Word Count: 735

A murky light filtered through the battered blinds to cast a dingy haze upon the room, setting particles of dust to float through the air, traveling this way and that, but never quite settling.

In the darkness of night, it had been easy to miss all of the obvious imperfections of the room. It was clean, but old—the carpet was wearing thin in places, the outdated wallpaper was peeling back at the seams, the brass fixtures were tarnished, and the wooden furniture bore various scratches and gouges from years of misuse. Paris observed all of this from the bed, alternatively staring around the room or watching the specs of dust flit and dance through the air left cool by a heater that barely worked.

There were plenty of nicer rooms in the city, hotels and bed-and-breakfasts that would have been more pleasing to the eye, more expensive and perhaps more romantic than this cheap alternative Chris had chosen. But the night before hadn’t been about romance. Paris hadn’t been looking for it and Chris hadn’t intended to give it.

Instead, Paris thought this place to be oddly reflective of what their relationship had become, not something old and worthless, not some cheap imitation—though their relationship had definitely had its moments in which it was—but a starting point. They had fallen so far together. They’d come to the end of the line of lies and secrets, when Paris had taken their seemingly perfect relationship and torn it apart. Now, Paris had nothing left to hide. The anger and the betrayal and the accusations were over, and when they left this place, climbed from the bed and collected their respective belongings to head back out into the harsh city that trapped and surrounded them, they would be rising out of the confusion and the regret and all the other negative feelings together.

Gentle fingers brushed against his side beneath the blankets, up and down in a tender, steady motion, almost absentminded in its simplicity, and Paris relished the feel of those fingers tracing abstract patterns over his skin, delicate movements of want and need, like a silent language known only by the two of them—Yours… Mine… Together… Always…

Releasing a quiet, contented sigh, Paris slowly turned from one side to the other. The hand remained, slipping over his skin as he moved to come to rest on the opposite side, as the presence and the heat that had before been at his back now radiated at his front. He looked up—tired and achy, but calm and warm, too—and stared into Chris’s eyes, awake and alert and boring into his own with the same mix of emotions that had met him the night before, but more subdued, tempered by their hours of solitude, no longer dangerous in their confusion.

Instead, the emotions were bound together, morphing into some strange version of acceptance.

Paris had always thought Chris’s eyes were like sunshine—bright, happy and warm. It was true even in Chris’s anger—then they burned, still bright, but scorching, like heat and fire. The previous night, he couldn’t decide which had shown through more. There had been worry, frustration, anxiety, and memories of a dinner date ruined by ill-timed revelations. Now, Paris saw many things. There was warmth there, some of that old fondness Chris had buried deep down over the course of the last few months, and there was passion, too—like flames, rising so high and so bright Paris thought they’d both be burned alive.

Yet he found that he wasn’t worried or afraid. It had been a long, troubling year. There had been mistakes, there had been heartbreak, there had been anger and all manner of bad things, but there had been happiness, too; there had been triumphs, there had been hope, and there had been good. Somehow, in some way, Chris had been constant through much of it—helping him, comforting him, guiding him, losing his way with him. Paris thought it was worth the fear, worth the frustration, worth the pain, just to have that shred of good. He could drown in Chris’s eyes, burn up until nothing remained, because he knew that when he surfaced, when he lived again, Chris would be there beside him.

Paris took Chris’s hand as their eyes remained locked—fearlessly—lacing their fingers together in silent communication.

Yours… Mine… Together… Always…