There was something about returning to his best friend's chaotic apartment for Thursday game night that never failed to soothe Josh's frayed nerves.

Boxes of takeout were strewn on the too-small kitchen counter, one precariously balanced right at the edge. There was debate on whether it was prudent to put the beers in the freezer 'just for a little bit, so they'll cool faster'. It was never prudent, and they'd forgotten all about the beer on two separate occasions already, to the detriment of Mark's freezer, but Josh couldn't be expected to remember the beers he didn't even drink.

An entire game night stretched ahead of him. This was Josh's haven when coming home from a client. In the living room, Zoe and Dan fought over the TV remote, completely ignoring Mark's protests of 'no TV on during game night, people!'; Sam was late, most likely cooking something healthy and organic to counteract all their processed food. Although Mark was the only one of the group whom Josh called a friend, he clicked well enough with the rest, who were Mark's coworkers.

Josh had no coworkers, and his clients had the unfortunate habit of dying; it didn't lend itself well to partying.

The latest funeral had been less than two weeks before; Josh was going to take some time to himself before accepting another client. A couple of months at least — he never bothered fighting against the emotional attachments he already knew he'd form, and, though he knew his life was richer for those connections, losing them invariably left him raw and reeling.

Josh saved the box of Chinese takeout from certain doom and placed it on top of the pizza box, where it was safer, just as the whining in the living room intensified.

"Come on, Zoe, I just want to see what's on, give me that!"

"I'm watching the news, that's what's on."

"You're watching the news on mute. Plus, the news is boring. I want to see what's on!"

"You want to surf for two hours, that's what you want to do, until the downstairs neighbor has a seizure from the TV's flickering lights."

Josh rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a grin at the playground shenanigans. If he were to tell anyone these people were all respectable doctors in their mid-thirties to late-forties, no one would believe him. Abandoning his investigation of what their takeout potluck had yielded, he leaned on the kitchen doorway to watch it devolve. Experience told him this was the point where it usually got entertaining. Sure enough, Dan's mature response was to stick his tongue out then grab the remote out of Zoe's hand, prompting an outraged "Hey!" from Zoe, who kept jumping up and trying to take it back.

"Guys," Mark interrupted, exasperated, "what did I say about TV on game nights? Let's have the remote, shall we?"

'Children, it's long past bedtime,' he might as well have said.

Dan laughed then danced out of his way, the offending item held high in his hand. "Come get it from me, then!"

Zoe, tiny nimble thing that she was, took the chance now that Dan was distracted by Mark and actually jumped on Dan's back, trying to wrestle the remote from him. Just the image of that had Josh laughing unhelpfully — he was a tall man, but Dan was almost a head taller than he was, and Zoe was a pixie. Mark glared at him as if he, too, were a misbehaving child. Dan pressed harder on the buttons, unsuccessfully attempting to shake Zoe off his back.

That's when it happened.

One or both of them must have pressed the volume button, the TV suddenly blaring. "—Emery Hall, of all people, would end up homeless. How the mighty have fallen. Let's go to Kayla, reporting live from Central Park—"

All traces of Josh's laughter and good mood vanished.

The TV shut off abruptly. Mark had finally retrieved the remote, but Josh wouldn't have it. "Turn it back on."

"You don't need to know anything related to that—"

"Turn it back on now, Mark." Anger rose inside him as a physical entity at the time he was losing. "Or I walk out and go watch it somewhere else."

Sensing the gravity of the situation, Dan and Zoe had gone silent. Mark relented and turned the TV back on, handing Josh the remote with a muttered, "Why do you do this to yourself?"

On-screen, the camera was pointed at a man's retreating back; the reporter's lights made it too bright to make out any identifiable features.

"...had vanished after his trial ended, seven months ago, but it was a shock to this reporter to come across him under these circumstances. Here he is now — let's get a closer look and see if he'll talk to us. Mr. Hall! Mr. Hall!"

The man kept on walking without turning, his gait unsteady. It took Josh a moment to realize he wasn't wearing any shoes.

"Mr. Hall, can you please let viewers know what's become of you since the trial? I'm sure everyone at home is wondering. You were acquitted — why are you here?"

The cameraman sped up, overtaking the man and half spinning to film his face. Belvedere Castle was lit behind him. The man held up a hand to protect his identity but it was too late. Even in the too-bright lights, even thinner than he'd ever seen him, Josh would recognize Emery Hall anywhere.

His nerveless fingers dropped the remote. He needed to get to Emery now, before he disappeared again.

With preemptiveness born of years as his best friend, Mark snatched Josh's car keys before he could reach them. "No. You're not going."

Josh held out his open hand, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Give me the keys, Mark."

"You're not going there to find him after what he did to you."

"Give me the keys."

"You need to put that chapter behind you—"

"Mark, you're my best friend and I love you to bits, but you're going to give me the fucking keys or I'm going to punch you in the face and take them from you. And after that I don't think we'll be friends anymore."

It was a testament to how seriously he took this, the threat he'd just made. Mark was a brother to him, their decades-long friendship thicker than blood. He had never imagined saying those words to the other man, let alone meaning them.

But he had to get to Emery. And Mark was in the way.

"How about I go with you—"

"The keys."

"You're going to get hurt. You're going to throw yourself at his feet despite the way he treated you and you're going to get hurt."

With Zoe and Dan listening intently as if watching a play, Josh felt the need to set the record straight. "You talk as if he was my abusive boyfriend. He was my boss, and one ugly moment doesn't justify me leaving a good man out on the streets. Last warning: give me the keys."

"Promise me if you feel the urge to forgive him you'll come to me first. In person, so I can either talk you out of it or punch it out of you."

It was faster to promise than to debate the issue. Keys firmly in his possession, he took a handful of bills from his wallet and handed them to Mark.

"I'm taking the pizza and the Chinese. You guys can order some more food. I'll call you tomorrow."

He was already out the door, Mark standing in judgment in the doorway with a stony face, when Sam showed up, two containers of soup in her hands. He promptly relieved her of those — soup was probably the one thing Emery should be eating, if he'd been living on the streets for months.

"What— hey! You can't—"

Whatever he could or couldn't do was lost on him as he flew down the stairs.

Emery wouldn't spend a minute longer on the streets, if Josh had anything to say about it.