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Two years was do-able. Neil had served longer sentences, and shorter ones too. He didn't have the energy to go stir crazy in the cell. He wouldn't feel pent up if there wasn't much of him to be pent up.
Quite frankly, two years seemed light. Not that he should've gotten more, he really wasn't much of a threat, but LA generally took armed robberies seriously. He could've believed that his lawyer had earned him that sentence, or a lack of substantial evidence. Instead, day by day he became more convinced it had something to do with the police lieutenant who kept visiting.
Vincent was compelled to visiting Neil like a broken magnet. Within a few weeks he'd stopped consciously thinking about it, it was like breathing. He'd visited prisons before, but these visits stuck out. Maybe it was the frequency of it, or the conversations.
If the lights were dim and the whole place smelled less like shit, the conversations would be just about the same as when they'd had coffee, if not closer. There were rules, like no touching. The rule only went to confirm Neil's theory about Vincent's conspiring when Vincent had snuck his leg to touch Neil's, knee to knee, heel to heel.
"Breaking the rules? And I'm behind bars?" Neil asked. "You think you're smooth."
Vincent shrugged, half-smiling. "I am what I am."
The tension behind their first conversation had disappeared when Neil was shot, the bullet had absolved their aggressive shyness. It had pierced Neil's skin, and lazily tucked itself in his chest, only leaving a scar when it was fingered out. Moreover, Vincent had held Neil's hand, and wiped his blood off on his suit jacket. Such transactions couldn't be undone, and in the absence of rivalry was a comfortable stillness.
Vincent had brought a camera, which he held up to Neil.
Neil looked away in disbelief. "What are you doing carrying a piece of junk like that into prisons? Who do you think you are?"
The camera was a piece of junk. It was a 1972 Polaroid SX-70, still in good condition, with the exception of a yellowing label on the side with Vincent's name and an address he'd moved out of. Vincent was a sentimentalist, he liked polaroid photos and his old camera.
Wordlessly, he took Neil's photo and tucked it in his shirt's breast pocket.
"Will I get to see it at least?" Neil asked, reaching for Vincent's pocket.
Vincent pulled the photo out of his pocket and kept it out of Neil's reach. The film was still mostly black, with only a faint silhouette beginning to appear. "There's nothing to see anyway."
"You're funny. Seriously, Vincent." Neil reached out again.
Vincent held the photo away and pushed Neil's hand away. Neil's hand resisted and reached again, and again, and only stopped when Vincent took hold of his hand and set it down on the table. He put the photo back in his pocket. "Maybe someday."
Two years and Neil still didn't have a place to go. In all fairness, he hadn't tried. He'd let his apartment fall between his fingers. Eady had only visited once, to gently break things off with him. When he'd faced the same housing troubles before, he'd solved it easily. He'd find someone in the prison with connections, let himself be bossed around by him. By the time his sentence was over he'd have a place to stay with a guy who knew a guy who knew the guy who'd bossed him around. Within a month of getting out he'd have climbed to the top. But this time he was too tired and too old to bother with that. Two years seemed too short to make any "friends", and he was too old to climb the top of anywhere. Not that he wanted to return to that anyway. It didn't matter anyway, he had enough money to last a few nights in a motel before finding a more permanent place.
Before he could even officially step foot off prison grounds, Vincent had spoiled those plans. He'd waited for Neil leaning against that stupid cop car.
"You're under arrest." Vincent said as he led Neil around the car to the front passenger's seat.
Neil put his hands in his pockets and tried to frown against a smile. "You think this is funny?"
"I do actually. It is funny." Vincent opened the door for Neil. "Get in before I really do arrest you."
The car ride was quiet. Neil didn't understand why, Vincent wasn't usually so quiet. He usually said everything he thought of off the fly, thinking it would all make sense to Neil. Only half of the time did Neil understand what he was talking about, but either way he preferred it over Vincent's current quiet.
So Neil started a conversation. "So how's your woman?"
Vincent glanced over at Neil. "Long gone."
"Since when?" Neil asked.
"Since before I shot you." Vincent turned back to the wheel. "That same night."
Neil's fingers traced the scar against the cheap fabric of his shirt. "How come I didn't know?"
"I never brought it up. I don't like to talk about myself."
That made Neil laugh in disbelief. Vincent, of all people, loved talking -- especially about himself. "Yes you do, who do you think you're kidding?"
