On to You

QAF Fanfictions

Stories by E

Never Gonna Happen

(Post-215 story) Sometimes life really is just a dream . . .

Falling apart would have been so easy to do. It didn’t take much brainpower to sob, scream, tear your hair and wail about how unfair life and love and the world itself was. It didn’t take much doing to refuse to eat, sleep or bathe until your heart was mended or to regale friends and family with sob stories and empty threats.

 

But he didn’t want to do easy. Hell, he didn’t have the patience for it. He didn’t have the time for it, either. Everyone wanted a piece of him; he was being pulled in seventy different directions at once. He was, frankly, the hottest thing going in his field, the one who got all the stares and whispers and propositions, too. So he had to keep a stiff upper lip – among other things -- suck it up and ignore the pain and hurt that raged inside him. He had to pretend that it didn’t hurt to breathe or think or feel. He had to let everyone think that he was okay . . . that everything was okay. He had to put on a show – the one thing he was impeccable at, and he had to be the tortured genius that everyone had come to know and love. Well, maybe not love, but respect, at the very least. And respect was a good thing.

 

Love, though. That’s what he wanted. Love. To love and be loved, to adore and be adored. And for a while, he thought he’d had it. Thought he’d hit the jackpot. He’d just been minding his own business, doing his thing, when he’d come into his life. Blond, beautiful and angelic looking, he remembered how his throat had gone dry and his heart trembled at the sight of him. His whole being had throbbed and he felt . . . well . . . he felt like he was in some other world, some other universe. A universe that made him hypersensitive to every thing around him – the heaviness of the air, the firm earth beneath his feet, the gentle warmth in the air . . . and in that world, there was only the two of them. Him and his golden boy. Destined to meet and love and love and love and keep loving. He remembered staring into those deep blue eyes and recalled that his one coherent thought was “forever.” Forever . . . that’s how long we will love each other. Forever.

 

And it had certainly seemed that way. They were happy for a time. Laughing, loving, and playing, each becoming more and more a fixture in the others’ lives. They shared a living space and food and friends, and family – though really, friends and family were the same thing. And they’d shared their goals and desires . . . or, more correctly, his golden boy had shared his goals with him. He wanted to become a famous artist, of having pretentious scholarly works dedicated to him, of having museums devoted to his art, of traveling the world. His golden boy had encouraged him to share his wishes, as well. That hadn’t been too hard. Everyone already knew what he wanted, after all; he wanted to be a success. And, in fact, he already was a success . . . had been even before he’d met his golden boy, and likely would continue on his path to being the very, very best.

 

With his golden boy, his Justin, he thought that he would have no problem rising to the top of his profession. The blonde boy was his inspiration. Just one smile or one glance from those sparkling eyes made him want to press on to succeed. Made him want to battle to the best he could be, damn the consequences and fuck whomever got in the way. He found he’d do anything just to get another smile  . . . another kiss  . . . another night of having his beautiful Justin in his bed, in his arms.

 

The moment their eyes met – the world was at peace, the air tasted sweet, and they were completely, blissfully happy.

 

So happy, in fact, that even now he had trouble grasping that none of it had been real. The laughter, the loving, the talking, the sharing – all of it, he realized now, was a dream. A pretty dream, a sweet, light, never-to-be-forgotten dream, but a dream nonetheless. It had taken him some moments to draw this conclusion, upon waking up that morning and finding him in bed alone, and his living space empty, totally devoid of the golden presence he thought was in his life for good. After his morning coffee, and a quick run, he came to the slow realization that none of the loving or the sharing had happened in reality. He’d dreamt it all. In the space of a night, he’d dreamt up a beautiful fable, complete with his golden-haired prince and with him in the role as the handsome dark knight come to save the day. In the space of a few hours, he’d loved, laughed and lived as never before with the golden boy that had haunted his thoughts since the minute he laid eyes on him.

 

A dream. A pretty, pointless dream. That’s all it had been. His subconscious had imagined it all, giving him a love beyond his wildest imaginations.

 

But what he was seeing now was no mirage, nothing imagined. He was wide awake now, and what he was seeing now was reality. There went his golden boy, the boy he’d loved only behind closed eyelids, walking with him. He seethed as he watched the two interact. Catching a glimpse of Justin’s face as he passed him, he saw that he was smiling that smile that could stop a heart and start it again in the same instant. His companion was smirking, it looked like, and said something that made Justin smile wider.

 

I made him smile like that. In my dream. None of it ever happened! But it seemed so real . . . He was with me. He left him and came with me . . .  His eyes followed them as they walked down the lonesome street, almost huddled together, it seemed. The interloper’s arm was around Justin’s shoulders, pulling him closer. They moved almost as if they were one being, and indeed, if it weren’t for Justin’s hair, it would have been difficult for him to tell where his golden boy began and where the interloper ended.

 

Seething and saddened, he watched them until they got to the end of the block. They paused at the corner, and he froze as Justin and the interloper  looked around, right at him it seemed. He stood very still and very calm, though it was quite a strain to remain upright. Ignoring the trembling in his knees, he forced himself to look at them, to watch them watching him. He even managed a smile, his heart leaping a little when he saw those blue eyes crinkle at the corners as Justin returned the smile, giving him a little wave in return. The interloper, however, stood coolly by, his expression unchanged. He gave that impassive face a passing glance. This was what made Justin happy? What banished the shadows from those sky-blue eyes? This was the person who whispered sweet nothings in his ear, who told him he was beautiful? Who spoke of loving and not fucking? Who cherished him? This was him? From what he’d heard, the interloper could barely take care of himself, and he was the one Justin was going to trust his heart to? Was this the person who could give him the words when he needed to hear them?

 

He’d been sure that the instant love he’d felt for Justin had shown in every move that he made, every line of his body, every fiber of his being. He could see it. Hell, everyone could see it . . . but Justin. Everyone could, except the person who counted.

 

And it was, in the end, his fault. He’d had the chance to say the words. He remembered the look in those blue eyes -- the searching look, and the questioning gaze. Justin had given him the chance to say the words that would have made him stay. That would have made him his. He’d given him ample opportunity to say the words that would ease the pain he’d seen in those eyes. He remembered their easy conversation . . . the drawings Justin had done of him. Their gentle flirting. And then . . . he’d frozen. Wanting to say the words, but unable to. Unable to move, even, as complete love for this boy overwhelmed him. Fuck . . . the most important moment of his life, and he’d totally blanked! Even now he saw Justin turn his back and slowly leave. He saw himself staring after Justin, wanting to run to him and gather him in his arms and tell him just what he meant to him. That it had been, for him, love at first sight.

 

But he’d blown it. He’d been able to do more than stare bug-eyed as Justin gave him a forlorn, sad little shrug and turned away, walking out of his life, into the interloper’s arms. And leaving him surrounded by strangers he couldn’t care less about. Leaving him utterly alone. And then he dreamt. In the dream, he had said the words, and Justin had chosen him, and had come home with him and loved him and loved him and loved him . . .

But it had been a fucking dream. A dream. And he was alone.               He had a brief thought of running after Justin now, and saying, “Last night, I dreamt of you, and we were beautiful together.” But his legs wouldn’t obey him. The words sounded idiotic to his ear now. And besides . . . they were out of sight now.

 

He wondered if it would have made a difference if he had run after Justin and plied him with pretty words and gentle touches. Would he have gone with him? Would he have given up his interloper? He’d seemed so open, so vulnerable. Looking at him now, he was conscious that something had changed in the day in which they’d last seen each other. Justin seemed happy, buoyant. Secure. And none of it had anything to do with him.

 

Justin loved the interloper. He could see it, and it made his heart grow sick. His dream, it had been so perfect, giving him a glimpse at what could have been. But it was never going to happen now. He’d had his chance to reel Justin in while he was hurting, but in the interim, the interloper had moved in and made Justin whole again.

 

A dream. All a dream. Why’d I have to wake up? Why couldn’t I have just kept on loving him . . . kept on dreaming . . .

 

He took a deep breath and looked up at a darkening gray sky. It would be easy to sit on the ground, feel the cold of the concrete seep into his bones until he couldn’t think, move or feel. It would be so easy . . .

 

But he didn’t have time for easy. Grim-faced, he turned and resumed walking in the direction he’d been going before being confronted with his golden boy once more. He had to suck it up. Soldier on. It was expected of him, and like a good showman, he couldn’t disappoint.

 

~*~

 

“Who?”

 

“Ethan Gold. The guy who played at the concert Mel and Linds took me to yesterday. Remember?”

 

“Hm.” Brian fished in his pocket for his car keys, as he and Justin hurried down the street. Nodding slightly at the revelation of the name of the boy who’d stared them down the street, he said almost like an afterthought, “Oh. Right. The cute violinist.”

 

The blonde blushed and ducked his head. “He was okay. Kind of better-looking from afar, you know?”

 

“Well, you’d know. You got close enough.” He gave his lover a sideways glance as they climbed into the jeep. “Linds told me you two artistes had a nice, cozy chat. And you gave him your calling card. Sketches of him.” An eyebrow lifted. “Did you draw just his face or did you get a chance to do an  . . . in-depth portrait?”

 

“Don’t be a dickhead. We just talked,” Justin punched his arm lightly. “I mean, I went up to him afterwards, to say hello, and to tell him I liked his music. He seemed . . . nice. I showed him my drawings. He was flirting, I think . . .” Justin trailed off with a shrug. “But then bunch of people finally came over and started telling him how great he was, and so I left. He seemed kind of snotty to them, though. Maybe he was just shy.  Maybe he’s bipolar.”

 

“Goes to show. Never trust a guy who’s bi. They’re lousy fucks either way.” Brian eased out of his parking space. “You must have made some impression on him . . . he didn’t take his eyes off you the whole time we were on the street.”

 

“Yeah? I didn’t notice.” Justin’s face was dreamy. He was recalling the activities of the previous night, after Brian had finished consoling Michael after the Ben-party fiasco.

 

~*~

 

Justin had been in the loft, brooding about Brian’s earlier “present,” about to give up hope of ever uncovering a romantic bone in Brian Kinney’s body, recalling how sad he’d felt all day, thinking that on this, his 19^th birthday, the only person he wanted to celebrate with didn’t think there was any cause for celebration.

 

But then Brian had returned, looking a little worn around the edges – likely from his attempt to calm down Mikey -- but with a look in his eyes Justin had never seen before. Sitting down beside him, Brian had put his arm around him, nuzzled his neck, and said without preamble, “Every time I think Mikey, my best friend knows me – really knows me – I get proven wrong. He said I don’t expect things. That I don’t want things. He’s wrong. I do want things – I want you and me to be all right. And I do expect things -- I expect you to tell me the truth. I want you to tell me what you want. What you need. If you wanted to do something on your birthday, you needed to tell me. I don’t read minds. We do not share a brain.”

 

“Thank god,” Justin had said with a small smile, but his heart had pounded. What was all this? Had Ben’s blow-up freaked Brian out somehow? Had someone – Linds, Mel, maybe both – talked to him? But Brian had the look on his face that said he did not want to be interrupted, so Justin kept quiet.

 

“I think birthdays are bullshit, and I won’t apologize for what I think,” he went on. “But it was unfair of me to assume you’d go along with that. I should have realized that celebrating your birthday was celebrating an accomplishment.”

 

“Wh-what do you mean?” Justin nearly whispered.

 

“You’re here.” Brian said simply. “You’re here. And  . . . you’re . . . you’re with me. We’re together.” He kissed Justin lightly on the lips. “And we haven’t fucking killed each other yet.”

 

“That’s more than an accomplishment.” Justin smiled. “It’s a miracle.”

 

Brian smiled back briefly. “So let’s celebrate. Get your jacket, Sunshine. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tonight.”

 

~*~

 

 “What are you smiling about?” Brian glanced over, a small smile of his own playing on his lips.

 

“Just . . . last night.” Justin’s smile grew. “It was really awesome. How’d you talk that guy into opening the restaurant for us?”

 

“He’s a friend of a friend,” Brian rounded a corner, heading for the main drag that would take them downtown. “Owed me a favor or two. Besides . . . I made it worth his while.”

 

“And that cake . . . how did you get that cake on such short notice?” He recalled the three-layer confection garnished with chocolate curls and raspberries, half of which was sitting in Brian’s refrigerator waiting to be devoured.

 

“I have connections,” he answered simply, and Justin smiled, knowing that was as much as he was going to get out of his lover.

 

“And going to that late show at the planetarium was fun,” Justin went on. “How’d you know I liked that stuff?”

 

“I do have ears as well as a dick, you know. And I know you have a mouth and a brain. And you use them independently of each other at times, even.” Brian smirked at him, and then his expression immediately softened. “I listen, Justin. So talk to me. The communication thing works, you know. It works both ways.”

 

“I know,” Justin said softly. He wondered for a moment what might have happened if Brian hadn’t made an effort to make up for the faux-pas of getting him the hustler. What if Brian had just gone on his way, not bothering to show Justin that he really cared? What if his birthday had passed without Brian making some sort of conciliatory gesture?  Justin shuddered as he thought of the possibilities, and was thankful Brian had shown him he cared before anything happened that they both might end up regretting.  “It was a great birthday. I can’t wait to open my presents.” Brian had hinted that the large parcels stashed in the back were for him, and Justin had noticed that none of them had air holes in them, so he wasn’t getting another “living” gift, at least.

 

“Patience,” Brian grinned, nudging the gas a little. “I wasn’t sure about some of the sizes, so you’ll have to try some things on. That should be fun.” His eyebrows rose. “I like a show.”

 

“Hey . . . it’s my birthday . . . shouldn’t I get the show?”

 

“Oh don’t worry.” Brian’s voice took on a smoky, teasing tone and Justin shivered. “You’ll be entertained. Trust me.”

 

Wow. Justin settled back into his seat, with a self-satisfied look. This Brian – warm, gentle, showing flashes of an understanding of what romance was and what made a relationship work -- was such a change from the coldhearted, hard-fucking prick everyone had warned him against when they’d first met. It was like a dream come true. One Justin hoped he’d never wake up from. “Are we there yet?”

 

Brian’s smirk was evident, and he glanced over at Justin, about to speak, but then halted. “Well, well. There’s your violinist again, likely on his way to dazzle more of the unwashed masses.”

 

Justin looked out his window, seeing the dark-haired boy moving slowly down the block, his head bent to the ground, and his violin clasped tightly under his arm. He wasn’t such a bad-looking guy. Under very different circumstances, Justin wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t have gone for Ethan. But not now. Why settle for that when he had the pick of the litter? And things were going to be all right between him and Brian. Justin could feel it.

 

“He must stay up all night practicing for those concerts,” Justin said, a note of pity in his voice. “Poor guy looks like he’s totally sleepwalking.”

 

Finito.

Picture-Imperfect

(season two story) One early morning, Brian decides to let his creative side roam - much to his chagrin and Justin's surprise.

It was 4:45 a.m., and Brian was sure his mind was out there in the urban jungle known as Pittsburgh, attempting to hail a cab, perhaps, so it could find its way back home to the skull it had deserted apparently some time back.

 

Or maybe, the executive thought as he frantically erased a stray pencil mark, maybe that idiocy he’d tried with the scarf on his 30^th birthday had killed off all the cells all those hits of E had missed. In any case, he was operating without a mind, that much was clear. There just wasn’t any other reason to explain his current actions and rationalize why he was up at the crack of dawn, wide-awake despite having only 15 minutes’ sleep total, with a notebook between his knees, a pencil in his hand, and attempting to draw his sleeping golden boy.

 

Attempting . . . and failing. Miserably. Brian’s eyes swept over the slumbering form at his side. Justin was sprawled somewhat at an angle across the bed, his legs tangled in the dark blue duvet, leaving the rest of the smooth, pale body exposed to a cataloguing hazel gaze. The blond head was resting on one arm, the other stretched out across the mattress, brushing Brian’s bare hip. The teen’s slightly open mouth and rumpled hair made him look all of about 12, guileless and innocent in his slumber. At peace. Brian had awoken to this sight, still keyed up and restless from their earlier lovemaking. The older stared into the placid face, letting the image etch itself line by line into his brain. Yet that had not been enough. Looking at Justin with that expression, and in that pose that just ached to be captured, Brian found himself wanting something tangible, something he could pull out whenever he wanted and look at and see that same expression of calm, that same quiet beauty that he found he could never get enough of.  

 

But instead of going to the closet and pulling out his top-shelf, fully modern 35 mm, like a normal person, for reasons he was positive he’d never understand, he grabbed the nearest piece of paper instead, reasoning that the flash of he camera would have wakened Justin and maybe have distorted the picture. He’d taken an art class or two as requirements at Penn State, and he hadn’t been too bad. In such a visual field as advertising, it helped to be able to sketch out layouts and mockups to help flesh out an idea. But drawing a table or a beer bottle was one thing; drawing a human being was quite different.

 

Brian glanced over at his “subject,” resisting the urge to card his hand through the golden strands, or run his thumb over the full, slightly protruding bottom lip. Justin’s hold on sleep was always tenuous, even given his hectic collegiate schedule, and Brian wanted Justin to sleep on, grateful for the buffer that slumber put between his surreptitious admiration and Justin’s awareness of the world around him.

 

He glared down at the paper, squinting at his “creation.” With only the blue lights to work by, he was conscious that he really couldn’t see what the hell he was doing, was trying to get the pencil to trace out the same lines his own hands and tongue and fingers had traced only hours before. In his minds eye, Brian saw his tongue traveling over the curve of Justin’s hip, nipping at the shallow divot at the top. He could see his fingers tracing circles on the silky shoulders and gliding down his back, coming to rest at that sensuous curve at the top of his ass. Brian could envision all that in his head, could practically feel the soft skin beneath his fingertips. In his mind, he could sketch out every line of Justin’s body to the most minute detail.

 

But his “mind art” didn’t translate to paper well. He scowled down at his work, cursing himself for even trying, berating himself for even having the idea, for being up at that hour. What the hell had happened to the days when he could fuck and fall asleep two seconds after the condom was rolled off and the lube capped? What the hell was with this “Stay up and notice how innocent Justin looks when he sleeps” nonsense? Because he had been doing that lately. A lot. No matter how draining their sessions were -- and they had been pretty exhausting of late -- Brian found himself watching the teen as he dozed, noting the subtle rhythm of his breathing, mesmerized by the play of the blue light on the alabaster skin, how the glow seemed to outline the boy, define him. It was odd; Brian had installed the blue lights in part for its distortive properties. He’d found that the light rendered the features of the tricks he fucked indistinct and shadowy, making his experience with them even more impersonal because he literally could not see them very well, could only feel what they were doing to his body.

 

It didn’t work that way with Justin, though. The blue lights loved his form, caressed him, made him over in their image. Under the lights made his features seem sharper, his eyes a more perfect blue, his hair a more perfect gold, and his body a more perfect vessel. The lights were like a neon sign, highlighting his beauty in shades of indigo.

 

Brian glanced over as he felt the bed shift and swallowed a frustrated sigh.  Justin had changed position – now one knee was drawn up almost to his chest, and both arms were stretched above his head, much like a diver’s. He wondered how the boy could stand to draw living people – and him  especially. Brian knew he twisted and turned and thrashed about a zillion times in his sleep; when he slept alone, he almost always ended up twisted in some bizarre position, and was usually on side opposite of where he’d started. But then, Justin had had two things Brian did not – actual artistic talent and patience.

 

He erased some more, added a few lines here and there, and . . . erased yet more.  Shit. This is fucking asinine. Brian bit the tip of the eraser. A whole day of meetings today, the head of Tima Corp. flying in from fucking San Diego, and Ryder’s gonna end up pawning him off on me, and I’m sitting up at 5 in the morning making stick figures --

 

The bed shifted again, and this time, he heard Justin murmur something inaudible. Brian looked down into the teen’s face, a little startled to see sleepy blue eyes staring back at him.

 

“Brian?” Justin’s voice was drowsy and uncertain. “What time is it? Why are you up?”

 

“I’m doodling,” Brian said shortly, erasing another errant mark. “Stop wriggling – you’re making me lose my concentration.”

 

“What are you doing? Something for work?” Justin rolled onto his side, and propped his head up on one arm. “Must be a big deal if it’s keeping you up at night.”

 

“Go to back to sleep,” Brian eyed his work, frowning. “We’ve gotta be up in two hours, and don’t think I’m gonna spend fifteen minutes dragging your ass out of bed like I did the last time you slept through the alarm.”

 

“I’ll be okay.” Justin struggled into a seated position and rested his head on Brian’s shoulder. “It’s Thursday. I have just the one class at nine, and then I have the entire day to myself. And I was thinking that maybe this afternoon we could – hey.” He peered into Brian’s lap. “That looks like my sketchbook.”

 

The tips of Brian’s ears turned tomato-red. Busted. “Is that what this is? I just grabbed the first thing I could find.” Dammit. He should’ve known the book belonged to the blonde, but unlike most of his sketchbooks, this one looked to have been relatively untouched.

 

“I was using it earlier. I thought I put it near the computer.” Justin looked at him. “What are you doing with it?”

 

“I already told you. Doodling.” The corners of Brian’s mouth twitched, and he ran his hand over his hair. Don’t tell him, idiot . . . just rip the thing out. Burn it, shred it. Just don’t  fucking show him  . . .  “You’re always going on about how fucking incredible it is to “draw by the first light of the sun” or whatever the fuck, so I thought I’d give it a try.” He gave the boy a bemused smirk. “So far, I’m not impressed.”

 

Justin was now wide awake, staring at his lover with confused eyes. “You’re drawing something? What is it? Can I see?”

 

No. Hell. No. “It’s not done yet.” Brian hedged, turning slightly away from the blond. “And it won’t be if you don’t go back to sleep. I still haven’t done your eyebrows. So be a good little twink and –” Brian’s mouth dropped open when he realized what he’d said, and saw Justin’s eyes go round with surprise. Fuck. Me. Hard. Fuck!

 

“My eyebrows? What does that . . .” Justin inched closer. “Wait. Me? You’re drawing me?”

 

Brian bit his lip and pulled at the duvet . . . fighting the urge to burrow beneath it and stay there for a decade or two. “No.”

 

Justin blinked hard. “No . . .?”

 

“No.” Brian sighed, pressing a hand to his eyes. “I’m not . . . this is hardly what anybody would consider drawing. Or art. Or any fucking thing.” His blush hadn’t abated, and he found he couldn’t look at the teen. The camera would have been much simpler. Even if the flash had woken him, Brian could have laughed the whole thing off as a joke, saying that he wanted to have photographic proof that Justin was never without a hard-on when he slept in Brian’s bed. But this . . . this . . . drawing thing. How the fuck to explain that?

 

I can’t. I can’t explain it. Even to myself. Fuck. Brian ran his hand over his eyes. Maybe I’ll blame the drugs. Yeah. The drugs. I’ll say I was high off my ass . . . He doesn’t have to know I haven’t taken anything since . . . fuck. When was the last time I had a hit?

 

“Can I see it?” Justin’s voice was almost shy. “Whatever it is, I bet it’s nice.”

 

Brian hesitated. “It’s shit. It’s going to be trashed.”

 

“Come on . . . please?” Justin smiled a little, and rubbed Brian’s shoulder. “No one’s ever drawn me before. . . except me. And I really don’t like drawing myself.”

 

“Why not? If you did, you wouldn’t have to tell everyone you’re hung – you could show them.”

 

The blonde boy laughed quietly. “There’s more interesting things to draw. And besides  . . . I think all artists have a skewed self-image, so my self-portraits don’t really look like me.”

 

“And? Neither did Albert Gleizes’. He didn’t do too badly in life.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Art History.” Justin said with a grin. “Now will you please show me? I promise I won’t laugh –”

 

“Fuck you!” Brian tried to sound outraged. “It’s not that bad.” Okay, that’s a fucking lie. . .

 

“I know it isn’t. So let me see it.”

 

Brian glanced down at the picture. Taking in the half-erased, scribbled in, mishmash of markings on the paper, he sighed. No way was this seeing the light of day. Not even the half-light of day. “You’ll see it when I’m satisfied with it.” Which won’t be any time this millennium.

 

Justin was silent a minute, and Brian could feel, more than see, the blond boy nod. “I understand. I don’t like people looking at my work until I get it where I want it. Outside opinions can really mess up the flow. Flow is everything, you know?”

 

“Whatever you say, Sunshine. Now go to bed.”

 

“I will get to see this, though . . . right? Someday?”

 

There was a timidity and a subdued hope in his voice that made Brian stop staring at his failed picture and look at Justin. Taking in the deep blue eyes, and the smile, and the open, happy look on the teenager’s face, Brian was thoughtful. He could, he realized, show Justin what he had drawn, and the blonde boy would probably be very thrilled with it, content that Brian had made an effort. Brian realized that was a major part of why he . . . he . . . cared for the boy. He wasn’t so jaded yet as to want perfection in everything. Brian was aware that he himself expected more than just a “good try” – at work, “a good try” didn’t cut it; in fucking, “a good try” most definitely didn’t do it for him, either. But trying was what Justin seemed to ask of him; it was all he seemed to ask. All he seemed to want. For Brian to try – try to understand him, talk to him, open up to him, trust him.

 

Love him. Try.

 

And it wasn’t fair. Brian frowned. It wasn’t fair not because Justin was selling himself short by not demanding the same surety Brian himself demanded of all around him. The teen deserved more than just to settle for effort, and Brian knew he wasn’t one to rest on his laurels. He would try. And try and try again until he got it right, or as close to right as he could get without killing himself. Justin deserved no less.

 

“Fuck it. Here. It’s not good.” Brian handed the pad to him with a shudder. “I fucked it up. I haven’t drawn anything  . . . well . . . anything . . . special . . . since college.” He stopped, marveling at his admission of Justin’s importance to him, and swiftly moved to undercut it with a barbed remark. But he just as quickly closed his mouth. Fuck it. He’d said the words. They were out there. They’d stand. Glancing over at Justin, he noticed the boy’s eyes had not moved from the paper, and he appeared not to have heard him anyway.

 

“Hey . . . are you kidding me? This is good!” Justin sounded much too excited for any normal person at 5 in the morning. “I like how you did my nose. And . . . hey . . . is that my dick? Was I hard when you were drawing this? Wow . . .”

 

“Don’t bullshit me.” Brian sank back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “It’s crap. It looks like a fucking Muppet with its finger stuck in an electric socket.”

 

“Well . . . I mean, this won’t get you into PIFA, maybe, but it’s really nice.” Justin bent to give his lover a lingering kiss. “You have a real good grasp of perspective and detail. Your shading could use a little work, though –”

 

“Those are eraser marks.” Brian put his hands over his face. What a fucking disaster.

 

“Oh. Well, anyway it’s a work of art to me, because it’s from you.” Justin stroked his hair. “I love this, Brian. Can I keep it?”

 

“Sure.” He managed to shrug. “That way, the next time I do this, you’ll have something to compare it to, and we can see how far I’ve come. And I can come pretty far, you know.” The last part was said with a chuckle.

 

“There’s . . . there’s going to be a next time?”

 

Brian smiled at the wonder in the teen’s voice. “Well, Linds was telling me about some distance education deal she’s involved with at the GLT center. They have an art outreach program or something. Offers classes at night for adults. Maybe I’ll look into it . . . learn how to draw something that looks like it could be an actual person.” He paused, hoping that it had come out as casually as he’d hoped.

 

Justin leaned over him, his eyes questioning. “An art class? You’d take an art class? But . . .”

 

“Hey, it’d give us a common interest. Other than me, that is,” Brian said with a smile. He then turned serious. “And . . . I can do better than that.” He pointed to the sketchpad. “I  . . . I will  . . . do better, Justin. You’ll see.” There was a world of meaning in those words, and Brian held his breath as the blue eyes widened in understanding, in trust, and in love.

 

Justin’s smile was blinding, but brief as he turned to the picture. “I can tell it’s me. And I like the little “Zs” you drew next to my mouth. Cute.”

 

“Screw you.” Brian turned over. “Go. To. Sleep.”

 

“Um . . . you know, Brian . . . I . . .”

 

Brian tensed at the hesitation in Justin’s voice, and took a deep breath before turning to look at the blonde. “Yes?”

 

“I was just going to say that . . . this is a good start.” He raised the book slightly. “It’s not perfect, no . . . but it’s . . . wow. It’s more than I ever hoped for –”

 

“Justin . . .” Brian was suddenly afraid of where this conversation was going.

 

“Wait. I was just going to say, though, that . . . I know you can do better, and I know you want to. That  . . . that means a lot to me.” Justin’s eyes shone in the early-morning light that was filtering in the room. “And I can’t wait to see where it goes. I think it’s going to be really . . . nice.”

 

Brian released the breath he was holding. “My drawings you mean?”

 

There was a split second of silence, then Justin smiled. “Yeah. That, too.”

 

They shared a knowing look, and Brian grinned in spite of himself, letting him know that the message, such as it was, had been received and was now being returned. Fuck. What the fuck am I getting myself into?

 

“You know .  . . every time I’ve gotten you figured out, you totally surprise the hell out of me,” Justin said with a soft smile. “Being with you is a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them.”

 

“I try,” Brian said lightly, pulling Justin down and wrapping his arms firmly around him.  Justin gave him a last dreamy smile, and after a few minutes his eyelids fluttered closed. Brian watched until he saw that same peaceful expression return to the boy’s face -- the same look that had inspired him to take up pencil and paper to begin with. Brian smiled, and let himself drift back into slumber with that image in his mind.

 

Finito

Bible Thumping

(Post-220 story) Justin is determined to show Brian the true path to salvation.

Justin came to a full stop as soon as he saw the metal door. Up to that point, he’d been working on autopilot, saying little in the car with the others, going through the motions at that Sunday’s service, doing the perfunctory smile and nod that he’d learned at the Center. He’d listened carefully to the Teacher’s – they didn’t call them preachers or ministers or people of God at the Repudiation Ministry – sermon that morning, understood that what he had to do was unpleasant, but necessary for his salvation.

 

But now, actually being there – at the den of the lion, so to speak, he felt his throat constrict and cold sweat race down his back. Justin tugged at the knot of his tie, wishing that he’d worn the blue suit, not the black. His only black suit was frayed at the edges, and a bit short, but black was the preferred color of “field soldiers” for the Ministry, so he just had to grin and bear it, just as the Teacher said Jesus Christ himself would do. Still battling against a tide of uneasiness, Justin adjusted his tie once more and gave four sturdy taps on the metal door. As the ring of the fourth knock hovered in the air, Justin took a step back and waited, swallowing his anxiety.

 

C’mon, relax . . . it’ll be okay. Justin ran a hand through his hair, newly cropped and styled in the part-on-the-side, young Republican cut that almost all his fellow converts wore. He thought it made him look like a putz, but every guy at the Ministry wore their hair that way, and just like them, he sought to fit in, to please. To renounce the sins of his life just as they did – even if it had meant subjugating his individuality. Justin’s lips twitched in an attempt at a smile. But as he’d been taught at the Center, the way he’d been living was no life at all . . . just marking time in the most sinful way possible before the devil could claim his soul. He’d gotten out, though, just in time. And now, if all went well, he would soon lead another lost soul into the light.

 

Glancing at the formidable, and still locked, door, Justin frowned and glanced at his watch. It was 11 a.m. – likely his quarry was in his bed sleeping off the effects of drugging or tricking or drinking . . . or any combination of the three. Knocking with a little more force, Justin allowed himself a moment of reflection. It was hard to believe that at one time, he’d actually been a part of the hedonistic lifestyle he now condemned as a convert of the Center. He’d actually liked it . . . the dancing, the drinking, the pressing of flesh . . . the feel of a man’s hand, mouth, ass on his cock . . . the feel of salty, deliciously musky, erect flesh sliding in and out of his mouth . . . Clearing his throat, Justin shifted, marking with dismay the heat pooling in his crotch. Like a rabid dog, he shook his head quickly, dispelling the images. That was old news . . .  and his old life. He pulled the front of his jacket farther down to conceal the bulge that had formed in his tight slacks. No . . . he certainly didn’t have those sinful urges anymore . . .

 

Hand poised to knock a third time, the blond heard a gentle click that chilled the blood in his veins. There was another clicking sound, then the heavy door groaned on its tracks, sliding open to reveal a slice of a tastefully furnished loft – and the figure of a tall, loose-limbed man, dark hair hanging free, hazel eyes bright, and sweat glistening off flushed skin. Justin took in the sight of Brian in a glance: he was wearing only a white wife-beater and a pair of cotton gym shorts – the sort of outfit that on its face was not obscene, but seemed to emphasize the tall form more than if he’d been naked. As the stunned hazel gaze raked him from head to toe in one swoop, Justin forced himself to smile. You’ve got a beautiful smile, boy, Justin recalled the Teacher telling him: A smile that can make a man want to give up sin. Use it. Use it for the Lord.

 

The smile drooped some when the eyes flicked up again. Not for the first time, Justin thought Brian had the eyes of a fallen saint – large and liquid, but blazing with a hard, contemptuous light. The surprise had fled from the older man’s expression, cynicism and a little curiosity taking its place. “Who the fuck died?”

 

Justin had been prepared to launch into the spiel – ah, the speech – he and all the converts had to memorize before they were allowed to spread the word amongst the sinners, but Brian’s words, and the hard-bitten tone stopped him. This was not Brian’s drugged/drunk/fucked-out-of-his mind voice . . . the man was awake, and very, very lucid. Justin gulped audibly, his confidence waning, wondering if he would be able to carry out his mission as was expected.

 

“We’re all dying, Brian,” Justin said, propping up his smile again. He made his voice loud and friendly, just as the Teacher used during sermons. “All of us will be called to account – some of us sooner rather than later. And don’t you think you ought to be prepared for when it is your time to go?”

 

“The amount of time it'll take me to pack some lube and poppers, is how much I'll need to get prepared.” The gaze went traveling again, hovering somewhere below Justin’s belt. The blond forced himself to smile even as he felt his heart hammering hard enough to break a rib. “What the fuck are you wearing? And why the hell are you waking me up at fucking noon on a Sunday?”

 

“It’s not noon, Brian, it’s 11 a.m.” Justin blinked calmly at Brian’s dark glare. “And there’s never a time that isn’t right to talk about how you can achieve salvation, and make things right in your life and with the Lord.” The blond pulled at his tie again. “But I have some wonderful news. If you’ll just give me a minute of your time, we can discuss it.”

 

Brian stood in the doorway staring, and Justin held his breath. The Teacher said that if you got past the, “making things right with the Lord” part of the speech without having the door slammed in your face, there was a pretty decent chance you’d run into someone who was open to idea of renouncing their sins and embracing the Lord. Justin held his breath and waited, facing down those glittering eyes, allowing that cutting stare to maul him for what seemed liked hours, knowing that if he wavered – if he even so much as blinked –  the sound of Brian shutting the door in his face would be echoing in his mind for the rest of the day.

 

The older man’s lips curled into a bitter smile, and he opened the door wider. “Yeah, whatever. Come on in.”

 

Justin was in the loft almost before Brian had finished the sentence. Fuck . . . fuck! He said yes! Elated, he sped to the middle of the spacious apartment, riding a wave of euphoria that he hadn’t felt in some time. All right . . . keep cool. Can’t blow this . . . just remember the Teacher . . . Justin turned and saw Brian watching him with that same vicious grin. The ad executive pulled out one of his dining room chairs, turned it backward and straddled it, resting his chin on beautifully chiseled forearms.

 

“Have a seat . . . Mr. Taylor.” A little of the edge left Brian’s smile as he pointed to the sofa. Justin colored, recalling that the last – well, the only – time Brian had called him that, he’d just finished fucking him nearly into the floorboards. His dick throbbed in remembrance, and he sat down quickly, yanking at his suit jacket.  

 

“So,” Brian leaned forward a little, thrusting his legs in front of him. “What is it you wanted to say?”

 

Justin took a breath, exhaling when he felt his head begin to clear. Turning to Brian with a gentle smile, he launched into paragraph 3, section 9 of the “speech” that he’d rehearsed on the way to the loft. “Brian . . . have you considered renouncing homosexuality? Living your life clean of sin?”

 

Brian tilted his head to one side, but his expression remained impassive. He reached up to push strands of hair out of his eyes, and Justin could see the easy flex of his muscles beneath the rosy skin. “No.” The word was casual, lobbed as gently as a beach ball to a throng of children, but it hit Justin square in the face with the force of a slab of marble. He opened his mouth to continue on with paragraph 4, but the amusement in those amber eyes gave him pause.

 

“Well, I think you should consider it, Bri.” Justin ran his hand over his hair, uncomfortable under the gaze. “As I know you’ve heard, I’m a member of Repudiation Ministries, and we’re attempting to find –”

 

“Fuck . . . I thought Deb was shitting me when she said you’d joined one of those bullshit ex-gay groups.” Brian fumbled in his shorts for a pack of cigarettes, shaking out one and dumping the pack on the floor. “Forget what your mind looks like, Sonnyboy? Seems it’s been awhile since you’ve seen it . . . or used it.”

 

Justin gritted his teeth. “Repudiation helped me discover my true self, Brian. After . . . after the Rage party, after things with Ethan fell apart, I was lost. Adrift. I wasn’t happy . . . and I wasn’t happy, because I wasn’t living my life the way the Lord intended – as a healthy, adjusted straight man.”

 

Brian went silent for some seconds, lighting his cigarette and taking a long, slow drag. Exhaled. “You really believe all that shit, don’t you?” He gazed at Justin through the rising smoke.

 

“Yes, I do.” Justin bit his lower lip, marveling at how easy the words came out. “And should believe it, too, Brian. Your soul will thank you for it.”

 

“Yeah well, my dick won’t. And at least I know I have one of those.” Brian stubbed out the cigarette, and stood. The bitter-edged smile was back, and the dark eyes had gone flinty. “And getting off is about the only salvation I’m worried about.” He cupped his own groin, squeezing with a force that made Justin wince. “You talk about living life the way the Lord intended,” he framed the words sarcastically. “Well, I got from a good source – a man of the fucking cloth, actually – that the Lord intended some of us to suck cock, eat ass and fuck ass.” A beat. “And that’s how I intend to live my life.”

 

Justin’s eyes narrowed, and as he wracked his brains for an appropriate retort, Brian stalked over planting himself right in front of the blond, the bulge in his pants right in the teen’s line of vision. Justin stared at the outline of Brian’s dick, saw it grow harder, tenting out the thin shorts, under his stare. When a spot of moisture appeared on the front of the shorts, Justin forced his eyes upward, locking gazes with his former lover.

 

“Obviously you’re not open to a dialogue at this time.” Justin made his voice businesslike as he employed the standard get-out-of-Dodge line the Teacher had taught all converts when they ran against trouble. “I’ll just leave some literature with you. If you ever feel like coming to a meeting . . .” He trailed off as Brian skinned out of the shorts, his cock springing out and tapping Justin lightly on the nose. Justin gaped at the sturdy flesh bobbing just inches from his mouth, the plum-colored head flared out like an umbrella opening, bathed in a sheen of precum.

 

Jesus . . . oh god . . . god . . . god . . . The blond wasn’t sure if he was cursing or praying, but from the throbbing in his own pants, he was sure that he was in serious, serious trouble.

 

“Brian . . . this isn't what I had in mind.” Justin could barely hear himself above pounding of his heart and groin. He couldn’t move, couldn’t take his eyes away from that flushed column of flesh and those muscled thighs . . . those impossibly long legs . . . Think of the Teacher . . . think of what the Teacher would do . . . He could feel his desperation mounting. “You’re invading my personal space.”

 

“That’s right, Sunshine.” Brian moved even closer, grabbing his dick and waving it in front of the blond’s mouth, lightly touching Justin’s lips with its leaking head. “And what do you intend to do about it?”

 

Leave. The Teacher says when you’re faced with temptation, just close your eyes, gather your strength and get the hell out. Justin closed his eyes, running his tongue over his lips. Tasting the sharp, saltiness of Brian’s liquid, he felt his defenses melt away, and the small Bible the Teacher had given him with a pat and a smile slipped from his hand. Falling . . . he was falling . . . back into the abyss . . . back into the madness. Temptation had reared its head and was leading him by the dick back into the chasm of chaos. One taste of Brian and he was hooked again . . . going under again . . . and everything he’d learned at the Ministry seemed to melt away like a bad dream at daybreak.

 

“Brian . . .” Keeping his eyes closed, Justin reached up and wrapped his hand around the fleshy tube. Squeezing it, he rubbed his thumb over the cockhead, coating the upper half of Brian’s dick with the slippery fluid. Buoyed by Brian’s strangled moan, Justin lunged forward, sliding as much of Brian’s cock into his mouth as he could in that position. He held it in his mouth a moment, flicking his tongue on the underside of the exec’s dick and swooping upward, dragging his tongue in lazy circles around the surging head. Scooting to the very edge of the sofa and egged on by Brian’s soft gasps, Justin angled his head and began to slide his mouth down the length of the shaft, licking and nibbling at the flesh with his lips until he felt the tip hit the back of his throat and felt the crinkly hair of Brian’s pubes tickle his nose. Brian began pumping his hips at that moment,  picking up speed as Justin’s tongue played along his shaft. The older man was cradling the blond head in his hand – not forcing him or guiding him, Justin knew – but steadying him and relieving some of the tension on his neck as he fucked his face in long, deep strokes. Justin reached behind and grabbed handfuls of Brian’s ass, amazed as always at its smoothness and subtle muscularity.

 

With an effort, Justin moved back a little – just enough to give himself some purchase room – and hurriedly yanked his zipper down to pull out his own stiff cock. It leapt in his trembling hand, and Justin began whacking off as if there were the devil to pay, amazed at how completely the old hunger had seized him. It had been so long since he’d had a dick in his mouth, yet it was like muscle memory . . . he still knew exactly what to do and how to do it well, if Brian’s moans were any indication. The older man was alternating between uneven huffs and low, mewling sounds. Justin looked up and saw Brian staring down at him, mouth open, eyes hazy and perspiration snaking down the sides of his face.

 

His eyes never leaving Brian’s, Justin slid his mouth down to the base of his balls, letting the cock slide even further down his throat. Giving Brian’s balls a gentle squeeze, Justin fought hard not to smile when Brian began groaning in earnest, his legs trembling. Sliding Brian’s cock out of his mouth, Justin started to jack it quickly, watching Brian’s eyes darken to the color of raw honey. The older man’s moans rose in volume until he tossed his head back, giving a shout loud enough to bring the ceiling down on their heads, pulses of pearly liquid shooting out, coating Justin’s cheek and chin. Brian’s body trembled for several moments, and Justin laid his cheek against one of Brian’s thighs, employing a few quick strokes on his own weeping cock to bring himself off. He cried out against Brian’s skin as his load streamed out, seeping between closed fingers. Before he’d finished shooting, Brian had bent down, pressing his lips to Justin’s right temple and cradling him close, holding the blond until the last of the shivers passed through him.

 

Justin struggled to catch his breath as he felt himself sink into Brian’s embrace. Beneath his cheek, he could hear the soothing thud of the exec’s heart and could feel the gentle rise and fall of Brian’s chest. Looking up, his eyes met Brian’s, and for a moment, there was utter silence – even their heartbeats seemed to still – before they both broke into breathless laughter. Brian’s finger traced along Justin’s cheek, wiping off a portion of his come.

 

“Fuck . . . you’re a mess. I hope you didn’t rent that suit.” He grinned and kissed the tip of the blond’s nose. “And I hope you didn’t buy it, either. I’ve been fucking you nearly three years . . . I’d think you’d have developed some sense of style by now.”

 

Justin laughed and shook his head, sprawling across the couch as Brian left the room, striding toward the bedroom. Unbuttoning his suit jacket and loosening the inhibiting tie, he stared at his white-streaked black pants in bemusement and shrugged, grateful that there were dry cleaners on Liberty Avenue quite adept about getting out such stains – and quite discreet, also. Or maybe he wouldn’t have it cleaned at all. It was pretty old . . . and all-black tended to make him looked washed out, anyway. He looked up at the sound of footsteps, and gratefully grabbed the towel Brian held out to him. “Well, Sonnyboy . . . did you have fun?”

 

“What does it look like?” Justin cleaned himself as best he could and handed Brian the towel again. “That was amazing . . . I thought we were going to draw it out some more, though . . . let me really get into the fire and brimstone part. I spent a week going to that creepy place to get ready for this. I had to sit there and not puke while that weird Teacher guy spewed his anti-fag bullshit. He’s such a hypocrite, too: He is so the same asshole that hangs outside Woody’s on Monday nights, begging guys to let him watch them jerk off.”

 

“Sorry, Sunshine, but that fucking ‘living your life clear of sin’ crap was making my dick soft.” Brian threw himself back on the sofa, wrapping an arm around his lover. “You were starting to sound a little too convincing . . . needed to make sure my Sonnyboy was still playing on my side of the field.”

 

“Yeah, well, my dad used to send me stuff from ex-gay groups all the time. It all is the same idiocy, so it’s not hard to memorize.” Justin laid his head against Brian’s shoulder. “It's probably a good thing we cut it short . . . I was starting to get sick to my stomach saying all that shit. Jesus, Brian . . . that was really amazing . . . I always thought role-playing was kinda weird . . . but this was . . . wow . . .” He sighed, letting his hand trail along the ridges on Brian’s stomach. “How do you come up with this stuff? You have a thing for proselytizing ex-queers?”

 

“You’d be amazed at the thoughts a few bumps of E and some undiluted Beam can put into your head. Besides . . . I’ve always wanted to fuck some sense into those delusional assholes . . . my version of loving thy neighbor, helping your fellow man, all that bullshit.”

 

“Especially if he’s hung and can deep-throat . . .”

 

“Or has an ass that would make a priest lose a load.” Brian smiled over at the blond. “You’re pretty good at this, Sunshine. If the art thing doesn’t work out, you could go into acting . . . or maybe missionary work.”

 

“Hmm. I think I’d kinda like missionary work. Especially with you.” Justin nuzzled Brian’s neck. As hard as he’d come, Justin could feel himself getting turned on again. “In fact, I think I know what fantasy we should act out next.” He leaned over and whispered briefly in Brian’s ear. Pulling back, he watched the older man’s skin darken with a flush. “Well?”

 

Brian looked over at him, eyes twinkling mischievously. “That’s a pretty kinky scenario, Sunshine.” There was a pause. “And I like that . . . guess I’ve converted you to the dark side after all.”

 

“Hallelujah.” Justin beamed bright as day and stood up. Pulling Brian to his feet, they rushed to the computer to call up the website of the Carnegie Science Center to find out when the next planetarium show was playing. Giving silent thanks that he’d saved the light sabers, tunics and Darth Vader mask his eccentric Uncle Rick had given him so many years ago, Justin felt his cock pulse in glee as he watched Brian book tickets for the midnight showing.

 

FIN

Just Business

(Sometime-after-308 story) A short bit of fluff in which Justin muses on what's important in his (and Brian's) life.

“I want it long, thick and dark brown. From here,” The dark-haired man pointed to a spot below his left eye, “to here.” His finger traveled down his cheek and halted above a faint scar on his chin. “Blue veins and uncircumcised. And maybe a little drop of precum at the tip to make it interesting.”

Justin looked at the pots of paint at his feet and then back at the eager, sunburned face of the man speaking to him – Yardleigh, one of the more talkative barkeeps at Woody’s – and sighed. When he'd been solicited to paint faces at the Center's annual Splendor in the Grass Community Picnic, this wasn't really what he'd had in mind. Not that he hadn’t had some adults wanting the same sort of artistry performed on their foreheads and cheeks as had been done for the younger set, but the requests had been simple – some stars or tiger stripes or inverted rainbow triangles. Drawing a penis was just . . . weird, though Justin felt an odd sense of challenge. He could draw a dick just fine on paper or on the computer . . . could he do it on skin and bone?

“Yardleigh, there are kids around.” Justin pointed his brush in the direction of a group of young, painted faces running around the huge stone fountain in the center of Point State Park, pinwheels and pigtails flying in the breeze. “Their parents aren’t gonna appreciate having a guy walking around with a cock painted on his face.”

“I promise they won’t even see it.” Yardleigh wore a pleading expression. “I’m only here to grab some takeout, if you get my meaning . . .” He smiled suddenly, adopting a wheedling tone. “Free boilermakers for you and Kinney every time I'm behind the bar if you do it.”

Justin hesitated a moment. It was a tempting offer . . . and he was never one to turn down a free drink, nor was Brian, who on the nights he really cut loose, could drink like a sand dune. “You won’t go anywhere near the kids?”

“Christ, Justin, what the fuck do I look like? I just wanna have some fun, and find someone to fuck. Don’t tell me that me going around with a dick on my cheek’ll scare the kiddies any more than those drag queens humping over near the barbecue pit.” Yardleigh nodded at a group of trees where two ball gown-clad queens were locked in an embrace against a sturdy maple. It was too far away to be certain, but it was a reasonable assumption that they weren’t hunting for syrup.

“All right, whatever . . . but it's not gonna be all that long,” With a practiced hand, Justin tilted Yardleigh’s face toward him, studying the expanse of skin that would be his “canvas.” “There's not much space between your mouth and the corner of your eyelid.”

“No problem. Just make sure it’s thick. Oh, and the balls . . . I want them to be real low-hangers. Smooth, though. Start at my ear lobe and draw 'em down to my chin.”

After a slow exhalation of breath, Justin reminded himself that he was doing this for the Center, for a good cause. Though the promise of free booze did sort of dim the luster of his altruism a little. “Yeah, sure. But I don’t know about the blue veins. They may look a little muddy with this shade of brown.” The blond thought for a moment. “How about purple?"

Yardleigh shrugged. “Sure. Just make sure you can tell it's uncut.”

Nodding as he dipped his brush into chocolate-colored grease paint, Justin slowly began to carry out his commission, drawing a sure, straight line down Yardleigh’s cheek. He wondered for a moment if he should outline the thing in black just to make it pop more. After a minute of thought, Justin decided against it . . . a rendering of a thick, veined uncut dick tended to “pop” all by itself.

“Speaking of Kinney, where is he? I thought he’d be making his usual rounds, snapping up all the best prospects.”

Justin paused in his work a minute, his face flushing. After a minute and a flick of his wrist that completed the tracing of the shaft on Yardleigh’s face, Justin gave the stock line he’d gave the line he’d given to the fifteen or so people who’d asked that very same question from the minute he’d walked into the park alone. “Brian’s working today. He couldn’t make it.”

“Shit, dude. That sucks.” Yardleigh’s voice was appropriately sympathetic even as his eyes followed two Nordic-looking blonds as they walked by. “Too nice a day to be cooped up in an office making some asshole rich. They wanted me to work the 12-8 shift today, and I told Bernie fuck no. After the fucked-up winter we had, the first day that I can go out without my jock getting frost on it and he wants me serving the half-assed queens still puking in their opera glasses from the night before? I was like, ‘Bernie –’”

“Don't move your mouth so much.” Justin grimaced as he started filling in his outline. Yardleigh apparently was loquacious in and outside of his workplace. Justin didn’t even have the benefit of being blitzed on alcohol – or on his way to it – to endure the barkeep’s attempt at conversation, and he wasn’t in the mood to pretend to care about Yardleigh’s troubles. “You'll make me screw up the head.”

“Sorry.” Yardleigh fell obediently silent while Justin worked. Every now and then, the blond looked over at a blue blanket spread beneath a canopy of lindens where Ted and Emmett and Mikey and Ben and Mel and Linds and Gus were sitting, eating, laughing, and, like the dozens of others who’d flocked to the park, doing their best not to ruin their enjoyment of the day.

And there was much about the day to be enjoyed. It was one of those afternoons about which TV weathermen and really bad poets waxed rhapsodically: clear, blue skies, powder-puff clouds and sun for days. A perfectly wonderful, unseasonably warm (meaning it was above 17 degrees) mid-March afternoon that carried with it an unspoken promise of fun and sweetness and adventure. . . a good time to go out and breathe relatively-low-smog air and feel the sun on your neck - or something corny like that. Only a pathetic loser would stay in on a day like this. Unless, of course, one was sick or hurt or stuck doing housework . . . or working on a campaign for a shower-head company.

Justin gnawed on his bottom lip as he began inking the folds of skin around the cockhead and then adding in snaky veins down the shaft, quietly serious as he drew. He was not going to let himself get down about Brian’s conspicuous absence. The exec had told him and everyone else that he’d only go if he had either a partial lobotomy or absolutely nothing else better to do. When surgery didn’t seem forthcoming, Justin allowed himself to hope that maybe for a change Brian would have a relatively clear agenda for the weekend. That hope, though, had died on Wednesday, when Brian came back to the loft with four toolboxes filled with shower attachments, a company profile on Waverly Showr Powr, and a migraine that he said felt as if someone was pissing on his brain from inside his skull. Three days and nights of work and trying out every single shower attachment – Justin had to admit he’d had fun road-testing the appliances with Brian – hadn’t given Brian many ideas for a selling campaign, so it was with a heavy heart and exact change for the bus that Justin had left the loft in the morning, determined to enjoy a nice Sunday afternoon in one of the nicest parks in the city, eating hotdogs and drawing circles and hearts and stars and gonads on people’s skin.

“Do you want a little hair at the base?” Justin surveyed his work with a critical eye. It wasn’t bad, really, more like an abstract, fractured rendition of a cock than a truly realistic one. In fact, it looked less like a male organ and more like a fat Snickers bar with foreskin and fudge-colored eggs attached, but it would suffice for Yardleigh’s purposes – whatever those were.

“Just a few tufts. I like smooth pubes, seriously. Don’t you?”

Justin smirked, dipping his brush into black paint and drawing subtle squiggles where the shaft rounded into the testicles. Anyone who’d seen Brian naked more than once knew that the brunette was adorably fuzzy in all the right places. t Brian let himself get outrageously furry or anything, but it was the porcelain-smooth skin of Brian’s face and neck and shoulders . . . his rippled abs . . . his perfect ass . . . was an interesting contrast to the dark thatch of fur just below his belly button . . . hair that was always amazingly soft and downy and smelled of the same peppermint oil-and-lavender shampoo Brian used on the hair above his neck. Justin shifted his weight from one foot to the other and grinned. The stuff cost more than 15 bottles of Prell, but Brian had no compunctions about slathering on his balls to ensure their minty freshness. Typical Brian.

“There. Done.” Adding the piece de resistance, a bit of silver paint at the tip in a stylistic interpretation of a dollop of cum, Justin stepped back, wiping his hand on the makeshift smock Linds had fashioned out of a torn bit of tablecloth. Handing Yardleigh a small mirror and watching the man peer into the glass, Justin found himself absurdly apprehensive about how his work would be received. Even when he was painting the kids, he’d been a little nervous about displeasing someone . . . and hadn’t needed to worry. To a person, those whose faces had been turned into Justin Taylor originals had been ecstatic, and judging by the shit-eating grin spreading across Yardleigh’s face, Justin knew his number of satisfied customers had increased by one.

“Fuck . . . I’m getting hard just looking at it. This is the sweetest dick I’ve had anywhere near my mouth all week. You really are good.” Yardleigh smiled into the mirror . . . squinted, then blinked, spinning around quickly. “Shit . . . I can’t believe it.”

“What?” Justin followed Yardleigh’s wild-eyed stare to a group of men standing in the clearing chatting and drinking beers. “You know those guys?” They didn’t look familiar to Justin, though a tall, bald, mocha-skinned man dressed in frayed blue shorts and a leather collar was rather . . . fetching.

“You see the bald guy in the cutoffs? It’s Dijon!” The barkeep sounded excited, and Justin noticed his hands straying to his crotch. “I don’t fucking believe it! And he’s not with that douchebag Gerard . . . finally wised up and dumped him. I was telling Bernie –”

“Um . . . Dijon? Like the mustard?” Justin interrupted, frowning. The name sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure why. To his knowledge, he’d never seen the guy before.

“It’s his dick!” Yardleigh’s voice went high and shrill, and he jabbed at his cheek, smudging some of the paint. “This is his dick I had you draw – I only saw it for 35 minutes, but I still remember it like I sucked it yesterday. Holy shit . . . it must be a sign.” He patted his hair and adjusted himself, doing something to the front of his pants that made his crotch seemed more prominent. “Dude, how do I look?”

Justin studied his companion from head to toe, trying not to laugh at the dollop of painted on precum he’d added to the slit. The silver paint was beginning to run, making it look as if the dick were actually oozing. “Nice.”

“Cool! Thanks, Justin – I owe you big. I’ll tell Greg and Red to comp you and Kinney anytime I’m not around.” With a last admiring glance into the mirror and an amazed smile, Yardleigh sauntered in the direction of his quarry, leaving the blond to his paint splattered smock, a bag of sour cream and onion chips someone had dropped by his feet, and his solitude.

Justin began screwing the caps back on the paint, gazing out at the sailboats and tugs gliding on the river. He remembered Brian telling him once that the first time he’d ever seen the perpetually green, river-bordered Point State Park, he’d been about six years old, and refused to believe such a beautiful piece of parkland could be found among the slate-color cityscape that was Greater Pittsburgh. To this day, the exec considered it one of his favorite places in the whole city, and it was probably that knowledge that put Brian’s absence somewhat into perspective for Justin. Brian’s notorious dislike for the Center and its events aside, the exec generally would not have passed up a chance to hang out at the park with his nearest and dearest friends, and his son, all while enticing every fag within a half-mile radius, if he weren’t truly busy. Justin understood that . . . really. It was business, just business, with Brian . . . his job and performing well on it was important to him . . . arguably the most important thing in his life. It was nothing to take personal, Justin knew, even if it meant having to grit his teeth and bear the sights and sounds of dozens of happy, in-love couples around him.

His clean-up task done, the artist looked up and saw the curly-haired man who had, by Justin's count, walked by him half-a-dozen times, smiling each time. After the fifth pass, Justin had realized he was being cruised – rather passively cruised, but checked out nonetheless. It had been flattering, since the guy was pretty hot – looked a bit like JFK Jr., but shorter and with less-sharp features, but Justin hadn’t really paid him much attention, his focus set on not getting paint in anyone’s eyes or mouths. But there he was again, standing not five feet away, with the half-frown/half-sheepish look of a person who'd screwed up his courage to do something and was having second thoughts.

