Oliver saw the wall every day on his way home. It had been there ever since he could remember, and as he had grown up, the graffiti on it had accumulated. The colors and bold lettering were all jumbled together, but there was one stretch that always drew Oliver's eye. He could tell that all the artwork on it had been done by one person, because the style was the same, and at the end it was signed with an intricate tag. The tag was comprised of a P, with harsh, jagged lines. Rose vines curled around it.

Most people in Oliver's neighborhood called the graffiti trash, and said that it was an eyesore. Oliver liked it. From the wall, ugly, distorted faces glared. They were set against a background of rose vines with more thorns than blossoms. Some of the faces were grinning horribly, exposing sharp, pointed teeth that dripped blood. The thorns also had bright red globules of blood clinging to them, blood from the faces that they wrapped tightly around. Oliver figured that the artist who made them must have a fucked up mind, but that was exactly why he liked it. The raw, even violent energy of the pictures appealed to him.

He'd never seen the artist, though. The pictures had started taking shape when he was a freshman in high school, gaining in intensity and violence as the year went on, until it culminated in the final figure: a man with intense, almost insane eyes, dripping blood from cuts on his face. His face was mottled with black and dark blue patches, and a rose vine gagged his mouth and wrapped around his neck. The artist must have worked on them when Oliver was in school, because whenever Oliver was walking home, the stretch of fields where the wall stood in was empty.

Sometimes Oliver thought about the artist, and what he would do if he met him. As the years went on, though, the wall faded into the back of his mind, and he only glanced at it once or twice as he walked home, instead of standing and staring at it, like he used to. Then one day, when he was a senior, Oliver saw someone climbing over the wall and dropping to the ground in front of the rose vine tag.

Everyone knew that the wall separated Oliver's affluent neighborhood from the less well-to-do community close to it. Nobody said it, but it was a common fact, which was probably why the wall was so heavily tagged. It was a message from the other side. Oliver wondered if the person standing in the field was from that neighborhood, and if he had come to mark his presence on the wall. Then the person reached up and placed a hand on the figure with the rose vine gag, and something in the way he touched it, like he knew the image so well, prompted Oliver to step off the sidewalk and start walking through the field.

The person heard Oliver coming and whirled around, hands clenching into fists. Oliver stared. It was a boy, around Oliver's age. And even more shocking, it was someone he knew. "Patrick? What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm admiring the artwork, Oliver, what does it look like I'm doing?" Patrick's hands didn't uncurl, but he smirked at Oliver.

Something clicked in Oliver's head. He looked at the P, surrounded by rose vines, and then at Patrick. "Patrick Rose," he said. "You're the one who did these."

"I thought it was easy to figure out, but I guess that would be placing too much faith in your intelligence."

Oliver's hands started tightening into fists, as well. Patrick always had a talent for making Oliver feel hot and lightheaded. "Maybe I should turn you in," he said. "Report you to the police for defacing public property."

Patrick snorted. "Go ahead. I'll tell The Post that you helped censor artistic expression for the five hundred dollars that the police department is offering for information on graffiti artists. I'm sure your parents will love being swarmed with protests from the art community."

"That's not art," Oliver lied. "That's trash."

"Well, each to his own." Patrick turned around and ran a hand over the wall, lingering on the black and blue splotches on the man's face. "Hmm, this brings back memories."

It was so obvious in retrospect. The rose vines. The P. But somehow, it hadn't connected in Oliver's head, because the wall and Patrick seemed so far apart. "So is this your form of emo poetry or something?" Oliver asked. "This where you went whenever I beat the crap out of you?"

"Don't sound so smug. You didn't get away from those fights without bruises of your own."

"At least I wasn't the one painting emo pictures. Faggot."

Patrick's punch caught him square in the face, and a kick to his stomach forced him to double over, cursing in pain. He didn't even have time to react, before Patrick's knee rammed into his face, knocking him backwards onto the ground. "Don't call me that," Patrick said, standing over Oliver.

"You son of a bitch." Oliver clutched his bleeding nose and glared at Patrick, getting up slowly.

Patrick was already starting to climb back over the wall. Just before he dropped down to the other side, he looked back at Oliver and said, "At least I'm not the one in the closet. Faggot."

Everyone at Oliver's high school knew to give Patrick Rose a wide berth. After he had kicked the football team captain into a bloody pulp, nobody dared to call him a faggot or a homo to his face, not even Oliver and his friends. He was intense and violent, almost savage, and the more Oliver thought about it, the more obvious it seemed that Patrick was the wall artist. And the more Oliver thought about it, the more the wall and Patrick began to mesh together, becoming one thing in Oliver's mind.

