TWENTY-TWO: when things have to change to stay the same.

I can't sleep.

Jules sleeps like a log.

He lays in bed, still, quiet. The same position we were in for an hour prior, staring at one another. I stay still locked in long after he's started snoring.  My lips are in a fine line, I'm sure my brows wrinkle. His eyes are closed shut with such peace, it consumes me almost.

He's so beautiful.
I think of everything again, it all comes rushing in at once.

I can't sleep.

Every time I try, I see her.

I can't stop thinking of Pete. He forgets he has a phone.

My dreams are too vivid.

Rilee says it's cause of my Pisces moon.

I'm overthinking. I try to stop, be mindful of where that brings me.

Jules seemed remorseful, as much as he could be as I pretended to sleep. It's so hard to be so self-indignant. I can't bear to see the way he looks at me. I hear the apologies as if they're still tumbling past his lips. He's shuffled in the quiet, brushes up at my cheekbone, it feels like another apology.

I try not to sink into it, my body does regardless, the second he's pulling away.

I remember the way he kissed me that night before, I can't tell how long I've been awake now, but it's like I can still taste him. Like mint, and the joint he smoked. It's crazy he'd need another.

I got in bed and he didn't follow. For an hour, then he did. I know because I could finally sleep when he got there, I'm grateful for it, because another fifteen minutes and I'd probably have let it all hit me so it didn't later. The material world doesn't matter to a bed sore.

My heart aches and I can't think of anything but vodka.

And Izzy.

I know Jules is talking with him.

I know they're communicating. Of course he's been distant, of course I've read their messages.

I'm not good at the letting go part and Izzy is not good at lying... but Jules just doesn't have the heartlessness to do that to me, I have to keep reminding myself.

I remember, in the middle of the night it feels, that Jules is outside.

I can see him behind my lids, he's in shorts, hugging himself. I know his nose is brushed up with rouge. I can see, almost, can smell the burning, hear the flick of his lighter.

I know he's probably on his phone, avoiding texts from Izzy... and Wren, and he's probably avoiding me.

I know he looks like Colin. Their pictures Izzy kept close to his chest but this photo series he keeps getting stuck on revolves around this lone boy. And his portrait breaks my heart. I suddenly know that it's Izzy that's outside.

He called me four times tonight. I know because my phone was on do not disturb. I've seen the way he used to look at Jules. The texts he's sent about how broken I was, and how worried he is. But we were drinking together most nights.

It fucks me up.

It's not hard to piece together. It's sad, it keeps me nailed to the bed.

I hear him leaving. I know the games, I've played them before.

And I know he's not easy, he's not perfect but he loves me.

I also know Jules needs the attention. I'm not giving it to him. Calum gave it to him and he gave himself in return. I'm sure that Izzy is offering another sob story, body whispering that he's ready to be loved again.

It's primal. It's hard to leave Jules alone, it's so hard.

I can't ask for much when I know I'm not in the place so I let him do what he pleases. I try not to focus on the fact he's been gone for twenty minutes, windows open, wind still whistling past my ears.

It's cold, I miss him. I can feel it when the day weighs on me and tears escape.

My eyes are closed but I'm barely dreaming.

I'm remembering the day over and I'm still feeling the champagne. I'm remembering Benny, it leaves a mark in my chest where sorrow should be and I'm just so ... relieved.

I feel so insanely guilty when I realize, it swallows me whole.

The tears hit the pillow harder, so does sleep.

••

Champagne drunk was the only time I could remember a dream. I feel present but it's like I'm scripted.

I can't tell what I'm going to say, I just say. I do. I am, Jules is... he's here.

Peaks and valleys, splotches of green over sharp landscape. Red, deep, burnt umbers, depth, marbled land. I see Jules, him and Ben and I'm standing on a cliff.

I'm not scared. They're just over the canyon, too far to reach unless I thread my body along the ground, lay across the valley, woven into the clay, lingering across until they've made their way over my body's bridge.

They're there close. They stare.

Jules is better at boundaries than me. He's friendly, he's good at being a friend.

And he's innocent, his hands are clean. Even with the touches he's shared while we're only talking. While we're friends. He only touches Wren's waist.

He's only looking. He doesn't want to.

I stir.

