You push him back against the fridge and feel it rock beneath your weight, but you don’t care. You don’t fucking care - your lips are on his, his hard cock is pressing against your thigh, and that’s all that really matters.

More kisses, hungry and near frantic, your mouths coming together again and again, teeth clipping together and lips bruising and laughter as you both realize that somehow neither one of you are getting enough. You hold him against the fridge, but he turns you around, pressing your back against the cold metal, and he licks down your throat, sucking and nipping at your skin, and when his hands come up in your hair again, you know you need to fuck him *now*, and you step him backwards to the counter, spin him around and bend him over it unceremoniously.

“God, yeah, stick your cock in me,” he pants against the metal, fingers squeaking across the top as he grasps for purchase. His back rises and falls against the countertop as he gasps for breath.

You bite your lip, grab a condom from the counter, squirt too much lube on his hole, then slide inside him fast and unrelenting and God, he’s tight and warm and oh-so-fucking perfect.

“Come on, fuck me,” he reaches back and puts his hand on your ass, pulling you closer. He’s desperate and horny and so are you.

“Demanding, aren’t you,” you grin and he laughs and you plow his ass till he’s not laughing anymore, just grunting out with every push in, hands curling over his chest, ass spasming, tight around your cock buried deep inside him.

(It was the color of the counters that struck you at first, dark grey with copper flecks in the granite and when you touched it, the surface was smooth and cool against your palm... you loved the colors, warm and soft and homey and now when you see them with his soft blond hair flopping across the countertop, you know why you liked them even more, the honey-colored highlights he’s let grow back in covering the surface of the granite counters, cascading across them and you bend over his back and kiss his neck again and when he whimpers, folds under you, the first fuck of his third trip back in as many months, you know you had thoughts of fucking him in the kitchen when you bought the house – no way you can deny that now.)

You’re close, sofuckingclose, and you pull out of his ass and snap the condom off, slide two fingers into his hole and jack off with the other hand till you shoot all over his back, your come splashing onto his skin and making him shiver and arch up off the counter. You feel him tighten on your fingers and you lift him off the counter and twist him around to face you, pulling his mouth to yours and kissing him hard, finger fucking his ass, fist wrapped around his cock as you get him off. He puts his palms on your face, holding your kiss together as he starts to come, jerking into your hand, ass clenching hard around your fingers. You feel his come on your chest, dripping down your stomach and once you’ve milked the last of it from his dick, you slide your fingers from his hole and put both hands on his back, feel your come there and you push your palms through it, sliding them over the curves of his ass, spreading your come all over him.

He rests his face against your shoulder, sighing against you, your bodies stuck together with sweat and come, his softening dick still jerking slowly against your stomach. He wraps his arms around you and breathes slowly, moaning in his throat as your come-covered fingers slide between his crack.

“I want it inside me,” he whispers against your chest and it scares and excites you to think of fucking him raw. You’ve talked about it now more than once since you decided to get married and you know that it’s something you will do, eventually. Maybe sooner. Maybe as soon as you can.

(It’s funny to think that out of all the things you’ve done in your life, that out of all the million times you’ve shoved your dick in someone’s hole, you’ve always worn a condom. But maybe somehow you knew that you’d stop when you were ready and you know you’re ready now. He keeps looking at you, can’t stop staring at you, and his eyes are pure and honest and open and it makes you feel like you’re taking something from him until he asks you to give it all to him. And then you feel like you’re generous and giving and whole, and when you slide inside him raw and naked and bare, you feel utterly complete. This act means a lifetime of waiting for him, of only fucking him, but now you know it’s something you’re prepared to do.)

You slide your come slicked finger across his hole and he shudders in your grasp, you know you probably shouldn’t do it, but you honestly can’t help yourself and keep sliding your come all over him, covering him with it till it dries on his skin. You all over him, and the thought makes you so fucking hard.

