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Chapter 20: The Fight

Autor: Yurivale
last update Fecha de publicación: 2026-10-10 12:03:47

They had never fought before.

Not real fight. Bickering, yes. "You stole my hoodie" / "You stole my heart" kind of fight. But not real, cold, hurt fight.

It happened on a Thursday.

Milo had a gallery offer. A small gallery in Brooklyn wanted to show his Tokyo photos — not because Lucien called them, because they saw his I*******m and liked his freckles and his eye.

Milo was so excited he ran all the way home and shouted, "Lucien! Lucien! They want my photos!"

Lucien was on a call. Important call. He held up one finger — wait.

Milo waited. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes.

Lucien's call went on. CEO voice, cold numbers, "the Tokyo deal is not stable."

Milo's excitement got smaller and smaller. He sat on the couch, camera in lap, like that first rainy day.

When Lucien finally hung up, an hour later, Milo said again, quieter: "I got a gallery—"

"That's amazing, love," Lucien said, but he was already typing on his laptop, distracted. "We will celebrate tonight, okay? I have to finish this email, Tokyo is—"

"Tokyo again," Milo said, and his voice cracked.

Lucien didn't hear.

Milo stood up. "You always say Tokyo. Tokyo, Tokyo, Tokyo. I'm here. My gallery is here."

Lucien looked up, tired. "Milo, I said we will celebrate tonight. I am working. You know I have to work."

"But you didn't even look at my photos!" Milo shouted. Old Milo coming back, insecure Milo, the kid who was told he wasn't important. "You looked at your email! You always look at your email when I talk about my stuff because my stuff is small and yours is big!"

Lucien's jaw tightened. He was tired. He hadn't slept. Tokyo deal failing.

"Milo, don't be childish," he said, voice sharp. First time ever sharp. "Not everything is about you being insecure. Sometimes I have to work. That doesn't mean I don't care about your gallery."

Milo froze. Childish.

That word. Daniel used to say it. "You're so childish, Milo."

His eyes filled with tears. Big, fast tears.

"Fine," Milo said, voice shaking. "Be with your Tokyo. I'm going to my gallery. Alone. Since my stuff is childish."

He grabbed his camera bag and his key — his own key — and left. Slammed the door. Not wine-throwing slam, but hurt slam.

Lucien sat there. Staring at his laptop. Tokyo numbers blurring.

He had called Milo childish.

He, Lucien Beaumont, who promised to never make Milo feel small again, had just made him feel small.



Milo didn't go to the gallery. He went to Central Park and sat on the bench where the cute boy had talked to him once. It was cold. He didn't have Lucien's hoodie — he left it on purpose to prove a point.

He checked his phone 20 times. No text from Lucien. Because Lucien was giving him space, which was what adults did, but Milo didn't want space. He wanted possessive.

At 9 PM, his phone rang. Not Lucien. Eleanor.

"Hi, honey," she said. "Lucien called me. He said you fought. He said he called you childish and now he is sitting on your side of the bed and won't move."

Milo sniffled. "He was mean."

"He was tired and mean," Eleanor said. "And you left and were a little mean too. Do you want to know what he is doing now?"

"What?"

"He printed your Tokyo photos. All of them. He taped them on the living room wall. He is sitting on the floor looking at them. He told Lena he canceled Tokyo for tomorrow so he can come to your gallery. Even if you don't invite him."

Milo cried harder.

"Go home, honey," Eleanor said softly. "He is waiting to say sorry. And you should say sorry too for leaving without your hoodie, it's cold."

Milo went home.

He unlocked with his key. Penthouse dark, except living room light.

Lucien was on the floor, in his suit, surrounded by Milo's Tokyo photos taped to the wall — freckled boys, rainy streets, a CEO with messy hair.

He looked up. Eyes red.

"You came home," he said.

"You printed my photos," Milo said.

"I was an asshole," Lucien said, standing. "I called you childish. You are not childish. You are 24 and you got a gallery because you are talented, and I was on a stupid call and I made you feel small. Like him. Like Daniel. And I promised I would never make you feel like him."

Milo dropped his bag and ran to him.

"I'm sorry I left," Milo whispered into his chest. "And I said Tokyo like it was bad. Your work is important. I was just... I wanted you to be excited like I was excited."

"I am excited," Lucien said, holding him tight. "So excited I printed your whole camera roll. I am so proud of you I could buy the gallery just to put your name bigger, but I know you don't want that. I want to come. Can I come to your gallery? Even though I was mean?"

Milo nodded into his shirt. "You have to come. You're mine. You have to be in the first row and be possessive if anyone talks to me."

"Good possessive," Lucien promised. "I will sit in first row and stare at anyone who looks at you."

They sat on the floor together, among Milo's photos.

Lucien kissed his freckles, one by one, like apology.

"I love your gallery," he whispered. "I love your photos. I love your crazy. I never want you to feel childish again. Okay?"

"Okay," Milo whispered. "And I love your Tokyo, even when it's annoying. And I won't leave without my hoodie again. I was cold."

Lucien laughed and took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Milo.

On the fridge that night, no notes. Just a new photo taped — Milo's gallery invitation that said: MILO CHEN: TOKYO BOYS and two tickets.

Milo wrote on ticket one: FOR MY POSSESSIVE CEO - M

Lucien wrote on ticket two: FOR MY NOT CHILDISH, VERY TALENTED BOYFRIEND - L

And they fell asleep on the living room floor, surrounded by Tokyo photos, learning that fighting didn't mean leaving. It meant coming home and taping photos to the wall.

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