The day after he'd seen Patrick, he cut across the field and walked along the wall, passing a hand over all of Patrick's artwork. It was surreal, making the connection between him and the artist whom Oliver had thought about so often in the past. He stopped at the last figure, and stared at the black and blue patches, at the rose vine gag. Patrick had made this. Patrick was the mysterious wall artist. Patrick had been here, had touched this wall and made it his own.

"I'm flattered that you're so interested in those doodles, Oliver."

Oliver's head jerked up, and he saw Patrick sitting on the wall above him, smiling. It was a sharp smile, full of teeth and bad intentions. "The neighborhood is thinking of signing a petition to get rid of these," Oliver said, backing away slightly so Patrick wouldn't be able to kick him in the head.

"Oh yeah? That's too bad. I'll miss them."

"No one else will."

"You look really interested." Patrick jumped down, and landed in a crouch that reminded Oliver of a cat. "But then, you've never really struck me as the artistic kind of guy."

"I already told you, this shit isn't art."

"I knew it. No taste at all."

"You're defacing public property with trash. What's tasteful about that?"

"You think this is trash?" Patrick was facing the wall, tracing a hand over the thorns. "What about all those billboards advertising things that no one needs? You don't think that's trash? Or how about the shit that passes for movies these days?"

"Spare me your whining about how corrupt and soulless the world is. I'm not interested."

"You're still standing there."

"I've got nothing better to do."

"Oliver Hayley has nothing better to do than talk to a loner like me?" Patrick asked, turning around. "Your life must be taking a turn for the worse."

"You've got nothing better to do than tag walls, so I wouldn't be talking." Oliver looked at the messenger bag slung over Patrick's shoulder. "Are you planning on putting up your crap somewhere else?"

"My crap is all over the city," Patrick said. "It's probably gotten better since I made these pieces."

"If you think so highly of your art, then why don't you exhibit them in galleries?"

"Because you lose your…credibility if you start showing in galleries. It's not street art anymore if 

you're always going to be stuck in some room. It's not for the public if the only people who see your work is a small circle of elitists who get smaller by the year."

Oliver said, "Most of the public doesn't want to see your art. They think it's all done by gangs."

"Well, I won't deny that tagging is sometimes done to mark territory, but that doesn't mean that graffiti can't be a form of art. Not too long ago, people thought that flinging paint around on a canvas wasn't art, but Pollock's work sells for millions these days."

"But you're obviously not making millions," Oliver said, glancing over the wall. "Are you still living by yourself?"

"Yeah, and barely making the rent. My parents don't believe that the prices are going up here in the U.S. I'm thinking about selling some sketches and paintings now, just so I can stop eating instant ramen all the time."

"Shit, no wonder nobody ever wanted to come over to your house. You've got nothing to eat."

"Oh yeah? Is that why you never wanted to come over?"

Oliver started. "That's not--"

"Never mind. Don't answer. I already know." Patrick found some niches in the wall and climbed to the top again. "Shouldn't you be going home now, Oliver? Your parents are going to wonder where you are."

"Hey," Oliver called after him. "I never came over because you never invited me."

"You wouldn't have come, anyway."

"Wait!"

Patrick looked back at Oliver. "What?"

Oliver took a deep breath. "Are you going to be here tomorrow?"

"No, I've got another piece to finish somewhere else."

"Where?"

"The old train tracks by Reading." Patrick grinned. "Are you going to come visit me or something?"

"Yeah right," Oliver said, turning around and starting to walk away. "You'd better be careful. The police might arrest you."

Patrick didn't answer, and a soft thump told Oliver that he had already dropped down to the other side. Oliver turned back to look at the wall one more time, before starting to walk home.

Oliver hadn't been planning on going to the train tracks, but then the day had gone more or less shitty. He'd looked for his girlfriend, Samantha, at lunch, and found her making out with Travis Ford behind the gym. Oliver hadn't been very serious about Samantha, so he wasn't depressed so much as angry. After he'd channeled most of his frustration into beating up Travis, though, he felt empty and numb. Samantha had seen the fight, but Oliver just said, "We're done," when she tried to talk to him, before brushing past her and getting into his car.

Without realizing it, he headed towards the train tracks. He parked in the deserted lot, then jumped the fence and wandered among the abandoned cars, wondering which ones Patrick had decorated. Was Patrick even here yet? Oliver hadn't seen him among the crowd when he'd been busting Travis Ford's face in, but then again, he hadn't really been paying attention. Then the hiss of an aerosol spray can drew his attention, and he walked in the sound's general direction until he saw Patrick, standing in front of a particularly large train car.

