doug felt a lightness he hadn't felt in years. As they ate, the conversation flowed as easily as the wine Doug had opened. They talked about their mind-numbing corporate jobs, their shared terrible taste in 80s synth-pop, and their deep, philosophical appreciation for the quiet wisdom of sloths; both of them realized that they knew nothing about sloths. Each promised to do some research. After they’d cleared the plates, Eric leaned back in his chair, his expression turning serious but kind.
"Doug, I have to say something," he began, and Doug felt that old familiar dread start to creep back in. "I really like you. You're a great guy. But I'm not… I'm not romantically interested in you. I just want to be upfront about that."
Doug felt a flicker of something, but it wasn't disappointment. It was a quiet, profound relief. He wouldn't have to navigate that. This could be simple. He smiled. "Eric, that is more than okay with me. Not every gay man on the planet has to be a potential bedroom partner, you know?"
Eric’s face broke into a wide, grateful smile. "Exactly."
They both laughed, the last bit of unspoken tension dissolving into the warm air of the apartment. "Well, since we're not trying to impress each other anymore," Doug said, standing up to clear the last of the dishes, "how about a brutally competitive game of gin?"
"You're on," Eric replied, his eyes sparkling.
They spent the rest of the evening at the small kitchen table, the slap of cards on wood and the easy rhythm of their laughter filling the beige apartment. It wasn't a date. It was something better. It was the beginning of a real friendship.
The months that followed settled into a comfortable, unremarkable rhythm. They became a fixture in each other's lives, a quiet anchor in the vast, indifferent sea of Waco. There were Tuesday night dinners at Doug's place, where Eric would pretend to be a discerning food critic while Doug tried not to burn the garlic. There were weekends at Eric's slightly larger apartment, where they'd argue over which bad sci-fi movie to watch, throwing popcorn at the screen. They went to the zoo again, this time deliberately, and bought matching sloth keychains that hung from their respective keyrings. They even went on a few dates—awkward, well-intentioned setups with other men from a dating app Eric had talked Doug into downloading. Each one ended with them meeting up afterward for a beer, laughing about the disaster and cementing the fact that what they had with each other was far more valuable. It was friendship, pure and simple, and it was healing the parts of Doug he thought had been scarred over forever.
The change was subtle at first. Eric, who had the appetite of a teenage boy and could demolish a large pizza by himself, started pushing food around his plate. "I'm just not that hungry," he'd say, waving away Doug's concern. "Must be the heat." Then came the back pain. "It's just from sitting at that damn desk all day," he'd groan, stretching dramatically after a long day at the office. But the groans became more frequent, the color slowly draining from his face until the warm, healthy tan he always had was replaced by a sallow, waxy pallor. Doug watched it happen with a growing, cold dread that he tried to stamp down with forced optimism. "You should see a doctor, man," he'd say, and Eric would wave him off. "It's just a pulled muscle."
Finally, Eric showed up at Doug's apartment looking utterly broken. He stood in the doorway, his shoulders slumped, his face ashen. "I went to the doctor," he said, his voice barely a whisper. He didn't have to say more. The look in his eyes said everything.
Doug sat him down on the couch, his own heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "What did they say?"
"They did a CT scan. There are… spots. On my liver, my lungs." Eric stared at his hands, twisting a loose thread on the sofa cushion until it snapped. "It's pancreatic cancer. Stage 4."
The words hung in the air, obscene and impossible. Doug felt the floor drop away, a horrifying echo of that night on the rooftop months ago. But this was different. This wasn't about betrayal; this was about loss. About the slow, methodical theft of his best friend.
"No," Doug said, the sound choked, barely human. "Eric. No."
"I know," Eric whispered, and then the dam broke. He crumpled, his face in his hands, his body wracked with silent, violent sobs that shook his entire frame. Doug moved without thinking, pulling him into his arms, holding him as tightly as he could, his own tears now flowing freely. They didn't speak. They just held each other in the ruins of the afternoon, two men grieving a life that was being stolen one day at a time.
Three days later, the doorbell rang, a sharp, insistent sound that cut through the thick haze of grief. Doug opened it to find a man who was an undeniably more rugged, weathered version of Eric. He had the same dark hair and eyes, but his face was etched with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that went far beyond a simple trip. He carried a single duffel bag.
