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Dana’s loft door is slightly ajar, leaking the confident thump of Talking Heads. Michael finds her reorganizing vinyl, humming along. He leans in the doorway, rainwater already spotting his shoulders from the dash across the landing.
"Dana, what is our relationship?" he blurts, the word tasting foreign.
Dana pauses, a copy of Little Creatures in hand. Her brow furrows, then smooths into gentle amusement. "Oh, Michael," she laughs softly, shaking her head. I don't think of you as my stereotypical gay best friend accessory, okay? I just genuinely like hanging out. Swear I'm not trying to steal you from Joey or wear you like some trendy token." Her smile is warm and sincere.
The simplicity, the utter lack of romantic charge, hits Michael like a physical blow. It clarifies nothing, only amplifies the confusing static buzzing in his head since Joey re-entered his life.
"Right," he manages, voice tight. "I... need to take a walk." He turns before she can respond, plunging back into the hallway and down the narrow stairs.
Outside, the Soho downpour is relentless, instantly soaking his thin jacket. Water streams down his face, mingling with the heat of confusion. Dana’s words replay: Not a token. Not stealing you from Joey. Why did that phrase twist something inside him? He walks aimlessly, boots splashing through oily puddles reflecting neon signs, until he finds himself back at their building’s stoop.
There, under the flickering entry light, stands Joey. He’s drenched to the bone, arms laden with bulging grocery bags – Nicole’s favorite cereal boxes peeking out, a carton of milk threatening to slip. Rain plastered his dark hair to his forehead, droplets clinging to his lashes. He looks rumpled, exasperated, and utterly real. Something snaps in Michael’s waterlogged brain. Without conscious thought, he closes the distance in two strides. Joey’s eyes widen, startled.
"Wha—?" he starts, shifting his grip on the precarious bags.
Michael doesn’t hesitate. He cups Joey’s rain-slicked jaw with one hand, the other instinctively steadying a grocery bag, and presses his lips firmly against Joey’s. It’s wet, cold, and startlingly electric. Joey jerks back instinctively, nearly dropping the milk. He stares at Michael, shock etching deep lines beside his mouth, rainwater dripping off his nose. Pure, unadulterated confusion radiates from him. Michael pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. He searches Joey’s face – the familiar features now rendered alien and intensely close.
A shaky, surprised breath escapes him. "Huh," Michael murmurs, the ghost of the unexpected kiss still tingling on his lips. "Not bad." The rain patters on, a chaotic soundtrack to their stunned silence on the doorstep.