Anthony smirks softly as he takes out his wallet to pay the bill. “Quite the compelling offer. But I don’t know if I require another drink.” This is what Anthony wants—the comforting playfulness of their script, the promise that words will soon be unnecessary.

If he were a better man, he might acknowledge that he is merely doing another sort of compartmentalizing. He is tucking away how Gabriel looked at him with eyes full of hope and hurt, and how his own heart twisted in response. He is walling off the realization that Gabriel had expected more of him, and that he likely would again, and that Anthony isn’t at ease with that. Confronting their emotions head-on—pesky, changeable, hopeless things that they are—will do more harm than good, he tells himself.

So Anthony tucks them all away, intending to enjoy just what is in front of him.

“Shall we be off, my good Mercutio?”