The stairs up to Henry's office creaked under Vito's feet. It was on the second floor of a brownstone building deep in the heart of yet another dusty, crumbling city lost in the rapid pulse of an ever-changing world. He made his way onto the second floor landing and as he approached the door to Henry's office, he could make out the baritone voice of his new- Vito was hesitant to call him his lover- speaking to someone over the phone. His knuckles hovered over the door as he tried to make out pieces of the conversation.

"No, yeah, I know… Jesus would you calm down, it's not like- Yeah. Yeah, I know… It'll only be a- stubs and we get them back. We've run this before… He'll be fine with- shut up. I said he'd be fine with it… Fine. Call me back tomorrow."

Vito felt like now was the time. He rapped on the door three times before twisting the knob and pushing it open. He peeked in through the cracked doorway as Henry ended his call and stood looking out the window into the white, foggy city. The stark white created a silhouette around Henry's brown suit and Vito couldn't help but to admire the shapes. Henry's wide shoulders against the windows, the shadow of his spine between two sharp shoulder blades, that angry posture… Vito paused to look.

Henry hadn't seemed to notice that Vito had knocked or had entered. Maybe he hadn't knocked hard enough. There was the smell of tobacco in the room and a slight haze. Vito's eyes looked to the ash tray that Henry had on his desk- it hadn't been there when he had come to see him last week. He must be smoking again. As Vito approached, he could see the bounce in Henry's body from shaking his leg, something he did when he was angry. Vito tucked the handful of flowers he had under his arm and placed his palms on Henry's back, slowly weaving their way to his tense shoulders. Henry didn't startle.

"Hey, Scaletta," he said, slightly turning his head around to Vito. The italian raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"What, you didn' hear me at the door or nothin'?" He playfully squeezed at Henry's shoulders, the muscles loosening under his wide fingers.

"Heh," Henry smirked, turning back to the windows. "Somethin' like that." His leg stopped bouncing and they were left alone in the room with the haze and themselves. Vito watched just past Henry's ear, his eyes trailing down his partner's neck, past his well-trimmed sideburns, past the five-o-clock shadow, and down to his collar. There was something about it, something about that slight curve… Vito pressed his nose against Henry's shoulder and inhaled. His suit didn't smell fresh, as it probably hadn't been dry cleaned in a few weeks. But it smelled like Henry- it smelled like Henry's sweat, his skin, the inside of his mothy closet. He didn't hate it for not being fresh; he liked it for being worn.

"What are you doing back there?" Henry barked.

"I'm gettin' a good whiff," Vito tossed back.

"Jesus Vito," Henry sneered, brushing him off.

"And damn, you need to shower. You smell like cigarettes and unwashed hands. How many times you been to the bathroom today?" Vito took a step back to joke.

"I smell like unwashed hands, huh?"

"I would know," he admonished, raising his eyebrows. "I never wash mine."

Henry's face cracked with a small, pleasant smile. A second sigh escaped through his nose and he cocked his head, raising his arms. "Come here, Scaletta."

Vito had been waiting for this. He placed the handful of flowers on the desk and walked forward into Henry's embrace. Henry's large arms wrapped around Vito's shoulders and Vito wound his arms up from under Henry's armpits. His fingers reached for the fine silk of the brown suit for just a little more tension, something more to bind them together. Vito could feel Henry take a deep breath in, and when he released it, their arms loosened and Henry broke away.

"How was your day," he asked as he turned, resting the back of his thighs on the desktop.

"Oh, you know, super eventful." Vito fixed his cuffs and place his hands in the pockets of his blazer. "I went to the supermarket. Did you know those things had booze?"

Henry rolled his eyes.

"What about you, then. What did you get up to today," Vito pressed. He was hoping to hear about the conversation over the phone.

"Just some business. You know how it is." This answer was lackluster, but there was nothing hidden in Henry's eyes. Vito bobbed his head up and down.

"Ok. Just business." He turned to the desk and gestured at the ashtray. "You smoking again?" he asked, looking up his brow at Henry.

