Anniversario

“I don't think we should do the Academie and the Uffizi on the same day,” Justin said.

I circled my tongue in the hollow of his hipbone. Okay.

“Because those are really going to be like the two Florence highlights, art-wise, so we probably want to split them up.”

Okay. I raked my fingernails up and down his sides, and he shuddered and squirmed and was blissfully quiet for a minute.

“And we can go to Siena one day,” he said. “See the frescos. We're doing our last night in Milan, right?”

I sighed, moving my mouth up to his nipple. Yes.

“So we can see The Last Supper while we're there. I heard you have to buy tickets and then it's kind of like a lottery system to see if you get in, though. But Milan will be great anyway. Shopping for you. I heard they have this sculpture—”

I raised my head. “Justin.”

“Yeah?”

Shut up. I said, and covered his mouth with mine while he laughed.

**

Emily flopped down dramatically on our couch, her legs askew like some sort of scrawny, badly-dressed doll's. What am I even going to do here all by myself? she said.

Bother Cynthia for the both of us. Move, you're on my book.

She scooted over. You gone. Derek gone.

We're gone for five days, Justin said. I think you'll survive.

Woe is me, Emily said. Woe, woe, woe.

She's just fishing for us to bring her back presents, I said to Justin, stuffing my book into my carry-on. Don't listen to her.

Justin said, What about that girl you met? Spend time with her. Have you seen my earbuds? he asked me.

Second drawer of your desk where I put all the crap you leave lying around. There's a girl?

There might be a girl, Emily said. I'm not sure yet. She sighed. How will you even get by in Italy without your lovely assistant?

You're not my assistant.

It's not too late to invite me, she said. I could carry your bags. Plan your days. Win the hearts of every Italian in a ten mile radius.

Oh, is that some service you offer me?

You could use the competition, Justin said. You're getting rusty.

You're going to regret that little remark, I said to him, and he laughed.

Emily said, Seriously, how does this even work? Do you speak Italian?

I learned a few words, I said.

Justin ticked them off on his fingers. Deaf, gay, allergic, sex.

What other words do you need? I said.

Emily nodded seriously. I've never said any other words in my life.

Justin rolled his eyes.

Very good, I said. Maybe you should be my assistant.

She grinned.

**

Justin went on his usual journey deep inside his head that he usually does when he's in crowds while I got our boarding passes. He looked around the terminal with his eyes slightly narrowed, like all these people were part of a puzzle he was trying to figure out. I waved in his face for a good five seconds before he snapped back to life. You good? I asked.

Yeah, I'm good! He smiled, bouncing a little. “Noi andiamo in Italia!”

I rubbed a smile off of my mouth. Sunshine, that was the worst thing I've ever heard.

“Grazie.”

Dear God.

I'm excited.

I pecked his cheek and counted pills out of my pocket. Excited to be drugged?

Oh yes, always. We'd had enough success sedating him for a few shorter flights at this point that the plan was “okay, that, but more.” I dropped a handful of pills into his palm—a carefully selected cocktail of sleeping pills, muscle relaxants, decongestants, and his emergency, shut-down-your-system anticonvulsant. He'd been in charge of planning it all, but given that his short-term memory is noooot fantastic, we're both more comfortable with me doling out the heavy stuff. His pill bottles at home have timers on them that tell him when he last opened them, which took us far too long to figure out.

He swallowed them with the last of his water and tossed the bottle in the recycling. Party time.

I tugged on his ear. Let's get through security before you collapse.

Good plan.

He has to get scanned with the hand thing and patted down because his skull's all bolted together—titanium, fine for MRIs, not fine for metal detectors—and he always gets antsy and flinchy about it, I don't really know why. I stood close and kept an eye on him, and the TSA agent with his stuff held up a few pill bottles and asked him if he had the prescriptions for them. Normally I let him navigate this shit on his own, but considering he was already nervous and getting a little slow from the meds and him getting tazed by the TSA would be a rather dour way to start this trip, I got his attention and signed it for him.

“Oh, front pocket of the bag,” Justin said. “That one there.”

The TSA agent found them and nodded. “Okay. You're good.”

Justin sat down and pulled his shoes back on, hands shaking a little despite the meds. I hate talking to strangers.

You speak really well, you know.

He gave me a look. So if I didn't speak well, I'd be right to be embarrassed?

Don't try to trap me. I slung his bag over my shoulder. Are you? Embarrassed?

I don't know. It's hard to explain how it feels to like...have no proof that you're saying what you think you're saying. I just hate it. It feels like I'm out of control.

You talk all the time with me, I said.

I don't need to be in control with you.

**

Our plane was delayed, only by about half an hour, but it was enough so that Justin was really, really struggling to stay awake at the gate. “Fuck,” he groaned, sinking his head into his hands, and I laughed and put my palm on his back.

