His calloused fingers wrapped around the warm mug, the scent of coffee flowing up in steamy clouds, spiraling in the air with graceful contortions. It took a moment for him to bring the mug to his lips,the heat of the liquid burning through his chapped lips and the cuts between broken skin. He lowered the mug with a long exhale, breath adopting the coffee's aroma, and chose to stare out of his kitchen window. The street was bustling with the usual morning traffic, horns blaring into the air as the yelling faded into the distance of a curved hill. The street fell and rose, bringing a dawn of noise, then a night of silence. The life of the city yawned and rolled itself out of bed before the sun, exposing the city to a crisp air and obnoxious traffic. The ocean of the bay, just beyond the large arrow sunken into the grass, swished and danced with the cool breeze. He felt the chilly air rush through the slightly cracked window, goosebumps forming on his skin as it brushed by. His eyes closed as he felt impending dread surfacing in the wake of the glorious morning

"Ivan."

He felt shivers run down his spine-he always felt them when that voice said his name. His shoulders hunched and his observing stare morphed into a troubled one. He looked down at the dark coffee swirling in the mug, watching his reflection bend and wobble with the slightest ripples. "I'm not talking to you," Ivan grumbled, sipping his dark roast with little to no concern. He saw the movement of an arm out of his peripheral vision and scoffed, turning his head completely away.

"You can't ignore me forever, Ivan. I told you I was sorry."

His hip shifted on the counter, pushing the rest of his lean body away from the island centered in the kitchen. Every morning was always the same- get up, make coffee, take a shower, check messages and leave.Nothing usually dislodged his train of thought or actions, moving like clockwork throughout the morning in a solid hour. This morning,however, the train had already jumped the tracks and Ivan was headed down the gravel slope.

"I said I don't want to talk to you, Vicente." The digital numbers on the stove clock read 8:00 AM. With a sigh, he tapped the stove top with his index nail, swallowing down the rest of his coffee in a stinging gulp. Tossing the mug in the sink, he made his way back towards his bedroom. "I have to get ready for work." He pushed open the slightly ajar door and walked inside, scooping up clothes scattered about. Tossing them into the hamper, he grabbed the edge of his towel and dragged it behind him.

"Don't do this to me- don't ignore me. We live in the same house; we have to see each other every day. It's bad enough we fought, can't we just talk about things?"

"I have to take a shower," Ivan snapped, glaring over his shoulder as he slammed the bathroom door shut.

"No amount of soap or water is going to wash your hands clean, Ivan Moretti!"

Hot steam hissed off of the scars marring his tanned skin. Thin fingers smoothed through his black hair, pushing the longer strands back,towel working on the back of his neck. The sound of the rushing water had pushed through the lingering words muffled by the door and left him feeling oddly refreshed. "I'm not doing this today," he grumbled, tugging his black jeans on, "We're not doing this today.I'm gonna walk out of this house and I'm gonna do my job." He slid his arm through the sleeve of his shirt and pushed open the bathroom door. A flash of color made his head jerk down, immediately avoiding eye contact. He knew if he made eye contact, the fight would be lost immediately.

"Are you ready to talk now," Vicente asked, arms crossed over his chest.Ivan's gaze remained on the floor, staring at the brown tips of Vicente's shoes.

"I'm busy, Vicente," Ivan ground out, walking around the other until his view was nothing but the clean carpet. He threw his towel to the side and shoved his feet into his boots one stomp at a time."We're not going to talk about this. Every day, you want to talk.Every night, you want to talk. I have to do my job, Vicente.Someone has to pay for the house, for the cars, for the food- I have to pay. And so do they."

Each word he emphasized was another tug at the laces, tightening the leather around his shins. He opened the nightstand drawer and grabbed the leather scabbard, hooking it to his lower leg, just beneath the leather cuff of his left boot. His fingertips traced over the hilt of the long knife, smoothing down the edge, nails chipping off flakes of crimson. He could still hear Vicente's clicking tongue, impatient foot tapping. He ignored it as he grabbed onto his shoulder holster.