Patrick's back was turned to Oliver. He was outlining jagged wings behind a giant figure dressed in flowing robes. The limbs were exaggerated, but the face was not as distorted and ugly as the ones on the wall. This figure seemed sad, and its loose, elongated limbs seemed to suggest that it floated. It wasn't violent in the least, so instead of filling Oliver with adrenaline, it provoked something almost like tenderness. Oliver studied it for a few moments, and then said, "I guess you weren't lying when you said you got better."

Patrick tensed for a moment, and then he turned around and grinned at Oliver. "I thought you weren't going to visit."

"I've got nothing better to do."

"What happened to all your friends?"

"Don't want to talk to them." Oliver hesitantly walked over to the train car and looked at the figure. "What is this supposed to be?"

"A nephilim," Patrick said. "Half angel, half human."

"It doesn't look really angelic."

"It's not supposed to." Patrick took a step towards Oliver, and Oliver took a step back. Patrick grinned. "Why are you even interested? Aren't you scared that I'm going to kick your ass?"

Oliver scowled, and showed his skinned and bloodied knuckles to Patrick. "It's not going to be that easy, asshole. Besides, you didn't even try to hit me yesterday."

"You weren't looking to pick a fight, so I didn't see the point."

"I wasn't looking for a fight when you punched me in the fucking face, either."

Patrick shrugged. "You called me a faggot. That's the same thing."

"So if I don't do that, then you won't hit me?"

"Don’t piss me off, and I won't hurt you. Why does it even matter, anyway? Why are you talking to me, and not your friends?"

"My girlfriend cheated on me," Oliver said, not sure why he was telling Patrick, except that it felt right. "I beat up the prick, and then I broke up with her. My friends are just going to tell me that it's all right, and I'll get over her. Same old shit."

"Yeah," Patrick agreed. "Same old shit. You haven't changed at all. You've still got crappy taste in girlfriends."

"Are you going to tell me I'm better off without them?"

Patrick said, "No. This time, I think I'll just watch you screw yourself over."

Oliver was silent. He looked at the graffiti on the train car, and then back at Patrick. "Can I stay?" he asked. "Or would you rather I go fuck myself?"

"Do whatever you want," Patrick said. He shrugged, but his back was still tense when he turned around and studied the nephilim figure.

"Fine then," Oliver said. "I'll go home with you when you're done."

Patrick's voice was tight. "Why?"

"Dunno. I had a sudden craving for instant ramen."

Patrick snorted. "Fine. Do what you want, Oliver."

Oliver ran a hand over the worn sofa and sat down on it. "So this is all yours, huh?" he asked.

"Yeah," Patrick said, walking over to the stove and setting a pot of water on it. "Two rooms and a stove that passes for a kitchen. Plus a mini refrigerator and whatever other furniture I can get my hands on. All mine."

"Why didn't you go with your parents to Vietnam?"

"Are you kidding?" Patrick rummaged around in the space beneath his stove and took out two ramen cups. "Why would I want to go there? It's fucking hot."

"At least you'd be with your family."

"What do you even know about my family?" Patrick ripped the tops open and set the cups next to the stove.

"Well, uh, your dad's white and your mom's Vietnamese? I mean, your last name is Rose, so I figured."

"Close enough," Patrick said. "My dad's half white. His dad was with the old French government or something."

"You look more white than Asian. No offense."

"Yeah, I get told that a lot. It's not a problem, except when I go to the Cali supermarket and everyone gives me weird looks and assumes I can't speak Vietnamese."

"Do you beat them up if they do that?"

Patrick laughed, pouring the boiling water into the cups and putting two chopsticks on the top to hold the flap down. "No. Even I'm not enough of a prick to beat old ladies up. Anyway, they could probably kick my ass."

"Yeah right," Oliver said, smiling.

"You think I'm joking, but you've never been beaten over the head with one of those huge bags they carry. I swear to god, they weigh a ton. It's probably all the pills and change in there."

"What? You've gotten hit by one of them before?"

Patrick nodded. "One or two years ago. I was giving lip to the clerk for asking me what a white boy was doing in a Vietnamese supermarket, and one of the old ladies behind me whopped me on the head and told me to respect my elders."

This time, Oliver laughed. "Holy shit. And you didn't just turn around and hit her or something?"

"Are you kidding? I was too shocked to. Anyway, she's a nice old lady. Tough, but nice." Patrick carried the two cups over to the sofa, and put them down on the low table in front of it. "She lives near here, actually. Sometimes she comes to check up on me and give me food."