I can feel my body again, turning, I'm refusing to blink open my eyes in a dark room. I'm still in it. Staring through an open window, from a birds-eye view, outside of myself, I watch as I tuck myself back in.

It feels like I've woken up.

And I'm back in my place, back in this apartment, the decorations have changed.

They're green sheets and Izzy's prints on the walls and he's in bed with me. He's looking at the sky, it's purples and blues and feels like gin.

It feels like the canyon has happened.

I see Jules.

And I'm still so intensely aware of how he eye-fucks Ben. I know he's attracted to Izzy. He's a Ben type, he's big and built and he's got weight to him.

Everywhere. Jules likes that, he likes feeling small.

He's kissing Izzy. I know he's kissing Izzy.

I'm kissing Jules now. It smells like Jules, it's woodsy and his skin is cold to touch. I'm back in my body and my chest is warm as the lights in the club were. My eyes are closed.

I gasp open with lips on my hipbone.
His hair's this dusky blonde now, it's soft to touch. Smells like sand.

Prints line the wall when my eyes dart to value.

I can barely catch my breath.

I can barely see him. Like fog and kaleidoscope.

"I miss you." He whispers.

The lips on me are soft.

I'm yearning, there's weight on my chest, it's heavy like a body. Hips collide, sloppy, drunk. Desperate rutting.

He's kissing my neck, hands roaming, grabbing, holding my legs forward hands pressed into my thighs, my feet are tucked to the side.

And he's taking me over. He's holding my calves and my waist and my chest.

Teeth graze my neck, gently, a wet trail followed by a hand, he's hovering over me.

He feels heavier.

His stubble brushes up against my cheek. And my stomach clenches when he kisses at my ear. His heavy hand rubs over my stomach, grips at my side, rubs up against my spine.

Arches me into him, I feel how heavy it is. His hands are calloused and big, just one covers my lower back.

I'm breathing, finally. His mouth is full of mine. I'm trying to kiss back.

It numbs. He's swallowing me.

My body is moving, like a dance almost, we're so used to this dance and Izzy keeps murmuring that he loves me. He's said it a few times under his breath, many more than twice.

It makes me uncomfortable. It made me uncomfortable sober, I'm sure it does so the same. It's Molly that keeps him from noticing, I can't fault him for it.

He's touching me so fervently, I forget how to speak. He's handling me a way that feels like Spain. I'm lost in it.

He's pulling away now.

Looking at me, in my eyes like he wants me to see him. His eyes are glazed over, blurry, I see the low lids and liquor drawl, he's there with me.

And he's so beautiful, he's so beautiful it's terrifying.

"I love you."

It makes my heart stop.

I wanna shake my head. Instead I close my eyes.

Again then it feels almost electric. The way he touches me, brushing little sparks behind my ears. He leans down, his chest is riding heavy on mine.

He states it, it echos. "I love you."

*

Ben is home alone a few Sundays later.

And Jules had got around to giving me my key. I finally got around to moving my stuff over, my lease ending in a tight two weeks. The only day I wasn't packing with meetings and studio time was Sunday.

My mom called Sunday a day of rest. She called that morning and I managed conversation.

My shoulders are red, I'm sure my cheeks are hot to the touch. It's sweltering at 80, the sun beaming down completely unobstructed. It's an awfully hot day, unalike humid Chicago evenings.

We're hillside: valleys of greens and browns stripe behind a big, beautiful redwood house.

Ben sees me dragging my feet through the door, eyes occupied, the heaviness of boxes was weighing me down. He reaches forward, takes them from me with a low grunt and minimal effort and my eyes trail around before connecting with his.

"Damn- whatcha got in' ere?"

I want to laugh. "Tools."

Every single miscellaneous tool or item that's made it's way into my studio room over the last two years.

A staple gun, a toolbox. A bunch of random shit that I'm sure it Izzy's. I think his crockpot is in there too.

He laughs, shakes his head, says "of course."

It makes me smile. I follow him a few paces before he tells me that he 'can manage to bring these to the room.'

I don't ask what room, I'm sure he'll probably bring it to Jules' room. Or at the very least, a closet, and he'll tell me later.

That he's been here before and knows his way around.

