The One Where Justin Gets Better
LaVieEnRose

We'd been in New York for two weeks and Justin still wasn't better.

Now, I'm not an idiot, despite what the vast majority of the non-business-related decisions I've made in thirty-some years on this shitty planet might have you believe. I knew that moving to New York wasn't going to be the magic bullet that cleared away whatever was going on in Sunshine's decidedly un-Sunshiney little mind. But he'd already seemed to have been on the up and up when we left, and I knew that Pittsburgh and the family and the memories there weren't exactly helping him move past his shit, so...yeah, maybe I did think that this was at least going to be a step in the right direction.

Instead, it was starting to seem like that little funk he'd fallen into this winter was going to last forever.

And meanwhile I couldn't stop thinking. Remembering.

Like, for example, the day we found out Justin was losing his hearing and there was nothing we could do. How we sat in that office, his hand in my lap, and stared at the doctor, and I laughed because it didn't make any fucking sense, and then I asked all the questions, and the doctor talked and talked and talked, and Justin didn't say a word.

Could he even fucking hear what was going on?

**

He was still painting, which had to be a good sign, right? I watched him over my coffee cup before I went to work. He was in the living room with his easel set up over the drop cloth, his tongue between his teeth in concentration.

He hadn't said anything about getting some sort of job outside of painting, which was fine by me, since the point of coming up here as far as I was concerned was so he'd really focus on his art, but it was still a surprise. He's usually all up in arms about contributing financially, I would have thought he'd be filling out resumes for shitty diners and convincing himself that bringing home fifty bucks a night was worth wrecking his hand and swallowing all his time.

Maybe he didn't think he was employable anymore.

Maybe he was right.

I kissed him goodbye and went to work and spent the day nodding at things Cynthia put on my desk and Googling things and then not clicking on the results.

Epilepsy depression

Deaf PTSD

head trauma long term effects

gaslighting long term effects

I managed to only text him once to see if he wanted me to bring home dinner. He didn't, but I did anyway, and I called Michael on the cab ride home.

“Hey!” His voice was tinny on his shitty cell phone. “How's the Big Apple?”

My act of charity for the day was ignoring that. “Do you think I meant to hurt him? Back then? Or do you think it was always an accident?”

He paused. “Brian, what the fuck are you talking about?”

I knew I sounded desperate. “Do you think it matters?”

**

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the first time I almost moved to New York after I met him.

How I looked him in the eyes and told him I wouldn't think of him at all.

Did I think I meant that?

Do you think it matters?

**

I came back to the penthouse with Thai food and roses. Justin wasn't in the living room, and for a second I thought maybe he'd gone out and was feeling kind of encouraged by that, but then I heard the toilet flush, the sink run, then him shuffling back off to bed. Great, that's a great sign.

We didn't have a vase or anything straight like that, so I stuck the roses in a glass of water and left the food on the counter. Maybe he'd smell it and come out on his own. The canvas he'd been working on looked a lot different from this morning, so at least he'd gotten some work done today. Yesterday I think he just watched TV the whole time I was gone.

I went over to take a look at it and had to sit down. That's Justin for you. His art will just drag the shit out of you.

It was done mostly in blues and purples, and it reminded me of some of the Picassos we'd seen when we went to Spain a few years ago. Except when you set aside the color schemes—and the quality, yeah, you heard me—they diverged pretty strongly. It was like Picasso was one of those fucking Thomas Kincaide things with the saccharine Christmas scenes, and Justin's was...I don’t know, something you’d see at some genocide memorial.

I went into the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed and hit the mattress until Justin looked at me.

So, I said. You know how you were thinking about asking your shrink to up your antidepressant?

He looked at me warily. “Yeah.”

Any further thoughts on that? Because I just looked at that painting you finished and now I’m thinking about killing myself, too.

Justin glared at me and pulled his pillow over his head. “You’re not funny,” he said, voice muffled.