Oliver slid down to the ground and sat cross-legged in front of the table. He looked at Patrick, who had taken a seat across from him. "Does anyone else visit you besides her?"

"No," Patrick said, stirring his ramen with the chopsticks. "You don't really think anyone at school would visit me, do you?"

"Maybe if you weren't such a prick, they would."

"You're a prick. I’m sure your friends come to your house."

"You don't even try to make friends. You never have."

"It's not like anyone really tried to be friends with me."

"I tried to be friends with you," Oliver said.

Patrick took a long slurp of his ramen before speaking. "And that turned out fantastically. Besides, a couple of fucks don't count as trying to be friends."

"You're the one who just wanted the sex," Oliver said, starting to get irritated again. "I tried to talk to you. Hell, I know more about you than you know about me."

"You only talked to me when we were alone. And you're the one who punched me at Riordan's party and told me to get my faggot ass out of your sight." Patrick's face was calm, but Oliver could see how tightly he was clenching his chopsticks.

Oliver shook his head. "Look, that was stupid of me, but you were drunk and not making really smart moves, either."

"We could go back and forth blaming each other, but it would get old really quickly. The point is, we weren't friends, and even if you were trying to be, you weren't trying very hard."

"Well, your effort wasn't exactly stellar either," Oliver said heatedly. "You still picked fights with me at school."

"Oh, and that didn't turn you on? The violence?" Patrick smirked. "Come on, Oliver, I know the reason you liked all the work I did on that wall was because the violence appealed to you. It always has."

"What about you? I bet that kind of stuff really gets you going."

"Yeah, I get a boner just thinking about it." Patrick had finished his ramen, even while they were talking, and he tapped his chopsticks against the empty container. "Hey, we could always have sex again, if you wanted. I won't expect anything out of you this time."

"Shut the fuck up. What makes you think I want it?"

"Because you did before, and you haven't changed."

"You're fucked up. You're always more than willing to fight me, but at the same time you want to have sex?"

Patrick shrugged. "What's the difference between those two, when it's us?"

Oliver stared at Patrick for several tense minutes. Then he pushed his untouched ramen to the side and leaned over the table, grabbing Patrick's shirt and pulling him in to kiss him. It was a rough kiss, all teeth and tongue, and Oliver could feel Patrick smiling against his lips even as Oliver slid over the table, knocking the ramen cups to the side and pushing Patrick onto the ground.

Patrick's body hadn't changed much since the first time Oliver had fucked him in the locker room showers. He was still lean and sinewy, and his fingers still gripped Oliver hard enough to bruise. Oliver was sure there were scratch marks on his back as well, since it stung, so he lay on his stomach instead, turning his head to look at Patrick.

Patrick was sitting up on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him as he ran a hand through his hair. "You still go way too fast," he said to Oliver.

"You're still a fucking masochist. And a sadist."

"Making you go put on a condom first doesn't make me a sadist."

"No, but teasing me for so long before letting me screw you does."

"Have you ever heard of the concept of foreplay, or do all your girlfriends like it quick and hard?"

"You are not my girlfriend. You're not even a girl."

"I know." Patrick grinned and spread his legs, just as the door rattled and started to open. "Oh shit," Patrick said, and scrambled for his pants.

"What the hell? Who is that?" Oliver managed to pull his boxers on before the door opened and an old, stooped Vietnamese woman walked into Patrick's apartment.

"Patrick?" The woman spoke in Vietnamese. "Who is that?"

Patrick was still in his boxers, too. "Er," he said. He spoke Vietnamese as well. "He's a friend."

"What is she asking?" Oliver hissed, struggling into his shirt.

The old woman looked at Oliver. Despite her shrunken body, her eyes were sharp and bright. "You have sex with him?" she asked Patrick in English, pointing to Oliver.

Oliver gaped, and Patrick pulled on his pants before walking over to the old woman and steering her over to the stove. "Uh, what did you bring for me today, Ba?"

The old woman poked around inside the large bag she was carrying, and pulled out a plastic shopping bag which she set next to the stove. "Banh cuon," she said. Then she switched to English again, speaking slowly and loudly so Oliver could hear her. "You have sex with boys, you get AIDS."

Oliver didn't know if he should be embarrassed, or burst out laughing like Patrick did. "No," Patrick said finally. "I used a condom."

The old woman frowned, but she patted Patrick on the cheek. "You a good boy," she said. "Crazy, but good. You need a good girl. You want, I can find you one."

"No thanks, Ba," Patrick said, kissing her on the cheek. "I don't like girls."

