It was painful to talk about those things, but it was a good kind of pain, if that were possible. It was an acknowledgement of the jumbled mess that still happened to be in his head, and he could watch as each word spoken hurt Steve in the same way that it hurt him. For once, there was someone to understand what it was like back then, to remember those old days of saving everything, struggling through the Depression, of facing the prospect of war, of having a dial phone that required an operator to connect a call. So many little things lost over the years.

His fingers continued to trace every aspect of Steve's face as they lay facing each other. He kept his arm off of his side so that Steve could explore him in return, a bittersweet contact from someone who had been chasing him for two years. "Sometimes I can't tell if some events happened more than once or if its just a repeat in my head," he said softly. It was good to know all those times curled together in a small bed were multiple times. It meant more to him that way. "You got in fights in every alley, street corner or behind buildings that you could. You were the only one to bring a trash can lid to a fist fight."