It's cute, it's hard to argue with Ben and he disappears for a bit before making his way back outside beside me. His forearm brushes mine as we unload the trunk and in only three or four trips, he's closing it and kicking the front door shut behind him.

It feels so final now, I've moved my stuff, memorized the high ceilings and skylights, counted each creak... there's no real reason to go anywhere else.

I live here now, with him.

This time with Ben. It oddly feels like less of a commitment, maybe it's the fact that they own the place.

That it's stunning, and there's natural light, and I can definitely make art here.

That I can leave if I need to.

Ben's warming up a hot pocket when I make it into the kitchen. How he's managed to go through my boxes with enough speed to find my frozen foods is beyond me.

But at least he's started to put some stuff away. All of the grocery I had, he's putting my bowls in near empty cabinets.

"We needed dishes, Jules tell you that?"

He's grabbing a bottled water, sitting across from where I've found myself sat at the island.

He has an island, and a dining table, it feels lavish.

He smiles, raises a brow when it's been a second.

I can't tell what the look is for, "what?"

Ben smirks, looks down. "Nothing, it's just Lighthouse the Sequel." I laugh, it feels real, sounds like me again. "I always like sequels, I think I'm one of the only people."

"I've never heard that before, actually, so yeah."

Ben nods, he's popping open the microwave to a sizzling mess on a plate. It popped a good 35 seconds ago I was sure. He doesn't care. "I think people get scared." 

He rounds the island and props up on it, I realize it's marble. "People hide their desire for control in the media that they consume."

He continues, like a lecture. I wonder if he's been to a lecture on this. "Cause it breaks the mold, they afraid of a trilogy."

"..."

"..."

"I don't think that's right actually-" it's confusing and I don't want it to be. Talking with Ben is like fishing actually. You gotta be patient, "cause how did Harry Potter become so big—"

"Do you disagree?"

I don't, it's something an art student would say and I'd take at face-value. I honestly don't understand the conversation.

"I didn't know you studied film theory."

He shrugs, bites into his hot pocket, talks through his chew. "Jules loves podcasts. He honestly doesn't even listen to 'em, it's white noise."

"Okay. If theory stands as 'people hate realistic depictions because it doesn't allow them to hide?'"

He nods. "And sequels are character driven." Ben includes, "You can't live up to exorbitantly high expectations set simply because the director was not prepared for the box office curb appeal. He didn't wanna write a second movie, but he had to, he needed another Maserati."

"Ben, what are you talking about?"

"Life, my friend." It's cryptic and it seems like he's never had an uninteresting conversation in his like. "And the oppressive rule that capitalism has over us." He points at me, "... you though, you've got it made."

"How so?"

"Well you now live in my crib." I have to laugh. "You're in a good place with your art." He adds. "Your mustache finally filled out."

"Thanks. That brings a tear to my eye."

"It's what I do." He's finished his food before I've noticed, I wonder where it all goes. "I've had my sustenance. Follow me."

"Where?" He's gone before I can argue and I'm left to trail after him. "Ben!"

This house is so fucking big. It's three stories, bedrooms on the top, we're currently in the middle, a stairway on the far end behind the kitchen leads down and to the side. To a sunroom.

"Ben."
He's moving the boxes in front of the big open window, it's finely netted, with a screen that moves up and down remotely.

He pressed a button, the sun beams through and cloaks a 15ft by 8 foot room in light.

"I thought you could use this space." He smiles, looks around at the big open space, a few recliners sit off to the side with a poker-table. "You know, it's aerated so you can paint, and..."

"It's right on the water."

There's a huge lake behind the house, one I can see spans a few miles.

"Yeah."

"It's beautiful in here."

"Yeah," he laughs, like he can't believe it. "Will designed it... she stopped there though, won't decorate."

What? "She designed this?"

"Yeah, I had my mom find a place to fix up when I was in the army, bought it a year ago a-and they attached this room on, it used to be a patio."

Wow.

"Jules comes and reads here sometimes but he won't mind setting up an easel or something." He offers, "or I won't mind, whoever gets to it first. I know you usually have people do that for you."

It's funny, and it's false but I know he knows. He's picking fun at me and I can't help but feel grateful. "Thank you."

"No problem." He nods. Goes to backtrack to another part of the house. "I'm gonna have a friend over later so, um-"

"I'll set up in here, no worries about me."
He nods, as if he was really concerned. Steps back again, and continues until he's at the staircase.