You pull him into the shower to wash it all away, the stickiness on your chest starting to itch and besides, it’s time for more, your stiff prick guiding the way as you take his hand and lead him under the warm water. You turn him around so his back is to you and you swipe a washcloth over his lower back and ass, then slide it between his cheeks, across his hole. He leans up against the wall and presses the side of his face against it, and you know what more he’s wanting now. Get to your knees and press your face to his ass then probe his open hole with your tongue, no waiting for this, no dancing around the issue, you know he’s hot for it and you’ve got a lifetime together for foreplay. You want this now, his taste on your tongue, so you take it now, and when you suck on his hole, he gasps, making you smile against his skin, and you reach for his cock, feel him wet and warm with the water splashing down all around you.

(Six hot water jets, pale gray slate tiles, three walls of glass and twice as big as the shower at the loft... he tells you he loves what you’ve done with the master bathroom, is surprised that you did it between his last visit and this one, the seventh since he’s been away, but he doesn’t know you’d paid double to get it done in time for him to come home again. Home for awhile, you hoped this time, a week instead of a weekend. You planned on staying here with him the entire time, curling up together in this home you’re building for the two of you, spending every fucking second with him and pretending he doesn’t have anywhere else to be.)

When he’s shaking against the tiles, pushing his ass back into your face to fuck your tongue, when you can taste his desire, when his cock is hotter than the water and pulsing in your grip, you twist him around and put his dick in your mouth, your thumb in his ass, and suck him till his come threads down your throat. You taste him now, ass and come all mixed up together in your mouth and you stand up to share it back with him, to get his lips on yours to suck it back into him too.

“So good, Brian... so fucking good,” he says, always talkative, always wanting to encourage you, tell you. He’s the only one you’ve ever really cared to please more than yourself, and you think he’s aware of it. Knows that when you fuck him, it’s as much for him as it is for you, and it’s never been like that for anyone else.

You pull him out of the shower and dry him off, kisses across his face, hands lingering with the towel over his ass. He smiles at you lazily and lets you do it, lets you do anything, everything. He’s yours now, and though you don’t need the papers or rings or vows to prove it, you’re still going through with the formality of it. The idea of that elates you and tempts you and all you want is him and you forever. And legally you will be.

You can’t believe how much you love that. Going against all the boundaries, going against what most of America hates, shoving it in their God-fearing, fag-hating faces. You can’t wait to introduce Justin as your husband, to flash your ring and see the smile on his face, the look of shock on everyone else’s. You love Justin, there’s no denying that now, and you’d do anything to make him happy.

But no one said you couldn’t still participate in your favourite hobby of pissing off the straight people.

He pulls the towel from your fingers and falls to his knees in front of you, taking your cock between his lips... you forget thoughts of anything else except his wet mouth and talented tongue draping up and down your shaft. His hands reach behind your thighs and he pulls you closer, takes you into his throat, swallowing and sucking and bringing you too close, too quickly.

You sift your fingers through his drying hair and slowly pull him off you, he cries in his throat, but you want to be inside his ass, want to taste him too, can’t get enough. Pull him to his feet and suck his tongue into your mouth, the soapy taste of your cock on his lips. You kiss and kiss and kiss some more, your cocks pressed between you, battling for space, rubbing together, dueling between your bodies, slick and hot and hard.

You grab him tightly around the waist and he laughs and holds on to you, his dick pressed to your chest and lets you carry him to the dining room table. You lie him down gently on it, then stare at him for moments, running your hands up and down the inside of his thighs.

(The table is dark wood and warm and heavy enough so that it doesn’t slide across the floor when you start to fuck him harder. He’d picked it out, even if he hadn’t been with you to buy it, but you’d asked his opinion on everything since this was his house too. You bought the house as a gift for him. And you want everything in it to be his too. He grips the backs of your thighs tighter and pulls you to him, twisting his feet behind your back and squeezing hard, harder until he gasps and lets go, jets of come shooting from his cock, splattering on his chest, the table, on your stomach. You come soon after, then kneel between his legs to lick at his hole, to catch the drips of your own come as they seep from his ass. He holds your head between his thighs and practically cries with the intensity of it all.)

