I didn't always know him as Charlie. First, he was Headphones. Every few weeks he'd walk into the gallery, wearing more layers than was appropriate for the weather, and walk the perimeter with massive red noise-canceling headphones suctioned to the sides of his head as if he were undergoing surgery by a team of aliens. He never took them off or spoke to anyone, simply viewing the art and enjoying the music or podcast or whatever required such listening equipment. When he was finished, he'd walk outside and stop to look in both directions. He never knew which way he wanted to go. I'd watch him every time from my desk at the back wall, wondering about this strange routine, and sharing theories with whatever artist friend was visiting.

Maybe he's anemic. Maybe he's on the spectrum. Maybe he's on his lunch break. Maybe he's not even listening to anything and he's just avoiding social interaction. Maybe he's playing a prank and someone is telling him what to do over the headphones. Maybe he likes listening to the sound of crashing waves as he roams around the art district, unscheduled, unmapped, uninterrupted.

Then I knew him as Brice's Boyfriend. There were a few occasions when we were at the same event or party, like the annual Painting for Pride fundraiser for gay aspiring artists, but we were never introduced. Brice and I, a friend from art school, always tried to maintain a distance at public affairs as we often disagreed on what was considered art, which would inevitably inspire long-winded debates that bored almost everyone.

Brice's Boyfriend was a revolving door of men, substituting faces and jobs and quirks with one title. To be Brice's Boyfriend meant you wouldn't be around very long. You were up and coming. You were talented and good looking and smart. You were also new, either to the city or the scene, so you didn't know about Brice. Regardless of the details, Brice's Boyfriend was usually plucked from the edges of obscurity and ushered into society by someone who had once been in those shoes and had never wanted to take them off. That is to say, Brice lived through his boyfriends and then cast them off when their novelty was exhausted like a wind-up toy. So it was surprising, in a revolving door of newcomers, to notice a Brice's Boyfriend who looked familiar. I just couldn't place him right away.

Charlie became Charlie one winter evening at The Paris Theater, about two years before my brother's death. Three Brice's Boyfriends later. Where Midtown meets the Upper East Side, a block away from the southernmost point of Central Park, was Manhattan's last surviving single-screen cinema. You could sit in the balcony like it was 1930 and watch foreign or independent films with an usher and a tub of popcorn.

It was my tradition on the first really cold day of the year to see whatever was playing at the Paris and then walk around the park, my last long walk before the New York winter sent everyone inside until Christmas. I was by myself that evening, after a long day of inventory at the gallery. I was too tired to scroll through my phone to find a friend and it was too late to chat someone up on a dating app long enough to ask them to join me. I almost didn't go at the prospect of a crowded train. But I'm glad I did.

An experimental film was playing and I managed to get the last seat available in the front row of the balcony––the best section of the house. When I found the seat, right as the theater was going dark, there was a coat and pair of headphones on it. "Excuse me," I said to the man next to me. "I think that's my seat." He apologized and put them on his lap. I did not recognize him.

About twenty minutes into the film––it was hard to tell because, man, was it experimental––the person next to me started giggling. It was soft, at first, and occasional. But as the film progressed, it became more difficult for him to contain his laughter and for me to ignore it. I wasn't particularly interested in the movie, in fact, I was dozing off a little bit. But there was some serious stuff happening on the screen––-a disgraced surgeon was operating on people from his living room––and this guy was laughing.

Finally, I turned to him and said, "What's so funny?"

He leaned in, without looking at me, and said, "That actor's fly is down."

Now, when I noticed it, I smiled to myself, which is the normal reaction when noticing something ordinarily silly. But it wasn't hilarious. Then I noticed the other actor and the other and the next scene and every scene after that. Even the patient on every table. Fly. Down. Was this part of the direction? It had to be intentional. What could it mean? Suddenly it was a farce. Everything took on a new meaning and I couldn't help but join in on the laughter. Thankfully, the film was almost over.

When it ended and the lights went up, I had to get a better look at the observant comedian. It was him. Headphones turned Brice's Boyfriend turned Fly Guy. All at once I connected the dots. His unmistakable light brown hair parted to the side, his slim figure, his square jaw, multiple layers. "You!" I almost shouted.

He was startled. "Me?" he asked.

"Sorry. I know you. But I don't know your name."

"You know me, but you don't know my name," he repeated. He was slowly leaning away from me as people exited the balcony.

"You dated Brice last year."

"Oh."

"And I work at The Chelsea Gallery of Introspective Art. I'm Ryan."

"I'm Charlie."

We continued to talk as we exited the theater. He explained how he had learned about the unzipped flies from a blog and had come to the movie to see it for himself. We walked into the park, unintentionally, even though I lived across town and he lived downtown, and we walked further and further uptown until we realized we had no destination. We talked about art and family and the city and our mutual love of Indian food and the odds of being seated next to each other. He told me that once in a while he takes a break from writing and walks into every gallery he can while listening to a playlist created by a stranger on Spotify. The playlists are based on a random word and he uses the day to draw inspiration for his next project. There was an entire journal of next projects next to his bed.

