The gallery was nearly empty when Marcus finally allowed himself to breathe. Three months of preparation, two years of work, and now his first solo exhibition stood complete on pristine white walls. He loosened his tie and walked through the space one last time, letting his eyes drift over each painting—abstract landscapes that somehow captured the loneliness he'd felt since moving to the city.
"You always did hide in your work."
Marcus spun around. The voice hit him before the sight did—rich and warm, with that slight rasp that used to drive him crazy at three in the morning when they'd talk until sunrise.
Daniel stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking simultaneously exactly the same and entirely different. His dark hair was shorter now, touched with gray at the temples that Marcus knew he'd earned the hard way. He wore a charcoal sweater that brought out the green in his eyes, those same eyes that had watched Marcus pack his life into boxes five years ago.
"Daniel." Marcus's voice came out steadier than he felt. "I didn't think you'd come."
"Your sister sent me an invitation." Daniel stepped further into the gallery, his footsteps echoing in the quiet space. "She was very insistent. Said something about unfinished business."
"Sarah needs to mind her own business," Marcus muttered, though his heart was racing.
Daniel stopped in front of the largest painting—a turbulent seascape in blues and grays, with a single streak of gold breaking through storm clouds. He studied it for a long moment, head tilted in that way Marcus remembered, the way that meant he was really seeing something, not just looking.
"This one," Daniel said softly. "This is new. Different from your old work."
"Five years is a long time." Marcus moved to stand beside him, maintaining a careful distance. "People change."
"Do they?" Daniel turned to face him. "Because I look at this painting, and I see the same man who used to wake me up at midnight because the light was perfect, who'd paint for sixteen hours straight and forget to eat. The same man who was so terrified of staying still that he ran three thousand miles away."
The words should have stung, but they were said without malice, just a quiet observation wrapped in old pain. Marcus had rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in his head, but now all his prepared speeches evaporated.
"That's not fair," he managed.
"No," Daniel agreed. "It's not. Neither was finding out you'd left from a note on the kitchen counter."
There it was—the wound they'd never properly addressed, the thing that had festered for five years. Marcus looked at his painting, at that streak of gold he'd added last, the one that had felt like hope or maybe just wishful thinking.
"I was afraid," Marcus said finally. "You had everything figured out—the tenure track position, the house, the five-year plan. And I was still trying to figure out if I was even a real artist or just someone who painted pretty pictures."
"So you left."
"So I left." Marcus swallowed hard. "And I've regretted it every single day since."
The confession hung between them. Daniel was quiet, his expression unreadable in the way Marcus had never quite learned to decipher. After what felt like an eternity, Daniel moved to the next painting—this one warmer, touched with reds and oranges.
"I got the postcard you sent," Daniel said. "From Santa Fe. You said you were painting the desert."
"You never wrote back."
"I was angry. Hurt." Daniel kept his eyes on the painting. "I threw it away, actually. Then I dug it out of the trash at two in the morning because I couldn't stand not having it."
Something in Marcus's chest cracked open. "Daniel—"
"I kept every article I found about you," Daniel continued, his voice rough now. "Every review, every mention. I watched you build this career, this life, and I told myself I was happy for you. Told myself I'd moved on."
"Had you?" Marcus asked, barely breathing. "Moved on?"
Daniel finally looked at him, and Marcus saw everything there—the hurt and anger, yes, but underneath it, something that looked dangerously like hope. "I tried. God knows I tried. Dated other people, threw myself into my work. Built that life I'd planned, except it was missing the one thing that made it worth building."
"Daniel." Marcus took a step closer, then another, closing the distance between them. "I came back. I've been back for six months. I wanted to call you so many times, but I didn't know if you'd want to hear from me."
"You idiot," Daniel said, but there was no heat in it. "Of course I wanted to hear from you. I've wanted to hear from you every single day for five years."
They stood there, inches apart now, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them. Marcus could see the pulse beating in Daniel's throat, could smell his cologne—different from what he used to wear, something woodsier, more mature.
"I don't know how to make it right," Marcus whispered. "I don't know if I can."
"Maybe you can't," Daniel said. "Maybe some things stay broken. But maybe..." He reached out slowly, giving Marcus every chance to pull away, and brushed his fingers against Marcus's hand. "Maybe we figure out how to build something new instead."
The touch sent electricity through Marcus's entire body. "I'm still scared," he admitted. "Scared of staying, scared of being enough, scared of—"
"Being happy?" Daniel finished. His fingers laced through Marcus's properly now, holding on. "Yeah, me too. But I'm more scared of spending another five years wondering 'what if.'"
Marcus looked at their joined hands, at the way they fit together like they always had, like no time had passed at all. "I love you," he said, because it was the only truth that mattered. "I never stopped. I'm sorry I made you doubt that."
Daniel's other hand came up to cup Marcus's face, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "I love you too. Even when I hated you, I loved you. It's the most inconvenient thing that's ever happened to me."
Marcus laughed, and it came out half sob. "We're a mess."
"Yeah," Daniel agreed. "But maybe that's okay." He leaned in, resting his forehead against Marcus's. "Can we try again? Slowly, carefully, actually talking about things this time?"
"I'd like that," Marcus said. "I'd like that more than anything."
When Daniel kissed him, it felt like coming home and starting a journey all at once. Soft and tentative at first, relearning the shape of each other, then deeper, five years of longing poured into the connection. Marcus's hands found their way into Daniel's hair, and Daniel pulled him closer by the waist, and for the first time in five years, Marcus felt like he could finally stop running.
They broke apart eventually, breathing hard, foreheads still pressed together.
"Your sister is going to be insufferable about this," Daniel murmured.
"Absolutely," Marcus agreed. "She's probably watching from somewhere right now."
"Definitely." Daniel pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "Have dinner with me? Tomorrow night? I want to hear about everything—the desert, Santa Fe, why you came back."
"I came back for you," Marcus said simply. "Took me a while to admit it, but that's the truth. I came back for you."
Daniel's smile was soft and real and more beautiful than anything Marcus had ever painted. "Then I guess it's a good thing I'm still here."
As they stood there in the gallery, surrounded by Marcus's paintings of lonely landscapes, Marcus realized that the streak of gold in his storm painting had been right. Sometimes hope breaks through. Sometimes you find your way home. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, home finds its way back to you.
"Tomorrow," Marcus promised, squeezing Daniel's hand.
"Tomorrow," Daniel agreed. "And the day after that, and the day after that. We'll figure it out together."
And standing there, Marcus believed him. They had a lot to work through, a lot of conversations ahead of them, but for the first time in five years, the future didn't feel like something to run from. It felt like something worth staying for.
