Redefine Love by RC McLachlan
"Hey, Justin?"
The sun's warm against my face, and I tip my head back a bit more, soaking it in. I drift back in time and suddenly I'm on the California shore, elbows digging into the heated sand and holding me up as Brian strokes sunscreen onto my skin, across my nipples and down to where the waistband of my trunks meets the top of my hips. Buckling underneath me as Brian slips his hand past the elastic barrier to wrap around me, jacking me off in public… my hands coming up to cup his cheeks and draw his head down for a kiss that would put that fucking ninety degree weather to shame…
"HEY, JUSTIN!"
My eyes snap open and I groan, the sun blinding me and forcing me to shut my eyes again, blue-green shapes dancing against the black velvet backdrop of my lids. My arm falls over my eyes and I sigh. "Hey, what?"
I think my ribcage fucking shatters when a small body throws itself over me… the wind's knocked from my lungs and I whine, winning a laugh from the little hellion draped across my front. Gus's legs swing merrily by my arm and he props his chin up with both palms. "We've known each other for a long time, right?"
Ten years. It's hard to imagine that I had been in that hospital room, that I was the one to decide on his name. I shudder slightly at the very thought of calling him 'Abraham'. I can picture it… all the religion jokes and the copies of the Gettysburg Address shoved into his locker… Jesus Christ, did I do that kid a favor.
I smile, eyes still closed. I'm warm, I'm comfortable (despite the fact that I can't breathe as well as I usually can), and I've got a ten-year old terror on top of me. Life is good.
"You betcha, Sonny boy. Since the day you graced the world."
"And we're friends… right?"
My eyes slide open and I sit up, sending Gus tumbling down my legs where he lies in a heap, laughing. Drawing a knee to my chest so I can rest my arm on it, I gaze down at him and feel a grin tugging at a corner of my mouth.
Looks just like his daddy. Same hair, same smile, same eyes… sometimes, when I get him to hold still long enough or catch him napping and sketch him, I can't see any traces of Lindsay in him. Well, maybe the love for art, because he showed his appreciation for painting after taking the little Crayola set he got for his sixth birthday to our bedroom wall… but Lindsay doesn't jump out at me when I take the time to study him… just Brian. Only Brian. Fuck, it'll always be Brian.
… What was I saying?
"… Justin?"
Gus must take my silence for guilty hesitance, and I pounce, attacking his underarms, filling the loft with peels of laughter and shrieks. "Of course we're friends, you fruitcake!" I tickle him a bit more until it looks like he's about to wet himself. I collapse theatrically onto my stomach next to him, turning my head and resting my cheek on the hardwood floor to stare into his young face.
I'm going to protect you, you know. You're never going to know pain or betrayal… you're going to grow up and be whatever you want, gay or straight or bi, a rich executive or an artist, happy and free to walk down the street with the person you love, to look at a wooden bat as part of a game instead of a weapon… you're going to be amazing… I'll see to it…
He crosses his eyes and I laugh. Brat. Just like his daddy.
"Of course we're friends," I say again, winning a grin. "I'm hurt that you had to ask. What's up?"
Gus presses his lips together before speaking. "Friends tell each other everything, right?"
"Yep. What's on your mind?"
"Well, I was thinking…"
Uh-oh. Just like his daddy in that department, too. Thinking leads to trouble. And possible destruction of household appliances.
"Oh? About what?"
"Remember the other day when you were painting?"
I grin. "Which 'other day' are you talking about?"
Gus purses his lips and thinks, banging his head absently against the floor. "The painting of daddy and the sun."
Ah. One of my greater works, thank you very fucking much. An upper body portrayal of a shirtless Brian, skin aglow with gold, hands cupped in front of him, holding the sun between his fingers. His eyes reflect the angry flares of the star, the golden light erasing all signs of aging, casting ethereal impossibility upon his face. In the background, treacherous and writhing against the canvas, are shadows, twisting shapes of demons and monsters that can't touch him, can never get to him.