Justin gave him a gentle smile – friendly, without being too encouraging, sure that just as in the previous six times, the guy would realize he was being brushed off and walk away. He felt a strange kinship with this nameless guy. Whereas he at least the had painting faces to keep him occupied, this guy had been by himself every time Justin had seen him walk by. Maybe his lover had work to do, too, Justin mused as he glanced over to where the gang was sitting, and a little put off by the blatant displays of coupledom going on there. Ted and Em were feeding each other boysenberry pie, Mel and Linds were taking turns chasing Gus around a tree, and Michael was resting in Ben’s lap as the professor read what looked to be the latest issue of Wolverine to him. Justin felt odd about intruding, especially as they were all likely to go out of their way to make him not feel like a seventh wheel, but still . . .

“Nice cock.”

Startled, Justin turned and found himself almost eyeball to eyeball with his now-not-so-distant admirer. His smile faded a little and he backed up some, noting with a silent snicker that the JFK Jr. resemblance was definitely one that held up only from a distance. He was cute enough, but definitely nothing to drop one’s pants over. “Um, what?”

“Your artwork.” He nodded in the general direction of Yardleigh without taking his eyes off Justin’s face – a gesture the blond found more than a little creepy. “Very realistic. Too bad you drew it flaccid . . . I’d love to see how you’d handle a hard dick.”

Flushing a little at the rather obvious double entendre, Justin nevertheless gave the leering man a sweet smile. “Well, those types of drawings I do by appointment only . . . and my boyfriend kinda has me booked solid for those for the rest of my life.” He added a self-depreciating shrug for added effect. “Sorry.”

“Ah. A boyfriend.” The man’s smile went slightly rancid, curling downward at the corners. “Strange . . . I thought I saw you walk in here by yourself. I haven’t seen a person come near you beside the rugrats and a little blonde with a kid. Uh . . . or was that your boyfriend? Nice makeup job if it was.”

Justin wasn’t sure if he should consider that an insult or compliment to Linds, which was who the guy was referring to, but this stranger’s needling him about his solo status was almost as irksome as the man’s admission that he’d been watching him for some time. Almost. “He’ll be here . . . soon. He had to go into the office for a little while.” Justin’s voice was clear and strong, but he could tell that the other man wasn’t buying. Justin cursed himself for the slight hesitation in his words, sure that the little pause was what tipped him off.

“In the office on a Sunday?” Shaggy eyebrows rose, and the flat smile became distinctly unpleasant. “There’s no way in hell I’d be working on a beautiful day like this – not unless the guy had a shotgun pointed at me . . . with more than one bullet in it. Guy should tell his boss to shove it up his ass.”

“He is the boss.” Justin imparted this tidbit of information with no small amount of pride. “He’s a partner in an advertising firm.”

“A partner? And he’s making himself work?” The man’s chuckle raised the hairs on Justin’s neck, and the blond narrowed his eyes in an icy glare that, unfortunately, had little effect on the annoying man. “It must be some big deal . . . or does he normally just thumb his nose at beautiful spring days and spending time with his thoroughly lovely boyfriend? Even if he gets here right this second, he’s already missed the best part of the day.”

The blond looked away, unsure of how to answer. That the guy was trying to get a rise out of him – one way or another – was obvious, but the words still stung. Even knowing that Brian’s work was hugely important to him, Justin was conscious of a twinge of anger. Couldn’t Brian have spent an hour . . . one measly hour . . . out in the park, with his friends? With his son? With his Sunshine? He himself had final exams to study for and a bitchly mural project to turn in, but he’d taken a break from it all. Ben had papers to grade, Ted a payroll to prepare, Emmett and Mikey had their respective inventories to catalogue, Mel was working on taking a deposition, and Linds was covering a few classes for a sick friend. All of them had work, too, but they were out in the sun having fun and enjoying each other . . . letting their responsibilities go . . . letting themselves just go . . .

“He’ll be here,” Justin murmured, staring at the bag of chips at his feet. Ants were crawling over the ‘Lays’ logo, and he felt tears cloud his vision. Allergies, doubtless . . . all this fucking grass and pollen. The teen swiped furtively at his eyes. Good, then, he’d have a plausible excuse to leave, if it came to that. “Nice talking to you. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Hey, not so fast . . . why don’t I buy you a drink?” He gestured toward a makeshift minibar on the far side of the tulip garden. “Keep you company until your boyfriend gets here.”

“Umm . . .” Justin swallowed hard, noting that his throat was a little dry, but he didn’t feel in the mood for a drink. A drink would hardly be sufficient to help him out of his suddenly dour mood. Two or three would be the minimum to quell the pathetic feeling rising him. “No thanks. Not thirsty.” His attempt at a smile failed, but he really didn’t give a fuck – he doubted he’d ever see the guy again, and even if he did, he doubted either of them would be sober enough to remember the other. “See you around.” The blond began moving away.

“Aw come on . . . Justin, isn’t it?” The guy moved quickly to box Justin in, grinning with a little more force. “I thought I heard the guy you were painting call you that. I’m Ed.” He stuck out his hand and sneered when Justin didn’t move to take it. “I’m an okay guy, really. I just want to buy you a drink . . . a little thank you for providing such great scenery. And we’re both stag here . . . for the time being.” Dark eyes flicked up and down Justin’s body. “So . . . what are you drinking?”

“He’s having an Iron City.”

The sudden voice at his back sent Justin’s pulse racing, and the smile on his face was wide and replete with relief as Brian, dressed as casually as his wardrobe would allow, stepped forward, wedging himself between the blond and his insistent admirer. “I’m having the same.” The exec raised two keg-shaped beer cans to eye level. “And you,” his voice hardened as he stepped toward the man, slowly backing him up and away from Justin, “are having whatever the fuck you want. Somewhere else.”

Ed stared up at Brian, then looked around the taller man’s sinewy form at Justin, gulping audibly, all the arrogance gone from his smile. “Uh, sure. No problem. I was just admiring your boyfriend’s, uh, talents.”

“Uh huh. And I’m gonna admire this polyester piece of shit,” Brian poked at the man’s shirt, “while you’re walking away.” He gave one of his trademark false, fuck-with-me-a-minute-longer-and-you’ll-be-shitting-teeth grins, and Ed wisely scurried in the direction of the minibar, where Justin noted he did buy two drinks, downing one after the other himself before making his way to the other side of the park, not looking back in their direction even once.

With a lopsided smile, Brian turned to his lover. “Sunshine, I thought I told you to make sure to put on a lot of pest spray. This place is crawling with them. Especially when the Center puts up one of their fucking banners.” He scowled at the brightly painted sign waving in the breeze. “Attracts ‘em like flypaper.”

“What are you doing here?” Justin wanted to launch himself into Brian’s arms and smother him with well-deserved kisses, but instead took the beer Brian held out to him, not wanting to scare the exec off with an attack of romanticism. “Are you done your work?”

Popping the cap on his beer, Brian took a long drink and shrugged. “It’ll be there when I get back. Unfortunately. I’ve done enough on it so it’ll look a little better than if I’d crapped on a piece of paper, spread it around a little and put the Showr Powr logo on top. I figured maybe I’d get some decent ideas if I stretched my legs a little, and unfortunately for me, this city and the entire gay population, all the action seems to be going on here.” He glanced in amusement at Justin’s paint-splattered clothes. “So, you’re the one who made my kid look like Tim Curry.”

“Christ, Brian, it wasn’t that bad. Only a couple of blue circles and some lines. I didn’t even paint his lips . . .” Justin’s smile faded, and he eyed Brian quizzically. “Wait. You saw Gus? How long have you been here?”

“Not too long. Checked in with Linds. Saw Mikey and the rest of the Boy Fuck Club.” Brian shrugged. “Then I saw you over here . . . and decided you could use a refreshing beverage and a little crowd control.”

Justin’s grin reemerged. He loved when Brian got all protective and growly, and loved needling Brian about it, doing it in such a way that chipped away at the exec’s patina of indifference. He was head-over-ass in love with Brian, and these were the times that he could see clear as noonday that Brian felt the same about him. “He wanted to fuck me. He’s been cruising me all afternoon.”

“Really.” Brian quirked an eyebrow at him. “You were interested?”

“No . . . I told him I was waiting for someone . . . and that he’d be here any second.”

“And how did you know that?” Brian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You have radar in your cock now?”

Laughing softly, the blond carefully wrapped his arms around Brian’s waist, rubbing his cheek against Brian’s shirt. “Because I know you. And I know how to read between the lines . . . even though I think I forget to, sometimes.”

He thought about his sadness earlier in the day, his feelings of isolation. All of it seemed so silly now. This was Brian! The guy who showed up at his very first art show at the Center, the man who dragged him home from his ill-fated trip to New York, the man who’d come to prom and stolen the part of his heart that hadn’t been captured the very first night they met. The man who always managed to fool people by pretending he didn’t care, and fool them again when he made it so obvious that he did care. The man who always managed to be in the right place at the right time for all the right reasons. Justin sighed deeply. “He wasn’t even that hot, but he didn’t seem that impressed when I told him I had a boyfriend . . . like I would’ve sucked his dick anyway if he’d bought me a cheap beer.”

“You have a boyfriend?” Brian’s voice was serious, but there was a teasing sparkle in his eyes. “Is he hot?”

Justin stepped back, allowing his eyes to roam over a jeans-and-tight-T-shirt-clad Brian. No one wore black cotton-lycra blends the way Brian did. “Gorgeous.”

“Hung?”

Blue eyes wandered downward and Justin smiled appreciatively. “Like a fucking bull.”

Brian brought him back into his arms, the condensation from his can of beer making cold, wet streaks on Justin’s shirt, but the blond was sure that it was the exec’s intense stare, and not the beer can, that was making him shiver. “And does he know how to fuck you?”

“Exquisitely.”

“Hmm.” Brian nodded slowly. “Sounds like a stud.”

“You have no idea.” Justin grinned and stretched up to press his lips to Brian’s. Rays of sunlight warmed the back of Justin’s neck, and he had a brief thought that somewhere in the vast world, there was bound to be a place that was warmer and prettier and sunnier and all-around better than it was in Point State Park – or anywhere else in Pittsburgh, for that matter – on that day and at that moment. But for all that, there wasn’t a place on Earth he’d rather have been.

FIN

Just a Phase

(Post-220 story) Six months after leaving Brian, Justin is adjusting to his new life with Ethan. But a "breakthrough" of sorts puts everything in flux, bringing a host of repressed feelings - on all sides - to the surface. Incomplete.

One

Justin was just putting the finishing touches on the beef stew when he heard the door creak open. A blast of cold air from the hallway hit the back of his neck just as Ethan’s voice trilled across the threshold. “The musical wunderkind has returned.”

Checking the flame on the stew, Justin wiped his hands on the dishtowel he was using as an apron and then turned to meet his boyfriend, who was clomping toward him with a huge smile on his face, tracking wet, snowy footprints into the kitchen. “The musical wunderkind looks like he just hit the fucking lottery.” Justin briefly kissed Ethan’s lips, and then drew back, frowning, placing a hand on the boy’s forehead. “Shit . . . you’re ice cold.” He glanced outside the window at the snowflakes that were whirring thick and heavy from a slate-colored sky. “Wow, it’s really coming down now. When I came in, it was just sprinkling.”

“It figures that the week after Winter Break, we get actual winter weather.” Ethan, who was still grinning broadly, shucked his snow-flecked coat and tossed it carelessly on the couch. Running back to where Justin was stirring the bubbling stew, he threw his arms around the blond artist. “Well . . . aren’t you going to ask me how my preterms went?”

Justin blinked and paused midstir, inwardly cringing. He’d totally forgotten about Ethan’s preliminary exams – “preterms,” as they were called – that would determine whether or not he’d be able to take honors music courses in the coming term – not something every PIFA music student could do. Ethan had been practicing nonstop all through their winter break to get ready and he and Justin had hardly seen one another, but Justin had promised that he’d be among the audience that was allowed to gather as every musician performed their exam pieces, and he’d completely forgotten!

“Shit, Ethan, I’m sorry.” Eyes wide, Justin sought to explain. “We were totally swamped at the Diner this afternoon . . . then when we heard about the snow, my mom talked me into going to the Big Q for supplies and shit, just in case. Then I grabbed some stuff and came over here, wanting to cook something and –”

Ethan curtailed the explanation with a finger to Justin’s lips. “Shh. Forget it. I was so wrapped up into the music, I probably wouldn’t have noticed you anyway.”

“Thanks . . . I think.” Justin tried to smile, but the corners of his mouth didn’t quite make the curve upward. He was sure Ethan was trying to be funny and make him feel better, but there was something in his tone of voice that was off. “Uh . . . so I guess it went well?”

“I was amazing.” Ethan let him go with a push, sending Justin almost into the stove. The dark-haired boy seemed oblivious, though, as Justin attempted to right himself. “The Debussy was perfect, and remember how I kept thinking that maybe the Saint-Saens wasn’t going to be melodic enough? Well it really was just the acoustics in here. I sounded fucking incredible.”

“You’re always incredible.” Justin rubbed his side where he’d bumped it on the stove. Ethan was in an oddly-hyper mood. Studying Ethan’s flushed face and the flickering smile, and grandiose hand gestures, the blond was reminded of some of his earlier experimentation with “E.” Eyeing his lover closely, he dismissed the thought. No way Ethan was high – the musician hated drugs . . . and besides, he’d just come from taking a fucking test – and acing it. That no doubt accounted for his chipper mood.

“Very true.” Ethan pulled off his boots and socks, throwing them in the direction of Wolfram, who then scurried to safer ground deep in the recesses of the living room. “The judges said that my tonal presence is off the charts. I think I have finally mastered each and every nuance of the romantic portion of the standard repertoire for violin. I’ve gotten it all down pat . . . finally! It took six months, but it’s all here. Six months of eating, drinking, sleeping, living romance. Storing it, practically being romance itself.” He pointed to his head. “And now, I am a master.”

“Six months? That doesn’t seem like a lot of time.” Justin took the pot off the stove and grabbed some bowls. Hunting around for a clean one and finding none that wouldn’t require a sandblaster to clean, he opted for the Styrofoam dishes he’d thought to pick up at the Big Q. Since he’d moved back in with his mother, he’d become accustomed to such niceties as clean dishware, but he’d been spending weekends at Ethan’s long enough to not expect such things at the cramped little apartment. “There’s, like, a thousand different things – a million different things – written for violin. Even someone who’s such a profound genius like you can’t have mastered all of them.”

Ethan frowned. “No . . . not all of them – just the standard so-called romantic pieces in the repertoire – the stuff any violinist worth his rosin is expected to know – Saint Saens and Chopin and Boccherini. Some of Berlioz’s earlier works.” He sprawled out on the couch. “I know it all. I came, I played and I conquered.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Justin dished stew into two oversize bowls, and brought them into the living area, setting them carefully on the blanket he’d placed there. Shooing away Wolfram, he tried to clear some more space on the floor, and was not very successful at doing so. It was a good thing, he thought, that he hadn’t moved in with Ethan after he’d . . . after everything that had happened. For a guy who played on the street for pennies, Ethan’s apartment was sure crammed to the brim with . . . stuff.

“Romance is easy,” Ethan replied. “Firm vibrato, lots of trills and mordents. Minor key. It’s all so formulaic . . . if you understand the script and stick to it, you’re fine.”

“When you put it that way, it sounds sort of boring.” Justin returned to the kitchen to fetch a small salad and some bread and a bottle of cider. “Kind of sad.”

“It can be boring,” Ethan yawned. “Because behind all the pretty sounds and the melody, there’s really nothing there. And it all starts to sound the same. That’s why I am so glad that I can move out of this romantic bullshit phase and work on something new. Something edgy. Discordant. Like Stravinsky. Kull. Shostakovich.” The musician rubbed his hands together. “Something I can sink my teeth into.”

“Well, speaking of sinking your teeth into something . . . let’s eat.” Justin glanced down at his handiwork, pleased. The blanket was newly washed – as much as he enjoyed his indoor picnics with Ethan, he’d gotten rather sick of the ratty, gray sheet that they had them on. In addition to the bowls and the cider, he’d purchased a number of votives, which he was sure would lend almost a “by-the-fireplace” atmosphere to the small apartment. Bending down, he lit the candles one by one. “Could you get the lights before you sit down?”

“Huh?” For the first time, the smile wavered, and Ethan rolled over on the couch, looking down at his kneeling boyfriend. “What are you doing down there?”

Justin looked up, frowning slightly. “Getting dinner ready. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Uh . . . not really.” Ethan fidgeted around a little. “I thought . . . I thought maybe we could celebrate my kicking the hell out of exams.”

“Yeaah . . . I was thinking that, too,” Justin said with a grin. “What better way to do that then to eat dinner by candlelight . . . on the floor . . . watching the snow fall . . . and talking. And afterward . . . we can really celebrate . . .”

The musician didn’t return his smile. “Uh . . . actually, I had something else in mind for tonight.” He hesitated a second. “I was thinking that maybe we could go out.”

The grin on Justin’s face faded. He knew that sometimes Ethan liked to go on long walks in Schenley Park at twilight, but in the middle of what looked to be a blizzard? That was weird. “Ethan, it’s, like, five below and snowing. Nobody’s outside tonight.”

“I didn’t say outside,” Ethan said with a shake of his head. “I said out. I’ve got all this energy . . . I feel like . . . I dunno . . . like dancing.”

If Ethan had announced that he’d had his dick surgically replaced with a Schickel’s pickle, Justin could not have looked more dumbstruck. “Dancing?” His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment, his face a study in confusion. “Um . . . do you mean like ballroom dancing?” He vaguely recalled one of his classmates mentioning a class on campus some weeknights. But why hadn’t Ethan ever mentioned it before? “Don’t you think classes on campus might be cancelled because of the weather?”

“Who said anything about campus?” Ethan stood and stretched, rocking on his heels slightly. “I mean dancing.” He started moving around, flailing his arms and gyrating his hips. “Maybe at Boytoy or The Vault . . . or even your old stomping grounds . . . Babylon. I feel like moving to music that has a bass line.”

Justin’s was sure his jaw couldn’t drop any further. He kept waiting for Ethan to break into his usual sardonic grin, flop onto the blanket and tell him that he was just joking, but the young musician was looking at him blandly, tapping his foot restlessly.

“Well, are you up to it? It’s pretty early yet, but maybe we can grab something to eat on the way.” Ethan raked his fingers through his hair. “But first, I’ve gotta get ready. God . . . I haven’t been out in forever. . . I hope I still have something decent to put on.” He looked down at himself in dismay, pulling at the black slacks and slouchy sweater that was his trademark outfit. “I wonder if I still have those leather jeans . . .” He began to wander away, muttering to himself.

“Ethan, wait a minute.” Justin scrambled up from the floor, nearly knocking over the bottle of cider. “You seriously want to go out. To the clubs. Dancing.” Justin felt his head throb a little, but he passed that off to hunger, and didn’t attribute it at all to the deadly earnest look in his boyfriend’s eyes. A part of him still thought that he was on the receiving end of a very weird joke. Or in the grip of a very weird dream. “I thought . . . I didn’t think you were into the scene.”

“A night out at a club doesn’t exactly qualify as being ‘into the scene,’ Justin.” Ethan said with a raised brow and a low voice.

“Yeah . . . but that’s how it starts,” Justin murmured staring at the dinner he’d prepared, his eyes clouding over with some memory that wasn’t buried as deeply within his subconscious as he’d thought – or hoped. He remained lost in thought as Ethan plodded into the bathroom, shutting the door tightly behind him, and the blond only snapped out of his contemplative daze when he heard the shower running. Casting a glance at the closed door, Justin squatted slowly down, taking in the flickering flame of the candles before snuffing them out one by one, conscious of an odd feeling of déjà vu.

Two

Walking along Liberty Avenue, Justin realized just how wrong he’d been earlier. Apparently, people did indeed walk around in near-zero temperatures in the middle of what could be a heavy snowfall. The avenue was packed with all walks of gay life: drag queens trudging around in stiletto boots and floor length, faux-fur coats, leather daddies dolled up in fleece-trimmed chaps and heavy trenches, and a smattering of brave – or high – souls who were flitting around in midriff tops and pleather pants. The snowfall made the street itself look quite nice – kind of like a scene from one of those gift-shop snow globes. The neon signs and bright lights twinkled among the crystal flakes, lending the street a sort of innocent, ‘Santa’s Village’ type of appearance, even as death-metal music thumped from clubs on the block and unmistakable moaning and grunting sounds echoed from the alleys.

“I wish I could draw this,” Justin murmured as he and Ethan made their way down the crowded block. “Look at how the lights reflect off the snowflakes. Makes it look like everything’s covered in tinsel, all silver and —”

“Hey! What about that place!” Ethan cut in, spinning Justin in the direction of a club blaring the latest Nas song. Justin didn’t remember a club being there – the space had, in fact, been a bookstore the last time he’d been there. He glanced up at the small sign above the club’s heavy oak doors. It was called ‘Swerve,’ and it looked to be pretty popular, if the steady stream of people flowing in and out of the place was any indication.

“Um, I don’t know.” Justin’s brow wrinkled. “I like hip-hop, but I can’t dance to it. Besides,” he said, watching as two Eminem wannabes and a drag queen dressed in a cut-rate version of J.Lo’s Grammy dress breezed past the bouncer, “I don’t think a couple starving artists like us would fit in with the bling-bling crowd.”

Ethan scowled at him. “What the fuck, Justin? This is the fifth club we’ve passed, and you’ve turned your nose up at all of them. You used to hang out here all the time, so I don’t buy that there’s no place we can go.”

Justin bristled at the anger in Ethan’s tone. He’d envisioned a nice evening snuggling in bed, not freezing his nuts off on Liberty Avenue. And now Ethan was pissed at him . . . pissed at him because they couldn’t find some smoky club to grind in? This from a guy who didn’t even like to hang at certain coffee bars because smoking was allowed and the music was played too loud? Justin glowered at Ethan, who in leather pants and severely gelled-back hair looked so totally different, that if it weren’t for the bit of scruff under his lip, Justin wouldn’t have recognized him. As it was, the musician’s attitude was totally uncharacteristic of him. But then, Justin reminded himself, Ethan had been under a lot of pressure with exams. He’d been wound up tight and he was looking forward to unwinding. He had to be the understanding boyfriend and help him do that, even if just being on Liberty Ave. made him uncomfortable . . . brought back way too many memories. . .

“Look, Ethan, I’m sorry, but the pickings are kind of slim here. Boytoy got raided earlier this year, and they’ve started carding big time. You don’t have a fake ID. We’re not into leather, so that leaves Meathook and Hunter’s Den out. We don’t do S & M, so you do not want to go to Tweak. And this place,” he nodded at Swerve, “Just . . . just trust me . . . I don’t think we’d have a good time there.”

“Just because of the music? I don’t mind hip-hop and rap.” Ethan shrugged. “It’s edgy and raw. That sounds cool.”

What the fuck? Justin gaped at the musician. The only ‘raw’ thing he’d ever discussed a preference for was sushi. And edgy? This was the same boy who’d been moved to tears while playing an incredibly romantic movement from a Tchiakovsky sonata.

“Um, Ethan, are you sure you’re all right,” Justin began slowly, when a tap on his shoulder and a soft “excuse me” drew his attention. Turning, he saw a cute young redhead, a little taller than him with a stocky build. The guy looked like he had a pretty nice buzz going on if the blissed-out smile and slightly shining eyes were any indication. The blond didn’t think he looked familiar, but the guy was grinning at him as if he knew him well – or wanted to. “Uh, yeah?”

“Sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.” He spoke with a slight slur, and Justin could smell beer on his breath. Red looked over at Ethan. “He’s right, yunno – you don’t wanna go in there,” He indicated Swerve. “The music sucks ass and the drinks are so fucking overpriced. You two wanna go to a decent club with kick-ass music, go to Babylon. It’s totally hot tonight and . . .” he leaned in toward Justin, so close that their noses were almost touching. “they don’t card . . .”

“Since when?” Justin fought down a rush of panic at the thought of going to Babylon. No way. No fucking way would he willingly cross the threshold of that club. Not ever again, not after all that had happened. “I . . . I know Babylon, and they card harder than anyplace around here. You have to have a membership.”

Red shrugged. “I just came from there. They didn’t ask me about any membership. And they’re waving the cover tonight. Anyway, it’s totally hot there . . . and they’ve got this back room . . . it’ll totally blow your mind.”

The blond felt tears sting his eyes. Yeah, the last time he’d been in the back room at Babylon, it had blown his mind, all right. And broken his heart in the bargain. “Thanks, but I think we’ll keep looking.”

“What for? So we can freeze to death while you find something wrong with every other place?” Ethan turned to him with a fierce frown. “It’s what we’re looking for – cheap and easy to get in, and good music. What’s the problem?”

Justin’s eyes widened. What was the problem? As if Ethan hadn’t been there when his world had fallen apart within Babylon’s walls. As if he didn’t know the trauma he had suffered the last time he’d been in there. “Ethan . . . you know what the problem is. I—”

“Oh, fuck. You’re still worried about that?” The musician waved his hand dismissively. “Justin, it was ages ago. You’ve moved on. And he moved on . . . probably that same night.”

Justin was stunned. He wanted to say something, was aware that he probably should say something, but he couldn’t find breath enough in his body to speak. He stared at Ethan as if he’d never seen him before . . . and the way the street musician was acting, it wasn’t that much of a stretch. “Ethan, how could you say –”

“ It’s over, okay? It’s over, and it’s been over for a long time, and it’s stupid to let how you live and where you go be dictated by something that doesn’t exist anymore. That’s how I can say,” Ethan replied, with a shrug. “Now let’s go. I want a good time, I’ve earned it, and I’m going to have it. I want to go to Babylon.” He gave the artist a searching look. “I hope you’ll join me. If not, I’ll see you later.”

With that, Ethan turned and headed for Babylon, his stiff hair not moving as he dodged and weaved around revelers in the street and on the sidewalk. Justin stared after him, feeling a numbness spread throughout his entire body. What the hell had just happened? What the hell was happening? Ethan was acting beyond strange – he was acting heartless and remote. As if someone had taken his personality, turned it inside out and dressed it up in ill-fitting pants and bad hair. Justin wondered if things hadn’t gone quite as well with the preterms as Ethan had led him to believe . . . but Ethan was often quick to admit to a sub par performance, and the cat in the canary look he’d had earlier didn’t suggest that he’d performed any way but brilliantly.

“Fuck.” The voice startled Justin, and he looked over to see that Red was still standing there. “He always such a prick?”

Justin looked across the street where Ethan had joined the line of people waiting to get into Babylon. Justin eyes took in the pants and the hair, the rigid posture and the look of bored indifference on the musician’s face. It all made his blood run cold.

He shook his head slowly, not bothering to answer the man . . . because in truth, he wasn’t sure what the answer was. Feeling as if he were being guided by some form of remote control, Justin crossed his street and went to join his boyfriend in the line.

~*~

Red had been right. The snow coupled with the fact that midweek crowds didn’t tend to be huge had prompted the club to waive the cover charge for the night. Red had also been right about the ID situation: The two teens had been waved in without a problem, though the blond thought that could have more to do with the fact that he was a familiar face to the bouncer, Jake, a beefy blond with the neatest row of eyebrow piercings Justin had ever seen.

The artist held his breath as he and Ethan passed through the foyer and into the throbbing room and the laser beams that sliced through the churning crowd. Looking around, Justin didn’t recognize anyone by face, but it was all very familiar – the packed dance floor, the go-go boys dancing on the platforms above the fray. His heart pounded painfully as he spied the bar and saw people leaning casually upon it, surveying the crowd, just as he used to do with the guys and Brian. Justin glanced up at the catwalk, seeing a line of men leaning over the railing watching the action below, some of them no doubt scanning the crowd for hook-up prospects. Justin’s face paled when he thought he saw a leather vest and a head of chestnut hair, but after blinking several times and looking again, the figure was gone. Justin tore his eyes away, fighting off a shudder. It was more than likely the lighting in the club playing tricks on his eyes.

“Fuck, this is a kick-ass crowd,” Ethan yelled near the blond’s ear. “The energy in here is amazing!”

Justin narrowed his eyes at the musician. He was doing an awful lot of cursing this night . . . maybe that, too, was a part of his unwinding. “I need a drink.” Justin shot back. “There’s not a lot of people at the bar . . . let’s get there before the song ends and there’s a stampede.”

Ethan nodded absently, casting wide-eyed looks at his surroundings as he followed Justin. Justin glanced back at him now and again, studying the musician’s face intently. He seemed to be calmer now that he was in the realm of total madness, and he was smiling now, at least. Justin breathed a little easier . . . maybe the night wasn’t going to be so bad, despite the shaky start. He just needed to relax a little.

“Hey.” A tall, bald, well-built dark-skinned man appeared out of nowhere in front of Justin, blocking his path. “Wanna dance?”

Justin blushed. Things certainly hadn’t changed in Babylon, the action, such as it was, was still fast-paced. He gave the handsome man an apologetic smile. “Um, sorry . . . but I’m with –”

The man frowned down at him. “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking him.” He pointed to Ethan. “No offense, but I’m not into blonds.”

Justin flushed again, feeling embarrassment and anger roll through him in turns. He moved to put his arm around Ethan. “Well sorry again, but he’s with –”

Ethan stepped around Justin, wedging himself between the blond and his handsome admirer. “Sure,” Ethan gave the man a thoroughly sultry grin. “I’d love to.”

If someone wearing steel-toed boots had kicked him square in the balls, Justin couldn’t have looked more pained – or surprised. “Ethan . . . we were getting something to drink.”

“Go on,” Ethan said over his shoulder. “I’ll be around.”

Justin felt his lower lip tremble. “But . . .”

“Justin, go on.” Ethan looked annoyed. “I want to dance now, you want to drink now. I’ll go dance; you go drink. We’ll meet up later.”

The bass line of the song that was playing was heavy, which would account for the headache Justin felt beginning right behind his eyes, but it was the cold look in Ethan’s eyes that was causing the ache in his heart. “Ethan . . . don’t . . .”

“You heard the man. Get to stepping.” The stranger gave Justin a disgusted look, then took Ethan’s hand, drawing him into the crowd. Ethan cast a satisfied smirk over his shoulder at the blond as he allowed himself to be swallowed up by the throng.

Justin didn’t feel the jostling or bumping around him as other dancers banged into him. He simply stared at the last spot where he’d seen the man who purported to be Ethan Gold, hopeless romantic, before he turned and mindlessly began pushing his way toward the bar.

~*~

It isn’t him.

It was the one thought in Brian’s mind as he’d stared down from the catwalk at the gyrating men below, hunting half-heartedly for someone to invite to the back room. As soon as his eye had alighted on a blond-haired, bubble-butt twink-type in the company of a dark-haired guy wearing too much mousse, he’d jumped back, nearly falling on his ass. As soon as he’d righted himself, however, and gathered his wits enough to get back to the railing, the blond was gone, lost somewhere among the sea of hard bodies and harder cocks.

Except that blond couldn’t have been the blond. Brian walked down the stairs chewing his lip thoughtfully, smoothing a hand over his leather vest. It couldn’t have been Justin he’d seen. Justin hadn’t been anywhere near Babylon since the Rage party. Justin was living in semi-domestic bliss with his Fiddler. Justin was getting all the romance he could handle. Justin wasn’t in his loft any more, wasn’t in his bed, wasn’t in his life. And he was not – most definitely not – in Babylon that night. So what the hell was Justin doing in his fucking head?

Entering the main part of the club, Brian glowered, ignoring the hungry looks aimed in his direction from all sides. Yeah, he wanted to fuck – needed to fuck – but not right now. Now he needed a drink. Some nice hard liquor to burn away the image of golden hair and sunshine smiles. This whole day had sucked: Vance’s putting him on that bullshit seafood chowder campaign had started him off on the very wrong foot, and his day had gotten progressively worse from there. Adding in the half-hour he’d spent in the company parking lot scraping ice off his windshield because his defroster had crapped out, the once-hourly calls he’d been getting from good old Mikey, the muscle he pulled while lifting at the gym, and his complete inability to find someone suitable to fuck, it was safe to say that he was having a bitch of a bad day.

But this capped it. Thinking he saw Justin. Brian elbowed his way to the back of the club. Right. Like he needed to think about Justin at all. Like he didn’t have enough on his mind without the teen popping up in his subconscious. As he glanced around, Brian attempted to convince himself that he was just looking to see if he’d overlooked some prime talent, not looking for Justin. Because he wouldn’t find him there. Because he wasn’t there. Because it could not possibly have been him that Brian had seen from his perch. It couldn’t have been. There was no way that his day could suck that much.

Brian breathed a sigh of relief as he neared the bar. A couple of shots, maybe a hit or two of E, and he’d be ready to go. Ready to find someone. Ready to –

“Jesus, fuck! All I want is a fucking beer. The shit you serve is so watered down anyway that I might as well be drinking water, so what the fuck’s the difference?”

Brian halted at the voice, and felt every bit of moisture leave the vicinity of his mouth. Yeah, he was ready all right. Ready to fucking keel over. Because there he was. Justin – in all his golden-haired, bubble butt glory, the picture of youthful outrage as he harangued the tired-looking barkeep. Brian blinked a few times, but when the picture didn’t change, he shrugged and snickered a little. Well. On the bright side, at his “advanced” age, his eyes seemed to be working fine.

“Look, I know you’re underage. You know I know you’re underage,” Brian heard the bartender say in a slight singsong. “So why don’t you run along and find a nice sugar daddy who’ll take you out for a drink somewhere else after you slob his knob? In this crowd, you can have your pick.”

“It’s just a fucking beer!”

Brian blinked. Justin sounded angry – not just pissed, not just frustrated, but truly furious. How long had this little exchange been going on? Brian edged closer until he was almost directly behind the teen.

“And it’s just the fucking law,” the barkeep shot back. “I mean it, kid. Get lost.”

“Fuck you!” Justin screamed, pushing himself violently away from the bar. “And fuck this! Fuck all of it.” He turned quicker than Brian could move out of the way, and the two collided, the force of the bump sending Justin back into the spot at the bar that he’d just vacated.

Brian recovered his equilibrium quickly enough, and he watched Justin’s face change from anger to surprise to complete shock. The ad executive pressed his tongue into his cheek and gave the teen a sardonic grin. “Sunshine. Fancy meeting you here.”

Justin’s mouth opened, then snapped shut, and whatever Brian was expecting the teen to do or say, he couldn’t have anticipated the defeated look he saw in those blue eyes, and the way the blond’s shoulders sagged completed the expression of resignation. Brian got the smirk in place just in time to keep his concern from showing. What was going on?

“You.” Justin rasped out, shrinking back. “Great. That’s all I fucking needed.”

“Good to see you, too, Sonnyboy.” Brian deadpanned, nodding to the bartender. “Two Yuenglings.”

The barkeep gave him a knowing look. “Listen, Kinney . . . the cops’re coming down hard on all the clubs around here for serving minors. They give us shit enough as it is. If I serve Junior here, and he gets into a wreck or raises hell somewhere, it’s my ass.”

“Don’t worry, Jim. I can vouch for your ass,” Brian said with a sneer. “And for his.” His eyes flicked over to Justin, who was still hunched over, looking as if he was trying hard not to cry. “There’s not going to be any trouble.” He threw a $20 bill on the bar. “Keep the change.” He smiled the barkeeper into activity, not dropping the false grin until there were two long-necked bottles in front of them.

Brian went for his drink immediately, counting on the liquor to fortify him and act as a sop to the emotions bubbling below the surface. Except for a handful of sightings from afar at the diner, he hadn’t really seen Justin in the six months since the Rage party, but from what he’d heard, the boy was doing fine and was very happy. Yet here he was, looking anything but. And for all the wrangling he’d done to get a beer in his hands, Justin hadn’t gone near the bottle that was opened and waiting for him.

“C’mon, Sunshine. Drink up.” Brian nodded toward the beer. “It’s nice and cold. . .”

“Why are you here, Brian?” Justin’s voice was soft, but Brian could hear him through the noise in the club. The boy sounded exhausted.

Brian took another swig of his drink and shrugged. “Where else would I be, Sunshine? I’m caught up on work. My son is with his mommies visiting Mel’s “you shoulda married a doctor, hun” mother in South Florida. . .”

“Where’re the guys?” Justin looked vaguely around. “Are they here anywhere?”

“Not tonight.” Brian took another drink of his beer before setting it down on the bar. “Ted and Emmett are probably at Ted’s place, engaging in activities that I really don't want to think about, but I’m sure I’ll hear all about them anyway.” He grimaced thinking of his two friends. They were still going strong after, what, six months now? Yeah. Six months. The two had gotten together on the night he and Justin had parted. Nice that as one relationship had come crashing down, another quite different – and in Brian’s mind – quite scary one had been formed. Life was just funny that way.

Brian reached for his drink again. “Mikey’s doing inventory at the store . . . I hope.” He glanced at his watch again. Mikey had mentioned he’d be at the store quite late, so there was a good chance that his old pal would go straight home and hit the sack without making a pit stop to Babylon. That would be all he needed now – dealing with Mikey and his bullshit.

“Inventory?” Justin looked puzzled. “I thought he only did that on Thursdays, when the new shipment comes in. He’d have to do it then anyway. Why do it twice in a week?”

Brian shrugged. “Fuck if I know. You know how Mikey gets with his comics, and it’s not like he has anything – or anyone – better to do.”

“What about Ben?” Justin asked, finally grabbing his beer and taking a long sip. “Is he that bogged down with school stuff?”

The older man was startled for a moment. “What do you mean ‘what about Ben?’ Haven’t you heard the news? You’re still working at the diner, aren’t you?”

“Well yeah, but I changed my shift a while ago. I don’t really work with Deb or anyone anymore. . .” Justin paused. “It was . . . better for my schedule.” He took a long drink from the bottle. “What happened? Ben’s okay, isn’t he?”

“Fuck. I thought everyone knew. Ben’s gone.” Brian muttered before upending his bottle and draining it. When he had finished and pulled the bottle away, he nearly dropped it at the stricken look on Justin’s face. “What? What?!”

“Ben? He’s . . . he’s . . .” Justin lips trembled, and Brian gazed in concern at the boy’s pale face for a moment before giving himself a mental smack. Fuck. Me.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Sunshine. I mean gone as in he’s not in the Pitts anymore. Benny-boy’s out on the West Coast. San Diego.”

The color gradually returned to Justin’s face. “San Diego? But why? What happened?”

“Got a nice job offer a month or so ago.” Brian signaled for another beer. “He liked the climate, he liked all the holistic medicine centers – or whatever you call them – they have out there. So he left.”

“And Michael . . .?”

“Mikey’s here. Mikey’s always here.” Brian’s tone was acrid. “Ben practically begged him to go with him. But you know Mikey . . . he’s sticking to the Pitts like a fly to shit.”

“Come on, Brian, that’s not really fair. You couldn’t expect him to just leave the store, could you? Or Deb and Vic?” Justin seemed more relaxed now, and Brian noted with no small degree of satisfaction that the dullness had left the blue eyes. “The comic book store was his dream, and he’s worked hard for it. I don’t think I’d have left, either, if I were him.”

Brian was silent. He recognized the truth in Justin’s words. The store and his family meant the world to Mikey, and after the disaster move with Dr. Dave, Brian couldn’t say he blamed his friend for not wanting to put himself in a position to repeat that mistake. But in the past months, Michael’s behavior had been grating on him, and it was getting harder and harder for Brian to be understanding. The phone calls, the unexpected visits to the loft, Mikey’s bird-dogging him at the clubs . . . it was getting quite annoying. Now that Emmett and Ted had paired off, Michael was turning to him for everything.

And Mikey didn’t even seem to be trying meet someone new. It would have been one thing if Mikey’s reluctance to get out there again was because he was still stuck on Ben, but Michael had barely mentioned the professor since the day he left. That above all worked on Brian’s nerves and made him uneasy.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure Mikey would be glad to know that he has your support.” Brian leaned back onto the bar and let his eyes lazily wander up and down the teen’s body, feeling a familiar heat pool in his groin as he did so. “But anyway. What brings you out tonight, Sunshine? It’s been awhile.”

“Yeah . . . I guess.” Justin toyed with a bottle cap. “Cutting loose. Getting some air. Checking things out. Dancing.”

Brian gave the teen an inquisitive look. “But you’re not dancing.” He lifted a brow. “And you sure as hell don’t look loose. What’s wrong? Afraid the Fiddler’ll find out you were among the pathetic perverts on Liberty Avenue?”

The flash of pain that crossed the teen’s face was the last thing Brian expected to see. “Ethan knows where I am. He's here. Coming here was his idea.”

And that was the last thing Brian expected to hear. Vaguely he recalled the dark-haired man he’d seen enter with Justin while he was up on the catwalk. That had been Ethan? What the hell had the kid done to his hair? And why did Justin look like he wanted to throw up?

“Yeah? I didn’t think that this was his scene.” Brian said in a casual tone, watching Justin’s face carefully. “There’re no poetry readings here, no rose petals drifting down from the ceiling.”

“He had exams,” Justin said, avoiding Brian’s eyes. “He did really well . . . he wanted to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?” Brian raised the other brow. “Here?”

Justin nodded, still averting his gaze. “He wanted to dance. I wanted to stay home, but he . . . didn’t. So . . .” Justin trailed off and turned his attention to the bottle cap again. Brian, for his part, was floored. Wasn’t the big deal about Ethan Gold that he was some incredible romantic? Hadn’t he heard about violin serenades and picnics on the fucking floor? Hadn’t Justin left him because Ethan was the antithesis of everything the ad exec stood – or in some cases, laid down – for? And now Ethan was wanting to go out to the clubs. Interesting. Very interesting.

“So, where is the gentle Fiddler?” Brian scanned the crowd, eyes passing over countless dark-haired men. “Checking your coats? Maybe you shouldn’t have left him alone, Sunshine. People have a way of . . . losing each other in this place.”

Justin looked at him then, the sudden glimmer in his eyes letting Brian know that he’d understood the deeper meaning behind those words. But then that flash was gone, swept away with an angry sigh. “He’s already out there dancing. With some guy.”

Hello. “What guy?”

“I don’t know! Just some random asshole!” Justin banged his fist on the bar. “Some guy just walked up to him and asked him to dance, and Ethan said yes and left me standing there like an idiot!” The blond was breathing heavily, and his cheeks had gone tomato red. “Ethan wanted to come out – not me. Ethan wanted to dance – not me. And now he’s dancing. Without me.”

Brian’s face remained impassive during the outburst, but his mind whirled, his interest thoroughly piqued. What the hell was up with those two? Had his “sources” been mistaken about the state of affairs in Justin’s life? All certainly didn’t seem to be wine and roses and candlelit dinners, judging by the tone of Justin's voice. What could have happened?

“Look, Brian, thanks for the drink.” Justin was fidgeting, but his voice was steady. “But I’d better get going.”

Brian shivered at the sadness in Justin’s voice. The teen was hurting, and Brian wasn’t about to let him walk away without getting the full story. “What’s the rush, Sonnyboy? Ethan’s otherwise occupied . . . and we haven’t talked in forever.”

“We never talked at all, Brian.” Justin said, looking the exec square in the eyes. “That’s why we . . . why it didn’t . . .” The blond's voice trailed off and he gave a small shrug. “I have to go.” He started past the older man.

Without thinking, Brian grabbed the boy’s sleeve. He was being stupid, he knew, and he couldn’t even blame it on drugs, but he couldn’t let Justin walk away from him. Not while the teen had that look in his eyes. “Wait a minute, Sunshine.” He pulled him close, bending his knees so that he could look directly into Justin’s eyes. “I bought you a drink, and you’re just gonna walk off like that without giving me a proper thanks?”

Justin gasped and pulled back. “Brian, forget it! Find someone else to take to the back room – I’m not –” The sapphire eyes went wide when Brian placed a hand over his mouth, silencing him.

“Such a dirty mind, Sonnyboy.” Brian made a tsking noise. “What I was going to do was ask you . . . to dance.”

The blond drew away from him, brows knit over surprised eyes. “Dance? With you?”

“Sure. You like this song.” Brian watched the masses move to a club remix of a Jimmy Eat World tune. “I like this song. . . and I wanna dance. With you.”

“Brian . . .”

“Sunshine . . . come on.” Brian tugged on the hem of Justin’s sweater, pulling him out into the crowd. “One dance won’t hurt anything. For old time’s sake. What can I say . . . I’m in a nostalgic mood.”

“Brian, wait . . .” Justin looked around. “I don’t think –”

“That’s just it, Sonnyboy.” Brian pulled him close. “Don’t think. Move.”

Justin looked uncertain, but he began to sway a little bit. “I do like this song . . . how’d you remember?”

“Cause you told me.” Brian got closer, wrapping an arm around Justin’s waist to pull him against his body. “It hasn’t been that long, Sunshine.”

Smiling, he watched Justin gradually relax, and the boy’s moves became less mechanical and more fluid as the song blasted. Brian did as he’d always done in Babylon – he followed the blond’s lead, working to just keep in step with the teen, not outshine him. Because that was impossible . . . Justin was something else on the dance floor.

Brian felt himself start to sweat when by the second time through the chorus, Justin began to really get into it, placing his arms around his waist, looking into his eyes as they moved to the music, gyrating and grinding together, pressed close enough to feel each other’s heartbeats. Brian was conscious that there was suddenly much less room in his pants than there had been a few minutes before. He’d nearly forgotten how good it felt to dance with Justin, how nice it was to rub and grind with the boy. That had often been their form of foreplay – dancing close for hours, teasing each other, getting each other hotter and hotter and harder and harder until they just couldn’t take it any more and would race back to the loft and fuck all night.

He looked into Justin’s face, gauging his reaction. He knew the blond could feel his hard-on, and that he hadn’t pushed him away in disgust told the ad exec that either the blond was ignoring it or enjoying it. Justin smiled up at him suddenly and pressed closer, his eyes gleaming mischievously, the smile turning into a gasp when Brian altered the angle at which they were touching and brought their crotches into direct contact. Brian didn’t hide his grin when he felt a corresponding hardness there. Well. I guess that answers that question.

“Enjoying this, Sunshine?” Brian whispered in his ear, smiling when he felt the boy shiver. “I am.”

Justin’s tongue darted out to lick dry lips, and he made a motion to pull away. Brian didn't try to stop him, allowing Justin to create space between them. He didn’t want to push the blond into bolting, and he knew he might if he pressed too hard.

“We still move well together.” Brian murmured into the boy’s ear. “We still have our rhythm. . .”

“Yeah . . .” There was only the slightest bit of hesitation. “We do . . .”

Brian gently rubbed the small of his back, a caress he knew Justin particularly enjoyed, and was rewarded with a contented sigh. “You think we’ll ever be able to dance like this with other people?” Brian stared into the darkening eyes. “Anybody else? Ever?”

Justin’s lips trembled, and he looked pale, but he didn’t look away. He didn’t even blink. “I don’t . . . I . . .” He swallowed hard, then shook his head slowly. “No. Not like this. Ever.”

Brian was sure Justin could hear how hard his heart was pounding. Certainly he could feel it, maybe even see it. This was what he needed that night – and every night. He needed Justin in his arms once more. He needed Justin looking at him just as he was doing at that moment. He needed –

“Brian, what the fuck?!” A shrill voice startled them apart. “What’s he doing here?”

A gun. He needed a gun. Brian glowered at the unwelcome presence in the form of his best friend Michael Novotny, who was giving him a look that was equal parts hurt and indignant. No, wait. A gun was a little too extreme. A newspaper would do, the exec decided. That’s what he needed: a good, rolled-up newspaper to whack Mikey across the nose and maybe slap that hurt puppy look off the man’s face.

“Mikey, what a surprise.” Brian said dryly, glancing over at Justin, who was glowering balefully at Michael. “Done inventory already? I thought you said it would take half the night.” I should be so lucky.

“I knocked off early. I can do it all on Thursday when the new stuff comes in. You weren’t answering my calls.” Michael said in a plaintive voice. “I called your office, I called the loft, I called your cell . . . where the fuck were you all this time? With him?” He glared at Justin.

“He has a name, you know, Mikey.” Brian pushed down his anger as best he could. He didn’t need Mikey’s bitching tonight. He didn’t need anything except for what had been in his arms seconds before.

“Yeah, I know he’s got a name,” Mikey got in the boy’s face, his nostrils flaring like a rabid dog’s. “I think it’s pronounced: Cheating, lying twink – with the accent on the cheating.”

Justin reared back, and for a moment, Brian thought the boy was going to sock Mikey in the jaw. But he didn’t raise his hand. Breathing heavily, he looked up at Brian, then back at Michael, before turning away and moving off in the opposite direction without a word to either of them.

“Hey-” Brian brushed Mikey aside and grabbed the boy’s shoulder. “Sunshine, where do you think you're going? Song's not over yet–”

“I have to find Ethan,” Justin said, escaping his grip. “Thanks for the drink, Brian. And the dance. But I need to find my boyfriend and I need to get out of here before I . . . I . . .” He broke off, backing away. “I have to find Ethan,” he repeated, a touch of desperation in his voice. “I . . . I’ll see you, Brian.”

He turned then and plowed through the crowd, very soon disappearing from view. Brian stood staring ahead with unseeing eyes, much as he had six months before, feeling just as lost and helpless as he had then. Justin had to go find Ethan. Justin was leaving to find Ethan. Right. So the teen had once again made his choice. And once again, he was the loser.

“Jesus, Brian, what was that about?” Brian didn’t move when he heard Michael’s whiny tone near his ear and felt the weight of his friend’s hand on his shoulder. “Isn’t he still with that violin guy? Or is he sneaking around on him too? I hope you were telling him not to bother sniffing around . . . no way you’re going to put up with his shit a second time.”

Brian shook off Michael’s hand then, a cold fury welling up in him that threatened to bubble over and consume him. He had to get away . . . away from Michael . . . away from the dance floor . . . away from . . . just away, before he at that did something he was sure he’d regret – other than let Justin walk away from him. Again. Paying no heed to Michael, Brian started started walking, disengaging his mind from his body, performing on autopilot. His feet knew exactly where they were going . . . no need to waste any more brain power than he’d already expended.

“Brian, where are you going? I just got here!” Mikey sounded put out as he struggled to keep up with the executive. “Brian? Brian!”

Executing a few deft twists and turns, Brian soon outpaced the shorter man, losing him in the churning throng. Faces blurred and voices melded together as he made his way to the stairs that would lead him into the shadowy mindlessness he needed to plunge himself in now. He needed to be numb, and some time in the back room always did the trick. Walking slowly down the steps leading to the curtained area, the sharp-sour smell of cum mixed with sweat and the grunts, screams and moans of its occupants were there to greet him. As always. And as always, he virtually ignored the other men who were already on their way to sweet oblivion. Walking to the center of the dark room, he surveyed his options, assessed and dismissed certain interested parties, and finally settled on a well-built, well-hung brunette who looked to have quite a fuckable mouth and who looked as if he just might be able to deep throat. Brian let the man lean him against the wall, let him yank open his pants and push them down just enough to expose his dick. Brian nodded his approval – this would be quick then. Good. He wanted quick. He needed quick. He wanted to get off and get out of here and forget this day ever happened. Forget he ever saw Justin. Forget that for a brief moment, he’d held the teen in his arms again . . . and for the space of a song, all had seemed right between them.

He breathed out when the trick began to go down on him, and as the dark head between his legs bobbed, Brian allowed himself a look around. Blow jobs seemed to be the request of the night, he grinned, looking around at all the men who were standing to receive their pleasure. It stood to reason – getting sucked off was quick, efficient and enough to take the edge off while trolling for other prospects. Brian’s eyes widened slightly as he caught sight of a possible “prospect” of his own about three feet away. The man was a well-muscled, bald ebony hunk who was fucking the hell out of some pale, dark-haired guy who was on all fours before him. They were really putting on a show – grunting, moaning, shrieking, the whole nine yards. Brian watched the two with growing interest, his eyes mainly on the sweating, groaning man pistoning into his smaller partner. Good. Let him fuck himself out. Then he’ll be nice and open for me later. I wonder –

The thought, whatever it had been, stopped there, just as Brian’s heart nearly stopped. And his breath, too. And certainly his pleasure stopped, as he felt his dick start to soften. For as he watched his potential trick and his partner change position, the mahogany-skinned man laying on the ground, sitting his partner on his dick facing away from him, Brian found himself in the ludicrous position of being blown while watching Ethan Gold ride a cock that was definitely not Justin’s for all he was worth. And the sight of that did about as much for Brian's eyes and brain as it did for his hard-on.

Three

“No way! Just like that? Then what happened?”

“Uhm . . . then I left. I waited at his place for a couple of hours, and then I went back to my mom’s. . .” Justin scrutinized a loaf of French bread before holding it out for Daphne’s inspection. “What do you think? Too hard?”

Daphne smirked as she tapped the end of the bread. “I thought you’d be the expert on that.”

“Ha, ha. I thought you were catching up with me, though. What’s up with you and that guy Devon?” He grinned at her. “He’s hot. I love his braids . . .”

“He’s history,” she groused, handing Justin a peck of strawberries. “We broke up after the Miss Black Carnegie-Mellon pageant. He was one of the judges, and he decided he wanted to hold his own contest with the first and second runners-up.”

“Asshole. Sorry, Daph.” Justin hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her in for a hug. “Don’t sweat it though; you’re gonna find that one right guy for you. Probably when you least expect it. Then we can bond over the great sex we’re having with our boyfriends -- especially if you try that thing I told you about with your tongue –”

“Justin!” Daphne covered her face with a bunch of grapes as several people within earshot turned to stare at them. “Will you shut up? The last thing I want to think about is techniques to use on the boyfriend I don’t have for the sex I’m not having.”

Justin grinned and tucked the bread under his arm. A few more items, and he’d have everything he’d need. In a little more than an hour, he’d have his studio space transformed into the backdrop for the perfect romantic picnic, a little ritual he and Ethan enjoyed every Thursday afternoon after Ethan was finished practicing with the string ensemble. Justin silently thanked god for Shadyside Fruit and Produce, where he could get fresh, delicious -- and cheap -- fixings for the feast, and for having a best friend with a car, her afternoons free and a willingness to hear every detail of his love life.

“Anyway, I was up until about 4 – I called him, like, ten times and he didn’t answer . . .” Justin added a wedge of brie to his basket. “I almost went over there, but when he’s practicing, he almost never hears me banging on the door, and the last time I knocked so loud, one of his neighbors came out. She had this knife –”

“Hold it. You’re talking about Ethan?” Her brow wrinkled. “Oh.” There was a world of disappointment packed into that one syllable.

“Yessss, Ethan.” Justin gave a tomato a gentle squeeze, sneered at it, then picked up another. “Who else would I be talking about. . .” He looked up just in time to see the cat-in-the-cream smile spread across her face. Oh. Great. He berated himself for telling Daphne about that part of his night. It was bad enough that even as he’d performed what turned out to be a fruitless search throughout Babylon the night before to locate Ethan, he couldn’t get those smoldering hazel eyes out of his head, could still feel those long, lean muscles melding into him. “Daph, let it go . . .”

“I will when you do.” She fixed him with a stern look as they combed the aisles. “I want to hear about you and Brian. You haven’t seen the guy in practically forever, and you danced with him? You so cannot tell me that it’s totally over between you two–”

“Well, it is. A dance doesn’t mean shit in the queer world . . . it’s barely saying hi.” Justin did a mental calculation of what he had in his basket, checked it against the heft of his wallet, and did a silent thanks that there hadn’t been a cover charge at Babylon – he had just enough to cover it all. “It’s like a nod.”

“A nod, huh? I’ve seen you and Brian dance before, and this,” she palmed his forehead, “was not the head that was moving.”

“You are such a freak.” Justin felt a flush creep up his neck, and he busied himself in picking out the ripest, plumpest tomatoes he could find. Hefting two in his hand, an image of Brian pressed against him, his hardness digging into his thigh, flashed into Justin’s brain. The blond sighed at the memory, unconsciously tightening his fingers around the tomatoes, recalling the rush of pride and pleasure he’d felt in knowing that he still affected Brian that way. Guilt and a bit of fear, though, displaced the memory as he remembered his own reaction to Brian’s closeness. He’d tried to reason it away -- dancing that way with any guy would have produced the same result – but deep down, he wasn’t buying it. Sure, he’d danced with other guys, danced cheek to cheek, cock to cock, with guys he’d fuck or suck later. But it never was the way it had been with Brian – that kind of heat, that kind of comfort, that kind of bond. He’d never felt it like that with anyone, and he never would -- he’d been dead serious in that when he said it to Brian. And that frightened him even more.

Justin surfaced from his thoughts to see finger-sized indents in his tomatoes and Daphne smirking at him. “What?”

“You were totally mooning.” She shook her head, smiling a little sadly. “Just like back at St. James; we’d be in Global, and I’d look over and see you with that same goofy grin on your face and I’d know you were thinking about Brian. Why don’t you just admit that you’re still crazy about him? He was your first . . . you lived with him . . . you loved him. It’s not like I can’t understand it’s why you’d still want him . . .”

“No offense, but it’s not your understanding I’m worried about. It’s Ethan’s,” Justin spoke with a little heat, blindly snatching a bottle of balsamic vinegar. “I’ve got a good thing -- a boyfriend who wants only me . . . who’s committed to only me. And I want to not fuck it up.”

“So you admit that you do still want Brian.” She took the bottle from his hand and replaced it with a thinner one with a white-and-gold label. “Get this one – it’s way better and it’s on sale.”

Justin accepted the bottle with an inward groan. He’d walked right into that one. Too tired and too aware of the futility in lying to his best friend, he somehow managed to find the energy to shrug. “Brian’s hot. The stuff that happened between us isn’t going to change the fact that he’s amazing-looking, sexy and incredible in bed.”