“Who’s joking,” I mumbled to myself. I came around to his side of the bed and lifted the pillow off his head. He let me. I thought you were thinking about going to see Daphne today, I said. Or finally texting some of those friends of Gregory's.

He just shrugged.

How’s your hand after working on your ode to despondency all day? I held out my hand, and to my surprise he gave me his. It was shaky and rigid, but not too bad, considering. I rested it on my arm and pulled him up by his elbows. You need a shower. Your hair's dirty and you look like shit.

“I probably smell worse.”

Well, I wasn’t going to say anything. He smelled kind of nice, actually—like paint and salt. There’s food when you’re done.

“I told you I wasn’t hungry.”

And I told you I didn’t give a shit. If you lose any more weight it’s gonna be like fucking a teenager again, and I’m not young enough to get away with that anymore.

“Were you ever?” Justin mused.

C’mon. I could use a shower too.

He felt shaky in the shower, fragile. He's this miniscule kid, but he's always had a kind of sturdiness to him, a hardiness that made me not worry about going at him as hard as I can, but right then he felt too delicate for me to fuck against the glass wall of the shower like I wanted to. We just jerked each other off languidly under the water, his left arm tangling up with my right, and when we were finished he tucked his head against my collarbone and I put my arms around him. He was crying a little, which wasn't really newsworthy at this point.

I used his hands to sign, It's going to get better, but he could probably feel how full of shit I was. How the fuck did I know if it was going to get better? I didn't even know what was wrong.

“Do you ever feel like everything is going so, so fast?” Justin said. “But you’re just going so slow?”

I trailed my fingers up and down his back. His skin was so smooth.

“Every day keeps ending and I still feel the same way.”

I lifted his chin. Do you want to do something tomorrow? I think I can get out of work early.

He shook his head. We can go out if you want.

You decide. It’s your birthday.

I don’t want to do anything.

I tilted his head back to rinse the shampoo out of his hair, shielding his eyes with my hand. Twenty-six, I said, after. That was a good year for me.

Yeah?

Yeah, you’ll like it.

He bit me gently on the chin.

I dried him off and put him in warm clothes and let him put his legs on my lap while we ate. He looked thoughtfully at his painting. I guess it is kind of depressing.

I’m just saying, if you decide to show it, you might get slapped with some sort of lawsuit.

“Shut up.”

They’re gonna start putting warnings over paintings thanks to this. You’ve changed art forever.

And here I was thinking nobody was going to remember me when I die, he said, and what the fuck was I supposed to say to that? I just took his foot in one hand and ran my other up his leg, feeling him solid and safe and here.

He was sniffling a lot, which I attributed to the spicy food and the shower crying and the fact that he couldn’t hear how annoying it sounded, until he frowned at the counter and said, What are those?

Oh. I was walking by a guy selling them on the way home. I watched him paw at his nose. And you’re allergic.

He shrugged a little.

Yeah, your eyes are swelling up. I’ll get rid of them. The walk downstairs seemed impossibly long, so I set them out on the balcony to bring down in the morning.

Justin still looked uncomfortable. Why did you get roses?

Because I didn’t have the Justin Taylor Allergy List with me and I forgot. I can’t exactly carry it with me. It’s the size of a phone book.

Did you get them for me?

I put my hands up and let them drop, feeling caged. I don’t know, Justin, what do you think? Do you think I got roses for myself?

Why did you get me roses? He was starting to breathe fast, with this pitiful little wheeze. You hate roses.

Because I thought maybe you’d like them, okay? Jesus Christ, why do you keep asking me questions when it’s obvious there’s no right answer and you're already freaking the fuck out? What the fuck do you want me to say?

This isn't like you. You don't get me roses. You don't get me roses and you don't suggest we fucking wear wedding rings.

Again on the rings.

Because you keep doing weird shit and then acting like I'm the fucked up one for noticing that it's weird!

Gaslighting long term effects.

You’re not going to make me happy acting like somebody else, he said.