"Ethan?" Doug asked, recognizing the name from Eric's stories.
The man nodded, his gaze flicking past Doug into the apartment where Eric was resting. "I'm Eric's brother. I took FMLA. I'm… I'm here to help."
And in that moment, as Doug stepped aside to let him in, a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust shot through him so violently it almost took his breath away. It was immediate, chemical, and utterly, appallingly inappropriate. He saw Ethan's strong, capable hands, his broad shoulders under a worn-thin t-shirt, the way his brow furrowed with a mixture of grief and concern, and his body responded with a traitorous, desperate heat. The guilt that followed was crushing, a physical weight in his gut. How could he? How could his own body betray his friend in his darkest hour?
He pushed it down, burying it under layers of frantic activity. He became the logistical support, the runner, the buffer. He made sure the fridge was stocked with things Eric might be able to eat—broth, Jell-O, applesauce. He sat with Eric for hours so Ethan could go for a run or just sleep in the guest room, his face buried in a pillow. He researched pain management and hospice care, his mind a whir of clinical details and dosages, anything to avoid the emotional reality that was closing in on all of them.
Eric's condition degraded with terrifying speed. Within two weeks, he was mostly bed-bound, his world shrinking to the confines of his bedroom. The vibrant man who once debated the merits of cheesy sci-fi was now a fragile figure under a thin blanket, his skin stretched taut over his bones. The 24-hour care became a reality, a grueling rotation of vigil that wore them both to a nub.
One evening, Doug came over to give Ethan a break. The apartment was heavy with the sterile scent of antiseptic and illness. He found Eric propped up against a mountain of pillows, his eyes glassy with pain medication but, for a moment, lucid. Doug sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly, and took his friend's thin, cool hand. It felt like a bird's bones.
"Hey," Doug said softly, his voice barely disturbing the quiet.
"Hey," Eric rasped. His breathing was shallow, each breath a visible effort. "You're a good friend, Doug."
"So are you," Doug replied, his throat tight.
Eric's eyes flicked toward the closed bedroom door. "He's a mess, you know. Ethan. Tries to be so strong." He paused, gathering the strength for each word. "He talks about you. When he thinks I'm asleep."
Doug's heart began to pound, a heavy, painful rhythm against his ribs. "He does?"
"Yeah." A faint, ghost of a smile touched Eric's lips. "He's falling for you, you idiot. And I know… I know you feel the same way."
Doug couldn't speak. He could only stare, his throat tight with unshed tears. The shame he'd been carrying for weeks, the secret attraction he had fought so hard to suppress, was met not with judgment, but with his best friend's blessing.
"I'm glad," Eric whispered, his voice fading to a whisper. "I'm glad I could… bring you two together." His eyes drifted closed, and the moment was gone.
That was the last real conversation they had. Eric slipped into a coma two days later. The vigil shifted. It was no longer about giving breaks; it was about bearing witness. Doug and Ethan took up positions on either side of the bed, a silent, united front. The sounds of the apartment became the rhythmic, artificial hiss of the oxygen machine and the shallow, wet breaths from the man between them.
They sat for hours, not speaking, just listening. Doug studied the lines of Ethan's face in the dim lamplight, the way his jaw was clenched with a grief so deep it seemed carved into his very bones, the tear tracks that had dried on his cheeks. In that shared, silent space, their unspoken feelings became a tangible thing, a third presence in the room, a fragile bond forged in the crucible of their shared love for Eric.
It happened just after dawn. The gray light of morning filtered through the blinds, striping the room in somber shadows. The change in Eric's breathing was subtle at first, a longer pause between inhales, then a final, long, slow exhale that seemed to take all the air in the room with it. And then silence.
The hiss of the oxygen machine seemed suddenly obscene, loud and demanding in the stillness.
Ethan reached out with a trembling hand and gently closed his brother's eyes. A single tear escaped and traced a path down his temple, catching the faint morning light. "He's gone," Ethan whispered, the words cracking in the quiet room, breaking the spell.