“Better than Ethan?”

Yes. Justin blinked as the answer echoed in his mind. He kept his face neutral however – no way would he say it out loud, not even to Daphne. Though glancing at her knowing smile, the blond knew that she knew.

“Why do you always do this?” Justin snapped, stalking up the aisle toward the cash register. “No matter what we’re talking about, you always bring up Brian. I talk about art, you talk about all the sketches I did of Brian. I talk about work, you ask if Brian came in. You’re, like, member one billion on the Brian Kinney is God bandwagon.” They joined a checkout line that was moderately long, and once situated, Justin, scowling, refocused his attention on his friend. “What did Brian ever do for you that you’re always talking about how great he is?”

Daphne looked at him a moment. “It’s not that . . . it’s just . . . like I told you before – rebound relationships are the kiss of death. No way you can totally give your heart to Ethan if you’re still drooling over Brian.”

“It’s not a rebound thing. Never was. I was the one who left, remember?” Justin spoke with little conviction, numbly placing his items on the conveyor belt as they neared the cashier. “And I’m not drooling over Brian. I know he’s beautiful. And yeah, dancing with him again was . . . nice.” He paused, biting his lip as his body tingled in the spots where he and Brian had been joined during their dance. “But Ethan’s what I need. What I want.”

“Even if he’s acting weird? I mean, that’s really lame, Justin; it was his idea to go out, and he ditches you for some guy and then bails on you?” Daphne folded her arms. “You shouldn’t be doing this picnic thing for him – you should be chewing him out.”

Justin didn’t reply as he fished his wallet out, worry lines creasing his forehead. A tiny bit of him was piqued to have been left alone at Babylon, especially after his encounter with Brian. An encounter that had weakened his resolve . . . almost made him think about doing things that he was sure he’d regret. And Ethan had not been there. He’d not been anywhere. As he plowed through the crowd looking for the musician, Justin had a brief flashback to the old days with Brian, when the exec would disappear into the masses, on the hunt for his next fuck. But that was Brian . . . the Fuck King of Liberty Avenue, who’d do just about anything that moved. Ethan was loyal to him, faithful to him. So . . . there had to be a logical explanation as to why he hadn’t been able to locate the violinist after seeing him go off with his tall, dark dance partner. There just had to be.

“I’m scared, Daph,” he said in a low voice, counting out his money. “What if the reason he left was that he saw me and Brian . . . together.” He trembled inwardly at the thought. “I’ll be in so much deep shit if that’s what it was. . .”

“If it was just a dance what difference would it make?” She raised a delicate brow. “And he danced with some guy, too, so it’d be totally hypocritical for him to be pissed at you.”

“Yeah, but he was with some random guy . . . I danced with Brian. Brian.” He ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to smother his distress. “Fuck, Daph, how fucking stupid could I have been, being anywhere near Brian? What if Ethan saw us together, then looked for me and couldn’t find me or Brian? He might have thought we were . . . we were . . .” His voice trailed off, but his mind completed the picture for him, and he blushed crimson, grateful that he was holding his grocery basket in front of his crotch. Oh fuck. Shit. No. This can’t be happening. Not now, not after six months. No!

“Well, you weren’t.” Daphne laid a soothing hand on her friend’s back. “So you don’t have anything to worry about . . . right?”

Justin stood silent, staring straight ahead, lost in the memory of Brian’s warm breath caressing his ear and those amber eyes gazing into his. She was wrong, his best friend. Dead wrong. There was plenty – plenty – he had to worry about.

~*~

“But why not? It’ll be fun . . . and we haven’t gone in . . . um . . .”

“I’ve never gone, Mikey.” Brian grimaced as he powered through his last set of biceps curls, keeping his eyes focused on his sweating reflection in the mirror. “What the fuck can a fag do at Dyke Night except get some dry walling tips or find a new barber?”

“Mel and Lands are going, so are Ted and Em. It’s a night out with friends.” Michael swung his legs around the weight bench he was straddling to focus his attention on Brian. “You used to like to do that, you know.”

The exec grunted, finishing up his curls and moving to the lat pull-down machine. “Sounds like a couples’ night to me, Mikey. And you know that’s not in my portfolio.”

Michael was quiet a moment, staring at the dumbbell lying across his knees. “You didn’t seem to mind when Justin was around.”

Brian halted in mid-pull. He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised at Justin’s entry into the conversation -- Mikey did have a way of invoking the blond’s memory each time Brian balked at doing something he allegedly used to love to do – but it caught him off-guard anyway. It was all total bullshit, at any rate, because there wasn’t a thing Brian did or didn’t do now that he did or didn’t do then -- work, eat, see Gus and the Munchers every couple of weeks or so, and pick up the occasional trick. Except now somehow . . . it seemed a little more . . . monotonous. Though nothing had changed in his life . . . except that Justin was no longer in it. His hands tightened around the bar, and he unwittingly jerked the weight down – a real no-no, but luckily his trainer wasn’t around to bitch at him about it. Bad form could make Jorg whine worse than Mikey.

“So . . . talk to the Professor lately?” Brian returned the weight to its starting position, and tried hard not to grin as Mikey’s face did its best impression of a thundercloud. Really, irking his friend was beginning to get a little too easy, but at least it would provide a distraction while he finished his workout.

“He called last night; do you believe it?” Michael rolled the dumbbell under the bench, twisting his towel in his hand. “He – get this – he wants me to come out there and visit. He’s trying to tempt me with TiCon . . . the biggest comic book convention in the southwest. It’s right outside San Diego this year, and –”

“Go.” Brian’s casually bored voice had the air of a command. “Have fun. Get some sun. Get laid.” He mopped his sweaty brow and just barely kept from cackling in glee. A couple of days – or, even better, a week -- with Mikey gone? It seemed almost too good to be true --

“Brian, are you out of your fucking mind? There’s no way I’m going. Let him rub his fabulous new life in my face? Yeah, right.”

-- So, of course, it was. When am I going to stop being surprised? “Mikey, obviously the good professor is still stuck on you.” Brian reached for a water bottle. “Not a bad scene there. Ben wouldn’t have a problem finding someone –”

“Thanks a bunch, Brian.”

“— But he wants to see you, Mikey. Still wants you.” Brian gulped down a few mouthfuls of water, resisting the urge to pour the excess over his head. It seemed the fewer people who were in the gym, the hotter the place was. “And you still want him. So screw the Pitts for awhile and hit the beach. Bring me back some Tequila.”

“I do not still want Ben. I’m over Ben.” Michael glared at his friend. “I’ve told you I’m over Ben. Why the hell would you even say something like that?”

“Well for one thing, it’s only been a month since he left.” Brian drank more water. Swallowing, he continued, “And for another, you’re not fucking around. And you won’t be, either, if you’re spending perfectly good hookup time going to Dyke Night with Ozzie and Harriet and the Munchers.”

“Anybody can just fuck around, Brian. I don’t want that. I want a relationship. Something real . . .” The brown-haired man’s eyes took on a dreamy cast. “And what’s a month? People get over other people in a month. Less even. How long did it take you to get over Justin? An hour? Two maybe?”

Chin tightening, Brian looked away from Mikey’s wide-eyed stare. Getting over Justin. When had it happened? How had it happened? Brian ran a hand over his brow, relaxing at the memory of Justin in his arms the night before. Had it happened? Was he over the boy . . . and if not . . . was he ever going to be? And why the hell was Mikey looking at him as if he expected an answer to a question like that? Brian had barely discussed Justin with anyone – his longtime pal included – since Justin had moved on to the Fiddler.

The Fiddler. Brian grimaced anew, recalling his unwitting glimpse into Ethan’s activities the night before. If it doesn’t bother Justin, then why the fuck should I care? But the nonchalant tone seemed false to his internal ear, and gulping down the rest of his water, the exec marveled that he couldn’t find an adequate answer as to why he should care. All he knew was, for some reason, he did care – and that gave him pause. Since when had he been the type to stick his tit where it didn’t belong? Justin was a big boy . . . he could take care of himself. But still . . . the teen had looked so troubled the night before. So . . . insecure. Lost, almost. It had been all Brian could think about from the moment Justin had left his side. Justin’s behavior, coupled with Ethan’s activities had been weighing on the exec’s mind, and since getting to the . . . bottom of things was his specialty, he was determined to solve this little mystery.

“Gotta go, Mikey. Lunchtime.” Brian stood abruptly, regretting it immediately as the floor underneath him seemed to wobble. Attributing his temporary lack of balance to the extra reps he’d done on the leg press, he carefully wiped the seat of the lat machine, allowing the stock blasé demeanor to work its way back onto his face. Turning to bid his best friend farewell, Brian blinked to find Mikey standing next to him, his towel draped around his shoulders. “Where are you going?”

“We’re going to lunch.” Mikey looked at him in confusion. “Isn’t that what you said? It’s probably a good idea, too, to go now. The diner gets so full –”

“We . . . are not going anywhere, Mikey.” Brian poked the man’s shoulder, creating a space between them. “And I’m not going anywhere near the diner. I’ve got . . . a lunch meeting.” He colored slightly. “With a . . . VIP.”

“Business.” Michael muttered darkly. “I should have known.” He heaved a sigh before returning to his former place. “I might as well stay and wait for Em and Ted and eat with them. They’re already half an hour late.” He glanced at his watch, and then smiled. “I bet I know what’s keeping them . . .”

“Please, Mikey. I’m about to eat,” Brian said with a barely concealed shudder, turning in the direction of the showers. “Have fun tonight with the girls.”

“I’ll call, Brian.” Michael called after him. “I’ll call you tonight. Okay? Brian?”

Never breaking his stride, Brian held up a hand to indicate that he’d heard. Making a mental note to turn his cell off after 8 p.m., he followed a trail of steam into the locker room, ready to surrender his drained body to the streams of hot water that awaited him. He leaned his head back against a shower wall, not moving as warm water rained down on him. Brian savored these fleeting moments of relaxation, having a sneaking suspicion that after his lunch, he was going to be as keyed up as he’d been in a long, long time.

~*~

Justin was well-aware that he lucked out in being assigned a studio that was at the end of the arts building in its own little cul de sac on the ground floor. Not only was the light that poured in through the large windows incredible, but the place itself was so secluded that he could go for hours without hearing the footsteps of another person.

But he was expecting footsteps now – Ethan’s footsteps – and he’d been waiting for . . . he glanced at his watch . . . nearly twenty minutes. The little picnic was spread out beside him – fruit, cheese, bread and a bottle of decent, but cheap red wine all at the ready. Soft, romantic music – Strauss, one of Ethan’s favorite composers – was cued up on the little CD player Justin kept beneath his drawing desk. Close at hand but out of sight were condoms and lube, just in case the violinist wanted to linger over dessert. Everything was ready, present and accounted for – except Ethan himself. And, Justin admitted to himself with reluctance, a part of his mind had gone missing, too. For as he took in the romantic setup and the secluded location, he was conscious that no small part of him wished it were Brian he was waiting for.

He allowed his mind to wander a moment longer before snapping back to attention and curtailing his thoughts of the ad exec. This is Daphne’s fault. Justin popped a grape into his mouth and began chewing viciously. She just won’t shut up about him. ‘You still love him, Jus. You still want him, Jus.’ He grabbed another grape. I should have never told her I saw him . . . that stupid dance might cost me Ethan. Then where the fuck will I be? Fucking alone, that’s where.

Which was, he realized uneasily, exactly what he was at that moment. Reaching for another grape, he stopped himself, resolving to wait for Ethan. Who would be there any minute, just as usual. He silenced the niggling voice in his mind that reminded him that the musician had never been late for their rendezvous before, sometimes arriving at the studio before Justin himself did. Justin fought down his concern as best he could. Maybe string ensemble’s running late. Or maybe he had to talk to a professor.

Or maybe he saw you dry humping your ex, and he’s dropping you on your ass.

“Shit.” He raked a hand through his hair, barely suppressing the urge to rip it out. Why, why, why had he not just taken off running when he saw Brian at the bar? Why had he let Ethan drag him into Babylon in the first place? And why the hell couldn’t he stop thinking about Brian? The way he looked, the way he moved, the way he danced . . . It was amazing – being with Brian – near Brian – again had been so familiar. So comfortable. So incred—

The sound of footsteps jolted Justin out of his musings. Sitting straight up, he smoothed out his clothes, and rearranged the morsels of cheese on their Styrofoam plate. Checking over his handiwork, he scrambled to his feet, a large smile at the ready as a knock sounded on the door. The smile faltered. Since when did Ethan knock?

Hesitating for a moment, the blond cast another eye on the food, then back at the door. Taking a deep breath, he went to the door, opened it . . .

. . . And gaped at the sight of Terry Yu, a friend of his from one of his painting classes, standing on the other side. “Hey, Justin. I thought I saw you come down here. A bunch of us are heading to the Big O for lunch. Interested?”

“Uh . . . hey, Ter.” Justin recovered quickly, though he was a bit a bit disconcerted. No one had ever ventured down the hall before – not on Thursday afternoons, at least. He’d been sure no one except Ethan and a few of his professors even knew where his little corner of solitude was. “Um . . . thanks, but Ethan and I are eating in today.” The teen smiled tightly, ears pricked for any other noises in the hallway. Nothing. “Maybe some other time?”

“Ethan? But I thought he –” Terry began, then grinned wide – too wide. “Oh. Uh, okay. Later then, man.”

“Wait a second.” Justin leaned against the door, feeling a sudden chill at his back. Odd how cold the studio had gotten all of a sudden. “Uh . . . have you seen Ethan? Today, I mean?” He aimed a smile at Terry, and waited for his fellow artist to smile back and shake his head no. Waited for Terry to laugh and tell him that he hadn’t seen anyone all day, because he’d been cloistered in his studio working on his third-quarter printmaking project. Of course Terry hadn’t seen Ethan. Why would he? Terry barely knew Ethan. And any minute now, there would be more footsteps – Ethan’s footsteps – echoing down that hall. Any minute now. The blond’s smile flickered when Terry turned kind, slightly sheepish eyes back toward him. Justin held the grin in place, even as he felt his heart thudding somewhere around his knees. Any minute now . .

“Uh, yeah. I did see him a little earlier. I was dropping off some stuff for Jade at the Music Building,” Terry said slowly. “She’s always leaving her shit in my dorm . . . just ‘cause I have an extra bed, she figures she can use it as storage, you know?”

Justin nodded mutely. Jade was Terry’s twin, and a viola player in the string ensemble – Ethan’s string ensemble. The one that was running late . . . the one he really, really hoped was running late. . .

“Anyway, I saw Ethan. He and a couple of people from ensemble were headed downtown to the Hofbrau. They were trying to get Jade to go, but she hates the food there. And me and the guys from Life Art have a standing date at the Big O on Thursdays. So . . . uh . . .” Terry squirmed a little, his eyes darting around the room. “Maybe he was just walking them out to the car . . . I didn’t actually see him go – just saw him leave.”

Just saw him leave . . . The blond nodded again, for the moment incapable of much more movement. The Hofbrau was a loud, pub-style restaurant in downtown Oakland. Loud, cheap and beer-soaked, it was a big hit with the fraternity crowd and alumni in town for football games. Definitely not a place where one could hold an indoor picnic. Not even a place where one could hold a conversation with their neighbor without screaming at the top of their lungs. Ethan had gone there? No way. No fucking way. Terry wasn’t wearing his ever-present, Bono-ish glasses – maybe he’d seen someone else, some other cutely scruffy, dreamy-eyed musician type – not Ethan. Not Ethan . . . who had dragged him out to club. Not Ethan . . . who had gone gallivanting off with some bronze god two seconds after they’d entered Babylon. Not Ethan . . . whom he couldn’t find the rest of the night, who hadn’t answered his calls all morning, whom he hadn’t seen all day, and who was a good 30 minutes late for their picnic. Not Ethan. Justin’s brain started to churn, and he held on to the door jamb to steady himself. Whomever it was Terry had seen heading in the exact opposite direction of PIFA’s campus could not have been Ethan. Any minute now, Ethan would arrive to make a liar out of Terry. He was just running late – not avoiding him, not spending their romantic afternoon in a smoke-filled pub. No. No. No . . . no no no . . .

“About how long ago?” The question made its way out despite Justin’s best efforts to smother it. His voice sounded faraway to his ear, as if he were speaking through a wall of water.

“Uh, about a half-hour. Maybe less.” Terry said softly, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “The Hofbrau has killer takeout . . . maybe he just went down there to bring something back?”

“Yeah,” he said softly, turning back to Terry. The effort of holding the smile was making his cheeks turn the same burgundy color as the wine. “Maybe.”

“Uh, you know . . . the Big O’s right next door to the Hofbrau,” Terry said. “Pitt’s quad is right down the street. We could all eat together, if you want . . .”

Justin glanced briefly over his shoulder at the feast arranged on the floor, contemplating the bright reds of the strawberries, the crisp greens of the grapes. If they stayed out too long, they’d get mushy. Similarly, the cheese would get hard, the bread stale. And the wine . . . the wine . . . well, the wine was cheap anyway, so . . . that didn’t matter. Much.

But still . . . this was their day. Their time. And Ethan was . . . somewhere else. With other people. Justin bit his lip, well aware that Terry was waiting for an answer, and just as aware that he didn’t have one to give him – not a good one . . . not the one he wanted to give. Listening a moment longer for footsteps that he was not going to hear – at least not any time soon – he let the smile fade a little, the commingled smells of fruit, yeast and dairy making his stomach flip-flop. He needed to get out of the little studio, and quick, before he keeled over.

“No, thanks. I, um, I have to do . . . some stuff.” Justin eased himself out into the hall, shutting the door tight behind him, shutting out, for the time, the romance and sweetness he’d tried to create in his space. “Off campus. I just remembered . . . I told Ethan yesterday that I was gonna be busy, and that’s probably why he went . . .” He ran out of voice then, unable to sustain the breath necessary to complete the lie. Inhaling deeply, he continued, “Thanks for the invite, though. Tell Jade I said hey.”

“Sure. Anytime.” Terry smiled, relief palpable on his face. At that moment, Justin recalled that he’d never heard Terry say a bad word about anything or anyone. Not anyone’s art, not anyone’s music. Not anyone’s boyfriend. Terry seemed to live to avoid conflict, while he seemed to live in nothing but. Justin knew he should be used to that by now, especially considering all that had happened in the past few months . . . hell, the past few years . . . In many ways, he was used to it. But it didn’t make him like it any better. Shaking his head slightly, the blond was aware of dim noises in his ear . . .he frowned, then realized Terry was talking.

“… You need a lift somewhere? If it’s on the way to the O, I can drop you off.”

Justin began to shake his head no, but then caught himself. Checking his watch, he realized that he had a good two hours before his last class of the day. Two hours and nothing – and no one – to do. He needed to vent. He needed a place to think, to contemplate just what was going on in his life at the moment. He needed to just . . . get away.

“Actually . . .” Justin gave Terry a genuine grin, leading his fellow artist up the hall and toward the exit. “There is somewhere you could take me . . .”

~*~

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s called a frankenburger. It’s a burger with a chili dog on top. Delicious.” Daphne took measured bites of a large, round, dripping sandwich, dabbing daintily at the corners of her mouth. “The CMU specialty. Just taste it. One bite, and I swear you’ll be in heaven.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’ll be dead before I can swallow it.” Brian eyed the young woman with only slightly less skepticism than he did the identical sandwich was balanced across his knees, untouched. “Haven’t you crazy college kids ever heard of salads? Sushi? Something with a calorie count not measured in exponential numbers?”

“Hey, you caught me off guard wanting to see me today. This was the best I could get from the cafeteria on such short notice.” Daphne took another bite of her sandwich, then put it down, stretching out on her bed. “I was at a produce market today, too. If I’d known you were coming, I would have gotten you some apples. Green, right? Justin says you like the green ones.”

A lopsided smile was Brian’s answer, as the exec attempted with little success to rearrange himself on the narrow bed opposite Daphne’s. It had been quite awhile since he’d been inside a dormitory room – and a girl’s room at that – but looking around at the closet-like space that passed for living quarters for a good many students at Carnegie-Mellon University, Brian harkened back to his loft-like rooms at Penn State, which at the time had seemed – and sometimes smelled – like a sardine can, but seemed miles wider than the shoebox Daphne was living in. “You should have let me take you out somewhere. There’s plenty of places around that serve food that actually resembles something found in nature.”

“Don’t be such a snob.” Daphne rolled her eyes, and grabbed a potato chip from a nearby open bag. “People come from all over just to get a frankenburger. It’s more popular than the fries at the Big O. Or the cake donuts at Giant Eagle. . .”

The exec eyed the girl in barely concealed amusement. Daphne knew as much about – and ate almost as much – food as her blond comrade-in-arms. And like Justin, Daphne was unashamed of it . . . and unaffected by it, judging by her lithe form. Must be something in that suburban water. “So . . . you’ve talked to our mutual friend lately?” Brian asked lightly, placing his sandwich out of temptation’s grasp. It did look kind of good, and he was hungry, but he would not undo an hour at the gym and twice that amount of time spent listening to Mikey whine for something that looked like it might congeal at boiling temperatures.

“Hello, yes I’ve talked to him. I saw him today. That is why you called me, isn’t it?” Daphne folded her arms. “You want to know what he said to me about last night.”

“Last night?” Brian’s eyebrow moved the barest amount. “What about last night?”

“You and him. At Babylon.” The teen girl smiled a little. “He was absolutely floating the whole time he was telling me about it. Totally living in that moment. It must have been some dance.”

Brian found something interesting on the bedspread to focus his attention on, waiting until the flashes of Justin and him moving together, touching, being close, left his brain. After some moments, even after the memories died away, he looked up, sure of the frontage of calm on his face. “It was all right.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, what happened there that was so wild? What went on with you and Ethan?”

“Me and Ethan?” Brian shuddered at the memory of Ethan and Tall, Dark and Hung in the Backroom. Had the little fiddler come clean to Justin about it? If he had, then did Justin think that because he was in the backroom at the same time as Ethan that the two of them had . . . Brian shook his head. It was just too weird and scary to contemplate.

“There was no ‘me and Ethan.’ We barely crossed paths.” He glanced over at his food. It still looked mighty appetizing. Still smelled good. He inched farther away. “What the fuck did he say to you?”

“Nothing . . . but I assumed something happened with the three of you,” Daphne said with a shrug. “Justin was acting so weird today . . . and out of the blue, you call me. Why else would you call me wanting to meet instead of e-mailing me like you usually do when you want a ‘progress report’ on Justin?”

Brian took refuge in a smirk while he fished for a decent reply. There were pros and cons to using Daphne as his confederate in keeping ‘tabs’ on Justin – one of the main ‘cons’ was that the girl managed to make him aware of his covert actions every chance she got. While Brian was sure that Daphne enjoyed her role as something of a collegiate Mata Hari, he didn’t like being made to feel as if his attempts to keep apprised of the general goings-on in Justin’s life were something other than what it was – a business man protecting his investment. A happy, well-adjusted Sunshine was a Sunshine who would graduate PIFA with honors in four years, get a lucrative graphics design job at some huge firm, and start paying back every cent he’d borrowed for his education. Calling the girl spur of the moment for their impromptu lunch meeting, however, was something else. Brian had not been able to get Justin – or Ethan’s behavior – out of his head . . . and he needed to know what was happening with the two – again, in his own best interest. His own best interest. Brian’s upper lip twitched. That was all.

“Last time we . . . checked in, you said he everything was well in the Land of Sunshine. And that he’s not lying to me when he says he’s okay with money,” he said. “But he looked like shit yesterday. Tired. Pissed. I want to know what the hell’s changed.” He paused. “He said it was Ethan’s idea to go out to Babylon . . . that true?”

“True? Yeah, I guess. It’s weird, but that’s what Jus told me,” she replied. “I don’t think the plan was to go to Babylon though. I think that’s just where they happened to end up.”

“The Fiddler as social butterfly? How long’s this been going on?” Against his better judgment and more to occupy his hands than out of any real hunger, Brian opened the bag of chips that Daphne had so thoughtfully brought along with his sandwich, and took a few out. “Justin’s been putting pressure on him to put the book of sonnets away for a little while and embrace all facets of queerdom? Even the ones that require knee pads and dental dams?”

“Thanks a bunch for that visual.” Daphne pulled a face, pushing her food away. “Look, from what Justin told me and from what I know about Ethan, Justin didn’t push this. There have been so many parties I’ve invited Jus – both of them – to, and he’s always turned me down . . . said it wasn’t Ethan’s “thing” and he didn’t want to take him to places that would make him uncomfortable.” Daphne leaned forward. “A couple of weeks ago, me and a friend down the hall went out with those two for dinner. My friend used to spin at a club in Philly and she was talking about it, and Ethan went on this long rant about how ‘soulless’ and pointless clubbing was, and how you could find the most pathetic people in existence sweating away on the corner of some dance floor.” The girl rolled her eyes. “I haven’t gone out with the two of them since . . . Ethan is way too intense for my taste. Justin’s stayed out of the club scene after that. Him being out last night was just as surprising to me as Ethan being the one to take him there. Justin’s getting to be such a homebody now.”

Brian frowned, struggling not to let his confusion show. “Then what the fuck was last night about? The gentle Fiddler didn’t seem too uncomfortable.” He shuddered again, recalling the backroom incident.

“Yeah, well, he must have been. Why else would he just take off the way he did?”

The exec had been eyeing the sandwich again, but he looked up sharply at that. “What are you talking about?”

“Ethan bounced. Justin freaked out.” Daphne said simply, the crackling of the frankenburger wrapping punctuating her words. “Apparently, after the two of you danced . . .” she let the word hover in the air, her lips lifting into a small smile.

“That’s all it was.” Brian murmured, more to himself than to Daphne, conscious of a wellspring disappointment those words produced.

“He thinks Ethan saw the two of you together, got pissed and left.” Daphne frowned. “Jus said he looked all over the place and couldn’t find him.”

It really wasn’t funny, but a bark of laughter escaped the exec’s throat anyway. Of course Justin wouldn’t have deigned to look for his starry-eyed musician in the backroom. Why would he? The backroom was for depraved, romance-hating fags who wanted a quick hookup . . . which was, Brian mused, sobering some, exactly how Ethan had appeared. Recovering himself under Daphne’s suspicious gaze, Brian pressed his tongue into his cheek. “I doubt he looked everywhere.” A beat. “Babylon’s a big place. . .” He paused again, taking a few seconds to frame his next words. “Could be Ethan got a nice offer somewhere else and decided to check him out some place else.”

Daphne’s sputter of surprised laughter told the exec that he’d chosen his words wisely and that the concerns that had been nagging him were well-justified.

“You’re kidding right? There’s no way. They’re monogamous, totally. Justin says Ethan doesn’t even look at other guys. He said they might even --” she halted abruptly, her cheeks staining red.

Sensing trouble, Brian edged to the end of the bed. “What . . . they might . . .what?” He was very happy that he hadn’t eaten his meal, because the skittish look on Daphne’s face told him that whatever she was going to say might have invoked nausea.

“Okay . . . and this is a huge ‘maybe.’” Daphne said softly, her eyes flitting this way and that. “Um . . . but Jus told me that he and Ethan are thinking about getting . . . you know . . . tested.” She took a deep breath. “And if they come back clean, they might start . . . you know, doing it, without --”

Brian was on his feet before she could finish the sentence, the crimson haze looming in front of his eyes replaced by the image of Ethan and the hung stud. No. Fuck no. “What the fuck shit have you been feeding me all this time? And I’m not talking about this fucking food.” It was with a supreme effort that Brian didn’t put his fist through the nearest wall. “You tell me he’s fine, that everything's fine and hunky-fucking-dory. Now I find out he’s not only is he not fine, but he’s apparently lost his fucking mind, too–”

She gaped up at him. “Do not freak out on me. Justin told me not to freak out. He says it’s something all committed couples do . . . as long as they get tested and don’t fool around . . .”

.

Shit. Brian was aware that he was shaking, and he endeavored to calm himself down by degrees. Shit. Shit. Shit. Brian quickly went over his options: There wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d allow Justin to start fucking the Fiddler bare – not after what he’d seen of Ethan in the back room. But what the hell could he do? Tell Justin? That’d be rich . . . telling the boy who’d cheated on him that the twat he’d left him for was doing some extracurricular delving of his own. But would that be enough? Would Justin even believe him? He says I’m all he wants . . . he recalled those words . . . one side of a conversation that he’d been trying for six months to forget. Justin believed that, still. Or . . . he wanted to believe it still. Remembering the desperation evident in the blue eyes when Justin pushed him away at Babylon, Brian wondered if Justin might not know – or suspect, anyway – that he apparently was not all Ethan wanted anymore, and was doing what he could to reverse that. Was this what was pushing this “raw” plan? Justin trying to hold onto whatever it was he thought he had with Ethan? Brian rubbed the back of his neck in agitation. Shit. Since when have you thought you’ve needed to settle, Sunshine?

A knock at the door jolted him out of his thoughts. He glanced at Daphne, who put a finger to her lips and motioned for him to be quiet and sit still. Brian stood his ground, smirking at the girl. No way was he going to be distracted from his tirade. No fucking way –

The knock returned, followed by a voice. “Daph? It’s me. Open the door. I know you’re in there . . . I could smell the frankenburger from the hallway.” More knocking. “Daph? Come on . . . I need to talk to you . . .”

Barely registering Daphne’s sharp intake of breath, Brian stared at the closed door – a door upon the other side of which stood Justin. He glanced at his watch and shook his head slightly. Just when he thought the day couldn’t get more interesting . . .

Four

There were, so far as Brian could figure, two courses of action: A calm, rational response, which would entail meeting Justin at the door, or the pussy way out, which would require diving under a desk or closet somewhere. Brian knew which path he’d take – he was no coward, and he was willing and ready to face the blond head-on, no closets necessary. Besides, Daphne was an intelligent young woman . . . there’s no way she’d even suggest –

“Shit!” The girl grabbed at his jacket, dragging him away from the door. “Quick! You have to hide!”

– something so asinine. The ad exec rolled his eyes. Well fuck that theory. As he was pulled, Brian felt a keen sympathy for Daphne. The poor girl was so used to dressing like the heroines on those WB network “dramas” that obviously she thought she was living in one, if she thought he was going to scrunch under a chair in his best Brooks Brothers suit.

“This isn’t the type of hide-and-seek I usually go in for.” He shook off her arm. “Let him in.”

“Are you nuts?” she demanded in a fierce whisper. “If he sees you here, he’ll freak. He won’t tell me anything, and your little information well dries up.”

“Relax,” Brian spoke in a low, steady voice. His heartbeat had sped up considerably, but he just managed to maintain a placid expression. Gently placing his hands on Daphne’s shoulders, Brian steered her back to the bed. “Sit. Don’t say anything. I’ll handle it.”

“You? But –”

“Quiet.” Brian’s gaze shot to the door. The knocking had stopped, which perturbed the ad exec greatly. Justin couldn’t have left yet. Brian wanted to see the blond, needed to see him . . . see if he was all right, whole, if those shadows he’d seen beneath the blue eyes the night before had gone away yet –

Daphne’s low, panicked voice cut into his thoughts. “Maybe he’ll go away if we –”

“No.” Brian motioned for quiet as he went to the bed on which he’d been sitting. Opening his briefcase, he removed a set of papers, dumping them without preamble into Daphne’s lap. “Read these. Then feel free to contribute to the scintillating conversation I’m sure Sonnyboy and I will be having.”

She looked down at her lap then up at Brian, confusion knitting her brows together. “What are these? Wait –”

“Reading’s fundamental, Daphne. So get to it.” Brian moved to the door, walking as unhurriedly as his unease would allow. Reaching the door, he hesitated for a moment, noting the rustling of papers behind him. Silently blessing Daphne’s cooperation, he grabbed the handle, struggling with the lock a moment, and flung the door open –

– And stumbled when Justin, who’d been standing with his ear pressed against the door, fell into him, sending them both crashing to the floor.

It was just as well that the fall rendered him knocked the wind out of him somewhat, because Brian didn’t think he’d have been able to say much anyway. Stunned hazel eyes bored into shocked blue ones for several moments as Justin lay heavily atop Brian, one arm flung across the exec’s chest, and the teen’s mouth was so near his that the exec could feel Justin’s breath puffing against his lips.

“Brian . . . ?” Justin’s mouth fell open. “What the fuck . . .?”

“Eavesdropping, Sunshine?” Brian, confident that neither he nor Justin sustained injury in the fall, slipped into smirk mode and adopted a tone of mock outrage. “Where are those WASP manners of yours? The least you could do is do it in style. A good country club clone would have listened at the lock – or peeked through the keyhole.” Brian's tongue darted out, wetting his own cracked lips, and his body tensed when he saw Justin glance down at his mouth. That the teen had made no attempt to move away did not escape Brian’s notice, nor did the curious, almost longing stare Justin was directing at his mouth.

I could kiss him right now. The thought ribboned through Brian’s mind, wrapping itself tightly around his brain. Wouldn't take much. All I have to do is bring my head up a little . . .

Brian moved his head up slightly, half-expecting Justin to roll away or push him back down to the floor, or do something to keep their lips from meeting. The exec was more than a little surprised when Justin lowered his head in response, closing his eyes as he did so, lips parted and trembling slightly. Brian kept his eyes open as he moved to close the scant distance between their mouths.

Their lips met gently, in what initially seemed a platonic peck, but any pretense of friendliness flew out the window when Justin slipped his tongue between Brian’s lips. The brunette could feel his suit pants wrinkling as Justin rubbed against them, and the older man began to shift downward to bring their hips into alignment, in an attempt to gauge just how much Justin was enjoying the kiss. If the teen’s enjoyment was anywhere near his own, Brian thought as he felt a stirring at his crotch, they just might have to ask Daphne to leave the room for a minute –

“Oh my god!” An excited squeal cut through the happy haze in which Brian was immersed. “Ya’ll gotta see this! There, are, like, two guys making out right on Daphne's floor!”

The words were closely followed by a rush of footsteps and a drift of animated voices. Justin’s head snapped up and around, and Brian suddenly found himself staring at the back of a blond head. Craning his neck, Brian saw a group of young women clustered around the doorway, staring at them in an almost reverential manner.

Justin scrambled to his feet with a curse, and Brian rose slowly, straightening his clothes in languid, deliberate motions, smiling sweetly at the crowd. A lifelong Pittsburgher, Brian had long known Carnegie-Mellon’s reputation for being the dullest, socially speaking, among the city’s colleges, and Brian would have bet a week’s worth of lattes that his and Justin’s little display would likely be the best entertainment any of the assembled crowd would see all year.

A tangle of voices buzzed around them, now and then a full sentence filtering through: “I think the blond’s in my bio class . . . I heard he has a Prince Albert piercing. . .” “Wait – aren’t those the guys who got kicked out Sig Tau ‘cause they were fucking at the alumni picnic?” “Hey . . . aren’t you guys on the lacrosse team?”

Justin’s brows rose, and Brian grinned. So maybe Carnegie-Mellon wasn’t the lackluster place he’d imagined after all. Brian leaned close to the artist, hooking an arm around Justin’s shoulders.

“You know, Sonnyboy, if we wanted to really give them a show . . .” Brian began with a suggestive eyebrow waggle, when a loud sigh and a tug at his elbow curtailed his words. Brian looked round to see a very perturbed Daphne peering out at the crowd from over his shoulder.

“Will you two get in here before I get written up for causing a riot?” Daphne grabbed both men by the sleeve and pulled them both into the room before facing the throng. “All right, this show’s over. What are you guys doing out here anyway? Bold and the Beautiful is on.”

The crowd sounded a collective groan of disappointment. “Who cares about Brooke and Ridge with his stupid toupee?” someone yelled from the back of the crowd. “Let them back out! They’re hot!”

“Get lives.” Daphne muttered, closing the door. “Rent a video or something.”

“Oh god . . . she’s gonna do them both!” A voice shrilled from the middle of the crowd. “Go, Daphne!” A few took up the chant of “Orgy! Orgy!” while several others talked excitedly into their cellphones, and still others volunteered to find video cameras.

The crowd went completely silent when a thin girl with pigtails and wire-rim glasses pushed forward, wedging herself in the shutting door. “Daphne, I let you copy my psych notes and I didn’t complain when you and Teri played Jay-Z until 4 a.m. last night. The least you can do is let us watch –”

“Yeah, yeah, and having three cases of Chivas and smoking pot in your dorm is so in CMU’s housing codes of conduct. Bye!” Daphne gently pushed the girl out of the way and shut the door, locking it tight. Looking out of the peephole for a few moments, Daphne rapped hard on the door. “Go away . . . you’re not gonna hear anything, so stop wasting your time! Besides – this is the week Clarke is supposed to poison Massimo’s puttanesca, but Macy eats it instead. She could die – again.” On the other side of the door, a shriek was heard, and the low rumble of footsteps marked the girls’ retreat.

“Well, on the bright side, you guys have probably gotten me on the invite list for every dorm party for the rest of the year.” Daphne turned and sighed, raising an eyebrow at her best friend. “Jus, what are you doing here?”

“Me? What the fuck is he doing here?” Justin’s sudden vehemence startled Daphne and Brian both, though the exec quickly hid his surprise under a lazy smile. “This is a girl’s dorm, Brian. If you’re looking for hot, young ass, go across the courtyard to Boss House. Try the fourth floor – guys there are hung like Clydesdales.”

Daphne’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? Um . . . are you sure they’re all gay?”

Brian wrestled hard with the desire to ask Justin if his knowledge of the Boss House boys’ attributes was first-hand or word of . . . mouth. “Calm down, Sonnyboy. We don’t want to get Daphne in any more trouble, do we?” He looked over at the girl. “How long ‘til your resident advisor hears the news and comes down here to kick us out?”

“I wouldn’t worry. The girl who wanted to watch you was my R.A.” Daphne turned back to the blond. “Justin, I’m serious. Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be in class or something?”

“No,” Brian and Justin answered at once. Brian flushed lightly when Justin and Daphne stared at him. “Not until four, right, Sunshine? The Human Form – lab and lecture.” Brian remembered Justin raving about the course, which met late Thursday afternoons only. Justin had often said his hand didn’t get tired as much while drawing during that class, and the professor apparently admired the blond’s ability to draw a realistic penis.

Brian’s easy smile faltered when Justin’s face paled to the color of buttermilk. For a tense moment, Brian was sure the blond was going to keel over right onto Daphne’s tie-die rug. In an instant, however, color rushed into the blond’s face, and the blue eyes narrowed into fierce little slits, the teen’s gaze as sharp and cold as barbed wire.

“I need to talk to Daphne.” The steel in Justin’s voice made Brian’s stomach clench. “Alone. Could you please get the fuck out?”

“Excuse me, but last time I checked, my name was on the door.” Daphne crossed her arms, her tone brooking no argument. “That means I get to decide who stays and who goes. Brian and I were talking about something important –”

“Important?” Justin’s mouth fell open. “What the hell important could you have to talk to Brian about? You don’t even know him.”

“Well then I guess that’s another thing you and I have in common, ‘cause neither do you, apparently.” Daphne glared at the blond. “You are so clueless, it’s beyond funny – it’s a damn stand-up routine.”

It was then Brian’s turn to go pale as Justin looked from his face to Daphne’s, uncertainty etching faint lines in his forehead. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s really none of your business Justin, and Brian didn’t want me to say anything, but I’m tired of this.” She turned her attention to Brian. “There’s no reason he shouldn’t know, and maybe it’ll make him drop the high and mighty act for awhile. I was going to tell him anyway, I just didn’t expect you to be here when I did.”

Fuck. No . . . no . . . she wouldn’t. She fucking would not sell me out. “Daphne . . .” Brian’s voice was low, ominous with just a hint of disquiet. Obviously, he was still not Justin’s favorite person, despite brief displays from the teen that seemed to suggest otherwise, and if he was to find out what had been bothering Justin lately, he was going to need to keep his information source – namely Daphne – available. If she were to tell him now –

“Brian called me this morning,” Daphne spoke softly to her best friend, “not long after I dropped you off at PIFA. He said he needed to talk to me right away . . .”

– it would screw everything to hell. I’m fucked. Brian massaged the bridge of his nose, Daphne’s voice becoming white noise buzzing in his ears. Despite everything, Brian had to acknowledge a certain macabre humor in the situation, and he was sure he would have laughed, if he could have gotten his face to cooperate. What the hell had he been thinking, trying to keep an eye on Justin from afar? It was over – they were finished. Justin didn’t need his protection any longer. And now the scheme, and Brian’s heart, were about to be laid bare, and absolutely nothing would come of it, because Justin was so very much in love with the Fiddler.

Or . . . was he? Brian’s lips buzzed in remembrance of their kiss. Brief as it had been, the passion had been evident, and it wasn’t as if he’d forced himself on the blond, and Justin hadn’t exactly made any move to get away. Not that Brian had any thoughts of complaining, but . . .

“. . . and then you come knocking, so of course it was a surprise.” Daphne was saying. “I even wanted Brian to hide in the closet, because I knew you’d totally flip out. But Brian wouldn’t do it. He was going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you’d be adult about seeing him here. And instead, you’re acting like an immature freak. What is your deal?”

“Well you could have said something before now,” Justin mumbled. “Jesus, Daph, we’re supposed to be best friends!”

“Tell you for what? So you could bitch me out over the phone?” Daphne retorted. “Oh that would have been fun . . . waste the last Anytime Minutes I have for this month on listening to you scream at me.”

“I would not have screamed at you! Fuck! Why would you even say that?”

“Hello . . . what do you call what you’re doing now? I call it screaming!”

“I’m not! I just can’t hear myself fucking talk because somebody’s blasting fucking Death Cab down the hall!”

“Oh, please . . . you can barely hear it. And it’s Sugarcult, not Death Cab. As much clubbing as you used to do, you should know the difference!”

“Well, whatever it is sucks ass –”

“Enough.” Brian stepped between the two, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead, which was beginning to throb. “Both of you shut the fuck up. This is the last thing I need – teen angst turned up to its highest decibel.” He traced the inside of his cheek with his tongue as both teens quieted down and stared at him, Daphne in expectation and Justin in restrained hostility. “Better. Now you,” he looked at Justin, “don’t scream at her, though you’re right, whatever that music is does blow.” He grimaced at the muffled thumping filtering through the door. “And you,” he turned to Daphne, “give him a break. How’d you expect him to act? Happy to see me?” Brian cringed at how fucking wounded he sounded, but part of him still could not get over how Justin could run so hot and cold with him so easily. Just like the night before – one minute, all was well, the next, all had gone to shit.

“Look, I’m sorry okay? I didn’t know.” Justin’s shoulders sagged, and he looked away. “My stupid problems can wait.”

Problems? Brian’s eyebrow climbed near to his hairline. He was itching to pounce on that – and the boy . . . whatever it took to make Justin spill his guts about what was wrong – but the exec kept his tongue and the rest of his body in check, albeit with reluctance. “Daphne and I are done, Sunshine.” He gave the girl a significant look and was confused at her blank expression. “You two talk to your hearts content.” Brian was half hopeful that Justin’s knowledge of the situation between himself and Daphne would not prevent the teen from confiding in his best friend – the boy didn’t have many others to turn to – certainly no one his age. “Thanks for the help, Daphne. It was appreciated.”

He smiled wanly as he startened to fasten his jacket, hoping to convey to her that he meant it. Even if all of it was out in the open, her updates had been invaluable over the past half-year . . . she’d gone behind her friend’s back for him, risking a friendship that had spanned as many years as his and Mikey’s. Brian remembered how miserable he’d been when he and Mikey were on the outs a couple of years back, and he would not have wished that situation on anyone. Yet Daphne had done it – put Justin’s trust in her on the line to keep him informed, all because she was in the minority of people who believed that he and the teen were two halves of some wonderful, queer love story. Brian had a vague suspicion that if they’d kept on as they were, Daphne just might have worked on getting him to believe it, too . . . and Daphne could be quite persuasive when she wanted to be.

“Why are you thanking her?” Justin’s question stopped him in mid-button. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

What? Brian looked up with a slight frown. “What do you mean, Sonnyboy? Thanking me for what?” Nearly losing your friendship? Having half the dorm think she’s banging both of us? “I’m still kind of surprised she hasn’t tossed me out on my ass.”

Brian smirked at the young woman, but stopped quickly when he saw the blank look on her face change to one of alarm. “Brian . . . um . . . what are you talking about? Of course I should be thanking you.” Daphne said slowly. “I mean, I know I haven’t gotten the job yet, but if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even know about it.”

Job? What the fuck . . . Brian ran his fingers through his hair, checking for lumps . . . maybe he had hit his head after all in the fall, because nothing anyone was saying was making any sense. “Excuse me?”

“You know . . . the job. The internship. The one you came over here to talk to me about.” She gaped at him. “Brian . . . did you hear anything I said to him?”

The older man blinked twice. He’d blocked out their conversation, thinking he’d known what Daphne was going to say. Perhaps he should have paid attention after all.

Fuck . . . okay . . . now what? Brian’s jaw clenched as the pounding coming from the hallway and the pounding in his head intensified, and he grasped gratefully at a plausible excuse. “Who can hear a fucking thing through that piss-ass music down the hall . . .”

“See? I told you!” Justin crowed, grinning at his friend. “I wasn’t screaming – you can barely hear yourself think with that shit on. I’d complain to Housing if I were you, Daph.”

“Shut up.” Daphne’s eyes never left Brian’s face. “I was telling Justin about these.” She held up a stack of papers. “And how you were nice enough to come by because I don’t have a fax, and you can’t email these . . . and the deadline’s Monday. That’s why you’re here.”

Brian eyed the papers for a moment, before it hit him – the papers he’d dumped in Daphne’s lap when he went to confront Justin. She had read them. The fax and accompanying materials he’d gotten that morning from a contact at CNN about an opening for a summer production intern was the “other matter” he’d mentioned to Daphne when they were on the phone that morning.

It was a summer job right up the girl’s alley and served a convenient cover story for his appearance at the girl’s dorm room. After his impromptu liplock with the blond, Brian had all but forgotten all about it, and he hadn’t thought she would have had time enough to read through the stack of information, yet she had done so, at least well enough to have Justin buy the story. That’s why he calmed down . . . he thinks I’m doing Daphne the favor.

This time, he did laugh; It was just too perfect – he’d been adamant about doing whatever it took to ensure his visits to Daphne secret, and he’d nearly blown all his careful planning just by tuning out of a 2-minute conversation. He should have known that if Daphne had told Justin his true errand there, the blond would have been screaming loudly enough for all of Oakland to hear.

“Jus knows I’ve sent resumes out to every news station I could think of trying to get something for the summer. Nothing’s happening.” Daphne dropped down on her bed, just narrowly missing sitting on her lunch. “This would totally rock if it comes through. Otherwise, it’ll be back to the CD store – or worse – when school’s out in May.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.” Brian shrugged and felt the tension in his head and neck dissipate. “I wouldn’t have bothered if I didn’t think you’d be a good fit. And it beats flipping burgers all summer.”

“So you think I actually have a shot at getting it?” Daphne’s voice rose above the music. “I mean, it’s CNN, and I’m a freshman. Even WQED-Pitt will only take juniors and seniors, and they’re about as crappy as it gets.”

Brian’s smile was fleeting. “Send your stuff to them by Monday. I’ll give Tim a call to make sure he got it . . . and to put in a good word.” Tim Hymand, CNN Production Manager and an old college drinking buddy, owed him a favor or two, and Brian felt this was the perfect time to call one in. Daphne more than deserved the opportunity, though with her little performance, Brian mused, the teen girl might be more suited for a career in front of a camera rather than behind one.

He nodded slightly in response to Daphne’s questioning look, and smiled when the young woman beamed in understanding that it was a real offer. Brian knew this didn’t even come close to repaying the girl for her help in keeping him informed about all things Justin-related – and for saving his ass that day – but it was a start.

“What about you, Sonnyboy?” Brian turned to his ex-lover, who was eyeing his uneaten frankenburger with a predatory stare. “You starting to line up something for the summer?”

“Brian, it’s January. I don’t even know what my schedule’s gonna be like in March; I’m hardly thinking about June.” Justin spared him a brief glance. “Besides, art students aren’t like broadcast journalism majors, or business majors or advertising majors. We don’t want to spend two months cooped up in a box getting coffee and people’s dry cleaning. Uh, no offense, Daph.” He smiled an apology, snatching her bag of potato chips. “At least you’ll get to do it in Atlanta – but still, an artist needs space to create . . .”

“I might buy that if you hadn’t sent resumes to the Met, the Museum of Contemporary art in Chicago, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the Smithsonian and the Warhol Museum.” Daphne chucked the blond on the shoulder. “And I’m so sure those internships don’t involve getting coffee or picking up people’s lunches.”

“That’s a pretty decent slate, Sunshine. I’m impressed.” Brian could picture Justin in shirt sleeves and Dockers, black portfolio slung over his shoulder, sauntering down Fifth Avenue or East Chicago Avenue, or the Ben Franklin Parkway on his way to work – the picture of a young, up and coming artiste. “Got a preference? I’d go with New York on reputation, hook-up opportunities and the nightlife alone, but they say Philly is becoming the new New York, and the subway’s got air-conditioning . . .”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Justin’s gaze went to the floor. “Unless the Warhol Museum takes me, I’m staying in Pittsburgh. Maybe I’ll take a class or something, but I’ll be pulling doubles at the diner. I’m serious about wanting to go to the White Party this year.”

“Justin, what are you talking about? You were jazzed about getting out of here for the summer.” Daphne snatched the chips back, hiding them behind her back. “And after those recommendations your profs gave you . . . didn’t they say you’d have your pick?”

“Well, plans change. Mine have anyway. I’m staying here.” Justin said quietly. “Maybe the Warhol thing will come through. They don’t pay much, and some of it is gofer work, but I’d get to coordinate some workshops, maybe help teach a couple of enrichment classes. It’s less art stuff than I’d be doing at the Met or in Philly, but it’s something.”

“But, Jus, I thought –”

The exec gave a not-so-discreet cough and shook his head curtly at Daphne. Justin’s drooping posture and his continual focus on the floor did not bode well for a nice, open discussion – at least not while he was still in the room. Which was, Brian supposed, his cue to leave. Justin had spoken about having problems, the extent of which Brian was sure he’d learn from Daphne. Later. Right now, the teen needed to talk to someone Justin was sure cared about him, would listen to him. And that person wouldn’t be me, huh, Sunshine? Brian shoved his hands into his pockets, fingering the change within.

And not Ethan either, apparently. The exec mulled the whereabouts of the Romantic Fiddler in his boyfriend’s time of need. Why was Justin running to Daphne? Why not tell his troubles to his serenading, picnicking, eminently sentimental jet-haired Romeo? The exec thought back to the night before; more than likely the musician had confessed his backroom sins to the blond and Justin wanted to vent to his best friend. Perfectly understandable. Brian remembered Daphne’s telling him that Justin had seemed preoccupied that morning – not necessarily angry, which seemed to suggest that Ethan had come clean to Justin sometime within the past few hours.

Brian considered the poetic irony of it all – Justin, whom the gentle Fiddler had assured was “all he wanted,” was likely now gagging on the trite line he’d swallowed hook, line and sinker. Brian was mindful that under different circumstances – and with a different person involved – the situation would have had him chortling with glee, and maybe . . . maybe some small, dark part of him was snickering a little at the turn of events. But the overriding emotion was anger – anger that Justin had been so cruelly fooled, that he’d put his trust in someone only to get hurt again. Brian wondered if now Justin would be a little bit more suspicious of words and their alleged meanings and magical properties . . . and maybe, too, the teen would forget about wanting to fuck the Fiddler without protection. While the thought of Justin coming to his senses there gave the ad exec some peace of mind, it didn’t squelch his burgeoning desire to feed Ethan his violin, piece by piece – rectally – for hurting the blond.

“Gotta go, kiddies. Back to the grind for me.” Brian stared at the lowered blond head, conscious of a desire to ruffle the sunny strands into disarray. Justin was growing his hair out, it seemed. It was a good look on him. Damned good. The exec swallowed hard, his groin pulsing. At that moment, he was grateful that he’d put his coat on.

“’Bye, Daphne.” Brian crossed the room and dropped a gentle peck on the girl’s cheek. “Let him talk; but don’t let him wallow,” he murmured in her ear. “We’ll talk later; sooner, if there’s a problem.”

Her nod was almost imperceptible. Satisfied that he and the girl were still on the same page and their “secret” was safe for now, Brian’s gaze flitted over to Justin. “Later, Sunshine.”

Brian watched the blond bite his lower lip once, twice, three times before he looked up at him, eyes dull beneath lowered lashes. “Later, Bri.”

Justin’s voice was low, resigned, carrying clearly to Brian through the pulsing music and over the sound of Brian’s heart throbbing in his ears. The exec gazed at him for some moments before walking out the door, shutting the door quietly behind him. Brian stood there for a minute, hands deep in his pockets, staring at nothing in particular. Through the solid wood door, Brian could still feel Justin’s eyes on him, could hear that soft desperation in his tone. Just that one word – that ‘later’ – resonated like a plea. Maybe that’s what the dance the night before had been, the kiss earlier the same – Justin’s way of calling for help, angling for a rescue – from something or someone. Brian wasn’t sure what or who that might be, and the lack of knowledge frustrated him as much – if not more – than the fear that there was nothing he could do even if he did know.

~*~

“Jus, you can move now. He’s gone.”

Justin did move then – his eyes, at least. Or, rather, his eyelids, as he stood in the middle of Daphne’s room blinking rapidly at the closed door. The blond heard the footfalls sounding Brian’s departure, and on their heels came the emptiness, the feeling of being incomplete. And with that came the shame, the guilt. He already was complete . . . Ethan completed him . . . they completed each other. That was what a relationship was supposed to be – what their relationship was supposed to be. What he’d wanted. What he’d needed. What he’d left Brian for.

Justin blinked at the door, licking his lower lip. He could still taste Brian – a heady combination of coffee, cigarettes, and, oddly, barbecue potato chips, would be on his lips and tongue for the rest of the day, if not longer. Justin’s tongue curled at the memory of exploring Brian’s mouth, gliding past smooth teeth into the warm slickness, sating itself on the mingled flavors within . . . god, Brian had tasted so good –

“Justin, sit down. You’re creeping me out just standing there like that.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Justin sank onto the bed opposite the girl, shifting his gaze away from the door when he was relatively sure that the exec was no longer in the vicinity. Eyes settled on the bed, frankenburger still half-wrapped. “I knew I smelled frankenburger. Why’s it on Teri’s bed?”

“That was for Brian. I thought as long as he was here, might as well feed him.” Daphne shook her head. “He wouldn’t go near it. Is he always such a prima about what he eats?”

“Daphne . . . you’re talking about a guy who keeps guava juice and wheat grass in his refrigerator.” Justin’s fingers poked at the frankenburger bun, displacing a few of the sesame seeds. “A frankenburger has, like, his 10-year quota of fat in it.”

“Yeah, like he’s gotta worry about blimping out. Didn’t you say he goes to the gym almost every day? For a couple of hours? Weirdo.” Daphne rolled her eyes. “Anyway, you can have it if you want; it’s still warm, and he barely touched it.” She smiled suddenly when he snatched the sandwich. “Well, actually, he did touch it a little. I think he may have even breathed on it . . .”

“Fuck off, Daph.” Justin glared at her as best as he could over the oozing sandwich, taking a vicious bite for emphasis. He expected her to roll her eyes at him or give one of her patented smug looks, but the girl simply stared at him quietly, studying him, it seemed. “Mmmf? Wha . . .” He attempted around a mouthful of chili. He swallowed hard, and tried again. “What?”

“You kissed him.” Her voice was quiet, no hint of teasing or mockery. Just a simple statement and a slight movement of her head, and the hint of a smile.

Justin blushed to the roots of his hair. “I fell. It was . . . it was an accident.” His lips thrummed like a polygraph machine, buzzing in high gear at the lie.

“Oh, right . . . you fell . . . First, you were listening at my door –”

“I knew you were in here! I wanted to see why you weren’t answering. I thought maybe you had the television on or something –”

“–And your lips just happened to hit his to break the fall?” Daphne’s expression was serious but her tone had lightened some. “C’mon Justin . . . it’s me, all right? I know. And now, I have witnesses.” She waved toward the door. “My whole damn floor saw how gone you two are on each other.”

Appetite dwindling, Justin put the sandwich down. He tensed remembering the door swinging open and his falling onto the last person he’d expected to find there. Saw in his mind’s eye their tumble to the floor, their gazing at each other. Brian saying something . . . something . . . Justin couldn’t remember what it was exactly; he’d been so focused on maintaining control. And, of course, all thoughts of that had fled from his mind the moment he looked at Brian’s mouth . . . saw the flushed lips and Brian licking them . . . Kissing the exec had just seemed like the thing to do. Justin couldn’t remember the thought processes that had led him to that decision, or if there had even been any thought processes. They were on the floor, and he was on top of the older man, and he could feel him, smell him, see him, hear him . . . tasting just seemed like natural progression of things, just another way to prove to himself that what he was seeing was real. Brian was really there in front of him . . .

“Daph, don’t . . .” Justin whispered. “I can’t deal with that right now. Yeah, I kissed him. We . . . kissed. It was what it was . . .” Natural. Natural for me to want to . . . for us to do it . . . Brian and me . . . it felt . . . natural. Right. His stomach began to churn. “Think what you want. I didn’t come here to –”

“Okay, okay. It’s dropped.” Implicit in her tone was that the topic would be picked up at a later time. “Why are you here, really? I thought you and Ethan would be on your second bottle of wine by now?”

He sighed heavily, feeling the confusion and anxiety well up again. “Yeah, well, I – hey . . .” He glanced up sharply. “Wait – I thought you thought I was supposed to be in class.”

“Yeah, like I was going to talk up your romantic picnic routine with Brian standing right here.” She gave him an odd look. “I don’t think any of us wanted to go there.”

