Victor stomps up the stairs, limbs heavy, his briefcase weighing like a dense boulder as it swings from his hand, a dangerous pendulum propelled by the energy eating away at his insides.

He sighs as he reaches his floor before he pulls his jangling keys from his pocket and opens the door, the aroma of basil and tomatoes and onions bombarding him when he enters.

"Oh, hey, babe. You're home early." Andrew calls from the kitchen, waving and smiling as he stirs the contents of the pot on the stove, before he shuffles over with a rag draped over his shoulder.

"Yeah…" Victor breathes, kicking off his shoes and dropping his briefcase unceremoniously next to the door before he enters. "It smells amazing in here."

Andrew strides over to him, wrapping an arm around Victor's back and kissing him softly. "Well, I took your advice from earlier and figured I'd take the night off work and do something special for us."

"Oh, really?" Grinning, Victor lets his hands wander from Andrew's white tank top-clad chest down his sides before resting on his hips.

"Yep… I've got some ragu cooking away, some nice vino that's been sitting in our liquor cabinet for far too long… and then I figured we could go on a little walk, and even though it's freezing, I've had a hankering for that ice cream place on Bushwick… and I know you're always down for ice cream."

"That sounds perfect."

"I'm glad to hear that, 'cause I've been trying to plan it all day. I don't know where you got all your ideas from… It just seemed like we were constantly doing something special."

"Hmm… I dunno, it was just one of those things that came to me. But it definitely does get harder when you have other things going on." Victor shrugs his coat off and hangs it up on one of the hooks on the wall.

Andrew smooths Victor's hair down and kisses him again. "True, true… But now, at least, we can celebrate your new job?"

Victor chuckles nervously and scratches the back of his neck. "About that…"

"What's wrong?" Andrew's face falls and he searches Victor's face for answers before he presses his lips together tightly into a line.

"I didn't get it."

"Huh? What do you mean? They'd be stupid not to hire you."

Sighing, Victor eyes the ground as Andrew cups his cheek and brings their gazes together. "I kinda… completely bombed the interview."

"Oh, shit, Vic…" Andrew clicks his tongue before he wraps his arms around Victor's back and pulls him in for a warm embrace that Victor can only sink into. "I'm sorry to hear that."

There's a long silence as Victor hooks his arms around Andrew's waist, burying his face in the crook of his neck and inhaling the scent of ragu and cedar cologne as his eyelids flutter closed.

"It's okay." Victor pulls away, forcing a smile. "It just wasn't a good fit."

Andrew narrows his eyes but nods nonetheless. He takes Victor's hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it softly, before he tugs Victor along. "There'll be plenty of other opportunities. Not everyone can appreciate your talents. But you can tell me more over our dinner…"

The round table in the corner is already set with two sets of forks and spoons sitting atop two napkins. Victor peers down at the half-filled wine-glasses aerating their contents before he sits down slowly and picks up one of the glasses. He swirls it around before bringing it to his nose, vibrant tannins and notes of plum and cherry making his mouth curl up on one side.

"This wine smells nice," Victor says, before he brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip, the dry acidity coating his tongue pleasantly. He swishes it around in his mouth before he swallows. "Shit. It's good."

"Barbera d'Asti, from Piedmont. Like I always say, only the best for you." Andrew drains the pot of tagliatelle through the colander in the sink.

"Thanks."

Victor takes another sip, letting the wine glass hang in between his fingers. He hums quietly to himself as he shuffles over to where Andrew is making a little round nest of pasta with tongs and carefully placing it on a plate, before he ladles the ragu over the nest neatly.

"Ah-ah, mister," Andrew snaps, cracking a smile as he shoos Victor away with the ladle. "I know you wanna help but I got this."

Chuckling, Victor rolls his eyes, kissing Andrew gently on the cheek and smacking him on the ass before he and his wine return to the table. "Fine, I guess I'll just be good and wait patiently."

"Well, good news for you, is that the wait is over." Andrew returns to the table, balancing one plate on each hand before setting them down cautiously.

Clapping dramatically, Victor giggles as Andrew crosses the kitchen to the fridge, opening it and withdrawing a triangle of Parmigiano-Reggiano. He grabs the microplane from where it hangs on the wall beneath the window and makes his way back to the table.

"Tell me when," Andrew says, opening the wrapped up piece of pungent cheese and grating it over Victor's plate of pasta as Victor simply watches.

