When he’s aware of anything again, it’s of strong, warm arms around him and a familiar scent he’s tried so hard to forget. Pine needles, leather, and the clean salt smell of horses. That old, burning sensation of longing and shame in equal, agonizing parts fills his chest.

Lance is more or less sprawled on the floor. Robbie is kneeling beside him, supporting his upper body, and the sleeves of Robbie’s coat are damp. He has the untidy beard he always used to sport in the winter, dark and looking softly touchable, although Lance has never actually touched it. His eyes are warm and worried, and moving fast over Lance’s face like he’s looking for something.

“Jesus,” he says at last. Their faces are close enough that Lance can feel the warmth of his breath as he speaks. “Are you okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”

He sounds the same, too. The rush of memories and feelings his closeness triggers makes Lance dizzy again. Ignoring the way his surroundings continue to tilt and sway, Lance grits his teeth and pulls away, sitting up on his own.

He hates being helpless. He hates being transparent. He hates the ghost of his last encounter with this man, which has haunted him into manhood. The anger and frustration filling him are familiar, too. He knows how to use them, to patch the dark feelings together into a kind of flimsy raft he can use to navigate the rapids. Not ideal, but better than trying to swim.

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice coming in a rasp, hardly convincing. Swallowing, he goes on with more energy. “It’s just...I was—”

“Locked in,” says Robbie with quiet emphasis. He’s still kneeling, but he’s leaned back a bit to allow Lance some space to sit up, and now they’re not quite touching, with Robbie’s knees a hair’s breadth from Lance’s hip.

Lance, surprised, shoots him a glance. “Yeah,” he says quietly. You remembered, he adds, only in his head. He marvels at that fact in silence, and it’s a little flame of brightness and warmth he can tuck next to his heart.

“Danny didn’t get your message until this morning, and I came as soon as he called me.” Robbie’s voice is suffused with so much regret that Lance’s ears burn. “I’m so sorry you had to be in here all night.”

Lance swallows and starts to get up. Not because he trusts his body any more than he did a minute ago, but because he has to put some distance between them.

“It’s okay. I mean, thank you. For coming at all. I—owe you,” he says, tripping over the last few words as he slowly clambers to a standing position. Because it isn’t just an expression. Robbie literally spent money to post Lance’s bail. One thousand dollars, according to Tim, which may as well have been one hundred thousand for Lance, who has access to exactly sixty-three dollars.

Robbie rises gracefully along with him, his brow still furrowed with concern.