"I prefer listening to you talk." Vincent shrugged the weight of the confession off. They both ignored how his knuckles became white against the steering wheel.
That had ended it, and they drove the rest of the way to Vincent's home in silence. Vincent's place was different from the house Neil had once tailed Vincent too. It wasn't bad, all things considered, but it was different. Different, was all it was.
They pulled to a stop in the driveway and Vincent carried Neil's things in for him. Neil loyally followed Vincent to the front door, downplaying the nervousness of the moment.
He watched as Vincent struggled to get his keys out and still hold Neil's stuff. He felt a swell of affection watching Vincent struggle, and smiled as he asked, "What are we--" He took his stuff from Vincent. "--What are we doing here?"
"You're staying with me," Vincent said as he finally unlocked and opened the door. He trailed it with a mumbled "if you want to", selfishly lacking the bravery to suggest an alternative.
It was unclear if Vincent had cleaned up for Neil or if he lived an unbelievably boring life. The only slight suggestion of a mess was a lone book out of place and a plate of unfinished breakfast at the kitchen's island. All the same, Vincent excused the mess and showed Neil to a guest room, leaving him to his own devices in the room.
The room's decor was slightly girlish but aside from the walls and bookshelf, the room was empty. Empty closet, empty drawers, empty laundry basket. Neil laughed to himself, tossed his things on the bed and leaned against the closed door, sighing.
Neil didn't know how he'd gotten there. He didn't know when Vincent had started to like him, and when he'd started to like him back. The man had shot him, not to mention the fact that he was a cop. It was just one mess-up that had gotten him there, if he hadn't been shot he would've gotten away and be off with Eady by now. Married, even. Moreover, he'd never see Vincent again. He felt entirely lost, without any plan for the future after prison, yet still thoughts of the future -- this future -- were irresistible, and somehow tangible.
He came back from the guest room and found Vincent in the kitchen, preparing coffee. He sat at the kitchen island and snooped through a notepad Vincent had left next to his breakfast.
Vincent pulled the notepad away before Neil could decipher what the notes were. "How do you like your coffee?"
"Black." Neil still reached out for the notepad. "What was that chicken scratch?"
Vincent glanced back at the notepad and lied through his teeth. "Groceries." He poured a mug of coffee and passed it to Neil.
Neil took a sip of coffee. "What's with the guest bedroom?"
Vincent was sugaring his coffee, excessively. "Hm?"
"I didn't know you liked baby blue so much."
"Oh." Vincent smiled and set his tea spoon down after his fifth sugar. "That was Lauren's room, when she still visited."
"Lauren?"
"Stepdaughter," Vincent explained, "ex-stepdaughter, I suppose."
Neil hummed and let his curiosity pass, focusing instead on the kitchen. Nothing much caught his eye -- except that the fridge had a photo taped to it.
"Is that the photo?"
"What?"
Neil stood and approached the fridge. "The photo, that Polaroid from when you visited in prison."
Vincent leapt to his feet to get between Neil and the fridge. "Didn't I say that you couldn't see that?"
"I remember you said I'd see it maybe someday."
Neil tried to push Vincent away but Vincent stood strong, pushing back. Neil pressed a hand against Vincent's smiling cheek and paused in an attempt to distract Vincent before his other hand reached for the photo. Vincent's hand got to the photo before Neil's did, and he triumphantly laughed at Neil. Neil leaned forward trying to pry Vincent's hand off the photograph. Vincent took his hand off the photo to try and shoo Neil away, and when he did Neil finally took a hold of the photo. Vincent half-laughed and half-sighed in defeat while Neil proudly smiled back at Vincent. He looked down at the photo.
The photo was terrible, really. The fluorescent lights had bounced off the prison jumpsuit, and it appeared that Neil was sitting in a pool of neon orange. Resisting Vincent's photography, Neil had refused to sit still, and it showed in the blurriness of the photo. Nevertheless, the photo had still caught Neil smiling as he looked away from the camera. The funny thing about it was that Neil didn't remember smiling.
Neil paused staring at the photo, his grip on Vincent relaxing. Eventually, he looked up at Vincent. "You couldn't have taken a better photo?"
"I wish you'd let me." Vincent said as he took the photo from Neil again.
Neil reached for the photo and caught Vincent's wrist. Vincent watched Neil's hesitance, and then Neil's lips, and because Neil wouldn't do anything, pulled Neil the rest of the way toward him.