From the moment he rouses from bed, Julian's cleaning spree is set into motion. With a cup of coffee, he sweeps the floor and vacuums the carpet, clearing any clutter from the night before. After a quick brunch of toast, fruits, and scrambled eggs, he washes the dishes and wipes down every surface, leaving the counters and stove tops gleaming.

Pleased, Julian assesses his room next, hands planted on his hips. The new four-drawer dresser will go next to his bed, replacing the worn-out one from his childhood. His cheeks flush at the thought of Joaquin in the same space. The last time that happened, Julian was so tipsy and sexually stimulated he sat on his lap and made out with him.

He banishes the thought instantly. That's not their dynamic anymore. They're no longer in the kind of relationship where they'd sit around watching rom coms with cans of beer. Julian's not even sure where they stand—he can only determine what they are not.

Rubbing a hand over his nape, Julian expels a gush of air. Enough overthinking. They'll assemble the dresser in the living room. The logistics of moving it to the bedroom is a future-Julian problem.

Checking the fridge, his stomach sinks at the view. Only a half-empty bottle of root beer and a lonely cinnamon bun? Perfect. He's been so busy he's overlooked stocking up on groceries.

Julian takes the swiftest shower of his life and heads to the nearest store. With only three hours to spare, he zooms through the aisles, tossing in whatever he thinks is missing and whatever he assumes Joaquin would enjoy: Coke, chips, and chocolates.

After all, it'd be impolite not to offer anything for his time.

By 2:45 PM, Julian is back in the apartment, juggling heavy bags while waiting for the elevator. His phone suddenly buzzes as he gets in. "Oh, come on," he grunts lowly, struggling to press the floor button and pick up the call, one bag slipping from his grip. "Hello! Yes, Julian here... I'm on my way up. Sorry. I had to step out for a bit."

When he reaches the hallway, Joaquin is chatting with the delivery guy. Dressed down in sweatpants and a plain white slim-fitted shirt, his hair falls freely unlike his usual combed-up, making him look a few years younger. Gentler, even.

The new associate—the one everyone's been whispering about—is here. In front of him. It's disarming to see Joaquin out of his elegant suit. Makes Julian feel as if he's privy to a side of Joaquin most people don't have access to.

Joaquin catches his eye, and without hesitation, he strides over, taking both bags from Julian's hands without much effort.

Irritated by his lack of strength, he makes a half-hearted attempt to steal the groceries back. "I've got it—"

"The guy needs your signature," Joaquin utters coolly, jutting his chin toward the courier. "Go ahead."

Being outside of his work outfit surely doesn't strip Joaquin's bossy streak. Even in sweatpants, he radiates authority, his tone not leaving room for arguments. It's obvious how comfortable he is being in control and having the upper hand.

With a sigh, Julian relents under the pressure of someone waiting (and the fact that he doesn't want to engage in a little tug-of-war with Joaquin). He unlocks the door and props it open, stepping aside as the guy wheels in his platform cart containing the dresser parts.

He tips his head, gesturing for Joaquin to come in as well. Joaquin complies, removing his shoes, and places the bags on the kitchen counter, secretly reining in the temptation to poke around.

There are things Joaquin can't miss, however. Like how the room carries Julian's signature fragrance—a modest drop of shea butter, mingling with faint undertones of pencil shavings and charcoal. For some inexplicable reason, the place is more like a creative studio than a home, with several partially finished pieces peeking out from behind the curtain that obscures the city skyline.

The door clicks shut, and Joaquin straightens his back, a ripple of electricity coursing beneath his skin.

The apartment suddenly feels smaller and quieter now that they're alone.

"Uh, so, thanks again. For this. It's your day off. You probably have better things to do instead of..." Julian mutters, looming closer, his gaze landing on the bags.

"It's alright. I'm free today," Joaquin replies calmly.

He's not. His desk is stacked with cases waiting for review, and there's a pleading in need of attention. But he'd promised to help, and that matters more. He wouldn't break his word.

Julian stops short, wary that he'd be invading Joaquin's personal space. "Sorry, let me just..." He hovers and gestures vaguely toward the counter as if asking for clearance. "...it's um, the groceries."

