He worries that the battery might be dead even as he reaches for the slim leather case at the bottom of the bag, but the screen lights with a touch. And then, to his surprise, he realizes the phone not only has a third of its battery left, but it’s been reactivated. He has three missed calls from Niall himself, all dated the night before.

Six years ago.

“Lance, is that you?” Robbie’s voice is soft but clear. Not like the voice of someone who’s just woken, but the voice of someone who hasn’t been to bed. He appears in the shred of lamplight that fills the part of the doorway that’s cracked open. Lance just sees a slice of him, a vertical line—the center of his face, his mussed dark hair, and a soft t-shirt so large and with its collar so stretched that Lance can see a glimpse of Robbie’s bare chest and its covering of dark hair.

Lance’s throat is suddenly dry. He swallows, but doesn’t answer Robbie. After all, it’s a rhetorical question, especially now that Robbie is looking at him, with his smile of cautious welcome fading to one of concern. Cautious—that’s how Robbie always is with him. He takes care in their every interaction, and Lance usually doesn’t know if he likes it or hates it. Right now, though, he hates it.

“My dad knows I’m queer,” he says, his voice ragged with the effort of keeping it quiet, as well as the strain of running here. And all of the other strains on top of that, which feel far greater than the burn of exertion in his legs and his chest.

“Did he hurt you?” It’s not the first time Robbie has asked this question, but it’s the first time that there’s been a sense of—danger, almost, in his voice. Like he could do violence against someone who was violent toward Lance.

“No.” It’s not exactly the right answer. Lance thinks of the bottle, the words. All of the nights when his father wasn’t there, and the nights when he was. He’s never been sure which are worse.

“If you don’t feel safe there, then you shouldn’t go back. You know you’re welcome here.” Robbie pulls open the door. “Do you want to sit down?”

Lance’s gaze flicks past Robbie and into his room. He’s only been in Robbie’s room the few times he’s snuck in over the years, looking at all of Robbie’s things in their places with greedy fascination. He’s never been in Robbie’s room with Robbie in it.

Robbie hesitates, as though he means to close the door. “Why don’t we go down—”

“No,” Lance interrupts. “I mean, yes, I want to sit down.” He walks toward Robbie and Robbie moves out of his way, still looking like he might protest, might send Lance down to the kitchen table instead. But it’s too late; Lance is in the room with him, and Robbie is slowly closing the door behind them.