Just go to sleep, I said once he looked at me.

You're not going to be able to get me on the plane if I do. Once I'm out, I'm fucking out.

You're not very big, you know.

He yawned. That's not what I've heard.

I laughed. And they say I'm the one with the dirty mind.

Stop touching me, that woman across from us already looks like she's ten seconds away from calling a conversion camp swat team to take us away.

Nah, she's just watching the signing. She wasn't, but...I don't know. I have some kind of pathological need to protect Justin from this, as if he doesn't have a more vivid picture of this shit than anyone.

When do you think we're boarding? he said, his signs all sluggish and running together.

Okay, you're slurring your words. Come here. I manhandled his head onto my shoulder and fixed the woman across the from us with a stare. “You mind? He's tired.”

Justin adjusted himself on my shoulder. “Y'say something?” Slurring his words, what did I tell you.

No, I signed into his palm, and he laced his fingers through mine, and I let him, mostly to piss off the lady.

I got him up to board, nudging him through the tarmac and to first class, which I got mainly so I'd be the only one Justin puked on if he couldn't sleep through the flight. He bunched himself up against the window the second he was sitting down, and I bullied him into putting earbuds in—it helps him with the changes in the air pressure to have his ears covered—and drinking some water, since he was about to be unconscious for six hours until we got to London.

“Love you,” he mumbled.

You're drunk.

“Mmmmmmmmhmm.”

He settled against me as I sat down, and I mumbled, “Oh Lord,” and put my arm around him, and we stayed like that all the way to London.

**

Overall, the flights were a success. He woke up once and felt like crap on the way from London to Florence, but I managed to coax him back to sleep with threats and well-timed ginger candy. Customs took forever, and he was a groggy mess that probably had the TSA people thinking I drugged him up to kidnap him international waters, but whatever. Eleven hours later, we were walking into a hotel room in Florence.

“Still tired,” Justin said, collapsing on top of the ornate bedspread while I took a look around the room. There was a huge bathtub, a minibar, and a tiny balcony that overlooked a gray cobblestoned street. These comically small cars rolled past, and a woman across the way was selling flowers and yelling at everyone who walked by. There was a view of some massive chapel through down the way, and the sunset made everything red and purple. And then there was Justin, half-asleep on the bed, mumbling things he couldn't even hear into the pillow.

Not too shabby, Kinney.

I came over to the bed and crawled on top of him, turning him over onto his back. He smiled sleepily up at me. I nibbled at his neck, and he said, “Mmm, I'm all gross from the flight.”

I don't care. I kissed him hard, playing with his tongue with my teeth.

He said, I'm so tired, like an apology.

I know, I said. It's sexy.

He stretched. “Okay, you can fuck me, but I'm not gonna do anything.” He was already undoing my jeans.

You couldn't do nothing if you tried.

He chuckled and said, Is that a challenge? and I laughed into his mouth and pinned his arms above his head.

**

We had espresso and churros at a cafe in the morning, and Justin sketched our waiter. Everyone, fucking everyone, was looking at him.

You could really clean up in this town, I said to him.

He shook his head. It's the signing.

It's the hair.

He smiled at me over his cup. Uffizi today?

You're the one who got all the tickets, you tell me.

He scrunched up his face. I feel bad.

Is that worth mentioning, from you?

He threw a napkin at me. Practically all of our plans are art stuff. What's in it for you?

I figured I'd be getting dozens and dozens of gratitude blow jobs.

He gestured carelessly. “A given.”

And I like art.

I know you do, he said, but he still looked unsure.

And we've got some clubs in there for me. I watched a guy give Justin a long look as he passed by our table. Though how I'm going to get any fucking action with you there remains to be seen. Am I invisible? I caught a guy at the counter checking me out. All right, there we go, that's more like it.

You can do clubs at home, though. You need some sort of special Italy experience.

I'm going to eat everything.

He rolled his eyes. Yeah, okay.

I am completely serious, I said. I already signed up for some boot camp thing the day we get home. I'm ready to gain ten pounds in five days.

I'll believe it when I see it.

I'm turning forty next month, in case you forgot, I told him.

How could I, with the regular doomsday reminders? Okay, so it's possible I'd been sending him some rather melancholy texts in the past few months leading up to the dreaded occasion, but I did have the decency to exaggerate the horror for comic effect. If he had to put up with me, the least I could do was make him laugh every once in a while.

So now I can get fat, I said. Utterly give up on life.

Plus, boot camp.

Exactly.

The Uffizi was fucking something. Nothing minimalist about it, that's for fucking sure. I was used to Justin's gallery, with its clean lines and white walls. This was paintings on top of paintings, all in these lavish gold frames. Deb would have felt right at home.

I like the sculptures, I told Justin, circling this one of a mom and a kid. You should do more sculptures.

