"Here. Have it back. I don't deserve it," Chris said. He closed Justin's hand around it.

"Fine. Fine, Chris. Just don't ever expect it back. We're through. For good this time." Justin shoved it in his pocket and turned for the door.

He ran his fingers over the smooth cover of the watch and kept his eyes to the ground, to the puddle of rainwater at his feet. He watched the swirls on the surface dissipate, and the tiny reflected dots of stars came into focus. He looked up and saw the constellation named for Queen Cassiopeia, mother of Andromeda, known for her vanity. He laughed. Nobody could ever figure out how Chris put up with it -- Justin's vanity -- in all its ostentatious glory, how he could see past it -- the self-love, the need to put himself and his looks above others -- and love Justin like he did. In all truth, Chris liked that about him, it gave him something to affectionately tease about, it gave him ammunition when they fought.

And fight they did -- like wildfire. It would start small, like an argument over who left the soggy towel on the bed or who drank the last Dr. Pepper. Then it would set ablaze the dry brush around them -- like time spent in Connecticut pitching FuMan to another department store or in California recording with Brian McKnight instead of time spent with each other. These things fueled nights of yelling, nights of Justin walking out, nights of Chris going after him, nights of apologies and promises to make it work.

He wondered when things had changed. When had he become the one to stand by himself, wondering where the other was and how to go to him and make it right? When had he become the one who had to surrender, to take those steps back before he, like Cassiopeia, was forced to hang upside down in a throne of stars. He stamped the puddle, blurring the specks of light that best described himself, and walked back inside.

End.