When the fuck have I ever acted like someone who doesn't want you to be happy?

A lot, a fucking lot, and you know it!

I clenched my jaw. I have always wanted you to—

I know that, he interrupted. That is not what I said.

I paced. What the fuck am I supposed to act like? Acting like myself clearly isn’t fucking working. I'm just trying—

So stop! he said. Stop trying! Every time it doesn’t work you’re fucking shattered about it. You’re not going to fix this. Please stop making me feel guilty for not being fixed.

And because I didn't want to access my feelings about that, I sneered. Sounds like someone’s learned some lingo from therapy,

Good. At least I’m getting one thing out of it.

Do you have to do that? In the middle of an argument you go and say something so goddamn pathetic?

He shrugged helplessly. What the fuck do you want me to do?

Fight back! Fucking say something!

He stood up and started clearing the plates. I’m going to spend the night at Daphne’s.

Damn it, Justin.

I need to get out of here for a little while.

I sighed and ran my hands down my face. Don’t forget your meds.

I won't.

He packed up some shit and was gone in two minutes, and I sat in the apartment that still smelled like roses and stared at his cry for help painting. And then I got up, went to Nova, our Manhattan Babylon, and got a blow job from the tallest, blondest trick I could find. I toasted Justin's birthday at midnight, alone.

**

The funny thing is, just about exactly seven years ago, when I stood at that flower cart and thought about buying him roses, I remembered his allergies. Don't get all moved here about sweet concerned Brian; I didn't pass on them because I was worried his delicate little throat was going to close up or some shit like that. I just realized it was going to make it even more of a fucking event, that it would turn into a fucking story about the time Brian made a romantic gesture and Justin was allergic to it, that it would get repeated, that we'd all sit around and laugh about it, and just no. No.

Now, Jesus Christ, if I could just get him to laugh about something.

But I did think about it, that night. And then I let him believe I never would have considered it, and that I never, ever would. Fuck, “let him believe,” listen to that euphemism. I fucking told him.

And then I bought him roses when he was unstable and got mad at him when he was upset that his world didn't make sense.

Long term effects.

**

He wasn't back yet in the morning when I left for work, but when I called him a few hours later I could see our apartment in the background.

Hey, I said. Don't talk, I told Cynthia I was going over some briefings.

He leaned back against the couch, looking sleepy. Okay.

What'd you get into last night?

Tequila and board games. You?

Some stud's mouth.

Hot. He yawned.

How's your birthday so far?

He shrugged.

I can still get off early, I said.

It's okay. I'm just going to sleep, I think.

Not feeling well?

Another shrug. Getting a headache.

You need to go to the neurologist.

I know. He paused. I'm sorry about last night.

I freaked you out. It's going to happen. You're not especially hard to scare.

I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed and worked through shit. He rubbed his neck. My mom always did that. She and my dad would fight and she would walk out.

Knowing your dad I can't really blame her.

I know. But it didn't help.

I'm just trying to get through to you, I said. It's been fucking months now, me just trying to...break through whatever's going on.

He sighed. I know. I'd explain it to you if I could.

I know you would. You'd explain fucking nuclear physics to me if you could.

It's just bad right now.

I drummed my fingers on my mouth. Let me take you out tonight.

He shook his head.

We can invite that couple you met. Daphne's friend and her boyfriend. They were insufferably boring, and straight, but they were Deaf and Justin's age and I would take any of that I could get right about now.

I don't want a party.

It's not a party. Four people. Two of them are us.

He shook his head again. I'm just really tired.

I sighed. Okay.

But maybe...maybe you can come home early?

It was all I could do not to close my eyes and thank some God I haven't believed in for thirty years. Yeah, I can do that.

We hung up, and instead of getting my shit together and getting through all the work I'd need to have done to be able to clock out early, I leaned back in my chair and let the relief I was feeling slowly ebb away because I'm just as incapable of as Justin of enjoying anything, it seems, and because something about that conversation was really, really fucking bothering me.