I'm no good at them.

Really? I kind of figured he could do anything, art-wise.

Really. He tugged my arm. I want to see the Da Vinci drawings, come on.

There was a big tour group in the way of the sketches, though. Justin watched the tour guide with his head tilted. What's he saying?

No idea, I said. God, you can't even tell when someone's not speaking English? You really are just the worst lipreader.

Yeah, yeah. But he looked disappointed that he couldn't get anything out of the tour, and even though in this case that made him like every other hearing American bastard...I don't know, I've got a bit of a hair trigger when it comes to Justin being left out of conversations.

I tugged him towards me by the front of his shirt. He's saying, I said, That Da Vinci was the greatest artist in the world until about 1983.

You are so fucked over me, Justin said seriously. It's embarrassing for you.

Nobody has any idea what I'm saying. I'm supposed to be embarrassed for no one but the guy who regularly pisses himself in front of me?

You're teasing me about seizures?

I'm teasing you about seizures. I'm sorry. Should I tiptoe around them and act like they're not happening? I crawled my fingers underneath his shirt. You're very healthy. It's so impressive.

Fuck me in the bathroom until this tour group is done, he said, and I took him by the hand and led him over the crowd.

We checked out the clubs that night. I got a blow job in the bathroom, Justin got covered in glitter, and we came back to the hotel and fucked hard against the door to our tiny balcony, the moon hanging low in the sky.

**

We took the train to Siena the next morning. Justin sketched me, so I took pictures of him while he made faces, puffing up his cheeks and crossing his eyes.

Siena was full of arts and cathedrals and stories about saints who beat themselves. Catherine's the patron saint of fire protection, turns out, which I got a kick out of. Told Justin he should pray to her, and he nudged me with his shoulder and touched the scars on his chest.

Do you ever miss church? he asked me at one point, head tilted up to a painted ceiling.

Hi, I'm Brian Kinney.

Maybe we'll go to temple with Gus next time we're in Pittsburgh.

Uh, maybe you will.

We got postcards for Emily and Derek and Daphne and Gabe—you don't know him yet, more on that later—and Michael and Debbie and Gus. I got a pair of leather driving gloves and Justin looked through some silk scarves, draping a white one around my neck and looking at me thoughtfully.

Oh yeah? I said.

Yeah, he said, and he bought it for me.

We ate dinner outside, lit by candles, back in Florence that night, and Justin savored his one glass of wine and watched in amusement as I fucking devoured the most amazing gnocchi you've ever dreamed of. You weren't kidding, he said.

Nope. You still gonna fuck me when I'm fat?

Sure. He nodded towards the bar. That guy might not, though.

I turned around. There was a guy leaning against a stool watching me. He was good-looking—a little old for my taste, but hell, I was probably a little old for his. I'm making peace with it.

You have a good eye, he said.

Justin sipped his wine. And he has a friend.

So he did, and the two of them were watching the two of us.

I turned back to Justin and raised an eyebrow. You're gonna break your rule?

Eh, what are vacations for? he said.

I stood up and dropped money on the table. I'll be with you the whole time.

He drained his wine glass. Yeah, we'll see if they even speak English, he said, and I slapped his ass on the way to the bar.

**

Turned out they did speak a decent amount of English, and the sex was phenomenal, and after we kicked them out I tried to drag Justin off to a shower, but he whined and pulled me back on top of him. Tomorrow, he said. I'm tired now.

You're all sticky.

So are you. He put my head on his chest. “I don't mind.”

Oh, you don't mind? I kissed the hollow of his throat and he slung his leg overtop of mine and I had a hard time minding too, it turned out.

I should have paid attention to him being too tired to shower, though, because he had a seizure a few hours later, a pretty major one. I jumped awake to half of his body shaking, his breathing coming in harsh gasps.

“Hey, hey.” I turned him onto his side and reached over him to turn the light on, resting my hand on his hip until it was over. He wasn't unconscious, doesn't lose consciousness unless it's a really bad one, but he was confused and pretty out of it, moaning softly when I got out from under him and brought him some water. I know, I said, which is fucking stupid, really, because I know exactly nothing about what having a seizure feels like. But I always end up saying it. I know it sucks. Let's take a deep breath, okay?

He nodded and breathed and drank some water.

There you go. See? All good.

He set the glass down. “Back to sleep.”

Sounds good. Come here. I turned the light off and settled him in the crook of my arm. He was asleep again pretty immediately—I should really just figure out a reliable way to trigger a seizure and do that before flights, save us the time figuring out meds—and hell, you're probably expecting me to say I stayed awake all night watching him breathe, but that's not how shit works around here. I fell back asleep in under ten minutes.