You slide inside him again, amazed that he’s always eager for more, wondering if either one of you will ever feel satisfied again. It’s like something new has started now, something amazing, and now that it’s been let out, you just can’t put it back in.

You’re ready for it now. You’re ready to start all over again.

*

The invitations are out, the loft is on the market and you get home in time to catch your mom just as she’s finished showing the loft for the third time today. She’s confident it’ll sell quickly, and the idea makes you feel somewhat reluctant, but expectant too. The loft holds so many memories of things you don’t ever want to forget. But you’re ready to make new memories now, to start a new life with Brian.

She’s still a little mad at you, you can see that, and no doubt after all your childish remarks about her and Tucker. You know it was just jealousy, that’s all it was, because since you and Brian have gotten back together, you haven’t thought about it once.

You give her the invitation and you see the way she smiles, her entire face lighting up and it makes it so real – makes the wedding and the idea that you and Brian are *getting married* so very real. You can’t explain it, but it’s made the wedding even that much better.

(You admit you never once thought that she’d get married again, but the divorce had gone through years ago and she’d been with Tuck for nearly two now, and you had to admit that yeah, okay, maybe this was what she wanted. What she needed. So you stood beside her and Molly at the very small ceremony and smiled at Brian when all the important words were spoken and it made you think of your own would-be wedding and as all the vows were read, you and Brian never broke your gaze, never stopped staring at each other and as soon as it was over, Brian pulled you into his arms and kissed you hard and long, taking your breath away and you left feeling a little married too.)

You dance with your mom in the silence of the loft, and think about how the next time you’ll do this, you’ll be surrounded by your friends and family and Brian will be dancing with Debbie beside you. You admit the thought makes your throat a little tight and you hug your mom harder and let her stroke your hair like when you were a kid and you smile inside and out.

*

You know it’s Justin’s fault that you feel like this, but it’s always been one of the reasons why you’ve loved him so very much. He’s not afraid to tell you what’s right, to tell you when you’re being selfish or a prick, to tell you when you’re not thinking clearly.

You’re not thinking clearly now.

The water washes down around you and you keep your eyes closed, even when you hear the shower door open and close.

“It’s only because you love him so much that this hurts, Brian,” his words come from over your shoulder and you let him drag the washcloth over your back.

“I know,” you say back quietly and feel his hands running over your chest, coming up around you to drape around your waist. He holds himself against your back, his small body pressed against yours, his cock nudging into your crack and you feel like being taken by him, like letting him have you and so you do. And when he fucks you, you feel vulnerable and open and good and when you come you see stars like you only ever do when there’s cock inside you.

After, you hold him tightly against your chest and remember being with him that very first morning, right here, in this shower. The first day of Gus’ life and the first day Justin came into yours. There’s some intense irony in that, you know it, but it’s too much to think about and so you don’t. Just let him kiss your face and tell you he loves you, just kiss him back and tell him you love him too.

“We’re getting married now, Brian. It’s different,” he says, and you know he’s right.

(“Daddy! Justin! Look at me!” Gus hollers from the pool, and you smile because your eyes haven’t left him since the second he got here. He leaps off the diving board and cannonballs into the pool, sending bursts of water everywhere. Justin wipes the towel across his face and stares into his drink. “I guess a little chlorine never killed anyone,” he laughs before taking a sip. Gus splatters out of the pool, then plops himself down on the sun chair beside you, gasping and giggling and looking up at you. “Did I get you wet, Daddy?” he asks and you show him the spray of water on your shirt. “Pretty good Gus, think you can do better next time?” He nods and clambers up onto the diving board again, ready to leap into the pool and show us how big he’s getting. This summer will go by too quickly. Three weeks spent with Gus, a month with Justin, both your loves under the roof of the house that’s for them more than you. But you’ve learned how to cherish these times, not take them for granted, and so that’s what you do.)