"Cool."

*

AFTER THE NIGHTCLUB
"Iz."

"I know we're real fucked up," he giggles, he finally pulls back, he nuzzles his nose on mine, "like yeah, like maybeeee not tequila next time."

I crack a smile. I know that most of that was Rilee, I wonder if she knew how close we were now, if she felt me slip out of bed to end up under him. I don't want her to feel guilty for it.

"But... I want..." he can't find the words.

I don't want him to.

I can't listen to him say it again. He tries. He holds me right, when I'm falling into him. I miss Jules. It's why I'm kissing back. In my fucked up mind it makes sense and I'm angry.

I'm —

He's stripping me down, I reach for his chest. I can't see. I remember I took my contacts out. His skin is so sweet.

I remember that he smells so good.

"Izzy."

He's stilling, he's staring into my eyes, it feels so real and I can't hide in myself. It's intense, blurry, blissful. He's touching me.  "I got you." My body responds for me, oversteps, another reminder that I've never been able to trust it.

He's rocking against me, pressed against my tailbone. He's dragging warm lips over the expanse of my shoulders and snaking arms around my body, he pulls me into his lap in one swoop.

I can feel his arms cage me, his fingers just grazing and my body reacts for me.

He's holding something, tiny and glass, a familiar little bottle and my head nods for me. My face is nuzzling into his wrist. I'm moaning, scratching at his skin, he's pressing the little vile into the side of my nose, hand pressed to my lower back.

"Good boy."

I'm breaking apart easy when it feels like care. He cares for me, he presses his hand into my back and I relax into it. He takes some for himself, his eyes low lid. My stomach's warm and suddenly I'm on top.

It's desperate the way I kiss him. Begging for such a closeness that I've been craving, crying into it. I'm lost in it. Suddenly I'm that fifteen-year-old kid... high on percs, on my knees in a frat fucking kitchen, begging Nic to touch me. His friends retreat to the living room, telling him to take care of it because he brought me there.

I'm crying and Izzy's wiping them away. He's telling me that he loves me. He's caressing my hips. I don't ask him to.

He's so close, I can feel the warmth of his breath on my lips. "Ready?"

And I don't know what I say but I don't oppose.

I can't have Jules, and that sucks. So I have you.

*

jules

I wake up to wake him up early for an eight am meeting, and I waste away my extra twenty just staring at him.

His forehead has a scrunch to it.

His lips are still swollen from sleep, his chest flushed slightly in the cold, he holds a blanket tight around his body when I turn out of bed.

And then I push at his shoulder, lightly. I kiss his cheek.

He wakes with a start.

Looks at me and sighs.

"Slept bad?" It's gravel; I'm surprised he understands me.

He nods.
Turns over and grabs his sports bottle that sits on his side of the bed. It's instinct to reach over and pull it from him. His eyes connect with the comforter, his breath hitches.

Sniff. Taste. It's water.

Paul nods; I watch him register that, it's paired with a smile, likely to avoid the tears. He looks ashamed. My first reaction is to feel bad, I push that away.

"Good morning."

"Morning."

It's silent and he doesn't wait.

"I'm gonna brush my teeth." He slides out of bed first. Into the bathroom; I hear the sink so I choose the kitchen.

He drags behind his feet, and enters the kitchen in a big shirt and boxers. He kisses me when he starts the coffee pot.

I don't ask about the night before, I don't want to remind him.

I open the fridge first, sift through a few ingredients. Find eggs, bacon, the cabinet is where I brush past pancake mix. I shake off the urge to check the expiration date. Instead I slice the bread in his bread box.

Domesticated as fuck.

I grab him by the hips and shift him to the side to grab for the bowl. Taking the initiative to make a connection, my therapist would call that a bid for affection.

He thanks me when I place his coffee beside him, pushing closer into me and I wrap an arm around his body.

Kiss his forehead.

He retreats to the other side of the bar.

Curled up in some vintage bar chair when I bid for more affection, leaning over the counter. He's taking his first sip, smiles over the top of his mug.

We both go to speak and fall short and my lips fall into a straight line.

He settles with a cough, makes a face, it makes me laugh.

And a "how did you sleep?"

