A/N: Just got home from a Seder & a night in NJ and felt like writing this, so... I did. Standalone (though I could be convinced otherwise, but I thought it worked better this way). Feedback please please please. Even a little bit of feedback/review is wonderful. I especially want opinions on the ending, cause I can't decide whether I like it... yeah. Reviews are lovely! Please and thank you and cookies! Also, any ideas for a better title are greatly appreciated. Last edited 11/26/08.

Scene at a Kitchen Table

Buttery yellow sunlight streamed in through the high windows, setting the room aglow. The jagged tears on the maroon upholstery of the couch were passably stitched over, and shards of window glass no longer crunched underfoot on the hardwood floors. He had thrown himself into cleaning up his life, their life. He wanted everything to be perfect.

Now, he sat at the round teak table, in a straight-backed but comfortable chair. He was a tall man, with fair skin and luminous hazel eyes, his lustrous curly brown hair still damp from the shower. His black button-down shirt was flatteringly tight about his chest, and he wore loose dark jeans. The table was overrun with back issues of magazines and newspapers and mail they hadn’t had a chance to look through, and there was an empty shot glass sitting a place away from him, its contents long since evaporated. But the man only had eyes for a single piece of paper, directly in front of him. He had pushed his coffee to the side—coffee growing cold, the plain ceramic mug making rings on the wood because it didn’t rest on a coaster—and stared at the document he held.

A drop of water fell from a strand of his hair, onto a corner of the page. It soaked through immediately. It was thin, flimsy paper.

A door opened somewhere in the house. The man didn’t stir. “Honey,” came a voice, light and male, drifting through the halls as easily as a breeze, “have you seen my comb?” Footsteps, just as light, just as graceful and musical, drawing nearer. “The house looks fantastic, by the way. You can hardly tell—”

A shadow fell over the man. He didn’t need to look up—he could always feel Eric’s presence.

“Honey,” Eric repeated, “what is it?”

Trey swallowed. He knew that voice better than his own. He shifted his hand slightly, uncovering the plain, antiseptic-white envelope that the paper had arrived in. The generic sticker that declared the return address read, Mercy Clinic. Eric leaned closer, a lock of sandy hair falling into his eyes as he peered over Trey’s shoulder—and Trey could feel the familiar heat radiating from Eric’s form, that had always comforted him in the past. Now, though…

Eric read the paper that Trey still held in both hands. Trey could hear his breath catch. Eric straightened and took several steps back.

Finally, Trey pushed back his chair and stood, slowly, to face the other man. He clutched the crumpled, flimsy sheet of paper in his right hand, which hung limp at his side. He looked at Eric, held his eyes, beseechingly—some part of him still hoped that Eric would say something, and it would all be alright.

Eric broke the gaze. “Trey… I never meant for this to happen,” he said in a hoarse whisper, staring at the base of the dishwasher. “I didn’t…” He stopped and drew a deep breath. He looked up, forcing himself to meet the other man’s eyes. “It was a mistake,” he said pleadingly. “I know that doesn’t make it okay, because now I… and you…” He swallowed, licked his lips. “I love you, Trey. I love you more than life itself. I would never—”

“Then why did you?” demanded Trey. His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears. His right hand savagely crushed the paper into a tiny ball, as if he could crush out the news it bore, and it and all of its implications would trickle through the floorboards and be lost forever.

“F our years, Eric,” said Trey softly, a slight tremor in his voice. “Four fucking years. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“I… I…” There were tears gleaming on Eric’s cheeks now, and the pain and sorrow in his eyes was unbearable. “I never meant to... You know I never meant to hurt you. Sweetie…” He wiped a sleeve across his face, and several of his tears dripped onto the floor. “I love you, Trey, I—” He moved to take his lover in his arms.

“Stop.” There was venom in Trey’s voice, as he drew himself up to his full height. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me, you cheating bastard.”

The two stood in silence for a long, painful moment. Tears still streamed from Eric’s eyes, and he made no move to stop them or to wipe them away. Trey bit his lip to keep from crying. It took all of his willpower to be standing there, when all he wanted was to be in Eric’s arms.

“Get out,” he said finally, turning his face away.

Eric didn’t move.

Trey opened his fist, and the little ball of paper fell to the floor. “Eric,” he said steelily, “get out of my house.”

“Trey, I—”

“Get out!” The words tore themselves from Trey’s throat in a scream, and he seized the shot glass from the table and heaved it at the wall, where it shattered into a million pieces.

More broken crystal to clean up.

Eric swallowed and nodded once. He wiped his face, and slowly, eyes fixed on his own feet, he walked towards the door. Once again, there was glass crunching under his shoes.

His hand on the doorknob, he turned and looked at his lover one last time. “Is there…” he said softly, hesitantly. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” said Trey in barely more than a whisper, sitting back down and staring at his hands as if he had never seen them before in his life.

“Are you… are you sure?”

Trey looked up scathingly. His eyes smoldered. Eric had never seen more hatred there. “Yes,” he spat, “I’m positive.”