And so you go through everything with Linds and Mel, pretending not to care, and then caring, and then you realize that as much as you don’t want Gus to go, you don’t want Lindsay to go either and you feel as though you’re losing so much. You’re losing a sense of family and togetherness and grounding and now they’re leaving too.

But in the end you know that keeping Gus from Lindsay and Mel and Jenny-Rebecca is definitely not the best thing to do. And in the end you realize that you’d be selfish to try and keep him here now.

In the end you realize that it’s not too late and you *can* make up for lost time and you already start planning Gus’s visit in the summer, wondering if you can borrow some horses to put in those stables, just for him to ride.

*

You see your name in print, but that’s not a big deal anymore, not after the third issue of Rage has come out. And yeah, you’d had your drawings published before, three issues of comics. But this is different, because this is your art, your paintings that told of your heart and soul and you filled with such passion. They told of your love, your loss, your ecstasy, your pain. They told your life story. And there one of them is, printed in a fancy magazine for all the world to see. With big words, a caption, and your name. You admit seeing it that first time made your heart leap a little. More than a little. Made you look twice. And yeah, it was pretty cool, but you’ve done that. You’ve done the big dreams, big hopes routine, and besides, you paint for yourself now, not anyone else, and you’re happy now, fucking happy, for the first goddamn time in a long while.

When Brian reads the words back to you, you admit you felt a twinge of... regret? Of being found out? Somehow you hadn’t wanted him to see it, but then you were glad that he did. Yeah, you’re proud of it, but you also don’t want anything getting in the way right now. You’re focused, you know what you want, it’s what you wanted forever and ever and ever... you have Brian, and he loves you and you’re starting a life together. What more could you ask for? What more could you need?

(Your first solo show, not just in New York, but anywhere. Brian holds your hand tightly, and you swear he’s more nervous than you are. He keeps sipping at his wine and running his thumb over the back of your hand and looking at all your pieces – the culmination of eight months work in New York. Eight months of late nights and early mornings and working and working and working as hard as you could with dreams of success behind your eyes. You go to the Met at least once a week and stare at the art, imagine your work there one day, imagine your paintings hanging from those walls and you realize that there are different kinds of opportunities in this life, and while Brian was one of them, your art is another. You owed it to yourself to just try, and now you did try and you got everything. Brian at your side, your art shown and seen. At this second in your life, you don’t think you could be happier.)

You remind him of the crap in Hollywood, and you try to convince him that you don’t want all that, but somehow it comes out like you’re trying to convince yourself. You kiss him softly and climb up on to the couch to lie beside him and you make love, fast and furious; you fill yourself with him, and think that’s all you’ll ever need.

*

Somehow you just can’t stop staring at it. This painting, this work of Justin’s. It’s so good, it’s so fucking good, and you think what a pity it is that his work will only be seen by the dykes that visit Mel and Linds’ house in Toronto.

Mel says something to you, about what Justin’s giving up, and you realize after she says it that you’ve been feeling that all along. That you’ve had this funny sense in your stomach since you saw that article, and you realize that she’s hit the nail on the head. Justin’s too good for Pittsburgh. Too good for this.

Too good not to be seen.

(He calls you and it’s one in the morning and he’s definitely a little drunk. It’d only been 48 hours since you’d seen him last, but somehow it seems much longer when you hear his breathless voice come through the phone. “I sold three!” he laughs into the phone and your chest rises with pride at the words. “I knew you would, they’re fucking amazing,” you say back, tired from being woken up and horny at hearing his voice again. “I can’t believe it, Brian... it’s like... incredible. And then get this, this is the best, I got two commissions for paintings! For seven thousand dollars, Brian! Can you believe it? I can live for three months on those paintings. Four months, maybe. This is so... so... unbelievable, you know?” he laughs and then hiccups and sighs loudly.

