Ridiculous.

"I'll come back."

You tell yourself that what the blonde says is true. Fuck – you know it's true. You don't have to tell yourself anything. But you do need to tell yourself. It's something like a security blanked wrapped snuggly around you when you tell yourself that Justin wouldn't lie to you. You also tell yourself that the beautiful blonde loved you too much to ever leave you forever. He probably wouldn't even be able to go a day without calling you and telling you how much he misses you, misses the loft, misses the country manor, and how much he wants you. It would be followed by hot phone sex – It wouldn't enough.

You would have to go to New York immediately to satisfy your needs. You wouldn't tell him that your needs consisted of needing to see him – you would just tell him that you wanted to fuck him all night. It wouldn't matter though because Justin would know, he always knew, that you had come all the way to New York for more then just a good fuck. You came because he knows that you can't bear to be without him. That you can't breathe without him just like he can't breathe without you. He knows that you love him but you would tell him anyway amidst your fucking him everywhere in his apartment.

Christening it.

The mattress on the floor since Justin can't afford luxuries and he won't take money from you, on the small one person table, the kitchen counters, the floor, the shower. Everywhere. Then you would stay all night knowing that you couldn't go back to Pittsburgh without at least holding him in your arms for the whole night. You would tell yourself that you would leave in the morning with promises of your return lingering behind with your blonde lover. But you wouldn't leave in the morning because he would look to beautiful to leave, lying there next to you completely naked except for the covers resting across his hips and the bright light of the sun seeping through the window.

You would tell yourself that you could leave the next day. And, this time, you do. But before you leave, he complains about his ass probably being sore for weeks to come, you tell him you love him because you want him to know. Even though he already knows. But you want him to hear it. Then you leave and return to the emptiness of the loft. The dark, depressing loneliness that would consume you until you made another trip back to New York. Without another thought about it you would decided to go back for the entire weekend. Let Theodore take over Kinnetic for the short period of time. You can trust him. So – these thoughts swimming in your head – you stare at your Justin.

You want to tell him that he can't leave in the morning. To fuck art. But you know that would be wrong – to deprive Justin of something that he wants. Something that would make him happy. But you ask yourself 'What about me'. 'Don't I make him happy? Doesn't he want me? Why can't he stay here with his precious art?' But you keep all these questions to yourself and know that you have to let him go…or bad things will happen. Justin wants to do this and you'll support him in every way that you can and pretend that he isn't hours away in a new city with hot, rich, young men fawning all over him and his art. You mumble something along the lines of 'we might never see each other again'.

You see a flash of pain flash across his beautiful blue eyes and you wish you hadn't said it. Especially since you don't even mean it. You wish you would've told him that you have every intention of coming to New York every day off and every weekend that he could. But, you realize, he probably already knows this. That's why you can tell he's pretty much going to ignore the statement that you made and kiss you instead. And, as always, once he kisses you there's usually no going back. Once he kisses you everything becomes undone. His clothes are sloppily pulled away from his flesh, and you topple him down onto the bed.

Legs on your shoulders, condom on your dick, and you move inside of him like there's no tomorrow. You push on with meaning, doing your best to hit his prostate every. Single. Fucking. Time. You want, need, to make this memorable so he can remember it always. Just like his first time. The very thought goes straight to your dick. The innocence he had possessed at the time, the innocent look he still possesses. All to your cock as you ram into him with no intention of ever stopping but knowing full well that you'll have to. Even your dick can't stay hard for eternity.

It's then that it feels like your heart is ripped out of your chest, thrown to the ground and beaten. When you see the tears streaking down his face after you both come, the frivolous, hot love making over. Your hand caresses his cheek, thumb moving to wipe away the salty tears from his cheek, wishing that he wouldn't cry because it makes you cry too. On the inside. You can't look at the tears anymore and, instead, wrap your arm securely around his neck, hand playing with his hair, and your face buried in his hair. You breathe in his scent for one "last" time. For some reason – it feels like the last time you'll ever see him.

Ridiculous.

You both know this.

You also know it when you wake up in the morning alone. And, as soon as construction on Babylon is over and the club renews it's 'thumpa-thumpa', you're headed to New York, staring down the road anticipating your arrival. And, when you reach his crappy apartment with a rose in your hand and he sees you – there's no mistaking the tears in his eyes. The excitement in his sunshine smile. The love in the way he throws himself at you and hugs you, kisses you all over your face. Or the want in the way you make love the whole rest of the day, finally managing to convince him away from his art for a few hours.

The very thought of you not ever seeing him again is wrong.

Ridiculous.

Fin.