I didn't wake up until almost eleven the next morning, and Justin was still asleep, so I ordered room service. When I was up answering the door I heard him get up and and go to the bathroom. Hey, I said when he came out, and I'd set the cart up by the foot of the bed. Feeling better? He was wearing the hotel robe and his hair was all pushed off to one side.

He stretched, rubbing his eyes. “Okay. Sore.” Was it bad? I don't remember anything.

Not terrible, not great. Come eat.

He lifted a lid off a plate and smiles. French toast.

That's mine.

You don't eat French toast.

You're really not getting how this works. I crammed half a piece in my mouth to make him laugh. It worked. Fuck, that shit was good.

Justin stretched, arching his back on the bed. I kept an eye on the swath of skin in the split of his robe. Are we seeing David today?

Yeah, if you're up to it.

“Mmmhmm. Just...slowly.”

We ate breakfast, and showered, and he blew me to convince he was in perfect working order, and we set off for the Galleria dell'Accademia. There's a small room of the main hall with some other sculptures, but for the most part it's really just David there. Justin circled him for ages, taking in every inch of him, and I...I don't know. Took in Justin, for the most part.

He was quiet after we left, doing that drawing in his head thing he does sometimes, and we wandered down narrow streets without any real destinations, looking in shop windows and dodging vespas. He touched my arm after a little while and asked if we could stop for a minute, so we sat on a curb and watched the people go by, his face turned up to meet the sun.

Are you happy? he asked me eventually.

What? Of course I'm happy.

You're quiet.

I gave him a look that would hopefully let him know what a fucking dumbass I thought he was. Yeah, I'm quiet when I'm happy.

He gave me a look back and then was quiet for a while. You know cats? he said finally.

I really should have saved that look. Because Jesus Christ, how are you supposed to keep a straight face around this kid? You know cats?

Heard of them, I managed to say.

I read somewhere that they don't feel happiness like humans do. Or like dogs, even. They're either content or they're not content. They're never like...joyous.

I raised an eyebrow. So I'm a cat, is that it?

Maybe.

You're the one who does the purring around here, I said, nipping his earlobe, and he laughed and leaned into me.

We wandered around a little longer, grabbing lunch at a cafe, then stopping at the San Lorenzo market, where I got a belt and Justin got this leather jacket I couldn't stop touching, and he talked me into a set of china plates even though half the time we eat out of take-out containers. Whatever, they'd look nice in our cabinet.

We went into this strange apothecary because they had air conditioning for Justin and thirty kinds of anti-aging lotions for me. There were a ton of signs in Italian, blackboards, banners, and Justin pulled up the place on his phone to see if he could find information in English. Check it out, he said. They'll custom-mix medications for you if you tell them your issues. Like that place in Chinatown.

I dabbed some lotion on the back of my hand. Luckily, that's no longer a treatment I require.

Maybe they'd make something for me, I said.

You can't even take vitamins without breaking out in hives, but yeah, let's get you on some weird herbs in a foreign country. Speaking of— I swiped some lotion on him. Let me know if you die from that before I buy it.

He flicked me. I'm going to find somewhere to sit, okay?

Yeah. I sampled a couple more lotions, decided on the first one, and swept back around to collect Justin. He looked pale, I realized, and it kind of dawned that a low-key day full of endless walking around really only counted as low-key for one of us. Give me a break, okay? He's so fucking annoying with his not complaining thing, and I'm still sort of new at this. I took our bags from him and pulled him up carefully by his wrists. Let's get room service for dinner, I said. I looked at the menu today and there's this pasta that sounds really good.

You should probably eat something other than pasta at some point.

No. It's Italy.

He looked up at me as we stepped outside, his eyes big and clear. I know what you're doing, you know.

Okay, so let me.

He sighed. Okay.

He picked at his dinner back at the room, and I could tell he was in pain. I gave him some space to zone out in front of the TV while I returned some work calls—one of the strange benefits of a Deaf/hearing relationship is that he can watch TV on mute and I can scream about my fucking incompetent office manager Marcus on the phone and neither of us is bothered by the other—and when it was over I pulled him up and out of his clothes.

“Brian...” he said.

I laughed a little. I'm not fucking you. I don't need a murder charge.

“I wouldn't die. Probably.”

I put my hands on his shoulders and led him into the bathroom, where I had the bath tub almost full. I tossed one of the pharmacy bags at him.

He looked. Bath salts?

Yeah. I pulled my shirt off. Supposed to help with muscle aches. I got the menthol ones, so it's manly. I bared my teeth at him, and he wrinkled his nose.

I got a bottle of wine from the minibar and we passed it back and forth in the tub. He was between my legs, his back against my chest, so we couldn't talk much, but I could feel him relax against me, some of the knots in his back and shoulders let go. He turned around after a while, wrapping his legs around my waist and easing me into a deep kiss.