The old woman sighed and started shuffling towards the door. "Don't know why you don't want to fix being gay," she said. All the English was clearly for Oliver's benefit. "Don't know why I still look after you."

"Chao Ba," Patrick said, still smiling broadly.

The old woman was still grumbling as she closed the door behind her. Patrick walked over to lock the door again, and Oliver stared at him. "What the hell was that?" Oliver finally managed to ask.

"That was the old lady I was telling you about."

"The one who hit you over the head?"

"Yes," Patrick said. He sat on the sofa, not bothering to pull a shirt on now that the woman was gone. "She's been trying to convince me to be straight ever since she met me."

"Why? So you won't get AIDS?"

"And so my eternal soul can go to heaven, or something."

"I can just imagine you in heaven," Oliver said, snorting. "Putting graffiti on the pearly gates."

"Heaven's boring. It's in need of decoration."

"You'll get blasted with a lightning bolt one day for saying that."

"That's okay," Patrick said, grinning. "Then I can go out with a bang."

Oliver laughed, then asked, "So, hey, where are you going to be tomorrow? After school?"

"The train tracks, again. Are you going to be there?"

Oliver didn't bother trying to deny it this time. "Sure," he said. "I'll be there."

This was like déjà vu, Oliver thought. It was like two years ago, when Oliver had pushed Patrick into a shower stall after school and pinned him against the wall. They'd been fighting, and the hard heat that pressed against Patrick's thigh when Oliver straddled him had only surprised both of them for a moment. Looking back on it, Oliver was relieved that they'd been alone in the locker room, because even though Patrick had bitten into Oliver's shoulder to muffle his moans, even the smallest of sounds would have echoed.

There was something different about this time, though. Even if Oliver still kept quiet about Patrick around his friends, even if they stayed away from each other when they were at school, there was something more personal about this tentative relationship. Oliver realized this when he found himself going grocery shopping with Patrick, and wondered how the hell he had gone from watching Patrick putting up graffiti to watching him consult a shopping list next to the produce section.

"I thought you only ate instant ramen," Oliver said.

"I do, but this is for Ba. She's not feeling well today, so I offered to get her groceries for her." Patrick picked up some vegetables and examined them for a moment before putting them into a plastic bag.

"Is that her name? Ba?"

Patrick snorted. "No. Ba is what you call an old woman. It's kind of like 'grandma.'"

Oliver followed Patrick to the dried goods section, picking up several packets and looking at them. "You don't see stuff like this at the supermarket my mom goes to."

"Do you even go to the supermarket with your mom?"

"Used to, when I was younger."

"There's a lot of stuff here that you can't get in a regular supermarket," Patrick said, dumping several cartons and packets of instant ramen into the cart. "There's all kinds of Asian snacks, like those fruit jelly jars and chocopies."

"What the hell are chocopies?"

Patrick rolled the cart into another aisle, this one stacked with sweets. He picked up a bright red box with "Chocopies" emblazoned on the cover in bold white print. "They're like cookies," he said. "Well, I guess they're more like biscuits, dipped with a lot of chocolate. They're sweet enough to rot your teeth."

"We could have those for dessert," said Oliver, who had a horrible sweet tooth, and Patrick laughed.

"Oh my god, do you know what that sounds like?"

Oliver did. "Hey, I do eat dinner at your house."

"Cups of instant ramen and sex on the floor do not count as having dinner together, Oliver."

"Well, maybe if you learned how to cook we could have more to eat."

"Don't you get enough to eat at home? Or do your parents secretly starve you?"

"My mom can't cook for shit," Oliver said. "I think she just heats up frozen food and pretends that she made it."

"Boo hoo. The poor, neglected rich kid." Patrick started walking towards the cash register, running over Oliver's foot with the cart. Oliver yelped in pain and glared at Patrick, but when he looked into the cart, he realized that Patrick had put the chocopies inside.

Patrick cursed when he opened his wallet to pay the clerk. "Damn it, I don't have enough." He started taking out some of the ramen, but Oliver stopped him.

"Wait. I'll get it."

"I don't need you to pity me."

"Shut up. If you put back that ramen, we won't have anything to eat for dinner." Oliver took his own wallet out and handed the money over to the clerk, who was giving them both strange looks.

Patrick scowled and kicked Oliver's leg. "Who cares about dinner? You can just go home to your frozen food. Don't take his money," he said to the clerk, who looked even more confused and stood frozen with the bills in her hand.

"Ignore him," Oliver said. "He's crazy." He twirled his finger next to his head, and the clerk laughed nervously before putting the money away and giving Oliver the receipt.