"O-Of course. Sorry," Joaquin replies, moving out of the way to let Julian fuss with the shopping bags. Watching Julian unpack, his eyes narrow at the contents. "You big on chips?"

Julian's hands work a little faster, his tummy doing a cartwheel at the trace of concern in Joaquin's voice.

Don't read into it. It's just small talk.

And he's not even supposed to feel amused that his food choices are being judged!

"Uh, well. When I'm sketching, I lose track of time. Before I know it, it's past dinner, and I haven't eaten, so..."

Joaquin's lips flatten in disapproval, but he says nothing. Instead, he mentally does an inventory of what he has in his kitchen. He'd love to share. But it's not really up to him; Julian would most likely decline his offer. It's a miracle he hasn't chased him out after everything.

"I... I cook often, though. Or Mama comes over to drop off home-cooked meals. Or I eat at home. It's not like I'm living off junk," Julian adds. He despises how he feels the need to justify, yet the idea of Joaquin thinking he's unhealthy or incapable of taking care of himself grates more.

Julian finishes organizing his haul. With a subtle puff of air, he pivots and looks at Joaquin. "We can work on it in the living room. That okay?"

Joaquin hums a "sure" and trails behind Julian, his eyes inadvertently lingering on the back of his head, down to the curve of his neck. Julian now has thicker hair with a clean line of under shave, exposing just enough to ignite a flicker of something intrusive within Joaquin. What would he give to sink his teeth—

Julian cuts through his errant haze, thankfully, by handing him a cutter. "Here."

"Ah. T-Thanks," Joaquin says, accepting it with a sheepish nod.

They dive into the boxes, the ripping and tearing sounds of the cardboard resonating in the room, giving them a mutual excuse to avoid eye contact.

Well, that's actually untrue. Julian can't help but sneak glances at Joaquin, absorbed by the way his muscles flex through the snug fabric of his shirt. Joaquin has grown. How much time does he put into working out?

Julian chews his bottom lip, trying not to entertain the unwelcome thoughts. "Um, so... do you still do MMA?"

"Yeah," Joaquin responds, flattening the boxes with ease. "Mostly jiu-jitsu nowadays."

"What's that?"

"It's focused on ground techniques," Joaquin explains. "Lots of lying down. Rolling around. Head locking. Stuff like that."

"Oh. Okay. Does it... hurt?"

"You still think I get beaten up?"

"I dunno? I've never seen you do it. Still can't tell if you suck."

Joaquin snorts, then laughs, and for a second, Julian's heart temporarily stops beating.

When Julian used to picture Joaquin after the break up, it was not this. It was the image of him breaking down. How he'd fallen apart when he clutched the coupon from Julian's hand, crumpled it, and then escaped the dorm. Who could've predicted he'd ever hear Joaquin laugh again?

It's something Julian had been missing. Something he hadn't realized he craved.

"The offer for you to come and join me still stands."

Julian looks away. "And the answer is still no."

Joaquin lets it slide and sits on the carpet, legs stretched out as he skims through the manual. Julian plops down across him, fiddling with the parts.

Soon, Joaquin enters his work mode, methodically requesting tools and parts as required. Julian obeys immediately, his heart racing whenever his name rolls out Joaquin's tongue or each time their fingers graze.

With the dresser roughly assembled, Julian prompts, "Do you want anything? Drinks?"

"From your pop collection?"

"It's not a collection."

He'd bought it with Joaquin in mind, but he's not gonna tell him that.

Joaquin half-smiles. "Sure, I'll take one."

Julian saunters to the fridge, fetches a can of Coke, and sets it down on the console table near Joaquin. "Here you go."

"Thanks..." Joaquin mumbles distractedly, sifting through the sea of spare parts.

"What're you looking for?" he asks, crouching down.

"I think a bolt went rogue.... Might've rolled off somewhere..."

Julian raises an eyebrow and drops to his knees. "Uh, what bolt is it?"

"The smallest one—" Joaquin's voice falters, his breath hitching when he finds Julian on all fours, arching to peer under the TV stand.

"Where is that thing...?"

"Y-You don't have to," Joaquin mutters, jaw tight.

"It's gotta be here somewhere."

