“Sure.” Justin spared a glance at the tower of boxes piled against the wall of his small room and laughed into the silence. “Well. I unpacked my shampoo and deodorant and all my art supplies are completely organized. That’s all I need.”

“Nude painting. Very erotic.”

“I have clothes!” Justin shifted on the bed. Rain splattered in large drops on his window, creating random patterns on the glass. He was sick of rain. Sick of smog and crowds and car horns at 3am. But never sick of the way the raindrops shone like diamonds, or the sway of a single pendulous drop holding precariously to the window ledge before tumbling to the street below.

“Anyway,” Justin said, turning away from the window, “I probably will try nude painting one of these days. Mrs. Berovski keeps that attic a sauna!”

“You should start calling it ‘the studio’,” Brian advised. “Calling it ‘the attic’ makes it sound like you’re painting murals of zesty Italians for some run-down pizzeria.”

“One big plus -- Mrs. Berovski is deaf as a doornail. I can blare my music as loud as I want. Though the other day she did ask me why her chandelier was shaking.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That minor earthquakes were now very common in the tri-state area, but I’d done a thorough inspection of the foundation and she had nothing to worry about.”

Brian huffed out a laugh. “So when I hear about the little seventy-eight year old widow who died of heart failure while her tenant blasted Moby in his studio, I’ll know who to blame.”

“She’s seventy-six. And please, I haven’t listened to Moby since I was seventeen.”

“Don’t remind me.” Brian paused. “Coldplay, then.”

“I can’t respect anyone who names his child Apple.”

“Bach’s Partita in D minor?”

“Do you want me to fly down there and kick your ass?”

“Yes please.”

Justin smiled into the phone. “Speaking of, when are you--”

“How’s Friday?”

“Watch the steps, they’re a little steep,” Justin said.

“That,” Brian said, pointing, “is not a fire escape. That is a rust-infested death trap.”

Justin paused on the first landing and cocked his head. Brian wasn’t moving. “You’re kidding.”

“You can’t go in through the house.”

“I like having my own entrance. It’s private. Besides...“ Justin stomped his feet, and the stairs swayed just a little under the pressure. If Brian blanched at the display, Justin chalked it up to the shitty airline snacks on the flight. Bad peanuts were deadly. “See? Perfectly safe.”

Brian crossed his arms and stayed on solid ground. “Are you fucking insane?”

“Come on,” Justin said patiently. “You jumped off the catwalk at Babylon. You won’t walk up a couple of flights of stairs?”

“Shit.” Brian took a deep breath and started up. “I was twenty two. And wasted. And how the fuck do you know that story?”

Justin grinned and squeezed Brian’s hand as Brian reached the landing. “Michael is a wealth of information. Especially when he’s high.”

“You make it a habit of getting high with Mikey?” Brian asked as they made their way up the second set of steps.

“Fuck no. He gets all mawkish. Sometimes he cries. It’s--”

“Pathetic.”

“Occasionally, yes.” Justin produced his keys and stood aside on the tiny landing to let Brian enter first. He knew it was foolish to be nervous, but that didn’t stop the fluttering in his gut. His first studio. He realized he was holding his breath and let it out in a rush as he followed Brian into the converted attic.

“It’s--”

“Small, I know,” Justin said. “But it’s got a huge skylight and the light is amazing, and it came with this little fridge so I can keep some stuff here, and Mrs. Berovski lets me store my canvasses on the landing outside the second bathroom, and--”

“It’s perfect for you.”

Justin grinned. “Sit down. You want a drink?”

“What have you got?”

Justin stooped to a small side table and rattled a few palm-size bottles, squinting to read the labels. “Let’s see... a couple of Stolichnaya. Bacardi. Three of these Leopold’s...”

“You stole the liquor out of first class.” Brian shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Hardly the behaviour of a fine upstanding country club boy.”

“I prefer to say that I took advantage of my opportunities,” Justin laughed. “And I dropped the fine upstanding country club boy right around the same time that I dropped Moby. Thank God.”

“Thank me.”

Justin stuck out his tongue and held up the Stoly, and at Brian’s nod poured them each a glass before joining Brian on the somewhat tattered sofa. Between the various canvasses propped on the tabletop and the large easel by the window, the sofa barely fit into the space. The studio was the very antithesis of the loft... and Brian relaxed into the place as though he was surrounded by his own Italian labels.