"I think she thinks we're faggots," Patrick said, as Oliver carried the plastic bags out the sliding doors.

"I think you're being an asshole. Why are you pissed about me paying for you?"

"Because it's stupid, that's why. You didn't need to."

"I wanted to. Unlike you, I know how to be nice once in a while."

"Not all of us have money to fling around like that," Patrick muttered.

Oliver stared. "Is that why you're mad? Because you think I'm being a typical rich kid, or whatever? Come on, Patrick, spare me that bullshit."

"I think you're stupid," Patrick said. "A fucking idiot."

"I just wanted to do something nice for you," Oliver said. "Can you just accept that?"

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Fine." He grinned at Oliver, his bad mood evaporating. "I'll give you a blowjob to pay you back."

"I am not being nice just to get sex," Oliver said, exasperated. "Maybe I want something else, you know?" Patrick gave him a confused look, so he just sighed and said, "Never mind. Let's just get this to Ba and then go back to your place."

"Your Vietnamese is horrible. You couldn't even say that one word right."

"Shut up," Oliver said, kicking Patrick in the shins. "You're such an asshole."

Later, when Patrick was kneeling between his legs and teasing him slowly with his tongue, Oliver tugged on his hair sharply and mumbled, "Asshole," again. It almost sounded like an endearment.

It irritated Oliver that Samantha was still trying to get back together with him, even after he had made it clear that he wasn't interested. On top of that, all his friends were encouraging him to give her a second chance, because, as they said, at least she was sorry, and he needed to try and have a relationship that lasted longer than a month or two. Oliver brushed them all off and vented to Patrick about it after school.

"I don’t know why it's so goddamned important to them that I find a steady girlfriend. It's not possible, anyway, because every girl I date breaks up with or cheats on me!"

"It's because you've got shitty taste in girls, that's why," Patrick said. He spoke over the hiss of his spray can.

"But you'd think I'd find one girl who wasn't like that."

"No. Again, your taste is too shitty. You wouldn't know a girl like that if she slapped you in the face."

"Well, clearly my taste in guys isn't much better. You're not even being comforting."

"If we had sex, would you feel better?"

"Is that all that matters to you? Sex?"

"No. But it's all I want from you."

Oliver briefly thought about punching Patrick, then decided against it. If he caused Patrick to screw up the figure he was currently painting, then Patrick would kill him and dump his body in the nearest garbage bin. "Bullshit. Why do you let me watch you work, then?"

"It's not like I can stop you from coming."

"You let me come to your house and eat dinner with you. You let me go with you when you visit Ba. For fuck's sake, we go grocery shopping together."

"Big deal," Patrick said. "What are you trying to say, anyway? What do you want from this relationship?"

Oliver was silent. He didn't know what to say. What did he want? He wanted more than sex. He wanted whatever it was they had when they were just eating together, what they had when Patrick explained his work to him. He wanted something none of his girlfriends had ever given him. "I don't want anything," he finally muttered, because what he wanted was something he wasn't sure he could ask for.

"Fine," Patrick said, a note of bitterness in his voice. "Then quit complaining about what an asshole I am."

Oliver stared moodily at the ground, and then at the wall Patrick was working on. "Are those football players?" he asked, pointing to the grossly muscular men who wore padded armor. Their expressions were brutish, and the footballs they held in their hands looked more like bludgeons than sports equipment.

"Yes," Patrick said. "It's realistic, isn't it?"

"Bullshit. We don't look like that."

Patrick laughed a little. "Oh, I forgot, you're a football player, aren't you? What are you, a quarterback?"

"Yes," Oliver said. "And you didn't forget, jackass. I was telling you about our game last week."

"You mean the one you lost miserably?"

"So you do listen." Oliver couldn't help smiling. "And shut up, we didn't lose miserably. It was a close game."

"I'm surprised Riordan can still play. I thought I did a number on him back in sophomore year."

"You didn't break his legs or arms. You didn't even break that many bones, except in his face. Did you really have to kick him there?"

"Yes. You can't say it was a bad thing. He's done the same thing to other people, and it kept people off my back, too."

Oliver shook his head. "Because they were fucking terrified of you. Hell, I was scared." He watched as Patrick filled in the blocky words he had written above the football players' heads: Survival of the brutish. "I was wondering if you'd come after me like that, too."

The hiss of the spray can stopped. Patrick's arm fell to his side, and he looked over his shoulder at Oliver. "Why did you think I'd come after you?" he asked quietly.

"Because," Oliver said. "I punched you and told you to get your faggot ass out of my sight. Remember? I never figured out why you beat up Riordan and not me."

