Justin implies that the restaurant is one step above the diner, so Brian is expecting revolving stools and artery-clogging beef. What he gets is crisp white linens, fine wine, and an eager waiter hovering at his elbow. The waiter is hot, in that I’m really working on my dissertation/taking acting classes/writing poetry in my hovel way -- in other words, in a way that is not attractive to Brian at all. Which is fortunate, because Brian is focused on his steak… and on the revolving door that leads to the staff entrance.

When Justin finally walks in, Brian forgets to breathe.

Justin switches off with the not-so-hot waiter, who gives Brian a regretful look as he shifts to another set of tables. And now it is Justin hovering at Brian’s elbow, waist-length dinner jacket brushing against Brian’s arm, the dark cranberry material in stark contrast to the pale skin, pale hair. It is Justin standing just a little too close, smirking as he refills Brian’s glass, all outward professional courtesy even as his fingers play suggestively along the neck of the bottle, as his fingers linger on Brian’s arm, warm through the soft material.

It’s been too long since they touched.

New York City is never quiet. Music screams from open windows. Engines roar to life, and car horns blare like angry beasts. New York is vibrant and alive, Technicolor noise.

As they walk back to Justin’s apartment, the clamor fades to distant blues and greys until only Justin‘s voice remains. Justin, talking about his new job, his new art, his new life. His arm waves wildly as he makes a point, and his smile lights the night. Brian slings an arm around Justin‘s shoulder, and listens.

They just talked on the phone three days before, and it feels like forever.

Justin does most of his painting at his studio, rented space in someone’s attic, yet the scent of oils and acrylics still permeates his tiny apartment. Brian shrugs off his coat and thinks that the smell reminds him of home. At least it used to.

There is cold pasta caked in a pot on the stove; garlic seasoning hanging in the air. Hint of mothballs in the closet. Yet when Justin turns in his arms, it is all replaced by the scent of clean cotton, glycerin soap, warm skin.

Brian buries his face in Justin’s hair, and breathes him in.

It’s a single bed, all Justin can fit into the small space. Justin writhes beneath him, wanting more, there, now… and Brian forces himself to wait, wait, his lips tracing a path down Justin’s torso, laving a trail and rediscovering all the secret places that he can never forget. His tongue flicks lazily at Justin’s inner thigh, the back of his knee, the curve of his ankle, marking those places as his own. Urgent fingers in his hair tug him back to lips that he’ll never tire of kissing.

This time, Brian’s not going to leave. And Justin knows it.