The bits of pigeon dung and detritus in the corners of the glass bug him and he wishes he could just open the damn window and wash the shit off. He makes a mental note to call the super later, remind him of that cleaning clause in the tenant's agreement. Then he thinks of the noise and clatter and bother of scaffolding being erected and hoisted and poised right there, the bothersome chatter of the men belted in high above the pavement, the irritating squeak of long blades against smooth glass and amends his mental note. It can wait.

He rests his forehead against the window, turning it slightly to one side to make room for the cigarette. The one he lit before the last one was crushed out, and he was suddenly glad he'd bought the new pack last night. At this rate he'd need another pack before the morning was over. It isn't even the nicotine he needs. Or the tar or the plethora of other addictive carcinogens. It's the prop. He needs the prop.  

Outside he can see the bustle of the city's burlesque show beginning anew and he wants to rail at the actors to just shut the hell up, keep their hatches battened and stop trying to fucking pretend it wasn't all just pretense. Instead he watches as Mr. Wong continues on in his farcically pleasant manner, propping up the overhangs as he greets his day and his customers, as he organizes the dailies and the weeklies and the monthlies. As if anyone really needs to know what's happening in this pretend existence. As if it matters anymore.

As if.

"Few more hours of summer." He whispers with difficulty into the tempered glass, delicate puffs of smoke escaping his lips with each word. He looks up at the sky, the one that was darker than he felt it should be at this hour. "Then... the fall." He feels his heart and his gut clench painfully at the memory of another equinox, of that summer/fall night under a lamp post. So many years ago.

"You're talking about the seasons?" The incredulity of the question is not meant to be missed.

"No," he replies, resigning himself to the chill that is seeping into this bones. He knows he needs to become its friend. Knows it will be his companion now, for a while. Forever. "I'm not."

"I'm... sorry." He hears the agonizing sincerity in the voice behind him, but he can't restrain himself. He laughs bitterly at the irony. The purest fucking irony.

He's sorry.

"How long?" He waits. Wanting and yet, with ever fiber of his being, not wanting an answer.

"Couple of months... but I didn't -"

" - mean for it to happen? Expect it? Plan it?" He spits out the words, wondering if the acid they carry would burn through the window pane, give him the escape route he so desperately wants right this minute.

"How big is his dick?" He wishes instantly that he could recall the words, pull them back as they hang between them, shove them back into his mouth before a haunting violin rushes through his head and his body tries to seize.

"Christ!  Is that what you think this is about?"

And the fucking ironic perfection of the moment is sealed. In history. In memory. In stone.

He turns and forces his back against the clear glass, bracing himself on the illusion of nothing behind him. He winces, not sure if it's from the sting of the forgotten cigarette searing the soft skin between his fingers or the undisguised ache on the face of the man before him. He realizes he almost doesn't care. Almost.

"You love him?"

"It's complicated. I..."

"Do. You. Love. Him?"

The silence is palpable. Pregnant with truth and potential lies, with death and the slim hope of life. ‘Lie to me,' he begs wordlessly. ‘Oh, god, please, please lie to me."

But he doesn't lie.

"Yeah... I do."

And it's over.

They had both felt their season shifting. They had both felt the sun's inevitable waning. It had hovered over them. But now...  

He turns away from the eyes that have fired his passion and his fantasy and his fucking life for twelve years. Away from the striking beauty that won't breathe beside him tonight. Away from the hands that won't ignite his body to a frenzied fever ever again. Away from his fucking destiny. ‘I hope he makes you happy,' he whispered inside. And he almost meant it. Almost.

He watches Mr. Wong sell another magazine, a bouquet of flowers. He stares past the streaked glass at what he can see of the New York skyline, the now harsh colors of a new season imprinting themselves before he clinches his eyes shut. He hears the soft snick of the apartment door closing and the empty chill seeps inside him. Again.

Brian is gone.

Summer is over.

Now the fall.