“Mmm,” I said. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He brushed his thumb underneath my eye, and I leaned into his hand.

Today's the twelfth? I asked.

He nodded, a little bit of a smile on his lips. Four years.

I ran my hands through his hair, watching the dark streaks the water left.

“I love you,” he said.

That's good.

He laughed, this startled, fucking beautiful sound, and kissed me as I sunk us both under the water. Later, I lay him in-between cool sheets, and fucked him as gently as I've ever done anything.

**

We had plans the next day. It was our last day in Florence before we left for Milan, and we were supposed to go to the Palazzo Pitti and the Boboli Gardens, then see the Gucci Museum before we bought something fancy as fuck to wear to this fancy as fuck place where we'd had to get reservations three months in advance. And it was clear about five seconds after Justin woke up that none of that was going to happen.

Look, it sucks, but it happens. It's part of the life.

It's a lot bigger of a deal for one of us than the other one, that's what I'm trying to say. God help me, I'm not thirty and raging about spending the occasional day relaxing anymore, and I don't have to deal with the guilt thing that he does.

We have done, done, done this dance, and there's just nothing new I can say at this point. He always has to prove something to some invisible peanut gallery. We, for some reason, have to care about what the world would think about shit that no one's seeing but me and him. Every time we cancel plans because Justin doesn't feel well, I'm the saintly supportive partner, and he's the killjoy not trying hard enough.

“I can do it, I just need a minute.” He was sitting up in bed holding his head, shaking a little just from the effort of holding himself upright.

Sure you can. Lie down.

I can do it.

Or you can drop the Polly fucking Anna routine and save us both some time. Go back to sleep.

It's our last day in Florence, he said. And we're going to spend it in the hotel room?

I gave my sultriest look. If I'd had it my way, we never would have left the hotel room in the first place.

I'm guessing this isn't the way you meant.

I don't know, hot twenty-something in my bed? I'll take it how I can get it. Now would you fucking lie down? I turned the TV on. Look, we have Netflix. You want to watch your murder show?

“Yeah.” He lay down, finally, his head against my arm. “Maybe we can go out later.”

Sure.

He was okay, really; he just gets tired, and he'd overworked himself yesterday, and if we were home it wouldn't have been a big deal at all. He would have lay around and slept and I would have gone out and done whatever I did normally. He didn't need a chaperone. But I didn't have a lot of interest in going to those museums on my own, and he gets nightmares sleeping alone in strange places, so this was fine. I got a head start on some work, watched his dumb murder show, and spent plenty of the day curled up around him.

He got better as the day went on, but part of what was wearing him out so much was those tiny seizures, his hand clenching and twitching, and they don't look like much at all to an outsider but they're rough on his brain. By the end of the day he was feeling pretty okay, but his hand was just about useless.

Come to the restaurant, I said. You can eat left-handed.

He shook his head. “I don't want to go out like this.”

Come on. No one's going to notice your hand.

He sighed. “You should go. You could still make that reservation.”

I snorted. I'm not going to sit alone in a restaurant like fucking...Bruce Willis's wife.

It took him a minute. “Sixth sense?”

There you go.

Nice, he signed, his left hand moving against his clenched right.

We were out on the balcony, and Justin was smoking in that pissed-off way he does, and I was running out of patience with gently reassuring him that I wasn't not mad at him. I know he can't help it, I know it's a brain injury thing and a chronic illness thing and just a fucking him thing, but Jesus Christ, the endless apology cycles wear me down like nothing the fuck else. It is not in my nature to be sweet, it's just not, and this kid will drain every fucking last drop from me. Just fucking let me be here without it being so goddamn commented upon, Christ. Just fucking sit there and smoke your cigarette and let me be here.

And okay, yes, there was that extra edge of frustration about the fact that he fucking could go out at this point and was just choosing not to.

“You shouldn't be trapped in the room all day,” he said.

Jesus, I'm not shackled up in here like fucking...

“James Caan.”

I smiled. Very good.

And yeah, okay, we could be doing this at a restaurant instead, but who fucking cares where we are, really? He thinks I want to be somewhere else?

“You should at least check out that club,” he said. “It sounded good.”

A club's a club.

“Brian.”

“Justin,” I said, not kindly, but how would he know.

“Please, just go out for a few hours? I just need...I need to not ruin the trip, and—”

Christ, how many fucking times do I have to—

“I know,” he said. “But I don't feel it, so can you just go? Can you just go have fun?”

I pinched my nose. This is really what you want?

“Yeah.”

I...okay. But I'm bringing back food and you're going to fucking eat.

He lit another cigarette. We'll see.

I batted his cheek on my way out. “Take it easy with those.”

“What else do I have to do?”