Henry shook his hand. "Nah, I had a visitor." Vito blinked. There were three cigarette subs in the tray. Either he was smoking again, or the guest had been there for long enough to have three cigarettes.

"Who'd you have over?" he pressed on.

"Just someone Falcone sent over." Just someone Falcone sent over. Then who had he been on the phone with? "Why," Henry straightened up, taking a step forward, "You jealous?"

Vito scoffed. "Maybe I fuckin' am eh?" Henry smiled again.

"So you ready to go yet? Gotta do your hair still?"

"I'm the one who came here," Vito replied, "you're the one that needs to get ready."

Henry looked down and regarded himself, raised his arms, and did a turn. "Y'know I gotta say, I think I'm ready."

"Just lookin' out for my future wife," Vito shrugged.

Henry let out a brief snort of laughter before standing up and walking to Vito. He clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's get going then." Vito reached out for his meager amount of flowers, yet Henry cut him off. "You're not bringing those are you?

"Well, I-"

"They better not fucking be for me." His tone was stern and his eyes were set right on Vito's.

"Nah," he quickly scrambled, "they're for Franny."

"They better be." He turned to the door and as he walked out, Vito could hear "Fuckin' flowers."

They took turns scanning the radio on the way to the Mona Lisa. Henry drove again, as he drove every time they had gone out. It was only their third date, but Vito was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to be the driver, or if Henry would let him. Maybe that shit about "future wife" was serious. Maybe Henry saw him as a woman. Maybe he wanted Vito to stay at home and wait for him and greet him with a Tom Collins when he got home from the office, with a "how was your day dear" and "let me take your coat dear."

Moonlight Cocktail played on the radio as they pulled onto the street and parked. From the corner of his eye, Vito caught Henry's knuckles tighten around the steering wheel; he had done this each time they had gone to the Mona Lisa. He was always tense when they pulled up, scared even. Vito reached out his hand and ran it over Henry's. The rough, hairy skin on the back of Henry's hand rubbed against the calloused underside of Vito's palm.

"Hey," Vito called to him. Henry looked away from the neon front of the restaurant and met Vito's eyes. "It's gonna be all right. It's been all right so far, right?" He wasn't lying. Each time they had gone out, no one had seemed to notice. That was, except for when Franny had caught them out together, but even then, she hadn't suspected anything of this nature. So long as everyone saw them through the eyes of a professional relationship between two suits, everything would be fine. They would be safe.

"Yeah."

"Then let's go in." Vito encouraged.

"Yeah."

With a caprese salad and a platter of meatballs in front of them, Vito and Henry kicked off their meal. There were only a few other people in the restaurant apart from them, only two other tables on a Saturday night. The wait staff were now used to them coming, so none of them batted an eye. Effectively, there were no threats; but that would never prevent the tension between them. Hanging on every word was masked anxiety, a perpetual fear of being found out- not that either of them knew what would be done about it should they be found out. They were two men living in the moment.

Vito watched the waiter as he dropped off their meals and stared at the salad before him. It looked great, but Henry's meatballs… From Henry's meatballs, his eyes drifted back to Henry's hands, hovering over and grabbing onto his silverware. Henry's large, warm hands. Vito licked his lips. His hand still remembered the way it felt to hold Henry's hand in the car, but he couldn't do it here. He couldn't do anything here. All he could do was talk. Was that all they would ever do?

Henry stabbed a meatball with his fork and raised his knife to it. Vito watched as he sawed the tender meat in half, chewing his lettuce in contempt. Henry smirked.

"Still good with your salad over there?" He teased.

"I like salad," Vito snipped. He was starting to regret his decision. The meatballs looked good today.

"Gotta watch your figure, hm?"

"I heard that men go crazy for an hourglass," he joked. As he said it, something in his chest twinged. He put it out of his mind. He stabbed a tomato and began to chew it. "So who were you on the phone with?"

"What?" Henry asked innocently.

"Before, when I came to get you at the office. You were on the phone with someone." He chewed while staring intently at Henry.

Henry faltered. "What do you mean? It was just some guy Falcone had call me."

"So Falcone had someone visit and call you?" He swallowed and stayed hunched over his plate.