“Like he’d care what I do with Ethan,” Justin muttered, tracing lazy circles on the bedspread. “We’re talking about Brian Kinney, remember?”

“Yeah, I know who we’re talking about.” Something in Daphne’s voice made Justin look up again, and he caught a glimmer of sadness in the girl’s eyes, a fleeting glimpse that disappeared when she next blinked her eyes. “Anyway, what happened with Ethan? Did you two fight or something?”

He stared at her a moment longer, resigning himself to the reality that his being gay did not necessarily mean he understood women better than the average straight guy. “Fighting would have required me seeing him. Or talking to him. Neither of which happened.”

“But the picnic?” Her expression was one of confusion mixed with concern. “What happened to that?”

“It’s in my studio . . . drawing flies . . . or worse.” He shuddered minutely. “Daph . . . he never showed. He . . . went out with some people from his string ensemble . . . and he never said anything to me. I haven’t seen or talked to him since yesterday.”

“He stood you up?” Her eyes widened at Justin’s hesitant nod, and she rose swiftly from the bed. “Shit! Well . . . now I know why you came over: you wanna borrow Teri’s new Tims so you can put a boot up his ass! Here, let me get them for you –”

“Don’t get weird on me, Daph, this is serious.” Slightly taken aback by Daphne's anger, he stood, too. “This is my fault –”

“Your . . .” She gawked in disbelief. “Justin, how can you say –”

“He saw me with Brian – I know he did.” Justin's eyes went to the floor, as if searching for something he dropped. “A month after I moved out of the loft, Ethan told me that he’d understand if I wanted to go out more . . . if I wanted to do some of the things I used to do before we . . . met. Just as long as if didn’t involve Brian.” His tongue snaked unconsciously out to his lips again, tracing the path Brian’s mouth had taken. “And I screwed it up . . . I fucked everything up. He saw –”

“Justin, stop it.” She laid a hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. “Don’t, okay? First off, it was not your idea to go to Babylon or any other place last night. You wanted to stay home – he’s the one who pushed the issue. Two, you told him Babylon was a sucky idea . . . and he knows Babylon is Brian’s hang-out spot, and that more than likely, you two might run into him there.” She took a breath. “And three, even if dancing with Brian was out of bounds, which, okay, I guess I could see being angry at watching your boyfriend bump and grind with his ex, you don’t just turn and run away like some spoiled brat. He should have stepped to you both and asked what was going on. You said Michael interrupted you and was all pissed off, and he’s not even Brian’s boyfriend – ”

“Trust me – that has never stopped him from butting in before.” Justin muttered darkly.

“Well, whatever. Ethan is your boyfriend. If he had a problem with you dancing with Brian, he should have come to you like a man and said so. Instead, he just left you there . . . and after ditching you to dance with another guy.” She stared hard at him. “Or did you forget that? You should be kicking his balls in for that alone.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t even know the guy. He just danced with him, and it was over . . . they probably didn’t even look at each other afterward.” The blond winced at the memory of Ethan’s smug smile as he disappeared into the crowd with the tall, dark man. “I danced with Brian – Brian. We have a history. And now . . . now I’ve . . . we’ve . . .” Justin dragged his thumb over his lips in a rendition of the whisper-soft pressure of the exec’s lips on his. Brian murmuring in his ear . . . Brian talking to him . . . talking to them both . . . visiting Daphne . . .

“Shit. Daphne . . . he remembered . . .” The artist whispered, the color draining from his face. “He remembered the classes I have, and the times, and the names . . . he remembered your major . . . and he thought of you when that internship thing came up.” He looked guiltily at his friend. “Back before he and I split, I kinda asked him to keep an eye for anything like that for you. He has all sorts of connections that way, and I thought if anybody could dig something up, he could. He said he’d do it. And he remembered . . . and he’s giving it to you even though he and I aren’t together any more . . .”

“That should tell you right there the type of person Brian is.” Daphne cocked her head at him. “A guy who keeps his word, who doesn’t bail out on things even when other people expect him to. He’s never bullshitted you, Jus. Even when things were bad, he never just left you hanging . . . he was always honest with you, even about stuff you probably would rather have had him lie about –” She broke off with a frown. “And what is the deal anyway with those internships you applied to? I thought you said you already got a yes from Philly – what was that weirdness about . . . you just didn’t want Brian to know you’d be leaving town for the summer?”

“No . . . I’m not going,” Justin said, wandering over to the lone window in the room. “Ethan didn’t enter the Heifetz competition just so he could stay here . . . with me. The least I can do is be with him while he takes all his summer classes. He asked me to, and I promised him I would.”

“Jus . . . the Heifetz thing was Ethan’s decision – not yours. And you told him he should do it, ‘cause it’d be good for his career. He should be saying the same to you . . . what kind of boyfriend would want you to give up an opportunity to get experience and build connections like the ones you have for the summer.”

“Leave it alone, Daphne. I want to stay – Ethan’s not forcing me to. Besides, if Philly would take me, I’ve got a good chance at the Warhol museum, and then everyone’ll be happy.” He was barely aware of his own words, attention focused on a group of guys playing football in the quad, all of them shirtless even in the bitter wind of a Pittsburgh January. He was sure that they were cold – all of them were rubbing their hands along their bodies in attempts to keep warm, and occasionally, one would shrug and stare up at the sky as if mulling the wisdom of running around half-naked in subzero weather.

But Justin noticed that none of them were leaving the game. All of them were red-faced and shivering and aware that what they were doing was pretty idiotic, and possibly harmful to their health, but they were continuing on. They’d entered the game and they were going to finish it, no matter their misgivings, no matter the consequences. There had to be some reason why they were doing it – maybe a keg was riding on the outcome or the losers had to clean the dorm rooms of the winners . . . or maybe they just didn’t want to admit it had been a stupid idea in the first place.

Justin watched one of the players, a strapping blond with a beer gut and a bad haircut, blow on his hands, casting a longing look at a pile of jackets stacked under a tree before joining the other players with a reluctance that was noticeable even from where Justin was standing. Conceding defeat . . . some would rather die – if not literally, then figuratively – than to admit to carrying on with an incredibly stupid, reckless course of action . . .

Justin turned abruptly from the window. “Daph, I’ve gotta go.” He zipped his jacket to the chin and rushed toward the door. “I’ll call you later, okay? Or if you can, stop by the diner. I’m working until ten.”

“Wait, where are you going?” She trailed him to the door. “I thought you didn’t have class for a couple of hours.”

“I’m going to find Ethan.” Justin squared his shoulders, determination washing away the sour feeling in his stomach. Maybe he was blowing things out proportion, maybe Ethan had been coerced, or something, into going to the Hofbrau. Maybe he and his musician friends had musician things to talk about that could only be discussed over buffalo wings and Iron City on tap. There had to be a logical explanation . . . and Justin would be damned if he didn’t find out what it was.

“He’s at the Hofbrau, or at least he was . . . but you’re right. He owes me an explanation . . . and maybe I owe him one, too. Either way, we’re gonna straighten this out. We have to.” Justin blew out a breath, the sight of the shirtless football players flashing into his mind. “This is what I wanted . . .this relationship. Being with him.” And it has to work . . . I wanted it, so it’s got to work . . . I need to try harder.

Justin opened the door slowly, holding his breath as it swung open without incident. There was no one on the other side this time, no tall, honey-eyed advertising executive waiting to fall into him and render him insensible with just a kiss. Disappointment filtered through every bone of his body, as sharp and keen as a knee to the groin. Brian was gone.

“Daph.” Justin whirled toward her. “What if Ethan thinks that the only type of guy I can love is a guy like Brian?”

“What?” She hadn’t been expecting that, and her face reflected her surprise.

“What if . . . what if he thinks I can only be happy with a guy who likes to party, and who goes off with other guys? What if he thinks that I’m getting bored with him? Bored with the picnics and the serenades and the poems.” Justin’s voice became progressively lower, and he huddled in his jacket. Someone, he thought idly, must have opened a window or a door somewhere, because gooseflesh was raising along his arms and neck, and he felt uncomfortably cold. “What if Ethan thinks I’m thinking I made a mistake going with him?”

Daphne stared at him in silence for a minute, her expression thoroughly neutral. “Have you given him any reason to think that?”

I danced with Brian, and I liked it. It felt good. I kissed him, and I liked it. I wanted to. Justin gulped audibly, reddening under Daphne’s inquisitive eyes. I think about him . . . I . . . I . . . love –

“I never asked him, Daph.” Justin’s said softly, more to himself than the girl. “I have never said anything . . . never asked him to be anything other than what he was – is. He’s nothing like Brian – I know that. And he’s never going to be Brian, and I never asked him to – never expected him to be.” He spoke without looking at Daphne. “I don't know what the problem could be.”

Daphne stared at him a long moment. “I think you do know what the problem is, Jus,” Daphne said, a note of sadness coloring her voice. “And maybe Ethan's acting the way he is because now he knows what the problem is, too.”

Silence reigned, and Justin found he had no response as his oldest friend shook her head at him, much like an older sister to a younger sibling who just didn't get it, and quietly closed the door in his face.

To Be Continued....

Picture Perfect

(post-220 story) Justin and Brian are confronted with a physical reminder of prom. Incomplete.

One – Worth a Thousand Words

Walking into the cramped coffee shop located just off Carnegie-Mellon’s cloistered campus, Brian immediately felt claustrophobic. This little hole-in-the-wall place could hardly be called a “café” as the sign outside attested to, and if the air didn’t smell of caffeinated drinks, he would have doubted coffee was served on the premises, since he didn’t see any coffee-making equipment and the vapid-looking cashier behind the counter didn’t look as if he could boil water, let alone serve up lattes.

Brian’s scowl deepened as he stepped around the too-close-together tables, heading steadily toward the shadowy back area of the tiny café to where a lone figure sat in a booth, head bowed over something. A book, probably, or, more likely, a drawing.

The executive stopped momentarily when the figure looked up, transfixing him with clear blue eyes. Justin blinked, then smiled widely, which impelled Brian to continue. When Justin had called him at the loft, asking him to meet him at this dump, the executive hadn’t been sure what to do or think. He hadn’t had what he’d call a conversation with the boy since he took up with the Fiddler some months back, and he was the last person Brian expected to call him wanting to get together. But there was something in the manner in which the artist spoke that got Brian moving – some sort of urgency that came through loud and clear, even over the crappy connection of Justin’s cellphone. It was a tone that belied need. In fact, that’s what the boy had said: “Brian, I need to see you. Right away. I know you’re busy, but – it really can’t wait.”

Need. After nearly two months of being apart, Justin still needed something from him. That amazed Brian, as it had been his apparent inability to meet Justin’s needs that had sunk their relationship. Needs apparently the Fiddler could fill. Or maybe he couldn’t, Brian thought as he slid his sunglasses off his face and treated Justin to a smirk.

“This had better be good. And quick,” Brian said by way of greeting as he slid in opposite the blonde teen. “I’m double parked, got two projects I need to finish to present bright and early on Monday . . . so whatever this is about, I hope you can give me the condensed version. I don’t have all day.”

Justin’s smile wavered a little bit, and he stared at his former lover for a moment without speaking. Sighing heavily, he nodded. “Sure. Thanks for coming. I . . . appreciate it. I didn’t think . . . I thought maybe you wouldn’t.” He took a sip of something that looked too dark to be tea and too light to be coffee. “In fact, I was kinda shocked you didn’t tell me to fuck off when I called you. Or just hang up the phone.”

“Well, you caught me in something of a charitable mood,” Brian said, tongue in cheek. “And I’m curious, Sunshine. You said it was important.” He raised his eyebrows, and leaned closer. “If it’s about money . . .”

“No!” Justin’s face turned beet red. “I don’t want any more of your money, Brian. With all that you’re giving me for tuition and working at the diner, I get along just fine.”

“Okay, okay.” Brian’s voice was low, but inside his brain churned. He was sure that Justin was going to make an appeal for more cash; he’d even brought his checkbook along. He couldn’t imagine what else the boy could need from him. He’d already gotten all of his things from the loft, leaving the cavernous space emptier than Brian cared to admit either to himself or to anyone else. “So what’s the big emergency? Your mom doing okay?”

“She’s fine. So’s Molly. I think we’ve finally gotten used to living together again.” Justin grinned around a mouthful of whatever it was he was drinking. “It was a little touchy for a few weeks. My mom’s nowhere near as cool as Deb and Vic were about some stuff . . . but it’s working out all right.”

“Swell.” Brian pushed down the surge of pleasure he felt about the “stuff” Justin was undoubtedly talking about. He knew that Deb had allowed Justin to have tricks in his room up to a certain time, and he was sure Jennifer Taylor wouldn’t be so liberal, and that pleased him. But then, what use did Justin have of tricks? He was in loooove with the Fiddler. They were probably screwing like bunnies in the musician’s little hovel. “So, then, what’s up? And what the hell is that you’re drinking? I’m losing muscle tone just looking at it.”

“A double-dip hot chocolate,” Justin answered. “It’s this place’s specialty . . . it’s so good. The only reason to come here. I come here every time I come to visit Daphne.”

“Well, I wouldn’t think it’d be for the décor,” Brian said dryly. “I don’t suppose they have that in a nonfat version?”

“What would be the point?” Justin wiped away a whipped cream mustache. “Want some?” He held out his cup.

“I’ll pass.” Brian put on his “strictly business” face. “Now spill it, Sunshine. What’d you want to see me about?”

Justin took another deep draught of his drink, and behind the mug, Brian could see the teen’s face become serious, almost hesitant. Brian forced himself to appear unconcerned, even when he saw what appeared to be fear and hesitation appear in the boy’s blue eyes. It was comfortable being with Justin, he had to admit, and Brian found that he’d be content to talk with the boy for awhile and catch up on what was going on his life – aside from being with the Fiddler, of course. But he hadn’t been lying about having a shitload of work to do, and he had a feeling that the more he dithered with Justin, the harder it would be to leave. And they would have to leave each other at some point. Isn’t that what everyone had said back in the beginning of all this madness? And it had come true, too. Brian swallowed back the bitter taste in his mouth, and suddenly he wished he’d taken a sip of Justin’s fast-disappearing drink.

“It’s . . . um . . .” Justin toyed with his cup. “Uh . . . you sure you don’t want anything to drink? They’ve got lattes, mochas, ch—”

“Justin . . .” Brian’s voice carried a warning, and the boy immediately stopped fidgeting. He looked Brian full in the face, and the older man shivered under that intense stare, afraid suddenly of what the boy was going to say. He’d seen that look before, the night of the Rage party, in fact, just before the boy turned and walked out with the Fiddler. And now that look had made another appearance, but this time Brian had no mask handy to cover his distress.

Shit. I shouldn’t have come. I don’t need this right now. I didn’t need it then . . . but I definitely don’t need it now. “What is it?” Brian’s voice was a little harsh, and he cleared his throat, wondering how it got so tight all of a sudden.

Justin looked down then and pushed something across the table at Brian. The executive followed the movement, frowning down at what appeared to be a magazine, not a book or a sketchpad as he’d initially thought. “Um . . . it’s kind of funny,” Justin began in a low voice. “I had it all rehearsed . . . well, not rehearsed . . .but . . . I, uh, knew what I was going to say to you before you came. . . when you told me you’d come.” Justin raked his hand through his hair, and Brian noticed the boy wasn’t looking directly at him.

“I even ran what I was going to say by Daphne. That’s, uh, why I asked you to come here, by the way. I crashed at Daph’s dorm last night . . . her roommate’s out of town for the weekend.” Justin paused, then took a deep breath. “We talked all night – Daph and me. We were up at least ‘til five in the morning.” Justin took a noisy sip from his cup. “But I think it’d probably be better if you just look at this . . . ‘cause I can’t remember half the stuff I’d thought I’d say.” Justin pushed the magazine closer to the executive. “Just . . . look at it. And then you can . . . you can . . .” He faltered, and took refuge in staring into his coffee cup.

“I can . . .?” Brian raised an eyebrow, studying the pale face. “I can . . . what?”

“I don’t know. Leave. Go back to work.” Justin’s lower lip trembled, and he averted his eyes. “Or . . . we can talk –” Justin stopped abruptly, and squirmed on his seat. “Whatever. Just . . . just look at it, please. Maybe whatever I was gonna say will come back to me by the time you’re done.”

Brian was thankful that he’d had a few nice hits of E and some prime weed the night before at Babylon, otherwise he was sure he would have started screaming. Justin, his ex-whatever, had called him from out of the blue after two fucking months of virtually no contact, after making a fool out of him in front of friends and would-be hook-ups by sashaying out on the arm on a guy who looked like he could fry an egg in his hair, to read a magazine? A magazine?!

The executive glanced up at Justin, a biting, caustic comment on his lips, but the stricken, penitent look on the blonde’s face gave him pause. The blue eyes were darting all over the café, studiously avoiding looking at Brian.

Brian studied the boy for a few moments longer before shrugging slightly and casting his eyes downward at the table. Drawing the magazine closer, he let out a large sigh and flipped to the cover. Purple letters announced that he was reading PREEN – the cosmopolitan alternative for the alternative community. Great. Another fag rag – a glossy one, at that. “This is for queers? No dick . . . no ass. Not even simulated rimming. Gotta tell you Sonnyboy, I’m bored already.” He looked up at Justin who still wasn’t looking at him. Shrugging slightly, he flipped back to the page Justin had open and scanned the page. It seemed, on first glance, to be some sort of column. There was a picture of young-looking woman with green braided hair and horn-rimmed glasses grimacing at the camera. The caption below the . . . portrait introduced the reader to Teren Longner, the voice of the “Baby Dyke Community of Greater Pittsburgh.” Brian rolled his eyes. Kids today . . .

“You were reading this?” Brian raised the magazine. “Since when have you given a shit about the life of the Gen-X Muncher?”

Justin bit his lip, shrugging slightly. “I don't . . . didn’t. I mean, not really.” He paused. “Uh . . . Teren went to St. James. With me. And Daph. I always wondered about her . . . she totally started wearing flannel before it was the thing to do, and she’s always been freaky with her hair. There was this one time that she wore this huge orange Afro wig at the National Honors Society induction.” The teen’s smile was fleeting, and he cleared his throat. “Uh . . . she’s an intern for that magazine or something, and she’s a decent writer, so . . . uh . . . she’s coming out. That’s what this article’s about.” He tapped the page. “She talks about her family being totally queer-hating and how her dad’s this CEO of a huge company, and they have vacation homes in Palm Beach and on the Cape, but she’s living in this shithole and working third shift at some restaurant ‘cause they kicked her out after she told them she was a dyke. It’s really harsh. In a lot of ways, she had it a lot worse than I had it after I came out.” Justin went quiet again, thinking, no doubt about his past skirmishes with his parents – especially his father. “Daphne found this . . . and she came all the way to PIFA yesterday to show this to me. She actually barged into my mosaics lecture and dragged me out to show me this.” Justin traced circles on the page, biting his lip. “I thought Daphne was being a total freak . . . we didn’t even know Teren that well. I mean, we were all in NHS together, and we had some classes, but we never talked or anything. And even though she was a total weirdo, I never pegged her as a dyke.”

“I dunno, Sunshine – the only women I’ve seen willingly wear glasses like this have been munchers and Supreme Court justices. Not that there's really any difference.” Brian rested his chin in his hand, toying with the page. “So . . . if you don’t know this chick, what was getting Daphne’s panties wet about it? Busting into your class seems a little extreme. . .”

“That’s what I thought, too.” Justin took a deep breath, held it, blew it out, and took the magazine back. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard from a bunch of out queers every day at the student union. But Daph wanted me to see it because Teren talks about what made her come out to her folks.” Justin caught Brian’s gaze. “And Daph wanted me to see this . . .” The boy hesitated, and then flipped the page. Staring at it for a moment, he put the magazine gingerly on the tabletop and scooted it close to Brian, his eyes never leaving the executive’s face.

With a raised brow and a wry smirk, Brian glanced down at the page . . . and froze. There, in full color for all to see was him – was them – him and Justin at the boy’s senior prom. In the middle of the floor. Dancing. And staring into each other’s eyes, smiling, pressed close. Utterly lost in each other. Brian blinked, feeling his jaw practically graze the tabletop. He saw himself looking deeply into Justin’s eyes, smiling a smile he’d never thought himself capable of manufacturing . . . and Justin. Justin just looked . . . he looked radiant. Gazing at the picture, Brian was transported back to that night. He recalled it vividly – his fear upon entering that den of nubile breeders, the way the fear dissipated upon seeing Justin’s welcoming smile. The dance. Their dance. Brian’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the picture, which was taken, so far as Brian could figure, near the end of their waltz . . . right before they broke into their sensuous salsa-esque routine . . . right before their kiss . . . right before their “later” at the garage. Right before . . . before . . .

“Brian?” Justin’s voice was soft, pleading with him to look up, but Brian kept his gaze on the page, on the two men in the picture, both so blissfully happy, so blissfully . . . in love . . . so blissfully unaware of what was to come just moments later, when that world they’d created with their dance was shattered to pieces.

“Brian?” Justin tried again, softer this time. “You all right?”

The older man waited until he couldn’t quite hear his heart pounding in his ears to look up, steeling himself for the tears he knew he’d find in those crystal blue eyes. And the tears were there, but what caught him off guard, what shattered his already weakened resolve completely, was the anguish in that beautiful face . . . a look of pain in Justin’s eyes that nearly made Brian cry out. He had to say something . . . had to talk before his brain switched over and made him incapable of making sounds more intelligible than whimpers.

“Where did this come from?” Brian was aware of the quiver in his voice, but he ignored it and hoped Justin would, too, for now. “Daphne told me there weren’t any pictures of . . . of this. No video.” He swallowed hard, fighting against the tears as he read the caption beneath the picture, which read: the look of love . . . the picture of bravery. St. James Academy. Prom 2001. “We checked . . . we thought that maybe . . . maybe if you saw something . . . it would help your memory.”

“She told me that.” Justin pushed the cup away. “That’s why she totally flipped out when she saw this.” He pointed to the page. “She’s gonna try to get in touch with Teren and see if maybe there are anymore of these somewhere.”

Of “ us.” Yeah . . . back then there was an " us." Brian closed his eyes briefly, then opened them when he felt the boy’s gaze on him. The tears weren’t glittering so brightly in those eyes, but the sadness was still there. “Do you . . . does this bring back any memory? Do you remember anything else about the . . . about that night?” Brian held his breath, and then exhaled noisily when Justin shook his head slightly. Fuck. Fuck. “Nothing . . .?”

“No. . . but I . . .” Justin paused, and swiped at his eyes. “It’s like . . . when they told me that you came . . . that you and I danced in front of everyone . . . It’s not that I didn’t believe them, but I just couldn’t see it . . . couldn’t picture it.” Justin gnawed his lower lip. “It just seemed so . . . unreal. Even looking at this . . . it seems unreal. Except . . .”

Brian tilted his head. “Except . . .?”

“Except . . . that smile. Your smile.” Justin’s mouth tilted into a grin and he gazed at the page. “This smile. I remember that smile. After I got out of the hospital, I’d have dreams almost every night . . . about you.” Justin frowned a little, his brow creasing with the effort of remembering. “It would just be the two of us somewhere alone. You’d just be . . . looking at me for awhile, not saying anything. And then you’d start smiling at me . . . just like this . . .” His thumb caressed the page just above Brian’s head. “And then . . . then . . .”

Brian was finding it hard to breathe, but somehow he managed to get the words out. “And then . . . what?”

Justin’s thumb continued to circle the glossy surface of the page as he stared, dry-eyed now, into Brian’s eyes. “And then . . . you’d tell me that . . . that you loved me.”

Two – An Exhibition of Developments

Brian was well aware of the importance of breathing. It was essential to life, this process of inhaling and exhaling. So he wasn’t quite sure why, for several moments, he didn’t seem to be able to do this simple process. And truth be told, he really didn’t even notice that he was holding his breath; every cell in his brain was trained on the 8-by-11 inch page on the table, the image upon which was blazing into his brain.

It was only when he felt something being pushed into his hand that Brian came out of his daze. He looked at the half full glass of water for a moment, staring at it as if it he expected it at any moment to give him the answers to the questions swirling around in his head. Brian glanced up at Justin, who had not taken his eyes off him.

“Drink.” Justin’s voice was soft. “You look like you could use it.”

Brian’s breath and voice came back to him all at once, and he eyed the glass in disdain. “I think I need something a lot stronger than this, Sunshine.”

“Uh . . . well, I think they may have some Kahlua or amaretto here. Stuff like that.” Justin rested his chin in his hand. “If you want to wait another two hours, the lounge in the student union starts serving Old Pitt on special. I may not be able to get in, though . . . they card over here, and my fake ID’s looking pretty ragged.”

Brian weakly shook his head. Watered down beer would hardly do at a time like this. Right now, now he needed something hardcore, something that would dull his senses immediately. And since his old standby Jim Beam wasn’t readily available . . .

Brian gestured at Justin’s cup. “I’ll take one of whatever that was.”

The teen looked taken aback for a minute, and then he smiled. “Hot or chilled?”

Brian considered a moment. “I don’t want it cold.” He needed to hold something hot in his hands, something to warm his numb fingers.

“Uh . . . with or without whipped cream?”

Brian was silent, calculating the amount of time he’d spent on the treadmill that morning and added in the visit to the gym with the boys the night before, and decided he’d earned an empty calorie or a few . . . hundred. “With. Go all out.” He made a motion toward his back pocket to grab his wallet, but Justin’s warm hand over his own stopped him.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.” Justin stood from the table and stretched. “Be right back.”

The teen’s footsteps echoed in Brian’s ear, mingling with the words echoing in the older man’s mind. Justin’s words. And then . . . you’d tell me that you loved me . . .

Brian stared down at them, at the picture – their picture. It all seemed so long ago: Justin looked so young, innocent . . . the boy was glowing. And he looked . . . well . . . Brian studied his expression with a critical eye. If someone had shown him a picture like this, if he’d seen the expression he was wearing on another man’s face, he would’ve shaken his head and expressed pity for the poor fuck that was so obviously “dick-whipped” and wearing his heart on his fucking forehead. But the poor fuck was him, and Brian couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe he’d let his guard so completely down that way, broadcasting his feelings for everyone to see. Though Brian remembered that at the time, he didn’t give a fuck about everyone – just Justin. He’d wanted Justin to see it and understand the place he held in his life and in his heart. And Justin had understood; Brian could tell by that beautiful smile that the teen had deciphered the look on his face and realized that . . . that . . .

And then . . . you’d tell me that you loved me . . .

Brian rubbed the bridge of his nose, pinching to keep away the tears that were forming at the corners of his eyes. He’d left himself so wide open, so vulnerable. Here he was in a closet-like college eatery literally staring at proof that he’d exposed the chink in the armor he’d spent a lifetime building, and yet, in the end it hadn’t mattered. Just minutes after that photo was taken, Justin’s head and his heart had been shattered. And nothing – not a damn thing – had been right since . . .

Needing to turn his eyes away from that other self, that other him, grinning on the page, Brian flipped to the beginning of the article, glowering at the photo of the columnist. Who the fuck was – he glanced at the name again -- Teren Longner to do this? Put this out here now? Where was she with this picture when Justin was beginning his rehabilitation from the bashing? Hell, where the fuck was she with this picture two months ago when Justin was out screwing – ah, making sweet love to – the Fiddler? Why this now? Why now when it was over . . . and when Brian didn’t feel he had the strength or the inclination to make himself so vulnerable again, and when there was no way in hell that Justin would ever look at him with such love and trust shining in his face again? Where the fuck was all this then?

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became: The bashing and his and Justin’s . . . relationship up to that point had been fodder for straight and gay press alike – each using the prom story to suit their agendas; much of the gay press held the prom up as the symbol of the ongoing war against queers. The straight media presented the prom incident as a cautionary tale as to what would happen to those nasty fags who dared tried to purport to have the same rights as straight people. All of it had been tiring, frustrating, and hurtful. And now this girl was poking at the wound again, and for what? Brian’s brows knit as he toyed with his sunglasses. Justin had said the article was about coming out . . . what had they to do with anybody’s coming out? And a dyke’s at that? What the fuck was that about?

He’d meant to skim the first few paragraphs in an attempt to find an answer to that question, but something in the very first paragraph gave him pause. He read it over again, slower this time, the sounds and smells and voices around him fading as he was drawn into the words:

I’ve known I’ve loved girls that way since I was 12 and in love with my best friend’s sister. I used to dream about her and other girls, wanting to know what it would be like to kiss them or hold them or touch them down there and everywhere. I never had a thought about a boy, at least, not the same thoughts I had about girls. I tried to stay away from them, in fact, because just being around them made me nervous. That’s why it’s so weird to me to think that the trigger point for my coming out to my family, the reason I decided to be truthful and stop hiding, was because of . . . a boy. A boy I really didn’t know.

His name’s Justin. Justin Taylor. We went to high school together. He’s queer and he’s out, and because of people like me, he almost died.

“Cinnamon?”

“Fuck!” Brian jumped back, nearly sending his sunglasses to the floor. He scowled up at Justin, who was, in turn, looking at him nonplussed. “What?”

“Sorry . . . I didn’t mean to startle you,” Justin said quietly. “I just wanted to know if you wanted cinnamon in your chocolate. It makes it a little less sweet. Gives it a little kick.”

“Oh . . .” Brian bit his lip at the look on the blond’s face, and felt a twinge of remorse. He hadn’t meant to snap at him, but to say he was seriously on edge was a gross understatement. “Whatever. You know what I like, Sunshine.” He gave the boy a small smile, and was glad to see it returned before the teen turned away again.

Brian looked after him for a moment, the smile still lingering on his lips, before turning back to the page:

It’s weird saying that I didn’t know Justin, because for a long time – three years – I thought I did. Everyone at St. James Academy knew everyone else . . . or at least you thought you did. It was called a tight-knit community . . . a “family” atmosphere. I would say that it was bullshit, but it was true in a way – just about everyone at St. James, me included, came from a fucked-up family, and that was reflected in the way we acted toward each other in school.

No shit. Brian thought with a grimace, recalling the pummeling he’d saw Justin taking at the hands of a bunch of thugs, and remembering the boy’s efforts to start a Gay/Straight student alliance. And they say kids don’t learn anything at home.

I think that I thought I knew Justin Taylor because I’d known “Justins” my entire life – blond, blue-eyed, good-looking, from a “good” family, and smart. I’m related to “Justins.” My parents expected me to marry a “Justin” one day and give them blond, blue-eyed grandchildren all ready to perpetuate our well-established, fucked-up legacy.

Maybe that’s why I ignored him for so long – he wasn’t anything new to me, and since I liked girls, he didn’t really register with me. Neither did any of the other fair-haired, light-eyed guys at St. James – guys like Chris Hobbes, the guy who would almost take Justin’s life.

Brian’s throat tightened at the mention of Justin’s attacker and of the stark reality of how close the attack came to being fatal. If the bat had hit an inch or two farther one way or the other, the boy would have been dead before he hit the concrete. Brian took a sip of water to work some moisture into his dry mouth, took a deep breath, and then continued.

I’d never equate Justin with Chris, though – not even in the days before Justin was bashed. Chris was a jock, you see. Quarterback for our football team. A big man on campus who wasn’t all that bright, but was big, athletic and loved to brag about how many girls he fucked and how much money his parents were going to spend on a new car for graduation. Justin was never boastful like that – he wasn’t exactly quiet, though, either. He spoke up a lot in class and he always had a lot of intelligent things to say. Plus, he was an artist. A really good one. He and I had Honors and AP art together, and any time the teacher picked out a drawing or a painting to gush over, it was sure to be Justin’s.

Wowing them even back then, eh Sonnyboy? Brian glanced over to where Justin was talking animatedly to the stoner behind the counter. The hazel eyes took in the lean form, clad in his usual uniform of jeans and hooded sweatshirt. Kid’s gonna be famous some day . . . he’ll blow us all out of the water. Maybe . . . maybe it’s a good thing it ended – we ended – when we did . . . I would have only held him back . . . Brian took another sip of water and continued to read.

Also, Justin had a really nice voice. He was in boy’s chorus until we were juniors, and he always got to sing lead tenor parts. It was nice to hear, and I kind of wondered why he stopped going. Maybe it was a voice change thing, or something.

He was in chorus? Brian smothered an incredulous chuckle. Now I understand how he could scream so loud in bed.

But for all that, Justin and Chris might as well have been the same person to a girl like me, someone who’d seen different variations of both my entire life. And all of them wearing the same uniform – whether it was the St. James blue or the corporate grays and blacks. And I wouldn’t know the difference between them until the fall of my senior year in high school on a day that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. It was before school, and everyone was out on the mall doing what St. James kids did before school – talk about the parties, the cars, the shopping trips they were going on, the shrinks . . . and about how much they hated their parents. I was among the cluster of kids just talking to hear my own voice, not really listening to anything I, or anyone else was saying. I was checking out one of the cheerleaders – I thought she’d smiled at me in Chem the day before – and I was pretty much just focusing on her, when I heard these tires screeching.

That wasn’t a big deal – just about everyone in the jock squad had a car, and they always liked cutting it close to the start of classes, just to make an entrance. So I didn’t look to see who it was . . . until I heard people muttering and laughing around me. I couldn’t hear all that they were saying, but I heard one word loud and clear: Faggot.

That’s when I started paying attention, and I looked to where everyone – and I mean everyone – was looking. I saw a jeep . . . it was black, and nice. Again, nothing I hadn’t seen a billion times before. Except . . . this one had the word FAGGOT spray-painted on its side.

Brian snickered at the memory of his and Mikey’s trip to Justin’s school. He’d never forget the look on Michael’s face . . . nor would he forget the look on Marty Ryder’s face when he’d seen the damage done to the company car. Before that day, Brian hadn’t seen anyone actually turn blue before.

FAGGOT. There it was, as clear as day, blinking like a neon sign. FAGGOT. It seemed to get bigger and darker the more I looked at it, and I remember feeling panicky and scared, afraid that it was blinking right at me, singling me out as the dyke. The queer. The aberration of humanity that I was brought up to believe gays and lesbians were.

But no one was looking at me . . . they were all watching that jeep and the people who came out of it. One of those people was the driver - a tall guy, really nicely dressed. He didn’t look the least bit concerned that his car had been trashed, and in fact, he looked so nonchalant about it all that it almost seemed as if he’d written it himself.

Yeah, right. In those colors? Brian grimaced. Only a breeder and the deluded queens who compliment Emmett’s clothes have taste that bad.

The second person out of the jeep . . . was Justin Taylor. He looked a little nervous, but not scared. Nowhere near as scared as I felt just looking at that car. And Justin had driven in it, and was being gawked at by practically the whole school. Somebody yelled something to Justin; I couldn’t hear what it was, but I could tell by the laughter that it had been a fag joke. Justin didn’t answer him, but the guy with him did. I couldn’t hear what he said, either, but the kid who’d said something in the first place turned so pale and got up the steps so fast, I knew it was a good comeback.

Yeah . . . I’m brilliant just coming down off a high.

The bell rang, but no one moved. Everyone was waiting to see what Justin and the guy were going to do. Were they gonna make out right there? Were they gonna hug or anything? Who was the other guy? He didn’t go to St. James . . . maybe he went to one of the colleges –

They thought I was a college kid? Hmm . . . maybe I should reorder that anti-aging cream . . .

-- But I think maybe we were all just waiting for Justin to slink away, or run away maybe, with his head down and his face red. I think we were all waiting for Justin to feel mortified and ashamed of being caught coming out of car marked FAGGOT.

That didn’t happen though. Not that day, or any other. Justin didn’t even seem to notice us. He and the other guy were talking, not paying attention to anyone else, and you could they weren’t just friends or acquaintances. They had it bad for each other; it was written all over their faces.

Brian blinked hard. Had he been that transparent that early? Christ . . . maybe he was losing a foothold on the callous asshole persona that he’d so easily slipped into. Something had to be wrong if some 17-year-old chick could cut through the fine wall of bullshit to get to the heart of the matter. But then, some 17-year-old guy had been able to pierce the walls with more ease than Brian cared to admit, so maybe . . .

Then Justin came up the stairs and into school, smiling like I’d never seen . . . like he’d just hit the lottery or maybe he’d gotten a pass on exams for fall term. He looked at peace and just . . . so . . . happy. He’d been outed in front of the entire student body, and he just grinned through it all, like it was the best thing that happened to him. It was all I could think about that day – Justin and the guy in the jeep. I wondered how long they’d been lovers. I wondered where Justin had met him. People like Justin and me, from families like ours, just didn’t come in contact with the type of person the driver of that car seemed to be – so totally in control and unconcerned about whether or not he fit in. I’d never seen a guy like that before in my life, and I didn’t think I ever would again. And I didn’t – until a warm night 10 months later at the Radisson Deauville downtown. It was the night of my senior prom, and I was there to take pictures as a favor to a friend on yearbook who wanted to enjoy herself and not have to run around snapping photos. The night was going as planned, I guess. Girls in dresses more than the GNP for most third-world countries, guys in tuxedos they wouldn’t look at again ever. Boring. Stupid. Lame. I was so falling asleep, and the music wasn’t much better. I was totally thinking about bailing, and then . . . he walked in. Jeep Guy. He walked right past me, looking just killer in an all-black suit and a white scarf. Totally hot. Even I noticed that.

Jesus . . . what is it with me and dykes? They must not be making strap-ons like they used to. Brian flipped the page and as once again met with the image of him and Justin dancing. He gazed the photo for a long time before continuing to read.

He drew a lot of stares from people who recognized him from that day. But if he noticed, he didn’t act like it. Yeah, he looked around a little, but he didn’t stop walking until he found Justin. I got a little closer when they all got together, because I wondered how it was all going to shake out. Justin had come to the prom with a girl – a hot one –

That got a chuckle from the executive. Well, it’s good to know if Daphne wants to graze on the other side of the fence for awhile, she’ll have ‘em already lined up.

-- and I guess I thought there might be some fireworks. Justin was pretty openly out by then, and everyone knew that his “date” was really just a good friend. Though there had been rumors that the two of them had actually slept together. But people at St. James made shit up all the time – that probably never happened.

The older man’s laughter soon turned into a coughing fit, and he drained his water glass in attempt to calm down. Ignoring the looks of concern and annoyance shot his way, he shook his head and allowed himself a moment before he dove back in.

I saw the guy say something to Justin’s date, but I noticed he was staring at Justin the whole time. Justin’s date kind of patted him on the shoulder . . . or maybe she hugged him. I wasn’t sure, because I wasn’t at a good angle to see, and there were people who were starting to gather around, staring at them. I thought maybe the guy – I found out later that his name was Brian -- had come to whisk Justin away from the lame-ass dance. I was just getting over being jealous about that when I saw the guy take Justin’s hand . . . and lead him not toward the exit, but to the dance floor. People on either side of them just scurried out of their way and huddled to the side, leaving the floor to them. The dee jay cued up a song, a song I never heard before, but I’ll never forget as long as I live. It’s called “Save the Lance Dance For Me” –

Brian felt the lump return as the music began in his ears, the lyrics looping through his brain. You can dance . . . every dance with the guy who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight . . . He swallowed hard, banishing the song from his mind. The last few paragraphs swam before his eyes, and he wiped at them with a napkin, careful to not drop tears on the page.

-- The song is beautiful, but that’s not why I won’t forget it. It was them. It was the way they moved together . . . so perfectly attuned to each other. They didn’t take their eyes off each other, and as far as they were concerned, the rest of us might as well have not even been there. They were in their own little world, except, they were letting us get a glimpse of it . . . and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. That’s what I thought when I watched them dance together, and then kiss later, right in front of all of us. I remember thinking not that Justin was brave – which he definitely was – or that he was being a total selfish bastard for causing such a scene at the prom. Watching them, all I remember thinking that Justin was lucky – damned lucky – that he’d found love. He wasn’t slinking around, acting ashamed that the love he found was that of a man’s – he was proud of it. He celebrated it; they both did. They danced as if it was the most natural thing in the world to them, as if there was nothing wrong with it . . . because they understood then what I understand now -- that there wasn’t anything wrong with it. They reveled in that truth and in each other. And it . . . was . . . beautiful. Beautiful. My hands shook so much, I could barely hold the camera, but somehow, I managed to calm myself to get off a shot . . . and the moment I captured can be seen here on this page.

His eyes flicked up to the picture again, then back down.

And that was the moment – my moment – of truth. That I wanted what Justin had: that surety of self. That freedom to just be . . . me. To stop hiding and believing that my sexual orientation was something sick and shameful. I felt like a fool, all at once, because their dance exposed people like me – people who cower in their closets, too afraid to speak what’s in our hearts. I felt ashamed, thinking of the times I’d walked down the hall and saw Chris Hobbes and his goons pushing Justin into a locker, and I did nothing except keep on walking and pretend I saw nothing. I felt stupid for all the times I laughed at a queer joke, for all the times I let my mother set me up with the neighbor boys, and for all the times I pretended just the thought of homosexuality disgusted me. It was then that I decided that I needed that same peace of mind Justin had, and that same freedom. I was tired of hiding and the lies. I decided that that night, I was going to be brave for once and tell my parents that I was a lesbian – and give them a chance to get to know the real me.

I didn’t do it, though – not that night. I never got the chance. As soon as I got home, I turned on the news. Chris Hobbes had bashed Justin in the head with a baseball bat after our prom, and Justin spent days in the hospital fighting for his life, and weeks after that just recovering. Chris was brought to trial and “punished” for his actions with a suspended sentence and community service. I remember on the day the sentence came down, my dad shook his head and tsked about “the poor Hobbes boy who could have played for the Steelers some day, but had his football career ruined by those fucking fags.” He didn’t talk about the picture that ran with the news story of the sentencing – a picture of Justin being taken out of an ambulance, covered in blood.

That image surfaced in his brain, and Brian winced, then spun around to look at Justin still standing at the counter, hazel eyes raking the slender form if only to reassure himself that Justin was whole and breathing and healthy - even if he wasn't his anymore. Breathing a little easier, barely, Brian's eyes whipped over the last two paragraphs.

Honestly, I didn’t want to see that photo, either. It was the picture of violence and of hate. And that was not what I wanted to remember about that night. I wanted to remember the grace, the comfort and the love I saw between two men. Two men who loved each other. I wanted to remember their smiles, the way they looked at each other. Their kiss. So when my editors decided to give me this column, and asked me to speak about my experience coming out, I dug out my “mementos” from St. James, and I found this picture and asked them to run this in tribute to a love between men and as an apology to Justin and to all the “Justins” like him that I thought I knew, but didn’t really. Because he didn’t deserve that bashing; I did. And people like me. Fakers like me. Liars like me. Sure, I’m out and disowned now, and “dead” to my parents, but when it counted – when I could have stood up for myself like Justin did, I cowered like . . . like a scared little dyke, and let someone else take the bat upside the head. I’ll never forgive myself for that, but maybe by telling my story, and by extension, Justin and Brian’s, some young queer out there will do what I never had the guts to do and what Justin did . . . take a stand, come out and be proud about it. And show the Chris Hobbes’ of the world that we “helpless little gays” can bash back – but we don’t need to take the pussy’s way out sneak up behind someone to do it.

Looking at this picture again, it just makes me feel warm and tingly all over (no, not that way!) And I wonder what Justin is up to now. Like I said, we never really talked and we never really hung in the same circles. He’s recovered from the bashing, I’ve heard, and he’s in arts school in Pittsburgh and doing well. I hope, though, that wherever he is and whatever he’s doing, that he and Brian are still dancing, and still saying “fuck you” to whoever tries to give them shit. This time, guys, I’m right there with you – to the hilt. Fuck it all. I’m not afraid any more.

Brian’s eyes were lingering over the last words when a pale hand placed a steaming mug in front of him. “Sorry that took so long. The steamer’s on the fritz.” Justin resumed his seat, pushing a napkin and a spoon toward the older man. “The guy looked in the back for nonfat milk . . . he says they didn’t have any. Sorry.”

“S’okay,” Brian said quietly, still looking at the page. He took the spoon and began to stir absently, halting only when he heard Justin’s laughter. “What?” He asked, looking up.

“Brian, this isn’t a mocha . . . it’s hot chocolate.” Justin leaned forward. “With whipped cream on top! You can’t stir it. You have to spoon off the cream and eat it before it melts.”

The executive eyed the white swirl skeptically. “What if I want it to melt? Might dilute some of the sugar.”

Justin rolled his eyes. “You could do that with regular cream. Whipped cream is meant to be savored in its natural form.”

“There’s nothing natural about anything that’s squirted out of a can, Sunshine.” Brian grinned at Justin’s outraged look, then grabbed his spoon and dug in. “Fuck . . . is there an actual liquid underneath all this shit?”

“They really load you up, which is how it’s supposed to be. It is bar none the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll defer to you, the expert,” Brian muttered, shoveling in a mouthful of the foamy substance. It was sweet, but not cloyingly so, and nicely flecked with cinnamon. Brian took another spoonful and downed it, savoring the cool cream as it trickled down his throat. Going in for his third heaping spoon, he noticed a pair of amused blue eyes watching him. The spoon hovered in the air. “What?”

“You like it?” Justin was grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s not bad.” Brian made his voice as casual as he could, which wasn’t very easy, as he was holding a dripping spoon in midair.

“This place delivers, you know. You could have one of these every day. . .”

“And gain about 50 pounds in a month? Forget it. I already feel the fat cells expanding on my delts” Brian sheared off another scoop. “Besides, my office is nowhere near here . . . if they delivered it, all the cream would melt . . . and what good would that be?”

Justin positively beamed at the older man. “That’s true, Bri. See? You’re learning!”

“Learning . . .” Brian murmured. Glancing down at where the magazine lay between them, he worried his lower lip between his teeth. “Yeah. I suppose I am.” He stared at the pages a moment longer, then put the spoon down. Looked up into Justin’s eyes. “Did you read any of this?” He pointed to the magazine.

“You kidding? I read all of it. Like 50 times.” Justin looked at the magazine, as well. “From the minute Daphne showed it to me, I seriously have not let it out of my sight. I mean, I mainly have been looking at the picture, but I’ve read that article backwards and forwards.”

“She’s a decent writer.” Brian downed more whipped cream. “That, or she’s got a pretty good editor.”

“I think she might have been on the newspaper staff,” Justin said, frowning thoughtfully. “I don’t remember her being in my AP English class, but she might have been in Honors English with some of the jock breeders like Hobbes. I dunno.” He smiled suddenly. “Wasn’t it cool how she described that morning with the jeep? It would have been even cooler if she’d heard what you’d said to that asshole Tim Blevins.”

“Mmm hmmm.” Brian grinned back, careful to lighten his tone. “And I didn’t know you were a choir boy, Sunshine . . . you never sung for me – not words I could understand, anyway.”

“Shut up, Brian, I wasn’t a choir boy.” The blond blushed. “I was a tenor in boy’s chorus . . . for like a year or two.”

“Or three. Until your voice changed.”

“Fuck you! That’s not why I left! I just didn’t have time to fit it in with art stuff—”

“Poor Sunshine . . . couldn’t get hit those high ‘E’s in Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star –” Brian smirked, licking white foam off his lips.

“We did not sing shit like that.” Justin did his best to glower. “We sung hard stuff – Messiah, Dominus Vobiscum –”

“Old MacDonald.” Brian picked his mug up and took a sip. “This Old Man . . .”

“Uhm . . . Gloria Tibi . . .” Justin’s mouth was beginning to twitch at the corners. “. . . Shenandoah . . .”

“And, of course, that old classical standard,” Brian took a huge gulp from the mug and set it down. “That piece of technical mastery. Let me see if I remember how it goes . . .” He cleared his throat, and began in a falsetto voice, “The itsy-bitsy spiiider went up the water spout! Down came the rain and –”

“Brian!” Justin giggled, ducking his head. “Will you shut up –”

“—washed the spider out! C’mon Sunshine, sing along!” Brian wiggled his fingers in the boy’s face, and pointedly ignored the stares and comments of the other patrons. “And then came the sun and dried up – hey!” The exec tried to look put out when the teen grabbed his hands, barely able to hold on because he was laughing so hard. “I was just getting to the good part –”

“You . . . are such . . . a freak,” Justin gasped in between breathless laughter. “Jesus, Brian . . . sugar fucks you up more than E does . . . it’s – it’s scary . . .”

“I just thought you might want to relive some of the highlights of your youth.”

“That wasn’t a highlight, trust me.” Justin let go of the older man’s hands, a little reluctantly, Brian noticed with no small amount of pleasure. “It was all right for a couple of years, and I liked to sing, but I needed more time to spend with my art. Plus, there was nobody hot in chorus. There’s never anybody hot in chorus.”

“You were there,” Brian said softly, staring at the boy through hooded eyes. “So that theory’s fucked.”

Justin reddened prettily, and gave Brian one of his patented Sunshine smiles. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Close – I’m full of chocolate.” Brian stared into his cup. “Drinking this stuff is like mainlining saccharine.”

“Then why don’t you just stop drinking it? I could get you something else . . .”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t good.” He warmed under Justin’s smile, studying the blond boy intently. He was glad that they were able to talk like this . . . joking around, easy like the old days. The days before . . . everything went to shit between them. Brian wasn’t one who tolerated awkward silences or sputtering conversation, and the one thing he feared upon meeting Justin was that the boy would be fidgety and uneasy around him. He was happy to have been wrong. Guess the Fiddler hasn’t totally poisoned his mind against me entirely yet . . . it has only been a couple of months.

“Hey.” Brian said softly, “You all right? I mean about this.” He looked at the pages between them. “I’m glad Daphne was there for you to talk to.” I should have been there, too. He paused, wondering where that thought had come from. “I’m glad you let me know about this before someone I heard about it from one of the guys or from the Queer Moral Majority looking for more reasons to roast my balls over an open fire.”

“Yeah, I wanted to give you a heads up.” Justin turned his attention back to the page. “God . . . I wish I could remember this. I mean, really remember. Daphne tried to describe some stuff, kinda the way you two tried before, but it didn’t really help.” He sighed softly. “I love this picture. They were right. Everybody was right. We did look amazing together.” He gave Brian a shy smile.

Brian was silent a minute. “Yeah . . . I guess we weren’t too bad.”

“Yeah . . .” The blond continued looking down. “Maybe . . . maybe if Daph does get in touch with Teren and she has more pictures or something, maybe that’ll help me remember. I mean, until I saw this, I’d almost forgotten about my dream . . . the dream I was telling you about earlier.” He looked up, and Brian was nearly knocked to the floor under the intense gaze of those blue eyes. “Um . . . it was a dream, right? And not, um . . . not a memory?”

Brian winced at the cadence of hope that was evident in the boy’s voice. And then you’d tell me that you loved me . . . The executive closed his eyes briefly, biting back a stab of pain. He wished he could lie to the boy and tell him what he thought the blond wanted to hear. But looking into those beautiful blue eyes, Bran was aware that he just couldn’t do it. Even if he thought that by lying, he could make everything right between them, Brian just couldn’t. They’d been through so much already, so many half-truths and outright lies and misunderstandings. He wasn’t going to add to the pile.

“Yeah.” It was an effort to keep his voice from cracking, but somehow Brian managed it. “It was a . . . a dream.”

The teen swallowed hard, nodding and looking away. “I figured. I just thought maybe . . .” He broke off and shook his head as if to clear it. “Anyway . . . I guess I better get going. I know you have stuff to do.” He glanced at Brian, then away again. “Thanks for coming down. I could . . . um . . . call you again if you want. You know, if Daphne gets in touch with Teren?”

Brian stared at the boy until Justin looked at him. “I thought you said you wanted to talk . . . all things considering, I think it’s not a bad idea if we do.”

Justin blinked. “Uh . . . I did. Um . . . I do . . . but you have work . . . and I have . . . um . . .” There went the eyes again, staring at something on the far wall.

“Work can wait awhile,” Brian said nonchalantly. “But if you have to do something . . . be somewhere . . .” With someone . . . Brian pursed his lips to keep from asking Justin that. He thought of the Fiddler. Would Justin show him “the” picture, and allow him to comfort him? In his own romantic way? But then, Brian wondered with creased brow, where was the Fiddler the day before, when all this came to light? He recalled hearing someone – Lindsay maybe – saying that Ethan was out and about playing concerts in other parts of the state. Maybe he was off on a road trip.

“No, I’m pretty much free.” Justin’s gaze bounced to the empty water glass. “Daph has some huge project to do with her Poly Sci group, and my mom and Molly went to see a movie. I was going to work on my midterm project, but I don’t really feel like it right now.”

“Uh huh.” Brian waited for a moment to see if Justin was going to look at him directly any time soon. As soon as the silence between them got heavier than the cream in his chocolate, Brian sighed deeply, and decided to go for it.

“What about the Fid- ah, Ethan?” He took a breath. “Are you two hooking up today?”

There was another long silence, and Brian was on the verge of asking again in a different way, when Justin very slowly looked up, his face impassive and calm.

“Yesterday, after Daph came and got me and showed me this,” he nodded at the magazine, “I don’t think I talked for, like, 15 whole minutes. I read the article, and stared at the picture. Then I read the article some more, and stared some more at the picture. Then I sketched out the picture on the back of a receipt I got from Blockbuster’s.” He paused. “Then me and Daphne came here – not here, to this place -- but here as in to campus. And we sat in her room for another 15 minutes just kind of looking at each other. I think we were both in shock or something.”

“I can imagine,” Brian murmured, eyes riveted to the teen’s face.

“Daph snapped out of it first. She was sitting on her bed, and I was . . . I was just laying across the floor staring at this . . . at um, at us . . .” Justin swallowed hard. “I don’t know how long I laid there. Awhile. Maybe more than half an hour. Me and Daph talked after that . . . and then out of nowhere, she hands me my cell from my jacket, and says, ‘You’ve gotta call him. You have to tell him.’” Another pause. “So I called.”

Brian frowned. “You must not have left a message. I checked my cell after I got out the clubs, and I didn’t have any.”

Justin gnawed his upper lip. Then, “She wasn’t talking about you; she was talking about Ethan. She wanted me to call him and tell him . . . that it was over between him and me.” His stare was unwavering. “And . . . I did.”

The ad executive was aware that he was desperately craving another one of those chocolates to dull his senses and give him something to do with his mouth, if nothing else. Fearing for his waistline and his sanity, he opted for a more painful and confusing option: continuing the conversation. “I don’t get it.” In his mind, he remembered the two boys walking out of the Rage party together. His next words were tinged with the bitterness that memory awakened within him. “I thought you were in lo – ah, I thought the two of you were getting along just peachily. Building your little artists’ love nest together, snug as two little queer bugs. Happy and content.”

Justin shook his head slowly. “I liked Ethan a lot . . . and maybe he even loved me . . . or was getting there. But happy? No . . . I don’t think so. At least, not me. This is happy.” He spread his hand over the page. “Us that night. Maybe I can’t remember it now. Maybe I never will. But I know happy when I see it and feel it . . . and I see it here. With you. But I don’t feel it there. With Ethan. Not really. And the more I looked at this,” his eyes swept the page, “the more I realized that I probably never would.”

The two eyed each other across the table for a good minute, silent, each seemingly waiting for the other to say something. Anything. Then someone – Brian couldn’t determine whether it was a guy or woman – breezed by the table, the pages in the magazine ruffling in the wake of the passage. That sound seemed to wake them both from their dazes. Brian took a deep breath, and studied the boy a minute longer, his eyes probing, searching. Questioning. Within seconds, he saw the answer he was looking for reflected back at him from deep within those blue eyes. Letting his breath out and shaking his head a little, he stood from the table, and fished out a dollar to leave in the tip jar on the counter. That chocolate whatever-it-was had been good. Damned good.

“You want to leave a note or something for Daphne? Let her know that you’re splitting?”

Justin mulled that for a minute. “I could call her later. I can’t get into her dorm without a key anyway, and I forget which library she said she’d be in. And . . . um . . .” The blush returned, and he ducked his head. “I kinda told her that unless things didn’t, uh, go well . . . I would call her tonight sometime.”

Brian laughed softly. When the hell did I get so predictable? “Then let’s get going, Sunshine. I think we’ve wasted enough time already.” He gave him a long look. “Don’t you?”

Justin didn’t reply; simply looked at him and gave him a grin that was sunshine personified, before tucking the magazine under his arm and starting for the door. Brian lingered long enough to leave the tip, nod to the comatose-looking counter guy, and adjust his sunglasses before he followed the blond out into the brilliant afternoon.

Three – Snapshots of the Heart

Brian slid the loft’s metal door shut in one smooth motion, letting practiced fingers dance across the numeric pad that would engage the alarm system. Double-checking the deadbolt on the door, he took out his cell to check for messages, only half listening the two he had -- a dinner invite from Linds and some rambling message from Mikey. As the voices of his friends washed over him, Brian stared at the closed door, steeling himself to do a thing he and the teen had rarely done in the loft – or anywhere else for that matter – just talk.

The executive was sure that they’d be able to do this . . . this talking thing. It had worked well enough at the café, and it could work here . . . despite the fact that he was horny as hell and that no small part of him wanted to sling the blond over his shoulder, march into the bedroom, divest them both of their clothing, and coax the teen into sampling a cream that was well worth savoring in its natural form.

But no: Justin wanted to talk – and Brian realized that he, oddly enough, wanted that, too. So they would talk. They’d remain clothed. And upright. No touching, no fucking. Just talking.

Talking. Brian made a pained face, sliding his cell back into his jacket pocket. Maybe I need to get wasted for this.

Brian briefly considered the poppers he had stored in his refrigerator for just such an occasion, but pushed the thought away. He needed his head clear for this . . . talk. Justin deserved that much and he deserved to know that he could put his dick on the back burner for a change – he winced at that visual – and just talk to the boy, without pushing for more.