You imagine him lying on his back on his bed in his studio, surrounded by his paintings, his art. Surrounded by the things that make up his life in New York. You feel so very far away from him right now, but have this incredible conviction that you and he made the right choice. You knew he had this amazing life waiting for him, and you knew he had to go find it on his own. And now he has. “I’m proud of you,” you say quietly into the phone. “And I love you,” you add it quickly, because that emotion hits you in the chest hard and suddenly and you have to swallow around this lump in your throat. “I wish you were here,” he says back, and you start talking dirty to him, encourage him to finger fuck himself and jack off with you because you don’t want to feel sad or lonely or missed right now. You want to feel joy and ecstasy and pride. And when you both come hard, phones cradled against your chests, you hear him drifting into sleep and you say goodnight as he hangs up the phone and when his voice isn’t in your head anymore you close your eyes and dream he’s sleeping right beside you.)

And the sense in your stomach starts to grow.

*

It’s kind of like a fairytale. Like a dream come true. You’re trying on suits for the wedding, finalizing plans and helping the guys organize a stag party. Brian called you his prince, and though you laughed a little at those words, thought they were corny and silly and just for your benefit... he’s making you feel exactly like that. You go to the house and talk about buying new furniture and you pick out which room you want for your studio. He fucks you on the hardwood in the master bedroom to help you decide where to position the bed. He easily gives in to every wish, every demand, every dream you float by him.

It’s... amazing. You can hardly believe this is your life. You can hardly believe this is happening.

And then it starts getting... a little... strange. You start to notice things. Things you’d think he’d be joking about, but then he isn’t. Things like him wanting to stay in and not wanting to fuck. Not even wanting to have one last fuck at his stag party.

Things like that. And of course it doesn’t really bother you that he doesn’t want have that one last fuck, but then it kind of does, because despite everything, you love that he’s so crazy and wild and untamable.

But then you feel like you’ve tamed him somehow.

And that you’ve changed him.

That he’s changed for you.

You don’t like that. Not at all.

(The fight is tremendous and you hate that you have it, but you feel like you need to. He storms out of your studio, slamming the door, leaving his jacket behind and you want to run to the window and call out to him, beg him to come back, but you’ve never done that, you never asked him to come back, you’ve always been the one that’s come back, not him. He’s been the one waiting for you. So you fall to your knees and curl up on the floor and bunch his jacket up in your arms and you wonder why you’re the one that’s always left before. Why you’re the one that always demands that he change and fold and bend to your every wish and he asks nothing in return. And then you do something so stupid, some innocent indiscretion that turned into something more than it ever was, and somehow all the hurt you feel inside that you’re not with him comes out in words that you never wanted or meant to say. Words that hurt him and make him look slapped. Words that you know break every bond of trust he ever had in you. Words that make him look at you like he knew this would happen and you hate that you fucked up again. Hate it. Hate yourself. And you cry into his leather jacket and know that neither one of you will ever be perfect. That this will never be perfect because you’re not like that, life isn’t like that, fate intervenes and makes you do ridiculous things, selfish things, stupid things. You swallow hard and hold onto his jacket and wait for him to come back to you because you can’t go back to him, not this time.)

It’s a funny discussion you have. There are no tears or yelling or harsh words. You just both realize that you both want the same things. And you got so wrapped up in making the other person happy that each of you forgot about your own happiness.

You talk with him rationally about it, realize you’re spending more time talking about *not* getting married than you did about actually getting married. But he curls his fingers around yours, and looks at you for a long, long time.

“No matter what, I’ll always love you. I don’t need anything to prove that to me,” he says it softly and you realize that’ s all you ever really wanted to have, to hear. You don’t need rings or vows, you just need to know he loves you.

And you know that now.

“So... what do we do?” You ask him and watch as he breaks into a smile.

“We do what they least expect. As always,” he says and kisses you hard. “We’ll break the news at the rehearsal dinner. Then we can get drunk and fuck in the bathroom.”

You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you again. “Always the romantic,” you whisper and you’re so surprised at how you feel. Not disappointed or sad or let down. Instead you feel elated. And happy.