Andrew grates for a full minute before Victor says "When", and he chuckles before he grates some onto his own pasta. He sets it aside and slips into the chair across from Victor.

"Okay, I wanna hear more about the job. You didn't give me a whole lot of details." Andrew twirls some of his tagliatelle into a little ball against his spoon as Victor does the same.

Victor stares out the window across the room, pensive. "Well… it was for the position as assistant to the editor-in-chief for this big fashion magazine."

"A fashion magazine?" Andrew snorts.

"Yeah… I mean, it's a job. Which I really need right now, so I can't really afford to be picky." He takes a bite of ragu, grabbing his napkin and rubbing it all over his mouth as his eyes roll back in his head. "God, this is fucking delicious, babe."

"Thanks… It's just funny to me to think that you almost got a job for a fashion magazine."

"What do you mean?"

"Well… it's just that… you're not exactly the most… fashion-conscious guy I've ever met." Andrew takes a long glug of his wine.

"That's true, but it's not anything I can't learn, right?"

Shrugging, Andrew shakes his head and smirks. "Yeah, I guess. But it's just not you, y'know?"

Victor bristles, pushing his pasta around on his plate as he chews on the inside of his cheek. The last rays of the sun stretch across the kitchen through the window, almost scalding his retinas. "I mean… we've been together what… seven months now? Do you really think I'm that hopeless?"

"That's not what I mean." Andrew's eyebrows join over his eyes, as if forced together by a hammer. "I'm just saying that fashion people are snobby. And you're the complete opposite of that."

"God, don't even get me started… I actually got to meet the editor-in-chief and her… assistant. And it honestly seems like some people don't even live on this fucking planet. Like, she wouldn't even look at me and was basically treating me like I was some sort of inconvenience."

"Oof. That sucks."

"She wasn't even the worst one, though!" Victor slams the butt of his fork into the table, putting an indent in the cheap pine. He grabs his wine, takes a loud slurp, and almost cracks the foot of the glass when he crashes it back down. "Her assistant… I've literally never wanted to strangle someone before, but deadass, he tried me."

"Shit… pulling out the 'deadass'... It was that bad, huh?" Andrew scrapes his place with the side of his fork, and Victor cringes at the noise.

Victor grips his fork so tightly that his metacarpals threaten to break around it. "He was probably one of the worst people I've ever met in my life. And I've met George Bush." He waves his fork around in frustration.

"Okay, now you're being a little dramatic, don't you think?"

Sighing, Victor lets his head plop into his hand. "You're right, you're right. Like he's bitchy as hell, but he's not as bad as some… old war criminal."

"Exactly. Also… when did you meet George Bush?"

"I don't remember, I was like… 9. But that's not the point."

"Yeah, that's fair. Carry on."

"But he's still the worst. Like, there was some other guy but he was less annoying… This guy, though-He told me, to my face, that nothing matters because I didn't get the job. And he basically called me soft and unfashionable, which like… I mean I don't know anything about fashion, I just wear what I like, but I am not soft. For Christ's sakes I'm from East Harlem-"

"Babe… babe. Chill." Andrew reaches across the table, taking Victor's hand in his own and squeezing it gently. "You don't need to prove that you're tough. We both know you are. Plus, what does it matter what some asshole fashion magazine guy thinks of you? He'd probably cry over a broken nail."

Victor grimaces. "That's lowkey misogynistic, man."

"Look… alls I'm sayin', is that it's okay for you to be pissed off. Like, these people sound like they suck. Just keep on looking; you'll find something better."

"Yeah. Yeah…" Victor sighs, putting the last bite of pasta into his mouth and chewing slowly, pondering. He swallows after a long moment. "It is kind of a shame, though, because the salary is really, really good… Almost six figures. We could finally afford a bigger apartment than this… shoebox. Like maybe somewhere in Park Slope or something, by Pilar and Shelly's place."

"That would be the dream, huh…" Andrew says wistfully, pushing his empty plate aside before stroking the side of Victor's hand with his thumb. "Maybe I can ask for a raise at the restaurant or something. But we'll see…"

"Not a bad idea."

Andrew pauses, raising his almost empty glass of wine and motioning to Victor to do the same. "But yeah… here's to better opportunities that don't involve having to deal with complete assholes."