"Yeah." Henry blinked twice. His knife was still stuck halfway in his meatball, a job only partially finished.

"So then, what job are you running then?"

"Jesus Vito, why does it matter?"

Vito placed his fork on the plate. "I'm Falcone too, you know. I'm not gonna snitch. I just wanted to take some interest in what you were doing, jesus."

Henry sat forward, a vein popping out in his forehead, then rocked back in his seat and ran a thick hand through his gelled hair. "Fuckin'... sorry Vito…" He poked at his meatball, still half-cut. "We're running gas stamps again. It's nothing big."

"Oh." Vito didn't know what he had expected but… maybe he had wanted something more dramatic. "You tryin' to drive more kids to jail?" he returned to his salad.

"Only the ones stupid enough to get caught." Henry shrugged, the meatball finally meeting its demise.

"Yeah," Vito mumbled, trying to smile. Something felt wrong. Something felt not like it had felt last week or on their first date. There was something keeping him from being… content. No, he was content. Wasn't he? He was here with Henry, having dinner and a good time. Wasn't he happy? Wasn't this what he had wanted? Wasn't this why he had asked Henry out in the first place? What was even the purpose? He didn't know. He still didn't know why he had wanted to go out with Henry, if this could be called going out. What was the purpose of any of this? Vito wanted more.

The fork paused, hovering over a tomato.

Henry took notice. "You okay, Scaletta?"

Vito wanted more.

The following week, Vito gave Henry the usual planning call. It was made late at night when he knew Joe would be asleep and he would be without interruption.

"Hey Scaletta," Henry answered, sleep in his baritone voice.

"Tomasino," Vito replied.

"Joe asleep?"

"What else?"

"So, the Mona Lisa?"

Vito paused. It was now or never.

"Joe's not home"

"What?" Henry responded, incredulous. "I thought you just said he was asleep."

"Joe's not home tonight." Vito tried to swallow the knot in his throat away. "You could come over. We could have dinner here tonight, maybe."

There was silence on the other end of the line, and a bead of sweat ran down the nape of the italian's neck. He was getting hotter from embarrassment, the blood rushing to his head.

"He's not home?"

Vito's heart skipped a beat.

"Nah, he's over at some broad's house for the night. Wining and dining and I told him not to bring his sorry ass back here to stick it in her." Vito licked his lips. "So what do you say?"

"Do you know how to cook?" Henry eventually asked.

"I mean," he rubbed the back of his neck, "A little. I can cook pasta."

"Hm, that won't work. I can't have my future wife only knowing how to boil pasta." Relief hit Vito like a wave, rushing over his head and carrying him away in the undertow.

"What, do you think you could do better?" he challenged.

"No, but I guess I can put up with some pasta for the night."

"I might need your hand with the sauce," Vito warned.

"You need help with fuckin' marinara?"

"I'm thinking more of alfredo."

"I take it back, I can't come over."

"5 o'clock."

"Now you're just being unreasonable." Vito snorted lightly.

"See you."

"Yeah."

Vito placed the receiver back on the base, a serendipitous smile dancing across his face.

That afternoon, Joe left the apartment at three o'clock on the dot. He said he was meeting this broad at three, but he didn't want to seem too eager, so he would be late. Vito thought it was stupid, but he hadn't come back yet, so apparently she had waited for him and hadn't left him with a curt slap and a turn on the heel. Vito checked his watch. 4:47. Soon. He pulled a kettle out from the cupboard, moving to the sink to fill it with water from the tap. He hauled it over to the stove and turned the ignition, the tap-tap-tap of the gas followed by the distinct rush of a fire catching. On the side of the stovetop, he grabbed a bottle of olive oil and drizzled it into the water, followed by a shake of salt. The way his mamma always prepared the water.

He had a plan for his pasta, and he had a plan for the evening. He had chosen a simple, casual outfit for the evening: a white button-up rolled up his forearm and blue slacks. He had gelled his hair back with Murray's pomade just for the occasion. He also had linguine on the ready to slip into the pot when the water was boiling. He was chopping parsley for the alfredo when he heard knocking on the door.