"Because Riordan tried to beat me up first, to teach me a lesson about coming on to you. And after I was done kicking him, I realized that I could have killed him. I didn't want to do that to you."

Oliver was shocked. "But I--"

"Anyway," Patrick cut him off, "I didn't want to get into too much trouble. I could get away with saying that Riordan attacked me first, but what could I say about you? 'He was a prick to me'?"

"I'm sorry," Oliver said quietly. "I shouldn't have done that to you."

Patrick ignored him. "Ba wants you to come to her house for dinner tonight. She says you shouldn't be eating ramen all the time just because I eat that shit."

"I thought she didn't want you to be gay," Oliver said.

"She doesn't. She'll probably try to scare you straight, too. But her food is really good, so just eat it and nod your head, and we'll all be happy."

"I can't believe you're inviting me to dinner with her," Oliver said.

"I'm not inviting you," Patrick said. "She's inviting you." He went back to his picture, and Oliver watched him in silence until they went to Ba's apartment for dinner.

Ba's food really was good. Oliver sampled everything cautiously at first, but afterwards ate whatever Ba put in front of him with enthusiasm. "What are these?" he asked, pointing to the round, white vegetables on his plate. They were crunchy and had a savory, spicy taste.

"Ca," Ba said, smiling approvingly at Oliver.

"Pickled eggplant," Patrick said. "I think."

"Oliver has good appetite," Ba said, clucking. "Not like you. You eat too little. Too skinny! Look at you. All bone and skin. Look at Oliver, he has muscles because he eats well."

"We can't all be buff football players like Oliver." Patrick grinned at Oliver.

"You play football? Pfft, football is violent sport. Very dangerous. Could kill you!"

Oliver smiled. "It's all right. The helmet helps protect you."

"Bah, helmet. No use when all those big boys sitting on you."

Patrick snorted into his rice. The rest of dinner went almost the same way, with Ba throwing in some dire predictions about what would happen to Patrick and Oliver if they kept having sex with boys. Oliver took Patrick's advice and just nodded while Ba talked.

"You two should be friends," she said. "Just friends. Patrick needs friends."

"I wouldn't mind being Patrick's friend," Oliver said, looking sideways at Patrick.

"I don't need friends," Patrick said, voice suddenly harsh. He stood up, empty bowl in hand. "I'll wash the dishes. Just bring it to the sink when you're done." He walked away, and the sound of running water filled the apartment.

Ba looked at Oliver, her normally sharp eyes gentle. "Patrick is lonely," she said. "All alone in that apartment. Parents don't even want to see him!"

"I thought Patrick chose to stay behind when his parents moved back to Vietnam," Oliver said, confused.

"Oh, that because Patrick's dad beat him. Called him bad names because he liked boys." Ba pursed her lips. "Of course, I think that bad, but Patrick's dad hit him too hard. Patrick say, he used to have black and blue spots all over!"

Oliver was too surprised to realize that the water had stopped running. He looked up when Patrick picked up his bowl and looked down at him with a hooded expression. "I think it's time you went home," Patrick said, and Oliver just nodded. He helped clean up, then thanked Ba for the food and left with Patrick.

"Ba exaggerates," Patrick said when they were walking back to Patrick's apartment. "It wasn't that bad."

"Your dad beat you. No matter how hard he hit, that's bad enough."

"I don't want to talk about this," Patrick said. "You're not my psychiatrist, and it doesn't matter." He stopped in front of his door and said, "You should go home. It's late."

Oliver looked at Patrick, but Patrick lowered his eyes. Reaching out, Oliver tilted Patrick's chin up and forced Patrick to look at him. "Patrick," he said. "It does matter."

"It doesn't."

"If it didn't, why do you draw what you draw? You're angry, and hurt."

"I wasn't hurt. I was just angry. You'd be pissed, too. But it doesn't matter now."

"The nephilim," Oliver said quietly. "They were half angel, half human, right? Must have been hard fitting in, being isolated."

"Shut up."

"Let me stay the night," Oliver said. "I can help you be less lonely."

"Your parents are going to wonder where you are."

"No. They're used to being gone at night." Oliver leaned in and kissed Patrick on the lips, trying to be gentle. "Come on, Patrick. It's not going to hurt you."

"I don't want you to."

"You're just scared," Oliver said softly.

"I'm not scared of someone I can beat the crap out of."

"Why are you scared, Patrick?"

"I'm not scared," Patrick suddenly yelled, shattering the quiet night. "But if I was, I'd be scared because some jackass made me like him, and then humiliated me in front of a bunch of people. And for the record, I wasn't drunk at Riordan's party--just stupid enough to think that maybe you'd acknowledge me, if I tried."

