A stir of feeling comes over him. It's the first time a stranger has hit on him. Or rather, an openly gay stranger. And though he's disguised, though it probably would never happen to denim-clad dirtbag Zef, it's a first. Cosmically unimportant, remarkable only because it makes him feel loudly, comfortably and clock-ably gay.

Pocketing the napkin, he searches for Gray on his way to the bathroom, keen to catch his eye and let him know Katarina's voice sample is in the bag. But he's nowhere to be seen, and Zef gets the niggling worry the dancing became too much for him.

He follows the signs for the gents down a hall with eclectic art pieces housed in glass alcoves. The bathroom looks like a midnight Louvre, real orchids accompanying the hand soap and lotion bottles. Zef pretends to fix his hair while firing off a text.

>>Got the sample. Need a hand?

The bathroom door bursts open. Zef startles, but it's only Gray. He doesn't speak, passing Zef to check the two stalls aren't occupied.

"No one else is in here. Are you all right?" Zef asks.

Gray shushes him and heads into a stall, waving Zef with him. He shuts the door, locking them in. Luckily, the rich keep their toilets clean, and this one blissfully wads of paper or urine smells.

"We can't have this conversation out there?" Zef says.

"Tch. Keep your voice down. Don't want no one seeing us chatty together. Plus, never know where hidden cameras could be hiding. "

"In a rich person's bathroom?"

"You get the voice sample?" Gray says, changing the subject.

"Yeah, just finished. You?"

"Almost. Not particularly talkative, more...grabby," Gray mutters.

Zef's stomach twists. He can tell it pains Gray more than he lets on. "I could take over for you if it's too much."

"What's that?"

"Huh?" Zef follows Gray's line of sight to his pocket, where the corner of a napkin peeks out. Zef takes it out. "Nothing. Barman just gave me his number."

"You gonna call him?"

Zef gapes. Gray stares him down, a forced expression of nonchalance tilting his mouth. Electricity crackles between them like they're two filaments in a lightbulb.

A gleam of warmth effuses Zef's cheeks. "You're jealous."

"Just don't want you blowing our cover by blowing the barman." The foundation might have disguised his blush if it hadn't reached his ears. They glow pink like the lips of seashells.

Slow and deliberate, Zef drops the napkin into the toilet bowl and gives the flush censor a kick. The barman's number gets sucked into the sewer.

Zef says, "I'm here for you, aren't I?"

Gray holds himself too tightly. In the cramped stall, with so little room between them, he stands awkwardly apart to avoid touch. It makes the subtle tip forward all the more obvious. Expending so much effort to fight something inevitable as gravity.

A public toilet wouldn't make a romantic place for a kiss, even clean and ritzy as this one, but Zef thinks about their flight on a stolen bike and the itchy scab of a tattoo on his wrist.

Maybe romance looks different for the rejects of society, 'cause he'd let Gray do more than kiss him. Even in a public toilet.

Gray doesn't kiss him. "Should have kept it and called him when this is over."

He goes to leave the stall. Zef grabs the top of the door, keeping it shut. Gray's shoulders bunch in preparation. He somehow looks exhausted and primed to go postal. Futilely drawing upon energy like he's sucking on a straw when there's not much left in the cup.

"I can take over with Lina."

"Naw. Leave it to me."

Zef makes a frustrated noise. "Just let me hel—"

"Have a drink with the barman while you wait," Gray says, punctuating his words by pushing forcefully out of the stall. The door slips from Zef's fingers, banging open. Gray's stomp turns into a calm, collected walk as he disappears out the bathroom.

Two can play this stubborn game. Zef waits near a buffet table laden with canapes, gorging himself on the kind of food he could never afford. Only kind of sort of eating his feelings.

While putting together a plate for Gray in case he's hungry later, someone else approaches the table. Zef sees only the violet hijab and winking gold implants in his periphery, but familiarity resonates through him. A quick scan puts his heart in his throat.

It's Nav.

A conveyer belt of questions rotates through Zef's mind. Is Nav here on business? Connected to the executives? What's happened at Bionic Capital since Zef went AWOL? A pit of guilt accompanies the latter. Embroiled in the challenge of surviving his altercation with Rylan, Zef hadn't spared a thought for how his actions might reflect upon Nav. They'd been his partner on Project Serenity, after all.

He can't ask any of it. Right now he needs to not get recognized, but before he can sneak away from the table—

"Why can they never get ripe melon for these things? Always with the flavourless, crunchy water kind," Nav says.

All Zef's questions and anxiety get shoved into a brain suitcase labelled 'act casual now, panic later.'

"Strawberries are good, though," he says, trying to modulate his voice. Has it cracked and dropped enough since they worked together? Maybe Nav won't recognise it anymore.

They glance at his plate. "Nice call on the chocolate fountain."

"Can't recommend it enough." Please go away.

"I'll be having that for dessert. You here for the birthday?"

"Yeah," Zef lies.

Finally, Nav looks at his face. A passing glance before moving on. Does he imagine that their eyes snag on his features?

The moment passes.

Nav says, "Cool. Have fun."

They select a few crackers and cheeses, give a polite wave, then meander over to the bar, greeting Katarina as if they know one another already. He barely overhears their conversation. Thanks for coming early. Great to meet you in person. How was your flight? He doesn't let out his breath until five minutes pass, and Nav doesn't look back at him.