I worked on that fucking thing for 52 hours straight.
Brian said it was "all right". It was "okay". And I shouldn't think otherwise. I should overlook the six blowjobs and four consecutive fucks I got after he took twenty minutes of staring at it. And shouldn't pay heed to the painting anymore… even though it's hanging on the wall to the right of the bedroom.
What-the-fuck-ever. I'm so onto him.
"Yeah, I remember. What about it?"
"Did daddy like it?"
I cough to hide an evil laugh. Oh, did he…
"Yes, Gus. He did."
Where's he going with this? Honestly? Just like Brian sometimes, living his life through a constant stream of consciousness. Speaking and asking exactly whatever's on his mind.
"See, it made me think of this one time? When ma bought mommy this one picture that she had wanted forever, mommy kept saying 'I love you' to ma. And then there was this other time? When Uncle Ben was in the hospital 'cause he was sick that time, and Uncle Mikey brought him that weird bird-head good luck charm and Uncle Ben kept saying that he loved Uncle Mikey, too. So, when people do things and buy things for the people they love, they say 'I love you' instead of 'thank you'… but you made that painting for daddy, and he didn't say either." Gus blinks. "I don't think I've ever heard him say 'I love you' to you."
Fuck.
How can I explain to him that, well, I'm 99% sure that his daddy loves me, that, yes, it's been ten years since he and I first met and I'm still here… that even despite all the mistakes and the mishaps, the cancer and the jobs in L.A., we stuck it out?
Okay, fuck that. I'm 110% sure Brian loves me. I tell Gus so, but the kid refuses to give up.
"But he never says it."
I smile and roll onto my back, staring up at the rafters, feeling the last of the sun on my cheeks before it fades away into dusk. About two years ago, while Brian was stoned out of his mind, he told me about the night of my prom, went through excruciating detail of the day, how he had almost died (thank you, Michael, you should be fucking canonized for that) by scarfing and then wore the fucking scarf to the prom, how he had taken me from Daphne to the middle of the dance floor and we blew all my classmates away… and then I had been blown away -- literally -- by a swing to the head. But I knew that part already. What I didn't know was how happy he had been that night… dancing with me, laughing, under the lights and everyone's scrutiny…
And then, how I had needed to hear the words, needed to hear some assurance aloud that I just wasn't the one-night stand gone wrong. And walked away when I didn't get what I wanted, into the arms of someone who could toss those words around, temper me with pretty gestures and lies… words, I learned quickly, were bullshit. Love wasn't, oh no, but words were. I got it. I got him. Finally.
"Of course he does, Gus." I roll onto my side, propping my head up with a hand, grinning. "He tells me all the time."
Gus looks unconvinced. "Really."
"Oh, definitely. He tells me every day. Without fail. You see, Gus, there was a time when I needed to hear the words… and I never understood that, even though he never told me out loud, he said them constantly."
Confusion mars Gus's pretty face. "What do you mean?"
"He tells me every time I wake up and smiles at me, and we just lie there in bed, together, ready to waste the day away… every time he thanks me for making his coffee just the way he likes it, or saves me the last of the bread -- even though his bread is that disgusting low-carb stuff." Gus laughs his agreement. "Every time he calls me from work, just to talk or to complain about his clients or to ask me if I want to go for lunch… every time he watches me draw or paint, every time he lets me draw him… when he laughs at my stupid jokes or makes stupid jokes of his own… when he trusts me with you."
"But I can take care of myself."
"I know you can, Gus, but your daddy… he likes to know that you're safe. That you're safe with me… I know that he loves me when he trusts me with the most important person in his life."
Gus beams. "Really?"
"Really really."
"How else does he tell you?" The boy's eyes are shining, and I open my mouth to respond, but another answers the question for me.
"When I come home, bearing that disgusting pineapple and sausage shit you love."
Gus is too stunned to reprimand him for his language, so I roll over onto my other side and smile at Brian, who has two pizzas from Domino's in his arms.
"Yup. Then, too."