Pretending to study something on his alarm system keypad, Brian took another moment to get his game face on, compose himself and relax. Taking a mental inventory of just how much Beam he had on hand – just in case – he silently declared himself as ready as he was going to be for the task at hand. Of course, he had no idea what the hell he was going to say yet, but that wasn’t a problem. He was a pro at thinking on his feet. And since they were going to be staying vertical for this little confab, it would be a piece of cake.

Turning finally, he shrugged off his jacket, draping it over one of the stools near the breakfast bar. As almost an afterthought, he grabbed a batch of take-out menus from the bar and flipped them under his arm. He wasn’t sure how long this talk would take, but he was pretty certain that Justin would be hungry at some point, and the block of Camembert and the stale rice cakes in his refrigerator was just not going to do it –

Brian halted there, blinking in confusion as he realized that he was quite alone in the living area. He scanned the room from wall to wall, brushing over the desk where his laptop sat, the assorted furniture, the entertainment center. There was no sign of the blond artist, though his jacket was thrown across the divan near the television and Brian could have sworn he’d seen the boy throw himself on the couch – sneakers on, no less.

“Sunshiiiiine . . .” His eyes swept over the space, lingering on the leather chair that he and the boy had once christened with ‘ice cream kisses.’ A smile warmed his face at the memory. “Sunshiiiiiiine? Come out, come out wherever you aaarrre.”

There was a rustling from somewhere deep inside the loft. “Brian, what the fuck are you on? I’m in here.”

That stopped Brian cold. Barring a sudden change in the acoustics of the loft, Justin’s voice seemed to be coming from the bedroom. His bedroom. Not exactly an area conducive to doing anything but the activities Brian had assured himself would not be taking place. Brian tilted his head to one side, thinking. Maybe Justin was just passing through on the way to the bathroom. No big deal. There was no need to jump to conclusions. No need to panic yet.

The older man drew closer, eyes narrowing as he neared the stairs. There was an odd shadow on the steps that spread out a bit to the floor beyond. Brian stared at the steps for a few seconds before he realized what it was, and the recognition made his heart pound in his ears. All right – now maybe it was time to panic.

It was the blue lights. They were on, shining in all their phosphorescent glory. The executive hadn’t gone near them since a just after finding out Justin wasn’t adhering to their rules. Since then, the lights stayed off, as Brian preferred to fuck his tricks in total darkness rather than be reminded of the nights he and the artist spent bathed in that blue glow, wrapped in each others’ arms. But now they were back. And Justin had turned them on. Justin, who was in his bedroom wanting to talk. Just talk.

“Hey, I like the new sheets!” The blond’s voice was a mixture of excitement and admiration. “Are these satin? I’ve always wanted satin sheets . . . and, um, Christmas is right around the corner and before that, my birthday. Do they come in red?”

Brian stopped moving completely. Sheets. Which were on the bed. Which seemed to suggest that Justin was also on the bed. Well, so much for the remaining upright part of the plan. Brian briefly wondered just what other surprises he’d find when he walked up those stairs. Wondered if he was going to be able to get a coherent sentence out – a word even – with Justin in his bed under those lights . . . those blue, blue lights . . .

Okay, fuck it. Change in plans. Corralling his thoughts as best he could, he walked to a side table and unscrewed a well-used bottle of black-label Jim Beam, pouring out a measured shot. Downing the Beam in one quick gulp, he closed his eyes and let the slow burn of the alcohol distract him from the latent heat that was growing somewhere south of his stomach. Slowly opening his eyes, he craned his neck toward the bedroom area. Those lights were still on. And Justin was presumably still there. Waiting for him.

Brian poured himself another glass. This shot went down even smoother than the first, and that did the trick as he felt the tension holding his body unnaturally taut drain away pooling somewhere around his ankles. Exhaling loudly, Brian opened his eyes again as he felt his heart return to its normal rhythm. Good old Beam . . . it was better than penicillin for curing ills. He felt much more mellow, confident. He could do this . . . this . . . talking thing. It was going to be okay. Raking a hand through his hair and glancing toward the bedroom, the exec briefly considered a third hit of the liquor just to be on the safe side, but decided against it. A third shot always seemed to lead to a fourth . . . and a fifth . . . and a sixth . . .

Just like dear old dad . . .

And he wanted to be lucid, not delirious, and who knew what would happen if his inhibitions were totally obliterated. He might say something Justin didn’t need to hear – or worse, he might let slip something that Justin probably did need to hear, but that Brian wasn’t sure he was ready to say just yet.

That thought alone strengthened his resolve. Turning his back on the bottle, he walked toward his bedroom. Reaching the steps, he hesitated only a moment before ascending the stairs and stepping into that looming azure haze.

His eyes took a moment to adjust themselves to the lighting in the room, but he was able to hone in on Justin immediately. The blond was sprawled on his stomach across the bed, facing the lights. Brian saw that Justin had removed his sneakers and was sliding his feet absently on his new ivory-colored bedcovers, a nice satin-cotton blend with an obscenely high thread count that Brian had bought as much for their smoothness as for the salesclerk’s sly insistence that the sheets were completely stain-resistant. Not that he’d had a chance to investigate the truth of that claim – in recent weeks he’d kept his tricking confined to the backrooms of Babylon and related alleyways, finding a quick hookup more than adequate to meet his needs and much easier on his laundry service.

Brian stared for a moment at Justin, who was resting his chin one hand and flipping through the magazine with the other. It was all surprisingly normal to the older man, seeing Justin there – it was like so many days and nights before when he’d walk into his bedroom and find the boy lying in bed sketching or reading or napping or waiting up for him . . .

He approached the side of the bed, trying to slow his breathing as he gazed at the downy head. “Comfortable?”

Justin looked up with a smile. “Finally. What were you doing out there? Pouring water over your head?”

“I don’t think it’s gonna be that type of evening.” Brian said dryly, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t have taken that third shot after all. “What’s with the lights? If you wanted to read, why didn’t you turn on one of the lamps?”

“I can see fine,” Justin said. “I’m used to these. When I’d draw you, I wouldn’t want to wake you, so this was the only light to work by. Reading’s nothing next to sketching.”

“Well I hope you remember all that when you’re shelling out money for Lasik surgery because you’ve fucked up your eyes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Brian paused, marveling at how Justin seemed to almost glimmer under the lights’ caress: The teen’s face seemed like an expanse of sky – all glowing pinks and reds that were balanced with deep blue and golden tones. In that moment, Brian understood his allegedly unconscious decision to put the lights on hiatus . . . nothing and no one looked as beautiful as Justin did under that indigo gleam.

“Roll over.” Brian wasn’t surprised at how husky his voice sounded . . . Beam was said to put hair on a man’s chest and bass in a man’s voice. What did somewhat shock the exec was that he hadn’t catapulted himself on the slender boy and started kissing him senseless the minute he’d flashed him that famous smile. Matters became even more . . . pressing when he saw the boy aim a pretty obvious look at his crotch before giving him another disarming smile.

“Roll over? What happened to talking?”

“Smartass.” Brian pressed his tongue into his cheek. “We are gonna talk when you get off my side of the bed.” He folded his arms, trying to look menacing. There really was no “his” side of the bed, but he needed something to diffuse the sexual tension that hung heavy like a lubed condom in the air, and a playful game of “hardass” was as good a way as any to do that. “The sooner you get your ass to your – to the other side, the sooner we can start our little chat.”

The boy didn’t move. “Why can’t you sit on the left side just this once? I am your guest, and isn’t it your duty as a host to make sure that your guests are satisfied and comfortable?”

“Guests in my bed are never anything but comfortable and very satisfied.” An eyebrow quirked upward. “But I don’t let them park their dicks on my side of the bed, either.”

Justin glowered at him for a moment before scooting over to the opposite side. “Screw you, Brian.”

“Amazing. You’re in a bed for what -- five minutes -- and already you’re dreaming.” Dropping the menus, the exec flopped down on the recently vacated space, giving Justin a wry smile. “There. Much better.” Brian rocked onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. Justin did the same, placing the magazine on the pillow between them, resting his hand lightly on the pages. They remained in that position for an interminable period, trading gazes and tentative smiles, each waiting for the other to take the initiative to begin the conversation, and each pulling back to take refuge in their own thoughts.

Brian was cognizant of his reluctance to speak, though he hardly thought it was unusual, under the circumstances. He was unsure of exactly what to say, and of what direction and tone this “talk” should have. What direction or tone could any sort of talk have when they were in his fucking bed together and all he could think about were the old days, when blue lights and Justin usually meant hours and hours of mind-blowing sex? He remembered how amazed he’d been that sex with Justin was always good, despite the boy’s relative lack of experience and his own disdain for doing the same men more than once. It was just another way the boy had set himself apart from every other man in Brian’s life – or, for that matter, any other man he had ever known – intimately or otherwise.

He wanted to touch the blond, wanted to draw him into his arms and hold him tight. And even though Justin was staring through him through heavy-lidded eyes that showed a familiar hunger, and wore what could have been the beginnings of a “come-hither” smile on his face, Brian resolved to keep his hands to himself until their talking played itself out. But it was going to be hard – literally, Brian acknowledged, gritting his teeth. He grimaced as he shifted in the bed, trying to ease some of the pressure in his groin. It wasn’t helping that Justin's slight smile had spread into a knowing grin, letting the older man know that he knew exactly why he was squirming. Brian shifted again, sliding a little on the slick surface of the sheets. Shit. He glanced up at the teen, ready with some quip that he’d hope would take that smug grin off his face and allow him to concentrate, but was surprised to see the smile had disappeared completely and Justin was studying him with a serious expression. Brian began to sweat a little. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Justin rolled onto his stomach again and stared at their picture. “Just . . . I was just going over in my head all the things I was gonna say to you . . . I had it all worked out . . .”

“What, like a little speech?”

“Kind of. I even had note cards and everything . . .”

“Note cards?” Brian changed position so that he, too, was on his belly, and he inched forward to join Justin in admiring the page. “Jesus, you really are a college student.”

Justin’s smile was fleeting. “But now . . . thinking about it, it just all seems so lame.” He looked over at Brian. “I really don’t know what to say. Part of me is still so freaked out by just seeing it. I mean, I was never expecting to see anything like this.”

“Me either.” Brian took in their image once more, noting how at ease they seemed in each other’s arms, how perfectly positioned they were, as if they were made just to dance together like that, to laugh together as they had, to kiss the way they had. Looking at the picture, Brian reminisced about that night, recalling just how perfectly they’d fallen in step together during their dance, how they fed off each other’s energy, how effortlessly they alternated taking the lead, how well they fit together physically. The perfect fit. That’s what it had been. The perfect fucking fit. Brian sucked in a breath as the memories faded and he was left staring at the flash-frozen image of the two of them, smiling, looking otherworldly beneath the blue lights. “It came out of nowhere. I’d be worried if it didn’t throw you for a loop.”

“What about you?” Justin asked softly. “Does it freak you out looking at this? I mean, I know that you remember everything, but still . . .”

Brian was quiet a moment. It was a good question. On some level, he acknowledged that the photo shook him – and not just because he could see his feelings for Justin so evident upon his face. Before seeing himself in that picture, he hadn’t imagined that he could look so damned happy. Maybe it was that he was so used to the casually diffident expression he'd spent years perfecting and saw in the mirror every morning before he’d met Justin -- and had been seeing every morning since the blond walked out of his loft and life – that he was surprised he could look anything like the beaming man in the picture. Then again, he was aware that very few pictures existed of him where he was actually smiling. Smirking, yes. But actual smiling? Not really. He considered smiles – real ones – precious commodities, things to be doled out on special occasions – the birth of a son, for example, or the reuniting with a lifelong friend whom you thought you had to push away in order for him to have any chance at happiness. Or, he thought with an inward grin, staring at the two of them, the most ridiculously romantic night of your life.

“Yeah, I guess it does. But it’s not necessarily a bad type of freaking out,” Brian murmured at last, glancing over at the teen. “It’s more like a “Fuck, that really was me” type of thing . . .” Brian paused a moment. “It’s been awhile since that night. . . and yeah, I remember . . . things . . . but over time, memories can fade or get twisted. It’s different to see something like this – a snapshot of a certain moment in a whole sequence of events. But it can be a good thing to have something like this. I’m glad we have this.” He smiled into the blue eyes. “So now you can see for yourself how fucking amazing we were that night.”

Justin smiled half-heartedly, which gave Brian pause. The executive studied the somber face, wondering if he had said something wrong. He was about to bite the bullet and ask when the blond began to speak.

“It does makes me feel happy. To have this, I mean. To have proof that it was real,” Justin said slowly, trailing his fingers across the page. “It’s so fucking awesome, that I want to feel only happy and glad. But I can’t . . . I don’t. ‘Cause it makes me sad, too. And angry.” He looked the older man full in the face, and Brian shivered at the depth of pain in those beautiful eyes. “Everyone talked about what I could have lost – my life, my ability to do art – that no one seemed to realize what I did lose . . . what Hobbes did take from me. And I didn’t realize it either, until now.” Justin sat up suddenly, grabbing the magazine from the pillow, holding it up before Brian’s eyes. “This. I lost this. Hobbes took this. He took our dance from me. Our kiss. Everything about that night that was special. He made me forget it all . . . that you were there, that we were fantastic together . . . that you ever smiled at me like this . . .” His chin wobbled slightly. “That you ever looked at me like this. He took that memory away. That knowledge away.” Justin took a deep, noisy breath in, and leveled a clear-eyed gaze at the older man. “He made me forget that you loved me, Brian. That you loved me, and that you did more than just say it – you showed me that night. You showed everybody.”

Brian swallowed down the lump in his throat. He was not going to look away. On that, Brian was firm with himself. Didn’t matter that there were tears threatening to fall down his face, it didn’t matter that he was fighting his own set of tremors, it didn't even matter that some part of his soul him bled to hear it. Nothing mattered now except that his eyes remain locked on Justin’s face.

“I wanted the words,” Justin went on, maintaining their stare. “I thought everything would be great between us if I could just hear you tell me that you cared. I got hung so up on wanting the fucking words. I thought, ‘If he loves me, why can’t he say it? It’s three fucking words – what’s the big deal?’ And then came all that drama princess shit, and all my bitching about you never showing me any affection, and . . . and the whole thing with Ethan. All because I didn’t remember this.” He shook the magazine. “And it’s so fucked, because I look at how you’re looking at me here, and in your face I see every word I have ever wanted to hear you say to me. And more.” He voice wavered, and he hastily swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “And I feel like such a fuck up. If I’d remembered anything about that night other than Hobbes hitting me, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere, Brian. I couldn’t have left you.” His tone was earnest, his face pleading. “I would have never been such an ass about wanting words. I would have known that words were bullshit next to this.” He pointed to their picture. “There would have never been any Ethan or any ‘me and Ethan,’ if I’d remembered any of this. I would have never been such an ass about wanting words." He closed the magazine and placed it gently aside. “If I’d remembered, there wouldn’t have been a thing anyone could have said or done that would have made me doubt how you felt about me. Nobody could have made me doubt us.”

Brian would have given just about anything he owned – the jeep and his special-ordered jade vibrator included – to completely share in Justin’s belief that if all had gone well at the prom – or at least if he’d had some recollection of it – that all would have gone completely right in their relationship. The effects of the bashing on Justin's memory had made it all moot, but Brian knew that he would have, more than likely, given the boy a reason to doubt his feelings at some point. The tricking might have done it – Brian couldn’t imagine giving that up, ever, and he knew that Justin wanted monogamy. Or the pressures and demands of work might have driven a wedge between them that would widen and widen until it caused an irreparable split. The age thing might have eventually given Justin second thoughts, maybe. It would have been something. There was always something keeping him from contentment and enjoying a normal life – be it his combative relationship with his mother and sister, getting turned down for the job of his dreams or witnessing the near-death of the man, there was always something that reminded him that he was one of those “damn Kinneys,” and when had any of those “damn Kinneys” ever done anything but turn everything they touched to shit? It more than likely would have gone that way with him and Justin regardless, but if prom had worked out . . . maybe, maybe they would have had something of a chance.

Brian surfaced from his melancholy musings to find Justin had changed position, turning slightly away from him. The blond head was bowed, his head bowed, his face in shadows. But for the sniffling, the exec might not have known the boy was doing his best to fight back tears. Justin hated for anyone to see him to cry, always afraid that the presence of tears would mark him as some ‘weak little faggot’ – a prime target for the ass-kickings the Chris Hobbeses of the world seemed all too willing to dish out. Brian often admired Justin’s mental toughness and his determination to not show weakness to those who would expect it and seek to exploit it.

But not now. Now, Brian wanted the boy to cry. He wanted to see the tears fall, wanted Justin to find some solace, some catharsis in them. Justin needed to mourn what had been taken from him, the thing that had died in the swing of a bat -- the memory of their time together at the prom. No amount of replaying of their song or retracing of their dance steps could ever recapture the magic of that night; Brian understood that now. What had happened at the St. James Academy 2001 senior prom had been one of those vaunted ‘once in a lifetime’ things – a term Brian had believed was bullshit until the minute he walked into that ballroom and saw the blond’s face light up at the sight of him. All that had been beautiful about that night – everything that he remembered, that Teren remembered, that everyone who'd been in that ballroom would always remember – had literally been smashed from Justin’s mind in a matter of seconds. And while the article and their picture had given him a glimpse into that night, it had also done something more – it had alerted Justin to the extent of his loss. And now that Justin knew, it was time for him to give vent to the grief. Everyone else – his parents, his friends, the whole fucking queer community, Brian himself – had had their turn to lament over what had happened, and in the end, they hadn’t lost half so much as what the blond had. It was Justin’s turn now.

Slowly raising himself to a seated position, Brian reached out a tentative hand and gently stroked the teen’s back. He waited for Justin to tell him to fuck off or to ask him to back off or to remind them of their “talking, not touching” pledge. When no protest seemed forthcoming, Brian gently turned Justin around until they were facing each other again. He slid a finger under the blond’s chin and lifted his face so that until they were at a level to look into each other’s eyes. He stared into the twin pools of sapphire, his expression a silent appeal for permission to draw closer, and it wasn’t until he saw an answering glint in the boy’s eyes that the older man allowed himself to proceed. He had to unmask himself once more – had to lower the walls and recede the moat that kept everyone from reaching the real Brian Kinney and let Justin in again, just as he had the night of his prom. And as it did that night, the prospect of it scared him, but it had to be done. Even if after this, Justin decided to walk out the door and never see him again, it had to be done. He should have done it long ago.

Brian leaned forward, planting gentle kisses on Justin’s forehead, the tip of his nose, his chin, and both cheeks. “Sunshine.” Brian murmured against his skin, trailing kisses down to the bridge of his nose. He looked into the brimming eyes and landed kisses on the teen’s eyebrows, gently stroking the fine hairs with his lips. He pulled back and stared into those eyes once more, eyes that held him in thrall while they fucked, eyes that he loved to see crinkle at the corners whenever the boy smiled or laughed, eyes he loved to see following him whenever he walked around the loft, eyes that were so expressive, eyes that made him melt inside whenever they locked gazes, eyes that had pierced him through the heart at the Rage party just before he turned his back on him and walked out the door. Those eyes. He loved those eyes.

“Sunshine. . .” He whispered the endearment in the blond’s ear, punctuating the word with kisses to the earlobe, venturing down to cover the smooth column of his neck. “It’s okay.”

“How can you say that after everything that’s happened?” Justin’s voice was hoarse with the effort of resisting the pull to cry. “You knew all along what you’d done for me that night, what you’d given me . . . and you kept giving . . . you agreed to rules . . . you kept your end of the bargain . . .coming home to me. . . and I fucked it up . . .”

Brian rolled over onto his back, pulling Justin atop him, burying his face in the soft blond hair. “How can you think any of it was your fault? You didn’t know.”

Justin squirmed to create a space between them, and he looked up at the older man with confused eyes. “I was the one who doubted you, and I shouldn’t have. I knew you’d come to the prom – that should’ve counted for something with me. And still I ruined it. I broke all our rules, I – I lied. I cheated . . .”

“We both managed to piss on what we had,” Brian said, gently massaging the boy’s hair. “But I as good as held your dick for you while we did it. I started this. I was selfish, Sunshine. I always pushed you away when you wanted to talk about prom or I tried to fuck the hurt away for you because I couldn’t deal with it. Because I remembered it all.” Brian flushed with pain as the memory of his desperate warning, Justin’s dazzling smile, and then the deadly hiss of the bat’s descent flashed in quick succession in his mind. “I was fucked up. I couldn’t think about what was incredible about that night without remembering how it ended . . .” He twined his fingers through the boy’s hair, relishing the feel of his arms being filled with beautiful, blond teenager again.

“I just didn’t want to deal with my memories,” Brian said in a whisper. “But you couldn’t remember any of it – and that’s just as painful for you as remembering is for me.” Brian’s thumb circled the soft area just above the swell of Justin’s right cheek. “I didn’t know it, though. And I didn’t know you were hurting, because I never gave you a chance to tell me.” Brian leaned forward until their foreheads were touching, and he indulged in the feeling of being connected, of feeling soft skin beneath his, and hot breath against his lips. “I don’t want to you to hold it in any more, Sunshine. You’ve dealt with it on your own long enough now. I’m here.” Brian drew back, and ran his fingers over the boy’s eyelids, coaxing them closed. Tears ran hot and fast down Justin’s face, pooling beneath his chin before dropping onto the silken covering below. Brian exhaled as the next wave of tears came down, and Justin’s shoulders began to shake.

“That’s it, Sonnyboy, let it out . . . It’s okay. You need this.” Brian guided the boy’s head to his chest, and he reclined slowly back onto the bed, drawing the duvet around them as they found safe harbor in each other’s arms. “You’ve needed this for awhile, and I kept it from you - I wouldn't let you tell me.” He kissed the top of the boy’s head, the sound of Justin’s weeping resonate throughout his body, rocking him to his core. "I fucked up, Sunshine, and I’m sorry.” He lapsed into silence then, burying his face in Justin’s hair, rocking him gently as the teen bathed his chest in tears.

Some time later, when Justin had calmed, and Brian’s shirt was nearly soaked through, the older man heard a muffled sound and felt Justin’s lips move against his chest. Brian pulled away a little and tilted his eyes downward. “What was that?”

The teen turned a tear-streaked face toward Brian, his lips curving into the slightest of smiles. “I was just thinking -- you’re apologizing? I thought sorry was bullshit.”

“It is.” Brian didn’t flinch when Justin reached up to brush away a tear that had somehow slipped out and was making its way down his cheek. “But I think this gets a special dispensation.”

Justin nodded once, and burrowed his way deeper into the man’s arms, tracing lazy circles on Brian’s back. “This is nice. I could totally sleep for hours just like this. Me and Daph were up . . . all night.” There was a very long pause, and then a yawn. In a drowsy voice, Justin mumbled, “I love these sheets.” Another yawn.

“Falling asleep on me?” Brian wove his fingers through the golden hair. “Fuck . . . so much for talking.”

Justin’s laughter was muffled by Brian’s shirt. “This is just a little break. We’re not done yet.”

Brian tightened his arms around Justin in response, listening as the teen's breathing evened out into the slow, steady rhythm that indicated sleep was close at hand. Holding him close, Brian was keenly aware of how much he’d missed the feeling of completeness, in companionship and in love, whenever Justin was with him. Letting the steady thud of Justin’s heartbeat lull him to sleep, Brian contemplated the truth of the blond’s words. They weren’t done yet. They weren’t done yet. And if he had anything to say about it, they weren’t going to be. It wasn’t over between them. Not by a long shot.

Interlude – Minute Man

Two more minutes. Brian wriggled minutely, letting his body sink a fraction more into the mattress. In two more minutes, he’d get up, do his best to not wake the sleeping blond in his arms, shower, change clothes, order them some dinner, maybe put some mood music on, and . . . think. Think about what had happened between them that day and what was going to happen between them now. What should happen between them now. That would take the better part of an hour, the exec figured, during which time the food would have arrived, Justin would have awoken, and he would have gathered enough brain cells to continue their talk, aided, Brian hoped, by all of the time he would have spent in deep thought. In just two more minutes, he’d begin his preparations, starting with some quality time – alone, most likely – in the shower.

The thing was, though, he’d been repeating the mantra of “two more minutes” for at least a half-hour without taking very many steps to get out of bed. It wasn’t his fault, though, he was sure of it -- it seemed each time he made a move to rise, his limbs would betray him, refusing to straighten, preferring instead to remain curled around the blond’s slumbering form. His eyes refused to obey the command to stay open, fluttering open and shut intermittently, and Brian silently rejoiced at the sight that awaited him each time he opened his eyes – that of Justin folded in his arms. After two months of spending time in this bed with his arms wound around nothing except empty air, the warmth was back, his Sunshine was back. Brian felt comfortable . . . damned comfortable . . . in his bed again, despite being fully dressed, despite being somewhat hungry, and despite feeling a borderline-desperate need for a shower. He felt secure, warm, whole, and perfectly content to remain cocooned with the blond in the duvet and two of those new sheets Justin loved so much.

Brian sighed softly . . . he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt more relaxed in bed – and sex hadn’t even been part of the equation. Hell, not only that, but they were still fully dressed. And there was more – they were fully dressed, and Brian was more than happy to stay that way . . . at least for the time being. This was just . . . good. This was good just the way it was . . . he and Justin wrapped around each other, linked in their own way . . . drawn together by attraction, yes, and by desire . . . but by need, too . . . and now, finally now, by understanding. So freaking comfortable . . . Brian pressed himself closer to the blond. This just worked. They clicked just as they were. There was, really, no need to move. No need to shift positions. This was perfection right here, right now, and always had been. Always would be. He grinned muzzily at the sleeping teen, brushing a light kiss on the top of his head. What have you done to me, Sonnyboy?

The exec lingered there, buried chin-deep in golden silk, savoring the scent of herbal shampoo and the blond’s own inimitable aroma, feeling the subtle rise and fall of Justin’s chest against his own. Such a familiar position this was – so many times in the early days of their living together after the bashing, Brian would fall asleep facing the boy, heartbeat to heartbeat, his face tucked into his hair. Situated that way, Brian had been better able to gauge the tension in the teen’s body as he slept. If he felt the boy stiffen any time during the night, it was an indication that Justin was in the grip of a nightmare, and a signal for Brian to rouse him gently from it . . . usually with kisses and caresses, sometimes with soothing words, which, Brian recalled, seemed to calm Justin the most. If, however, there was no rigidity present in the slumbering form, Brian knew then that Justin was untroubled in his slumber, content with the protection – as little as it seemed to Brian – afforded by being held by the older man . . . little knowing, Brian supposed, that he derived just as much comfort and peace of mind from the embrace as Justin himself did. And it was the same now. Brian could feel how relaxed Justin was -- the way the boy’s limbs twined around Brian’s, the manner in which his body molded to the corresponding contours of the older man, how beautiful and unguarded the teen’s face was in its serenity. All of it indicated Justin had found his comfort zone . . . and that he'd found it in Brian’s arms once more filled the older man with a satisfaction and a growing belief that all would truly be well again between them. It just felt too right for it not to be. Brian held back a yawn as he felt the urge to catnap descend upon him again. No . . . not too . . . right. There could be no qualifiers for these emotions . . . there was nothing “too” about them. It was just . . . right. It was all just . . . right.

Brian felt his eyelashes twitch, Justin’s hair becoming dimmer and dimmer as his eyelids began to drift downward. Two more minutes, and then he’d put the second part of the “Saturday In the Loft With Brian” program into play. He just needed two more minutes . . . two more minutes of this all-encompassing comfort, of waking up to find Justin there with him, as if the blond had never left. As if Justin never felt that he’d needed to. As if Brian hadn’t taken leave of his senses and thought Justin’s leaving would be the best thing for both of them.

Just two more minutes. Brian’s eyes closed upon the silent promise. Just two more. And then he’d be ready.

~*~End interlude~*~

Four – Frame of Reference

A slight rippling of the mattress and a peculiar scratching sound brought Brian back to the realm of consciousness. Blinking rapidly, the hazel eyes took note of how the shadows in the room had darkened from red to a purplish-blue, and he could feel on his skin the slight heaviness indicative of the evening air. Apparently, his “two-minute” plan had stretched into more like two hours, as a quick glance at the clock on the nightstand confirmed. Oh, well. No harm, no foul. It never took him long to shake off the cobwebs of sleep – a holdover, he supposed, from the days of his youth. Back then, he learned to sleep lightly to give himself a fighting chance to get up and away before his father could stumble upon him while in one of his drunken rages. It did, however, take him a few seconds to realize that he’d woken up to . . . nothing. Was staring at . . . nothing. Was holding . . . nothing. No one. And that for damn sure had not been part of the plan.

Justin. Fully awake now, Brian experienced a moment of panic at the emptiness in his arms. Odd how he’d woken up exactly in that state for two months with few problems, yet after two hours being with Justin, his muscle memory was reactivated, and waking up alone made him feel as if he was missing a limb. Where . . . what the fuck . . .

Then the scratching noises came again – louder, closer, sharper. The dread that had gripped him melted away, and Brian’s smile was equal parts relief and approval. Relaxing now, Brian stretched the kinks out of his legs, letting the sound of pencil scraping on paper fill his ears before rolling over to confront an all-too-familiar sight.

And there it was – there he was. Justin sitting up, knees drawn nearly to his chest, back flush against a cluster of pillows, and a sketchpad balanced on his thighs. In that pose, the blond looked much like a work of art himself. Brian marveled at the intense look of concentration on the youthful face, and how still Justin’s body was – not even a hair seemed to stir – save for his right hand, which was moving in arcs and swoops and short strokes across the page.

Brian settled back quietly, resting his head on an arm. This had always been fun, watching Justin in the act of creation. Brian could practically see the ideas whirling in the blond’s mind, flowing down to his hand, driving it to fill a blank page or canvas or computer screen with lines and circles and squares and ovals that would somehow fit together and be transformed into the portrait of a child or a dog or the always-popular bowl of fruit. Or a penis. His own twitched at that moment, as if in reminder that it was still present and still very much interested in reacquainting itself with certain areas of Justin. Forget it, buddy. He’s working. Grimacing, Brian mentally wrestled his anatomy into a more manageable state.

Blue eyes swung onto Brian like searchlights, startling him. The hand didn’t cease its movement. “You’re up.”

“You could say that.” He ran a hand over his hair. “Why didn’t you wake me? It’s past seven.”

“I didn’t notice.” Justin glanced over at him, smiling. “Besides . . . I like watching you sleep.”

It was a simple answer. And Brian found himself simply blown away by it. Taking some time to gather his wits and place them where he could find him, he decided to stay in that vein and keep his next question simple. “You sleep okay?”

“Oh, yeah.” Brian was only slightly surprised to note that Justin’s patented Sunshine smile was no less dazzling when seen in profile. “You?”

“You could say that. I haven’t fallen asleep in the middle of the afternoon since Vance stopped holding those bullshit brainstorming meetings.” Brian rose in an attempt to glimpse the sketchpad. “A few hours in bed with me, and you’re back to your old tricks.”

“You could say that.” Justin angled away from him, covering his work with his forearm. “Don’t . . . it’s nothing really worth looking at.”

Which meant, Brian knew, that it was on its way to becoming a minor masterpiece. With each sketch, Justin seemed to take another step on the path that led out of the Pitts to much greener pastures. The older man’s first thought was that it might be something for school, but then remembered that the sketches Justin were particularly reluctant to show him were invariably the ones in which he – or parts of his anatomy – were prominent.

“Nothing worth looking at, huh?” Brian swallowed back a yawn. “So I guess it’s not me you’re drawing.”

Laughing, Justin shook his head. “The scary thing about how conceited you are is that it’s totally justified.” The look the blond shot him zinged Brian right in the groin. “That’s not what I meant, anyway. It’s a concept sketch – just a lot of scribbling, jotting down some ideas . . .” He frowned down at his work, cocking his head to one side. Taking his pencil and making a few slanted movements, he studied the page a little more, then smiled a little. “Not too bad.”

“So can I see now?” Brian knew the answer would be no, but he wanted those eyes on him, wanted that sweet, slightly self-effacing smile again . . . and he got his wish. Staring up into the glittering blue depths, Brian saw only a hint of the earlier tears, though his cheeks and lips held the same rose flush that usually followed laughing jags or long bouts of crying. “When then?”

“When it looks like something.” Justin stroked the paper, then closed the pad. “I haven’t seen this sketchbook in a long time. I’d forgotten about it.” He glanced at Brian. “I found it in the kitchen. In one of the counters above the sink.”

“Uh-huh . . .” Brian pulled himself into a seated position, keeping his tone casual. Arriving home one night three days after the Rage party, the loft’s emptiness had, well, annoyed him, for lack of a better word. The first two days after the fiasco, he’d burned the midnight oil to a crisp, coming to the loft too tired to anything except fall asleep – sometimes fully clothed. But the third day, he’d arrived relatively conscious, the fumes he’d been running on to sustain himself those first days post-Justin having run out. And there he stood in the middle of the loft, which seemed almost ostentatious in its emptiness and silence, growing more and more unnerved. Months of coming in to find clutter, to find sketches everywhere, to smell food cooking, to hear the radio blaring . . . and now there was this nothingness . . . it seemed foreign . . . unnatural.

Something in the ad exec snapped then, and he spent the rest of the night going through every corner of the loft, pulling out shelves, opening drawers, peeking under things in what he told himself was an attempt to make sure Justin had “gotten all his shit” out of the loft. On some level, however, he was aware that he was searching for some indication that the teen had been there, that for some months, his loft actually seemed like a home, not just a pit stop where he fucked and showered, and occasionally slept and did work. And after hours of searching, he’d found that something in the kitchen, appropriately enough in a cupboard – a sketchbook, lightly used. There had only been a few drawings in it, the last of which was one of him sitting at his desk, papers and files piled up around him. Brian could picture Justin drawing the portrait . . . imagined the teen leaning over the breakfast bar sketching away while in the middle of fixing some impossibly fattening thing that Brian always ended up eating anyway, stowing the sketchbook in the cabinet after he was done. And that’s where Brian had returned the book, feeling the loft’s bareness was much more tolerable for its being there.

“Best place for it . . . cool and dry.” Brian’s stomach rumbled suddenly, this talk of kitchens and cabinets igniting his appetite. “You hungry?”

“I was. That’s why I went into the kitchen . . .”

“And you expected to find food there? Poor, misguided Sunshine.” Brian’s hand brushed a bundle of papers, and he pulled the menus into view, dropping them into Justin’s lap. “You’re the guest, Sonnyboy. You get to choose how much saturated fat I ingest tonight.”

“Oooh, power.” Justin grinned, fingering the menus. “You know, with the money you spend on take-out you could hire a cook or something.” Brian jumped slightly when the teen ran a hand up his shirt and gently caressed his side, tracing the outline of his ribs. “Don’t you eat at all? You’re getting way too thin.”

“I was thinking about ordering those Zone meal things . . . they deliver food right to you. Every day.” His skin tingled where Justin had touched him, and he was distracted a moment. “Problem is, they put eggs in every fucking thing, and I hate eggs.”

“Don’t waste your money. My mom tried that for a month and she said everything tasted like Styrofoam.” Justin said. “You should at least go to the market sometimes . . . get frozen stuff . . . fruit . . . easy stuff. I could help you if you want. Make out a list of things I know you’d like . . .”

Brian grinned at what he often referred to as Justin’s ‘blond, suburban housewife gene’ kicking in. He personally found the idea of shopping for more than just a night’s meal tedious . . . especially if all he was doing was eating alone. He could order out just as easily and avoid the silly, simpering cashiers who made eyes at him while chirping about the benefits of signing up for the Giant Eagle Super Savers Card. It had been different when Justin lived in the loft. They’d gone grocery shopping together; Justin waving around coupons and spouting wisdom about the best way to choose a cantaloupe. Brian would be left to push the cart and stare in barely concealed awe and amusement as Justin filled the cart with meats and cheeses and fresh produce and grains. And the boy actually had a Giant Eagle Super Savers Card.

“I just may take you up on that. Later.” Brian swung his legs off the bed. “Right now, I want something hot, quick and without MSG. There are checkmarks in all of the menus . . . that’s the stuff I like. Stick with those, and I’ll be okay. Get whatever you want – as much as you want. Wherever you order from, tell ‘em to charge it to account BK106. And to include the tip.” He stood then, giving his underarms a surreptitious sniff. “Fuck. I reek. Get comfortable. I’m gonna shower.”

“Okay.” Justin was studying a bright blue menu from a popular Indian place. “I probably should, too. I didn’t get a chance to at Daph’s; I hate going into girl’s bathrooms . . . totally weird.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Brian looked down at him, wondering if he should extend an invitation to join him in the shower. His cock registered definite approval of that plan, and Brian reddened at the memory of their last shared shower . . . it had been hot, steamy, explosive . . . over much too soon. And then, soon after, they’d been over. Brian’s half-smile faded. There would come a time in which those ghosts would be banished and the shower . . re-inaugurated . . . but now was not the time. Talking . . . this was all about talking. Communication – the thing they didn’t have in their first go-round. And talking would not get done with the two of them showering together. He had first-hand – hell, first-mouth – experience on that. Brian bit his lip, backing away when the situation in his pants threatened to get out of them.

“We could have Italian.” Justin didn’t look up as he started flipping through another menu. “I haven’t had chicken parmigiana in forever.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Brian did an about-face with almost military precision, stalking off to the bathroom as best as he could in his state of protrusion. He closed the door with just a hair more force than was necessary and leaned his forehead against the solid wood, barely suppressing the urge to ram his head through it. If this was the road to getting things back to normal, then it was going to be a long, bumpy trip.

But he wondered, as he shed his clothes, if there had ever been a normal where he and Justin were concerned? There had been nothing normal in the way they began, nor in the 10 months between the time they met and the bashing, during which time Justin ensconced himself into his life. There had definitely been no normal in the immediate aftermath of the attack. Their living together and the circumstances that had brought that about had been far from normal. Their non-relationship, marked by the “rules,” had been nowhere near normal. Their ending had definitely not been normal . . .

Fuck normal. Stepping in under the moderately hot spray, Brian wondered why the words seemed so strange to him . . . he’d been saying those – or a variation – words for a very long time now. People with upbringings like his, families like his, tended to do that . . . say that . . . think that. Fuck normal. It was boring . . . and more often than not, it was a fucking lie. What the hell was normal, anyway? Never existed for him . . . never would, probably. And he was just fine with that . . . always had been.

But maybe for Justin . . . normal was an issue. He’d had the Rockwellian upbringing, after all, swaddled in suburban care until age 17. He believed in dinner time . . . in the “four major food groups” . . . in taking drugs prescribed only by a reputable pharmacist . . . in romance and love and monogamy. All witheringly regular WASP values. Brian massaged shampoo through his hair, scrubbing at his scalp. No wonder no one believed it would work between them. Why should it . . . the age thing, the background thing . . . in just about every way, they were different. And screw the “opposites attract” garbage. Brian slowly lathered up a loofah, moving it in circles on his abdomen. He was attracted to all types – not just bubble-assed, blond twink-types with private-school educations and asshole fathers with mean left jabs. And, if the Fiddler was any indication, Justin’s repertoire wasn’t limited to men in the “sophisticated, established, (moderately) older” mold.

Brian shook his hair, sending droplets of water everywhere. Their differences shouldn’t have been a factor, either positively or negatively . . . still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that if their differences hadn’t brought them together in the first place, they’d definitely had a part in breaking them up . . . Sure, none of that had mattered in the old days – maybe they’d been too busy plowing each other into the mattress to notice.

The exec turned, and while the water pelted his back, he recalled the old days – the pre-rules, pre-bashing, pre-all-gone-to-shit days. Those halcyon days in which they seemed to understand each other better . . . Justin seemed able to “read” him better – almost to the extent to which Brian wondered if Mikey’s enthused commentary about superpowers didn’t have the ring of truth, for the teen certainly seemed able to read his mind. The shower would be a perfect example: in the old days, he wouldn’t even have had to wonder if he should ask the blond if he wanted to join him . . . Justin would have already have been in the stall waiting, lathering up, putting on a damned good show behind the shower glass –

Brian’s eyes popped open at the same time the shower door did, and he paused in the act of turning to reach for the soap when he felt a rush of heat at his back and Justin’s voice, even and clear, washing over him.

“Last week, Daph and I signed this petition going around CMU. I think it was Greenpeace, maybe. Something about keeping the environment from going to shit. So I thought I’d do my part and help conserve water.”

There was a clicking sound that Brian recognized as the shower door’s shutting, and he felt his cock jump two levels of hardness, hovering somewhere around glass-cutter stage. He turned slowly, flinging wet hair out of his eyes so the blond would get the full effect of his no-way-is-this-awkward stare. And he was sure it would have had some effect, too, had Justin been looking into his eyes. But the blond’s gaze dipped low as soon as Brian had completely turned. “ . . . And I thought maybe you could use a hand.” Justin’s stare was steady, and when he swiped his bottom lip with his tongue, Brian felt himself take another unconscious step – forward this time.

But then some odd – and strangely rational – voice within gave Brian pause, dampening his ardor. He still hadn’t finished his thought processes . . . and fucking Justin now might throw him completely off-track. He’d brought the boy there to talk, after all – just talk. He’d promised. And dammit, that’s what they were going to do for now . . . his dick be damned. Brian blinked at that, the lyrics from The Impossible Dream looping through his mind somewhat irrelevantly. Must’ve been more than just cinnamon in that fucking hot chocolate.

Turning his attention to the still-leering Justin, he noted that affairs below the blond’s belly button were progressing rather nicely. Mouth watering, Brian nevertheless steeled his resolve. “You were right, Sonnyboy. There’s something you could do for me . . .”

Justin looked up at that, his grin flashed briefly, dazzling against the pale skin. “I figured . . .”

He began to lower himself into a kneeling position before Brian, heeding the alarm bells in his mind, grabbed his shoulder, preventing his descent. “I didn’t mean that.” Cataloguing the disappointment on Justin’s face, the older man debated asking the teen to leave . . . it was just too tempting to keep focus with Justin right there. And naked. And willing. And more than able. After a second or two of deliberation, Brian decided he’d be all right – this wouldn’t take long. Just a simple shower. In, out and done. In and out . . . Brian clamped down on some unsavory images prompted by the words. Get a fucking grip, Kinney . . . and not on him.

“It’s been awhile . . . guess I’ve forgotten what you like,” Justin murmured. “What do you want then?”

His dick standing as a testament to how untrue that statement was, Brian quirked an eyebrow at the boy, unconsciously putting some more space between them. “How about I show you?” Calmly, Brian took the teen’s hand and brought it to his chest. The exec battled hard not to quake at the blond’s touch as the hand started its downward progression. Down went the fingers . . . Justin’s smile widening as Brian guided the hand over water-slick pecs . . . over the torso . . . down . . . to his side . . . then his hip . . .

And that’s where Brian stopped it . . . pressing the loofah into the blond’s hand. Smiling placidly at Justin’s puzzled look, Brian turned, again presenting his back to the teen. “Wash my back, would you, Sunshine?”

There was a pause that was made longer by the apparent lack of breathing on Brian’s part. “Uhm . . . sure . . .” Justin’s voice was a blend of hesitation and what the fuck. Justin recovered himself well, though, and dutifully began moving the scratchy object in long swoops. “Is that okay?”

Brian grunted his approval, letting his head tilt forward. He wasn’t letting his guard down – not really – but Justin’s gentle ministrations and the pulsing warm water felt amazing. The blond’s hand was resting on his hip, and Brian could feel the tip of the blond’s cock brush against his ass intermittently. None of this was doing much for his own aroused state, but he was conscious that his dick had its own “muscle memory,” and that even if Justin weren’t touching him, the combination of the shower plus a naked, wet Justin in close proximity would have him continually erect. “What time’s the food getting here?” Nice plan of action, there – distract himself from one type of appetite and focus on another.

“I haven’t ordered yet.” Justin focused his attention on Brian’s left shoulder blade. “There was this one menu that didn’t have any checkmarks . . .”

“Mmmm.” Brian tensed when Justin’s hand inched over his hip, moving closer to his thigh. He angled his hips a little, moving certain bits out of easy grabbing range. “Could you do the middle a little more?” He waited, and was only slightly relieved when Justin complied, his hands retreating from more sensitive areas. “No checkmarks means I’ve never ordered from there before.”

“That’s what I thought. I thought we’d try it together.” Justin rested his chin on Brian’s shoulder, kissing it briefly. “They have a sampler platter that sounds really good. It’ll be an adventure.”

Adventure? Brian wondered just how much Alka Seltzer he had on hand. “It’s dinner, not a safari. What – shit!” Brian rocked on his heels when he felt Justin’s hand grabbing a bit desperately at his dick. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Sorry . . . I lost my balance.” Justin was panting a little. “I forgot how slippery it can get in here.” The boy wound his arms around the exec’s middle, pressing himself against Brian’s back. “This isn’t how it usually goes . . . you’re usually the one in back of me. Remember?”

Brian did. All too well. Turning, he gave the boy a carnivorous smile and grasped his shoulders. Spun him around and pressed him into “position” against the shower glass.

“Better?” Brian growled into his ear, ignoring for the moment the tugging sensations in his dick . . . as if his flesh was being drawn magnetically to a certain orifice. He felt disturbing quakes in the calm demeanor he’d managed to muster.

“Getting there,” Justin murmured, gently rubbing his hand on Brian’s ass. “Now this is the type of shower I remember.”

Brian’s dick leapt in silent agreement. His had somehow found its way into the crevice just above where the soft curve rounded into perfectly formed cheeks . . . the most amazing ass he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing. For one dark, raw second, Brian thought about just plunging in. No lube, no condom . . . just skin and desire slicking the path for him – for them. Eradicating the past . . .

Swallowing hard, he beat down the impulse. No. No fucking way would he ever do that to Justin . . . not now, not ever, no matter how much he wanted him. He stepped away from the blond, taking a few moments to get himself together. If Justin had stayed put, he could have simply jerked off and taken the edge off. Now that wasn’t possible, and his level of horniness was rising exponentially. And this couldn’t happen here or now. Not until they’d talked more. Not until he knew where he stood with the teen. Not until –

“Brian?” Justin looked over his shoulder, worry lines creasing his forehead. “What’s the matter?”

Not until he stops being able to read my fucking mind. “Hot water’s about to run out.” Brian grabbed the loofah and began hurriedly rubbing Justin’s back. The less skin-on-skin contact they had, the better. “Don’t know about you, but a cold shower’s not in my plans.” Though, he conceded, that it might not be a bad idea, considering.

“Mmm, no. That would kind of suck.” Justin leaned back, twisting this way and that to get the full benefit of Brian’s attentions. “Could you go a little lower please?”

Warily, Brian brought his hand down, pretending not to notice Justin’s wiggling ass. “So what is this place we’re gonna try, Sonnyboy? Thai? Barbecue fusion?”

“Erm . . . Middle Eastern, I think. I saw stuffed grape leaves on the menu.” The boy tugged at Brian’s hand. “A little lower . . . there’s this spot I can’t ever seem to get . . .”

Brian’s eyes narrowed, hand pausing on the small of Justin’s back. “Here?”

“Almost there . . .”

Hearing the grin in the teen’s voice, Brian gritted his teeth, then quickly squatted down. Placed the loofah on the back of Justin’s thigh, resolutely avoiding staring at the teen’s ass. “This low enough for you?”

“Not exactly what I had in mind. But I like where this is going.” Before Brian had a chance to react, Justin had turned to face him again, and the exec found himself face-to-face with a bobbing hard-on. Dimly aware of the beginnings of an ache in his knees, Brian stared at the stiff flesh . . . contemplating it. Sizing it up. Water – or, at least what looked like it – beaded at the reddish-purple tip, dripping to the porcelain below. It seemed fluid in its rigidity, jiggling with every breath Justin took, jutting out in contrast to the silken, blond pubes. And so, so close. Close enough to be able to just stick his tongue out a little and be able to taste the slightly salted skin . . . be able to lave the head entirely, painting delicate circles around the slit before taking the head entirely into his mouth . . . . that close. He was that close . . . to losing complete control.

Brian dared to look upward, stomach tightening when he saw Justin staring down at him through heavy-lidded eyes, his steady gaze boring into him in soundless expectation. The water raining down on them both was cooling even as Brian felt the area above his upper thighs heat to the point of melting. He felt something inside him crumbling, and after a few moments of dry-mouthed staring, he recognized it as his vaunted resolve.

He wanted him. He wanted his mouth on Justin’s cock as much – more even – than Justin himself. Wanted to sate himself on the boy’s taste, feel the familiar sensation of sweetly slick flesh sliding over his tongue. He was never one who found himself in the position of giving blowjobs, but he’d always enjoyed going down on Justin. Not only was the blond’s vocal appreciation of his skills a turn on, but it just felt good to him, too. He liked the taste of the teen, the feel of him. He liked tonguing the sensitive area beneath the head of his cock, loved feeling Justin jump when he traced a path down the vein on the underside of the shaft. He enjoyed feeling Justin’s hands in his hair – not guiding him, which the exec hated – but stroking him . . . urging him on. Tender. Gentle. He loved kissing Justin’s balls, dragging his tongue over the delicate skin of his sac, jiggling the orbs with the very tip of his tongue . . . taking one and then the other into his mouth --

“Brian . . . please . . .”

It was part plea, part command, sincere and tinged with urgency. That, paired with Justin’s fingers twining in his hair, pulling him closer, was Brian’s breaking point. With a defiant, internal not yet that resonated to the soles of his feet, Brian popped to his feet as if he’d been propelled on a rocket launcher and nearly slid and fell on his ass turning the water off and swinging the shower door open.

“Bath time’s over.” He kept his back to the teen, knocking around the small space to find towels for the both of them, he made as much noise as he needed to drown out the hammering of his heart. That had been entirely too close . . . and he couldn’t promise himself that he’d be able to rein in his desire if Justin pressed him much more.

“Here.” Brian thrust a towel in Justin’s general direction and quickly wrapped one around himself, chuckling silently and humorlessly at the tenting out of the towel. It all seemed so utterly ridiculous to be walking around in his own home with a hard-on and blue balls when there was such a willing – and beautiful – participant at hand to relieve him, but the one small area of his being that wasn’t piqued at his holding back was assuring him that his “sacrifice” would pay dividends at a future date. Now the trick was getting to said future date without imploding . . .

Brian had one foot out the door when he realized that he hadn’t heard a word from Justin, hadn’t even heard him step out of the shower stall. Glancing over his shoulder, he did a double take at what he saw. Justin was standing in front of the sink area, unmoving, a towel wrapped loosely around his still damp body, his face turned to the floor. Brian backtracked, waiting for Justin to look up at his approach and made sure to color his words in neutral tones. “There a problem, Sunshine?”

He saw the boy swallow, then look up into the mirror, the glass reflecting the apprehension and dejection in Justin’s eyes. “I don’t know. Is there?” Justin stared at him steadily by way of the mirror. “Why didn’t you . . . it’s like . . . didn’t want to touch me . . . didn’t want me to touch you . . .”

“Is that what you wanted? For me to touch you? For me to blow you? Fuck you, maybe?” His voice sharpened with every word. “I thought you wanted to just talk.”

Justin blinked owlishly into the glass. “We’d always fool around in the shower.” Something resembling a smile made a brief appearance on the teen’s face. “It was always fun. And hot. And you didn’t tell me to get out, so I thought that you’d want to do things like before . . .” His voice trailed off, and went to studying the marble basin.

Before. Feeling something within him ‘ping’ at that word, he scowled, securing his towel tighter around his hips. “Like before? You mean like saying we’re gonna talk and then fuck instead? Breaking promises to each other? Lying? Acting like everything’s okay and then fuck some more?” He met Justin’s questioning gaze steadily, recalling their last days together, how they’d misled each other with every thrust, every kiss. “’Cause that was Before. That’s all the shit we did Before. You and me.” His voice became as steely as the memories of pissing on Rage, the chiding of the Munchers on Justin’s birthday, the Vermont fiasco, the Fiddler, among other things, presented themselves in his brain in a full-color montage.

“Before shot everything to crap. Before was one fucked-up situation after another. Before isn’t gonna fix things, Sunshine, because before was a fucking farce. Before hurt. It hurt you . . . and it . . . it didn’t do much for me, either.” Brian looked away then, his voice drifting into a whisper. “You want that again? You want it like Before?” He waited a beat. “Can you seriously say that you want to do things the old way? If you do, tell me now so you can get dressed and get the fuck out . . . because I don’t fucking want it, and I’m not gonna do it.”

Brian stepped back and waited for the boy to brush past him, get dressed and sail out the door and his life again without looking back. Because what he was asking wasn’t fair – not to Justin. The barrel of a bat obliterated Justin’s frame of reference as it pertained to the two of them, leaving only what had happened after the bashing – the dreaded Before – as the blond’s guidepost into what had been their “relationship.” He’d had precious little to fall back on other than what had come in the time between Justin’s moving in with him again and the seconds right before he walked out of Babylon with Ethan. And now he was telling him that they couldn’t go back there . . . telling him all that had happened was to be treated as if it was a mistake – because most of it had been. And that he had to shelve all of what had happened there and trust that he wouldn’t get hurt again . . . that wherever they went now – whatever they did, it would not beget the same pain and anger and heartache that had come Before. He was asking Justin to trust him not to hurt him again. Of course he was aware that implicit in that was his own unspoken plea for the same from the blond – that meant no Fiddlers, no blind-sided attacks from lesbians, no thinking everything was okay, but finding out through veiled glances, veiled hints, and the aroma of another man’s cum, that everything was decidedly not okay.

It was a good thing, Brian thought idly, that Mel wasn’t within spitting distance of this conversation. Or Linds, for that matter. One or both of them would surely chide him for having the “gall” to make any demands. He imagined the Munchers’ outrage: how could he stand and look the teen in the eye and see the jagged scar on Justin’s right temple and ask him to put enough faith in him – again – to ensure that he was kept healthy and whole in both mind and body? He’d managed to nicely fuck it all up before . . . why should Justin give him a chance to do it again? He couldn’t give himself a good reason as to why the teen should – he didn’t think he would, if he were Justin – but he knew one thing: he was right. Going back into the tried-and-fucked routine they’d had before would make things a hell of a lot worse. Better to let Justin go back to the beautiful violinist for a second movement in the Concerto for Two Teen Homos than regress to their rules, curfew, and talking-around-each-other stage.

“Listen . . . you think I don’t want to fuck you?” Brian had calmed down by degrees, warmth creeping back into his tone to counter the look of dejection he saw on Justin’s face. “Look at me, Sonnyboy.” Brian waited until Justin turned from the mirror and faced him. “What do you see?”

Brian watched Justin’s eyes flick down and then up to his face again. “You. In a towel.”

“And I’m hard . . . aren’t I?” Brian held himself very still as the eyes did another downward progression and stayed below for some moments.

“Yeah.” Brian could hear the wistful timbre in the teen’s voice. “You are.”

“And I was hard in there,” he nodded toward the shower. “Wasn’t I?”

Justin nodded, chewing his lower lip. That, and the way his hair was plastered to his forehead made the artist look all of thirteen, Brian thought, making the serious expression on the youthful face seem out of place.

“I was hard in bed, with you . . . when we were talking . . . when we were sleeping.” Brian moved closer. “I was hard when we came into the loft. I was hard at that fucking hole in the wall “café”, drinking the damned chocolate.” He brightened at Justin’s brief grin. “I was hard this morning, when I picked up the phone and heard your voice . . . I want to fuck you, Justin. I always want to fuck you. But fucking’s not gonna fix things.” Brian fell silent a minute, appropriately awed by his epiphanic moment. “It never did Before. Did it?”

A slight exhalation of breath and a gentle nod served as answer. “You’re right. It sucked before. It would probably be best to just forget about it . . .”

“Uh-uh, Sunshine. We’re not gonna just forget it.” Brian refused to set that trap for himself . . . attempt to bury the last few months of their relationship as if it’d just been some fucked-up dream. He’d tried that with the prom . . . and look where that had gotten them. “We’re just not gonna repeat it.”

Justin nodded again, the tense lines on his forehead smoothing away. “I can deal with that. Only . . .” He chewed on his lip and spoke almost shyly. “Um . . . does this mean we're never gonna shower together again? It was one of our favorite places –” He checked himself hastily, staring down at the floor.

“No . . . that’s not what I meant.” Brian bent his knees a little so that he was on a level to look into Justin’s eyes, leaning in until their foreheads touched. “You wanted – we wanted – to talk. That’s why we’re here . . . and that’s what we’re gonna do. For now, fucking stays on the backburner.”

Justin’s expression perked up, and judging by the movement of the towel, it wasn’t the only thing. “For now? So maybe later? . . .” Justin made a fumbling movement at his waist, and a minute later, the teen’s towel whispered to floor, puddling around his ankles.

“Oops,” Justin murmured insincerely, smiling up at Brian through golden lashes. “Lost my grip.”

“Nice try, Sunshine. Out. Now.” Spinning Justin around by the shoulder, he gave him a quick, but gentle, shove out the door, but not before draping the discarded towel over the wet, blond head. “No dripping on the duvet.” His eyes followed Justin to the bed, watching as he flopped across the mattress. Brian swallowed down the impulse to follow and catapult himself atop the naked teen. Thankfully, his stomach chose that moment to give him an audible reminder of his other hunger. “Order already, Sonnyboy. The quicker we get some food, the quicker we can start talking again, and then –”

He stopped when he heard Justin on the phone, hurriedly imparting their order to a person who Brian could only hope could decipher Justin’s speed-speak. Watching the teen arrange himself on the bed, the corners of Brian’s mouth eased into a grin. Well fuck me. He’s sticking around. Kid has confidence in me. His smile wilted a little, a touch of bitterness at the edges. Guess that makes one of us. Slightly subdued, but buoyed by the sound of Justin’s voice just on the other side of the door, Brian began the hunt for something suitable to wear.