I nod. His fingers are tapping.

He's nervous, I steady his hand. It doesn't have to be so heavy, so I smile. "Good."

He forces another smile.

The bacon is probably brown so I turn, pull the lid off the pan, turning over the strips, then turning the heat down.

Put the lid back on.

It smells good. The toast springs up. It's like I'm watching a back to school commercial.

Finishing the bacon, I transfer it from the pan and onto a sheet of napkins on a plate... fry oil pops when I pull it off the heat.

"Agh-"

I abandon that, turning to crack, and whisk some eggs into a smaller pan.

And I hear the music softly playing. I always have my speaker wake me up with the hits from 1983.

And Paul is catching it. Humming along.

So I join, "that wan-no dj that was craazyyy cosmic jive...
Dwshwuuuu — duh duh shwuuu do doo do doo dun nun un du duh duh..." I watch Paul hold back his laugh and sing a little louder.

"Oo oh oh...

There's a staaaaarmaaaan waiting in the sky. He'd like to come an meet us but he thinks he'll blow our mind yes—"

I plate my  eggs, and turn the other half over in the pan to let cook a little more for him.

In record time I've plated both of our food and placed it up on the bar, and surrendered the dishes to the dishwasher. Starting it as he waits for me.

He's never touched his food without me, says it's poor manners. I try to fill the space while I wash my hands again.

"I'm gonna go golfing with my dad later. He has a meeting in the city." He nods.

I want to extend an invitation but I know he'll choose comfort.

"What time?"

"Round 4." I answer. "Ben's gonna try to make it."

"I don't... think I'm ready for that right now," he answers without my ask. It makes me feel better. "I'll stay behind if that's okay."

"Yeah, that's totally okay."

"So."

"So."

Paul can't let it be quiet. "How was the show, for you?" He's fidgeting, I'm not sure where he got the little spin ring he had on. It seemed to appear out of thin air.

"It was fun, P." I reaffirm, watch as he barely digests it. "We all had a really good time. You did amazing."

"And Wren?"

"He sends his love." He laughs then, pride rises in my chest. "And... he said that you really impressed him."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you're remarkable, you know?" I remind. Wren isn't looking for me anymore, he'a wrapped up in Benji, spending the last few days before he leaves at the house. I've been spending the last week we can at his apartment, packing. "Especially since you only had a few months."

I wasted so much time.

I think about how close we are, how soon it'll be before he's living with me again. It feels bittersweet, losing this place. I wonder if I'm just feeding off his emotions, I don't know how he feels about it. I hope he's excited.

"Babe."

"Your dad will be upset if I don't show?" He asks, as if I didn't say anything.

"Thats not to worry about."

I eat even though I'm not hungry.

"What will you do today?" It's a small question, it's not what I want to ask. I hope he has a plan because a bored mind leads to bad habit.

"Don't know."

"Ben will be there too so it's not like you'll ever be alone." I remind. It's not the first time I've thought of it.

It was Ben's idea really, to have him move in. It was a conversation at the gala, a short one. He said it would be much easier to keep an eye on him, and 'it might be good for him... to not be alone.'

He's right.

"You mean it's not like I'll be the worst." He laughs, he thinks we're still talking about golf. He shakes his head, it's more emotion I've seen in days, even if it's bordering cynical. "No, I'll be the worst."

"Then I can do that romantic, guide behind the back thing." There's a chill on my neck, and I take a step to close that gap.

I'm windless.

I try leaning down, kissing his shoulder. "And you'll get all flustered and then I'll kiss you." I remind.

I'm hoping he feels the way I do, like I'm supposed to be here, fighting to catch a breath. He's trying not to look at me, and he looks so soft, I don't fight my body when I pull him closer.

"I would love to," I can sense a but coming. "Brandon flies out at the end of the week..." he trails off, like he feels bad for saying that to me.

But I want him around Brandon, if it will do some good. Im okay with wherever that leads as long as he's okay.

"Oh, no, that's fine." I reply. I nod. "Next time."

"Yeah."

It's silent for another short moment. I'm looking at his lips. I love the way they form, they way he stops just short before saying:

"I love you, Jules."

"I love you too."

*

"I don't need therapy."