Because if Justin's emulating Jennifer in our little scenarios...what does that make me? You see what I'm saying?

In a burst of whatever-the-fuck, I scrolled through my phone, found her number, which for some Godforsaken reason I had saved, and called Claire.

She sounded similarly surprised to have my number. “Brian?”

“How's the homestead?”

“It's...fine. I'm on my way out the door, though, I have a shift.”

“Are you back at the bank?” She used to be a bank teller, before her piece of shit ex-husband decided she should stay home with the spawn.

“Since last year.”

“That's good.”

“Brian...”

“Did you think I would end up like Dad?” I asked. “Did you just...when we were kids. Is that something you assumed?”

Silence. Then, “Did you hit Justin?”

“Of course I didn't...how do you know that name?”

“He comes up when you google yours.”

“Why the fuck were you googling me?”

She sighed. “I'm your big sister. I have to make sure you're okay, don't I?”

I chewed on my cheek. “I'm in New York now,” I said, feeling like I owed her some bit of information. “Moved here a few weeks ago.”

“Okay.”

More silence. Why the fuck did I think this would help?

“No,” she said. “You were never like him. You found your own, unique ways to be an asshole.”

“He used to get her flowers all the time,” I said. “To apologize, or whatever.”

“I remember.”

“Do you think all shitty men do that?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Trust me.”

“Mmm.” My hand twitched on my lap, desperate to say something. Since I've started signing I just fucking say things; it's awful. “Listen, back then, if I had done what your kid said I did...you were right to stick by him. To believe your kid first. Mom would never have done that for us.”

“Well, that's true. So I guess we'll keep being shitty in our own ways, then.”

“What a relief,” I said, and we laughed together for the first time since we were kids.

**

The ultimate irony of Justin running away to Daphne's was that two weeks later, when I was dying for him to go, he wouldn't.

I had to go to a conference in Houston and I was going to be gone overnight. In my opinion, it was pretty fucking reasonable for me to not want to leave my Deaf, epileptic, profoundly depressed partner alone for a night in a city we still didn't know well, and since he couldn't come with me without spending the whole plane ride puking, gallivanting over to his best friend's for the night seemed like the most obvious solution. Justin disagreed.

“I don't know if you know this, but I have spent a night alone on my own before,” Justin said. I was standing behind his easel while he dabbed on paint and looked at me disinterestedly when I signed.

Yeah, that was before you were having seizures and making art that looks like the last conscious thoughts of the Donnor Party.

“It was not before I was having seizures,” he said mildly. “And you're exaggerating.”

I don't know why this is a problem. I was under the impression you liked Daphne.

“I have work to do here.”

So ask her to come here.

“She has school. It's not a good night.”

Okay, I'm sorry Houston didn't schedule the conference around when was convenient for you and Daphne.

He gave me an irritatingly patient look. “I'm not asking them to, Brian. I'm asking you to accept me spending a night on my own like I have done many, many times in my adult life. My adult life that I still have even though I'm disabled. So please stop treating me like some sort of child you need to find a sitter for.”

This is not about you being disabled and you fucking know it.

“Then why bring up the seizures?”

Because I'm a little more comfortable talking about them than saying I don't want to come back here and find you in the bathtub with your fucking wrists slit.

“Again,” he said. “You're exaggerating.”

You keep telling me you don't want me to worry about you, I said. Then make a fucking concession so I don't have to worry that you're okay! Just fucking go to your best friend's house, why won't you fucking do one thing for me?

He glared at me. “You have no idea all I fucking do for you.”

What's that supposed to mean?

He stopped painting and spread his arms wide. “Have you walked in and found me in the bath tub with my wrists slit?”

I stared at him.

“Okay then,” he said, and he went back to his painting.

That is fucked up, I said. You cannot say that shit and then tell me I'm not allowed to worry about you.

“I haven't said that in a long time.” He didn't look at me. “I just said I would be fine on my own for a night.”

