A/N: Felt like writing something LP-ish. Could be implied Rob/Brad, but it really isn't the focus of the piece. Reviews are always appreciated.

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Rob’s spent so long thinking about himself that he’s forgotten what it is to be in a relationship; to have to care about another person’s feelings when all he wants to do is care about his own. There’s a sort of bitter satisfaction in knowing that he can take care of himself, even if he can’t take care of anyone else, and when Susan leaves him, Rob is merely bemused by the abruptness (and the vehemence) of her departure.

Days later, when the house is empty, Rob sits on the front step and smokes a cigarette—it’s a disgusting habit, but now he has nothing else to do with his hands—and ponders the intricacies of human relationships. He thinks about Susan once in a while (between cigarettes), tries to puzzle out the problems in their relationship, and the day passes without any real progress in Rob’s quest for answers.

The next day brings much of the same; Brad calls a couple times, tells Rob that he should get out of the house, and Rob says, “I know,” and chain smokes for hours until the sun goes down. He doesn’t find himself any closer to Ultimate Knowledge, although he does find that the tips of his fingers are stained brownish-yellow because he’s smoked too many cigarettes.

A week later, Brad walks up the front walkway with his hands in his pockets and his hair windswept (although he probably hasn’t bothered to comb it) and sits down beside Rob on the front step. He’s quiet for a bit, then asks, “What are you looking for?”

Rob, who’s been searching through his pockets for another packet of matches, says, “Maybe I should buy a lighter.”

Brad, who’s obviously asked the question in hopes of receiving a more philosophical answer, gives him The Look—eyebrows disappearing into an unruly mass of curls, lips pressed together in a thin, disbelieving line—and that’s the end of conversation for another thirty minutes.

They sit with their shoulders pressed together, elbows barely touching, matching breath for breath (heartbeat for heartbeat), and Rob decides that he values Brad’s company more than he ever valued Susan’s tepid, flavorless kisses. Maybe this sort of realization should worry him, but Rob is too preoccupied with lighting another cigarette to give it much thought.

“I don’t understand you,” Brad says unnecessarily.

“I know,” Rob replies.

He’s a little surprised—maybe he’s always thought that Brad would be the one to understand him—but he doesn’t comment. After another moment of silent contemplation, Rob drops the cigarette butt and crushes it beneath the heel of his sneaker, stands and turns toward the darkness of an empty house. He holds the front door open as Brad follows him inside, toes his shoes off in the entryway and pads down the long hallway toward the kitchen.

“Coffee would be nice,” Brad shouts from the living room.

Although he hadn’t planned on making any, Rob searches through the cabinets for a tin of instant coffee and puts some water on the stove to boil.

Hours later, Brad is draped comfortably across the length of the couch, Rob is sprawled on the floor in front of him, and the television is tuned to the Lifetime channel (because Brad has a strange affinity for television movies). Rob doesn’t particularly care that he hasn’t found the answers to any of his questions; in fact, Rob has given up on asking questions altogether because he’s run out of cigarettes and matches, and he would much rather spend his days with Brad, watching Lifetime movies and drinking bland instant coffee.

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Fin