Victor raises his glass, winking at Andrew as a grin splits his face like a crag through the sky. "Yeah, you're right. Here's to never seeing this… dickhead ever again."

A loud wail cuts through the air and Victor feels around his leg before slipping his hand into his pocket. He pulls out his phone, frowning at the 212 number he unfortunately recognizes, before he stands up, kicking his chair back so it screeches against the hardwood floor. He presses the little green button to start the call.

"Hello?"

"Victor."

The voice on the other end makes Victor's blood run cold. His palms sweat and the phone slips from his hand. He thrusts out his hand to catch it, juggling the device for a moment before he brings it back to his ear.

"Hey. Hi. Uh. Sorry. What's up?" Victor prattles.

There's an exasperated sigh on the other end accompanied by a short pause, before Benji speaks. "I realize this is late notice, but Mia wants you to come in tomorrow morning. I'll call you at 6:30 sharp with more details."

"6:30 like… 6:30 AM?"

Benji snorts. "Goodnight, Victor."

"Tha-Huh?"

The line goes dead before he finishes his thought. Victor pulls the phone away from his ear in disbelief, raising an eyebrow as he peers at the "7:02 PM" on the screen.

"What just happened?" Andrew asks.

Victor can only gape at him like a dead fish for a moment.

"I think I got the job?" he finally says.

They stare at each other in a stunned silence for a few seconds before Andrew rises from his seat and wraps his arms around Victor's middle, lifting him up off the floor and spinning him around a few times as Victor has no choice but to cling to his shoulders, giggling as Andrew presses a kiss tasting of tomato and wine to his lips, even as the tips of his toes graze the edge of the mattress.

The kiss deepens as Andrew places Victor gingerly back on the floor, his head spinning as the wine sets itself upon him and makes him lighter and heavier all at once. When they pull away, panting, Victor swallows the lump in his throat and steps back, carding his hand through his hair.

"Shit. That means I need runway model clothes."

"You need a ball gown to bring people coffee?"

"I mean… I might."

Andrew rolls his eyes, taking both Victor's hands in his own, swinging them back and forth. "Well… I know something that doesn't require any clothes…"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep… and it's just over there…" Andrew pulls Victor gently by the hand toward the bed. "Unless you still wanna go for ice cream…"

Shaking his head and chuckling, Victor shoves him backward onto the bed before he climbs on top of him, sitting between his legs and humming when Andrew's hands roam across his back and tug the bottom of his sweater vest out of his trousers and over his head. He leans down to kiss him again, letting Andrew unbutton his shirt quickly before he peels it from his shoulders.

Victor peers up at Andrew's dark eyes over the top of his glasses before he undoes his belt and unzips his jeans, tugging them off his hips. He smirks mischievously as Andrew threads his fingers through his hair and grips at the roots. His head drops back against the pillow, leaden, before he gasps, hands trailing down Victor's inked up back, across vines and thorns and roses, leaving behind white lines that turn red in their wake.

"Hey, babe. Where are you? I tried getting in touch with you like five times since this morning and you haven't responded. When you get this message, can you please call me back? Bye."

Benji sighs, rolling his eyes and pocketing his phone before he opens the closet beside the door. There's only one other jacket left beside his and he glances over his shoulder to Mia's empty office before pulling his own biker jacket off the hanger.

It's his favorite, black, leather-real, not the faux kind, he isn't some hippie-Saint Laurent, of course, like a lot of his wardrobe, and deceptively warm and fluffy inside, like a blanket against his prickly skin. Normally, it would go for a good $5,000, but he'd received it directly from the maison in exchange for a glowing editorial in last year's special issue of La Frontière.

"Rahim?" Benji calls as he slips into his jacket.

"Yeah?" Rahim pops his head out from the doorway across the room.

"What are you still doing here?"

Snorting, Rahim strides toward him carrying a stack of freshly-printed pages between purple lacquered fingers. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Hilarious." Benji fixes the collar on his jacket before grabbing his scarf from the hanger. "But seriously. Why are you still here? It's almost 8."

"Just trying to finish picking out photos for the J Lo x Comme Des spread. Mind your business." But Rahim's words lack bite as he plops down at the desk beside Benji's.

Benji raises an eyebrow. "That's not due til next week, though."

