A/N: Sorry about the several day absence. Work's been crazy.

Brian had ended up taking Justin to a tiny French restaurant with just twelve tables. You walked through wrought iron gates and down a short staircase to enter. The owner had placed the tables very close together, so close, in fact, that the servers constantly dodged customers moving chairs backward, coats and purses hanging on the aforementioned chairs, customers returning from the restroom, and other servers. They were always in very real danger of tripping or colliding. The restaurant was tiny not only in width and breadth but also in height. Case in point, Brian needed to duck to pass through the door, and, once inside, his head nearly touched the ceiling.

Why might you ask, would Brian bring Justin here of all places? The restaurant certainly lacked the convenience and even sophistication we all expect Brian to expect. Quite simply, it was a moment of sentimentality on Brian's part. Sometimes when Brian was having difficulty sleeping, he would read. One of his go-to authors was Raymond Carver. Part of the reason was that Carver wrote longish short stories. Long enough to cause Brian to drift off, but short enough to prevent Brian from drifting off BEFORE he reached the end. And …. Carver's main characters were often cold, dickish, and/or self-involved. They often smoked cigarettes and pot and swore. Many felt lonely and isolated … unsure what the point … of anything … was. For obvious reasons, Brian could relate. The best part was that these people always ended up connecting, even if only for a moment before dying. Carver didn't exactly write happy endings, but they were always satisfying (for Brian this meant realistic – NOT wonderful … NOT horrible). And they were sometimes 'hopeful.'

This morning, Brian had recalled a story he'd read a few weeks ago called "A Small Good Thing." It was about a couple and a baker. The baker had made a birthday cake for the couple's son, and he expected them to pick it up that day. Unfortunately, their son was in an accident and was rushed to the hospital that very day. All day the baker called about the cake while the couple dealt with the son's accident and ultimate death. The couple ended up going to the bakery after their son's death (that same day). The three of them had it out. The couple, who were understandably angry at the baker for his unintentional cruelty (repeatedly calling for them to pick up the cake), learned that the baker's entire life was his job. He worked alone 16 hours a day and had no family. Upon learning of the intended birthday cake's recipient's death, the baker reached out, offering the couple a seat in the kitchen, coffee, and fresh-from-the-oven cinnamon rolls. The next day, the couple would need to start grieving, and the baker would still be isolated and lonely, baking cakes for family celebrations in which he would never take part, but right then, in that moment, they were connecting, eating and talking in a small, warm kitchen so bright despite the darkness outside that the brightness felt like daylight.

Brian wasn't exactly sure why he'd thought of that story that morning. Part of it was the simple fact of Justin's being in Brian's kitchen drinking coffee that morning, but it was more than that. Something about Justin's leaving on his own, and so quickly – and about Brian's wanting Justin to leave, but on Brian's terms and timetable … something about Brian's not wanting to appear to desire Justin's company that night (though he did) and his relief and happiness when Justin finally said yes to the date and with such enthusiasm. It was like they were both dancing around something. Both resisting connection, but needing it. Justin was like the couple. He'd gone through a lot in the past couple of years, a tragedy and its aftermath. Yet he was still very much in the world. He had a best friend he lived with, acquaintances at school he was on good terms with. Brian was like the baker. Very much alone. Pretty crappy at really relating to other people. Buried in his work. But still wanting to reach out.

So he took Justin to a small, warm, brightly lit restaurant with amazing food (if a difficult to navigate floor plan). He didn't even balk when the hostess sat Brian and Justin next to the kitchen, greatly increasing their potential for annoyance (having to move to accommodate the servers so no one tripped), since every single server would walk past them who knew how many tens of times.

Justin was thrilled. The setting was intimate. All couples in their own little worlds. So intimate, in fact, that after sitting down, Justin felt comfortable sliding his hand under Brian's, which was lying on the table, and even threading his fingers through Brian's. And Brian did nothing to stop Justin. In fact, he didn't look the slightest bit perturbed. Not even when the server came over to take their drink order. He DID order a Beam (and drain it rather quickly) along with a fairly expensive bottle of white wine (Justin was eyeing the Duck Confit). But that was the only potential sign of discomfort he gave.