Five – Focus

Many things flipped Brian’s switch, flooding his body with lust and desire and stiffening his cock with purpose. A black dildo attached to a glitter harness, was one notable – and recent – example. Groomed eyebrows. A nice, muscular neck. Hard pecs. Maroon speedos. The smell of sandalwood. Some of his turn-on triggers were odder than others – as the glitter harness attested to – but he was sure none was stranger than the rush of fire he felt pooling in his groin just watching Justin eat. It stood to reason, too: the blond’s approach to a meal was similar to his approach to sex: He dove right in with no reservations, made occasional grunts and sighs of contentment as he satisfied his appetite, licked his lips when he was done, and then, five minutes later, was ready for seconds.

Brian gripped the stem of his wine glass until his knuckles turned chalky, eyes locked onto Justin’s face. The urge to lick the oil from the blond’s flushed lips was as overwhelming as the smell of tahini and garlic in the air, and the older man could do nothing but stare and swallow hard when Justin chose that moment to meet his gaze and, in a slow, deliberate movement, swabbed his own glistening lips with his tongue. Brian met Justin’s teasing smile with as casual a smirk as he could muster, and glanced at his watch, wondering just how long it’d be until his balls would return to their normal color.

They were lying on their stomachs in the living room, a feast of tongue-twisting, Middle Eastern delights spread out between them – every one of which Justin had attacked with gusto, sometimes not bothering to refer to the little menu for a translation of just what it was he was putting into his mouth. Brian, silently admiring the way Justin’s ass filled out the Penn State sweatpants he’d let the blond borrow, stuck to the more pedestrian rice and chickpea dishes, avoiding anything that made his eyes water, had too many onions, or looked like it could be or once had been an endangered species. It was strange . . . Brian had tasted, and enjoyed, Middle Eastern food before, but what they were eating now was billed as Middle Eastern cuisine with a “Pittsburgh” flair . . . and being that Pittsburgh had very little in the way of flair, Brian was understandably leery of their dinner selection. But Justin, ever the culinary adventurer, was cajoling Brian to try this or that, using those bottomless blue eyes and supernova smile to his best persuasive advantage.

“Brian, come on. Just have one bite. One.” Justin speared a chunk of meat with his fork and held it out. “It’s really, really good. Didn’t your mom teach not to waste food?”

“Get that shit away from me.” Brian pushed Justin’s hand away. To him, the seemed to be glowing, and Brian was sure the lighting in the room had nothing to do with it. “And don’t get any of it on the blankie. It might eat right through the fucking floor.”

With a derisive grin, Justin popped the morsel in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Baby.” Delivered from those smiling lips, the word seemed more endearment than taunt. “It’s not even spicy. Don’t you have a sense of adventure?”

“Yeah, and I have a sense of smell, too. And neither of them want to play tonight,” Brian said, tearing his eyes away from that tantalizing mouth long enough to glance around them and ponder just how they’d made it to their present location. When the food had arrived, Brian had been willing to eat in the bedroom, where Justin had been camped sketching and staring at their picture. But Justin, fearing for the safety of the new sheets, and a little more skeptical than Brian had been about the stain-resistant claim, had insisted that they eat in another part of the loft, which Brian had agreed to after five seconds of trying to persuade Justin to “forget about the fucking sheets and eat something.” They’d both dismissed the dining room table as too formal, and had wandered over to the couch, lining their food up on the coffee table. But they never got quite comfortable on the roomy sofa – too little legroom for them both, and the many containers and bottles barely fit on the table; they couldn’t hope to even reach for one carton without everything falling down.

Through a series of events and negotiations that Brian couldn’t quite remember, but none of which had involved speaking out loud, they had ended up on the floor, their food resting on an old tablecloth Brian vaguely remembered using during Mickey’s fateful 30th birthday bash. The hardwood surface didn’t seem suited to lie on, exactly, and there was something about seeing their dinner spread upon the white sheet as if they were at a picnic that was vaguely familiar and unsettling to the ad exec, but Brian had to admit that it was pretty decent there on the floor. Whether that was because his legs had free rein to stretch or because, as in the bed, the way they were situated allowed them to be able to see all of each other, Brian couldn’t say. In any case, he was reasonably comfortable, and judging by the way Justin was plowing through the offerings, the blond didn’t have any complaints, either.

“Glad you’re enjoying dinner, Sonnyboy.” Brian cast an amused look at the rapidly emptying food cartons, satisfied that things between them were finally beginning to settle into familiar patterns. “Just don’t lick the plates, okay? We can order more stuff, if you want.”

“Sorry . . . I haven’t really had anything solid since before class yesterday.” Justin smiled guiltily, spooning more rice onto his plate. “Daphne forced me to eat part of some gyro thing, but it seems like that was a long while ago.”

Brian frowned. That didn’t sound like the kid who could eat three helpings of Deb’s chicken lasagna and still have enough of an appetite to graze from other’s plates. “Since when has someone had to jam food down your throat?”

“I wasn’t really hungry. I was kinda drunk most of the night.” Justin ducked his head guiltily, attempting to hide his red face behind a bowl of couscous. “Daphne’s roommate is this total boozehound and she keeps all sorts of shit under her bed. She drinks so much she never knows how much she has, so me and Daph went through her stash.”

“You didn’t sound too hung over this morning.” Brian opened a container of something orange and oily, sniffed it cautiously, and set it back down again, put off by the fluorescent color. Brian wondered briefly if he’d glow in the dark if he ate any, and quickly and silently indulged an amusing fantasy about fucking Justin with a dick resembling a light saber. “Those all-night cram sessions teaching you to hold your liquor better?”

“Maybe. But really, the stuff I drank didn’t have much effect.” Justin dragged his fork through the rice on his plate, scattering it around. “I just felt the same kind of numb I felt when I first got to Daphne’s. Nothing helped much. Not even talking about it . . . or trying to. Daph kept me from going off the deep end, but I just felt so . . .” He trailed off, shrugging weakly. “It’s like I couldn’t feel my brain anymore. The picture, the article . . . everything sort of hit at once and it’s like my mind overloaded and I just had enough left in me to just listen . . . and breathe. But sometimes, it seemed like I forgot how to do that, too - breathe, I mean. But that might have been allergies . . . they've been acting up lately.”

A groove appeared in the space between Brian’s eyebrows, and he stared a moment at the strands of hair falling into Justin’s eyes. He’d noticed the longer hairstyle right off, and had been more than a little surprised that he liked it – a lot. It made Justin seem less like the callow, Abercrombie clone Justin had seemed to him when they first met, and more like the impressive, intelligent man Brian had always known the teen would grow into. Yet now, he seemed so innocent, with his hair nearly covering his eyes, and the earnest despair that had stolen into his voice, made him sound much like a schoolboy who’d forgotten his homework and was waiting to get reamed out by the teacher. Brian’s hand shot out before he’d realized it and hovered above the golden hair, fingers itching to bury themselves in the sunny strands. With an inaudible sigh, Brian brought his hand down on the teen’s shoulder instead, comforted by the solid warmth beneath his palm.

“Daphne’s a good friend. You’re lucky to have her.” Brian said quietly, giving Justin’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “But you could have called me, Sunshine. I was around . . . we could have . . . talked.”

“You could’ve, maybe, but I couldn’tve. I wasn’t thinking in complete sentences until about 10 this morning.” A glimmer of a smile crossed Justin’s face, and he pushed his hair out of his eyes. “But I think I’m over that now. There’s so much I want to say . . . and even more that I want to ask . . .”

Brian swallowed reflexively, sensing the shift in Justin’s tone. Here it was, the moment they’d been building up to since the day the doctors came out and announced to the waiting throng gathered outside the IC unit that Justin was going to live. It was time for the conversation.

“Great.” The exec cleared his throat, and massaged the back of his neck. Maybe I should eat some of that orange shit after all . . . if I’m lucky, maybe it’ll melt my fucking vocal chords, end this farce before it gets started. On some level, Brian found his reluctance to talk – he wouldn’t call it fear – pretty uncharacteristic. He wouldn’t have survived a minute in the advertising world without his ability to talk his way into a client’s heart – and wallet. Selling out-there concepts to CEOs who were anything but visionary required a persuasive mind and more than a rudimentary grasp the art of conversing.

That he was now sweating over the prospect of a conversation with a teenager, who, had, on numerous occasions, screamed his name in ecstasy, was almost laughable . . . and no one who knew him would ever believe it could be true – Brian himself couldn’t believe it was true, but there it was – the reticence, the hesitation. Not fear. On this, Brian was firm. He was not afraid. Just a bit reluctant, that was all . . . and being horny as all hell certainly didn’t help matters, but he was determined not to let that, at least, get out of hand . . . or out of pants. Yet.

“So . . . school’s going okay?” Brian decided to start off slow. If they could handle the polite small-talk that he generally hated, then there was a decent chance they wouldn’t stumble much when they tackled more serious subjects. Besides, he genuinely was curious about Justin’s studies: Linds had told him the blond had made the dean’s list first quarter, and Brian had heard fifth-hand and after the fact that there’d been an exhibit of PIFA students’ art at the Frick, and Justin had shown a piece or two. “Has my cock come up in any of your work lately?”

“No, sorry. But it couldn’t come up, even if I wanted it to. That’d be considered porn, and I’d get a zero.” Justin grinned and ripped open the aluminum foil that contained their dessert – a dense, rich-looking cake crusted with walnuts. “In Life Art, we cannot ‘depict the male genitalia in any state of protuberance.’ Says it right in the syllabus. And if, like, out of nervousness or something, the model gets a hard-on, we all have stop drawing while the guy takes a break and gets things together. It’s happened a couple times. The students are totally cool about it, and so’s the professor, but the model always gets freaked out . . . like he’s afraid he’s gonna get fired on the spot.”

“Don’t blame them for being nervous. It’s a cushy gig . . . especially for college. Stand in one place for an hour, show your dick, look good, get paid – you don’t have to get your hands dirty. Or your knees.” Brian fondly remembered Lindsay’s Life Art classes at PSU in which the male nude was the only subject that was covered. Dicks galore, and some in very full protuberance – the teachers there seemed to understand the concept of the hard-on as work of art. No artist, but a connoisseur of the male physique, Brian had enjoyed sitting in on the classes immensely, and after class, many of the models had enjoyed sitting on his cock immensely. A sly grin curved his lips. “Ever offer to give any of these poor, flustered models a hand?”

“No . . . I’m too busy concentrating on my art.” Justin cut a huge chunk of the cake, setting it on a napkin in front of Brian. “And except for a couple in the beginning of the semester, I think they’ve all been straight.”

“That’s what they all say.” Brian looked askance at the slice of cake, giving it an exploratory poke with his fork. “Do you want me to eat this or do bench presses with it? It’s like a fucking brick.”

“It’s good, and you barely ate anything,” Justin countered, pointing his fork at him in accusing manner. Brian watched in amazement as Justin’s portion of cake shrank to a half and then a quarter of its original size with startling rapidity. “It might be a little too sweet. It’s still good though.” Two more seconds, and the quarter became a sliver.

What the fuck . . . at least this is a color I recognize. With a casual shrug, Brian tucked into the honey-glazed square without another word. Ignoring Justin’s self-satisfied grin, Brian downed a substantial forkful, and felt his heart rate immediately speed up as the substance dissolved on his tongue. If drinking that hot chocolate earlier had been like mainlining sugar, eating this stuff was like freebasing it. Brian felt the sugar convert into a hot burst of energy that traveled right to the area of his brain that allowed him to form coherent sentences. One good thing: Brian figured he’d be able to blame any conversational snafus on his part on being on a sugar high, recalling Justin’s earlier declaration that sugar “fucked him up worse than E.” An added bonus: chewing the damn thing would keep his mouth occupied while he thought of something of substance to say.

“Well?”

The exec made a noncommittal noise, careful not to go in for another bite too quickly. Damn his sweet tooth, and damn that coy little half-smile on Justin’s face – it was as mind-numbing as the cake was. “It’s not bad.”

Laughing, Justin poured them both another glass of wine. “You know, it took me a long time to realize that for you, not bad is, like, the highest form of praise – except when it comes to sex, maybe.” Justin’s mouth softened and his hand moved in an absent-minded – and, for Brian, a distracting – way up and down the wine bottle. "Not that you actually say anything – you kind of moan under your breath at first, and then you make these little growling noises . . . kinda like a cross between a snore and a gargle. When I’m going down on you, I can hear you and I can feel you – you’re like a cat purring.”

Brian noticed that in this recital, in addition to caressing the bottle of Abarbanel, Justin was using the present tense, making it sound more as if the boy were fantasizing than reminiscing. Brian was right there with him, imagining himself and Justin naked in bed, the blond head bobbing between his thighs as if moving in time to a favorite tune. Justin’s point of comparison was interesting, Brian thought, because the teen made cat-like noises of his own while feasting on his lover’s dick. They were hot, hungry, guttural sounds made low in his throat, reminiscent of a jungle cat stalking in the tall grass of the savanna for his dinner. That, and the way the blond pressed his entire body against Brian’s, rendering him practically motionless, almost helpless – made the older man feel much like prey at the mercy of a ravenous, blond tiger.

Brian quickly rolled onto his stomach, wincing slightly when he banged his knee against the hard floor. The jolt of pain knocked the images out of his mind, but his cock’s muscle memory was working again. Brian pressed his hips into the floor, trapping the traitorous organ between the shining hardwood and his own desire. Taking a deep, soundless breath, Brian grimly polished off his chunk of the fortifying cake, keeping watch on Justin in a series of furtive glances, hoping the blond didn’t notice him wiggling his hips in attempt to ease pressure on an erection that threatened to bore a hole in the floor. Justin had fallen silent, but the teen was looking at him, still fondling the bottle and cranking up the heat on his ‘Sunshine’ grin. The impact that the curving lips and flash of white teeth had on Brian was immediate and definite. Scooping up the last crumbs of his dessert, Brian wondered just how something as simple as a smile could make him feel as if he’d eaten a bowl of feathers.

Still smiling, Justin looked around, poking at various containers. “This has been really cool. This whole day, us together – everything. I’d forgotten how much fun it could be when it’s just the two of us.”

Lips pursed in silent agreement, Brian reflected that he, too, had not remembered how . . . effortless it was to be around Justin. There was no hysteria, no need to be “on,” no pretending to be interested in pointless bullshit, just this ease of just being. With Justin, Brian didn’t feel as if there was some adjective attached to him defining him in terms he himself didn’t always understand: Savior Brian, Unrepentant Asshole Brian, Advertising God Brian. With Justin, he was simply, unapologetically and fully allowed to be . . . himself; just Brian . . . no pithy adjectives required.

“Yeah,” Brian mumbled, finding it difficult to look up into the happy blue gaze of his companion. “I’ve . . . enjoyed the company.”

“And we still haven’t even kissed – not on the lips, anyway.” Justin licked his, as if to remind Brian that his were still there. Brian quickly found somewhere else to look. “You’re sure you still want to talk?”

Talk. Brian breathed in deeply, wondering where all the oxygen in the room had gone. What the fuck was it about that word that it made his stomach drop just to hear it? “That’s the plan.”

Justin smiled briefly, but his expression clouded, making him look much too serious for a person who had just moments before been feeling up a bottle of mediocre white zinfandel. “I don’t know. I just . . . I don’t want to break the mood, I guess. There’s just so much shit that’s happened, and I don’t know if we can talk about it without getting pissed off at each other.”

Brian said nothing. He had a feeling Justin was referring to something or things specifically, and he wondered what they could be. “We did some pretty heavy talking earlier . . . and it turned out all right.” Hazel eyes flicked over to the bedroom area. Maybe we should go back to bed. If nothing else, it was more comfortable than the floor. But maybe the comfort of the bed would prove problematic . . . it might become just a little too comfortable, a little too easy to slip his arms around the blond, too easy to slide their pants off, too easy to reach into his stash of condoms and lube and concentrate on getting Justin to “open” up to him in a different way than he’d envisioned . . . and in several different positions, too . . . He braked that line of thought immediately, staring at his reflection in the hardwood floor. One thing at a time.

“That was different.” Justin’s low voice brought Brian out of his musings. “That was about the bashing, and how we’ve both been kind of messed up from it without saying anything to each other. What I think we need to talk about is stuff that . . . one or both of us screwed up on because we were so messed up.” He paused. “Like the ‘rules,’ and Vermont and me going away without you. Or you . . . and the way you acted when Michael and I started Rage.” The artist glanced up, the hesitation in his eyes darkening them to a shining cobalt. “And Ethan . . . and how I . . . how things got to be what they were with him.”

Tales of fuck-ups past. Great weekend evening entertainment. “Super.” Brian reached for his glass of wine again. A free and open discussion about their sins was not exactly what he’d had in mind – for one, it would take forever to go over every thing that had derailed their relationship, and also, there was the possibility, as Justin pointed out, of their remembering incidents that had been specifically bad, and having a repeat of the last real “talk,” if it could be called that, that they’d had before Justin decided where he wanted to be was with the Fiddler.

Ethan Gold was a good example of a potential conversational minefield, in Brian’s opinion. While he halfway understood the Fiddler’s appeal to Justin, he didn’t particularly want to think back to the night Mikey had given him not-so-subtle hints about the artist’s activities and his later confirmation that the blond had broken their rules in a huge way. Then there was the Vermont thing; it still rankled at Brian because he’d been, he thought, clear with Justin about the entire situation, and the blond still acted like a spoiled twat. And as for Rage, well, Brian still felt like the world’s biggest asshole for what he’d done to Justin and Michael, too, so doubtless Justin would be holding on to some anger. On some level, Brian understood that maybe, like with the immediate aftermath of prom, getting their anger out in the open would probably go a long way toward healing the rift, or whatever the fuck, but Jesus . . . did they have to do all that emoting now, after they’d had such a decent day together – the first he’d had in quite some time? Couldn’t they just do what they were doing for a while longer? Talk and share a meal and just generally enjoy each other’s company? The angst would be there later for them to pick at, Brian knew. That wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

“But you know what? I don’t really want to talk about those things,” Justin said after a pause, pushing wayward bangs out of his eyes. “Well, I do, and I know we should, but it just seems wrong to do it today, you know? Since I found the picture, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the prom. There’s so much about that night I want to know . . . not about the part about Hobbes . . . not even just about the way we danced. I want to know everything – all the details.”

“We can do that,” Brian said slowly, his mind shifting gears. “But I thought you said Daphne tried that with you last night and didn’t help. And . . . the first time we tried to talk you through the night, it didn’t work out too well.” Brian even now could feel Justin’s stiff, awkward form in his arms as they tried to recreate their dance, and later, in the parking garage, the look of utter incomprehension on the teen’s face when Brian recounted the last few good moments before the bat made its mark on Justin’s temple and their lives.

“Yeah, but I think that was mainly me still being in a little pain still, and just generally being a twat.” Justin began dissembling the fort of food containers between them, putting them off to the side. “I think I was so pissed that I couldn’t remember anything that I couldn’t really appreciate what you and Daph were trying to do for me. And last night, I was in total shock, so Daph could have been drawing little figure eights on my ass, and I wouldn’t have noticed . . .”

“Figure eights?” Brian raised a brow. Well, that was totally random . . . maybe the sugar was affecting Justin, too.

“Just giving you an idea of how out of it I was. Anyway, I’m ready now. I really want to hear about that night.” The artist sounded eager. “Maybe it’s not the same as having my own memory back, but if you’d let me borrow yours, I guess that’s the next best thing, if, you know, the offer still stands.”

Brian grimaced, ignoring the pounding below his waist that indicated something was standing, all right. Justin wanted to talk about the prom . . . pre-garage . . . pre-kiss . . . pre-bat. Good idea or not a good idea? He wavered for a moment, mulling it over before deciding to just go for it. The worst that could happen would be that Justin would get re-frustrated over not remembering anything, and Brian knew he could deal with that. This was what Justin wanted, what he needed. And maybe, Brian admitted grudgingly, it was he needed, too.

Decision made, Brian’s head tilted in a slight gesture of acquiescence. “What do you want to know?”

“Really?” The blond sat up straight, his slightly open mouth and high-arching eyebrows giving him the stunned look of a kid who’d expected socks for his birthday and was handed the keys to a Porsche instead. “Okay, wait a minute . . . let me think . . . let me think . . . first question . . . um . . .” He closed his eyes. Opened them a second later. “Uh . . . when did you know you were coming?”

That was quick . . . the little fuck knew I was gonna go for this. Brian grinned lasciviously, grinding his hips. “I thought you were always able to tell.”

“I mean coming to the prom, asshole.” Justin rolled his eyes and smiled. “When did you decide you’d be there after all?”

Fuck. Brian’s jaw went slack for a moment. Start out with the easy questions, why don’t you, Sonnyboy? Telling Justin the truth about his decision to go to the prom would more than likely involve mentioning that he’d been one orgasm away from joining his dad in the family plot at St. Adelbert’s. Brian wasn’t sure if Justin was ready to hear that or if he himself was ready to relive that.

“You turning me down at Babylon is one of things I remember best about what happened right before prom.” Justin said, oblivious to Brian’s new round of squirming. “And I remember thinking that you meant it. It wasn’t one of your ‘maybe’ no’s or ‘I’ll think about it later’ no’s, or the ‘ask me again after I come, and maybe I’ll say yes’ no’s. It was a ‘no’ no. You shot me down, totally.”

“I didn’t know I had more than one no.” In spite of his discomfort, Brian found himself amused by Justin’s serious expression. “I thought only straight frat boys believed in that trick. How do you know which is which?”

“You said it to me enough . . . I kind of learned to differentiate.” He flashed the exec a lopsided smile. “But you showed . . . what changed your mind?” Justin set aside the bottle that rested between them, and reached out to Brian, running his fingers along the underside of the exec’s arm. “Daph and I were talking about that last night. She thinks that you were gonna come the whole time; that you were just jerking me off at Babylon so that I’d be surprised. She said there’s no way that you had something like what you wore just laying around. I told her that maybe if it were anybody else, I might buy that, but you would definitely have something awesome in your closet, pressed, tailored and ready to go. So I said it was probably a spur-of-the-moment thing. So I want to know which of us is right.” Justin’s eyes narrowed in thought. “What you had on . . . it looked like Armani. Or was it Boss?”

“Cerrutti.” Brian said quietly, somewhat amused that someone who’d once worn the same pair of no-name jeans could seem such an authority on designer suits. You’ll be a label queen yet, Sunshine. “Got it in York, of all fucking places. I had to go down there, scout out some rustic farmhouse that a client wanted to use for a location shoot. On the way back to the train home, I was passing this men’s store . . . some guy was in the window, putting this ugly-ass beret on one of the mannequins. Nice look, good presentation, decent package. I didn’t think I’d come across something like that in York.”

“The guy or the mannequin?”

“The guy . . . But the mannequin would probably’ve been a better lay.” Brian sneered at the laugh Justin tried to disguise as a cough. “It was York, Sunshine. Not like there was anything else to do there.”

“I guess you have a point there.” Justin nodded. “Go on.”

“I went in,” Brian said, “I had some time to kill . . . so I decided I want to yank his dick a little before I got my cock involved in anything. I told him my firm was giving a huge event . . . and I wanted something that would charm the balls off the clients.” Brian smirked in remembrance of the clerk’s question as to the gender of these clients Brian was looking to impress, and of the wide grin and flash of lust in the handsome man’s eyes when Brian simply smiled in answer. “I figured the guy would show me some Tommy Bahama bullshit or maybe some Men’s Warehouse rejects. But he went in back and came back with this ass-kicking Cerrutti. He said they’d just gotten it in – it was gonna go in the window the next day – and that he could tell it’d be perfect for me. Some patronizing bullshit like that. Suffice it to say what was coming out of his mouth wasn’t all that interesting to me.”

Brian squinted, dredging the garment from his memory, recalling the well-made jacket, and the soft nap of the dark material beneath his hand, the crisp, knife-edged pleats in the slacks, the subtle detailing overall. It had been well worth its price . . . even if he had worn it only once. “Tried it on. Liked it. Bought it. Fucked the salesguy. In that order.”

“That’s some commission.” Justin rolled down the floor, resting his head on an outstretched arm. “But I guess you don’t find that level of service just anywhere.”

“True. I didn’t even have to pay to get the stains steamed out of he pants I was wearing. Salesguy’s roommate worked at a dry-cleaner’s down the street from the store. He wasn’t bad, either. I might have fucked him, too, but it was little crowded in there. And I had a train to catch,” Brian said wryly. “I guess York does have some redeeming qualities.”

“I’ll have to remember that next time my mom drags me and Molly down there to visit our Great-Aunt June,” Justin said. “I could stop by that store . . . if I start saving now, maybe I’ll be able to get a pair of socks or something.”

“I’d save the money and take a couple of suits to the dry cleaner’s. He was hotter.”

Justin smiled, but didn’t answer, just gazed at him, inching slightly closer. “You looked awesome. Not that I can really remember, but I bet you were the best-looking and best-dressed guy at my prom. So much cooler than me, and what I was wearing. I wore that tux to my cousin’s wedding last summer. Emmett helped me get dressed . . . I kind of remember him going through my entire closet to find something decent . . . and I think he said something like when he was done, I wouldn’t even recognize myself.”

“This from a man whose idea of formal attire is glitter and taffeta,” Brian murmured, shaking his head. “He held back . . . you looked normal enough that I would have thought somebody straight had dressed you.”

“I promised Daph no weirdness,” Justin said. “And I think my mom sort of scared him. Em said she kept going on about wanting me to have a ‘classic’ look, and when she was talking to him, she was cutting up vegetables for the crudités tray and was waving this knife around. I guess she looked kind of demented.” The blond leveled a querying gaze at him. “So . . . you haven’t answered the question. When did you decide to come? And how?”

“That’s two questions.” Brian countered Justin’s skeptical look with an innocent smile. “All right . . . let’s just say you’re closer to the mark than Daphne is on the when part . . . but the how is kinda complex.” He met Justin’s skeptical look evenly. “Ask something else, Sonnyboy. I promise I’ll tell you all about the whens, the how’s, and maybe even The Who’s.” He hummed a few lines from Behind Blue Eyes, grinning at Justin’s puzzled glance. So much for retro being in with the kiddies.

“All right.” The blond’s stare and the press of his lips told Brian that they were going to be revisiting that question in the very near future. “Um . . . where’d you learn to dance? I hear we were pretty good . . .”

“You sound surprised.”

Justin frowned slightly. “I guess I am . . . I’m not sure why, though. You’re always at some big-deal dinner or ceremony, so it would make sense that you could.” He looked up at him. “Maybe it’s that I’m so used to Babylon that I can’t imagine us doing anything else.”

“We managed somehow, Sunshine.” The exec considered that a moment: At the clubs, what he and the blond did seemed less to him like dancing and more like fully clothed, synchronous foreplay set to a techno beat, both of them knowing just how to rub and grind against each other in a way that was pleasurable for them both, and not too obvious to those around them. At the prom, it had been the same deal, just to a waltz and not Moby; they were teasing each other, using their closeness to tantalize and arouse . . . it wasn’t where they were that mattered, Brian realized, or the music playing or what they were wearing. It was them . . . they were just in sync that way . . . connected. “But to answer the question, I learned at good old State. You go to PSU, you get a well-rounded education,” Brian said, a sarcastic edge to his voice. “And that meant a lot of requirements for everyone . . . math, science, public speaking . . . and three credits of ESACT.”

“ESACT?” The way Justin mouthed the word made Brian’s head swim. “What is that? Foreign language?”

“Exercise and Sport Activity.” Brian was amazed he still remembered any of the garbage from his college days other than his major and GPA. Everything else about Penn State and State College, Pa., was certainly forgettable – especially the men. “Everything from archery to jai alai to racquetball. Each class was a credit and a half so you had to take at least two to meet the requirement. And since that applied to every-fucking-body, it was bitch to find any open sections of anything decent. I had to wait ‘til I was a senior before I had any shot at getting in. I managed to talk my way into a closed section of soccer . . . but I needed another ESACT class. So . . . I picked ballroom dancing.”

“You took a ballroom dancing class?” Justin looked suitably incredulous. “You must have really been desperate.”

“Well, it was either learn to polka or forget about waltzing down the aisle in May.” The ad exec shrugged. “I could’ve gone with weight lifting or lacrosse, but one of my roommates had taken ballroom the semester before . . . told me it was pretty easy, the tests were a joke, and there was a section of it that never met on Fridays. So it fit in with my grand scheme to have a built-in three-day weekend my final semester.”

Thinking back on it, Brian wasn’t sure how or why he’d been so hot to carve out an automatic three-day weekend for himself. When football season was over, the campus was all but dead, and heading home for the weekend was never something he looked forward to – whether it was dodging his dad and his drunken, sniping comments about his “collegiate” offspring or being sucked into Mikey’s latest adventure with a new guy or the Big Q. But it had seemed like a good idea at the time. That was a nice, neat, blanket excuse for just about everything he’d done at college – including some of the guys.

“Did you ever dance with any hot guys? Were there a lot of other queers in the class?”

“No more so than there were on the football team.” Brian shrugged. “And guys didn’t dance with other guys. Girls made up 70 percent of the class, so guys always had a girl to twirl around the floor with. And anyway, I seem to remember that the hottest guy in there was me . . . and I’ve fucked myself plenty of times. No mystery there.” He raised his wine glass in mock salute and downed the rest of the liquor.

“It served its purpose. I met the requirement, got an A, and learned to do a respectable waltz, which has come less in handy than you might think, Sunshine.” Brian stared into his glass, grimacing. “Latin dance is all the rage at the huge industry functions. Trust me, Sunshine – you haven’t lived until you’ve seen white bread CEOs and their Stepfords shaking their nonexistent asses to Tito Puente.” Brian was quiet a moment. “But I guess I can’t complain . . . I got to use what I learned when I needed to . . . which is more than I can say for the German classes I took.” He looked at Justin, whose eyes were half-closed in quiet concentration. “What about you, Sunshine? Where’d you get your skills?”

“Karenna Miller,” Justin replied, unblinking. “She babysat for me before Molly was born. I have no idea where my parents knew her from. I think she was the daughter of one of my mom’s classmates, back when she was taking real estate courses at Chatham. She was this really nice, smart girl. Kind of weird, though. We got along really well . . . I was always glad when she came over.”

“You had a thing for her?” Brian pulled a face. “Ooh, Sunshine, they could revoke your queer card if that got out.”

“Fuck no. I mean, I liked her, but not like that.” Justin looked appropriately scandalized. “I was, like, six or seven . . .”

“Uh-huh. Already knew you liked cock at so young an age?”

“You’re kidding, right? I knew that happened way before I was six or seven.” Justin grinned. “Anyway, we – hey . . . you know who Karenna sorta reminds me of? Remember that friend of Mel and Linds’? The one we met at their place when they were having that party for Linds’ parents?”

Brian’s brow furrowed. “Leda?” If Justin hadn’t been smitten by a girl who looked like a young Leda, Brian was willing to talk with Jennifer Taylor and hunt down her dickslap of an ex-husband and tell them they should stop blaming themselves for Justin’s being gay – there had never been any hope at all.

“No, not her . . . the other friend. She was tall – taller than you – really muscle-y . . . had a flat top and a tattoo of Storm from X-Men on her right arm.”

“Oh. The caterer.” Brian wondered how he’d missed the tattoo. “Your parents let someone like that watch over you during your formative, developmental years, and they wonder why you grew up wanting to take it up the ass and suck cock?”

“The thing was, Karenna wasn’t a dyke . . . I don’t think. She reminds me of Mel and Linds’ friend personality-wise. Cool, but kinda weird.” Justin looked thoughtful. “She went to East Allegheny and had a couple of brothers. I remember that. And she was crazy about ballroom dancing . . . it was almost all she talked about. She wanted to do it professionally. I think she said her uncle did it or something.” The blond smiled gently. “She’d come over with all these videos of old Fred Astaire movies . . . Gene Kelly, too . . . and she’d make me this kick-ass French toast and ice cream thing if I let her practice some of the dance moves from the movie with her. Plus it was kind of cool. She didn’t tell me to go play with trucks like this other sitter I had did.”

In his mind’s eye, Brian saw the young blond whirling and a girl who, at least from the description he was getting, sounded as if she could play in the Steelers’ front four, around the Taylor living room in just a slightly less-demented rendition of the “Night and Day” scene from The Gay Divorcee. And people said the suburbs were boring? “Were you Fred or Ginger, Sunshine?”

“Well . . . Karenna usually led . . . but she was taller! And older! I was just sort of standing in for . . . whoever.” Justin’s tone was defensive, Brian guessed, in reaction to the laughter he was sure Justin could see him trying to hold back. “But I got to lead when the girl in the movies was doing the more complicated steps . . . so after about a year, I could lead and follow.” The blond sounded so inordinately proud of this accomplishment.

“Versatile at so young an age.” Brian poked his tongue into his cheek. “A nice dry run for the life you would someday lead.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Justin smiled wanly, idly tapped his fork against his plate. “I really don’t remember being anything except dizzy, because she kept spinning me around and around doing all these weird twirly moves and weird twists . . . I don’t think I learned much at all.”

Brian recalled his turning Justin during their dance, and the bottle-top precision with which he executed those spins, even during the moments in their dance when they changed direction totally . . . the passage when they’d traveled the length of the floor and Justin whirled like a top throughout, never missing a beat. “I think you soaked up more than you know, Sunshine. You were pretty good out there.”

“That’s so weird to hear,” Justin murmured. “Karenna stopped coming around after mom got pregnant with Molly and stopped school, and I sort of forgot all about dancing and her. I got more into my art. There’d be times, like at weddings, where I’d have to waltz with some old lady, but it was nothing fancy, no spins no promenade moves. No dips . . .”

“Dips?” Brian recalled the subtle shift of Justin in his arms as he lowered the teen near to the dance floor . . . felt Justin’s leg edge up his hip as the blond allowed himself to be bent backward, total trust radiating from those blue eyes, as if he knew Brian had everything in control . . . that he was safe in his arms . . . that Brian had no intention of letting him fall . . . of letting him go. Never crossed my mind, Sunshine. Brian blinked, and the memory faded, leaving Brian a little disoriented as he tuned back into Justin’s voice.

“. . . Nothing fancy . . . it’s not one of the things I figured I’d remember, but I guess it all came back to me. I must have just followed your lead. I . . .” Justin sat up suddenly, getting to his feet in an instant. “Hold on a second. There’s something I noticed when I was looking at our picture that I wanted to ask you about.” Deftly avoiding the maze of food cartons, Justin strode quickly headed toward the bedroom. Brian watched him go, admiring the easy, sexy strut of the teen’s body, the little pivot of that bubble butt as it disappeared into the bedroom area. The exec sighed, grabbing the nearest containers, deciding some of his pent up energy would be best served clearing the floor and putting away the food. He had a feeling that if the conversation took the turn he thought it might, he and Sunshine might have need of the extra space on the floor; whether for dancing again or something else entirely, however, remained to be seen.

Six – Click

He’d spotted the best friends almost immediately, both of them on the edge of the dance floor, talking, laughing, at ease in their surroundings. They looked good together – even from his vantage point at the entrance to the ballroom. Brian had found himself admiring Daphne, a vision in billowing peach tulle. Justin’s back was to him, but Brian could still take note of the carefully gelled hair, crisp suit and shining shoes indicated the blond had dressed with care. That was when the command flashed across Brian’s brain: Leave. Leave now. It was a Friday night, he had the whole weekend ahead of him, and for god’s sake, he was Brian Kinney – fuck king of Pittsburgh, baron of the back rooms. He should be getting his dick sucked, not standing on the threshold of a ballroom in downtown Pittsburgh, dressed in a tux he’d barely remembered he had, crashing the prom of his 18-year-old . . . what? Boyfriend? Lover? Fuck buddy? Whatever, it was just a bad idea. He could see with his own eyes that Justin was okay, having a good time with Daphne at their prom. After the year he’d had, Justin deserved a little normalcy – a night of relaxing and dancing to really bad music, eating hideous food and generally forgetting for a moment that in a week or two, graduation would come, bringing with it a complicated mess known as “the rest of your life.” He had no business there, Brian thought, looking around the ballroom at the bright, shining, young faces. He’d had his fling. He was an “adult.” And what the fuck did it say about him that he’d thought this would be a good idea? How the hell was he supposed to explain this change of heart to Justin – or to anyone else, for that matter? If he walked through that door, nothing was going to be the same – not between him and his friends, not between him and the rest of Gay Pittsburgh, and not between Justin and himself. This was a time to be sure of his actions, and if he wasn’t, it’d be better for him, and everyone else, if he just turned and walked away now.

His gaze swung back to the pair and he froze, two pairs of eyes pinning him where he stood, two gazes that at once set him at ease and scared him shitless. Daphne, who’d met his stare first, smiled a welcome at him before turning to Justin and placing a hand on his arm and nodding in the exec’s direction. Brian turned his attention to the blond at that moment, and their eyes met. There had been an incisiveness to the sky-blue eyes that Brian found unsettling, as if with just a glance, Justin was stripping away his protective layers and probing to the bone – analyzing, assessing, concluding. Brian wondered what the blond was seeing when he looked at him. But then the beginnings of a blinding smile blunted the edge of that gaze, Brian found himself drawn in, moving forward. If he’d thought he’d still had a choice on staying or going, that smile had taken it away.

“Need some help?”

He’d heard Justin approach, so he wasn’t completely taken by surprise, but the voice snapped Brian out of his reverie. He stared into the light of the refrigerator, the muted yellow glow reminding him so much of the lighting of the Deauville ballroom. Cool air from the appliance drifted out, raising the gooseflesh on his arms, and his fingers tightened in reminder what he had been doing before he’d opened the refrigerator door and been inexplicably sucked into the past.

“Just trying to figure out what to do with this.” Without looking around, Brian held up a Tupperware bowl of the orange ooze Justin had been so enamored of earlier and moved to close to refrigerator. “I don’t know whether to put it in here or report it to the EPA. This looks exactly like the shit the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park were stepping in.”

“If it scares you that much, throw it away. I already know what it is.” The voice was moving closer, and in the next moment, Brian felt Justin’s breath dampening the back of his neck. “I could use it as blackmail: Tell Michael to stop bugging me about Rage, or I’ll have five quarts of kafta bilsaniya sent to your next board meeting.”

“Try it. Clients’ll put anything on a bagel these days.” Brian tensed as Justin pressed against him, encircling his waist with his arms. “And Mikey’s bugging you, because you have a fucking hit on your hands. You know it, I know it, and he knows it. Stop being a drama princess and return his calls.”

“I’ll think about it. I could use the money . . . and now that I’m getting to see the guy behind the Rage mask, I’m starting to like the idea of working on the comic more.” The arms tightened their grip, and soft lips brushed the nape of Brian’s neck. In his periphery, Brian saw Justin peering over his shoulder tilting his chin at the refrigerator. “You were looking for something? It’s not like you have to search for a place to put things. There’s plenty of room in there.”

Brian shrugged in response, a little uncomfortable about Justin’s remark about seeing behind the Rage mask – his mask. It reminded him much too much of the Rage party, and how Justin had seen him there in all his imperfect glory . . . and then left with the music man.

“I’m not used to seeing this so full of stuff,” he said, glad that he had some morsel of truth to feed the blond. “Now the poppers have something to keep them company.” Gently disentangling himself from Justin’s embrace, and feeling even colder when he felt the blond move away, he bent and shoved the bowl inside, closing the door hastily on the leftovers and his reminiscences of the dance-that-almost-wasn’t. “So, ready to resume our hop down memory lane?”

“Sure. If you are.” Brian turned and saw that Justin was standing a few feet away, leaning casually against the breakfast bar. The artist’s expression was placid, and seeing him backlit against the light from the living room, Brian was reminded of the painted angels he’d seen as kid on Christmas cards, all shimmering blond hair and with eyes like liquid sky, calm and serene. “I wanted to do one thing, though, before we start again . . .”

Brian raised a brow. “Just one? You’re letting me off easy, Sunshine.” The words were barely out of his mouth before Justin began striding forward, closing the distance between them with startling rapidity until he was pressed into the exec, pinning him against the refrigerator. The blond leaned up and kissed him with lips still sticky with brown sugar glaze and wine, and swept his mouth with a tongue tasting of cumin and feta and curry. Brian allowed himself to be thus fed for a moment before gently pulling away.

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves, Sonnyboy.” Brian looked into serious blue eyes. “The kissing part comes later in the story.”

“Well, the way I figure it, we didn’t get this far last time we tried this.” Justin threaded his fingers through the exec’s hair, delivering a gentle peck on his bottom lip. “So you owe me.” He kissed Brian’s chin, flicking his tongue over the stubble shading his jaw.

“Yeah, but I made the first move back then. Not you.” Brian closed his eyes as Justin’s fingers began to work their way through his hair and to the back of his neck. He was fine, he assured himself, everything was fine. He could handle a kiss. “But . . . I like a guy who shows initiative.”

“I learned from the best,” Justin murmured against his throat. “You’re amazing, Brian. You’ve given me just what I needed . . . what I’ve wanted all day.”

“Ahh.” Brian reared as Justin’s hand moved from his face, down his neck and along his collarbone, before stopping to gently circle the exec’s nipples through the thin T-shirt he wore. Okay, now they were approaching can’t-handle-this territory. Brian groaned as the fingers teased the flesh into stiff peaks, jolts of sensation turning his cock to iron and making a frenzied rhythm out of his heartbeat. He made a half-hearted effort to push Justin’s hands away. “That definitely doesn’t happen until later, Sunshine. Talk first, fuck later.”

“All I was doing was just thanking you for dinner.” Justin pressed a last kiss to Brian’s neck and stepped back, allowing the exec a little more room to breathe. Justin’s expression was pure innocence, but Brian could see humor in his eyes. “And we are fucking later? Thanks for the confirmation.” He turned and walked unhurriedly away, leaving Brian to stare after him, molded still to the refrigerator’s cold surface.

The blond paused at the threshold, looking over his shoulder. “You coming?”

Brian narrowed his eyes at the casual tone, and the slight lift of eyebrows that accompanied those words. “Twat.” Pointedly ignoring Justin’s answering grin, he peeled himself off the refrigerator, adjusted himself none-too-discreetly, and followed the swaying hips back into the living room.

“Just out of curiosity,” Justin said, settling back on the floor. “How long have you gone without having sex since you started having it?”

“Why?” Brian perched near him, leaning against a footrest for balance. “Do you think I’m probably breaking that record tonight?”

“Umm . . . maybe.” Justin was horrible at hiding a smile, and Brian was extraordinarily thankful for that. “You’re being so . . . virtuous. Kind of inspiring, in a way . . . really, really weird in other ways.”

“O, ye of little . . . faith.” Brian craned his head back, staring at the network of wooden beams above them. “Actually, I think the longest was a couple of weeks – if you’re not counting beating off.” He looked down and watched Justin try to hide his incredulity.

“A couple of weeks?” The blond seemed undecided on whether he was being teased. “Wow. I’m . . . hmmm. I don’t know if impressed is really the word.” Justin snickered, and shook his head. “What were the circumstances? I wouldn’t think it’d have been voluntary – not for you. Were you sick or something? In traction?”

“Close. I got roped into one of the center’s bullshit fundraisers, so I guess that would qualify as some kind of illness. A mental one.” Brian grimaced, rubbing his forehead as if to coax the memory from the depths of his mind. “I didn’t want in on any of their usual bullshit fundraisers, so I created my own: The Kinney Celibathon. I got sponsors, and every day I went without fucking someone, I got twenty bucks from each of them. I could jack off, but it had to be alone – no mutual. And no sucking dick or eating ass, either. The guys followed me around the bars and the clubs to make sure I didn’t ‘cheat.’ Mikey would come and tuck me in and hang around once I got home. I got about 15 people to sponsor me, all of them figuring I’d cave the first night. I went for 16 days.”

“Sixteen? Fuck.” Brian could see Justin doing the math in his head. “So you made –”

“—Nearly five grand.” Brian nodded. “Which I matched, and sent in to the center with my best regards. Of course, it helped that I’d just come back on one of Ryder’s ‘planning’ retreats in the Poconos, and I had fucking poison oak everywhere.” He grimaced, imagining he could still feel his ass itching. What the hell had possessed him to fuck the guy from Tech in the “great outdoors” he’d never understand. The guy hadn’t even been that hot. “I could’ve gone longer, but Day 16 was Canadian Mountie night at Babylon, and I met this stud from Manitoba, and the cream my derm gave me was starting to work . . . anyway, I figured I’d proven my point.”

“This is unreal. That beats my record by, like, three days,” the blond said, and Brian wanted to laugh at the awe in the boy’s voice. “About a month ago, I was working on something for my classics class. We had to research Goya’s Caprices, pick two and present them in a modern-day context. I chose a couple that were kind of obscure, and it took forever to research. So, I kind of just dropped everything and threw myself into it. It was a lot of work, and it took five all-nighters, but it came out pretty cool. I got an A. But in the meantime, I hadn’t done anything except jerk off in the shower to get rid of my morning hard-on. I really wasn’t horny or anything. I really didn’t think about it until it was all over.”

“I’m sure the music man must have loved that,” Brian said quietly. “But I’m sure he understood it was for the good of your art.”

Justin flushed and looked away. “He wasn’t . . . um . . . around. He was at some big string festival in Jersey for a couple of weeks.”

“Oh. Well, good thing. You artists and your timing . . .” Brian kept his tone mellow and added a smile to give his words less of a bite. He didn’t know what had possessed him to bring the Fiddler into it the conversation at all, except that he found it interesting that someone as passionate and romantic as Ethan Gold seemed to be would stand idly by while his boyfriend kept his hands off his dick for, what, thirteen days? Now Brian had his answer, and the look on Justin’s face made him wish he hadn’t asked.

“Yeah, well . . . it’s not like it was anything new.” Justin still wasn’t looking at him. “There were times he’s been around and we didn’t . . .” The artist stopped speaking, and an awkward silence stretched between them like miles of bad road. “Um . . . anyway.” Justin cleared his throat, slowly turning toward the exec, but keeping his eyes lowered. “I remembered what I wanted to ask you about.” Brian noticed the magazine with their picture was half hidden behind Justin’s left hip. “But you just reminded me of something else I wanted to know.” Justin made no move toward the magazine. “Uh . . . why didn’t we leave the prom together?”

The exec felt his stomach roll over. “What?”

“Well, Daphne said we made this dramatic exit. She didn’t really go into details, but she said it was killer.” Justin’s fingers drummed on the floor. “She said that . . . she followed us out, ‘cause she needed to give you your jacket.” He looked at Brian. “Why did she have your jacket, anyway?”

“You gave it to her.” Brian put a hand to his head, the echo of Justin’s footsteps as he walked away from him resonating clear through to his stomach. “You took it off me . . . maybe you thought I was getting overheated.”

“Yeah, like you being too hot would be anything new.” Justin grinned, shaking his head. “Well, she said you took it, and she figured that we were gone . . . that she wouldn’t see me until Monday, if then, ‘cause the Monday after Prom Night is always Senior Skip Day. Um, anyway, you said that, ah, after we got to the Jeep, we kissed and then you got in the Jeep and I . . . walked away. And then –”

“Yeah.” Brian preempted the rest of that with one word, and they sat quietly for awhile. In the weeks immediately following the bashing, Brian had found that if he clenched his jaw tight enough to possibly spit out teeth, he could keep the sharp whirring sound of a bat slicing through air before coming to rest on flesh and bone out of his ear. But it wasn’t working tonight. He was sure he was clenching hard enough to burst a blood vessel, but he still heard it, heard that and his own frantic voice screaming Justin’s name. Too late. Too fucking late. Brian gave it up and relaxed his mouth, rubbing the underside of his aching jaw. “I remember.”

“I was just curious.” Justin reached back and grabbed the magazine, carefully placing it on his lap and flipping open to their picture. “I couldn’t imagine why I wouldn’t have gone with you, not after this . . .” He gestured at the photo.

Brian was somber, thinking of his refrigerator-induced memory. “Remember back when Ted almost died?” Brian knew that would seem to Justin a nonsequitur, and Justin’s perplexed expression indicated as much. “Maybe you don’t. You and I hadn’t known each other that well. We’d only fucked, hmmm . . . maybe four times.”

“For you, though, isn’t that almost commitment-ceremony territory?”

“You are so fucking adorable, Sunshine,” Brian deadpanned, a wide, false smile appearing and disappearing with in seconds. “Anyway . . . Ted was in a coma courtesy of his twinkie boyfriend. You remember Blake, don’t you? Blond . . . kind of hot? Very fucked up on crystal?”

“Yeah, I remember him. It was sad about him and Ted.” Justin nodded. “I thought Blake was cool. He had a thing for Warhol. We had this great conversation at Michael’s going away party.”

“Sorry I missed that,” Brian said, his voice dripping with a sarcasm he knew would be lost on the blond – for the time being, anyway. “Well, dear Theodore was in a coma . . . and he’d appointed me as the executor of his fucking living will.”

“You?” Justin sounded as if this was the first he was hearing of it and that stunned Brian a little. The blond had not been in the loop back then, but surely that story had to have come up several times by now. “Not Emmett or Michael or Mel? Mel’s his best friend, and she’s a lawyer.”

“Trust me . . . it was a complete surprise. Especially since I didn’t find it out until he’d been in dreamland a couple of days.” The situation still rankled at Brian, being thrust into that position, faced with making the call on whether Ted lived or died . . . as if just because he was built like a god, he had to act like one. “I had to decide whether to pull the plug. I had Theodore’s life – such as it was – in my hands. He wanted it that way. And do you know why?”

The blond mulled that for a minute. “I would guess because you’re his friend.”

“Wrong, Sunshine. That’s exactly why he didn’t pick Mel or Mikey or Emmett. They were his friends. He didn’t want to put a friend in the position of having the power to pull his plug, because he didn’t think a friend would have had balls in the end.” Brian’s eyes went misty a moment at the inexplicable hurt it still caused that the porn king had not, at that time, considered him a friend in the traditional sense. “He wanted – needed – an unrepentant, selfish asshole to do the job, ‘cause, see, Sunshine, a selfish asshole would know just when to give it up . . . call lights out. . . . and he’d do it with no hesitation, no tears, no second thoughts, no apologies, regrets, excuses. Ted told me all this later, after he’d come out of slumberville and returned nominally to the land of the living. He looked right in my face and said my being a self-absorbed prick made me a fine candidate for executorship over his so-called life.”

“That’s not you.” Justin reached out and rested a hand on the exec’s knee. “You’re one of the most unselfish people I know. You do things for people all the time. You helped Ted find a job when he got fired, for one . . . you helped Mel and Linds get married . . . me and school . . . Michael and the store –”

“Oh and don’t forget the hospice care I provide out of my bathroom, and my Prada for the Poor campaign.” Brian rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to be petted, Sonnyboy. Ted was right: I am a selfish, me-first bastard. And I fucking like it that way – like me that way. Modesty and nicey-niceness doesn’t sell. We've done studies.” Brian spoke with a philosophical air. “I’m a prick, and it’s why, at age 29, I was in upper management in one of the biggest ad agencies in the tri-state area. It’s why at 30 I’ve made partner, own my home free and clear. Have enough money in the bank to not need a Super Savers card from Giant Eagle. If I weren’t exactly what Ted said I was, I wouldn’t be anywhere near where I am today . . . and I was always just fucking fine with it.” Brian smiled faintly. “But it’s a funny thing, Sunshine. I get to your prom, I’m about to walk through the door, and I’m suddenly hit with feeling I’ve not had a lot of experience with . . .”

“Uh . . . nostalgia?”

“Not really. I’ve been trying to forget my prom for almost 12 years. And if Mikey hadn’t stopped me before I poured my old man’s special black-label Beam into the punch bowl, I probably would have succeeded.” He cocked his head slightly. “No. I got to that over-decorated ballroom, saw all those young ‘leaders of tomorrow’ dancing – or whatever the fuck that was – all having fun, fun, fun . . . I felt . . . guilty. I fucking felt guilty,” he repeated, a bitter laugh punctuating his words.

“Guilty?”

“Yeah. I thought . . . I actually thought that this was maybe the one time in my life I’d ever thought being a selfish prick might be a liability.” Brian bit his lip. “I saw you and Daphne together, having fun. You looked good, and fuck knows your year had been for shit . . . and I was partly to blame for it. I outed you, made you a target.” And coming there, I made you into one again. With effort, Brian kept his voice steady. “I didn’t think it was fair, me just appearing, stealing the show . . . your show. And Daphne’s.”

“But I wanted you there. I asked you. Daph knew that,” the blond spoke in a voice that pleaded with Brian to believe him. “I love Daph, but I only asked her because my mom and Debbie were talking about how I shouldn’t miss out on my senior prom and all that shit. Plus, I saw it as a way to show Daph that I wanted to make up with her after all the weirdness after she and I had sex.”

“You had sex with Daphne?” Brian pretended surprise. “But . . . according to that article, it was all just an ugly rumor. Everyone knows queers don’t fuck straight girls. They fuck lesbians, maybe, but not heteros . . .”

“Dickhead,” Justin muttered with affection, but unsmiling. “I’m serious. Daphne thought it was totally cool that I’d asked you, and that you showed after all. She didn’t mind.”

“I minded for her, Sonnyboy. For both of you. It just didn’t feel right. Not at first. I was thinking about leaving.” Brian flinched at the pain that flashed across Justin’s face. “You wouldn’t have been any the wiser and I would have found something to do. I always do. But then, you and Daphne saw me standing there. And . . .” You smiled. Brian let out a long, low breath. You smiled, and I was gone. “. . . I figured what the fuck. I’d gotten dressed up, I’d paid the fucking parking fee . . . and . . . you didn’t seem exactly unhappy to see me.”

“No shit.” Justin was looking at the picture again. “I bet I about pissed my pants when I saw you come in.”

“You were . . . surprised. You got over it quick.” Brian thought back to the moment he and the blond made eye contact and he’d been flayed by that cutting blue gaze. “Daphne was very cool about me barging in on her date. On her night. I asked her . . . right before we went out on the dance floor . . . I asked her if I could borrow you a minute.” He peered into Justin’s eyes. “And that’s what I meant. We’d made our point . . . given your classmates a night they’d remember –”

“Some of us more than others,” Justin said faintly, and Brian fell silent a minute, cursing his choice of words.

“Anyway, I’d never planned on us just taking off. I figured we’d see each other soon enough.” Brian was subdued as the echo of their unfulfilled “laters” resonated through his body. “What the fuck kind of date would you have been, leaving Daphne stranded?”

“She wouldn’t have been stranded. We took her dad’s car. She’s the one who drove us there.”

“Not the point, Sunshine. But it’s almost funny, Sonnyboy.” Brian shut his eyes, then opened them quickly when the image of himself with Justin’s blood on his hands floated across his brain. “The one time I wanted to be Mr. Benevolent . . . put someone else’s feelings before my own interests. And it turned out just great, didn’t it.”

“Bri, don’t,” Justin said quickly, holding up a hand. “It’s okay. I understand –.”

“It was stupid. I was stupid.” Brian stared at the floor. “We should have just gone. I don’t even know why I didn’t . . .” Just pull you into the fucking Jeep and take off. Brian remembered how turned on he’d been after their kiss by the car, how hard his dick was . . . how much his balls ached. He’d wanted Justin, wanted the boy right then and there, but he’d just let him walk away, too fucking scared of what else he’d been feeling that night to hold on to the blond. “Hobbes wouldn’t have had a chance to take a swing at you. You wouldn’t have . . .”

“Brian.” Justin knee-walked over to the exec, halting his words with a hand to his thigh. “When are you gonna believe me when I say what happened wasn’t your fault? You didn’t know how psycho Chris was . . . I didn’t even know . . . and I’ve known him since sixth grade. You couldn’t have known what he was gonna do. He was in the parking lot, too. If we’d gone off together, he might have gotten into his own car and followed us. Rammed into you, like my dad did. Then we both could have been hurt, and he might’ve beaten both our heads in.”

“If I hadn’t come . . . maybe he wouldn’t have done anything. You ever think of that?”

“If you hadn’t come, we wouldn’t have this.” Justin held up their picture, the light from above reflecting off the pages. “We wouldn’t have had our dance, and I wouldn’t have been able to see it.”

“Not good enough,” Brian’s voice was thick, and he cleared his throat. “Nothing’s worth this.” He thumbed Justin’s scar, and then nodded at their picture. “Not even that.”

Justin eyed Brian a long moment, and the exec lowered his eyes, feeling Justin’s gaze burn into his forehead. “Brian . . . the only thing I regret about that night, other than the sucky way it ended, is that I can’t remember it for myself. That is the only thing.” He put his hand under Brian’s chin and lifted it until they were looking at each other again. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry that you came, or that if you hadn’t, Chris wouldn’t have hit me, or that you’ve been kicking yourself about it ever since . . . because then . . . it’ll be like all we’ve talked about – all we went through . . . was for nothing. You thinking about wanting to be kid to Daphne . . . that’s so like you, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.” The blond squeezed Brian’s shoulders hard. “Maybe you’re a ruthless shit in business, and to people who deserve it, but you’re always thinking about other people, putting other people first, even when you don’t want us to know you’re doing it. I can never understand how the guys can see what you do for others – and especially what you do for them – and have the balls to call you heartless.” Justin stared at him a moment longer, then released him. “Anyway, that answered that question. I want to go on to the next one.”

“It’s your night.” Brian immediately registered the loss of Justin’s hands on him. The teen’s fingers had dug into his flesh, and there was a fair chance he might have slight bruises the next morning, but Brian wanted those hands back. “What’s next?”

“That’s better.” Justin took his hand, tenderly kissing the palm. He settled between Brian’s legs, and after a moment, the exec realized that Justin was not moving back across the room. “Now, what I really wanted to ask . . .” He set the pages of the magazine on Brian’s lap, angling it so they could both see it well. “What is the deal with this scarf?”

Brian had been staring at the shot of the two of them, looked up sharply. “What?” he asked slowly, thinking of Justin’s first question about why and how he decided to come to the prom . . . the one he knew would come up again to bite him on the ass.

