Josh was in the supermarket, weaving up and down the aisles in a brisk stride that he usually reserved for the West Wing. But habits were hard to break and he had to sometimes remind himself that there was a world outside of the White House and that people weren't always in a hurry to get somewhere.

It was late, that much he knew. He wasn't like the majority of the human race; he didn't go grocery shopping in the morning or to banks in the afternoon. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone to a movie theater or walked into a Blockbuster. He couldn't even remember the last movie he'd seen. That one at The White House perhaps? Which one was that again? He didn't even know; he'd spent the majority of it thinking about the Surgeon General and the President's daughter. Donna had kept poking him, whispering 'give your brain a rest, Joshua,' somewhat dramatically. He'd leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling.

He tried to remember doing normal things. His life before politics seemed like some alternate reality. He vaguely remembered driving around at night in Chevys during his early college days. He'd be stuffed in the back seat alongside two of his 'buddies' and he'd be passed a joint and all of his Law classes would be forgotten after that first hit and the intense wave that would roll in. Then he'd stumble out of the car and Buddy Number One would help him into his dorm room and the instant the door closed he'd be magically transformed into Fuck Buddy Number One.

Josh would get sucked off and his head would rest against the wall and his eyes would be lidded. He'd fall asleep then (no one had ever said he wasn't a selfish guy) and when he'd awake, the guy would be gone and the only sign that anything had happened would be the used Kleenex beside him on the bed.

When he'd met Sam Seaborn, his first thought was an image of those nights; nights he'd tried so hard to forget. But he couldn't forget them when he was around Sam, because Sam could have easily been that guy, or the next guy, or the guy after that. Except Josh could picture it happening differently. He could picture getting Sam off, giving back as good as he'd receive.

He could picture not *having* to do it, but wanting to.

That was because the first time, the very first time, he'd met Sam Seaborn had been in a so-called 'discreet' gay bar in D.C. Josh could remember going there after a hellish day at the office. He'd wanted to get laid, and in an admittedly stereotypical fashion, decided that getting a guy to blow him would be easier than getting a woman to. He'd stayed away from women because of the whole -- almost implied -- commitment thing. But he had stayed away from men due to those nights that had stuck in his head, those nights were he'd woken up alone, feeling used -- except he'd done the using, hadn't he? So he'd look around the club, and watch the cruising that occurred and the occasional couple who actually looked in love and he'd sip his drink and turn away.

The next time they'd met had been on The Hill, which was, naturally, an even more discreet setting. Sam had done a double take when they'd been introduced and Josh could only thank God that he'd had even common sense not to pick the man up that night

Then Sam had opened his mouth and started speaking in a passionate and bright-eyed way and all Josh could imagine was whom he did go home with that night and how he had looked during their liaison.

Sam had then begun to express interest in a friendship, to Josh's dismay at first, but only at first. He'd follow Josh around and ask him questions and they'd talk about law school and Sam would get intense when debating about issues that were important to him and they'd even go to the movies where their arms would bump between the seats and Sam would ramble on when they were walking out and he'd take Josh's arm when Josh almost tripped on a crack in the pavement.

These nights would end with awkwardness at the stairs that led down to the metro. They'd stand for a few minutes, hands in their pockets, Sam shuddering against the gusts of wind. Sam would usually look up at the stars and Josh would usually look at Sam's face. He loved those moments because he could finally let his muscles relax and he'd smile a deep smile and let his eyes shine and express everything that he'd keep hidden when he was sure Sam would notice.

But he was sure Sam had never noticed those stares; he'd always seemed too wrapped up in his stars. He'd told Josh that ever since he saw a shooting one when he was eight that he'd fallen in love and hadn't wanted to stop looking until he saw another. Josh would often envy the ease in which Sam spoke about these things. For a while, after Joanie, he'd felt like conversation was forbidden in his house. He'd sit at the dinner table and he'd yearn to talk about his day and how his history class was studying the Constitution and how he'd never read something so beautiful. But the house had been cold and a place setting at the table had been missing. Things were better when he'd went off to school, the waves of communication had seemed more open then; but the little things, the things that had seemed trivial to everyone else but Josh, still had gone unsaid. He'd listen to Sam and watch his eyes and his lungs would feel compressed with tightness too powerful to shake.

He wanted to tell Sam that the thought of stars made his heart hurt; he wanted to tell Sam about the camping trip that he had Joanie went on two months before she died and how she'd told him ghost stories and he'd curled up inside his sleeping bag, afraid, and then she'd reached out and hold his hand in hers and told him that she'd often look up at the sky in hopes to find some proof of the stem of our existence. Josh had never understood what she meant in those moments. Looking back, his eyes would often fill with tears at the realization of how brilliant a woman his sister would have become. Sometimes, he'd catch himself staring at CJ too long, and he'd try not to imagine her with curly, long brown hair.