I set my jaw and watched him work and wondered how the fuck I was supposed to go a night without being able to touch him, without being able to hold this son of a bitch in my two hands and know without a shadow of a doubt that he was here and breathing and alive.

Maybe I should cancel, I said.

“You can't.”

Maybe if...

“This will be good for me,” he said. “I need to prove to myself that I'm okay on my own.”

You're not an experiment.

“I know.” He looked at me. “I'll be fine.”

**

And he was, all through my day in Houston. I sent him a text every few hours, just updating him on my day, not enough that he'd feel like he was being checked up on, and he always answered pretty quickly and sounded all right. He called me before he went to bed, while I was still in the cab on the way back to the hotel, and he looked sleepy and sexy and he told me he loved me so that was, y'know, nice.

But I woke up in my hotel bed in the middle of the night with an awful taste in my mouth and a worse feeling in my stomach, and I snatched my phone of the nightstand and called Justin without stopping to analyze. I told himself to stay calm if he didn't pick up—he usually sleeps with his phone under his pillow so he'll feel it if it vibrates, but sometimes he sleeps through it anyway and sometimes he forgets—but he answered after the second ring. He was sitting up in bed, the lights on, and it was clear I hadn't woken him.

Hi, he said.

Christ, I thought you were dead, I said before I could stop myself. Traitorous fucking hands.

He stared at me. “What?”

Nothing. Why the fuck are you crying?

He wiped his eyes. Why are you awake?

I didn't have a good answer for that, so I just said, I asked you first. Dream?

He shook his head. I haven't slept.

Goddamn it, Justin. You have to sleep.

That was clearly the wrong thing to say. I know that! I'm trying! But I can't and it's stressing me out and it's making it worse.

Okay. Come on. You're okay.

I'm sorry. Jesus fucking Christ, I'm such a fucking goddamn useless piece of shit, how are you putting up with this? Nothing's wrong with me and I've been fucking crying for three months.

You think I wish something was wrong with you so you'd have a better reason to cry? That's pretty fucked up even for your current brain situation.

I meant more that it'd be better if I wasn't crying at all, jerk. But at least that wouldn't be so fucking embarrassing.

Knowing you you'd find a way to be embarrassed. C'mon, lie down.

He did, propping the phone up in front of him. I don't know what's wrong with me.

Yeah, me neither. It's not the move. It's not me getting in that accident.

He shook his head. It started before all that.

So what is it?

I told you. I don't know.

Well...what does it feel like?

He didn't answer for a minute, then he finally said, his voice small, “It just feels like something's wrong.”

**

Is it me? I asked, when I couldn't fucking stand it anymore. I took my shoe off and threw it at his feet so he'd turn around. Is it me?

He furrowed his brow, paintbrush in his mouth. Do you have to throw hard things at me? Can't it be, like, a napkin? Or I don't know, get up and walk the three feet between us?

Is it me? I said again.

Christ, is what you?

I gestured at him. You. Then at this week's Incredibly Depressing Canvas. That.

He put his paint down and sat on the arm of the sofa. Brian, what are you talking about?

I've been doing everything I fucking can to convince myself it's not about me, I said. That the problem isn't that you don't want...you know, to do this anymore.

Justin still stared at me like I was speaking something other than one of his two languages.

But you don't want to wear the rings. You didn't want to go out for your birthday. You freaked out when I got you roses. And I'm thinking...I'm thinking maybe it's me.

Brian. Look at me.

I am.

I love you. It's not you.

I searched for words. Well even if you...did I mess you up? Did I fuck you up for life?

I have no idea what you're talking about.

You know! Did I make it so like...so that you can't trust anything anymore? Did I fucking...torture you psychologically for years and now you're a fucking mess and you're never going to be happy again? Did I break you?

He slid from the arm of the couch to the cushion and took my hand. Okay. You did not break me. If not for you...God, if not for you there'd be nothing of me to break. God, Brian, you made me.

