It is one of the coldest winters on record. The snowfall seems endless, and the temperature drops so low that meteorologists warn that skin exposure of only 10 minutes can result in frostbite.

Justin bundles up to trudge home from his studio, face averted from the wind and daydreaming of lazy days spent curled under the duvet, hot showers that ended in slick bodies atop warm covers and take-out from Bernie’s.

His new bed is smaller and Carpaccio’s is no Bernie’s, but when Justin looks up to find Brian huddled on his stoop, he thinks they’ll make out just fine.

Justin takes to sketching in the graveyard. It’s quiet, he says, and peaceful, and occasionally the whisper of wind in the new spring grass sounds like benevolent voices urging him on. He leaves the bustle of New York behind in those times, he says.

Brian pinches the bridge of his nose and worries. About the solitude. About creeps who might get off on graveyards and fucking up young artists they find there.

“Maybe you should show me this graveyard of yours,” Brian says casually during one late night call.

“Maybe I should,” Justin replies. Brian can practically see him grinning.

Sometimes Justin thinks it would be less painful to beat his head against a brick wall than deal with Brian at his willfully obstinate worst. The summer heat broiling his brains isn’t making things any easier.

Justin loves New York’s vibrancy and colour, and he’s made contacts, and his work is flourishing. Most of all, he’s proven to himself that he can make it on his own. He feels indestructible, he tells Brian, and for once he knows it’s just not arrogant bravado. He is indestructible, and he knows it’s time for him to follow his heart and go home.

“Well,” Justin says.

Brian shrugs out of his jacket and then remembers there’s nowhere to put it. Even the old dustcloth-covered furniture is gone. Autumn has snuck up on him unawares and the room is chilly, and he realizes he should have started a fire. He should have done a lot of things.

“I thought I’d have--” Brian begins.

Justin shakes his head and smiles, crossing the empty sitting room to encircle Brian’s waist with his arms. Brian lets his jacket drop unheeded to the dusty floor.

“We can decorate together,” Justin says. “Right now, I have everything I need.”