He opened the door with a towel in his hands, trying to wipe the soggy leaves from his fingers. The door frame revealed a Henry Tomasino in casual clothes. He wore a pale brown paisley cotton shirt with high waisted well-pressed pants. His belt was leather and the buckle was a carved silver. On his arm he had a jacket, ready for any weather.

"Serious? A paisley man?" Vito scoffed, taking a look at Henry.

"Fuck's wrong with paisley?" Henry challenged, lifting his chin.

"Nothing's wrong with it, it's just ugly, y'know?" Vito shrugged. Henry rolled his eyes, unable to hide a slight blush tainting his cheeks. "Here, let me take your coat."

Henry offered the jacket to him, and as Vito grabbed for it, he leaned in quickly, cheek brushing past Henry's eyes, and planted a firm kiss on Henry's rough cheek. The response was instant.

"What the fuck!" Henry growled, pushing Vito back into the counter, causing him to stumble and trip. He hit the floor on his hip and winced in pain. Henry's face was a viscous shade of red, and his arm snatched the door behind him, slamming it closed. "What the fuck Vito?!" he growled, jaw clenched.

Vito rolled his wrist and glared up. "Yeah, what the fuck, Henry." he seethed back. Henry's glare softened and he closed his eyes, tipping his head back. Without seeing, Vito knew the crease on Henry's forehead right now. Henry reached up to rub the bridge of his nose, applying enough force to turn his knuckles white. He exploded back forward with a sigh, arm swinging in a large arc to his side. He opened his eyes again to meet Vito with a soft expression.

"Yeah. You're right. I'm sorry." He offered a hand down to Vito, who eyed it suspiciously before grabbing on. Henry lifted the man up, then further until their bodies collided. His free arm wrapped around Vito's back tightly. "I'm sorry." Vito's arms slowly made their way up Henry's back until they were locked in an embrace. It felt good. It felt better than good. It felt great. He had hugged Henry before, but not like this. He could feel a fire fluttering freely in his belly. After a short while, Henry turned his head, pressing his lips to Vito's neck. Vito held his breath, the blood rushing to the tips of his ears. He closed his eyes as Henry's lips fluttered there for a second, then retreated. Henry pulled away. There was conflict hidden in his brown eyes, but it was muddy. Vito needed to know.

"Jesus, Scaletta, would you learn to close the door first?" A stray hand reached up to rub the back of Henry's neck, as if there was something there.

"I just wanted to treat my future wife to somethin' nice when she got home," he joked. A warning glance from Henry stopped him from going further. He readjusted his sleeves. "I've got linguine boiling right now. You wanna help with the alfredo?"

"I thought I told you how I felt about alfredo," Henry raised an eyebrow. Vito could practically smell the smirk growing at the corner of Henry's mouth.

"You're not a real goddamn italian if you don't like fuckin' alfredo, Henry." Vito shook his head. "I guess you've just been lyin' to us this whole time. I knew that accent was phony."

Henry laughed. Then Vito laughed. Then Henry joined Vito in the kitchen.

"I'm fuckin' stuffed."

Vito and Henry sat collapsed on the recliner and sofa respectively, as deep as each seat would let them slouch. They had become one with the furniture, men in a world of fabric.

"You're tellin' me. Why did we make so much?" Vito asked.

"Why did we eat all of it?" Henry groaned.

"Because it was damn good," Vito replied.

"Eh."

Vito sat up with great effort. "What, you didn't like it?"

"It would have been better with marinara," Henry shrugged.

Vito raised an eyebrow and grimaced. "What a grump. We made it together and you're gonna pretend you didn't put half in?"

"My half was great. Yours? You should take some classes, dear." Vito chuckled. He looked at his hands: two, large hands meant to grab and hold: ten, articulate fingers meant to pick and touch. Two hands that wanted to reach out and grab Henry's shirt. Ten fingers that wanted to run through Henry's hair.

"Hey."

"Hey," Henry mirrored.

"I wanna try somethin'," Vito said.

"Listen, Vito," Henry began.

"I said I wanna try somethin'." He repeated. There was something electric in the way he said it, stunning Henry. He blinked a few times, then loosened.

