It’s autumn now; William’s taken to bundling up before he goes out, and the sunglasses have lain discarded on his bedside table unused for a month or so. The house feels emptier, and sometimes when the wind blows William swears he can feel it sweeping through the house. Patrick’s gone. As spring left so did he, following the seasons to the cooler streets of NYC. They don’t speak often; there’s always a chance Pete will come up in the conversation, and Patrick’s not – well, he hasn’t got any better.

But on the other hand, neither has Pete. He’s barely ever at home. William feels like his mother; always worrying about him, asking questions which are never responded to. He’s gone for days at a time, and its only when William has bitten his nails to the quick that he comes in the front door and mutters a few barely legible words before slamming the door to his bedroom. William nurses his coffee and pretends it doesn’t hurt.

William himself has done well. A couple of freelance jobs at the local newspaper and they’d offered him a permanent position. Sure, its not all that challenging, writing about bad car crashes and people who’ve won the lottery, but it’s enough. He doesn’t have to give Pete the last couple of dollars for his rent in loose change anymore.

At the newspaper, there’d been a photographer – Tom – who he’d liked. But after a couple of dates and a hurried fuck in a back alley, nothing more ever happened. And William was happy to leave it at that. Y’see, he’s content to live like this. There’s nothing exciting about it, but now William’s 23 he’s decided to stop living like he used to. No more wild parties, no more excessive drinking. He has a steady job, and a roof over his head. What more could he need?

(He ignores the obvious answer; that’s it’s cold in his bed.)

Early one Sunday morning, there’s a knock at the door. William glances up from his newspaper and peers down the hall. Pete’s door hasn’t opened – he’s probably sleeping off last night’s party – so William answers.

It’s an elderly couple – after a few embarrassing moments where they think he’s a girl, and then about 16, it turns out they’ve just moved in across the street. They want him and Pete to come over for their housewarming party. They talk for a few minutes, and William’s about to invite them in for coffee (What? He’s lonely, and they remind him of his grandparents) when they take their leave. William watches them go, and hides a bright smile as he walks back to the kitchen.

It’s not until about 2 the following afternoon when he manages to broach the topic with Pete, who’d only got up from another “outing” from the night before. He relays another message first. “Your agent called. She said if you don’t produce anything in a week, just don’t bother.”

Pete slumps in a chair, lifting his feet to rest on the dining table. William tries to curb a desire to stomp over and push them off. Pete shrugs.

“She meant… ever .” William’s trying to impress into this bag of bones, skin and tired eyes that this is important . Pete shrugs again. And William lets it go.

“There’s a party on tonight.” He murmurs. “Across the road. I was wondering if you want to come.”

“Really?” Pete can’t seem to inject any emotion into his voice. William nods – belatedly, he realises they each have different ideas of parties.

“Um, yeah. Some couple have just moved in. They’re having a housewarming party.”

Pete snorts. “You need to get a life, Billy.”

William smarts at the insult. “Fuck you.” He mutters. “I was only trying to be nice.” He wonders if the last sentence sounded a bit too needy.

Pete lets out a small disbelieving laugh. “Jeez. By going to some old guy’s party? Hell no.”

Now William’s angry. “Fuck it! We’re part of this community. You should be able to move your ass to one ‘lame’ dinner.”

“We’re not a married couple!” Pete snaps, standing up. “We don’t have to go to anything!”

William just glares. Because he’s been prepared to forgive Pete for most of his misdemeanours lately because of, well, Patrick, but he’s so tired of it. He scrapes his chair back, goes to make coffee. “Maybe I’ll wake you up later, see if you feel like it then.” He murmurs.

“Don’t fucking bother.” Pete snaps. He’s already half way across the room. “I won’t hear you.”

Oh, and another thing about Pete; he’s found solace in sleeping pills.