And satisfied.

This was really all you ever wanted.

*

It’s... intense. Beyond intense. You never fucked and laughed and cried at the same time before, but this time you do. You can’t help it, can’t help the tears from streaming down your face. Can’t help but let them slip from between your eyelids, creep down your cheeks. Can’t help but look at his face and smile and laugh because you love him so much and it feels so good. You’re so happy to be with him right this fucking second.

You love him, you want him, you’d die for him, that’s all you can feel right now. You’ve never said goodbye before, not even when he went to California because it was different then. Or different now. Everything’s just different.

(The first night in your new home feels... right. Feels like it should. And for the first time it’s not your home or his home, but both of yours. You picked it out together, and that makes this place completely different from everywhere else you lived. Of course, you’re still keeping the house – Emmett is happily looking after it for you between visits. And Gus loves it there, and Justin really loves it there, and you have nothing but good memories there. You could never sell it. It’s your house. But the loft in New York is your home. Both of yours. Justin paid for half the down payment and pays for half the mortgage and he can afford it. He’s famous now, as much as a young painter can be. He’s sought after, desired, demanded. He’s asked to appear at every opening, photos of you and he at every hot spot in town. He’s worked hard to get to where he is and he loves every second of it. He smiles at you and puts his hands on either side of your face and kisses you softly. “This is the first home I’ve ever bought, you know?” he says against your lips. “This place... feels like home for me.” You wrap him up in your arms and know exactly what he means. You can’t believe you waited this long to come to this city, this incredible city, where every dream you ever had has come true. Your business is skyrocketing, Justin’s art is flying off the walls, you’re both at the highest point in your careers, and yet you know there’s so much more out there. And this, buying a piece of the city, a loft three times the size of your old one, smack in the middle of Chelsea... you know you’ve found the home that you’ve always been looking for.

“Fuck me,” he says against your face and you press him against the windows of the loft, pull his pants down and slide into him easily, reaching into his jeans to pull out his cock. No one can see you here, your view extends straight to the ocean, and you stare at the blue sky as you fuck him. “It’s like your eyes,” you say against his face, and he knows what you mean and pushes back to get more of your dick inside him. You stroke him firmly, steadily, feel the pulse on your cock inside his ass and you come in perfect harmony, like you always do. He collapses against the window and asks you to take him to the bedroom, and you do, sliding out of him, pulling off his pants the rest of the way, dragging his shirt up over his head. “You never stop being so...” you stop because the words you were going to say sound ridiculous, but then you start again because he looks at you so expectantly. “You’re so beautiful,” you say and think of him in his suit, the one you bought him for your wedding, the one he ended up wearing to a thousand art openings. He just lowers his eyes and takes your hand in his and you follow him through your huge new home to your bedroom. Course, there’s no bed set up in it yet, just a mattress placed on the ground where the bed will be. But you lie down on it with him and you take him and you kiss forever, and you make this place your new home.)

You almost don’t want to come because that’ll mean it’s over, that he has to leave. But then you do, you can’t help it, it’s too much, everything is too much, and you wipe the tears from his face with your thumb and hold him in your arms for as long as you can.

*

His tears fall onto your cheeks and mix with your own. You feel them thread down your skin in a hot trail and then everything blossoms with a thousand colors behind your eyes and you come with him inside you. Perfectly. He gasps and falls between your legs, pressing your come all over both of you, and you wrap yourself around him and hold him against your chest. Hold him to you, because you know he needs you. Know he doesn’t believe you that you’ll come back to him.

(It’s been exactly eight days and 16 hours since you saw him last, but you’d think it was a lifetime. He kisses you hard before you can introduce him to your new roommate, the one you’re looking forward to getting rid of soon. But when his lips hit yours, you feel nothing but passion, and you excuse yourself from the roommate and close you and Brian up in your small bedroom and fuck as quietly as your modesty will allow. “I told you,” you say against his chest, buried beneath him. “I told you we’d see each other.” He laughs against your face and doesn’t say a word.)