**

The club was fun, and the guys were hot, and the sex was decent, but none of those details are important to this story so we'll skim. Honestly it was a good night but nothing noteworthy. It's like a told Justin; a club's a club, no matter what town.

It was a while until I got back, that's what's important to our little tale, though I did have some pastries from this bakery I passed that was still open. Justin was on the couch when I came in, trying to sketch something, but he was shaking his hand out once a minute and he looked frustrated.

I stretched out next to him on the couch and nuzzled his shoulder. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he said. “Did you have fun?”

Yeah. I tossed his sketchpad to the side and nuzzled at the waistband of his sweatpants. He slid down underneath me, a hand in my hair.

“Tell me,” he said.

Some day you're just going to let me blow you without a conversation.

I know, you really suffer.

I sighed and rested my chin on his stomach. I went to that club you read about. Guys were hot. Fucked some damn kid here from Greece on Spring Break.

Hot?

Yeah. And then I walked by the Arno.

Pretty?

Yeah. Lit up with these beams of light.

He sighed, turning away from my mouth. I'm sad.

I can help, I said, and he nodded, but I...I don't know, I couldn't get my head back in it. I kissed him once and sat up, and he lay there looking up at me.

What? he said.

What the fuck do you mean, you're sad? You told me to go, and now you're telling me you're sad?

I can't be sad?

Why the fuck are you telling me you're sad?

He looked at me like I was crazy. I tell you everything.

I knew it, I said. I knew this was a fucking test. I stood up.

It wasn't a test! Can't I have a fucking feeling that's not about you?

I don't know, Sunshine, can you?

He narrowed his eyes. Very nice.

I'm sorry, you're suddenly someone independent?

“Fuck you, Brian.”

Not to fucking mention, if you'd wanted to come out you could have fucking come out! You're awake, you're feeling better, you could have fucking come.

I can't go fucking dancing right now.

I suggested coming out to a dinner that I planned fucking months ago, not going to the club. And you said—

Yeah, I didn't want to go out when my hand was acting up.

Nobody out there fucking gives a shit about your hand! Nobody's looking at you!

He sighed, this fucking annoying thing he does when he wants me to know how utterly patient he's being. I couldn't sign.

So talk! So the fuck what!

“I don't like speaking in public!” he said. “You fucking know that!”

Nobody's fucking judging you! Nobody's listening to you! These people don't even speak English!

“That's not the point.”

Oh, and I'm guessing I can't understand the point because I'm just some fucking hearing asshole. Don't bother explaining your special little Deaf world to me.

Don't worry. I won't.

I started to walk to the bed to get my clothes off and turned around, halfway out of my shirt. You know what I don't fucking get?

A lot?

Fuck you. I don't get how you're all fucking delighted with your chronic illness identity until you actually fucking have symptoms, and then you don't like it. So why exactly is it that we're fine with you being sick, Justin? What exactly is it about this that you like?

“Cut it out.”

Because this is fucking part of it, I said. This is fucking all of it, what else is there? Feeling special about being part of yet another fucking minority?

“Being fucking sad sometimes is fucking part of it! And guess what, I can fucking do it on my own and it has goddamn nothing to do with you!”

Don't I fucking know it has nothing to do with me!

“We wouldn't be fighting if you weren't so fucking obsessed with finding hidden meaning in everything I say! I say go out, you should fucking go out! Not everything is a goddamn test, not everyone is fucking you!”

Then don't have me come home to you fucking pouting on the couch!

“I'm not pouting!” I said, and he was starting to cry now. “I'm just fucking angry!”

There. There it is.

“I'm not angry at you, you fucking goddamn asshole!”

Convincing.

“Well, I'm fucking mad at you now.”

I'm not fine with you being a fucking hermit because you won't speak to me in public, I said. Stay at home because you don't feel well, fine, but your hand's a fucking goddamn disaster, this is going to keep coming up.

“I know that!” he screamed. “You think I don't fucking know that?”

So deal with it! Don't fucking sit around like some fucking—

“You don't fucking tell me how to deal with this!”

Because I'm not staying at home every night because you won't—

“I TOLD YOU TO GO! I fucking TOLD YOU TO GO!”

I pinched my nose, and he stomped over to the closet and started pulling out his shit.

I said, What the fuck, you're leaving?

“I'm packing for Milan,” he said. “Because apparently I don't get a fucking choice in whether I feel well enough to go, so—”

Great, pack, I said, sitting down on the bed, but his hand had started shaking again, and when he reached up to get his suitcase off the rack on top of the closet it spasmed and he lost his grip on it. It came crashing down, right on his fucking head.

I stood up.

“Fuck!” Justin said, and we just stood there looking at each other few seconds. He said, “Maybe it's fine, we can just wait...”

We couldn't. He knew we couldn't. He knew it was almost definitely fine and we still couldn't risk it.

He sighed. Fine. Let's go.

