"I," he says. "Yeah, I guess."
"You don't have to," Justin says.
"I mean, yes," Chris says, uncertainly.
There's a stoop out back, a cement platform with iron railings, stairs leading down to a dead backyard. A rusted chain is looped between the railings lining the stairs; the ground is torn up and muddy, and the flowerbeds are dead. The chainlink fence is low, exposing neighbours' backyards in noticeably better condition.
There are no people, despite it being mid-afternoon.
It's cold, the way October is, with a damp chill in the air and no wind. It seems too contrasted against the inside, and Chris is glad he's got his dress trenchcoat, the one he wears to work. Used to wear.
The platform is small, barely fitting the two of them, but Chris doesn't have to worry about it long, when Justin steps over the chain, down to the yard. Chris doesn't like being near him for any length of time, but knows it's probably necessary, to Justin's thinking. And it's probably something of a sacrifice for Justin actually to let him out.
"Do any of the others let you?" Justin asks, lighting a cigarette. He kicks at a clump of dirt.
"No," Chris says. He's content enough to stay on the platform. He stuffs his hands in his pockets.
"You want a smoke?" Justin asks, gesturing vaguely. He's wandering around the perimeter of the backyard, peering down at the dead vegetation, and the crumbling retaining wall along the fence. Chris notices he's wearing ripped jeans and a cracked, brown leather jacket, because he hasn't anything better to look at.
"No," he repeats.
"Sure," Justin says. Chris doesn't really notice his accent anymore. "Nothing's happened."
"When?" Chris asks.
Justin looks up at him, ashes his cigarette, and Chris feels like it should be happening in reverse. "Outside, I mean. With Chasez."
"Oh," Chris says. He wasn't expecting anything; nothing happened with him. "What do you want with him?"
"Nothing," Justin says. He comes back towards the stairs, and rests his elbow on the railing. "The others, they want freedom."
"Oh," Chris says, and he can taste the bitterness on his tongue. "That's ironic, don't you think."
Justin shrugs, and scrapes mud off his shoes onto the bottom step. "Maybe," he murmurs.
"Is that what you wanted?"
Justin looks up again, and rolls the stub of a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger before dropping it. "No. I have enough," he says.
"Will I be released any time soon, then?" Chris asks, and shivers.
And Justin looks at him too long, too hard, too mutely. He ascends the stairs, too close to Chris, again. He presses the back of his hand to Chris's cheek, and his hands are colder than Chris expects, colder than they should be, even after being outside.
"Oh," Chris mumbles, when he doesn't think he's going to get an answer. He just wants to get away, get back inside. He doesn't even care anymore.
"No," Justin says, and angles his head down, impassively brushing his lips across the corner of Chris's mouth. It's suddenly a lot colder than it should be; Chris thinks it's fear coiling in the pit of his stomach. It would make sense, unlike most other things.
The next time Justin asks if he wants to go outside, Chris ignores him.