Not exactly a hard phrase to figure out given the context, so Barnes gives him a nod. It's exactly what it sounds like. Men who bat for the other team during their duration, and then once they're out it's like it never even happened.

"It means nothing in here's real. Even if-" even if you're interested in men out there too, odds are you're only interested in your prison pal for the duration of the stay, too. He can't even begin to hazard a guess as to where Steve falls on the spectrum. He thinks there's a scale for it, he's heard that once or twice, that people slide up and down that scale depending on circumstance. He's been burned before trying to pin someone down, so he's given up on the notion.

His throat closes up midway through the sentence and he tugs his eyes away again, settling them on the far wall, a spot of soap that seems to have dried and has started flaking. He shakes his head. "I know that. I've seen it. I've been here two years, three months, five days."

And if he had a watch on, he'd list off the hours and minutes if he could, too.

"I've seen people who... think it's any different than that. I'm just having a hard time reminding myself that."

Carefully, deliberately spoken to leave out any direct implication that it's Steve. Maybe he's hiding from everyone. Maybe he's hiding from the whole damn world. Maybe Steve's just caught up in the crossfire of it.

...Or maybe it's obvious as all hell, it's not exactly a hard conclusion to puzzle out, and he'll stare at that soap spot all damn day long before he looks Steve in the face.

Or better yet, he'll drop back down and start scrubbing the tile with rigor. Fuck this tile.