**

The Florence emergency room was a madhouse at one AM. The receptionist didn't speak any English and just gestured at me to sit down, and there were a host of screaming babies and a lot of bloody gurneys coming through. Justin winced and closed his eyes.

I kept a hand on Justin's back and tried to get the attention of every nurse who walked by, but Justin wasn't flashy and exciting and bleeding from the eyeballs and I didn't fucking speak the language, so it was kind of an uphill battle.

Finally a nurse who looked about twelve years old came and crouched down in front of us. “Do you speak English?” I asked her.

She held her fingers up like 'a little bit.' Good enough.

“He hit his head,” I said. “He has a history...here.” I'd packed copies of his medical paperwork, obviously, so I handed one over to her. “He has to get an MRI when he gets a head injury, you know...MRI?” I fingerspelled it without meaning to, like that would fucking help.

She glanced at the papers and shook her head and handed them back to me.

“What?”

She said something in Italian and pointed us over to a gurney.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay, thank you.” Finally, getting somewhere. I shook Justin's knee and he opened his eyes. Over there, come on.

He sat down on the gurney. This is fucking stupid, I'm fine.

Well, maybe next time you won't throw a goddamn hissy fit and try to move heavy things when your hand's acting up.

Fuck you.

The nurse took his blood pressure and temperature and looked at his eyes. She asked him what seemed like a question, and Justin looked up at me, like I was going to be any fucking help.

“He's Deaf,” I said. “Sordo.”

She said, “Oh, I'm sorry,” in Italian, which I decided to pretend I didn't understand. I tried to show her his medical history again, but it was clear she couldn't read it, and she said something about a doctor and left.

We need to find someone who speaks English, I said. He was rubbing his head. Are you getting a headache?

He nodded.

Fantastic.

“Leave me alone.”

Well, look who's speaking in public.

He held up his spasming hand in something resembling a 'fuck you.' I sighed and held it between mine.

The doctor took about an hour to see us, during which Justin felt steadily worse and ended up curled up with his arms around his head, and I hassled every nurse in the Italian equivalent of the tri-state area, but nobody knew more than a few words of English and nobody would fucking look at the papers I brought. Justin was deteriorating right in front of me, and for all I fucking knew his fragile as fuck brain was swelling, and I had no way of telling anyone here that he wasn't just some normal guy with a bump on his head.

Finally the doctor came over, and he did a quick exam of Justin's eyes and his reflexes and told me in halting English that he looked okay and he could go home.

I took a deep, slow breath. “He has a history of head trauma,” I said. “His doctor at home says he needs an MRI after any head injury.”

“It's just...it is not serious,” the doctor said to me.

“I know, but for him, it's different.”

The doctor looked at Justin. “He is Deaf?”

“That's not...that's not connected. He has epilepsy, and he's had brain surgery, you know...fuck.”

He wasn't getting any of this, and I felt stupid and helpless and embarrassed and none of that mattered, none of that was as important as making sure Justin got his fucking MRI, but it was still there and it was fucking up my thought process.

“You can go home,” the doctor said to me.

“No, I can't. We're not leaving here.”

He shook his head at me.

“Damn it!” I slammed my hand against the railing of the gurney as he walked away, and Justin jumped and looked at me.

Sorry, I said.

What's going on?

I don't know, he just left.

He shivered. “Brian...”

I looked around the ER. I know. Hang in there. I'm still pissed at you. You can't die when I'm pissed at you.

Yeah, same. What are we gonna do?

Find someone who will look at your fucking medical history. I'll call the fucking embassy if I have to.

Okay.

Stay here, I said, and he nodded, and I went back up to the reception desk. “I need someone who speaks English,” I said to her, slowly and clearly.

She shook her head at me.

“Okay, hang on,” I typed it into my phone and had it say it in Italian for me.

She shrugged helplessly and gestured around. There's no one.

“There must be someone.”

A new nurse had come over to Justin's gurney, I think to try to convince him to leave, and he was miming stuff out for her, trying to make her understand, and she wasn't fucking having it, and he's really fucking good at dealing with hearing people, he's so fucking patient with them, they just have to slow down for a goddamn second and stop being so goddamn uncomfortable with the fact that he's not like them—

I said, “Listen, I know I'm the asshole American coming into someone else's fucking country demanding they speak my language, but he is sick, and I know that you can call a translator or something because we do it all the fucking time with sign language, can you...please. Someone who speaks English, he needs help.”

She just shook her head at me.

“I need help,” I said, and I swallowed all my fucking pride and I turned to this waiting room full of people and I said, “Okay, please, please, does anybody here speak English? Please.”

And this tiny woman here with a tinier kid, short dark hair and these big glasses that reminded me of Emily's, timidly raised her hand.

“You speak English,” I said to her.