Paul has wasted the last 20 minutes sulking in silence and when he decides to speak, and make ample use of their time, it's an annoyed growl and dismissing.

"Everyone needs therapy."

It's silent.

It's sharp, validating almost, at least for Jules it is. Someone else is saying what he's said; he bites back any smart commentary.

"Paul, do you find yourself avoiding questions that are hard?"

Silence, that's more than enough of an answer, his lover brushes a hand against him, it provokes a small nod.

"What people don't realize often," the man across from them started. Julian could already see his partner zoning out. He wasn't trying to, something about the beginning of a tangent by a medical professional always felt so dissonant "... As a child, did you feel heard?"

That was what struck them both.

The second they walked in, there was a little more than apprehension budding under each of the boys' skin. Dr.Bud didn't seem all-too qualified but maybe it was the jeans.

Or the loafers and the flannel. He had black hair, it fell past his shoulders, big, round-rimmed glasses... kind of like a lumberjack John Lennon.

"Not often." Paul decides to answer. Jules concludes there's less raw emotion around childhood.

"Why?"

"Big family." He shrugs, "I was the one they didn't have to worry about."

He shrugs again, can't find the words, and doesn't really feel the need to.

"You have siblings?" He nods, "how many?"

"Uh... two brothers, one half-sister, she's 30 though. We don't see her." Jules forgot that, he tried not to be too hard on himself about it. Paul didn't care to talk about his family, he wasn't as interested in the getting-to-know-each-other questions.

Julian tries not to think of Izzy again but it's hard. He knows Izzy was there through the down-spiral, that Izzy probably knows him more.

He wonders if Pablo will tire out once he realizes Jules isn't all that special.

He wonders if the lack of attentiveness recently, the moodiness, and the drinking... was what would really end them. For good this time.

He wonders if he's just another bad habit for his lover to break.

"My brother Milo is, uh, he's 27. He lives in Tampa with his girlfriend and kid, Pete's 17 he's going to Sacramento. I don't understand how that..."

"Avoidance." The therapist fills in. Jules notes that he's opinionated, it's a funny feeling. He hopes it's what Paul needs because it took so long to get them to this point.

It's been three weeks living together and he sleeps in a different room. He spends most of his days in the sunroom, Jules visits sometimes.

They've finally found a routine and it's working. Space without space is working and he doesn't want to ruin it by pushing too hard.

"Being able to fade into the background, being a quiet kid, it can feel like you have to solve everything yourself." That hits Jules, more than he wants it to. "As children, we lack the capacity to identify with difficult feelings. That can push you to not deal with things because you don't exactly know what you are feeling. Or to think that just getting over it is dealing with it."

"I've dealt with it." He chirps.

"Drinking is not dealing with it."

"Shut up, Jules."

"Don't speak to me like that." He tries to remember that Paul's detoxing, that every mean thing is because he woke up hungover every day for the past two weeks and is trying to flush it out of his system.

The sweat on his brow, the sick look, the flush on his face, that's almost enough.

Almost.

"We literally talk like that."

"Not when we're having a serious conversation, you don't get to dismiss me." Paul's rolling his eyes, Jules has had enough. "No."

"You have no idea what I'm dealing with. You want me to open up about my fucking trauma in a way that's palatable for you, Jules. That's why I don't."

"Yeah, that's why."

"We could have this conversation with a few less exclamation points." Dr. Bud chimes in. "Let's try... steering away from accusatory language. At the moment, neither of you are feeling heard..."

After a moment of silence, they regroup. Bud turns to the side.

"Jules?"

"Y-you shut down every single time that there's an issue and then it feels like you blame it on me. O-or, patronize me because I... Because I acknowledge that you won't talk to me. This is a partnership. We're in therapy and you don't want me to talk."

"Like you haven't kept things from me."

"And we broke up." It's dead and gone, Jules wishes that it wasn't still a talking point that he wasn't too attentive, he's atoned for it more than enough. "It just feels like we're going in circles. I do something, I apologize. You do something, I apologize. You specifically broke up with me because I couldn't communicate."

He's hurting, it's obvious. "Because I was sick, you left me. And then you played with me for months."

That's not entirely true but Pablo doesn't feel the need to point out the little ways Jules embellishes. He knows that if he's said it, that's how he really feels, that's how it's painted.

