“You should be used to it!” Daphne calls from her cross-legged position on the bed. She gestures with one of my tee-shirts. “How many moves have you had now? From your mom’s place to here, then to Debbie’s, back to your mom’s--”

“The condo,” I correct. ‘Mom’s place’ is the ranch house where I learned to ride a bike; where the third patio stone from the door was always wiggly; where the bricks along the back wall still bear the faded imprint of my first attempts at “art”. The condo is just bricks and mortar.

“Then back here. Then,” Daphne shudders, “to He Who Shall Not Be Mentioned. Then, um, to my place. Then Hollywood. And now, here again. Let‘s see, that’s... seventy kabillion moves.”

“I guess I’ve gotten used to living out of a suitcase.”

“Well, get UN-used to it. Because now you’re back where you belong. And don’t think I don’t know that you’re avoiding my question.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Connor James was just named third best kisser in last month’s Cosmo. Penelope Cruz called him ‘deliciously ripe’.” Daphne giggles. “Sooo... do you think he should be pushed up or down the list?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Pleeease. You fucked him but you didn’t kiss him.”

I shrug. “I only kiss Brian.”

“Oh.” Daphne pauses in folding the last of the shirts to glance up at me. “That’s, like... weirdly romantic.”

“That’s us,” I say as I flop down next to her. “Weirdly romantic pretty much sums it up.”

She gives me a shove before reaching down to haul another box up onto the bed. “Okay, last one,” she says. “And may I just add, Ewwwww. Where the fuck were you keeping this, in the closest sewer grate?”

I eye the box dubiously. The packing tape is cracked and yellowing, and -- I give a whiff -- it smells suspiciously like... “Uh. Next to the litter box, I think. It hasn’t been opened since... um...” I cast about for a way to continue that won’t earn me that look that says Man, Justin Was So Stupid. “Since move number five.”

I still get the look. I just can’t win.

“Okay.” Daphne wipes her hands on the duvet before cracking open the box and withdrawing the first tissue-paper wrapped item. It almost feels like Christmas, since I don’t have the slightest clue what’s inside. “Okay,” Daph says again. “One sad-faced clown figurine. Creepy.”

“Gift from Debbie,” I tell her. It’s all coming back to me now. I take the unsightly thing and rewrap it in the tissue paper, and stuff it into the nearest box. At Daphne’s look, I say, “This is now officially the Stuff I Don’t Know What The Fuck To Do With box.”

She’s moved on, unwrapping another. “Well,” she says, “here’s his brother. Except I think this guy is holding a hatchet.”

“That’s a balloon,” I laugh.

“Uh huh. So why is it dripping blood on his clown suit?”

I lean forward to get a better look. Sometimes Daphne is so melodramatic. “It’s not dripping... HOLY SHIT!”

“Told you,” she says smugly.

“It must just be... like... a bad paint job,” I try to convince myself. “Yeah.”

Daphne holds it up by the edges of its oversized clown feet. “Just put it in the What The Fuck box.”

As I rewrap Hatchet Clown, Daphne unwraps a set of tea towels. She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t tell me. What The Fuck.”

“Actually... no. Leave those out. Brian will probably get a kick out of drying his dishes on the image of the crucifixion.”

“Brian does dishes?”

“Along with being weirdly romantic, he’s also bizarrely domestic. Sometimes even outlandishly.”

I can always count on Daph for a good eye roll.

We come across a random collection of baseball cards -- Dad’s purchases, from that year he tried to enrol me in Little League. I’ve blocked most of that experience from my memory, and unlike others it’s not one I regret losing. A plastic figurine of a male hula dancer who drops his drawers when you push a button -- Emmett’s version of a belated birthday present. Better than some others I’ve received, I suppose. My report cards from first grade to twelfth. “Justin is an attentive and conscientious student.” Little did they know how much of my class time I spent daydreaming about cock.

I help Daphne get the last huge item out of the box. She looks at me. “Gotta be a gift from Debbie.”

I grin, and stroke the large white porcelain cat. “Nope,” I tell her. “Brian got this for me when I moved in after... after I got out of the hospital.”

Daphne’s jaw drops, and I can’t hold back the laugh. “No! No! Are you kidding? Deb gave it to me when I moved in with... when I... Uh...”

Daph sighs. “You’re a dolt. Help me get it back into the box.”

I start to hand it over and then… “No. Just put it on the ledge over there.”

She glances behind her before turning wide eyes to me. “Are YOU kidding? Brian will KILL you.”