"Then c'mere," Henry beckoned.

Vito crossed over from the recliner to the sofa, taking a seat in front of Henry. They sat so that their knees touched, Vito with his arms out in front of him, propping him up on his legs. He reached forward with his left hand, gingerly snaking its way up Henry's collarbone and gently up to cup the side of Henry's neck. With his right hand, he reached out to undo the top few buttons of Henry's paisley abomination. There he revealed a chest of wiry black hair. It didn't surprise him. He felt like he had known it was there the whole time. His index finger brushed it, and he could feel Henry shudder beneath him. When he looked up, he looked up into the waiting eyes of his partner, who had not looked anywhere but Vito's face this whole time.

Vito leaned in.

"What are you gonna-" Henry began, but Vito cut him off.

"Just shut up," Vito commanded.

He closed the distance, inching forward smoothly, until he had his forehead pressed into Henry's, until he could feel their eyelashes brush. He worked his way down, until he met with Henry's soft lips. They were cracked and dry, but he pushed his way into them nonetheless. He pressed himself there once, then again. He tried to remember what it felt like when he kissed the girls, what it felt like to give his mamma a peck on the cheek. How did he used to do it? He closed his eyes and parted his lips, trying to press again. He felt confused, lost. He felt hot all over, like he was holding onto an electric fence, too afraid to let go and let the shock hit him. He didn't want to let go, he didn't want to think this was wrong. Then Henry pushed back.

Henry's hand reached up and coiled around Vito's neck in the way that Vito had done to him, aggressively pushing forward. Vito bent his back in surprise, recoiling. Their mouths separated, giving Vito time to blink in surprise. It didn't last for long, as Henry advanced on him again, crawling over Vito's lap to get back to his mouth. Then they kissed. Vito could feel the cold metal in his palm and let go. The electricity hit him. Henry was moving his jaw and Vito did his best to keep up. Soon he could no longer feel the cracks in Henry's lips nor the heat in his ears. He was focused on one thing.

They kept kissing and Vito's right hand made its way back up to Henry's collarbone. He slipped his fingers under Henry's collar, placing his palm on the skin there. He started to peel the shirt back when Henry pulled away. He grabbed Vito's hand and squeezed reassuringly.

"I think that's enough for now."

"Oh. Ok."

"I'm not ready for that."

"Yeah," Vito said, empty. Was he himself ready? How would that even work? Where would he put his…

The thought was cut off as the sound of clattering came from the window. They both startled, throwing themselves back into normal positions. Hesitantly, they looked to the window. There was nothing but the dim lights of a dusty city beneath them and the flickering pinpoints of stars above. Vito laughed, his heart beating from what was panic. Henry joined him until they both doubled over in laughter. Vito's abdomen seized up and he stopped laughing, trying to get enough air to his lungs so as to not pass out. They settled down on the couch, both facing forwards, not looking at each other.

"Thanks for tonight," Vito said. He was always thanking Henry. Why did Henry keep giving him so much?

"Yeah," Henry nodded. "Maybe next time we should do this at my place. Cuz, y'know, no one else lives there." He shot a glance to Vito, who snickered.

"Yeah." Vito let a serene smile light up his face as he looked down at the carpet, clasping his hands on his knees. Tonight was a good night, despite the hiccup at the beginning. Everything always turned out so well. A guy could get used to this.

"I think I better get going," Henry declared.

"Yeah, it's pretty late," Vito agreed.

Before he stood up, Henry leaned over and planted a quick kiss on Vito's cheek.

"What was that for?" Vito asked, the challenge back on his tongue.

"Aren't you supposed to kiss your girl?" Henry smirked back.

"I'm not a girl, Tomasino," Vito jokingly warned.

"Doesn't mean you aren't gonna be my wife someday, Scaletta." Henry grabbed his jacket from the coatrack by the door before exiting. Vito sat there on the couch still, a silly smile broad across his face, unable to be wiped away. He didn't mind though; Henry had a matching one as he had left.

On his way down the stairs, Henry passed a man that gave him an odd look. A man he failed to recognize as Joe Barbaro.