But Jules was enjoying college, and they just couldn't keep up. He had new friends, everyone kinda disbanded, and Paul was alone.

And he felt lonelier than ever. He kept it together most days... until he didn't.

The months are a blur, finals hit and they're dodging each other's calls. Abuelita gets sicker.

Julian is a big-shot on campus.

His lover falls through the cracks a bit but they have FaceTime, they have every three months, maybe.

Pablo drowns his grief in gin, it takes away the sting.

Within a week of relapse, they're broken up.

The further they get from that breakup the more it just felt like they were finding reasons to break up.

Like being 2000 miles away isn't enough. It feels like they're 2000 miles away now.

"It just always feels like you're blaming me."

"I've never blamed you." He tries, he knows it doesn't mean much because Jules is already tangential.

"You started drinking because of me."

"I started drinking because I drink." Because I don't know any other way to be.

"You were sober."

"Barely. For a year. I wasn't working the program, I wasn't trying to stay sober. I didn't take it as seriously as I do drinking, that's what you have to do. I drank everyday, I needed to go to a meeting everyday."

It feels like a breakthrough.

"You can't expect a muscle that you don't work to stay strong. I didn't do what I needed to do." He reminds, maybe himself. Paul's never had to sit down and do so much introspection, it's nauseating almost.

The silence is deafening. It's been ten minutes and they're almost in tears, Paul now sees why couples therapy costs so much.

He didn't even want to go but now he can't help but think it's what he needs. A moderator, someone to hold them both accountable when they're failing to do it themselves.

Ben's been doing that recently, maybe he got tired and that's why he suggested they work it out in therapy.

"I just don't understand what happened." Jules resolves. "You were okay that first year and then... what? You won't talk about it."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Pablo."

"I'm embarrassed." He admits. "Y-you look at me like I'm perfect." "I want- I love you... it just feels like I have to be perfect to do that." It's soft, sad, resigned. He's pulled his knees to his chest and looks down. "Like just me isn't enough, like if I have flaws, you won't look at me like that anymore."

"But I see your flaws."

"Like if I'm a drunk, Jules. You called me a fuckin' drunk." He tries not to cry. "That means I am."

"I'm sorry."

"I needed it." Did they even need therapy? Or did they just need to fucking talk?

"I make you feel like that? Like I won't love you if you're not all the way put together?"

"Not you."

"But my mental health." He fills in, like he finally gets it. He does, he can't not get it, he sees how his mental health affects his dad, his sister, his friends... he knows it can't not affect Paul. "Because I have so much going on."

"I don't mean it like that." He tries. It's a bid for understanding and it doesn't go unnoticed. "It's just... it just feels..."

"Like I don't have space for it."

"I don't wanna put more on your plate."

"This is worse. Alone is worse."

"How was I not supposed to be alone?" Paul asks, it hangs in the air uncomfortably so he elaborates. "I'm not blaming you." He doesn't wanna open this box but he knows that if he doesn't, the therapist will. "I just don't understand how I was playing with your feelings, Jules, we broke up."

"You know how."

Paul shakes his head. He pretends like he didn't know the answer but he knows Jules will press it, he won't let him avoid, not here.

"You don't want me to talk about him..." he shrugs. "We can't work through the fact that you were posting Izzy all over the fucking internet, we weren't even broken up six months."

Paul laughs, it's angry, he tries to change his tune at the end.

"So you are mad about Izzy."

"I'm not mad that you love him." He shakes his head. "I'm mad that you could tell me that we were getting married and then fall in love with someone else."

"Julian." Dr.Bud catches him before he says something he regrets and it causes him to sit in his thoughts a little longer.

Figure it out before he lays it on the table.

"We were... We had our moments but you... You were my first everything. I gave that to you, I gave you everything you asked for."

It's true, and it's shocking. Jules has sacrificed so much in this relationship and only now does Paul realize the importance of reciprocating.

"I tried to fix myself... I tried to..."

The therapist coughs then, points a look at the curly haired boy, urges him to speak.

"You're not broken."

"I was."

"You don't need to be fixed."

Jules doesn't allow that comfort, he continues cause he knows that it has to be said. "I'm not mad at you for needing someone but why wasn't it me?"

"Jules, you were in California."

The timer dings.