"I know." Rahim shrugs, spreading the pages across his desk and sighing. "I have other shit to do for Mia, though. It's never-ending…"

"Yeah… I mean, now that we're getting that new assistant, I should be able to help more."

"We have a new assistant?" Rahim scowls, his entire face recoiling.

"You know, that dork who came in earlier? Who looked like our hot math teacher from sophomore year but sorta dressed like a grandpa?"

Rahim's lip twitches as he leans back in his chair and stares at the stark white ceiling. "Mr Ibarra? I mean… I guess I kinda see it… Also, did we ever have a male teacher who you didn't have a crush on?"

"Leave me alone." Benji rolls his eyes, running his hand through his hair. "At least Mr Millstone didn't read the love letter I wrote to him in front of the class."

"I'm literally about to murder you right now." Rahim covers his blushing cheeks in his hands and groans as Benji giggles sadistically.

There's a lull after a moment and Benji clears his throat. "But yeah. That guy from yesterday… I mean-I don't get it, but fine. Mia's mind works in mysterious ways, so I guess we'll just have to trust her judgment…"

"She doesn't listen to us, anyway."

Outside, somewhere nearby, a siren blares, the red and blue lights cutting through the night air. Benji startles, gritting his teeth, before he takes a few steps toward Rahim's desk and rests both palms on the smooth surface.

"I feel like she's starting to lose it. We're gonna have to hold his hand through everything. Like… he probably doesn't even know what 'kitsch' is. And he's the epitome of it."

"Girl, come on, you can't even spell 'kitsch'."

"I can too-Fuck off. It doesn't even matter, though, 'cause he won't last." Benji shrugs, standing up straight and resting one arm across his chest as the other elbow perches atop it and he rubs his fingers along his chin, twitching as his fingertips run over his stubble.

"You could stand to be a bit nicer, though, don't you think?" Rahim says, swatting at Benji's hand. "We've all been in the same place, not knowing shit and having to learn or risk sinking. We should cut him some slack and actually help him out a little."

Benji shrugs. "Maybe if we make him miserable enough he'll just quit and we can get someone who's actually competent."

Rahim glares at him, picking up the little square of sticky notes from his desk and chucking it at Benji, who dodges it gracefully, as they land on the floor with a plop. "You're a cunt."

"I'm just saying! I don't trust that he'll have what it takes."

"Well, too bad. The decision's been made. So at least try to look happy, okay?"

"Fine."

Motioning to the pile of sticky notes lying in the doorway, Rahim clicks his tongue. "Good. Now go pick that up."

"No way. I didn't tell you to throw shit at me."

Rahim grumbles to himself as he stands up and jogs over to the doorway, crouching down to pick up the notes, before returning to his desk and tossing them aside carelessly. "I'm gonna have wrinkles in my Versace slacks 'cause of you, princess."

"Haha." Forcing a smile, Benji pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances down at the empty screen, his face falling. He shuts off the screen and sighs heavily.

There's another pause, the only sounds coming from shuffling papers and the distant sirens and honking of cars as people make their way out of the city for the evening.

"What's wrong, babes? You seem… miffed."

"Do I even need to say who it's about?"

"Ahh, yes… The elusive Prince Charming," Rahim muses, not looking up from his pages.

"His ass better be in a dead zone or I'll put him there myself…" Benji mutters, pocketing his phone again with a growl. It's pitch black outside when Benji peeks out the window in Mia's office, but the darkness is intercepted by the lit-up skyscrapers growing out of the ground all around.

"Yesss honey, that's right! You're a strong independent bitch who doesn't need a man!"

Benji blushes and rolls his eyes as he leans against his desk. "I wish that were true…"

"Well… it is true. You two have been together for what… ten years at this point, with nothing to show for it? Where's your fucking ring?"

"You know Derek's not into that sort of thing." Benji shrugs, fiddling with the front of his jacket.

"Yeah. And that's the same thing you say every time."

"Then stop asking?"

Rahim narrows his eyes, stacking the pages up again and putting them on the corner of his desk. He rises, shaking his head as he adjusts the bottom of his blazer. Benji tilts his head as Rahim crosses the room to the closet and opens it, pulling out his long, blue Armani overcoat.

"Okay, well I changed my mind. I'm actually done for the day…" Rahim says to himself, slipping into his jacket. He turns his attention to Benji, eyebrows furrowed. "Honestly… I'm a little worried about you, Benji."