Nevertheless, he texts Gray.

>>Please hurry up. One of my ex co-workers is here.

Over by an ice sculpture, Gray nearly drops the drink he offered Lina.

>>Get outta here, then. I'll catch up to you.

Zef hastily explains that they already spoke and Nav didn't recognize him. Gray doesn't respond further, which feels a bit like sulking. Zef adds an extra chocolate-y strawberry to the plate saved for Gray. Maybe it'll sweeten him up. (Doubtful.)

When both voice samples are finally recorded, Gray extracts himself and heads for the elevator. Zef follows. Inside, he offers up the strawberry.

"Not hungry. Which ex co-worker was this?"

"You don't have to be hungry to eat these," Zef says. "It's binge food. Eat 'til you're sick food. C'mon. Let's celebrate a job well done."

"Ain't nothing to celebrate. Not even halfway finished with this thing we're doin'. And you didn't answer my question."

"We got the samples." >>And I wasn't recognized, but talking about it here might sound suspicious. Don't know if they've got recording devices in these elevators.

Gray grumbles. "If you paddle us up shit creek—"

"I saved this plate for you," Zef blurts. "Just eat it."

He holds out the strawberry, chocolate dripping onto his fingers. Gray eyes it like a grenade.

"It's really, really good," Zef says.

Gray relents, holding out a hand for the fruit, hesitating. Not sure how to even hold it without making a mess of himself.

"Open up," Zef says. "I'll do it."

A very stupid proposal. Like offering to hand feed a piranha. Zef doesn't expect Gray to comply at all until he rolls his eyes and—strange miracle—opens his mouth.

Zef places the strawberry on his tongue, watches his lips wrap around it, teeth sinking in, leaving Zef with the green bouquet. Gray closes his eyes, wincing at the indelicate nature of eating out of Zef's hand, but his expression slackens. He tips his head against the mirror, eyes closed.

"Good, right?" Zef says. "I probably sounded like a porno over at that canape table."

To his delight, Gray chokes on a laugh. Reticent affection and gratitude bloom on his weary face.

"Thanks," he mutters, taking the plate from Zef.

"They were free."

"Not talking about the canapes."

Zef allows for a sly smile. "So, you admit it? I did good."

A grunt.

"I'm not the big fat liability you thought I was?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself. Did good this time, sure. Forgive me for thinking, push came to shove, you couldn't pull a trigger, though."

Zef says, "Still hoping I can convince you we don't have to go that far."

He shouldn't open his mouth, especially with no wood around to knock. It tempts fate. When the elevator doors open, on other side of the lobby stands the bulky silhouette and painted ink of a familiar figure.

Rylan's goon. The one who hung around Zef's apartment. The one who chased them down an alley. She speaks to security. No telling if she's there because she got a tip about them, or if she's just there on business like Nav. Rylan's nowhere to be seen, but—

The paper plate of canapes hits the floor, berries and hard cheeses bouncing across marble. The noise turns heads. Worse, clutched within instincts and fear, Gray's implants burn beneath the thick layer of foundation. They give his skin an eerie, red glow.

It's a mistake. An instinct to reach for his most readily available weapon in the face of unexpected danger. Damo outfitted them with blockers so nobody could see Gray's implants with a scanner, but that didn't mean anything in a scenario like this one.

Zef is no actor, but he performs like he's going for a golden statue. He throws caution to the wind and flings an arm around Gray's neck. covering the glow. Does he imagine Gray flinches? Can't think about that now. Zef shouts in the loud slur of the clinically drunk.

"Sorry, sorry! Oh, excuse me, what a right mess I've made. One too many martinis, eh good chap?"

Good chap?! Why is he suddenly British?

Hopefully there aren't any Brits near. His fake accent is terrible. Gray tears his eyes away from the goon to give Zef a confused look. Beyond the eye contacts and awful disguise, he doesn't look himself. Something's wrong.

The goon squints toward them, frozen mid-conversation with hotel security. A bellhop rushes forward, saying, "We'll clean up, sir. It's no trouble."

"Yes, thank you dear boy," Zef blusters, but at the expectant look from the bellhop, he panics harder. The man clearly expects a tip.

Damo's voice rings loud in his ear.

>>I've got you covered. Wiring him a bunch of creds from your fake ID, but give it legs if you can? You're attracting attention.

Trying, thinks Zef.

Gray gives his head a shake. The light beneath his skin dims. With all the glass and the refracted light of the fountain, maybe it will seem a trick of the eye.

The goon still stares at him leaning heavily on Gray's shoulder and weaving out the lobby front door.

They walk the first block in a state of suspended terror, Zef continuing to play the drunken companion. He glances behind them a few times, but the goon doesn't appear in the hotel doorway.

They cut right down a sidestreet to break line of sight, but Zef still waits four blocks before saying, "Okay. Okay. I think we're in the clear."

Gray's weight shifts suddenly. Zef props him up. With fresh air and distance, he hoped Gray might recover himself, but instead he looks...

"Gray? Are you okay?"

Gray says, "Vision's spotting. Zef. Zef, I think I'm—"

All of Gray's body weight sags against Zef's shoulder, taking them both down to the sidewalk.