"You're very particular," I said, somewhere in the middle of Central Park.

We continued to walk and stopped at a restaurant for a drink and then had dinner and then went home and then had breakfast and then met again and had another meal and another walk and it continued like that for weeks until it became clear to us that we were in a relationship, whether we had intended to be or not.

He came into the gallery without headphones and taught me how to make sushi and where to find the best pasta. He gave me books and listened to me complain about the guy on the subway and the featured artist at the gallery. He even rented me a space to work out of for my birthday, a shared room divided into four corners in a loft in Queens that was mine for a few months. He came to every art show and always told me that my pieces were the best, even though they never sold. I wouldn't let him buy them.

When I got the call that my brother was dead, in the middle of the night, Charlie and I were on the brink of cohabitation. His apartment was larger than mine, nicer too, after the success of his second book. There were two large windows in the living room and the bedroom, almost floor to ceiling, and real hardwood floors. We could both fit in the kitchen and we didn't have to watch TV on a computer screen, so we often ended up there. That night, I didn't know who was calling. My phone had rung a few times before I realized I wasn't dreaming. I reached across Charlie's sleeping body to turn it off. He groaned.

"Is this Ryan Baker?" the caller asked.

"Yes, who is this?" I said, still half asleep.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but your brother was in a car accident. He was driving on the turnpike from Monroeville to Wind––"

I rubbed my eyes and laughed. "What? Who is this? It's almost three in the morning..."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Baker," the caller said. "I'm officer Randall with the Mt. Pleasant Police Department. I was called to the scene. There was an accident on the turnpike about thirty minutes ago. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that your brother Phil and his wife Theresa did not survive the collision. A Mr. Reynolds provided me with your number." He continued on like that for a while.

"Who is it?" Charlie grumbled next to me.

I handed him the phone and shot up out of bed. I turned on the lights and searched for my things. I knew I had brought a bag to Charlie's place and there were socks somewhere and maybe a book. Everything seemed to be blurring together.

"Hello?" I heard Charlie say into the phone. And then, eventually, understandably, "Oh my god!"

By the time I finished gathering most of the things I had brought for the weekend––we were doing a cohabitation experiment where we order takeout and rent movies and never leave the bed, to see if we were ready to do it full time––Charlie was off the phone. He raced over to me and held me still. He must have asked me something or said something, at least, that would have been the normal thing to do, but I was in such a state of shock that I was temporarily deaf and unable to focus on one point in the room, my eyes wandering, maybe searching for sound.

"I think I have to go to Windber," I said, everything coming into focus.

"Of course," Charlie said. "Let's take a second. It's late. We can try to get some sleep or just talk. And then we'll leave first thing in the morning."

"No. I need to go home and pack. And rent a car. And call Darren. And Noah. Oh my god, Noah. Where's my phone?" I looked around frantically.

"It's right here. First," Charlie said. "You should put some clothes on. You can't leave like that. Get dressed and I'll request a ride." I looked down at my naked feet and my underwear and the bag I was holding, ready to walk out the door.

"Oh my god," I said. "Did I hear that correctly? He said my brother is dead?"

Charlie didn't have to say anything. I could see it in his eyes. And the officer's words rushed back to me. For some reason, I couldn't believe it. So I took out my phone and dialed Phil's phone number. When he didn't answer, I called Theresa. It went to voicemail. I tried Phil again. And then Theresa.

"What are you doing?" Charlie asked. "Baby? What are you doing?"

"Phil's not answering."

"He's gone, baby. I'm sorry. He's gone." He held my face between his hands as I began to cry like I never had before in my life. We both fell to our knees and he rocked me as I screamed. I had screamed and cried so much that eventually we fell asleep on the floor of Charlie's apartment.

I don't know how much time had passed, but the sun still wasn't up when I opened my eyes again. I could feel how swollen they were and the dried salt on my face. Charlie was sound asleep next to me. I crawled out from under his arm and got dressed. I took my bag, grabbed my toothbrush from the bathroom, and instead of going to my apartment, I went to the car rental place.

While I was waiting for a car, I sent three texts. The first to my boss, saying that there was a death in the family and that I would not be back at the gallery for at least a week. The second to Charlie, apologizing for leaving him on the floor. I said I was ok, I was heading to Pennsylvania, and that I would call him with the funeral details. The last text was to Darren. And then I drove to Windber.

All I could think about on the drive, to drown out thoughts of my brother, was the movie Charlie and I had seen at The Paris Theater. How ridiculous? I thought about Headphones and Brice's Boyfriend and how I had ended up there, Charlie, laughing, and then I laughed. I laughed and drove for five hours.

And now Charlie was in Windber.

Author's Note: Chapter. Freaking. Ten. And in almost that many days! I had no idea where this story was going when I wrote that first sentence in chapter one several days ago. And now here we are. I hope you're still enjoying it. Don't forget to vote, comment, and share!

#TeamCharlie or #TeamDarren?