She hoisted her kid in her arms. “I speak English. What's the matter?” She was heavily accented but seemed comfortable. Thank God. Thank fucking God.

“I need someone to look at these and explain them to a doctor,” I said, showing her Justin's medical history. “He has a head injury and they're saying it's minor, but I need them to know that his doctor at home says he has to have an MRI and we're not leaving without an MRI. And the drug allergies, here, those are important.”

She looked them over. “Okay. Take the baby.”

“I—” and then the kid was in my arms. “Oh. Okay.”

She pointed at Justin. “He is your friend?”

“Husband.”

“Okay. We'll say friend.”

“Fine, sure, whatever.”

She went back over to the bed with me and started talking in rapid Italian to the nurse. Justin looked at the kid in my arms. Who's this?

I shifted him to one side so I could sign. Barter system. I took him off her hands in exchange for translation services. He's ours now.

Wild.

A doctor came over to find out what was going on, and the woman pointed at the papers and then at Justin. She scrolled her finger down the page, explaining as she went, and the doctor looked skeptical at first but eventually started to nod.

“Okay,” he said to me finally. “He gets an MRI.”

**

They managed not to kill him during the MRI, and we waited for the results in a corner of the ER, Justin dozing on and off and me keeping watch, looking around and all the people in this hospital who thought I was an idiot, who thought I was hysterical and belligerent and fucking stupid, because I didn't speak their language.

At one point he woke up and reached out and touched my sleeve. I held up a cup of water for him to sip and climbed up on the bed when he nodded that he was done. I lay my cheek on his chest, and he played with my hair for a while.

Eventually I looked up at him. Is this what it's like for you all the time?

His eyes were sad and serious, and he nodded a little.

I get it, I said. I get why you don't want to give them any more of yourself than you have to.

He kissed my forehead.

**

The MRI was clear, so they'd probably go on thinking I was a hysterical overreacting idiot for years to come, but whatever. At least we got to get out of there, at around six in the morning. I used the last of my stamina to explain to the hotel staff that we needed to stay another night, cancelled our flight, and we slept for most of the day. I woke up sometime midday to Justin wheeling in a room service cart. I didn't know how he'd managed to order it and didn't feel any real need to ask. He can figure out anything.

I sat up, rubbing the sleep out of my face. You okay? I asked.

Yeah, I'm good. He sighed and sat down for the bed. So much for Milan, then, I guess?

What are you talking about?

He spread an obscene amount of butter on a roll. Our flight's tomorrow. There's no time.

I changed our flight. We're staying another day. I already texted Marie. Sorry. I would have let you do it but I didn't know how long you were going to sleep.

There was a distinct possibility he'd be pissed at me for making these decisions for him, but thank God, he smiled. We're going to Milan?

You think I sat through all this art shit and I'm going to let you bail out of the best shopping because you hit yourself in the head? Not likely. Yes, we're going to Milan.

He licked butter off his hand and smiled at me.

**

Milan was alive. Flamenco dancing, fashion, fountains, and Justin. I finally convinced him to buy him some decent goddamn clothes to wear to work, and I bought enough suits that I could get rid of the two-year-old Armani I'd still been forced to sport when my good suits were at the cleaners. We ate pizza and covered the crusts in olive oil and danced it up at the fucking gayest club we'd ever been to, and there was no back room so I brought him back to the hotel and screwed him until the neighbors banged on the walls.

“Viva Italia,” Justin whispered, and I nodded hard and swallowed him whole.

**

It's how it's always going to be, him and me. We're always going to fight in hospitals, we're always going to pin our own shit onto the other one and yell at each other when we can't yell at ourselves.

It's him, I think. He's big and he's loud and he feels everything and is everything and you can't be neutral around that. You can't.

But I'm thinking maybe it's sort of me, too.

Because, look, just for an example: a couple weeks after we got home, I got back from one of my boot camp sessions and Justin had printed up a few pictures from our trips, nothing too over the top, just a shot of the outside of the Uffizi, one of the street festival in Milan, one of me looking up at David, and he was arranging them on the fridge. He said, “I know, I know, it's kind of...homey. But I want to look at them.”

I shrugged. It's your house. You can put up pictures.

“Okay.”

I watched him arrange these three pictures like it was a fucking surgical procedure for a little while, and then I went into the office and used his nice photo paper to print out one of the pictures on my phone. I nudged him out of the way and made a space for it on the fridge.

He said, “Aw, hey.”

It was one of the ones I'd taken of him on the train to Siena. He wasn't making a face in this one, just looking out the window, his sketchpad on his lap.

Justin? I said, feeling some kind of way. Like there was applause inside of me, or something.

“Mmmhmm.”

I... Hmm. I'm not a cat.

He looked up at me. You're not a cat.

No.

He kissed me with everything in him.