“Well . . .” Justin hesitated. “The first time you and I were . . . together – after the bashing, I mean – isn’t this the scarf you had on under your clothes?”

“Yeah. It’s the same one.” Brian nodded numbly. The white scarf, his silken hair shirt, one of the most incongruous reminders he’d ever have of the fragility of life, the uncertainties of fate. One moment, it was just a beautiful garment, pristine and shimmering, a perfect complement to his all-black attire, and the next, it was a relic of a horrific event, crimson staining its threads, blood mixed with Justin’s scent imbedded upon it forever. “What about it?”

“Well, first, I wondered how I got it. It was yours. Teren even made a point about how cool it looked on you. But here,” he indicated the picture. “I’m wearing it.”

“I put it on you,” Brian said tonelessly, feeling an ache begin right behind his eyes. “It was . . . we were fucking around with it . . . while we were dancing. Passing it back and forth to each other.” A brief smile lit the exec’s face as he recalled looping the satiny length around Justin’s neck, and pulling the boy to him. “You had it on there,” he said of the picture, “but by the time we got off the dance floor, I had the scarf back on and my jacket off. You took it off me . . . threw to Daphne –”

“I did that while we were dancing?” The blond blinked rapidly. “Shit . . . was I high?”

“Nope. Just . . . creative. It was a nice move.” He nodded to the teen. “Now that I know you had formal training.” Brian grinned when the teen’s ear tips turned bright red. “If we had more baby-sitters teaching their kids to cha-cha instead of sitting them down in front of Barney or whatever the fuck, we’d have a crop of inventive youths . . . we’d probably have more fags, too, but that’s not a bad thing.”

“Why did you keep the scarf?” Justin asked softly. “It was . . . it had . . . blood on it. And you were wearing it.” He reached up and touched Brian’s face. “I wanted to ask you about it when I first noticed it, but I didn’t know anything about the scarf except that the blood on it was probably mine.”

Brian stared into space for a moment. “That scarf . . . it’s got an interesting history. Two people who wore it . . . and both of ‘em were about a breath away from kicking off within minutes after putting it on. They didn’t die, though . . . even though there was a . . . decent chance they might.”

Justin looked at the picture, then at Brian, then at the picture again. “Who was the other person? I know I’m one . . .”

“There were only two people who ever wore the damn thing.” Brian replied in a calm tone. “Me and you.”

“Yeah, I know. But you said two people almost–” The teen stopped talking then, no warning, no sharp intake of breath, nothing to indicate that he had not finished his thought except the horror in his face that hit Brian like a smack. “No fucking way . . . you?”

Brian remembered the first night Justin had awakened him with a nightmare. He hadn’t screamed very loudly, and he hadn’t thrashed around in his sleep or called out for help. He’d simply sat bolt upright in bed breathing heavily, sounding more like he was having an asthma attack than a nightmare. But it was the look on Justin’s face – an unfiltered, terrorized expression that chilled Brian to the marrow – that let Brian know a hug, and not an inhaler, was what was needed. And that was the look the blond wore as he gaped open-mouthed at Brian, hands tightening around the edges of the magazine. The blond was scared now, and he, Brian, was the bogeyman, filling his head with frightening images and words and the scary thing was, it was gonna get worse – way worse. Almost everything inside Brian advised him to shut up, bundle the kid out the door, tell him to have a nice life, and that he should run as fast as he could anywhere else . . . go back to the music man, go home, go anywhere . . . because it only got more fucked-up from there – he only got more fucked up. But the small part of Brian that wasn’t screaming for him to shut down was also the same sliver of . . . something that Brian was sure Justin had seen in his eyes when they’d locked gazes on the dance floor, and then later at the Jeep. And at that moment, that tiny voice, that shred of something that ached to be loved, to have Justin love him, was stronger than all the other voices telling him to not bother trying . . . that no one could love someone like him, not ever, ever.

Neither of them moved, Justin staring at him expectantly, and Brian decided to heed the small voice and continue. They’d come this far . . . what was a little more dysfunction in the grand scheme of things?

“Day before your prom,” he began, “I came home from work, showered . . . put on a pair of jeans . . . inhaled and smoked some substances of questionable legality . . . drank a little Beam. Typical end-of-the-day unwinding.” He looked up at the ceiling, recalled how difficult it was to get the damn thing around one of the beams. It had been the one moment he’d regretted having high ceilings. “With a twist. Do you know what scarfing is?”

“Scarfing?” Justin sounded wary, like a person who’d gone into a movie knowing that there was going to be a scary scene, and was expecting it to come up at any moment. “Um . . . you mean like eating fast? Devour . . . uh . . . bolt . . . gobble?”

Brian was caught short and, the gravity of what he was about to tell the blond the only thing keeping him from rolling on the ground laughing. The earnest look on Justin’s face set the edges of his mouth twitching, however, and he stood up quickly, knowing he’d better start moving, or he’d lose it for sure. “Forgot I was talking to Mr. 1500 SATs. You’re in your element, Sunshine. Think alternate meaning: Scarfing. Verb.”

Justin looked mystified. “No, sorry . . . that’s the only scarfing I know,” he said with a shrug, then something appeared to dawn on him. “Well, wait . . . there was that weird thing me and Daph saw on the Web.”

My Sonnyboy never disappoints. Brian’s smile was knife-edge thin. “Weird thing?”

“Yeah . . . it’s supposed to be some sex kick. You tie something around your neck so your airflow’s restricted, I think, and then you beat off, and when you come, it’s supposed to feel even better. It sounded really stupid though, and –” And there it happened again: the abrupt end of a sentence and blue eyes going wide with terror. “Brian . . . you didn’t. Please . . . please tell me you didn’t.”

“Riiiiight there.” Brian watched Justin’s eyes follow his hand as he waved toward the rafters. “Right there. I got up on a chair . . . put that white scarf around my neck . . . tightened it . . . took my dick out –”

He never finished the sentence, because Justin on his feet and in his face almost at the same instant, hands gripping his throat, eyes feverishly roaming the skin as if checking for marks. “Jesus fuck, Brian!” The youthful face went scarlet, and for a moment, Brian thought the blond was going to sock him. “You stupid shit . . . you could have died doing that!”

“So I’ve been told.” Brian shrugged as casually as he could with Justin’s fingers pressed into his windpipe. “Would’ve been something to read about in fag rags, wouldn’t it? I could see the opening line of the obit now . . . ‘If ever there was a person in our community who we imagined dying with a hard dick and a smile on his face, it would be Brian Andrew Kinney . . .’”

“Brian, what the fuck were you thinking?” Justin’s voice trembled with anger. “Christ . . . you’re smarter than that . . . and how the fuck could you do that after getting fucked up on E and god knows what else –”

“Just E and Beam and weed . . . didn’t want to overload myself.” Brian forced a grin on his face. It felt false and ghoulish to him, and he could only imagine how it looked to Justin. “Had to maintain a delicate balance . . .”

Justin let him go, taking a step backward. “You knew you could die . . . and you did it anyway. Why?” The sadness packed into that one syllable made Brian’s stomach churn. “Why would you want to do that to people who love you – Gus and Michael and Linds and Mel. Deb and Vic. Em and Ted. Me.” His chest heaved and for a moment, Brian was concerned Justin was having an asthma attack. “How could you even think about leaving us just like that?”

“Look, like I told Mikey: I didn’t come home, decide, ‘Hey . . . I’m gonna go keep my old man company in St. Adelbert’s. He could use the excitement of having his ass-fucking, evil-living Sonnyboy camped right next to him . . . dead with a hard-on, no less. He could show me around Hell . . . he must’ve put in a good word for me by now.’” Brian found it a little hard to speak around the lump in his throat. “What I wanted was to get off –”

“If that’s all you wanted, you could have called me –”

“You were at Mikey’s sendoff, remember?” Brian tilted an eyebrow at him. The party before he and Dr. What’shisnuts headed out to stroke the sycamores.”

“Then you could have gone to Babylon . . . picked someone up. Fucked him, had him suck you. Whatever.” Justin spat the words at him, and Brian could see the teen was trembling. “Just like you do anytime all you want is to get off. You did what you did because you knew you could die . . . that made it even more fucking appealing to you, didn’t it?”

“Wasn’t it appealing to you?” He sneered at the dumbfounded look on Justin’s face. “The night they found that twink dead in the Dumpster . . . I put my hands on your throat and started choking you . . . and you got hard as a fucking brick, and when we fucked, it was awesome. Only difference with scarfing is that it’s a solo enterprise.”

“Fuck you, Brian. That’s exactly why it’s not the same.” Justin’s eyes blazed. “I wasn’t alone! I knew you weren’t going to kill me. When I told you to stop, you did, and even if things had gotten out of control and I lost consciousness or something, you would have been there to get me some help . . . take me to the fucking hospital. If you’d lost consciousness when you were scarfing, you would have fallen off that chair and hanged yourself! So I think there’s a big difference between being a little kinky with someone who gives a shit about you and jerking off with a fucking noose wrapped around your neck!”

The exec was silent while Justin railed at him, because he really didn’t know how to refute Justin’s words. “What made it appealing, was everything I read on the Web about it . . . everything I’ve ever heard about it, everything everyone who’s tried it and lived to tell about it said – that doing it is like being sucked off by the sky . . . like you’ve got rocket fuel in your balls . . . that’s what I wanted to feel, Sunshine.” He crossed his arms. “I wanted my last hurrah before my descent into my destiny, as foretold by my father, John Francis Kinney Jr., reluctant family man, all-around asshole and cancer-ridden, newly dead prick.”

“What are you talking about? What does your dad have to do with any of this?” Justin asked, confusion mixing in with the anger on his face. “I thought you said you’d forgotten about him a long time ago . . . even before he died.”

Brian rubbed his chin and shrugged. “Thought you’d figured out by now that I can be a little inconsistent, Sunshine. Especially when I’m trying to prove a point.”

He turned his back to Justin and studied the Mapplethorpe print on the far wall. “A few months before my dad kicked off, we had a conversation – most of which a bottle of Beam erased, but I do remember some of it. Or at least, I did when I decided to try scarfing.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut at the memory of a whiskey-sour breath rasping about sports scores, retirement plans, pending strikes, and of bloodshot eyes that stared into his, devoid of any warmth, of any sense of tenderness or love. “He said he and I were a lot alike – free spirits. Not meant to settle down and get . . . roped in by domesticity. Wife, kids, that sort of thing.” Brian heard Justin breathing hard behind him, and sensed the blue-eyed gaze boring into the back of his neck. “He said something that I’d never heard from him before, but he said it often enough – usually with a right hook or a backhand. He said . . . he never should’ve been a family man. He . . .”

Brian trailed off, shaking his head. It was humorous, in a way: the man who’d given him his eyes and his hair and his height and tried to give him his hate, as well, had been dead more than a year. Well before their talk at the lodge, Brian had believed that his father never loved him, and their meeting and Jack Kinney’s words, whiskey-induced as they had been, had just confirmed Brian’s suspicions, and what hurt him most that night, what brought the tears to his eyes that night, was not getting confirmation that his father had never given a shit about him, but that he still cared one way or the other what his father thought. Brian thought he’d given up giving a shit about his father’s feelings, but that night, and later, crying in the dark in Mikey’s bed, made him realize that not only did he still give a shit, but despite his best efforts and better judgment, he probably always would.

“I thought it was bullshit,” Brian said suddenly, blinking until his eyes cleared. “He was a pitiful shit who could barely hold a job any stretch of time, he never had much ambition I ever heard of, other than making enough to keep my mom off his back and have a little left over to play cards, bowl with the boys and drink himself out a reality for a few hours. He’d never gone anywhere, never won anything, never had his picture in the paper – not even for his fucking obituary. And he liked pussy. How the hell was that anything like me? I couldn’t figure it out . . . chalked it up to him being drunk off his ass and me being bored enough to listen to him.” There was a slight pause. “Then I turned 30, and I understood just what the fuck he was trying to say. That was a great fucking week, the day I turned thirty. You remember it?” Though Brian hadn’t really expected a reply, but his heart knocked painfully at the silence. How much of Justin’s short-term memory had been lost? “Let me sum up: I got passed over for a job I was fucking perfect for, for a brownnosing breeder barely old enough to have hair on his balls . . . for my birthday, my good friends threw me this kick-ass party, complete with coffin . . . and my best friend was moving to a frozen fucking wasteland with a guy who had a personality to match.”

“I did think the coffin was going a little far, but everyone said you’d get a kick out of it.” Justin sounded embarrassed. “If we’d known about the New York thing beforehand, we would never have –”

“No, it was perfect, Sunshine, because that little get-together brought things totally into focus for me. Things were changing, and I wasn’t changing with them. Wasn’t going to New York, wasn’t starting a new life with new clubs and a new place in a new town. And that’s when I figured out what my father meant by me and him ‘being alike.’ He wasn’t talking about the way we thought or the way we looked or even the way we acted. He was laughing at me. The sonofabitch had been laughing at me, and I couldn’t see it before that moment. He was telling me that no matter what kind of fucking job, car, money or loft I had, in the end, I’d be just like him – stuck here. I’d missed my chance – my youth, I thought, was gone. And much like my dear old man before me, I looked in the mirror and thought, ‘Brian Kinney, you’re 30. Thirty. You’ve reached your fucking peak, and this it is – you’re in the Pitts . . . a place you thought you’d be long gone from by the time you were 21, and it looks like that’s where you’re gonna fucking stay . . .’”

He stopped, wondering over his words. It seemed so pathetic to have such feelings, especially considering where he’d ended up – partner in a firm, successful, well-off . . . and even loved – honestly loved – by people who weren’t maniacs. But until recently, alone and as directionless and sorry for himself as he had been in the days after his 30th birthday. Brian shuddered to think how much worse his wallowing in self-pity could have gotten if Justin hadn’t been in the picture then.

“So, in honor of my discovery of the futility of life, I wanted to have a little celebration. I wanted to give myself something huge . . . something I’d always remember . . . but I didn’t really know what that was. According to everybody who thinks they know shit about my life, I have damn-near everything, so I couldn’t figure out what to get that would have meaning. Then one day that week, I went with Linds and my son to some high-end version of linens and things. She went on about how amazing it would be to grow old, get wrinkles . . . all the shit only a dyke would say, because breeder women know a good anti-aging cream’s better than a double-headed dildo. Smell’s better, too. And that’s when I saw it.” He made a whipping motion with his hand. “That scarf. I saw it wrapped around the mannequin, just waiting for me . . . I touched it . . . and I knew I’d found what I was looking for . . . a way to feel like I was still in the land of the living . . .” That I still had a life to risk.

“Was it worth it?” Justin’s voice at his back was quiet, and Brian couldn’t discern the tone. It was somewhere between furious and heartbreakingly sad. “Did you come so hard, you hit the ceiling? Did you have the biggest boner of your life? Did you feel like you were fucking orbiting Pluto?”

“I never got the chance to find out.” He squinted into the pane of glass covering the artwork. It looked dirty. “Just as I was about to shoot, in bursts Mikey. Apparently, he was pissed because I didn’t make his party, and he’d come in to check on me. He cut me down, and I wanted to fucking kill him. There he was about to leave the Pitts for the other side of the U.S., and he’s ruining my good time, just for old times’ sake. He went nuts ranting something about Captain Astro and saving me, that I was a stupid twat, blah, blah, blah. I told Mikey just like I told you: Dying wasn’t on the agenda. And just like I told Mikey, and I’m telling you now . . .” He turned and met the blue eyes with an even stare. “If it had happened that I choked while choking it . . . it would’ve sucked, but it wouldn’t have been the worst way in the world to go. I would’ve died just like this.” He stood ramrod straight, feeling his muscles flex beneath his skin as he stood tall. “With this face . . . these lats and delts . . . my ass . . . and my dick hard. Young forever. Immortal. Who wouldn’t want that?”

Brian touched his own face as he spoke, felt the smoothness above his brow, but noticed a slight change of texture where lines were beginning. Fuck. Time for another order to La Jeunesse. “Just like Dean . . . Hendrix . . . Cobain. They told the world to fuck itself every day they lived in it, and they died that way, too. We’ll always remember them for that. If I was gonna go out young, like them, why not be fucking fabulous doing it?” He paused and waited for Justin to speak, but the teen stood silent, lips pressed tight. “Mikey told me that was bullshit . . . he said a lot of things made me think Mikey’s been fooling all of us all these years and he’s grown up after all. “Said no matter how fucking old I’d get . . . I’d always be young and beautiful and a lot of other profound shit that I didn’t hear, because I did end up passing out. In bed,” he added at Justin’s sharp look. “And when I woke up the next morning, I realized something – always-young, always-beautiful people can get whatever they want. Do whatever they want, when they want.” He took a deep breath, held it, and wondered how – and if – Justin would respond to his next words. “And that night, what I wanted . . . was to be with you.”

Justin had been about say something, but he closed his mouth quickly. There was a lengthy pause before Justin’s hushed, “What?”

The words had the desired effect, and had the added bonus of being the absolute truth, so Brian was satisfied. “I went to work that morning, and I remembered what Mikey said about being young forever. And I thought about you . . . and how when you asked me to your prom, I said some fucking thing about being old . . . and you pretty much told me to shut the fuck up and get over it. It wasn’t like I was forty or anything.” He grinned, and got a tentative smile in return. “I was in my office that day, drinking one of the best lattes I’d ever tasted, and wondered what the fuck I was gonna do that night. I thought about the Baths and Babylon . . . thought about cyber hookups . . . Woody’s. But that shit seemed old, and you know me, Sunshine. I don’t do old. I wanted to enjoy my youth while I still had a chance . . . and I wanted to enjoy it with someone who could appreciate it . . . and appreciate me. Someone I . . .” he swallowed hard, keeping his eyes on the blond. “. . . cared about.”

The look on Justin’s face was indescribable, but Brian really didn’t have much time to assess it completely, because Justin was suddenly in his face and then in his arms, hugging him tightly, ear pressed to the exec’s heart.

“So I got home that night, made some calls, and after the fifth one, found out where your prom was.” Brian’s throat constricted as he came to the part that even now amazed him. “Got dressed and took off and didn’t think about what the fuck I was doing until I got downtown, and to the Deauville and saw you . . .” You smiled . . . and I knew why Deb called you Sunshine. He squeezed Justin to him until he could feel Justin’s heart beating in response to his. A fucking smile . . . and I couldn’t help it. It was over . . . no turning back . . . I was blowing my cover for you, Sunshine . . . and I didn’t give it a fuck. Twat. Brian kissed the top of his head. “And you saw me . . . and that was it.” He held himself still, waiting for the echo of the bat and that sickening thud to revisit his brain, and was mildly surprised when it did not. He relaxed completely. “The rest of the story . . . you know. Now.”

Brian heard a muffled sound faintly recognizable as the teen’s voice, and he pulled back a bit. “What?”

“I said,” Justin spoke louder, his cheek pressed to Brian’s chest. “I’d say I hate that scarf because what you almost did with it was so fucking stupid . . . but I still don’t get why you kept it.”

“I almost tossed it. I threw it on at the last minute, ‘cause I thought it was a nice touch . . . and I figured I should get some fucking use out of it, even in June.” Brian’s voice dipped low. “And I wanted a reminder of the thing that helped open my eyes . . . even though I guess it could have closed them. Forever.” Justin tensed in his arms, and Brian stroked his back in reassurance, caressing the teen until he felt the tension leave his body. “You know that bullshit show Touched by an Angel? Linds used to be obsessed with that shit . . . everybody’s always learning some fucking lesson or being shown the true path or whatever. I’d been touched by the scarf: it got me to see what I really was. I was Brian Kinney, for fuck’s sake,” He grinned, remembering Michael’s vehemence when he’d uttered that phrase. “I could do what my old man didn’t think to – take what I have in life and make it suck my cock . . . eat my ass. Worship me. If all I’ll ever have is this fucking town, my fucking loft, and my fucking job, then I’m gonna make sure I have them on my terms. And after you . . . got hurt, I kept the scarf to remind me that I’d gotten a second chance . . . and . . . you’d been touched by it, too . . .” He stared into golden strands. “So you were going to get your second chance. You weren’t gonna die. You couldn’t die. You weren’t gonna . . . leave . . . just like that.” Brian massaged Justin’s hair as he echoed the teen’s earlier words.

Justin’s body began to shake, and Brian stepped back, concerned, and then realized the blond was laughing. “No way was I gonna die without rubbing it in your face that you came to my prom,” Justin’s voice was breathless. “Everyone knew what I’d suspected all along – you loved me . . . truly, madly, deeply, completely. And that night, you wanted me to know it for sure.” He kissed Brian’s forehead. “I love you.”

Brian pressed his tongue into his cheek, his heart clenching a little as it tended to whenever the blond declared his love. He’d never tell Justin, but the words were precious to him, especially since he’d heard them so seldom while growing up. “I didn’t come there to make some grand, romantic statement or to sweep you off your feet or any of that shit. You know me better than that.”

“Yeah, I do. And that’s why I know that all you just said is bullshit,” Justin spoke with conviction, kissing Brian’s left cheekbone, side of chin and earlobe in rapid succession. “I’m on to you, Brian. Remember?”

“Whatever you say, Sonnyboy . . .” Brian did his best to sound unconcerned and he began to rock back and forth, bringing Justin with him in a lazy dance. “You’re 19 years old . . . what the fuck do you know?”

“More than you probably ever expected me to . . . more than you probably thought you’d ever tell me. More than I ever fucking hoped for.” He kissed Brian again, and the exec swung the blond out, beaming when the blond smiled at him and executed a picture-perfect turn.

“That was good.” Brian hid his excitement, steering Justin toward the middle of the floor and swung him out again. This time, Justin turned twice and returned to Brian as they fell in perfect step for a waltz. It was not the dance of that night . . . that sort of . . . inspiration, was the only word Brian could think that would describe it, only came once in a lifetime . . . but their impromptu spin around the spacious room was nothing to sneer at, especially considering the woodenness and awkwardness of their first re-creation attempt. The blond was buoyant, light on his feet as they moved slowly around the living room floor, their bare feet smacking rhythmically against the hardwood, and their bodies pressed so tightly together, they seemed to move as one. Brian hummed the tune to Save the Last Dance for Me as they moved. Feeling a gentle vibration against his chest, Brian quieted down some and was shocked to realize Justin was humming with him.

“Daph has it on CD,” Justin said, seemingly anticipating Brian’s surprise. “She played it for me last night over and over again. It is . . . a nice song. But sorry . . . I still think it’s kind of corny.”

“It is corny.” Brian spun him around again. “But what ridiculously romantic song isn’t?”

“Ridiculously romantic . . . that’d be a good name for a band.” Justin rested his head between the exec’s chin and collarbone and they finished out the song and their dance, smiling up at each other. Brian rested a hand on one of Justin’s cheeks, gazed into the depthless blue eyes and felt the gaze go through him, deep, to the bone, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except meet that bold look with one of his own and reflect on the notion that a boy who wasn’t even of legal drinking age could know the heart of a man who, to hear others tell it, wasn’t even supposed to have one. Without thinking about it, Brian pressed his mouth to Justin’s in a kiss that blended the passion of the one they’d shared on the dance floor with the gentleness of their lip lock by the Jeep and encompassed everything that had been special and wonderful about that night, and the nights they’d shared before and since.

When they pulled away, Justin kissed the exec’s bottom lip, staring up at him with the little half-smile of a person who’d just gotten the punch line of an obscure joke. “Thank you for this. The best night of my life . . . and I got it twice.”

“Good to know,” was all Brian could trust himself to say, wondering if the phrase had just popped into Justin’s head or if he was remembering . . . No. If it were a memory, Justin would have said something, Brian decided. The exec distracted himself from wanting to say something irrevocably mushy by burying his nose and mouth in Justin’s hair.

“And thanks for not dying. I would have fucking killed you if you had.” Justin sounded cautiously amused as he pulled away. “But there’s still one thing I don’t know: How it was gonna end? Let’s say nothing bad happened that night, and we ended up back here. Then . . .?” He raised his eyebrows, his look questioning.

“I don’t know,” Brian admitted after a brief silence. Their laters had been promises, that much he’d known, but promises for what, Brian was not sure. He only knew that at that moment, there would be a “later” for them – there always would be. “I didn’t think that far ahead, but I’m sure we would have thought of something.” He palmed Justin’s ass in emphasis.

“Sooo . . . does that mean we get to make the next part up?”

Justin seemed very enthusiastic about that prospect, and Brian wondered what the blond had in mind. “Within limits. No candlelight . . . no rose petals . . . no Shelley sonnets . . .”

“No scarves, no toys . . .” Justin waltzed him back to where they’d started, his movements quick and sure. “No weirdness . . . just you and me . . .”

“Just us, Sunshine? Only the two of us? Now that’s kinky . . .”

“Just us, Bri.” Justin smiled gently. “One thing, though – all that stuff about later? Wanting to touch me later? Wanting to fuck me later? Kiss me later? Blow me later?”

“Yeah . . .?” Brian’s cock pulsed with each word, and he spread his legs a little to create a little more room in his pants.

The smile became predatory, and Justin ground his crotch against Brian’s. “I think we’ve come to the later part . . .”

“No shit,” Brian said with as much seriousness as he could muster with his dick about to burst the seams of his jeans. They spun around drunkenly, laughing into each other’s shoulders, and stumbled up the steps leading into the bedroom.

They entered the blue-lit room together, and stopped at the foot of the bed for a gentle kiss. Clutching one another, they gave into the urges they’d been fighting all day and let their tongues explore and their hands wander. Brian had a moment of alarm when Justin pushed him down onto the bed and fused their mouths together, roughly pulled off his own sweats and underwear and began rubbing himself against Brian as if their cocks were pieces of kindling and he was trying to start a fire.

“Hey . . . slow down.” Brian’s cock responded to the heat of Justin’s dick, which even felt through his jeans, seemed hot enough to scald. “This isn’t a speed trial.”

“Don’t want slow.” Justin nibbled his way across Brian collarbone, fumbling with the zip of the exec’s pants at the same time. “Want you.” His smile was triumphant as he tugged Brian’s jeans and briefs down, and gripped his rapidly sitffening prize. “Now.”

“Shit . . .” Brian squirmed against the fingers gently stroking his dick. Even if the ad exec didn’t know what their night together after the prom would have been, he did know that it would not have been over in five minutes, which was in danger of happening if he didn’t do something soon. He managed somehow to get away from those teasing fingers and maneuvered Justin onto his back. Straddling the teen’s thighs, he ran his fingers across the pale chest, tenderly plucking at nipples the same dusky rose color as Justin’s lips, paying close and careful attention to the blond's ringed nipple. “Justin, relax.” Brian touched his lips briefly to the artist’s. “I don’t want to rush this.”

“Mmmm . . .” Opening his eyes, Justin raised his head a little. “I . . . haven’t heard that in a while.”

“What?” Brian began kissing down the blond’s neck, his tongue painting a path from Justin’s clavicle down through the silk that swirled from below his navel down to his balls. “That I don’t want to rush?”

“No . . . Justin.” The blond sat up on his elbows, eyes tracking Brian’s movements down his body. “I’m so used to you calling me Sunshine or Sonnyboy . . . it’s . . . such a turn on to hear you say my name . . .” The blond seemed to have a hard time getting his breath. “Anytime you say it, it’s like you want to fuck the hell out of me. It’s so fucking sexy . . .”

“Oh is that right . . . Justin?” Brian whispered into the teen’s belly button, dragging his lips lower, down into soft, golden pubes. “Justiiinnn,” he sing-songed into the thatch of crinkly hair. He lightly nuzzled the smooth skin of his balls, and smiled at the odd noises Justin was making in the back of his throat, something between a gasp and a giggle. “Justin,” he rasped against the low-hanging orbs, just before he took them into his mouth, rolling his tongue gently over them. Brian looked up at the teen as he sucked his balls, watching the blond hair spill over his forehead. Justin pursed his lips at him then grinned, grabbing his dick and rubbing it over the exec’s face, precome coating Brian’s face and mouth. They held each other’s gaze as Brian’s tongue flicked out to tap the tip of the leaking cock. The brunette lapped at the salty, spicy liquid drenching the cockhead, his own dick twitching with every swipe of his tongue. “Justin.” Another lick, this time swirling around the underside of the flared head. “Jus . . .” Brian nuzzled his way down one side of the shaft, then kissed up the other. “. . . tin.”

Urgent fingers laced through his hair and pulled him forward, and Brian opened his mouth, letting Justin guide his dick past his lips. Justin . . . Justin . . . Justin . . . His mind crooned the name as he slid his lips up and down the throbbing shaft. His tongue glided over the veins tracing the shaft, and soon his internal voice was joined by Justin’s moans of “Brian,” and other less defined words and phrases. The teen was pushing his hips forward, sliding his dick in and out of Brian’s mouth with short, quick thrusts. Brian kept his hands off his own cock, knowing that touching it would be like hitting speed-dial, giving him an instant and total connection to his orgasm. Instead, he caressed Justin’s body, hands smoothing over the blond’s lean torso and racing down again to squeeze the teen’s ass, which clenched and released with each thrust of the blond’s hips.

“Shit, Brian . . . Brian . . . I . . . uhnnhhhhhh . . . mmmmm . . .” Justin was breathing heavily, his fingers tapping a warning on Brian’s shoulder. The blond was flexing his hips harder and faster, his hands clutching fistfuls of the bedcovers. Brian cradled his lover’s swollen balls in hands, felt them tightening, and he opened his mouth wide to let Justin gradually pull his dick out, knowing that even a just few more gentle licks would push Justin over the edge. While Justin struggled to get his breath, Brian laid his head on one of the boy’s thighs, an idle finger tracing designs in the sweat that glistened there. When the blond’s gasping had subsided to a soft panting, the exec raised himself on his hands and knees, throwing one leg between Justin’s spread knees. “Okay?”

A low sigh was his answer, and Brian hesitated only a moment before making his way up the supine form once more, lips traversing skin the color and texture of pale honey. He rained kisses over the hollow of the teen’s throat, up the sharp line of jaw to his chin, his forehead. Justin pulled him close and kissed him deeply, his tongue finding its way into Brian’s mouth like a fox to a burrow. Their hard-ons crossing each other like fencing foils, Brian began shifting over to lessen the amount of contact their dicks had and to allow Justin to reposition himself beside him. He miscalculated his momentum, however, and with a sudden, vicious push, Brian found their earlier positions reversed, but Justin had a tight grip on his arms, pinning them to his sides, and was leaning over him with a carnivorous grin that made his eyes shimmer in the blue lights. The teen lowered his head, lips moving soundlessly against the tender spot below Brian’s ear, and Brian felt his cock leap and strain like a dog on a leash.

“You sneaky . . . little . . . ahhh fuck . . .” he groaned as Justin’s soft lips and wet tongue skidded down his neck and across each nipple, tweaking the tender flesh between his lips before licking each one to stiffness. Releasing his hands, Justin landed a series of feather-light kisses down the exec’s stomach and Brian angled up in time to see his cock slowly disappear between scarlet lips. “Fuck . . . Ju –” He breathed in sharply, and tried again. “Jus –” His breath left him in a low hiss as Justin licked the ridge of his dick. Brian gave up all attempts at intelligibility then and closed his eyes, figuring the writhing of his body against the silk sheets and the fluttering of his cock expressed his feelings more accurately than any words could. He wanted nothing more than to bury his dick to the hilt in the sweet, wet warmth of Justin’s mouth and erupt there, but Brian held back, knowing a much more satisfying payoff was at hand.

Feeling Justin’s mouth swoop up and down his shaft, his tongue circling around it and teeth gently nibbling at the head, Brian strained up to watch the blond head bob between his thighs, and he was reminded of one of their final conversations before Justin had left him for the music man. Justin had talked about romance, about flowers and candlelight and sweet words, and Brian had taunted the teen about his love for dick any way he could get it: in his hand, in his ass, down his throat. Justin’s movements now reminded Brian that he hadn’t been exaggerating about Justin’s hearty appetite for cock. Brian could taste his pulse as Justin fed greedily on his dick, slurping sounds and his own groans and sighs drowning out the buzz of the lights behind them. Dimly aware that he was closing in on the boundaries of his control, Brian moved to leave the lush warmth of Justin’s mouth. Giving the cock a farewell lick as it left his lips, Justin skimmed his hands over Brian’s belly, and with a little fortunate timing, Brian was able to capture the flitting hands and haul Justin upward, holding him tight against his body for another kiss.

“Brian . . .” Justin moaned against the soft lips, kneading the cheeks of Brian’s ass. “I . . . I . . .” Exploring fingers delved into the crack of his ass, and Brian jerked against the fingers that pressed against his asshole. “Need . . . you . . . want . . . inside . . . you . . .”

Brian didn’t speak, but kept his eyes on the blond, seeing his own longing reflecting back at him from the deep blue eyes. Justin, sensing defeat, shrugged slightly and smiled, beginning to roll over onto his side. Brian stopped him with a hand to his shoulder as he reached out toward his nightstand, fumbling open the top drawer and removing a small tube and foil packets. Pressing the tube of lube and condoms into Justin’s hand, their fingers intertwined, and he nodded at the blond’s delighted expression. “Told you it was your night.”

The tearing of the foil, the removing of the condom and the unrolling of it down the blond’s waiting dick took less than an instant. So, too, did the liberal application of lube, spread against the sheathed cock and the puckered opening with gentle fingers, one or two wiggling inside to prepare the ring of muscle for something larger. So Justin was going to be kind to him . . . would do his best to prepare him for what was ahead . . . get him comfortable . . . reward him for exhibiting the trust it took to let Justin inside him after so long an absence. But the artist’s kindness was shown best, Brian thought, in his not wasting any time in satisfying him, in not making Brian beg for it. And the exec knew he would have begged, too, if it had come down to it. He would have shocked them both and pleaded with Justin not to tease him, to just stick it in and fuck him and complete what they hadn’t even had a chance to start – what had been put on abrupt hold without their even realizing it – more than two years before.

In less than no time, the entrance was breached, twin moans breaking the stillness of the air in the bedroom. Brian wrapped his legs around his Justin’s waist, his eyes focused on the glittering blue above him as Justin slowly entered him. Brian reflected that it had been awhile since he’d been fucked – he hadn’t done it in the two months since Justin had gone, at the very least – and his ass reminded him of this fact as Justin’s wide cock made its way inside him.

The teen watched him with hazy eyes, halting each at each grimace, and then pressing on. He was motionless once he was completely inside his lover, giving Brian time to stretch and adjust, and then, with a slight all-body tremble, Justin began pumping his hips, beginning their fucking with short, tentative jabs. Brian inhaled with each thrust, arching and pushing up to receive each plunge of Justin’s cock. The blond kept up a steady rhythm, pulling out slowly until the head of his dick was barely inside Brian’s asshole, and the sudden thrust that followed, Justin burying his dick deep inside his lover in one stroke, made Brian give a shout loud enough to shatter steel. He pulled Justin’s head down, kissing him fiercely, biting the teen’s lips, spurring Justin to pick up the pace. The blond moved his body like a dancer’s, grinding his hips in measured, circular motions, his torso swaying rhythmically. The artist’s leisurely movements a counterpart to the frenzied panting and moans and the frantic jacking Brian was giving his own dick as Justin plowed into him, the blond’s arms straining with effort of supporting his weight. Noting this, and wanting to gain some semblance of control, Brian contrived to roll the two of them until Justin was flat on his back, Brian straddling him from above. There was a moment when things ground to a halt, Justin blinking up in confusion at their position shift. It was an adjustment for Brian, too, and it took a little maneuvering to get his long legs to cooperate while he slowly eased himself onto Justin’s cock.

“It’s okay,” Brian whispered as he steadied himself on the balls of his feet, gently massaging the blond’s forearms. “Let me do some of the work now. Relax, and concentrate on how . . . this . . . feels . . .” He slowly began to move, sliding up and down Justin’s dick, slowly, stretching and restretching himself on his lover with careful attention.

“Ahmm . . . ohhh, god . . . Brian . . .” Justin licked his lips and angled his hips upward, slipping deeper inside his lover. “So . . . fucking amazing . . . you’re so . . . ahnn . . . tight . . .”

“And you thought . . . you . . . were the only . . . one?” Brian sighed as he worked himself on Justin’s dick, body trembling in ecstasy as he sank and rose on the column of throbbing flesh that was jabbing into him, matching him thrust for thrust. “Fuck me . . . ahhh . . . fuck me, Justin . . . Justin . . . yeah . . . ahh yeah . . . like that . . . like . . . that . . .” Where the hell did he learn to fuck like this? Breathless, the exec stared down at his lover, seeing the intense look of concentration on the young face and the perspiration that dotted the bridge of his nose. The music man was one lucky twat . . . not anymore, though . . . not . . . anymore . . .

Brian felt his balls begin to climb, and he jacked his dick faster, the stroking of his hand and that of Justin’s dick pulling him closer to point of release. He gazed at Justin, whose eyes had lost their clouded-over cast and now burned feverishly in the flushed face. The little whimpers and moans Justin had given off with each thrust of his hips were getting longer, increasing in pitch. Brian squeezed his ass muscles tightly around Justin cock with each plunge the blond made, eliciting a series of trailing moans from his thrusting lover. A beat went by, and Justin plunged full in again, churning his hips, and jabbing Brian’s sensitive spot in quick, successive strokes. Brian reached for Justin’s ringed nipple, pulling it lightly, and Justin cried out with each tug.

“Oh, fuck . . . fuck . . . Brian . . . gonna . . . Brian . . . Bri-aann!” Justin’s body flailed violently, and Brian pressed his thighs together, holding on while Justin’s dick pulsed inside him. He felt the blond’s body tremble beneath him, and each throb of Justin’s dick nudged Brian’s prostate, bringing him closer to the edge.

Brian continued stroking his own dick as he absorbed the fading tremors of Justin’s orgasm, and he lifted himself up to allow Justin’s softening dick to slip from his ass. Gratefully welcoming Justin’s hand joining his on his cock, their overlapped fingers raced up and down smooth, heated flesh that was as hard as rebar. Justin’s free hand, still slick with lube, cupped and gently squeezed Brian’s heavy balls. That, along with their combined stroking and the keen bolts of sensation still radiating from his asshole, triggered Brian’s release. Brian ground out a garbled sound faintly recognizable as the name of his lover, and his mind exploded as his body convulsed, cum arcing out in a creamy, continual stream that splashed onto Justin’s tummy before trickling to the bedcovers below.

In moments, Brian was completely spent, and he collapsed beside a softly moaning Justin. More aware of the delicious, raw burn in his ass than of the sweaty stickiness on his thighs, Brian slid his arm under the blond and pulled him close. Justin turned his face into Brian’s chest, and they twined their arms around each other, laying in silence until their breathing evened out. Brian breathed in deep the scent of sweat lingering on Justin’s body and felt the heat of the teen’s skin flow into him.

“Damn . . . that was unbelievable.” Justin kissed the top of Brian’s ear, his tongue tracing the outward curve. “Thank you for letting me . . . I don’t think I would have lasted two seconds with you fucking me.”

“Yeah?” Brian brought him closer, and tried not to think about how sore he’d be in the morning. “What made you so sure I’d last any longer?”

“Well . . . you do have the benefit of years of experience. Many, many, many years –”

“Fuck you.”

“Later. Definitely.” Justin nuzzled his neck. “Besides . . . how could I doubt the staying power of a guy who went sixteen days without sex? Sixteen. I hope someone called Guinness.”

“No. But I drank a few of them, plus some Beam, plus took a few bumps of E during that shit.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I needed something to occupy my time . . . wanted to be numb . . .”

“You could have had Em and Ted tuck you in instead of Michael . . . help keep you company.”

“I wanted to be numb, Sunshine. Not homicidal.”

Justin’s laugh was muffled by the skin of Brian’s neck. “I wish I’d known you then. I would have killed to have seen you turning down all those studs.”

Brian was sure the center’s directors would be thankful that Justin hadn’t been around for the Celibathon, because their take would likely have been significantly lowered. He tightened his arms around the teen and they fell into silence, their soft breathing now and then breaking the stillness in the room. They remained in that position for many minutes – more than ten, Brian was sure, and then that ten stretched to fifteen, then twenty, and then he stopped counting and started drifting, lost to everything except the warmth in his arms, the smoothness of the blankets beneath his body, the gentle roughness of the towel Justin later used to clean them both up, and the aftershocks of orgasm that now and then wracked him from head to foot.

“Bri?”

“Mmm?” Brian had been on the edge of sleep, and he inhaled deeply, blond hairs tickling his nose.

He felt the teen’s hesitation, heard him swallow. “Tell me now if you don’t want this. If you don’t think we’re ready. I’ll understand. ”

“Hmm . . . a little late to ask now, isn’t it Sunshine?” Brian inched both of them away from the wet spot on the bed. “I already let you fuck me.”

“No . . . I mean about us. If we . . . if we get back together, I really want it to be different. I want to make it work this time.”

Brian thought a minute. “You say that like you think it can’t be done.”

Justin disentangled himself from Brian’s arms and looked at up him. “No . . . I know it can . . . but . . . maybe what I meant to ask is, do you want it to be different? And what if my idea of different and your idea of different are –”

“Different?”

“I’m serious, Brian.” Justin said in a low voice. “Now that I know that you can be romantic when you want – I want you to be. Not all the time, and not in ways that make you uncomfortable . . . ways I tried to force before. In your way. But I want it. Now that I know we can talk to each other, I want us to do it more, and not as a last resort when things are about to go to shit.”

“That’s . . . different. For us, anyway.” Brian shrugged lightly. “The talking thing . . . it’s not so bad. We can do that. The rest . . . I can’t guarantee.” Still want romantic, Sunshine? Brian stroked back the hair from Justin’s forehead, fingers stopping right above the fading line of white on the teen’s temple. You think you’ll get it out of me if it kills you . . . and it almost did. You must really think I’m worth it. “But we can give it a shot . . . see how it goes.”

“It won’t be easy, though, and that’s okay. I don’t mind having to work at it.” Justin looked thoughtful. “It’s just . . . what happened to us reminds me of this story my mom told me once. When she and my dad were first married, my mom’s big hobby was putting together jigsaw puzzles – the really hard ones that took, like, months to put together. This one time, my dad, as a joke, took a piece of a puzzle she was working on and kind of sand down a side of it – not so much, because he didn’t want it to look deformed or anything – but enough so that it wasn’t going to fit where it was supposed to. She didn’t realize it until she had almost the whole thing put together, there was that one place where the piece was supposed to go, but it didn’t . . . and she couldn’t understand it, because everything else had been right. She thought it was defective.” He looked at his lover. “And that reminds me of us. It’s like, somehow, the part of us that used to click and made us able to understand each other . . . read each other, I guess . . . got warped or something without either of us knowing . . . and we didn’t fit anymore . . . and it made us think – made me think – that all along, we’d been . . . not right. We kept doing things and saying things and thinking things that we wouldn’t have done, said or thought before . . .”

Brian was quiet a moment, lost in thought. “What’d your mom do about her broken puzzle?”

“Um . . . she kept trying to figure it out, went kind of crazy . . .” Justin answered. “Finally, my dad felt bad enough about what he’d done and he told her. She bitched him out, but he called the company, and got a replacement for the whole thing . . . she made him pick through every single part until he found the one he’d messed with.”

“So . . . she didn’t throw out the one she already had?”

“No . . .” The blond shook his head. “She had it almost done. It just needed that one piece.”

“She didn’t say fuck it, and start a completely different puzzle, ‘cause she didn’t think she’d be able to work with the other one?”

“No, she –” Justin checked himself sharply, and Brian could see understanding dawn on the teen’s face. “No. She . . . didn’t get another one . . . and try to get over the one she thought she’d never figure out . . . but couldn’t forget it . . . couldn’t stop thinking about it . . . or wondering if there was anything she could have done to fix it.”

“And she didn’t,” Brian said softly, “start all over again with the replacement, either, discard all the work she’d put into it . . . all the good stuff that was there . . . she got the piece she was looking for . . . put it in . . . and life – or what passes for it for breeders – went on. I don’t see why it can’t be the same for us, if that’s what we want to do. We just have to make sure we don’t fuck up any of the pieces – or let anyone fuck them up for us.” Brian stroked his thumb over Justin’s lips. “And if nothing else, we’ll be able to take another important lesson from that story.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Your father’s an asshole.”

Justin laughed and Brian found himself grinning like an idiot. He loved Justin’s laugh; it was guileless and easy, with a sense of adventure in it. “You know, I guess it could be worse . . . we still know how to fuck each other into the floorboards . . . we’re always gonna fit that way.”

“You sure about that, Justin?” Brian, feeling his cock show signs of a quick recovery, stretched up, pulling the blond to him. “You fucked me just now. How do you know I can still fuck your tight little ass and make you scream until your throat’s raw?”

“Well . . . I sort of took that for granted . . . but now that you mention it, maybe we should . . . try and just be sure that . . . uhmm . . .” Justin bucked when Brian’s hand closed around his hardening dick. “. . . you still have that effect on me . . .”

Brian grinned and reached for the condoms and lube, intent on removing any and all doubt from the blond’s mind.

To Be Continued....

Stories by Jamie

The King & Bri

(post-220 story) Three months after the Rage party, Justin gets an offer Ethan is pushing him to refuse, and a fortuitous meeting gets the ball rolling toward . . . something. Incomplete.

One

“Look, I already told you I don’t want you doing it. And I thought we’d agreed, and weren’t going to talk about it anymore. But if you don’t give a shit about what I feel, then, whatever. Do what you want.” Ethan scowled at Justin’s slightly bowed blond head, his foot tapping out an impatient tune on the kitchen floor.

Cheeks coloring in frustration, Justin kept his eyes on the scuffed linoleum that lined the kitchen, toeing a sticky patch that trailed beneath the refrigerator. He was always amazed at how dirty their little apartment was – it seemed that no matter how hard they cleaned, and thanks to his mother’s timely gifts of household supplies, they cleaned a lot -- grime seemed to make its way back to the tiny space, settling in the myriad nooks and crannies, covering everything in a depressing coat of muck. It was pretty disgusting, actually, albeit in a fascinating way. And, indeed, the cleanliness – or lack thereof at the moment – of his boyfriend’s dwelling was at least distracting him from the argument he really didn’t want to have with the violinist.

“Ethan, come on. If I didn’t care about how you felt, I wouldn’t have said anything to you in the first place. It would have been done already, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Justin braved a glance upward, fighting to keep his voice casual, and his throat tightened at Ethan’s expression. The brown-haired youth had sounded angry, but he looked positively heartbroken – the limpid, dark eyes pleading, beseeching Justin to yield. The blond boy knew that stare – it was the I-Never-Ask-You-For-Anything-So-How-Can-You-Refuse-Me gaze. Ethan had that look down pat, and it got to Justin just about every time.

“You would have said yes?” Ethan’s incredulous tone made Justin wince. “After everything we discussed . . . you really want to go ahead with this? You miss all your . . . old ways that much? That you’d do something I’ve told you would hurt me?”

“Fuck, Ethan, it’s for charity.” Justin’s gaze darted around the room, settling on everything except the violinist. “It’s not about the old days. It’s –”

“Justin, don’t try to lie. It’s all about the way you lived before you met me. The life that was making you miserable,” Ethan said quietly, frowning heavily. “It’s all about the way you used to live before we fell in love. It’s all about HIM. It’s always about HIM.”

Justin did look at him then, gaze steely, jaw set. HE had made an appearance in the conversation, a sure signal that the talk had to end. Immediately. Conscious of a need to move, the blond roused himself out of his half-daze and began hunting for his jacket.

“Um, listen. I’ve gotta go to campus. Those series of sketches for Life Class are due in two days and I don’t have shit done yet.”

Ethan looked at him a moment more, his glare cooling down by degrees. “I’ll come with you.” Ethan’s voice was softer now. Justin didn’t have to look at his boyfriend to see the worried flash in his eyes, the same glint that materialized every time the blond brought their conversations to an abrupt end. The musician was always exhorting the artist to be open with him about his feelings, to communicate. And Justin did – most of the time – but not if Ethan was going to bring HIM into the discussion. Justin couldn’t talk about HIM – not with Ethan, not with anyone, really. Not without the sadness, the regret creeping into his voice, not without wanting to scream. Or cry.

“No.” Justin spoke softly, but there was no mistaking the firmness in his voice. “I’ll be all right.” There were times that Ethan’s desire to always be “together” bordered on smothering. And this was one of those times. “I’ll see you later?”

More silence. Then, “Fine. I’ll stop by the studio, we can have dinner at that Thai place off Forbes. What time do you think you’ll be done?”

“I don’t know.” Justin stared at the sticky spot on the floor. It looked like dried Tang, orange and gooey. “And don’t worry about dinner, I’m going to my mom’s. I’ll, um, bring some stuff back.” Implicit in that sentence was that Ethan was not coming with him to the home of Jennifer and Molly Taylor. Justin had had enough awkward dinners with his mother, sister and new boyfriend to last a lifetime. It wasn’t that Jennifer wasn’t nice to Ethan – she was a born hostess, polite to her core and had a way of making everyone feel at ease – but like many people, Daphne and some of his PIFA friends included, Jennifer seemed to tolerate Ethan rather than actually like him. And Molly was even worse: During one dinner, she’d actually asked Justin why he’d gotten a new boyfriend when he’d had such a hot one – namely HIM. To Jennifer’s credit, she’d gotten Molly to hush up immediately, and to Ethan’s credit, he’d continued to smile and eat beef Stroganoff as if everything were fine and normal. But the words echoed in Justin’s ear the rest of the night and every night thereafter, and he wasn’t sure if he was more perturbed because Molly had asked the question or because he didn’t have any real answer to it.

That had been the last time Ethan had come to dinner at his mother’s. Jennifer had been curious about the violinist’s absence at first, but didn’t seem overly concerned, leaving Justin to wonder if Jennifer was thinking the same thing Molly was.

“All right. Call me when you get to your mother’s.” Ethan drew closer, placing a finger beneath the blond’s chin. “Don’t stay away too long. This place feels so empty without you.” He tilted Justin’s face upward and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. “I love you, my Justin.”

My Justin. “Later.” Justin murmured, his eyes closed for the moment, quelling a shudder at the possessive timbre in Ethan’s voice. Still edgy about the emotions he knew he’d find in the dark eyes – and even twitchier about the emotions Ethan could read in his own – Justin kept his eyes shut until he heard the musician shuffle into the living room. It wasn’t until the blond heard Ethan tuning his instrument that he felt able to open them, knowing that very soon, Ethan would be lost in his music and oblivious to all that was going on around him. A perfect time to make a getaway of sorts.

Leaning against the counter, Justin glanced at the paper clutched in his hand, the thin sheet of white that had caused so much tension – or, really, added on to what was already there – in his relationship with Ethan. Blue eyes scanned for the thousandth time the politely worded missive asking him as a past King of Babylon to pose for a calendar that would feature past winners of such Babylon contests as Glorious Glutes, Awesome Abs, Chest of Death, and, of course, the crown jewel of them all, King of Babylon, with proceeds to go to the Aids Hospice of Greater Pittsburgh. He’d been surprised to get a formal letter – had been surprised there was anything remotely formal about Babylon – and indeed, as per his new way of living his life, hadn’t thought about darkening the doorstep of his former haunt until he’d opened the innocent-looking envelope addressed to him that Ethan had left on the table along with a single red rose and a sweet poem.

That had been three days ago, and Justin was more conflicted than ever as to what to do. Ethan was convinced that by posing, Justin would be swept back into the lifestyle he’d abandoned once he and Justin became an item – namely the clubbing, the drinking –

HIM

-- The staying out until all hours, the dancing –

And HIM

The violinist had said that the past should be left in the past and that by posing, Justin would be dipping his toe back into waters that should have receded some time ago.

Justin understood his boyfriend’s concerns, but it didn’t keep him from wanting to appear in the calendar. It was probably going to be a lot of fun. And very cool – anything visual appealed to his artist’s nature. And it was always a good thing to have something to look back on, something to pull out and show the kiddies – or, more likely, his friends’ kiddies – that back in the day, Justin Taylor was hot stuff. It was like . . . like chronicling his legacy, that was all. And yes, he did somewhat miss the days of old – hanging at Woody’s, dancing at Babylon, working at the Diner, but things had changed – no longer was he the kid who could stay up fucking all night and still ace his tests. Now he was, for all intents and purposes, an adult, and in college, and in a relationship. His priorities had changed.

But as he stared down at the letter in his hand, his brain awash with memories of the crowd cheering, the weight of the crown that Sheba had placed firmly on his head, and HIS face when he’d walked off with HIS trick at the end of the night, he had to wonder why his heart hadn’t changed, as well.

~*~

That question echoed in his mind as he waited on the corner of their block to catch the bus going downtown. Leaning his head against the window at the back of the bus, Justin watched with sightless eyes as the landscape whizzed by, crumbling buildings, forgotten parks and gleaming condos and tall buildings passing by in equal measure as the bus wound its way through Greater Pittsburgh. Ethan was right . . . everything connected with the King of Babylon was in his past – picking up nameless tricks, dancing, taking bumps of E, Deb and the Diner, Emmett, Ted and Michael. HIM.

Fuck it. He squeezed his eyes closed. Brian. Brian Brian Brian. Not HIM. Not THAT GUY. Brian. Just say it. Doesn’t hurt to say it.

Except it did. Kind of. He closed his eyes, riding out the tremors that shook his body occasioned by that name. Opened them quickly when a vision of heavy-lidded hazel orbs materialized behind his closed eyelids. Justin sighed loudly, startling an elderly woman in the seat opposite his. With an apologetic smile to the woman, Justin turned his gaze back toward the window as his mind turned back to the man he’d been trying – and failing dismally – to forget for the past three months.

But he’d been doing so well, too, at least at the very beginning. In the first month and a half after the split, Justin had seen the executive only at the Diner, and occasionally at that, since Justin had switched his shifts from mornings and evenings to late afternoons when Brian was likely to be at work. When the blond had quit working at the Diner, his run-ins with Brian ceased almost altogether – he’d seen him from afar one afternoon when he and Ethan were taking in a crafts fair on Liberty Avenue, but that was about it. The one visit to Mel and Linds’ place he’d made post-breakup, Brian had been hard at work on some seafood campaign. In the three months since the Rage party, the blond hadn’t deluded himself into thinking that he was over Brian, but he was little by little adjusting to his new, loft-less, Diner-less, Woodys-less. . .

Brian-less . . .

. . . life. But getting that damned letter from Babylon had changed all that. From the minute he’d opened the envelope, he’d felt something akin to a jolt . . . an electrical charge that started beneath his fingertips and radiated outward so that by the time he’d read the letter and the model-release form for the third time, his whole body was quivering. The three-paragraph missive brought back the memories of that night, the fear, the exhilaration, the thrill. Seeing Brian in the crowd . . . remembering the look on the older man’s face . . .

And even though the night hadn’t ended exactly as Justin had planned -- though Sean had been a decent consolation prize – Justin could tell that the older man had been impressed, and well he should have been: Every shimmy, every gyration, every turn around the pole the blond had made on the stage was for one man and one man only. So focused was he on Brian that he wasn’t aware of the roar of the crowd or the lewd comments shouted at him, but he could swear that he could hear every breath Brian took.

Forehead pressed against cold glass, Justin bit his lower lip as the bus arced into a wide boulevard leading to the heart of the downtown. Passing between sky-grazing buildings, the blond wondered why his thoughts had lately been turning to his ex-lover – or whatever they had been. Not that Brian was ever – or could ever – be far from his subconscious thoughts, but the ad exec had been popping up more and more in his conscious mind, as well.

As near as Justin could figure, it started about a month before during an afternoon when there was not much to do around the apartment, and Justin had tried to draw Ethan, who at the time was practicing in the nude. “Tried to draw” was the operative phrase – for though Ethan was an interesting subject, certainly attractive with a nice build, the lines of his body had seemed all wrong to Justin. Ethan’s bones seemed too short, the skin covering those bones too pale. The violinist’s jaw seemed too weak to Justin’s eye, and the curves of his face too flat, his lips too small, his nose too commonplace. His eyes seemed much too blank, too unlike a fount of bubbling honey, and the musician’s hair seemed much too monochromatic to Justin, not an autumn-leaf medley of chestnut and gold and russet. In the end, after an hour of erasures and starting over, Justin had given up, gone to his studio space at PIFA, and given himself free reign to draw whatever came to mind. What materialized was a headshot of Brian at their parting at the Rage party – sans mask -- his hazel eyes lucid and wide . . . and something else, some other emotion that Justin could capture artistically but could not describe in words. But whatever it was, it went straight to the blond’s heart, though he was at a loss as to why that was.

It wasn’t to say that he didn’t draw Ethan at all – he did. Headshots, Ethan performing, Ethan practicing – clothed, – Ethan playing with Wolfram, Ethan cooking. But he never again attempted a nude portrait of his lover . . . he couldn’t without it turning into . . . something different. Someone different. Nor did he ever have the urge to draw Ethan while the musician slept. Justin liked to watch him, hold him, massage his hair while the violinist slumbered. But draw him? No. He just didn’t feel that he could go there. It was too much a reminder of his days of Brian, an activity that was uniquely theirs. That made it special, and Justin didn’t feel he could repeat that with another lover, even if he wanted to.

And the King of Babylon thing had only made it easier for Justin to sink back into the memories of that halcyon first year with Brian and the guys and Gus and Mel and Linds, the Diner and Deb and Vic and just everything that happened in between the seconds just before he met Brian on Liberty Avenue and the moment Chris Hobbs decided to take a swing at his head. He thought of those days more and more now, and it was making him crazy. But it was making Ethan even crazier, it seemed, so maybe for the sake of his new relationship, to keep the peace and to reinforce to Ethan that he was willing – if not ready – to move on, Justin thought that maybe it would be just as well to tell Babylon just what to do with its calendar. Get another stud to show his goodies . . . his were off the market.

