Eli looked up at the sound of his name, a stray light from the bar hitting his eyes, and--

--and it was like being punched in the throat with no warning, no sound: just pure, undiluted emotion. He could feel his pulse jerk and race off like a startled hare, everything inside him both opening up and shutting down at once. He swore he tasted blood and gunpowder on his tongue, and Gabe's eyes were so familiar. He remembered... He...

He was stumbling up, eyes locked on Gabe, one hand reaching out blindly to take his, and it wasn't until their fingers closed around each other that he felt like his world was orienting back into something that made sense. What the fuck was all that? Memory, awareness, was pushing at the corners of his mind, but he pushed it back, gently squeezing Gabe's hand and feeling all at once brave enough to face death itself. (And fuck, but if that wasn't melodramatic.)

"Hi," he said, voice sandpaper rough. He felt drunk. He almost never felt drunk.