Julian bends down further.

That's it. That's the limit. Feeling himself harden, Joaquin crawls backward, retreating until he's upright, his knees wobbly. He grabs the Coke like a lifeline, frantically seeking a shield that can conceal his problem. He heads for the kitchen counter where he pretends to focus on the snacks. "Mind if I open one of these chips?"

"No, go for it!" Julian responds. "Oh! Here it is! Found it." He beams, waving the missing part triumphantly.

"G-Good job," Joaquin utters, voice strained, tearing into the bag of random cheese-flavored junk food.

How humiliating. Julian is fully clothed and is just trying to help. How could he get turned on? How could he imagine... in that position...

Julian approaches.

Shit, shit! It's not going down!

Panicking, Joaquin spins around and shifts toward the refrigerator.

"Can I have some, too?"

"S-Sure. Help yourself," Joaquin retorts, blindly reaching back to share the pack without daring to face him.

Julian frowns, popping a chip into his mouth. "Are you okay?"

"Yep. Just checking something."

"What? The magnets?"

"Uh-huh." His hard-on remains intact. Julian being nearby is not helping, and without pockets, he's unable to stuff his trembling hands anywhere.

"Joaquin," Julian calls out softly as his chewing ceases.

"Yeah?"

"How... have you been?"

The shaking abruptly discontinues, and Joaquin's breathing steadies gradually. "Which... timeline are you interested in?"

"Whichever you're comfortable sharing..." Julian answers wistfully.

Joaquin dips his chin contemplatively.

"After we broke up, I was... a wreck," he reveals. "But life went on. I got into my preferred law school, and the course work was insane. In a way, it saved me. Helped me stop thinking about... everything. Also got my Dad to let me focus on just one thing. Now, with him not around... I'm managing. But it was his choice."

Joaquin spins, a rueful smile on his face. "Does that answer your question?"

"I'm sorry," Julian mumbles, fidgeting.

"Don't be. What about you? How have you been?"

"Oh. Um, let's see." Julian drums his fingers lightly on the counter. "After we broke up, I concentrated on school and the club. And I sketched. Nonstop. Day and night," Julian shares, chuckling wryly. "Then when I received my degree, I worked in this private accounting firm with long hours and shitty pay. Ate Myka poached me eventually."

"Just recently?"

Julian moves to the sink, turning on the faucet to rinse his fingers. "Yeah. Six months ahead of you." Then his voice softens, almost lost in the sound of the running water. "I thought about you."

Although surprised, Joaquin stays unmoving.

Julian dries his hands, looking down. "Did you... ever tell your Dad?"

"Not really. You were right. I couldn't," Joaquin murmurs. "I don't think it's necessary."

"Oh." Julian ingests the budding disappointment. "Because he's not setting you up anymore? Or... is he still at it?"

"Not anymore." Joaquin inclines his head. "Why'd you ask? Trying to decide if I'm good enough?"

Julian flinches, his cheeks smeared with a red tint.

"I'm just teasing," Joaquin utters, clearing his throat. "Sorry."

"It's alright."

"Nah. I don't really have a sense of humor." Joaquin washes his hands next. "But if my Dad knew... and with me not meeting anyone..." He wipes his hands on the towel and glimpses at Julian. "Would that change anything?"

Julian gulps, his throat constricting. His heart thuds so forcefully against his ribcage that he becomes tongue-tied, managing only a delicate smile.

Joaquin doesn't press, sensing Julian's nervousness. He'd hoped the answer would be different. That he'd give him another chance.

But the look on his face conveys everything.

"Guess not."

"That's..."

"It's alright. As I said, just teasing," Joaquin walks back to the living room. "Come on. Let's finish this."

Julian bites his tongue. Why couldn't he say anything?

What was he supposed to say?

He hurt Joaquin. Joaquin hurt him. And it wasn't the first time they'd gotten separated. It's starting to feel like there is a universal force, invisible and inevitable, one that pulls them in opposite directions over and over.

Is there any point in trying to fight it when he knows they're bound to lose?

******

A/N: Phew! I made it! It's been so hectic I could hardly visit my doc file... But here you go! Hope you enjoyed their very first actual conversation since the break up!