I took a few deep breaths, nodding, but then said, That would be a lot more comforting if the 'you' I made wasn't miserable, dear.

Yeah, I know. He swallowed, thinking. And about the rings...

We don't have to talk about it.

He shrugged. Clearly we do. I've just...I've been thinking lately about how you're older than me.

I felt like I'd been punched. Oh God, it is me.

Brian.

You just gave me all that shit about how it's not me and now you're telling me it is me?

“Brian,” he said sternly. “Shut up and listen to me.”

It's hard to disobey him when he uses that voice. It's amazing; he hasn't forgotten how to do it even a little.

“I've just...” he said, and then he shook his head and started signing. I've been thinking about how you're twelve years older than me so you're probably going to die before I do.

Probably, yeah.

He stared at me significantly.

Okay...? I said.

So that's it. I keep thinking about how you're going to die and I'm going to have to bury you.

You...okay. Let me get this straight. You don't want to wear wedding rings because I'm going to die first?

It's not that I don't want to wear them, I just...I keep picturing having to plan the funeral and then lowering you into the ground and how that will be the last time I ever see your ring, when they're putting you in the ground, and I'll just be standing there wearing mine and now it'll be the only one left in the world because you're dead.

What if I promise to kill you first if shit's looking pretty dismal for me? Would that be better?

I was kidding, obviously, because what the fuck else was I supposed to do when I was this fucking uncomfortable, but he replied, “Yeah,” right away with nothing but absolute goddamn simple sincerity, and fuck, it just cut me right open and left me lying there.

I took a minute to steady myself, absently brushing his hair back out of his eyes, and finally said, Sunshine. You know how you were thinking about talking to your doctor about upping your antidepressant?

Yeah.

It's time to do it.

I don't know if—

No, I said. No more discussions. You're sick and you need some help right now.

He sat next to me on the couch and rested his head on my shoulder, and I'd bet a million dollars that right at that moment we were both thinking the exact same thing. One of my favorite signs: Finally.

**

Things didn't get better right away, but they did get better, so you can all relax too.

His neurologist and psychiatrist worked together and messed with the dosages of his anticonvulsant and antidepressant, which basically meant jacking them up quickly and backing them down until they found the lowest dose he could tolerate. For two weeks or so, during the adjustment, he was kind of a zombie, but he told me he was okay, so we pressed on. They kept lowering it for about a month until he had a pretty significant seizure and started the crying thing again, so they nudged both meds back up a little and he stayed there.

It wasn't a perfect solution. His hand still crapped out on him a couple times a week. He still got migraines. And he still sometimes got that faraway look on his face or left his laptop open to tabs about genocide and animal abuse and other shit his doctor told him to stop obsessing over.

But he didn't want to die anymore.

**

Near the beginning of April, he got in touch with that gallery owner who knows sign language who'd loved him they met the year before. Her son is Deaf and a few years younger than Justin, and through him Justin met most of the people he's friends with now. And even though she didn't have any slots available to show Justin's work yet, she hired him to be her assistant, scheduling shit and screening works for the gallery. I wouldn't have guessed Justin would be that excited about a behind-the-scenes job, but he was thrilled.

It means she trusts my taste, he told me that night at Shake Shack. And it means that... He shrugged, blushing.

I nudged him. That what?

That I can get some job besides...I don't know, working for someone who has a reason to want to accommodate me or...I don't know, teaching ASL to kids. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but...

But it's not you, I said. This is you.

She didn't hire me because she feels sorry for me, yeah. He sipped his milkshake. It's just a relief I'm still in here.

I bit into a fry, studying him. Do you want to do something tomorrow?

Sure, like what?

No, I mean like, do something, do something, I said, and I stared at him waiting for him to get it, my eyebrows raised.

I watched him put the date together in his mind. Shit, really? he said. We didn't do anything last year.

I snorted. We barely did anything the year before that. I just figured...we didn't do anything for your birthday, I can handle some ridiculous display once a year, so maybe...only if you want to. Sue me, so I'm a little nervous about throwing him off his game nowadays.