After the moments in which Josh would behave like a weak, adolescent man, Sam would turn back to him, his eyes a little brighter, the stars seemingly caught in them, and Josh would lose his sense of gravity a little.

Sam would take his arm firmly and squeeze it and then he'd move a little closer and Josh would brace himself for the inevitable moment, the inevitable shift of balance in which they'd decide to stop living in this unresolved PG world and move it into hard-core R territory. Sometimes Josh would envision grabbing Sam and thrusting their bodies together in a very impulsive, dramatic, cinema-isque way, not unlike the scenes they'd just watched.

But he felt he didn't have the right; that it wasn't his role, that his role was to be the one left wanting, the one who needed to be desired.

So he'd let Sam move in, because Sam was better looking, and Sam could have anyone he wanted, and why would he want a neurotic Josh whose father had more hair at fifty-five than Josh did at thirty.

He'd close his eyes, and tell himself it was to fight off the wind, and then Sam would kiss his cheek, briefly, detached, and he'd clear his throat and when Josh would open his eyes they'd sting, but not due to the wind.

Sam would mumble something about having a good time and needing to catch the subway and Josh wouldn't remind him that they ran just about every five minutes.

He would walk home morose, but by the time he'd get to his door, the clouds would already have lifted. Because Sam was doing the right thing by *not* doing anything, and Josh would think with his dick too often to see that. He both hated and admired Sam for that reason alone. He'd kick himself for not being stronger. But sometimes, he just wanted to feel. He knew that Sam could be the one to make him feel. Maybe the only one. He knew that with Sam, he wouldn't wake up in the middle of the night alone. With Sam, there'd be a guarantee.

* * * * * * * *

The milk was cold in his hand, but he hardly felt it. The low hum of the refrigeration was the only noise he heard in the store and he still had no clue about the time. Late, it had to be late.

He briefly considered asking Donna to come and do this next time. He thought what it meant to need your assistant to do such a necessary thing like buying food. He didn't care about buying food anymore. The outside world seemed like a distant dream; he didn't feel a part of it. He wondered why he didn't have a car. Mrs.Landingham had driven. She had always driven. Why hadn't she opted for the metro? Too dangerous? Josh took his hand off the milk and closed the fridge swiftly. His eyes burned, but it wasn't from the cold.

He jumped, dazed for a second. Then he blinked. Still there. Sam was still there. He stared at Sam through the reflection on the clear door.

"Donna said you'd be here."

Josh leaned forward, bracing himself with one hand.

"And how does Donna know where I'd be?"

Sam shrugged. "She's Donna. She knows these things."

Josh could heard the screeching of tires and closed his eyes again.

He opened them only after he felt Sam's hand on his arm. He felt like it'd been forever since Sam had touched him. He didn't know what either thing meant. He tried not to think of stars.

"You should go home."

"Have you ever been on, uh, 18th and Potomac?"

He heard Sam inhale sharply. He felt the hand on his shoulder tighten. "Yes."

"I can't even remember if I have."

"Yeah, you have."

Josh opened his eyes and turned slightly. "Yeah?"

"We walked down there one time. You said they should have the streets paved more often."

Josh somehow managed the strength to raise an eyebrow. "Do you ever forget anything?" He tried to have it come out light, but it just ended up sounding weary.

"Not really, no." Sam's voice was soft. Soft and raspy in that sad whisper that always made Josh want to wrap him in up his arms and never let go.

"I didn't think it could get any worse," Josh said, because it seemed like the only thing to say. And he felt the only one he could say it to would be Sam because Sam wouldn't take it as a whine; he'd always been good at giving Sam these brief glimpses of himself, even if he had always copped out on the things that really mattered.

Sam's hand was back on his shoulder again, and Josh leaned back slowly, carefully not being too obvious.

"Neither did I." And that whisper was back and holding onto the glass was all it took to keep Josh in check, to keep from throwing himself into Sam's arms. To keep from crying tears that were long overdue.

"Funeral's tomorrow," he heard himself say.

"Yes."

"Did you even know she drove?"

"I -- yes."

"I don't even drive," he said, absurdly, and shook his head.

"You're Metro-born. Always have been, always will be."

Josh had to give Sam credit. When he'd say things like that, Josh could almost forget that the world was collapsing around him. A world he didn't really feel a part of anymore, anyway. He wondered what that meant for himself, for his job.

"It's one in the morning, Josh. And even though these stores may say 'open twenty-four hours', I highly doubt that they enjoy the late night costumer."

