December 1997. Arizona, United States of America.


The bar, much like any place worth frequenting in this part of the desert, sat in the middle of nowhere. Night was just drawing its dark veil across the clear skies while a deep chill fell across the flat sands and craggy stone. There was a small town some way down the road where the patrons typically lived but for the most part, it was visited by lone travellers or the odd flock of wizards.

Through the doors, it was a quiet place. Tables were strewn haphazardly across the floor and a ceiling fan swivelled lazily above them to keep the air moving. Behind the dark wooden counters, bottles of whiskey were delicately mounted against a stained looking glass. A bright red sign above the bar reads: "No Magic PLEASE. Violators will be expelled."

Balfour tried not to think too hard about whether this was his third or fourth glass of whisky as the witch behind the counter slid over the glass. Slumped over a tankard on the bar stool on his left, Dietrich Eisenberg was looking a little worse for wear after the long day behind them.

It had been some months since the pair first met, the Durmstrang idiot a hired freehand at the desert reservation that Balfour was working to complete his knowledge of Dragonology. They weren't much more talkative than they had been back then.

"I think my liver is harbouring some doubts," he stared into the glass at the amber liquid and rubbed the back of his head. Unhealed bruises kissed the nape of his neck, all around to his chest, deep red. Bloody Horntail, it's always the Horntails. "Valid, valid doubts."

Dietrich slapped his back heartily, smirking. "Drink your fucking whisky, Scotsman." He was in no better shape after the wrangling but his mood was certainly an improvement - foot tapping to the country tunes on the Wireless, blonde hair raked back neatly.

Balfour sighed and resignedly tossed back the whisky, just as the bar doors creaked open. He glanced over casually.

"Shit!" He turned back, inclining his face away from the entrance and hissing. "We need to leave. Now, preferably. But subtly."

His friend looked at him as if though 'subtle' was a completely unreasonable demand to make. There was that distinct possibility. "Christ, what's with your face? What is it?" Dietrich did not make any attempts to affect subtlety as he looked over Balfour's shoulder at the group of men who had just come into the bar. Wizards. Tall bunch. They spoke in Australian accents as they grabbed a chair at the far end. "Friends of yours, I take it?"

Balfour felt his shoulders tense up as he finished the rest of his drink and then grabbed the other wizard's glass. The world was fairly big. There were many, many dragon reservations. He'd always hoped that this made the probability of running into an old flame extremely unlikely. Clearly he was wrong. His ears burned. Dietrich didn't miss a beat.

"Ah. Gotcha. 'Friend'." A pause as he turned to look at the group again. "Which one is it?"

There wasn't a need to turn around, he'd singled out the man in question the moment he walked in. Balfour scratched his eyebrow anxiously and sensed the clammy moisture of his palms. He felt disgusted with himself for a moment. "The blonde," he replied in a low voice before sampling the beer.

"Do you have a thing for blondes?" Dietrich laughed, still peering past him at table.
                 "Shut up."
"Well we can leave if you want, fella, but I think he's just spotted you."

That sent a jolt right through him. Balfour's cheeks flushed and he slid around on his stool just in time to see the wizard from the table stand to give him a surprised look. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. He wiped his hands on his jeans, gave Dietrich a furtive glance. "Be a good man," his voice might have sounded a little more Scottish than usual. "Make sure I don't do anything I'll regret."

"Be a good man. Make sure I don't do anything I'll regret."

Dietrich sat in the same direction as he watched the man from the other table get up, crossing the bar. He didn't get Balfour's reaction. You bump into someone you fucked, what's the big deal? It's not like you gotta even say hello at all. His blue eyes returned to the Scotsman appraisingly. "What would you consider 'something you'll regret', exactly..."

Gods knew what the hell went on inside that noggin. He wasn't gonna be liable for where he drew the line between pride and remorse.

"Saying yes. Or going home with him, I don't know." Balfour's manner changed, abruptly confident with an underlying nervousness that was more obvious than he probably realised. "Patrick, didn't expect to see you here!"

It was the kinda greeting you followed with a handshake but Dietrich noted that, if anything, his friend was physically repulsed by the prospect of touching the guy who'd approached them. He turned his attention to Patrick: to the lean, sturdy build beneath the robes and the golden curls that reached his ears. The cocky face and square jawline. Dietrich disliked him instantly.

"Balfour. Looking good, kid." Patrick must have been a good six or seven years older than either of them, which didn't escape Dietrich, though he was much more disturbed by the body language between the two men. "You here working?"

Balfour's shoulders bowed forwards - backing into the counter - and Patrick's left foot forward, leaning in with authority. The tension in his friends countenance was so blatant he didn't understand how nobody else saw it.

Dietrich surprised himself, suddenly reaching to shake the other man's hand in his own cocksure attitude. "We are." A touch of assertion for good measure. "Dietrich. Or Dirk, whatever's your fancy. You guys come down for sightseeing or are we getting more hands on the reservation?"

An awkward pause, as Patrick realised he existed. "Oh, no, just passing through-" the outback accent was thick and with a sing-song quality. "Was surprised to see this guy here. Haven't talked in years, have we Balfour? Thought you'd gone back to Queen and country."
 
If there was any question of Balfour's discomfort before, there wasn't now as he smiled back tightly without an answer. The Australian wizard continued on casually, addressing him by extension. "Used to handle Opaleyes together, we did. Look at those bruises, crikey." Patrick extended a hand to graze nonchalantly against the side of Balfour's neck. "Don't that look familiar."

It was the flinch that did it.

Dietrich understood a thing or two about bullies - he knew you didn't just get them at schools, in sports. They graduated from those fields into workplaces. Into relationships. So when he saw Balfour flinch, he knew he'd seen it before. And what was worse, he knew that Patrick had seen it before.