Benji bristles, crossing his arms over his chest and averting his gaze. "Well, don't be. I didn't ask for your pity."

"You're right. Sorry." Rahim holds his hands up in surrender before he glances around the office. He offers Benji his arm, smiling apologetically. "Shall we get out of here and you can tell me more about what an ungrateful bastard your man is?"

Rolling his eyes, Benji loops his arm through Rahim's. "I swear if y-"

Benji's pocket vibrates as the sharp melody of his ringtone cuts through the air. He scrambles to pull his phone out of his pocket, reading "Derek" on the screen before he answers it, heart racing. He takes a deep breath.

"Hello?"

Rahim mouths 'Derek' with a raised eyebrow and Benji nods vigorously before he holds up his hand. A relaxing piano melody plays in the background and Benji holds his phone away from his ear with a grimace.

"Hey, baaaabe," Derek's low voice slurs over the music. "I just got your texts… and emails… and voicemails… and my mom called me asking if I was still alive?"

"Are you drunk?" Heat rises in Benji's face and he licks at the backs of his teeth. "I just wanted to know where you were. I didn't hear from you all day."

Narrowing his eyes and scrunching his face, Rahim drags Benji out of the office before he shuts the lights off and locks the door.

"S-sorry, B. My phone was on… silent. I've been… looking for venues for the band. I thought I told you."

"I'm pretty sure you didn't say anything but okay. Whatever. What's done is done."

Derek chuckles over the phone. "Why d-don't you come by… and I'll, uh… I'll treat you to dinner to make up for it?" he pauses, hiccuping, before he continues. "And then… then I'll take you to YSG or whatsit called-y'know that designer you like tomorrow if you want and you can pick out somethin' nice for yourselffff."

Benji and Rahim walk arm in arm through the corridor to the lift. Rahim presses the button to call the lift and they wait. But Benji can't stop himself from pressing his tongue into his cheek as he rolls his eyes.

"It's YSL. But fine. And this better be the last time. Just tell me where you are."

There's a pause before Derek says something muffled on the other end. "S'called 'Savant' or somethin'."

"Cool. See you in a bit."

Benji doesn't wait for a response before he ends the call, just as the elevator arrives on their floor with a loud ding. He groans and drops his phone back into his pocket.

"Lemme guess… he got drunk and invited you out when you'd much rather just go home and relax, so he can spend money on you with the hope that you'll forget he's been ignoring you all day, and then you'll get home late and let him fuck you before he passes out on top of you and you hate your life? Did I get it?" Rahim says, almost giddy with excitement as they enter the lift.

"Exactly." Benji grimaces, peering at the dark circles under his own kohl-lined eyes in the mirror as he runs his hand through his hair. "But at least I'll get a new jacket out of it."

"Okay…" Rahim says sarcastically, eyelids heavy on his face as the lift reaches the ground floor. He mutters more to himself than Benji as the doors open: "This is all very healthy."

Benji exits the subway at Spring St alone. Rahim had taken the E train in the opposite direction toward his apartment in Bed-Stuy, triumphantly proclaiming his plans to cry himself to sleep into a container of Ben & Jerry's while watching Grey's Anatomy.

"Where the fuck is this place?" Benji mutters, peering down at the directions on his phone as he wanders off to the side of the sidewalk, ignoring the blaring of horns from taxis as they whizz by.

With a sigh, he twirls around and follows the little arrow on the screen for a moment, before pocketing his phone-he doesn't want to look like a lost tourist. After a few minutes, the lit-up sign reading 'Savant' leaps out into the darkness and Benji speeds up his gait, pulling his scarf closer around his neck as he pushes the door open and the wind picks up, disturbing his carefully laid hair.

He blinks in the dimness as he enters a swanky cocktail bar with piano music playing more quietly now, just loud enough to not drown out the chatter of the patrons within. Fixing his fringe and unzipping his jacket so the warmth can embrace him, Benji glances around at the ornate leather couches lining the walls with low, round tables before them.

"There he is!" comes a voice from up ahead and Benji pauses in his tracks.

Taking a few steps closer, Benji squints and spots his friend Milo, with the pink streak in his long hair, waving at him from one of the couches.

"Hey, guys," Benji says as he stops in front of the table, fiddling with his hands as he looks for a spot to sit, only to realize there's no space.