And oddly, Brian started the conversation. "I came here my first night in New York."

Justin looked up from the menu, which he had been studying carefully. He had been hemming and hawing (Duck Confit – flavorful duck roast with potatoes, or Bouillabaisse, fish stew). Justin's eyes were wide (other than the sexual exploits Brian had shared during the Pittsburgh trip, Brian hadn't really said much about his past). Justin asked, "Oh?"

Brian nodded. "K&Y had helped me find the loft before I moved, but the electricity wasn't on yet, I had no heat or hot water, and all my shit was in boxes, except my bed, but it wasn't put together yet. I was cold, exhausted, and hungry, so I ventured out. It was kind of late, and a weekday night. Manhattan's fucked up – as I discovered then. Some areas are full of people and open businesses at that time while others are dead, dead, dead. It was snowing, hard. It was really cold, and there was a bitter wind, which, as I discovered, is actually worse here than in the Pitts because of all the skyscrapers. The streets end up becoming wind tunnels. I ended up walking for thirty minutes … I was covered in snow by then and could barely make out buildings let alone people. Then I saw a light. I walked straight toward it. When I got inside, there weren't any customers. Turns out, they were about to close. But the owner saw me, shaking off inches of snow, all chapped and shivering, and felt sorry for me, I guess, because he let me sit down. I didn't even order. He just brought me food. Warm bread, some kind of veal stew, and a bottle of red wine."

That, of course, was not the only 'service' Brian was provided. One of the servers decided to take a more 'hands-on' approach to warming Brian up (in the restroom). Brian decided to leave that part out. He was kind of relieved that that server didn't appear to be working that night. He didn't really need a repeat of what had happened in the Italian restaurant back in Pittsburgh (the waiter had done everything but climb into Brian's lap in an attempt to get Brian's attention).

Justin smiled. "Oh wow …"

"The owner even hung around a bit and talked to me."

"How old was he?"

Brian shrugged. "His 60s?"

Justin smiled more brightly and bit back a laugh. He could imagine how uncomfortable that must have made Brian. Brian was only really good at 'chit-chat' if he could fall back on sexual innuendo – that was where the lion's share of his charm came from. Justin shook his head. "What did you talk about?"

Brian shrugged again. This caused Justin to expect a run-of-the-mill answer. Work … good places to go for various things (since Brian was new to the city). So he was legit shocked when Brian looked down at his tumbler, now empty, and started sliding his finger in circles around the rim, replying softly, "Being far from home, away from everyone, starting over."

Justin gaped.

Brian glanced up and then back down. He shrugged again. "I was used to Mikey, Debbie, Linds, and Gus being around … my old loft … my old job … Liberty Avenue. And he had just come from Marseilles and opened this restaurant. His wife had died and his kids were grown and spread out all over Europe. So he decided to do something he'd wanted to try to do for a long time. He sold everything and moved here."

"Oh wow …"

"Yeah." Brian wasn't exactly sure why he'd had such a strong urge to bring Justin here, or why he was so happy the hostess had inadvertently sat them at the table he had sat at during his first visit. He had no fucking clue why he'd told Justin about that first visit or how he'd expected Justin to respond. But none of that mattered. Some things didn't need to be explainable or even talked about out loud. They just felt right.

Before Justin had a chance to say anything, and he was feeling a strong need to say SOMETHING, but he had no idea WHAT to say – he was quite literally dumfounded – fate intervened. A short man with wiry black hair and an apron burst out of the kitchen and walked toward their table with open arms and a bright smile. Then he boomed, "Well, if it isn't the abominable snowman!"

Brian looked up quickly, and he froze, his eyes widening. Then after an anxiety-filled 15 seconds, he huffed a laugh and broke into a smile. But it was a soft one.