Josh heard Sam's words, but he was frozen. He felt numb. He felt like punching a window again. He palmed the glass beneath his hand and wondered how solid it was. He wondered what would happen if he shattered it. He wondered if his bones would crush. He wondered if he'd even feel it.

Sam was closer now. He could feel it.

Feel.

"Josh."

He could feel it.

"Josh." Beside him, now.

He raised his hand to Sam's face and turned to him. Sam was closer than Josh could remember. He thought of all those nights, and how they'd suddenly just ended; how kisses on the cheek had somehow turned into slaps on the back.

Sam's forehead was creased and his eyes were filled with concern. That wasn't what he wanted from Sam.

He watched, entranced by his own hand as it stroked up and down Sam's cheek almost imperceptibly. And then Sam's arms had closed around him and his hands were stroking his back and Josh's nose hurt from the angle in which it was pressed into Sam's chest.

He told himself he wouldn't cry because he didn't want to ruin Sam's suit. Sam apparently wasn't as selfless; Josh heard the sniffling, imagined Sam's face. Damn him for being able to do a simple, human act.

They pulled away and Josh held onto Sam's shoulders. He looked down the aisle; the place was dead.

Sam was sniffling again and looking at him, trying to make eye contact but Josh was looking at his shoes.

"We'll get through this," Sam shook him, once. "We will."

Josh nodded and when Sam used that insistent, lawyer-like tone, he could almost believe him.

Josh was looking at Sam's chest now and he ran his hand up Sam's arm.

Then he met Sam's eyes and the concern had left and Sam looked ten years younger. Josh could almost feel the wind hitting their faces.

Then Sam spoke, because that was Sam's role. "I miss you," and Josh remembered the other time Sam had said that to him.

"I've been here," he said, determinably.

"No. You haven't."

Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd thought that Sam getting drunk and crying on his shoulder and then coming in for fruit in his office a few days later had meant that everything was okay, that Josh had been a good friend, done his job and could get back to the things that mattered again.

He looked in Sam's eyes, and saw pain, and that was worse than the concern. Because, dammit, *Sam* mattered. And when the hell had he lost sight of that?

And apparently, he was looking at Sam while he thought these things, letting them show on his face. Apparently, Sam finally saw the true behind Josh Lyman, because he was shaking his head and he smiling a bit, and this time he didn't hesitate when leaning in. The kiss was being aimed too low. It made contact with the corner of his mouth.

Josh pulled back and the look on Sam's face told him that had been deliberate and Josh nodded almost to himself, because he didn't expect Sam to kiss him full on the mouth here, and that was fine.

He could see it now: *Where was your first kiss? Oh, on aisle ten in front of the dairy section in Waldbaums. Something about all those lactose products … they really get me going.*

"You uh, you matter, you know?" He said, because he had to give some of himself. He had to.

Sam smiled and it almost reached his eyes and damn, Josh had missed that. "I know," he whispered and reached for Josh's hand, squeezed it briefly and let go.

Josh's hand felt cold after that, but his body felt warm. The numbness had faded. They walked out of the supermarket, together, Sam carrying one bag, Josh carrying another. They walked until they reached the stairs to the metro.

Josh turned to Sam and almost expected him to be looking up at the stars, but he wasn't, he was looking at Josh.

"Do you --?"

"Yes," Sam said.

"Uh. Ah-kay."

Sam just nodded.

"Cause, you know, I'd hate for you to walk," Josh jerked his head to the left, "all the way down there."

"Right," Sam nodded again.

"And uh, in the morning we have to--"

"Right," Sam said sadly.

Josh tried not to think about his dad. Sam was putting one hand in his pocket and Josh did the only thing he could think of.

He kissed Sam. And when Sam kissed back it was deep and passionate and Josh found he didn't need to copy it out of a movie.

He pulled back and kissed his lips once more, his tongue swiping across the bottom one.

Sam looked a little dazed.

"That's, uh, about ten years late," Josh said and he bounced a little on his feet.

Sam was simply smiling. A touched smile and the stars that Josh had thought were in his eyes were strangely starting to look like love to him now.

He wondered if he could have entirely overlooked that all this time, and realized it was possible.

"I'm not going to stand here holding your microwave pizza and orange juice all night, Josh. Either take me home or I'll leave you to your own devices."

Josh couldn't help but smile at Sam. Sam, who was still the better-looking one, Sam who still wanted just him.

So Josh kissed him again and they started moving. Tomorrow wasn't going to be easy. Not by a long shot. But Sam was walking next to him and the stars were out and that didn't hurt so much anymore when Sam Seaborn was smiling like he was in love.

Maybe he'd tell Sam one day that he wasn't the only one with the pretty bad poker face. Or maybe he wouldn't have to. Maybe Sam would just know.