"No." Matt pushed his chair back and glanced at Ben out of the corner of his eye. "Fucking pervert." "You love it. C'mon." "Read my lips. N. O." "You are seriously no fun anymore," Ben sighed and sat back in his chair. His eyes met Matt’s in the mirror’s reflection. "You know that, right?" "Is that part of your A.A. therapy or something? You can sniff, but you can’t drink?" "Nah, I just like the smell." Mat let out an amused chuckle. "Man, you are totally fucking me. Nobody likes the smell of whiskey. Smells like rubbing alcohol." "That's vodka, you ingrate. Whiskey smells like peat." "That's Scotch." "Which is a whiskey." "Semantics." "It's always semantics with you," Ben complained. He tiled his chair back in two legs, looked at the rest of the apartment through the mirror. "Why're we arguing about this?" "Because you're getting ready to fly out tomorrow and I'm getting ready to fly out tomorrow and it'll be four months before we see each other again," Matt replied, voice soft. He set the glass down, untouched, on the counter. "And this beats thinking about it." "Well, fuck that. I mean, we can argue over the phone. It'll give us something to do." Ben stood and held out a hand. Matt took it and was immediately pulled up and into a fierce hug. "It's not forever," Ben whispered. "Not forever," Matt repeated, as he always did, and held tight.
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