But you know. You know you’ll always come back together.

*

You know you have plane tickets to see him next weekend, and you know you have a two week vacation next month that you plan to spend in New York and you know that he’ll be back plenty of times to see his mom, his sister, his friends... and you.

But what you don’t know is what could happen between now and next weekend, next weekend and next month, next month and next year. You know he’s 22 and that’s a lifetime away from your 34 and that when he’s 34 you’ll be 46 and you don’t even want to – can’t think about that.

You pick up the ring box and it seems lighter than you expected so you open it up and you feel...

You don’t really know how you feel, you just pull out the one remaining ring and slide it on your own finger. It’s a little small and you slide it on your pinky and you know it’s his ring he left for you and somehow that makes your throat tighten and your eyes fill and you fall to the couch, pulling a pillow into your arms and you hug it tightly.

(You show up at his new studio, unexpected and unannounced, and it makes you a little nervous to surprise him like this, but you’d had a break in your schedule and needed to see him so fucking bad... you didn’t even think about it, just packed your overnight bag and caught a stand-by flight to New York. You’re there in minutes and it reassures you how close he is, will always be, and you laugh inside at how you feel like somehow since he’s gone to New York, you’ve spent more time together than when he was living at the loft after he got home from California. You’re even more reassured at how wrong you were when you said neither one of you could really know what was going to happen, because it turns out that for the first time in your lives you both want exactly the same things, and that’s just to simply be together.

You ring the downstairs buzzer to his place and no one answers, so when a little old lady comes out the front door, you graciously hold the door open for her, then slip inside. Climb the stairs and search till you find 4B and then tentatively knock. You can hear someone inside, but still no one answers and at first you get this fear like you’ve made a terrible mistake in coming here and imagine him naked and on his back getting his ass pounded by some fellow artist... and then the door opens slowly and he smiles at you. “Took you long enough,” he grins and kisses you softly. “I knew you’d come.” And then neither one of you say anything else, just fuck in his quiet little studio on the small bed in the corner. When you’ve both come and are lying together sated, he sighs contentedly and drags his fingers through your hair and you know that you’ll survive. You’ll survive anything as long as you know this is always waiting for you at the end.)

And you swallow hard and close your eyes and think of everything good. Every fucking good thing you can think of, the way he always made you smile, the way he smelled, the way he’d laugh when he came. You think of the way he glowed when you asked him to marry you, the way he felt in your arms when you thought you’d lost him. The way you danced together at his prom and felt like the only two people in the world.

You think of everything good you ever had with him and you think hard about it until you don’t want to cry anymore.

But then you cry anyway.

*

You slide the ring from your left hand to your right hand back to your left hand. It fits on your index finger and you like the way that looks, heavy and shiny and too big. And it is too big, it’s not yours, it’s Brian’s, and you don’t really know why you took his instead of your own but somehow you wanted something of his, and this seemed... somehow...

Perfect.

The plane rises up into the air and your hopes follow with it... you might be foolish to leave everything behind to follow some dream in New York. But you know you’re not leaving everything behind because you know that Brian will be close behind you.

And you know that he thinks you’ll be blinded by the lights and the dreams and the hopes of New York. You can’t blame him for thinking you’ll forget him, forget what you have. You’ve left him too many times not to feel ashamed for not letting him know how much you’ve always loved him. Will love him.

(It’s warm in the studio and he comes up behind you, kissing your shoulder through your t-shirt. He stares at the painting for a long time, staring over your shoulder at it. You’ve been working on it for days now, between your commissioned pieces. It’s an abstract, like most of yours are these days, but you know he can tell what it is. “Think we can hang it in the bedroom when I’m done?” you ask him and you feel the soft breath of a laugh against your neck. He laces his fingers across your chest and kisses your shoulder again. “I was thinking the living room. That’s a fabulous picture of my cock,” he smiles and you smile and know you’ve been found out. “Didn’t think you’d figure it out,” you say back. “You’ve been drawing my cock for years. Why would you stop now?” He says, turning you around and kissing you and you think of the old, embarrassing drawing you did for that first art show a million years ago. So crude and childish. And hanging on his office wall. He’s such an egotist. “You know I draw what I love,” you whisper against his lips and fall to your knees in front of him. You’re getting paint on his pants, but you don’t think he minds.)