The devastation was absolute. It was a physical blow, a hollowing out that left them both gasping. They had prepared for this, talked about it, accepted it on an intellectual level, but the finality of the empty space between them was a chasm. Doug looked from Eric's peaceful, still face to Ethan's grief-stricken one, and the future, which had just begun to feel possible, was now a terrifying, uncharted landscape. They were alone, bound together by the profound and terrible love they had shared for the man who had just left them.
The week after Eric’s death was a blur of hollow formalities and suffocating sympathy. The funeral was a small, grim affair under a slate-gray Texas sky. Doug stood beside Ethan, a solid, silent presence, as they listened to the hollow words spoken over the wooden box that held their entire world. They accepted casserole dishes and awkward hugs from Eric’s colleagues, their faces masks of polite gratitude that barely concealed the crushing weight within. They were two pillars, propping each other up, but the foundation had been completely obliterated.
The morning Ethan was set to leave, the silence in the apartment was heavier than ever. The suitcases were packed and stood by the door like sentinels of the end. The air was thick with everything that hadn't been said. They stood in the small living room, a careful distance between them, the space charged with a decade of unspoken questions.
"I guess this is it," Ethan said, his voice rough, his gaze fixed on a crack in the plaster wall.
"Yeah," Doug managed, his own throat tight. He couldn't let him leave like this, with this thing between them hanging in the air, a ghost born of Eric's dying wish. "Ethan… before you go. There's something I have to tell you."
Ethan finally looked at him, his eyes exhausted and bruised with grief. "Okay."
"That last night we talked," Doug began, the words catching. "When he was lucid. He… he knew. He knew how I felt about you. And he told me he knew how you felt about me." He watched Ethan's face, searching for a reaction. "He was happy about it, Ethan. He said he was glad he brought us together."
Ethan closed his eyes for a moment, a single tear escaping and tracing a path through his stubble. He took a shaky breath. "I figured," he whispered. "That sounds like him. Always trying to fix things, even from the other side."
Doug felt a wave of courage, or maybe just desperation. "He was right," he said, his voice barely audible. "I do have feelings for you. But I also know… I know that everything is upside down right now. Emotions are running so high, and it's probably just… the grief. Everything seems so messed up. I get it; you need to leave. You’ve got your life, the one you put on pause."
Ethan held up a hand, cutting him off gently. "Doug, stop." He ran a hand through his dark hair, his expression one of profound weariness. "I can't deal with any more emotions. I do need to get things in order. I can't figure this out right now, this thing that I’m feeling, that you’re feeling. I'm too emotionally strung out to try. I’m just one big, raw nerve."
He looked directly at Doug then, his gaze piercing and honest. "But I do know one thing. What I feel for you is strong. It's real. It's the only thing that feels solid right now."
The admission hung between them, fragile and terrifying. Doug nodded, his heart aching with a confusing mix of hope and sorrow. "Okay."
"I don't want you to come to the airport with me," Ethan said, his voice cracking. "I can't… I can't do a big goodbye scene there. I need to just… get on the plane."
"I understand," Doug said, though he didn't, not really. All he understood was the need to honor Ethan's request.
“I’ll text you when I get home. I know you said you’d donate all of Eric’s stuff, but you can have anything that you want.” A wave of grief passed through Ethan’s body. “I’m going to miss him so much.”
Doug nodded. Tears filled and spilled forth from his eyes.
They stood there for another long moment, the unspoken goodbye stretching out. Finally, Ethan closed the distance between them and pulled Doug into a fierce, desperate hug. It wasn't a hug of passion; it was a hug of survival. Doug buried his face in Ethan's shoulder, breathing in his scent, feeling the solid warmth of him, and let the tears he'd been trying to hold back fall freely. Ethan's body was shaking with his own silent sobs. They were two halves of a broken whole, clinging to each other in the wreckage.
When they finally pulled apart, their faces were wet, their eyes red and swollen. No more words were necessary. Ethan picked up his bags, gave Doug one last, long look, and walked out the door.
The click of the latch echoed in the sudden, deafening silence. Doug stood alone in the middle of the room, the scent of Ethan's cologne already fading, and felt the profound, terrifying emptiness of being left behind.
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