�You should be used to it!� Daphne calls from her cross-legged position on the bed. She gestures with one of my tee-shirts. �How many moves have you had now? From your mom�s place to here, then to Debbie�s, back to your mom�s--�

�The condo,� I correct. �Mom�s place� is the ranch house where I learned to ride a bike; where the third patio stone from the door was always wiggly; where the bricks along the back wall still bear the faded imprint of my first attempts at �art�. The condo is just bricks and mortar.

�Then back here. Then,� Daphne shudders, �to He Who Shall Not Be Mentioned. Then, um, to my place. Then Hollywood. And now, here again. Let�s see, that�s... seventy kabillion moves.�

�I guess I�ve gotten used to living out of a suitcase.�

�Well, get UN-used to it. Because now you�re back where you belong. And don�t think I don�t know that you�re avoiding my question.�

�I have no idea what you�re talking about.�

�Connor James was just named third best kisser in last month�s Cosmo. Penelope Cruz called him �deliciously ripe�.� Daphne giggles. �Sooo... do you think he should be pushed up or down the list?�

�I wouldn�t know.�

�Pleeease. You fucked him but you didn�t kiss him.�

I shrug. �I only kiss Brian.�

�Oh.� Daphne pauses in folding the last of the shirts to glance up at me. �That�s, like... weirdly romantic.�

�That�s us,� I say as I flop down next to her. �Weirdly romantic pretty much sums it up.�

She gives me a shove before reaching down to haul another box up onto the bed. �Okay, last one,� she says. �And may I just add, Ewwwww. Where the fuck were you keeping this, in the closest sewer grate?�

I eye the box dubiously. The packing tape is cracked and yellowing, and -- I give a whiff -- it smells suspiciously like... �Uh. Next to the litter box, I think. It hasn�t been opened since... um...� I cast about for a way to continue that won�t earn me that look that says Man, Justin Was So Stupid. �Since move number five.�

I still get the look. I just can�t win.

�Okay.� Daphne wipes her hands on the duvet before cracking open the box and withdrawing the first tissue-paper wrapped item. It almost feels like Christmas, since I don�t have the slightest clue what�s inside. �Okay,� Daph says again. �One sad-faced clown figurine. Creepy.�

�Gift from Debbie,� I tell her. It�s all coming back to me now. I take the unsightly thing and rewrap it in the tissue paper, and stuff it into the nearest box. At Daphne�s look, I say, �This is now officially the Stuff I Don�t Know What The Fuck To Do With box.�

She�s moved on, unwrapping another. �Well,� she says, �here�s his brother. Except I think this guy is holding a hatchet.�

�That�s a balloon,� I laugh.

�Uh huh. So why is it dripping blood on his clown suit?�

I lean forward to get a better look. Sometimes Daphne is so melodramatic. �It�s not dripping... HOLY SHIT!�

�Told you,� she says smugly.

�It must just be... like... a bad paint job,� I try to convince myself. �Yeah.�

Daphne holds it up by the edges of its oversized clown feet. �Just put it in the What The Fuck box.�

As I rewrap Hatchet Clown, Daphne unwraps a set of tea towels. She wrinkles her nose. �Don�t tell me. What The Fuck.�

�Actually... no. Leave those out. Brian will probably get a kick out of drying his dishes on the image of the crucifixion.�

�Brian does dishes?�

�Along with being weirdly romantic, he�s also bizarrely domestic. Sometimes even outlandishly.�

I can always count on Daph for a good eye roll.

We come across a random collection of baseball cards -- Dad�s purchases, from that year he tried to enrol me in Little League. I�ve blocked most of that experience from my memory, and unlike others it�s not one I regret losing. A plastic figurine of a male hula dancer who drops his drawers when you push a button -- Emmett�s version of a belated birthday present. Better than some others I�ve received, I suppose. My report cards from first grade to twelfth. �Justin is an attentive and conscientious student.� Little did they know how much of my class time I spent daydreaming about cock.

I help Daphne get the last huge item out of the box. She looks at me. �Gotta be a gift from Debbie.�

I grin, and stroke the large white porcelain cat. �Nope,� I tell her. �Brian got this for me when I moved in after... after I got out of the hospital.�

Daphne�s jaw drops, and I can�t hold back the laugh. �No! No! Are you kidding? Deb gave it to me when I moved in with... when I... Uh...�

Daph sighs. �You�re a dolt. Help me get it back into the box.�

I start to hand it over and then� �No. Just put it on the ledge over there.�

She glances behind her before turning wide eyes to me. �Are YOU kidding? Brian will KILL you.�

�He won�t. This is my place too, now. If I want to display a hideous oversized ceramic cat, then I will.�

�You�re a brave man, Justin Taylor.�

�Sometimes even weirdly brave.�

I manage to dodge the thrown pillow.