But you know in your own heart that it’s time for him to come to you. And when you come together this last time, you’ll never be apart again.

*

You can’t even count how many times he’s come to visit now, just know that your life revolves around it. Know that everything else is on hold until he comes back or you go to him.

But this time he comes back and he’s quiet and sedate and you feel like something’s changed. You fear that despite your four years of commute, he’s found someone else, done what he said he’d never do, that he’s pushed away, gotten tired of this back and forth life you’ve been living.

You admit you’re not sure of it either, you live in this house that you’ve come to love, but only because it represents him. Only because you’ve fucked in every room, because Justin’s picked out every chair and every glass, because everything in this house reminds you of him and only him.

And then he asks: “Are you happy, Brian?”

You can’t answer that. “What do you mean?” You answer his question with one of your own.

“Are you happy... with... this situation?” he won’t look at you, spins his finger across the rim of his wine glass. Takes a sip then puts it back down.

“I’m happy that I see you as often as I can. I’m happy that we’re still together. I’m happy right this fucking second because you’re two feet away from me, instead of four hundred miles.” It’s a pathetic response, you know. But it’s honest, and you’ve sworn to be honest to him always.

He nods his head slowly. “Have you ever thought of... not being four hundred miles away?”

“Yeah, of course.” You say, no hesitation.

“I want you to come to New York to live with me. I love it there. I don’t know that I’m ever going to want to come back to the Pitts, not after this.” He says it all in a rush, but all you can hear are the first words. I want you to come to New York to live with me...

You’d been waiting to hear that for four fucking years now.

“I’ll fly back with you on Sunday,” You say and stand up and kiss him hard and pull him into your arms. You’d wanted to go all along, but didn’t – couldn’t – go without his asking. Didn’t want to follow him, didn’t want him to feel like you didn’t believe that he could do it on his own. Didn’t want him to feel like you were watching over him, protecting him, looking after him.

You were of course, in lots of ways. But he’s so young. He needed to do it for himself. And he did. And you needed to know that he wanted you there.

And he does.

“I miss you so much I can’t think anymore,” he says against your shoulder, and you feel wet tears against your face where he’s pressed against you and you don’t know if it’s him or you or what, but you know that this is the complete opposite of what you felt when he left you four years ago.

The hopelessness replaced with expectation, the sadness replaced with joy, the tears of goodbye replaced with tears of happiness and welcome.

(The sun sets slowly, dipping into the sea, and bursting forth with a crazy glow of colors that spin into your eyes. You watch as it fades across the sky, feel the warmth on your face, the breeze laps at your shirt and you close your eyes and see the red/orange behind your eyelids. And then his arms wrap around your waist and you cover his hands with your own. His lips find your neck and he kisses you softly and you don’t open your eyes, just feel him there, feel him always, know that no matter what, he’ll always be there. You’ve gone through breakups and reunions, failures and successes, sadnesses and joys, you’ve hated each other and loved each other and felt more passion and elation in the years you’ve been together than some people feel in their whole lives. And you feel lucky for it. Privileged to have shared so much of your life with him. Ecstatic that you have so much more left to share. You turn around and press your mouths together and realize that no matter what you try to be or try to do, life guides you where you’re meant to be. And you know that you’re meant to be together, you’ve come apart and together again too many times not to know your fates are eternally entwined. Your lives, your souls, your very existences on this earth, are wrapped around one another forever. You tell him you love him and he tells you he loves you and you know you’ll never be scared of losing him ever again.)

You thought your life was starting before, but you knew nothing then. Now you know your life starts itself over and over again, a million times a day.