“He won’t. This is my place too, now. If I want to display a hideous oversized ceramic cat, then I will.”

“You’re a brave man, Justin Taylor.”

“Sometimes even weirdly brave.”

I manage to dodge the thrown pillow.

Brian seems to understand when I turn down his offer to work at Kinnetik. The best thing is that I know I could do the work. I’ve gathered enough skills as a graphic artist and I know it’s a career I could excel in. It’s also a job I could get without fucking the boss -- I proved that when I got hired at Vangard. It’s just not the career I want.

It would be easier if I could figure out what I do want.

But Brian likes my suggestion for Babylon. Which is cool. At least spending all that time in Hollywood is paying off somehow.

And he wants me. As much as I want him. The need never goes away. Which is kind of frightening and kind of exhilarating at the same time.

I slide down his body, parting his shirt with my hands and laving his abdomen with my tongue as he works on the zipper of his slacks. I lick along his shaft, taking my time, inhaling the scent and taste of him. I slowly take him into my mouth, inch by inch, imagining his head falling back, his mouth falling open...

Then he’s gripping me by the ears and pulling me off. Hard.

“What the fuck?” I sputter. “You’re interrupting the best head you’ve had since, oh, the last blow job I gave you, why?”

Brian juts his jaw toward the other side of the bed. “Get rid of it.”

I don’t have to look. “I don’t think so.”

“My loft isn’t going to be cluttered with Q-Mart crap. So get rid--”

“Our loft,” I remind him. I use the element of surprise -- and the fact that his pants are tangled around his ankles -- to tackle him onto the bed. I straddle his hips and pin his arms to his sides. “It’s mine,” I tell him reasonably. “I like it,” I lie. “It stays,” I finish.

“It’s too big. One wrong move by the cleaning lady and... crash.” Brian presses his lips together and lifts one shoulder. “Oops.”

I lean forward to press my lips to his ear. “You better hope Helen has good reflexes, ‘cause one ‘oops’ and OUR loft gets a sea of giant porcelain cats.”

Brian narrows his eyes but says nothing.

“Now,” I grin, “where were we?”

By the time I’m humming around his cock, I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten all about the cat.

I‘ve gotten used to sleeping alone. To living alone, even if it was just in Brett’s guest house. So I’m instantly awake when the door slides open, my heart beating just a little more rapidly than usual until I remember where I am. Where I live. Who I live with.

I glance at the clock as Brian slips quietly into the bedroom.

“I’m awake,” I tell him around a yawn. “How was Babylon?”

Brian’s shirt slithers to the floor as he turns to face me. “We had a whole eleven customers tonight. Tomorrow, we put Operation Babylon Goes Hollywood into effect.”

“It’ll work,” I tell him. “A Brian Kinney failure is one of the signs of the Apocalypse.”

“Your faith is--” Brian stops with his fingers on his button fly, and gestures behind me. “Where is it?”

“Huh?” I try for innocence. Innocence always works well for me.

Brian just waits. I think I’ve used up my stock of innocence with him. Deb and Mom are another story.

“Ohhh,” I say. “The cat. Yeah, I decided that, while contemporary kitsch is a valid art form, it didn’t blend with your current design plan.”

Brian arches a brow.

“Also, the colour was far too stark and overbearing for the limited space.”

Brian presses his lips together.

I crack.

“It was watching me, okay? Those big green eyes, following me around the room. It was eerie! Who knows where Deb got it?” I pull the covers up to my chest and shudder. “She gave me a clown holding a bloody hatchet, you know.”

Brian just shakes his head and shucks his jeans. “Justin,” he says as he slides into bed beside me, “you spent too much time in the sun in Hollywood.”

“It was only temporary, anyway,” I tell him as I prop myself against his chest. “Someday we’re going to get a real cat.”

“When have you ever known me to like pussy?”

“At least three times in college,” I say. I have to laugh at his shocked expression. “Lindsay and I do talk, you know. We have actual conversations.”

“Well,” Brian says when he can finally unhinge his jaw, “just because I lost my mind a few times -- for which I blame the various mind-altering substances that one encounters, often for the first time, in college -- does not mean the experience will ever be repeated. Any and all pussy is off limits.”

“Uh huh.” I yawn and settle down against him, sleek skin and the steady pulse of his heart against my ear. “I was thinking we’d name it Herman.”

“Let me make this clear, Sunshine. There will never be a cat named Herman sharing this loft.”

I nod sleepily as my eyes flutter closed. “Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll let you name it.”