I sigh into the darkness.

It’s not really dark, not at all, not here in Chelsea, with street lamps always burning outside and the din of people walking and talking and living 24 hours day. It’s New York. It’s where I’m meant to be, a city that’s felt more *right* to me than anywhere else I’ve ever been. LA was shit compared to this. Pitts isn’t even on the radar.

So it’s not dark in here, in the smallest studio apartment known to man, it’s not dark at all.

But I feel dark inside.

It’s been eight months, six days, nine hours and… probably about 15 minutes.

Sixteen minutes.

Seventeen minutes.

I fucking miss him.

I’ve been back to see him plenty of times, and he’s been here to see me even more… but it’s not the same. I miss living with him, I miss all the everyday stuff like brushing our teeth together, like making him coffee and eating eggs and toast that he’s made for me. Miss falling asleep on the couch in his arms watching movies way too late, reading the paper over his shoulder, and washing the dishes while he dries them. Miss laughing and talking and fighting with him over stupid things. Miss sleeping together, morning blowjobs and midnight fucks. Miss kissing him when I wake up, before I fall asleep, in the middle of the night. I miss everything more than I thought I would, I could.

I roll over heavily, punching at my pillow and trying to be careful not to teeter off the small bed. It’s a little less dark on this side, with light scattering in through the window, forming long shapes and patterns on the floor. I want to draw it, capture it, contain it. I want to paint it and create it again and I do, in my mind. Put thought to canvas and make it real, closing my eyes and pushing drama and movement into the light, making it swirl and change and…

I open my eyes. It’s the same pale light screened through the same thready curtains. It’s always the same.

Different. Lonely. Home, and yet not. I’m supposed to be here, in New York. I was born to be here, everything I’ve ever wanted in my life is possible here. And meeting the people I’ve met, seeing the things I’ve seen, doing things that I’d never, ever get to do in Pitts… I know why I’m here, why I have to be here. Why I know in my heart that I’ll always be here.

I don’t ever want to be anywhere else.

Except…

Except.

I try to push it out of my brain and instead think about what I’m doing next week – meeting with my agent, a gallery opening, private session with this teacher my agent said I should go to. Finish up those drawings for the next issue of Rage so I’ll have a bit more money coming in. Make a new painting for Brian to hang in the spare room.

Always comes back to Brian.

He had to cancel this week’s visit – something about work, the house, I don’t remember. I just know I won’t see him for another nine days.

Nine days.

I force my eyes closed. I can make it till then. I can wait, I can hold out, I can curl up into my pillow and maybe drink too much tomorrow night so I don’t have another midnight turns to three a.m. like this, lying alone, and staring into the not-dark of my studio.

***       ***        ***        ***       ***

His breath trails down my neck and when his words brush across my ear, I get goosebumps and smile because I’m so fucking happy he’s here.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he whispers into my ear, and he knows I hate it when he calls me that but also knows I secretly love it.

I nod slowly and curl up into him, pressing our bodies together, my cock growing harder against his stomach, his hand caressing my ass. He smells good, clean like soap and the shower, stubble from his chin brushing against my cheek, fingers curled up into my hair, his palm warm against my scalp.

It’s noisy outside still, cars and people and talking and city noise… not like at the house – our house he bought for me, for us, for our life together. No, it’s like the loft, and it’s like years ago and my hazy mind tries to piece together where I am, what I’ve dreamed. I know this is real, his body against mine, his breath on my face. I know his voice is in my ear and not my imagination, his fingers touching me are his and not someone else’s.

“Brian…” I open my eyes slowly and see his smiling face looking back at me. “Where am I?” I drape my arm over his back and bring him closer, touch my lips to his without waiting for his answer.

“Home,” he says, pressing his mouth to mine. I let that sink in and slide my tongue across his. Tastes like toothpaste.

“Loft…” I say, pulling my mouth from his, pressing my cheek to his, eyes closed.

“No… your home. My home,” his hand settles on my chin and he pulls my face to his and stares at me. “We’re home.”

The sounds and the smells and the soft feeling of the bed start to register. Light pours in from outside, sunshine illuminating everything. It’s so bright and perfect and nothing like when I closed my eyes last night. “My studio. New York,” I blink slowly. “Why are you here? You’re supposed to be…”

The side of his mouth lifts in a smile. “I’m where I want to be. Actually, I’d rather be in a two-bedroom in Greenwich, but I think we can arrange that.”

“Is it… the weekend? I thought you couldn’t…” I start to lift my head. I’m confused and the dull shadow of sleep is lifting. I went to sleep alone. I woke up with Brian in my bed.

His hand creeps behind my neck and pulls me to him. “Surprise,” he whispers into my mouth before kissing me. I fall into it, letting it push away the confusion and doubt for a few moments. His hand on my ass drags along my crack, his fingers slipping in-between, tickling me in that good way that always makes me crave more.

Our kiss breaks again and I trail my fingers along the side of his face, the back of my nail bumping over his morning beard. “When do you go home?” I want to know how long I have, how many seconds, minutes, hours I have to count down until he leaves me and the loneliness comes creeping back again.

He shakes his head slowly. “I *am* home. I’m not going back,” he strings his fingers through my hair.

“But Kinnetick-” I stutter out, but he cuts me off.

“Is too fucking good for a shithole like the Pitts. New York headquarters open next week,” he grins at me and I stare back at him, this feeling in my stomach starting, burning, creeping up my throat and my face feels hot and all I can say is…

“Are you for real?”

His kiss proves to me that he is. That he’s for real, that this is for real, that the things he told me when I left to come here, when we decided not to get married, when we knew that we didn’t need rings or vows or a party to keep us together, that all those things are real. His love is real.

“I’m not letting go this time,” he says, twisting his fingers in mine and pulling me closer to him, pressing our bodies so tightly together. “Not ever letting go of you again,” his eyes are hazel and honest and the brilliance of sunshine in this room makes everything glow. His lips find mine, pressing together for a soft kiss.

After years of me coming home to him, he’s finally come home to me.

“Welcome home, Brian,” I whisper against his lips in this beautiful bright place and get ready to start a whole new life again.