"What I do doesn't matter- you used to agree with me. Now, more than ever, you should agree that we are owed something." He clicked the holster in place, checking the gun tucked safely inside and extra ammo hidden in various compartments. I put my holster on the same as everyone else- one shoulder at a time. He grabbed onto the leather jacket draped over the chair, body tense and the refreshed feeling lingering from the shower gone in an instant. The room was cold and Ivan felt his spine freeze as ice crawled from his neck to his lower back.

"This isn't about getting even, Ivan. This is about us. Look at me... please."

He felt eyes on his back and he forced himself to remain as he was,shoulders hunched, hands gripping onto the leather jacket. His brows knit together as he ground his teeth, trying desperately to keep the words lodged in his throat, never allowing release. Talking to Vicente had gotten harder over the last few days and the distance between them seemed to sever any relationship they had. Vicente was kind and caring, but he had his moments; those dark moments that reminded him why they'd ended up together. Ivan was the one that balanced him out, serving as the mean, angry, cynical one- the one refusing to let things go without reputable consequences. They were both stubborn in their own ways, but it had never gotten in the way.Together, they had made a home out of a small income that grew as they did. Vicente had created model after model, lining the walls of his office with sketches of buildings and offices until one day,someone wanted one. Ivan had driven down a different path, pushing through dirt and mud, fingers stained with blood so much that it caked and dried beneath his cracked nails. He had driven knives into the backs of many people he had once called his peers, collecting money under a neon sign piercing the night with a cacophony of bass and drunken shouts. Vicente was ideal, Ivan was illegal. And together, they had made a life work. So why? Why couldn't Ivan bring himself to turn around and look into those sad, hazel eyes and tell him to go away?

"Please, look at me."

The tone made Ivan's chest hurt. His knuckles were white, fingers trembling as the bones cracked and flesh began to sting. He closed his eyes, stilling the spinning room as he took in deep breaths through his nose and clenched teeth. Each breath brought in a stinging sensation and his lungs screamed in agony for words unspoken. His brows were knit tight together, crease in the center of his forehead almost growing painful. That's all everything was now...painful. Even looking at Vicente was painful. The cold touch of his hand on his shoulder, fingers curling to attempt a reassuring squeeze. It was comforting and hurt him and all at once,he wanted to scream out for him to just go away.

"Stop it."

"I know you're angry. I'm not here to stop you."

"Vicente. Stop."

"What are you so afraid of," Vicente asked, just behind him. Ivan couldn't stand it anymore and he turned, arm swinging out to shove the other man back and further away from him, throwing the jacket in the process.

It was never different- nothing ever changed. No matter how hard he swung his arm, how many objects he threw, Vicente would always be right there, staring at him with a sympathetic gaze. And everything he did to push the other away would just go right through him.Everything always went right through him. Vicente had his hands were outstretched to show that he meant no harm. It's too late for that, Ivan thought, there's already been harm. Ivan couldn't help but stare at him and Vicente offered nothing but a quiet stare back.

"Well," Ivan said, swallowing thickly. He cringed at how weak his voice sounded; how much his resolve had broken apart. "I'm looking at you. Is that all you wanted?"

"Don't talk to me like I'm one of your targets, Ivan. I'm not the CIA. I didn't stab you in the back out there in the desert. I was the one who put you back together." Ivan frowned and looked away stubbornly, but his gaze drifted back to Vicente.

"You're not even real," Ivan hissed. Why would you say that?

The tension in the room snapped as Vicente began to laugh. Ivan clenched his eyes shut, trying to forget how many times he was responsible for that laugh; the kind of laugh that bubbled out when someone was amused or feeling shy. It was the kind of laugh that was unique to each person, but he'd only cared to hear the one. His brows pressed together and he found himself growing angry instead of reminiscent. He jerked his head in Vicente's direction and swatted at the air, frustrated with how much his hand just wouldn't make contact.

"Stop laughing at me; this isn't funny!"

