The Shape of Us
The smell of garlic hits Onyx before he even gets the key fully turned, and he smiles despite himself, despite the long shift, despite the ache behind his eyes from six hours of staring at spreadsheets that refused to balance. Some things in life are reliable. Sunday dinner at the brownstone is one of them.
"I'm home," he calls, dropping his bag by the door, toeing off his shoes in the little cluster that's grown by the mat—Julian's battered Blundstones, Moon's paint-stained Vans, a pair of unfamiliar sneakers that must belong to Felix.
"Kitchen," Julian answers, voice warm and a little distracted, the way it always sounds when he's mid-recipe. Onyx follows the sound down the hall, past the gallery wall of photographs—Pride parades, birthday parties, a blurry shot of all of them crammed onto one too-small couch, laughing at something no one quite remembers anymore—and into the kitchen, where the real heart of the house beats.
Julian stands at the stove in his ancient flannel, sleeves rolled to the elbow, stirring a pot of something that smells like heaven and looks like chaos. His dark curls are damp at the temples, and there's a streak of tomato sauce on his jaw that Onyx…