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Croley and Xander leaned over the railing of London Bridge. 

Light danced on the water like a disco ball. A blindingly white sailboat glided into a dock. Birds circled on the updrafts, spinning specks in the pulsing, robin’s-egg-blue sky. Their calls filtered through the closely-woven veil of engines and voices that covered the street.

Croley wore the same black suit as yesterday. He squinted at the water through dark, heavy sunglasses. Xander wore a crisp white graphic t-shirt under a brown leather jacket, and he looked like he would have been wearing his sunglasses even if he wasn’t hungover. He passed a mostly-empty bottle of Canadian whiskey back to Croley.

Croley stared at the label, then drank. “Fucking morning news.”

“Fucking morning news,” Xander agreed.

“Why —” Croley coughed. “Jesus. Where did you buy this.”

“Siward’s.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Xander held out a hand. Croley gave the bottle back.

“What I was going to say is,” he said, “Why is it on in fucking…” 

Croley searched for the name. He looked at Xander for help, but Xander was looking out over the river, meditative.

“Breakfast,” Croley finally decided. “Why is it on in the breakfast restaurant.”

Xander shrugged pensively.

“They sell tabloids,” Coley said.

“I saw that.”

“Right by the fucking door.”

“Mm-hm.”

“So why — if I wanted to know the news. For some goddamn reason. Then I’d buy one of those.”

“Yeah.”

“They’d even make some money.”

“Mm.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“No worries.”

Croley flopped forward over the railing and let his hands dangle over the edge. “I mean,” he said. “Who the fuck wants to see that shit. Especially at eight in the fucking morning.”

“I don’t know.”

“I just wanted some fucking French toast.”

Xander watched a white bird tuck itself into a spinning dive, then pull up and skate along the surface of the water. “The French toast was really good,” he said.

“Get your own next time.”

“Sorry.”

Croley sighed. “It was really good.”

“I know.”

“And why the fuck do I need to — if I want to drink at breakfast, why does it have to be a fucking mimosa? I fucking hate mimosas.”

Xander passed the bottle back to him.

“Thank you, Xander.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine-fifteen.”

Croley groaned and tipped his head into the railing.  “Why the fuck did he do that,” he muttered into the chipped paint.

“Are you okay?” someone asked behind them.

A pedestrian had stopped. Her lipstick was bright red. She hooked one thumb through her purse strap and frowned at Croley.

“Yes,” Xander said.

“I meant him,” she said.

“He’s fine,” Xander said.

Croley sobbed into the wall. Xander put his arm around him.

“Why is he crying?”

“I’m not fucking crying,” Croley said.

“Okay,” Xander said. “You’re not fucking crying.”

“Try to sound like you believe me.”

“I believe you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“Bastard.”

“Hey,” the pedestrian said. “What’s —”

“Fuck off,” Xander said.

The pedestrian left.

“Who does that,” Croley said.

He was talking about Fife again. “Mr. Worldwide,” Xander said.

“I fucking know.” Croley leaned into the railing. “She didn’t do anything. She was just married to him. She hadn’t even seen him in a year, and he still —” 

Xander hugged him. Croley closed his eyes and let himself collapse into Xander’s chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“No worries.”

Croley stepped back. He rubbed his eyes.

“Fuck!”

“I said I was sorry,” Croley said.

“Not you.” Xander held up the bottle. “It’s empty.”

“Are you sure?”

Xander handed it to him. He checked.

“Fuck.”

Xander nodded.

Croley held the bottle over the side of the bridge. He almost dropped it. Then he stuffed it resentfully into his bag.

“What do you want to do?” Xander asked.

“What do you want to do?”

Xander thought.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” Croley asked the heavens.

“Today, or —”

“Today.”

“Hm.”

“Because I don’t fucking know about anything else.”

Xander nodded. “I don’t fucking know, either.”

“Shit.”

“Shit.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine-eighteen.”

“Shit.”

“Nine-nineteen, now,” Xander corrected himself.

“I wanna go home,” Croley almost shouted.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Xander.”

“No worries.”

Croley half-laughed, half-sobbed.