Every day, an endless rhythm and pattern. Over and over, again and again, he came to Ambrose. Or Ambrose came to him. Sliding through the other's door in the still darkness of night.

Fumbling towards something neither were prepared for but committed to it all the same. No words spoken, no promises made as clothing tangled on the floor and bodies tangled on the neatly made bed. Cain found the silence disturbing, a creepy reminder that Ambrose was not Glitch, that a reckless stream of words would not flow from this man's agile mouth during these stolen moments.

But he didn't let this stop him from coming here, coming again.

"Don't call me Glitch," Ambrose had growled the first time Cain made that mistake.

This was not what Cain wanted, never wanted this to be so painfully stupid and fundimentally perfect all at once. It was everything his body wanted but even more of what he hated, about himself, about Ambrose and Glitch and all of it.

He wandered if he had fallen into another loop, over and over, again and again, out of long habit and waited for the day someone released him from his newest prison.