Derek giggles and grabs him by the hand, pulling Benji onto his lap without warning as Benji goes rigid against him, putting on his best forced smile.

"I was wondering when you would finally show up, you loser," Coryn says, tossing her blue hair over her shoulder.

Chuckling, Benji drapes his arm over Derek's shoulder as Derek pulls his face toward him for a sloppy kiss tasting of beer and whisky. He grimaces but he doesn't pull away, even though he knows he should, because it's simply too intoxicating.

"Did you want a drink, babe?" Derek asks, wrapping his arm around Benji's back and bringing him closer.

Benji shakes his head vigorously and grits out: "No, babe. How many times do I have to tell you I don't drink?"

"Okay… fine, no need to get bitchy, damn…"

He doesn't respond, eye twitching as he instead reaches down for the menu sitting on the table. He opens it and peers down at it. "What do they have that's good here? I'm starving."

"I don't know…" Milo says with a shrug, leaning over to pick up a fry from the platter on the table. "But did Derek tell you we're performing here tomorrow night?"

"Oh. Uh… Cool," Benji says, waving over a waiter from across the room and ordering himself a salad; it's the only edible thing on the menu.

"You'll be there, right?" Coryn asks.

Derek squeezes his arms tighter around him and Benji nods, clamping his lips closed to suppress a yawn. "Yeah, of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Yesss! It sucks that you have that boring ass job and you can't play with us anymore, B," Milo says. "Our new lead singer sucks compared to you."

"Yeah, you don't even technically need to work," Derek says with a chuckle as he claps Benji on the shoulder.

Shrugging, Benji forces a smile, thinking about the bank account not even Derek knows about. "I know. But I want to."

Something about his words makes their friends burst out laughing and Benji laughs along, even though he doesn't know why.

Eventually, Benji's food arrives and he scowls as he picks at it. Derek has another beer and he's sipping it and laughing drunkenly, his legs unsteady under Benji. Coryn tells a joke and Derek laughs so hard, he throws half his beer all over Benji's shirt, the cold wetness jarring him from his meal and Benji gasps, frozen in shock for a moment as he swallows the lump in his throat.

"Ugh, what the hell? You just got beer all over my fucking-new Saint Laurent shirt," Benji says, grimacing as he grabs a cloth napkin from the table. "You know, the one I paid $750 for?"

"Sorry… I'll get you a new one," Derek mutters, scratching the back of his head.

Coryn dabs at his shirt slowly with another napkin, eyeing him with a raised eyebrow before Benji snatches it from her hand and puts it in Derek's hand. "Don't just sit there, help me."

"All right, all right… I got it… no need to yell."

"I'm not yelling," Benji snaps, taking a deep breath and holding it before exhaling as he pats his shirt. "Actually… I think it's okay now… Don't worry about it."

Milo scowls, sitting back against the couch and resting his elbow on the back of it. "I never thought you'd become the type of person who freaks out over their fancy designer clothes."

Benji bristles, glancing at Derek, who gives him a blank look. He forces a laugh, his brain heavy with exhaustion. "I know, right?"

Even though he'd been counting down the minutes until they could finally leave, Benji doesn't know what time it is when he and Derek return to their condo in Soho, where they're so high up, the noises of the city don't reach them.

Covering his mouth with his hand, Benji yawns as he strips off his outfit and puts on his designer flannel pajamas, only managing to button one button before Derek's mouth is on his, and he instinctively wraps his arms around his back as they fall into the pile of pillows on the bed.

Sighing, Benji presses Derek down, kissing the side of his neck as he straddles his lap, before he's shivering and naked again and Derek scoops him up, holding him close as he rolls them over, so Benji is peering up at him in the dimness.

He spreads his legs and pulls Derek by the chin into another kiss, gasping quietly and arching his back as Derek holds him down so hard his hands disappear into the mattress, and fucks him just the way he likes.

His legs are sore when Derek falls asleep with his face pressed into the crook of his neck, and Benji can't stop himself from letting his fingers thread absently through his short dark hair as he stares up at the ceiling, not really seeing. He shuts off the light on the nightstand behind him, the expansive space of their apartment somehow strangling him.

When a lone tear trickles from the corner of his eye, Benji wipes it away hastily with his wrist, cursing to himself before he closes his eyes, the familiar weight on top of him becoming more foreign with each passing moment.