Oliver stared. "Patrick…I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry," Patrick said, opening his door. He shoved Oliver back when Oliver tried to walk in. "And you're not staying the night. Just fuck off, Oliver." He slammed the door in Oliver's face.

Oliver didn't know where Patrick would be the next day. He hadn't told Oliver, so Oliver just checked at all the places he knew about, starting with the wall that separated their neighborhoods. But Patrick wasn't there, or in any of the other places that Oliver went to at first. It wasn't until Oliver went to the abandoned train tracks that he found Patrick.

Patrick was sitting on the ground, staring at the nephilim figure. He didn't notice Oliver until Oliver called his name, and then he got up and glared. "I told you to fuck off," Patrick said, hands already clenched into fists.

"Are you going to hit me?" Oliver asked. "I won't stop you if you do."

"Why are you here? How did you even know I'd be here?"

"I just checked at all the usual places," Oliver said.

"You're a fucking idiot."

"I wasn't lying last night, Patrick. I'm sorry I hurt you. I want to make it up to you."

"You can't do anything," Patrick said.

"Not until you let me," Oliver said, walking towards Patrick. When he got close enough, Patrick punched him. Oliver just took the punch, reeling back a little.

"You're not going to hit back?" Patrick asked.

"I already told you, if you want to hit me, you can. I'm not going to fight back."

Patrick raised his fist and punched him again, and again, until Oliver had to kneel on the ground, coughing. "You're an idiot," Patrick said, panting. "What if I hurt you like I hurt Riordan?"

"Can you?"

Patrick raised his fist again, but he didn't punch Oliver. Instead, his hand dropped to his side, and he turned around, covering his face. "Just go away, Oliver," he mumbled.

Oliver got up slowly and grabbed Patrick's hand. He kissed Patrick's knuckles gently. "You asked me what I wanted, once," he said softly. "I said nothing, but what I really wanted was to have a relationship with you, a real one. I wanted it to be about more than sex. I wanted to have a second chance. I still want it."

Patrick tried to pull away from Oliver, but Oliver didn't let go, and eventually Patrick gave up.

"What would you even do with a second chance?" he asked.

"I would make things up to you. Prove that I do care."

"I don't think you deserve a second chance," Patrick said, but he couldn't meet Oliver's eyes. "I think you're an asshole."

"I know, Patrick. But I'm still asking."

Patrick took a deep, shuddering breath. He was silent for a long time, staring at the nephilim figure. Then he finally said, slowly, "Well, you did go grocery shopping with me." He smiled slightly.

"I know," Oliver said, smiling as well. "And I paid for most of the stuff you bought, you know."

"You ate most of that stuff, moron."

"Let's have chocopies for dessert again."

"Who said you're coming to my house for dinner?"

"You can't make me leave now, you know."

Patrick sighed and rolled his eyes. "Those chocopies are going to rot all your teeth out."

"That's okay," Oliver said. "You could have knocked all my teeth out any time, and I still kept coming back, didn't I?"

"Because you're stupid." Patrick shoved Oliver lightly and started walking away. "Come on. We can drop by the supermarket before we go back to my apartment."

"To get chocopies, right?"

"Yes," Patrick said, and looked over his shoulder to grin at Oliver. "But you're paying."

Oliver's neighborhood eventually pushed through the petition to clean up the graffiti on the wall. Oliver told Patrick about it, but Patrick just shrugged and showed him all the sketches he had made of the pictures on the wall. "It's okay, anyway," Patrick said. "I can always make better artwork."

The day after the last of the graffiti had been cleaned up, a new picture appeared. It was right in the middle of the wall. Everyone was horrified, and said that the two figures in it were even more horrible than the ones before.

"Those two figures look too much like us," Oliver said to Patrick over dinner. Patrick was still eating his ramen, while Oliver had already moved on to the chocopies. "I think someone's going to figure out who did it sooner or later."

"You were too stupid to figure out the rose vines and the P, so I don't think anyone's going to figure this one out. And even if they take it down, I'll put it back up."

"Is that like your declaration of love to me or something?"

"Don't flatter yourself, idiot," Patrick said, but he smiled at Oliver, and Oliver knew that he was lying.

Oliver liked looking at the wall whenever he walked past it, and the two nephilims became a familiar sight. One of them was covered in cuts that dripped blood. The other one held a sword in one hand, and the first nephilim's hand in the other, as he kissed the gaping wound over the first one's heart, healing it.