Bobby was supposed to meet a friend for coffee after therapy, but they'd had to cancel, so he came straight home. The house was quiet and still, at least downstairs, so after a cursory exploration looking for John (with no success and no note,) he headed up the stairs to check their bedroom.

The "Hey," died in his throat, a quiet, strangled death, as he stood in the doorway watching John rocking on the bed, on the toy that Bobby instantly recognized. He wasn't sure which emotion was stronger; embarrassment at A, walking in on John in a private act like this and B, the fact that John had found the toy that he'd bought when he was lonely and desperate in Boston, or arousal at seeing John like this, flushed and sweaty and turned on. "Oh, God," he murmured, blushing as he turned his head away. "Uh."