Brian seems to understand when I turn down his offer to work at Kinnetik. The best thing is that I know I could do the work. I�ve gathered enough skills as a graphic artist and I know it�s a career I could excel in. It�s also a job I could get without fucking the boss -- I proved that when I got hired at Vangard. It�s just not the career I want.

It would be easier if I could figure out what I do want.

But Brian likes my suggestion for Babylon. Which is cool. At least spending all that time in Hollywood is paying off somehow.

And he wants me. As much as I want him. The need never goes away. Which is kind of frightening and kind of exhilarating at the same time.

I slide down his body, parting his shirt with my hands and laving his abdomen with my tongue as he works on the zipper of his slacks. I lick along his shaft, taking my time, inhaling the scent and taste of him. I slowly take him into my mouth, inch by inch, imagining his head falling back, his mouth falling open...

Then he�s gripping me by the ears and pulling me off. Hard.

�What the fuck?� I sputter. �You�re interrupting the best head you�ve had since, oh, the last blow job I gave you, why?�

Brian juts his jaw toward the other side of the bed. �Get rid of it.�

I don�t have to look. �I don�t think so.�

�My loft isn�t going to be cluttered with Q-Mart crap. So get rid--�

�Our loft,� I remind him. I use the element of surprise -- and the fact that his pants are tangled around his ankles -- to tackle him onto the bed. I straddle his hips and pin his arms to his sides. �It�s mine,� I tell him reasonably. �I like it,� I lie. �It stays,� I finish.

�It�s too big. One wrong move by the cleaning lady and... crash.� Brian presses his lips together and lifts one shoulder. �Oops.�

I lean forward to press my lips to his ear. �You better hope Helen has good reflexes, �cause one �oops� and OUR loft gets a sea of giant porcelain cats.�

Brian narrows his eyes but says nothing.

�Now,� I grin, �where were we?�

By the time I�m humming around his cock, I�m pretty sure he�s forgotten all about the cat.

I�ve gotten used to sleeping alone. To living alone, even if it was just in Brett�s guest house. So I�m instantly awake when the door slides open, my heart beating just a little more rapidly than usual until I remember where I am. Where I live. Who I live with.

I glance at the clock as Brian slips quietly into the bedroom.

�I�m awake,� I tell him around a yawn. �How was Babylon?�

Brian�s shirt slithers to the floor as he turns to face me. �We had a whole eleven customers tonight. Tomorrow, we put Operation Babylon Goes Hollywood into effect.�

�It�ll work,� I tell him. �A Brian Kinney failure is one of the signs of the Apocalypse.�

�Your faith is--� Brian stops with his fingers on his button fly, and gestures behind me. �Where is it?�

�Huh?� I try for innocence. Innocence always works well for me.

Brian just waits. I think I�ve used up my stock of innocence with him. Deb and Mom are another story.

�Ohhh,� I say. �The cat. Yeah, I decided that, while contemporary kitsch is a valid art form, it didn�t blend with your current design plan.�

Brian arches a brow.

�Also, the colour was far too stark and overbearing for the limited space.�

Brian presses his lips together.

I crack.

�It was watching me, okay? Those big green eyes, following me around the room. It was eerie! Who knows where Deb got it?� I pull the covers up to my chest and shudder. �She gave me a clown holding a bloody hatchet, you know.�

Brian just shakes his head and shucks his jeans. �Justin,� he says as he slides into bed beside me, �you spent too much time in the sun in Hollywood.�

�It was only temporary, anyway,� I tell him as I prop myself against his chest. �Someday we�re going to get a real cat.�

�When have you ever known me to like pussy?�

�At least three times in college,� I say. I have to laugh at his shocked expression. �Lindsay and I do talk, you know. We have actual conversations.�

�Well,� Brian says when he can finally unhinge his jaw, �just because I lost my mind a few times -- for which I blame the various mind-altering substances that one encounters, often for the first time, in college -- does not mean the experience will ever be repeated. Any and all pussy is off limits.�

�Uh huh.� I yawn and settle down against him, sleek skin and the steady pulse of his heart against my ear. �I was thinking we�d name it Herman.�

�Let me make this clear, Sunshine. There will never be a cat named Herman sharing this loft.�

I nod sleepily as my eyes flutter closed. �Okay,� I tell him. �I�ll let you name it.