"No, Ivan, it's not funny," the other replied, chuckling as the hand swiped through his shoulder, his chest, his head, "I know it isn't funny, but the way you look right now is funny." He reached out his hands and settled them atop Ivan's shoulders, cool touch lingering and pushing through the fabric. Ivan tensed and he felt as if the world would be pulled out from under his feet again.His fingers curled against his palms, flexing as frustrations and denial faded away. Silence drifted between them once more and Ivan lifted his gaze ever so slightly to look at the sympathetic smile on Vicente's face.

How long had he been denying that it was still there? Ivan Moretti, ex-CIA agent, assassin, illegal arms dealer and the most stubborn asshole this universe had ever seen did the one thing he hated to do; he gave up. He gave into what his mind craved the most and he chose to finally grieve his loss the only way he knew how; by not grieving at all. Vicente was right here, right in front of him,just like he always was.

I don't know how to let things go. I refuse to let you go.

The city still hustled with horns and shouts, sirens and trolley bells. The clock on the stove top chimed with the solid hour of 9:00 AM.He was already late and his day was derailed, but Ivan made no effort to rush out this time or leave without another word. Instead, he said the one thing he'd been wanting to say for days now; something he should have said the first day Vicente had come home.

"I'm sorry, too," he murmured. Vicente had wrath deep within him and as the room grew ice cold, Ivan assumed he had invoked it. He felt the stinging of something so cold, it burned. He pulled his cheek away after the first few pats and his lips tugged downward in a disgusted frown. How degrading.

"That'll do just fine," Vicente teased, chilled hand patting Ivan's cheek one more time before he backed off, "But, really, Ivan. I never blamed you for anything. What happened happened and there was no stopping the outcome. I chose to help you kill those people and I paid the price. Don't you see? That's why I came back."

"To tell me not to blame myself? Really, Vicente, that's a little Lifetime movie-esque, don't you think?" Vicente chuckled and Ivan felt himself settling into a more relaxed state of mind. Why had he ignored the other for so long? It felt good to talk to him again; it felt good to talk.

"No,"Vicente replied, leaning back and looking thoughtful, "You've always needed my help, Ivan. I put you back together. I wasn't going to be the one responsible for breaking you apart." Ivan sighed and let his shoulders finally drop, allowing the wall he once put between them to finally crumble. He crouched down to grab his jacket and dusted it off, as if it had gotten dirty. He looked back at the other with a crooked, tired smirk.

"So,you came back for me, then," he asked, his tone containing the faintest hint of amusement. "And all this time, I thought you were here to stop me from doing what I need to."

"Don't be stupid," the ghostly apparition replied, smiling, "You don't know how to let things go. I knew that the second you found out my death wasn't an accident, you'd hunt down the one responsible."

"It's a living," Ivan grumbled.

"You enjoy it." True.

Ivan sighed for what felt like the hundredth time, each one giving him a sense of peace and the ache in his chest began to bleed away. What was it like to miss someone? He couldn't remember.

"Besides," Vicente began, walking through the bed and peering into the mirror. He had no reflection, but Ivan felt reflected eyes on him anyway.

"Besides," Ivan asked, head tilting as he slipped on his jacket.

"I made a promise, didn't I," Vicente finished, turning to look at Ivan.

He was pulling Vicente out of the San Francisco Bay, car sinking into the depths of the icy water. The man clung to his arms and the ex-CIA agent pulled and, with the help of an ungraceful wave, got him out.The two fell onto the docks, sea lion groaning in complaint. Ivan reached down and tapped the side of Vicente's cheek.

"You alive, buddy," he asked, worry in his tone, "Vicente?" His jaw was met with a wet fist and he felt his teeth chatter together. Ivan fell back, rubbing the sore spot, blood trickling from his newly bitten lip. The architect sat up and pointed at Ivan.

"If I ever die doing one of these schemes for you, Moretti, I swear to God, I will haunt your ass."

"Promise?"

"It's a guarantee."