Sometimes Justin thought he couldn’t love Brian any more than he did, and then he surprised himself and loved him more.

“To first times,” Brian toasted.

“Huh?”

“This,” Brian said, “is the first time I’ve partaken of premium Russian vodka out of a Snoopy glass.”

“I got them from my mom.” Justin hoped he wasn’t blushing. “The more money I could save, the better. My half of the Rage profits pays the rent on the apartment, and plus the landlord has a total crush on September so we get a deal on the utilities. And between what I make at Vanelli’s and my tips, I can pay for this place and my supplies.”

“Justin.” Brian’s fingers twirled on the rim of the glass. “You know that I’ll--”

“I know. Believe me, when I get down to mouldy cheese and stale bread in my fridge, you’ll be getting a call.”

“Call before that.”

Justin closed the distance and pressed their lips together. “I will,” he said softly before pulling back. “Meanwhile, I fully intend to let you spoil me with a fabulous dinner at an exclusive restaurant before you have to go back home.”

Brian arched a brow. “You realize that if I’m paying for an expensive dinner, I expect you to put out.”

“Lucky for you, I’m a slut.”

“So,” Brian said.

Again.

Justin settled back in his chair and sipped at his coffee. He could see the waiter hovering just at the edge of his peripheral vision; they‘d already held the table for far longer than was appropriate, and this was Brian’s fifth attempt at getting out whatever the fuck it was he had to say. Previous efforts had concluded with Brian asking about Jennifer’s boyfriend -- like Justin ever wanted to talk about Tucker -- the differences between working with oils and watercolours, and whether any of the other waiters at Vanelli’s were hot. Justin hoped Brian could finally spit it out this time, because by his reckoning the next subject of discussion would probably be Molly’s new school or something equally lame.

Justin was considering poking Brian with a forgotten breadstick when Brian reached into his inner pocket and pulled out an envelope. He glanced at it once before handing it to Justin.

“Divorce papers?” Justin joked.

Brian held his gaze, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s for you,” he said before dropping his eyes. “For us.”

“Brian.”

Brian looked up from arranging his cutlery to sigh. “Will you just fucking open it? They’re going to call the National Guard to escort us out of here in a minute.”

“You’d love that. Burly men in uniform manhandling you.”

“I’d rather be manhandled by an artistic blond with shitty fashion sense,” Brian said, and Justin raised his eyes from the envelope in time to catch both the suppressed grin on Brian’s face and the surprised look in Brian’s eyes. It wasn’t exactly ‘my prince’, but it was nice.

The paper was crisp and white, and Justin only glanced at the sample itinerary before he let it slip to the table and turned his attention to Brian’s strong scrawl on the page.

“Christ, by the time you’re finished reading--”

“Brian--”

“We’ll have to arrange our schedules,” Brian interrupted. “We can work around your hours at Vanelli’s and whatever gallery showings you manage to land in the next couple of months, and I’ll get Cynthia to shift client meetings once we have a definite date.”

“You’re hot when you’re authoritative.”

“I’m always hot.”

“And modest,” Justin nodded. “We’ve just never been anywhere... together.”

Brian took a breath. “I thought it was time.”

Justin ran a finger slowly over the paper, a promise of warm tropical breezes and white sands and nights spent making love while the surf pounded against the rocks. It wasn’t a hallmark card, no, but it was Brian, and he imagined he could feel the love burning from each letter that his fingertips touched.

He looked up to grin wickedly. “You realize you’re 5 days late.”

Brian grunted. “I’ve heard that anticipation makes the dick grow harder.”

“It’s ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’,” Justin smirked. “But in this case, both adages are unsurprisingly accurate.”

It was raining again by the time they left the restaurant. Brian hunched under the awning waiting for the taxi, but Justin side-stepped his grasping hand and stepped directly into the downpour.

Car horns blared and exhaust fumes hugged the air like wraiths, and people rushed past on the sidewalk eager to be anywhere but where they already were. The rainfall battered the pavement, and to Justin every raindrop was paired, each droplet following its partner on their wild ride to the earth.