Really, there was no helping it when he slipped off his stool and swung a tightly closed fist straight at the other wizard's jaw.

"The hell!" Balfour was up in a flash, staring as his ex recoiled at the punch with a broken nose. "Dietrich!"

The German wizard was barely listening as he grabbed a bar stool off the floor. "Not now!" Blood dribbled on the floor, muddled with the dust.

"Now would be-- oh for Odin's sake-" the rest of Patrick's table had come to their friend's rescue, rolling up their sleeves as other patrons stepped out of the way. Behind the bar, the serving witch ducked out into the kitchens. This wasn't going to be pretty for anyone involved. "Hey now, fellows, let's try to keep this civil."

A tall, dark-skinned wizard shoved him against the counter and he bit down on the inside of his cheek. Balfour heard rather than saw Dietrich bring the bar stool down on one of the men - a deafening crash - while he snatched the tankard off the counter with renewed determination. Fuck it.


---

Arches National Park, Arizona. Later.

Dietrich's shack bothy in the desert had been home to the two friends in the last few months but it was no closer to looking homely since he'd first stumbled in drunk. This time, at least, they were both sober enough to guarantee being able to remember it the next morning. Even if Balfour would rather have not.

He stepped out of the bathroom, feet freezing against the stained tiles, a toothbrush stuck in his mouth. "You think they'll ban you? The bar I mean," he mumbled through the toothpaste and watched as the other wizard examined himself in the half mirror by the broken television set. A black eye never looked so good, even taking into account the split lip. Dietrich glanced at him in the reflection.

"Nah. Marlene'll sort it. How's your head treatin' you?" The blonde didn't wait for a reply, reaching down to pull the shirt over his head. Balfour didn't look away but he felt his cheeks prickle uncomfortably as the bruises across Dietrich's back were revealed. Dark, extensive.

They looked about as painful as his head felt. "Fine," he managed to reply after a moment. "My shoulder's killing me, though. Don't think it's serious." He returned to the bathroom to spit and splash some water on his face. When he got back into the main room the couch was folded out into a bed and another lantern had been lit, making him blink uncertainly.

"Lemme see." Dietrich sat on the edge of the bed and indicated the space next to him. "Bleeding?"

Balfour plopped down next to him, dusting off his bare feet as he brought his legs up and began unbuttoning the shirt. He might have been more self-conscious if there were less whisky in him but right now the blur of red bleeding through the torn material didn't exactly scream 'sexy'. Dietrich helped him peel it away. They reeked of liquor and sweat.

"Damn," he breathed in sharply as he stared at the gash on Balfour's arm. It was a nasty piece of work, raw and deep, blood crusting at the corners. "The heck he stab you with?"

A shard of glass from the tankard he'd smashed against his face. "Does it matter?" Balfour bowed his head to look at the wound, their temples nearly touching. "It's stopped bleeding, I think we can leave it off."

"I'm a healer, y'know that right?" Dietrich left it alone regardless and laid down on the bed with an oomph.
            "I know. I don't like using magic if I can help it. My body knows what it's about."
"Sure it does."

There was only endearment in his voice, so Balfour laid back and rolled over to the other side of the bed so that they were both staring at the motionless ceiling fan. It was quiet. That was what he loved about the desert. Here, the world outside could go to waste but still the sands would sleep indifferently in arid flats. Nothing could touch the desolation of its hidden ecosystems.

Balfour nearly drifted off into sleep, until he remembered himself. "Hey. Thanks." He sat up on his elbows with a serious look - made quizzical by the cut on his eyebrow. "You didn't have to do that. He was an arsehole." Dietrich's gaze slid sleepily from the ceiling to meet his eyes and they stayed like that, almost as stagnant as the air.

"Yeah. Well, he got what was comin'. You'd have done the same."

And Balfour knew he meant it: that he had a sort of faith in his ability to stand up for his friends without hesitation. Heart thundering, he slid his hand down to gently touch the other man's elbow before leaning over. It was barely a kiss. Dietrich was far too still as their lips grazed - both smeared by blood. When he pulled back, it was with a feeling of disappointment.

Like a soft, unexpected sting in his chest. "Right. That was... shouldn't have. I know you're not." Balfour pinched the bridge of his nose and laughed lightly at himself. "Been making a right fool of myself all night."

He didn't move, didn't even blink although he saw it coming. In one moment their lips were mercifully touching and in the next they weren't. Something in his chest collapsed into a feeling of compassion.

"Right. That was... shouldn't have. I know you're not." Balfour's expression was a cross between tears and humour "Been making a right fool of myself all night."

Dietrich wished that he could have been whatever it was his friend needed right now. There was a lot of unnecessary hurt in the world, lot of people who deserved to get knocked out for it. But no number of bar fights was gonna help Bal. He saw a problem in himself that nobody else could, and there's no fighting that is there? Something you had to learn to live with.

At length, he reached up and tousled the other man's bronze curls. "You weren't and I ain't but don't sweat it. Catch some shuteye." A mellow smile crossed his face. "Watch, s''all better in the morn."

Balfour snorted skeptically but there was a pause as he searched for his wand and extinguished the lanterns, plunging the shack into darkness. Only starlight came in by the windows - ghostly. They were both bleached by its ashen tones. Dietrich turned over to his side to give the bruises on his back a break, watched as his eyes adjusted to the dark and the Scotsman laid down facing him.

Seemed kinda funny now, to think they'd end up friends like this. Brothers maybe. He'd never had a brother. Was there a right or wrong way to be a brother? "Hey."

"Aye?" Balfour made a tired noise.
            "Try not to fucking snore."
"Go the fuck to sleep."

And Dietrich did, reassured.