Justin makes plans for his book. Or sketches for Rage. Or paints the small canvas, bathed in sunlight in the room they’ve allocated for his studio. Brian spreads out in his office and works on his latest campaign, and Justin can’t balk; working on weekends is the bargain they’ve made to ensure Brian gets home earlier during the week.

They eat a light dinner -- something they whip up together, or something that they pay an exorbitant amount to have delivered. They read, or watch television, or talk. They argue. They might drive into Woody’s for a beer with the guys, or stop into Babylon to dance, to feel the pulse of the night and taste the glitter on each others skin.

They fall into bed, sometimes exhausted, sometimes not, and kiss, hot and hungry, soft and sweet, desperate and yearning. That never changes. That never will.

They never say “I do”. They never had to.