Seiner Heights. All Dean had was a key and a phone number just in-case someone stopped him at the front, luckily he managed to turn the lock and close the door behind him before anyone impeded his entry. Dean flicked on the first light after making it to Room #0307. Third on the seventh floor, the final floor. He was never one to ogle material goods, but had no shame in gawking at this fully-furnished two-bedroom apartment, wine on the coffee table, rum on the cabinet, luxuriously spacious.

It looks like someone has a drinking problem. Dean made his way to the kitchen. Dishes are washed and dried, but still stacked by the faucet, a jacket wrapped around the spine of a chair. It's clear someone was recently here. Pascal's home away from home when he just can't take the family anymore.

He couldn't bare to see the sight of food, and so he shied away from the kitchen, besides grabbing a bottle of water to counteract all the sodium. Walking into the bedroom, one of two, a wide-smile overtook his face as he noticed it was king-sized with an assortment of pillows and blankets too rich for his blood, all that was needed was a bed canopy unfurling with silky violet drapes.

All he had was one duffel bag with him. Back at the office? Hidden. And if it wasn't obvious enough to Pascal, he took a greyhound to Shere City, for a claustrophobic man in need of space to just be – it was terrifying... to a writer? It was enough to spark a few pages of interesting material.

The clothing, towels, stress-balls.. glasses and hats, were of no-care, mostly gifts, anyways. What mattered most was the notebook, pens, signatures, contracts, and the fucking photographs. Tonight wasn't going to include any spider-webs of evidence he'd methodically and artistically intertwined over the last thirty-six months, forcing him to crunch every-time the bills needed to be paid with a procedural story – god forbid he try to make one interesting.

No. Even he would tell you, they could've all been done a-lot a-lot better.

Dean is lying in bed, holding up his notebook, whipping past the pages, making sure everything is chronological and logical, when he hears the door to the apartment open.

“Dean? You in there?” Pascal's voice is tired, just like Margaret's was.

Dean looks at the clock high on the wall, it's midnight, exactly midnight. He's on the three-hundredth page, only fifty left. Fuck. He realizes it's time to buy a fourth notebook.

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Pascal's footsteps are coming closer, he must know Dean is in the main bedroom.

He rolls over. Notebooks on the bedside nightstand.

Jolts to his feet. Dizzied from the speed.

“Dean?”

“Hey.” Dean rubs his forehead, just now realizing he's shirtless, wearing nothing but boxers that show too much, the kind you wear with the hopes no-one sees you, or for a special night.

“Sorry, I couldn't stay away.” Pascal says, dressed as casually as a man this wealthy could, sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He walks into the room, staring obviously at Dean's body. “You're still in shape. That hasn't changed about you.”

“Well, I do my plyometrics every now and then, it's the best you can do without equipment.” He looks around. “I'm sure you don't have that issue.”

Pascal sits on the bed, the same side, but furthest edge away.

“I couldn't sleep. I tried to, but...”

“The kids and wife?”

“Sleeping, I hope. But I'm sure Macy will have questions for me when I get home.”

“When are you planning on going home?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, just so you know. And because I haven't had a chance to tell you this, I appreciate everything you've done for me, without batting a single eyelash.” Dean looks at Pascal, who looks at him.

He continues. “I know I came off cold. But it's been a long time, and I'm not the Dean you used to know. The one you used to love. You're the same. Intelligent. Successful. Always clean-shaven despite every single hair on your body growing so damn fast-”

“It's not about that. Anyways. Like I said, one trip to the salon, all-inclusive all-expansive, and you'll come out a different man, one they could put on of those fashion billboards.”

“Don't skew my expectations” Dean smirks, but Pascal looks serious.

“Dean. You've been honest with me. At-least I think you have. So let me be honest with you.”

“Then be honest.” Dean scoots a little closer.

“I love you. I always have. I still do. I love you. That's what I came here to say. I'm not going to have a thousand nights of tossing and turning, headaches and emotional heart-ache. I'm not going to skirt around the point, or pretend that I don't while I have sex with my wife, and pretend that her eyes aren't yours, because that's what I've been imagining ever since we graduated from Columbia.”

Dean stands up, and stares ahead, like he was looking down a tunnel that went on for infinity.

“Did I say something wrong?” Pascal asks with a look of concern on his face.

Dean turns towards him, and walks until he's hovering over his body like a statue. Pascal stands in their claustrophobic binding, on the way up, their torsos grind, until their lips are nearly pressed against each-others.

“I love you, too.”

Pascal palms Dean's cheek, and they begin to kiss.