But he reached across the table and tapped his fingers against mine.

Please stop being so scared of me now, he said. I promise. It's getting better.

He looked at me so intensely, and I stole his milkshake to swallow the lump in my throat and was very, very grateful that these conversations happened in a language no one around us could understand.

Happy anniversary, he said.

Happy anniversary, you shit.

**

Two years ago that day, we'd gotten up early, dressed in our finest jeans and ratty t-shirts, and driven ourselves up to Vermont and gotten hitched. Justin was carsick and cranky and we argued about music most of the way up and stayed in some crappy motel he paid for. Even though we were still talking then, we looked up how to say “I do,” in sign language before we got to the state house and signed it out for each other while some bored secretary married us in about two and a half minutes. We gave each other a perfunctory kiss, walked out into a cold, sunny afternoon, and had lukewarm delivery pizza as our big post-wedding meal, after we fucked up an appetite. We stayed up late looking for gay porn on the motel's pay per view and drove home in the morning, stopping at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription Justin no longer had to worry about affording.

It was, I am absolutely certain, the greatest wedding this world has ever seen, and you fuckers can eat your hearts out.

**

I took Justin to the ballet.

I know, I know. I'm such a fucking goner for this kid, it's goddamn ludicrous. The fucking ballet? But hell, I was already going to do it for his birthday, and then that didn't work out, so I figured I'd already made the mental leap, might as well see the smile on the fucker's smug little face.

And God, was he fucking entranced. I couldn't give less of a shit about ballet, so I just watched him, and fuck, you'd never have guessed he couldn't hear the music. He was just watching the shapes of the dancers, and after twenty minutes of watching him trace frantically on his thigh I took pity on him and took out the pencil and small sketchpad I'd tucked into my jacket before we left. If this had been a few months earlier he would have burst into tears right then, but instead he barely glanced at me before he started sketching, and I couldn't keep myself from smiling. That's my boy.

During intermission we walked around Lincoln Center, lit up by the lights around the fountain. We should do this every anniversary, he said.

Sure, if you want this to be your last, I said.

I'm onto you, you know.

Good, I said, and then I wrapped my arms around him from behind and hummed behind his ear the way he likes.

He turned in my arms and looked up at me, and I kissed him, but he kept watching me. He looked...guilty, almost. What? I said.

It wasn't really because I was thinking about you dying all the time, he said. I mean it was...I definitely thought it was. But it also wasn't.

Very eloquent.

I think I knew that if we got the rings then...I was always going to remember getting them at that point in my life. And it's not really a time I want to commemorate. I nodded, and he sighed.

It just felt like it was going to last forever.

I touched my forehead to his. It's getting better, right? I needed to see him say it sometimes.

He closed his eyes. Right now I don't even remember what it felt like.

He would again. I knew it, and he knew it. The shit Justin's been through, that doesn't just fall off you with a few well-dosed pharmaceuticals and a trip to the ballet. Christ, if anyone knows that it's me.

But you know what? Sometimes, just for a fucking moment, you don't even remember what it feels like.

**

I ducked into the bathroom after the show and looked around until I saw a flash of blond hair over in the gift shop. I put my hand on his arm. Ready to go?

He was standing by a glass case, and his fingers dug into my sleeve. Look.

So I did. He was pointing at a set of steel bands. So dark they were almost black.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

Steel, I said.

He nodded. Like Pittsburgh.

I know. I cleared my throat. I was thinking a couple thousand dollars more expensive.

I can afford these, he said.

I smiled. You want to buy them?

Yes.

Well. Get to it, then.

He typed a message on his phone and handed it to the girl behind the counter, and after a little back and forth she gave him a little paper bag with two rings inside.

Subtly, so subtly no one else around us could have even noticed, we slipped them on each other's hands in the middle of the gift shop of the New York City Ballet.

And Justin smiled.