A heavy frown etched deep lines in his forehead, making him look older than his 19 years. But then again, he was conscious of a little part – well, maybe not so little – of him that really, really wanted to do it. Really, really, really, really wanted to do it. The fact that it was a good cause aside, there were lots of good times at Babylon, even the Rage party fiasco wouldn’t change that, and, well, he couldn’t really articulate other reasons to do it, but he just knew that he wanted to, remembered how as he read the letter, he wondered what they’d have him wear, how he would pose. Smile or no smile? Would people who’d been at the contest recognize him?

What’ll Brian think? Does he even know that they want me –

Fuck. He berated himself for letting Brian sneak into his thoughts again. What the hell did he care what Brian thought? It was his decision –

Yeah. My decision. But if I don’t do it, it’ll be because Ethan doesn’t want me to.

The blond blinked, surprised by the thought, and much disturbed that his “head voice” seemed to be speaking in words Brian might say, in Brian’s tone of voice –

Justin sighed. Brian again. Lately, it seemed he couldn’t go two seconds without thinking about the ad exec, and now he thinking like the ad exec? Oh, boy, no. No, no, no, that was not a good thing. Maybe Ethan was right. No, he knew Ethan was right; it was all about Brian. Everything was all about Brian. The Babylon contest was all about Brian, Justin’s art was all about Brian, his thoughts were all about Brian, even leaving Brian for Ethan was, ultimately, all about Brian.

The bus picked up a little speed, weaving in and out of the river of vehicles containing amped-up football fans. Justin focused on the traffic in an attempt to get his mind off lips the shade of summer cranberries and honey-colored eyes. Glancing at his watch and then at the road, he gave silent thanks that he didn’t really have as much to do on his project as he’d intimated to Ethan. Not that he had meant to fib to his boyfriend, but the project he was really concerned about would not have been welcome inside the Taylor/Gold residence. He smiled thinking of the charcoal drawing he was doing of Mel, Linds and Gus for Mel’s birthday party the week after next. He hadn’t seen the Munchers or Gus in almost a month, and was pleased to get Lindsay’s e-mail about the party. He’d spent nearly a week on the portrait, and it was almost where he wanted it. It just needed a little more shading, some more contouring, and –

A dark shape in his periphery nudged Justin out of his thoughts as the bus slowed as I approached a busy intersection. Blue eyes went wide as he stared down the cross street, a busy block during the work week, as it was filled with skyscrapers, expensive little bistros and boutique hotels. It was all but deserted that day, as cars sped through looking to merge with the traffic on the main boulevard. But the relative quiet of that normally busy area wasn’t what caught the blond’s eye. Rather, it was what he saw at the parked at the corner of the street: a jeep. A black jeep.

Reminding himself to breathe, Justin stared at the vehicle, parked apart from the few cars on the block that were standing still. It was so outside of the norm for that area, that it would have caught his eye regardless. Not so in the days before meeting Brian. Justin couldn’t recall ever seeing a black Jeep in or out of Pittsburgh, and that was saying something for someone who’d gone to a private school where the student lot was filled with Beemers, Benzes and Lexuses. But even after meeting Brian, though, Justin still saw no black Jeeps – except for Brian’s, though he heard they were pretty popular in the area. He suspected that he would never be able to see another black Jeep without looking for Brian behind the wheel, dark shades in place, latte in hand, tooling down the road.

Except, in the months after the split, Justin hadn’t seen any black Jeeps at all – not on campus, not outside his and Ethan’s apartment, not anywhere -- until today. Staring slack-jawed at the vehicle, conspicuous on the hushed street, Justin found himself craning his head to look at the interior to see if he could glimpse the deep beige leather that lined the inside of Brian’s cruisemobile. The bus moved along at a slightly quicker pace, Justin barely able to get a look at the car’s tags as traffic moved along.

Mouth dry, he tried to look away, tried to think of something else, but his eyes remained riveted to the dark vehicle even as the bus eased out of the intersection. It has to be a coincidence, he thought uneasily, no way that’s his jeep. This is nowhere near the loft or his office or Mel and Linds’ place. He’s probably not even in town. Mom says Deb says he’s traveling all the time now.

Yes, a coincidence. Justin blinked once, twice, to clear his mind. That’s all it was. A coincidence. It was Pittsburgh. At least ten thousand people had jeeps just like Brian’s. Just because he hadn’t seen one before he met the man or since he walked out of his life, didn’t mean . . . didn’t mean anything.

A coincidence. The blond bit his lip as the bus slowed to a halt at the next corner. A coincidence. That’s all it was. So why was he standing up? Why was he pulling the cord, signaling the driver to let him off at that corner? It was a coincidence. The words flitted around his brain in a mocking echo, growing louder and louder until he couldn’t hear anything, not the shrill of his cellphone in his left pocket, not the solid clunk of his boots as he rushed along the aisle, and not his footsteps as he exited the bus with half a dozen passengers and found himself standing on the corner opposite the black Jeep. Only when the bus pulled off, leaving clouds of exhaust in its wake, did Justin snap out of his reverie, and he looked around dumbfounded, finding himself five miles from PIFA’s campus, in a part of town he knew only by reputation, and headed across the busy street toward a simple coincidence that was parked quietly near the curb on a sunlit block.

~*~*~*~

“I’m sorry you can’t stay, Brian. The chef is going to send up a wonderful red velvet cake. With French Vanilla ice cream. The house specialty. They say it’s better than an aphrodisiac.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never felt the need to try to either one.” Brian stifled a groan as he watched the bleach-blond woman’s expression change from sultry to carnivorous.

Fuck. She thinks I’m fucking flirting with her. Could this afternoon get any more fucked up?

For the hundredth time that day he wished a violent, gory death on Gardner Vance for sending him to this bullshit “meeting,” and Brian took a subtle step backward, one hand on the doorknob and the other held out toward her. “I’m glad we were able to straighten out the problem with the campaign, Mrs. Lassiter. And if you or Mr. Lassiter,” that was the poor would-be-cuckolded husband, “have any questions, we’re available to you any time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the CEO of Imagene Intimates purred, adjusting the straps on her . . . well, the filmy, flimsy jade garment she wore could only be described as a nightie. It was too transparent to be called a slip, even, clinging to the 40-something woman’s thin frame and emphasizing her not-so-natural gifts. Sure, she was the owner of a nationally known lingerie company, so her idea of “business casual” might be a bit skewed, but still. . . Brian resolutely kept his eyes on his client’s face, knowing full well that even an accidental glance downward would entice this woman to actions unseemly for a woman’s who’d been honored as a Businesswoman of the Year.

“Perhaps we can get together later tonight? I’d love to go over your . . . projections.” Her gaze dipped below his belt buckle. “Herbert’s still visiting friends in Monroeville, and I’ll be here all alone.” She corralled her collagened lips into a pout. “So . . . very alone.”

Vacillating between the urge to laugh or scream, and feeling too much like a bit player in a cut-rate Film Noir, Brian smiled wanly, tongue firmly lodged against his cheek as he maneuvered to get the door to the hotel suite open. Not until he was standing just inside the doorway did he speak. “I’ll make sure Julian follows up on this tonight. It’s his account; he’ll be able to tell you anything you and Mr. Lassiter will need to know.” Giving a last smile that felt as false on his face as the breasts Virginia Lassiter was doing her best to showcase, he ignored the woman’s overinflated pout, and strode down the plush hall, dropping the smile as soon as he heard the door of the suite close.

Yeah, I’ll call Julian all right. Fucking prick. . . why the fuck didn’t Vance call his ass to deal with this deluded bitch?

He knew the reason, however – he’d proven to be incomparable in handling crises, going way back to his earliest days at Ryder, and when Virginia Lassiter called Vance up screaming about a glitch in the marketing strategy that would have her investors Vance didn’t hesitate to call Brian first thing in the morning, ranting and raving that whatever the issue was, it needed to be cleared up before Lassiter’s 1 p.m. company conference call. Knowing that a failure this early in his partnership could have him playing catch-up for the rest of his career, Brian did the express version of his daily grooming routine, thanked the gods that he’d had the presence of mind to pick up his dry cleaning that Friday, and with the case file in hand, sped downtown, wracking his brains as to what the problem could be. The woman seemed pleased enough with the campaign on Friday afternoon when he’d pitched it. He couldn’t say the same for her husband, however – the phlegmatic man apparently slept through the whole presentation, waking only with a well-placed elbow in the ribs from his wife. Brian wondered if the bored-looking man had gone over the campaign and found fault, passing any complaints or insecurities on to his wife.

But when the woman opened the door wearing the latest from her “Courtesan” collection, a bottle of Domaine Leroy in hand, and no husband in sight, Brian realized that the only problem that woman had was too much time on her hands and really fucked-up gaydar. To be fair, she did ask some pertinent questions about the campaign, but most of the meeting was spent with Brian trying to avoid the woman’s wandering hands and suggestive talk.

He punched the elevator button with a fraction more force than was needed, and seethed silently, waiting for the car to ascend to the 15th floor. He’d had a hideous feeling that he day was going to suck the minute he opened his eyes, found himself sprawled across his bed, and realized that not only was he alone, but he was also completely sober. While that was a desirable condition during weekday mornings, to be clearheaded after a Saturday night was more than bad – it was almost unprecedented. Stumbling through the loft in a dazed stupor having nothing to do with intoxication, the events of the previous night -- such as they were -- replayed themselves in a mind uncluttered by any controlled substances. A Diner dinner, a beer with the guys, half-hearted dancing at Babylon followed by a hand job and a fuck – very unremarkable – in the backroom. And then home. And bed. All before two a.m. The last time he could remember having such a waste-of-time evening, he was in high school – with his left arm in a cast and grounded. Both conditions courtesy of Jack Kinney.

Brian barely registered the muted “ding” that heralded the elevator’s arrival, simply walking into the car and pressed the button for the lobby. Tiredly rubbing the bridge of his nose, the tall man reflected on just how stale his routine had become.

Routine? Fuck . . . now I’ve got a routine?

Yeah, he did. And yeah, it bit. It had been easy to ignore at first as Vance put him through his paces as partner, sending him on every bullshit business trip and leaving him to clean up the inevitable messes of others. But this idiotic mission with Virginia Lassiter aside, the workload had steadily been approaching manageable, and all of a sudden, Brian found himself with more free time on his hands, and a marked indifference as to how to spend that time. Hence, the birth of the routine: Weekdays – work, gym, dinner out of a box, catching up on reports, cruising through the chatrooms to see if anything caught his eye, maybe a quick hookup, sleep. Weekends – sometimes work, gym, dinner out with the guys, drinking, dancing, backroom action, sleep. Sundays were a wildcard, usually spent with takeout and some choice DVDs. Occasionally he’d drop by the Munchers’ place to see his son and escape the stilted calm of the loft, but usually, he was at home working, eating, fucking, maybe, and wondering just what the hell had happened to his life.

Another “ding,” and the doors opened up to the polished ceramic floors and chrome fixtures of the Colony Hotel’s lobby. The smell of penne with basil wafted from the open door of the hotel’s restaurant, and Brian, who’d declined the fattening spread offered in the Lassiter suite, eyed the slate board advertising the specials with a hungry gaze. The tall, red-haired, cutely freckled waiter standing next to the sign, however, was decidedly more interesting than the food. Brian allowed his appreciation to show as he took in the man at a glance. Nice build, clean-cut, a respectable-looking package that was not at all concealed by the tame black slacks he wore. Freckles flashed him an inviting grin and a look that was just as predatory as the one Virginia Lassiter had flashed his way, but was much more welcome.

He kept walking toward the exit, however, shunting aside thoughts of the bistro’s offerings – both culinary and non -- and shrugged slightly in response to the buff waiter’s disappointed expression. He’d just pick up something -- and maybe someone -- on the way home. That would do. He needed to get some work done anyway, and for some reason, the idea of eating alone -- be it at an elegant restaurant like the Trefoil or even at the Diner, was not an appetizing thought at all, not even with the likelihood of hot sex afterward.

With a nod to the doorman, the ad exec walked out into the fall afternoon, the smell of the coming frost and car exhaust fumes making his eyes water. Buttoning the top button of his overcoat, he walked briskly, mildly surprised at how something as ridiculous as 22 men crashing into each other over and over without there being any lube involved could turn a “thriving metropolis” into a ghost town. Not that he’d ever to attempt to understand the habits of straight people: he had enough troubles without risking a mental collapse.

A crisp wind whipped color into Brian’s cheeks, and he shoved his hands in his pockets walking the two blocks to his jeep, which he fervently hoped would still be there. Rushing to meet Lassiter before the 1 p.m. deadline had cause him to forgo valet service, jam the vehicle in the first available space and hope for the best. On game days, people had the tendency to drive like imbeciles, knocking into one another like a pinball game.

He reared back a little as he drew near the corner, groaning somewhat at the glut of traffic on the main boulevard. His mind cycled ahead, mapping out alternate routes to the loft that would take him away from the gridlock –

What the fuck’s the rush? What’s waiting there anyway? More work, e-mails from the same sorry-ass trolls wanting to hook up?

Brian squinted against the wind, a little shaken by the vehemence of his thoughts. It was the pressure of work, acting as Vance’s little fucking lapdog that had gotten him out of sorts lately, of that he was sure. Soon, he’d be back to normal, back in prime Brian Kinney, fuck-it-all -- literally, sometimes -- take-no-prisoners shape. None of this East Indian takeout on speed-dial, sobriety-on-a-Sunday-morning shit. As soon as he adjusted to the new schedule, everything was gonna be okay.

It was just as well that the wind picked up when it did, leaving Brian to struggle against the gusts, and wrap his coat even tighter. It siphoned his concentration from the thoughts that circled his mind – he’d adjusted long ago to his grueling work schedule. The problem was that his loft was so uncomfortably empty, and that he hadn’t yet come to terms with the reason for that.

Hazel eyes snapped open, scowling as the fleeting image of a sweet-faced, natural blond presented itself for inspection in his brain. No. Hell no. This is not about Justin.

Right. It wasn’t about Justin. His halfhearted forays into the hedonistic nightlife to which he’d grown accustomed was not about Justin. His turning away blond tricks – even bottle blonds – was not about Justin. When he walked into the diner and felt his eyes flitting around the crowded eatery, trying to pick out a blond-haired busboy with the most incredible bubble butt imaginable, well, that wasn’t about Justin, either. And the hot guy he’d tossed out on his ass after he’d admitted he liked listening to Moby while he fucked . . . nah, that had nothing to do with Justin. And during that breakfast meeting two weeks ago with only the biggest fucking client the firm had in Pittsburgh, the fact that Brian had gone misty-eyed when the catering service brought in bottles of Sunny Delight for the thirsty executives, that had nothing whatsoever to do with Justin, either.

Miss him? His features schooled themselves into the picture of outrage, pushing away the recent memories flashing through his mind. I do not fucking miss the kid. Maybe I miss fucking him, but I do NOT fucking miss him.

Even as he spoke the words in his mind, he was conscious of a wavering there, an uncertainty. Something about the words that rang false to his internal ear. Maybe if he hadn’t been spending his time in the loft flipping through the few sketchbooks Justin had left behind, maybe if he hadn’t been falling asleep with his arms wrapped around the red sweatshirt the boy had worn in the early days of their . . . whatever it was they’d had, maybe if his friends didn’t look at him with the type of pity reserved for the unknowingly dumped, maybe if he could get those sky-colored eyes and that blinding smile out of his mind for one goddamned second, maybe if all those things were to happen some time this lifetime, maybe then he say with conviction that the only things he missed about Justin Taylor were his mouth, his cock and his ass – not necessarily in that order.

Fuck. This is what I get for not getting blasted last night. His shoulders slumped forward in a dejected posture before he realized what he was doing and straightened up, eyes blazing. What the hell was he doing? Drooping over a blond twink whom he hadn’t even seen in months? This was not the m.o. of Brian-Kinney-For-Fuck’s-Sake. Justin was out there somewhere in the big city, doing exactly what he wanted to do, with the person he wanted to do it with (Brian ignored the twinge of pain he felt at that thought), so fuck it . . . that was the credo of Brian’s own life. Fuck hard, fuck often, and fuck anyone who tells you you’re wrong. Even if you are wrong.

Especially if you’re wrong.

Shoving aside all thoughts of gorgeous blonds for the moment, Brian felt his stomach rumble and a twinge in his groin – the last also having absolutely nothing to do with thoughts of Justin – and decided to prove to his mutinous mind that he was so not missing Justin in the slightest by getting his needs met – hunger and horniness. He smiled, deciding he’d go back to the Trefoil after all and see which penne was fresher – the restaurant’s or that hot waiter’s. But first, he’d collect his jeep and valet it at the hotel -- on the firm’s dime, of course -- like the good little executive he was.

Spotting his Jeep seemingly still in one place – and apparently in one piece -- at the corner, he fished his keys out, thumb on the button to disarm the alarm, muttering a string of expletives when he realized he’d neglected to set the damn thing to begin with. Not that it mattered much in that neighborhood, but still . . . where was his fucking brain? Quickened his strides up the silent block, praying he’d find it in one piece. Looked up as he neared the end of the street.

Then stopped short when he saw what looked like a . . . a . . . hand snaking around to the driver’s side mirror. Breath catching in his throat, and momentarily stunned into immobility, he gaped as the pale hand followed a course from the window up to the vehicle’s roof, fingers dancing along the jet surface.

Holy. Shit. Brian watched an arm appear -- an arm clad in a familiar-looking blue fleece. A shoulder followed, then a torso made its appearance along with a bowed head, peering in the window of the jeep. Brian felt his throat fill with heartbeat. If the face wasn’t immediately recognizable, the flaxen hair was.

The wind died down just enough for Brian to hear his own awe-filled voice echo in his ears. “Justin?”

The blond head shot up in surprise, the look on Justin’s face quickly morphing from startled to shocked to utterly nonplussed. The teen stumbled backward, the lush mouth falling open, eyes growing wider and rounder and bluer. As unnerved as he was, Brian maintained a detached, almost aloof posture, one eyebrow raised near to his hairline and his lips twisting into a well-practiced smirk. Taking a step forward, the ad exec started to speak, but something in Justin’s face changed suddenly. And Brian could only stare as his former lover looked from him to the jeep and back to him again, took another step backward and doubled over laughing.

Germinate

(Post-216 story) The wonders of cleaning out ones closet!

The first place Brian looked was in the Diner, where everyone, patrons and customers alike, looked somber, and there was a rush on blue-plate specials. The gang was not so conspicuous in their absences, since all of them – except maybe Ted – had actual lives to live and things to do. But Justin wasn't there, that day, either. He wasn't there, complaining about how bored he was then not getting up to bus an already clean table or check to see if the two bums who didn’t have a nickel between them wanted some more bread and butter or a cup of tea or something for the road. Never mind giving away food was a faux pas – in Justin’s mind, going hungry was a bigger one, and if he could help it, he wouldn’t let such a thing happen to anyone. Not on his watch.

The second place he looked was in the Marketplace off Fifth Ave., which had a Starbucks that was always out of hazelnut sweetener for coffee. It got smoky sometimes, from half-dead cigarettes that dragged caffeine into the system with a rush of nicotine. Justin liked sitting in the wood-paneled corner of the small, dim room sketching nothing in particular and nursing a venti mocha with a shot of Irish cream. I love Irish cream, Justin had said one day with a cheeky and pointed lick of his lips, his eyes in the direction of Brian’s crotch. Yum.

Brian remembered that Justin had smiled when he said he just liked coffee black--plain. Justin'd shaken his head, sniping that for an ad man, Brian had no creativity when it came to matters outside the boardroom. Brian had then mildly reminded the blond of some creative endeavors they’d both embarked on the night before, and Justin promptly stopped talking and started squirming. They both left then to try to re-create the creative process, Justin’s venti mocha and Brian’s plain coffee going largely unfinished.

But Justin wasn't at the coffee shop, either, though, and the fans venting the silence on the small, dim ceiling of the small, dim room seemed to wonder at the corners and their speckles of fading light.

The third place he looked was, reluctantly, at The Munchers. Mel had met him at the door with a headshake and a raise of an eyebrow, and Brian right then couldn’t think to even ask. No – he wasn’t going to think about his conversation with Mel a week earlier as he helped her and Linds pack plywood and plaster mix into a van and Mel had lambasted him for not thinking to celebrate Justin’s birthday. Linds had weighed in, wanting him to go to that bullshit concert they dragged Justin to. And now . . .

Fuck this. He smoothly launched into his backup story – needing to see Linds about a nonexistent childcare payment she needed for Gus. Brian was vaguely aware that this “cover” could set the Munchers at odds, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care. Besides, Mel hadn’t seen him. She would’ve lit into if she had, Brian knew, so what was the point in letting her know he was concerned? It disturbed him that he really could find no trace of Justin, and it disturbed him that no one else could either. In a twisted way, Brian was sure it would disturb Mel, and really, the whole gang, to know that he was looking for Justin in the first place, and it would probably disturbed them to know that Brian Kinney actually gave a shit about something not directly concerned with his dick.

He turned on his heel, burying clenched hands in his pockets, happy to ignore the soft, heartbreakingly gentle, “He’s not here” Mel offered at his back. Brian prided himself on not breaking his stride even for a moment. Let Mel think what she wanted. Let all his so-called fucking friends go nuts trying to figure him out.

The final place he looked was his bedroom where under his bed he rolled up trade magazines and shoved them back after he was done reading them. He sat down helplessly by the mahogany paneled nightstand and chose to stare up at the ceiling in lieu of staring at all the pretty possessions around him. His new flat screen TV. The DVD player. The leather couch he’d seen in a storefront window down at one of those stores by the ballpark that had a deliberately misspelled name. Spyce, maybe. Or what is Shynne? Something. . After an entire day of fruitless searching, all he could think about was the box resting behind a heap of jeans splattered with paint and hamburger grease. That present, and the chocolate tower of something that was melting on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, just above the crisper. Brian thought the frosting looked like spackle, and four hours in the gym wouldn’t be worth one bite of it. Wouldn't matter anyway. Justin would devour most of it.

But in thinking about that, he couldn't help but wonder where Justin was — if Justin were anywhere at all. It didn't make him feel sad; it didn't make him feel angry – it just made him feel strangely empty.

Then the scene changed. There was the sound of a door opening and he closed his eyes, lips pursed as if thinking hard about something--maybe trying to think of some prayer that he had forgotten long ago in a way that he'd never learned it or believed in it at all. In an instant, he found his arms full of warmth, the sort that made Brian feel like he was caving into himself, the -smooth lips on his drinking the soul from him. He buried his nose in the soft, golden hair, opening his eyes only when he felt Justin's arms wrap around him, one hand slowly measuring the length of his spine with gentle wandering fingers.

"Hey."

Brian leaned against the slender form of the boy against his chest, hugging him tighter, and mumbled back, "Hey."

"I left my jacket at Mel and Linds’ after the concert yesterday.” Justin rocked backward slightly, their legs entangled in the sprawl of familiarity. The blond twisted and untwisted the collar of his shirt between deft fingers. "Were you looking for me, Brian?"

Brian mustered up enough energy to glower, eyes unconsciously flickering toward the closet and all its shadowy contents. Leaning forward on a whim, he covered the teen’s mouth with his own.

"Where the fuck have you been since last night?" Brian panted when they finally parted, eyes narrowed, and his hands on either side of Justin's head. He couldn’t read anything in Justin’s eyes, dark blue in the fading twilight.

In response, Justin simply smiled, and reached up, one hand cupping the side of his lover's jaw, then sliding precariously down the column of his neck, alongside the collarbone curving slickly to the planes of the hard chest above him. "I crashed at my mom’s. She had a cake-and-ice cream thing last night, just her me and Molly. I saved you a slice. It’s in the refrigerator.” Justin pushed a hand through his hair and aimed a smile at Brian. “Did you get me another present – something that doesn’t come with his own lube?"

Brian drew in a breath and exhaled. He’d already rinsed the sheets twice to obliterate the smell of Justin’s “birthday present,” but he could tell from the slight frown lining the teen’s forehead that his little faux pas was going to haunt them quite some time. Brian drummed his fingers; pointing to the half-ajar closet just a few feet away, and softly with all the venom he didn't mean at all, "Now I know you only want me for material things."

His words dwindled to a breath, however, when Justin grinned back at him with a light in his eyes – a light, Brian knew, was only for him. In the space of two seconds, Justin was sitting next to him, legs crossed, the hastily wrapped white box between his hands. “What did you get me, Brian Kinney?"

"Open it and you'll find out," the executive returned dryly, and instead of retorting wittily as Justin was often wont to do, he complied, carefully peeling back the brittle makeshift wrapping paper.

"The wrapping’s shitty.” Brian watched Justin study the box with a bit of concern. “Kept putting the fucking tape in the wrong place –”

"It's fine," Justin waved off his explanation with impatience, having almost finished unwrapping the present. "You really packed this carefully, didn't you?"

Brian shrugged, feeling strangely embarrassed, his chest hurting for some reason at the relentlessly slow speed of Justin opening the present.

Justin was quiet as he felt around the bottom, and he straightened, his hands cupped to shelter the contents of the box in his palms.

It was a packet. Packets, actually. Of flower seeds.

Justin turned the flat cardboard parcels over in his hands for a long time, his thumb continually brushing over the cheery picture of marigolds and irises emblazoned on the shiny surface. "Brian?"

"Don’t ever say I don’t bring you flowers." Brian squinted at the floor, feeling his ear tips burn. “Now you can plant them yourself somewhere. And have as many as you want, whenever you want.” He looked up, pinning the teen with a steel-beam gaze. “From me.”

Justin sat still for a moment, eyelashes dark against his cheeks. "Thank you."

Brian let out a shaky breath and turned around quickly, kissing Justin as deeply as he could. "Nothing huge. I’m serious about not being into this shit. But I wanted to give you something . . .” Brian stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. “Something more . . .”

“I love flowers, you know. Especially irises. They smell so good . . .” Justin smiled, pressing a kiss to Brian’s forehead. “This is a great present. So . . . sentimental, I guess.”

Yeah. Fuck me, it is. Brian, amazed that he didn’t want to bolt at the knowledge, shrugged in exaggerated nonchalance, keeping his shoulders square a managed a mangled, “Happy birthday, Sunshine," before the birthday boy pounced, and made whatever other “grand” gestures Brian had planned for the evening rather moot.

End

Stories by Eveline

Laying down the Law

(Post-220 story) A Sunday shopping trip serves as a springboard for a new "understanding" between Brian and Justin. Follows In the Key of Gee.

Justin vividly remembered the last time he’d been in a furniture store. It had been a few weeks before Molly’s fifth birthday, and his mother had dragged him to Kaufman’s to help her pick out the canopy bed Molly had been dreaming about for half a year. The saleswoman had been an elderly bottle blonde who wore a perfume that set off his allergies, and pronounced “dust ruffle” as if it were one word. After 15 minutes, his eyes had swelled shut from walking in a cloud of the saleswoman’s perfume, and his mother had to call their sometime-housekeeper to pick him up from the mall and take him home. Molly had gotten her canopy bed, though, all pink and ruffled just as she wanted, but that was the last time his mother had gone to the Kaufman’s furniture department. It was too tacky, she’d decided, and besides, everyone at the country club they belonged to shopped exclusively in Squirrel Hill.

Now, a half-decade later, Justin found himself again surrounded by lamps and end tables and throw rugs rolled up into tight cylinders, but the setting was definitely not the pre-fab atmosphere of the local department store. Also, the salesperson was no lady – nor was he wearing noxious fragrance, which was about the only non-annoying thing the guy had going for him, in Justin’s opinion. The tall gentleman who identified himself as the “caretaker” at Loge Furnishings looked just like Captain Picard, but with hair, Justin decided, and was one of those dainty men whose homosexuality was obvious, but who you never really could – or wanted to – imagine having sex of any sort with anyone. Justin watched the caretaker – who went by Gabriel, just Gabriel – flutter around the store after Brian, staring appreciatively at Brian’s ass while the advertising executive eased around the small space, his eyes taking in the offerings in quick, appraising glances.

Justin didn’t bother trying to hide the fact that he, too, was staring at Brian’s ass, especially as it was clad so nicely in slim-fitting pants. The dark, simple pants and the camel-colored sweater Brian wore were more casual than Brian tended to be – especially while shopping. But, Justin rationalized, it was a Sunday afternoon; a lazy Sunday afternoon where all of Pittsburgh seemed to be sleeping in or watching the Penguins game on TV or eating brunch or making love. Justin sighed softly at the last thought; making love had been what he and Brian were doing earlier in the morning. It had been marvelous: whoever it was that said makeup sex was the best sex needed to be elected God.

He and Brian had been a “couple” again for nearly two weeks, and Justin could honestly say that sex between them had never been hotter, or sweeter, or better, or any other comparative adjective ending in “er.” And while he had not moved back into the loft – yet – nor had left Brian’s home since the night they decided to try to make a go of it again. Well, that was not entirely true – Justin had gone to school, of course, and to work, but outside those two activities and the occasional visit to Daphne, he had stayed in the loft, spending his time re-familiarizing himself with the beautiful space. Then when Brian arrived home, they’d eat, and he would spend the rest of the night re-familiarizing himself with Brian’s body. It was a routine neither he nor Brian, showed any signs of being tired of, and on a day like that one – cold, windy, and typical for January – Justin had expected that he and Brian would be in bed doing their best to keep each other warm.

Instead, they were on Butler’s main drag, shopping. And while that in and of itself didn’t surprise Justin much – Brian was the label queen, though the art student didn’t think Brian would do his shopping in a place like Butler, Pennsylvania – what they (well, really just Brian) were shopping for was very surprising.

“Sunshine, what do you think of this one?” Justin jumped at Brian’s voice. They hadn’t really said much since they’d entered the store, and Gabriel’s constant twittering didn’t exactly make conversation very easy. The artist scanned the small store and found Brian immediately. The taller man was standing near a futon-style bed. It was quite nice and very simple – a mattress atop a wooden platform. Cherrywood it looked like . . . or maybe maple . . . something dark and hard. Justin’s ass burned at the memory of the hard – though not necessarily dark – object that had been buried there for quite awhile early that morning, and the teenager adjusted his jeans, which were less roomy in certain areas than they had been when they entered the store.

“It’s . . . nice.” Justin ignored Gabriel, who was looking at him as if he’d farted and he could smell it from across the room. “It’s, um, big. I like the wood . . .” He blushed and adjusted his pants again.

“C’mere.” Brian beckoned him over, smiling at him as he crossed the room. Continuing to ignore Gabriel, who was making some sort of clucking sound, Justin joined Brian at the side of the bed. “Have a seat.” Brian gave the young artist a not-so-gentle push onto the bed, and Gabriel’s clucking sound became a genteel cough of disapproval.

“Sir, I assure you the mattress is quite hardy.” Gabriel said with a haughty smile. “There’s no need to . . . test it. We stand by all our products.”

“Yeah, well, you can stand by it all you want. If you’re lucky, I’m going to be laying on one of your products.” Brian gave the man a wry smile. “With him.” He grinned down at Justin, who was doing his best not to laugh. “So if I’m going to spend three grand, I’m going to make sure this mattress is hardy enough for lying down and all the other things I’m going to be doing on it. With him.”

Gabriel made a startled noise in the back of his throat. “Er, yes, well, it can withstand any sort of . . . percussive activity.”

“Uh-huh. Well in that case, it’s exactly what we need.” Brian was still in “thoughtful shopper” mode. “We plan on doing percussive activities on it daily. Sometimes several times daily.”

Justin chuckled, but turned it into a throat-clearing cough at Gabriel’s disdaining look. Brian was smiling gently at Gabriel, his hazel eyes glittering with an unspoken challenge. Justin watched Gabriel glance at Brian then down at him and then back at Brian. Sighing, Gabriel backed off, wisely deciding not to do anything that might blow the chance of making a sale.

“Of course. You gentlemen take your time.” The older man whipped out a neatly folded hankie and dabbed delicately at his forehead. “If you have any questions or need anything, anything at all, I’ll be in my office.” He waved the hankie in the direction of a rolltop desk and chair tucked away in the corner of the showroom. “Please, don’t hesitate to call if you require anything.” He turned adroitly, and Justin smothered a laugh at the exaggerated pivot of Gabriel’s hips as he strutted to his “office.”

“Well, Sunshine, you like?” Brian flopped down beside him, nudging him over to create more room. “Think it’ll work in the loft?”

“Yeeaaah . . . It’s big enough . . . probably the same size as the bed you have now. Um, it’s the same shape as the bed you have now . . .” Justin rolled over to check out the bed frame again. “And it’s got the same sort of platform as the bed you have now. Actually, it looks pretty much exactly like the bed you’ve have now.”

“It should.” Brian shrugged. “Where do you think I got that one from?”

Justin stared at him. “Seriously? Here? Um . . . I thought all your stuff was imported Italian shit.” A sudden bolt of dread made his heart pound. “Or do you mean you got this after, uh, ya know, the loft got . . . robbed.” He winced, thinking about that whole disaster. Even though it had been years ago, he could still remember the look of fury that was on Brian’s face like it was yesterday.

“Don’t frown, Sonnyboy. I’m too young to fuck someone with wrinkles.” Brian ran a thumb over Justin’s cheek. “No . . . the bed was one of the few things the crooks didn’t take, remember?” He smiled a little and Justin relaxed. “Years and years ago, when you were just starting to get hair on your balls, and I was moving up the Ryder corporate ladder, Linds dragged me down here to some restaurant down the road where the chick she was screwing at the time worked –”

“So this was before Mel?” Justin couldn’t imagine the no-nonsense attorney smiling and schmoozing as a waitress. But then again, Mel had told him once in order to keep up with expenses, she worked a series of jobs that she shuddered to think about now. Maybe waitressing had been one of them.

“Yeah. This was pre-Twatlock.” Brian grimaced. “I don’t remember the other muncher’s name. She was butch . . . always asked me where I got my suits.” He shook his head. “Anyway, we were going, and we passed by this place. Linds was slobbering all over the window, and she talked me into coming in to look at some floor lamp . . . it looked like a fucking dildo with a lampshade.”

“That’s probably why Lindsay liked it.”

Brian laughed quietly. “Yeah, well, she didn’t buy it. She said it was too expensive. I would’ve gotten it for her, but it looked like shit, and besides that, it made me think of fucking – not something I wanted to think about going into Linds’ place.” He shook his head. “But I saw something just like this.” He ran a hand over the mattress and thumped on the wooden frame. “I’d had this four-poster thing that seemed like a good idea at the time. It was great for bondage play.”

Justin’s eyes widened. He didn’t know Brian got into that. It was kinky and very arousing. He wondered if there’d ever come a time that he and Brian would experiment with bondage. It was sure to be hot, if they ever did.

“But it was getting old, and so were the tricks that were getting into BD.” Brian said. “So when I saw this model, I thought it’d be perfect. Big, spare, low to the floor. Nothing fancy, and I’d just gotten my platinum AmEx. I wanted to splurge. That scat queen there sold it to me.” He nodded at Gabriel.

“Scat queen?” Justin glanced at the front where Gabriel sat in his “office.” “What makes you think he’s into that?”

“Did you see the way he was clenching and unclenching his ass when he walked?” Brian asked. “He was practicing.”

“Gross.” Justin rolled around on the mattress, and to banish the icky images, thought about the loft and the bed there – the perfectly fine bed that had a mattress even Gabriel couldn’t find fault with and the awesome duvet. Justin wondered if their almost nonstop fucking had resulted in unsightly stains on the bed. But then, all Brian would have to do is have the mattress laundered, or at worst, replaced, not buy a three-thousand-dollar completely new setup.

“Bri . . . why are we here?” Justin looked at his lover, who was developing a very cute case of bedhead as he moved across the mattress. “Um . . . is there something wrong with the bed you already have?”

Brian rolled onto his stomach and stared intently at him. “Why do you ask, Sunshine?”

“Um . . . ‘cause you’re thinking about buying a completely new one – and an exact copy of the one you already have.” Justin replied with a thoughtful frown. “It’s just that . . . I mean, it’s kind of out of the blue. I didn’t even know you wanted a new bed, or that you were going to be looking for one, until we got here.”

“When we got on the Turnpike, where’d you think we were going?” Brian was resting his head in his hands, staring at Justin with frank curiosity.

“Uh . . . I really didn’t think about it.” Justin shrugged. And he hadn’t. He’d been a little surprised that they were leaving the coziness of the loft and were not going over to the Munchers for brunch or to the diner or any of their other haunts. “But I didn’t think we’d end up in Butler bouncing around on beds.”

“This is bouncing to you, sonny boy?” Brian raised an eyebrow. “Then what the fuck would call what we were doing last night?”

Justin blushed again. “That? I’d call that intense. Mind-blowing. Hot as hell.” He returned Brian’s grin. “And we did it on a bed that seemed to work pretty okay. Are you afraid with all the fucking we’re doing, we’re gonna wear it out?

Brian kept smiling, but there was a quiet intensity in his eyes that made Justin’s heart pound. “Remember back a couple weeks ago? When we decided to give us another try and see if we could do it without fucking up too much this time?”

Justin nodded, remembering the night Brian had walked into the diner and engaged him in an actual conversation. The artist had been split from Ethan Gold for about three weeks at that point, though he’d not told anyone that except his mother and Daphne. Justin had missed Brian keenly, and had thought of him often, even when he was with Ethan. He knew the older, beautiful man had gotten under his skin but good, and that he’d always love him, but even after things with Ethan had fizzled out, Justin had never in his wildest dreams imagined Brian would even talk to him again, let alone want to be with him once more, even if it were just for sex. Not after he’d just left Brian standing there at the Rage party. Sure, the blonde thought he’d had no other choice but to leave, but there was an ache in his heart every time he thought of the look on Brian’s face as he turned and walked away with Ethan, and for a long while Justin went out of his way to avoid seeing Brian anywhere.

But somehow, the miracle had happened. Justin had been in the diner one evening when Brian had come in to meet the rest of the gang. The artist had just gotten off shift, and looked to slip out before Brian noticed him, but Brian had caught up to him, much to Justin’s surprise. They ended up talking in a secluded booth for hours, much to the anger of Michael and the amusement of Emmett, Ted and Debbie, and with only a wave goodbye, they’d left the diner and went to the loft, where they’d had the first of many unbelievable makeup-sex sessions and decided in a sleepy, sated conversation afterward that they wanted to try to rekindle what they’d had.

“You remember that we talked about expectations, and what we both were looking for from each other?” Brian continued in the same low voice. “What was gonna be bullshit and what we’d be able to compromise on?”

Justin nodded again. They’d quickly dismissed the idea of making more “rules” or any guidelines to govern each others’ behavior. Justin remembered how, after he walked in on Brian fucking a man they’d seen in a supermarket, he’d assured Brian that he didn’t expect him to change, nor did he want him to. Yet, by making the rules and pushing for “romance,” Justin realized that getting Brian to “change” was exactly what he’d been trying to do.

After much thought and soul searching, Justin had gone back to his original statement – he really didn’t want Brian to change really. The man he’d fallen in love with had been a man who tricked with no regrets, no apologies. But what he did want was a more equal relationship with Brian. He didn’t want to feel like the twinkie freeloader or the “rent” boy. Nor did he want to participate in any shared sex activities. Justin wanted Brian all to himself, but he was not so naïve to think it’d happen overnight – if it ever happened at all. But if Brian was going to trick, Justin told the older man he didn’t want to see it, hear it, or help with it.

“Remember all those things you said about not wanting to watch me fuck?” Brian asked. “But that you couldn’t ask me to not do them in the loft because it was my house . . . and my bed?”

“Yes.” Justin thought again of the guy from the supermarket: Zucchini Man. That had been so painful to come in on, but it was Brian’s place, and Justin felt better about Brian having tricks in on his own turf instead of skeevy places like the backroom at Babylon or the baths.

“Well . . . there’s not much we can do about the house part – it is mine. Paid for, finally.” Brian smiled briefly. “But we can do something about the bed.” He sat up suddenly. “You sure you like this one, sonny boy?”

Justin, confused still, sat up, too. “Yes . . . it’s nice. But what do you mean –”

“Good. We’ll take it then.” Brian stood up and held up a finger. Gabriel was at their side in a flash, his nose quivering like a bird dog’s. “This is the one.” The executive flipped open his wallet and removed a credit card – a platinum one, Justin could tell from his vantage point. “I should still be in your files. Delivery address hasn’t changed. Have it there tomorrow. Late afternoon. I’ll pay extra for the rush job.”

“Of course, sir. We have it in stock, so it will be no added cost to you. I’ll be sure to phone the factory today. They are open.” Gabriel took the credit card with an obsequious smile. “You’re filed under . . .”

“Kinney. Brian A.”

“Ah, yes. Would that be K-E-N-N-Y . . .?”

“K-I-N-N-E-Y.” Brian corrected him, glancing at Justin. At that moment, Justin realized his mouth was open, and he shut it quickly. “And, you know what . . . forget the afternoon delivery. We want it there first thing tomorrow.”

“Er . . . yes, of course. You are in Pittsburgh proper, correct?” Gabriel asked, tapping Brian’s credit card absently against his chest. “We can have it to your door at 10 a.m., at the earliest.”

Brian looked down just as Justin looked up. “What time’s your first class tomorrow, sonny boy?”

Justin thought a moment. “Uh . . . two.”

“Good. We’ll have some time to . . . test it out.” Brian turned back to Gabriel, who staring at the credit card as if he wanted to eat it. “Tomorrow. Ten sharp.”

“Of course.” Gabriel smiled fakely once more and scurried off to process the payment.

“Well, Sunshine, we just got a new bed.” Brian sat next to him again, the mattress sagging under his weight. “Maybe I’ll give the old one to my sister . . . or maybe Emmett. It’ll be good for him to have at least one piece of furniture in that apartment that doesn’t look like it came off the fucking set of Sonny and Cher.”

“He’ll like that,” Justin said, not really knowing if that was true or not, and only vaguely knowing what the Sonny and Cher set was Brian was referring to.

“And now, we can set some limits, don’t you think, Sunshine?” He looked at him, and the artist stared deep into Brian’s eyes. “You told me you weren’t gonna tell me what I can and can’t do in my house, my bed. Well now we’ve bought a bed.”

Justin’s eyes went wide. “Bri . . . I’m not paying for anything – you’re the one buying this. I –”

Brian shook his head. “You drove all this way with me, held the fucking map, didn’t bitch about having to get out of bed early on a Sunday, and put up with Gabriel.” He said the name sarcastically, “I’m doing the easy part, Sunshine. But stop trying to change the subject . . . you know I don’t do this kind of shit well, so let me just say it: This is our bed. And that means whatever we do in it . . . has to be okay with the both of us.” Brian swallowed hard and he looked down. “That means, if you don’t want me eating in it, doing work on it . . . or fucking anybody but you in it, I’m not going to do it.”

The blonde artist was speechless. Was this real? Was this a dream? Brian had said that he’d consider making his tricking easier on both of them by calling Justin on his cellphone to alert him that he was bringing company to the loft, but this . . . what the exec was doing now . . . exceeded all Justin’s expectations. “Brian, I . . .”

“I said I’d try, sonny boy,” Brian said softly. “I told you not to expect much, and you still shouldn’t. Not even now. I don’t think I’m ever gonna be the type of man you’re looking for . . . or the type of guy your friends – and mine, too – think you deserve. But there’s some things I can do. This is one of them.” He squeezed the mattress. “So . . . anyway: Bed ground rules. No eating?”

Justin shook his head. “I like to sometimes. We’ll just be real careful about crumbs and stuff.”

Brian shrugged. “Fair enough. No working?”

“Well, if I can draw in bed, I don’t see why you can’t do work in it,” Justin replied. “I just figured you thought it was easier to do it at your desk.”

“I do some of my best work laying down,” Brian said with a sardonic smile. The smile faded, and the executive looked almost nervous, which was an expression Justin couldn’t remember seeing on Brian’s face very often. “And . . . no tricks. . .?”

Justin thought about the guy Brian was fucking when he came back from his solo trip to Vermont. And the underwear model Brian had gotten him as a “birthday” gift, and any of the numerous guys they’d picked up at Babylon or elsewhere and brought home, not to mention the numerous men Brian hooked up with in between those encounters – all in the bed. Justin thought about Zucchini Man again, but that had been on the couch. Likely Brian would still fuck tricks there. But still: That he would agree not to do it in their bed – their bed – was huge, Justin knew, and it gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, Brian was well on his way to becoming the man everyone allegedly thought he “deserved.”

“No tricks.” Justin nodded. “Not in our bed.”

“Same goes for you, too, sonny boy.” Brian looked at him hard. “You can fuck around with whoever, but not there. And always safe.”

Justin simply nodded. He wasn’t sure when Brian would understand that he was the only one Justin ever wanted that way, anywhere in any bed. He’d never get how someone as successful and beautiful and sexy as Brian Kinney could sell himself so short as to think no one would want only him. Justin was determined to make Brian see his worth, and if it took the rest of his life to do it, the artist thought, he’d consider it time well spent.

“Thank you, Bri. For this.” Justin turned his head and blinked away tears. Now was not the time to go off crying like a little faggot. Not now, not in front of Brian – or Gabriel for that matter. “It’s . . . I . . .” He trailed off, and stared at the Do Not Remove Under Penalty of Law tag, concentrating on not letting the tears fall.

“You okay, Sunshine?” Brian was rubbing his back, and it took all of Justin’s willpower not to ravage the man he loved right then and there on their new bed, with Gabriel coughing into his little hankie for all he was worth, and with all of Butler, Pennsylvania, peering at them through the windows.

“Yeah, fine.” Justin swiped at his eyes and sniffed loudly. “Allergies . . . I think it might be Gabriel’s cologne or something. My eyes are itching.”

Brian was silent, but he continued rubbing Justin’s back as the blonde stared into the main part of the showroom, blinking and sniffling softly, just as he had so many years ago in Kaufman’s. This time, Justin knew his eyes wouldn’t swell shut, but he wouldn’t have cared if they did. He had Brian next to him, ready to take care of him, no matter what happened . . . and maybe, just maybe, he had a little more than that.

Justin managed a smile at Gabriel as the salesman walked toward him with the receipt for Brian to sign and the delivery agreement. Gabriel gave him a suspicious look, but Justin didn’t stop smiling, not even after Brian had signed the papers in triplicate and filled out about one thousand contact numbers to facilitate the delivery. Brian had kept his hand on Justin’s back the whole time he signed the papers and talked to Gabriel, and that gesture alone filled Justin’s heart to bursting.

~*~

It was night before they saw the inside of the loft again, their “simple” trip to Butler turning into an all-day affair that included brunch, a visit to a crafts fair, a movie Justin had been dying to see, and dinner. They’d arrived back in the Pitts no worse for the wear, however, and just a little travel worn, but Brian had a feeling that they’d be getting a second wind fairly soon.

Justin was undressing in the bedroom, and Brian sat up on his elbows watching the boy, frowning slightly what he perceived as a new leanness to his frame, as if the boy hadn’t been getting enough to eat. He knew that Debbie tended to force-feed her “boys,” so Brian wondered how Justin had managed to lose weight. Maybe being with the fiddle player had done something to his metabolism, Brian thought. The frown lightened and then disappeared completely when Justin shucked his briefs, his semi-erect dick springing free and swaying heavily between his thighs.

“I’m going to miss this bed.” Justin climbed aboard and his eyes wandered the length of Brian’s body. “We had our first time together here – my first time, ever – you got the call about Gus being born here . . .”

And he’d been in that bed when he got the call about his father’s being dead, Brian remembered. He kept quiet about that, banishing that night to the dark corner of his mind where all his emotional baggage resided.

“The first time we made love after I got out the hospital was here. And the first time you ever let me fuck you . . . we did it here.” Justin’s eyes went misty. “So many memories . . .”

Brian was silent, and his mind turned to the times of which Justin spoke, and so many others they’d shared in that bed . . . most good, some not so very. He wondered not for the first time if the bed plan had been a good idea, then quickly decided, as he had the first thousand times he debated it, that it was. Someone – it might have been Mikey, or it could have been Mel – had told him that what Justin needed even more than a roof over his head, PIFA paid for, food, and fucking, was reassurance that he had a place in Brian’s life.

The ad executive didn’t know how he could really reassure Justin and have him believe it – at least, he wasn’t sure how just saying it would help, so he decided to do something, and the “bed plan” seemed the most appropriate. As soon as Justin had told him that he would not regulate what or who he did in his bed, Brian had known one small concession he could make for the teenager. Maybe others would follow, maybe not, but at the very least, there was this small step he was taking. It was more than anyone expected from him, Brian knew. More even than he could have expected from himself.

“We’ll remember all that, and we’ll make new memories, Sunshine. Even better ones,” he said finally. “Besides, we’re keeping the duvet – the duvet’s seen it all . . .”

“That would be an interesting movie: If This Duvet Could Talk,” Justin laughed. “Ted could run it on his site.”

“Yeah . . . with Zach O’Toole as the star.” Brian grinned.

“I could see that . . . yeah . . . the resemblance is uncanny . . .” Justin looked thoughtful. “Especially in the dick area . . . but then, who’d play you?”

“Funny boy.” Brian smirked when Justin started to laugh, and dove in for a kiss, which smothered the laughter on the boy’s lips. The kiss was gentle at first, their lips nibbling together, but it soon increased in intensity. Their tongues twined together, battling for dominance, but neither of them yielded. Brian slid his hands along the smooth warmth of Justin’s torso, the light hairs ruffling under the older man’s palm. He flicked his thumbs against the pebbly flesh of the blonde’s nipples, squeezing them with just enough pressure to cause Justin to sigh into his mouth. The artist slid his hand across his groin, palming Brian’s leaking dick.

“I’m surprised you still have something in you after what we did this morning,” Justin teased. “And later in the movie theater . . . and again in the car . . .”

“Is that another age crack? I’m always ready for you, baby.” Brian laughed low and flipped Justin into position beneath him. Justin made himself comfortable against the pillows, watching Brian prepare himself for him. Rolling a condom down his stiff dick and working lube along his length, Brian stared at his waiting lover. The bedroom was almost completely dark now, not even the blue lights were on, and the only light came from the moon filtering in from the windows, washing over the both of them like a warm shower. Brian thought that Justin’s skin looked like marble in the pearly light . . . as if he’d been carved from some soft, striking stone . . . so beautiful. Justin was so damn beautiful it nearly broke Brian’s heart.

Brian leaned in and kissed the tip of Justin’s nose, before hoisting the blonde’s legs over his shoulders and began slowly penetrating his lover, his mouth planted on Justin’s. The teen moaned softly beneath him, and when Brian had buried himself completely, they lay motionless, their bodies pressed tightly against each other’s. Brian began pumping his hips, slowly at first, and then with greater intensity. Justin drove his hips up in response to the thrusts, and Brian gave a strangled groan of gratitude as they settled into the serious business of screwing. Brian plunged into the velvety tunnel with long, deep strokes, his own sense of urgency and Justin’s frenzied moans telling him that this was not going to be one of their marathon fucks.

Brian pulled away to press his lips against the smooth, pale forehead, and he thought about the strangeness that was his life; he’d last fucked a trick the night before, while Justin was at work, and even in the midst of his and Justin’s lovemaking, he noticed the difference between being with the blonde and being with a stranger. Fucking tricks was okay: Most of the time, he got off just fine, which was the point of the exercise – at least to him.

Justin, on the other hand, knew his body well; he understood just what it took to really set him off . . . which little twists and thrusts drove him wild. Sex with Justin ratcheted Brian up to a pitch he’d never reach with a random fuck – and the executive knew he probably never would reach that level with anyone else. Maybe this was his version of being in love.

“Brian . . . Briii-aan.” Justin was gasping, working his cock in sync with Brian’s thrusts, his tight, smooth torso squirming against Brian’s own. “Brian . . . can’t . . . hold . . . on . . . I . . . I . . . need . . .”

“Mmm, I know, baby. I know what you need.” Brian gently bit down on Justin’s shoulder and groaned at Justin’s cry of pleasure. “I need it, too. Ahhhh, fuck . . . yeah . . .” He pistoned in and out of Justin, reaching down to stroke the blonde’s dick. He wrapped his hand around the teenager’s and together the joined hands glided down Justin’s cock, precum wetting both their fingers.

“Have . . I . . . told . . . you . . . lately . . . how . . . much . . . I . . . love . . . your . . . ummmmm . . . your . . . dick . . .?” Brian panted. It was as close as he came to saying the “L” word to the beautiful boy beneath him, for though he felt it, and he knew Justin probably knew he did, too, Brian didn’t feel ready to say it directly – not yet.

“It . . . loves . . . you . . . too . . . Bri . . .” Justin moaned and bucked helplessly upward, and Brian felt the artist’s dick throb in his hand. “Oh fuck . . . fuck . . . coming, Brian . . . coming . . . ohh . . . ohhhhhh fuck . . .” Justin’s body trembled, and Brian felt squirts of wet heat hit his belly, raining down in hot, sticky drops. “Oh, Christ . . . Brian . . .” Justin’s voice broke as the last of his cum drizzled out, and oozed down their still-linked fingers.

“That feels nice, sonny boy . . . it turns me on to feel you shoot hard like that . . . ” Brian groaned as he continued his thrusts into Justin, feeling his orgasm build to the trigger point. Pulling out of the blonde’s ass to the head of his dick, Brian thrust back into Justin all the way, going for broke, and that sent him over the edge. His orgasm swept over him, and he shot into the tight tunnel that was still convulsing around him. “Ahh, shit . . . god . . . Justinnnn . . .” he hissed as he rode out the waves of his release, his body jerking as each wave crashed over him.

When the last spasm subsided, and his breathing returning to something approaching normal, Brian carefully pulled out of Justin, discarded the condom, and wrapped the damp, slender figure into his arms. They lay there in relative silence for several minutes, and their labored breathing and the soft whirring of the refrigerator were the only noises breaking the silence.

“Fuck . . . the new bed’s gonna have a lot to live up to . . .” Brian murmured, twining his fingers in Justin’s soft hair.

“So will we.” Justin looked up at him with a smile playing on his lips. “I keep thinking that eventually, all this makeup sex we’re having is going to wear us down. How long do you think we can keep it up?”

“Long as it takes . . .” Brian kissed the top of Justin’s head. “I guess until we figure that we’ve . . . made up. Then it’ll just be sex.”

“Jesus . . .” Justin shook his head with a rueful smile. “Well, if all else fails, there’s shitloads of caffeine for me and Viagra for you.”

Brian smirked, remembering his first and only experience with the drug. “Yeah, well, if I do take it, I’m not answering any fucking doors . . . or lending any to Ted . . . and I wont stop fucking you until my dick goes down.”

“Is that that a promise?” Justin’s eyes twinkled in the moonlight, and for a moment, Brian felt the urge to tell the boy the truth – tell him he loved him, that he’d missed him, that he was seriously considering limiting his sexual activities to one place – the loft – and one person – namely, a certain blond artist who had the world’s best ass . . . best smile . . . and the most amazing eyes . . . and who made his heart, as well as his cock, pound.

Brian fought the impulse and sneered instead, not wanting the moment to degenerate into something unrecognizably mushy. “Yeah, Sunshine it’s a promise. And you know I don’t break those . . .” He smiled genuinely at Justin’s confirming smile and nod. “All right, enough pillow talk. I’m calling Cynthia tomorrow, first thing, to tell her I’ll be in after two . . . so let’s get some rest, sonny boy. We want to be all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the christening of a certain piece of furniture when it gets here in the morning.” Holding the blonde tighter, Brian lifted the duvet over both of them as they settled in for their last night of sleep on his bed.

Finito

Hearing Things

(Post-307 story) 'Tis many a slip twixt the ear and the lip. Justin learns that being seen and being heard aren't mutually exclusive terms.

“Will you please just go?”

It was the fourth time Justin had said it, and he maintained a soft, controlled voice. Justin thought that maybe screaming and carrying on was what Ethan expected of him, so if he just lowered his voice and spoke in a calm and steady tone, just maybe the musician could get it through his thick head that he wasn’t wanted.

“No, I’m not going to just go, Justin. Not until you hear me out.”

Justin exhaled slowly. Okay, so his head’s thicker than I thought. Why am I not surprised? Ethan was staring at him from a lower step in the stairwell of Daphne’s apartment building, making an appealing little face at him. If it were six or seven months earlier, Justin knew he would have given in to those pleading, dark eyes and trembling mouth, thrown himself at Ethan’s feet, and given him whatever he wanted. Not now. Not anymore. The artist’s resolve was firm, and he only needed to remember opening Ethan’s apartment door and seeing the guy the violinist had an affair with to further strengthen his determination to shut Ethan out.

“I’ve heard all I’m going to hear.” Justin cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Daphne’s apartment. The door was slightly ajar and sounds of movement could be heard within. Justin relaxed, confident that his and Ethan’s conversation was taking place in relative privacy. “I’m not going to listen to any more excuses from you. So again: Please. Leave.” He enunciated each word, sharpening his voice. “You’re making an ass of yourself.”

“And you’re making a mistake.” Ethan looked pointedly at the cardboard boxes on the landing, all of them taped and labeled, stacked neatly atop each other. “As soon as I heard that you were scouring campus for boxes for your move, I fucking knew you were going back to him.”

Justin reminded himself to just be calm and rational. If he started raising his voice, Brian might come out wondering what was going on. As it was, he was sure the brunet was wondering about his absence. Justin only hoped Daphne was keeping Brian occupied in packing the last of his effects while he tried to get rid of Ethan. Daph, he reflected, was a good friend – fearless and fearsome. She’d taken him aside and said that when Ethan came banging on her door demanding to see Justin, she’d told the musician in no uncertain terms and very colorful language to beat it. It was only when Ethan threatened to start playing his ever-present violin and start shouting for Justin to come out that Daphne had yielded and told Justin to talk to him quick while she kept Brian busy boxing up Justin’s things. If the ad executive were to see Ethan there . . . Justin didn’t even want to finish the thought. He mentally kicked himself for bringing Ethan to Daph’s apartment while they’d been dating. It had only been once, and Justin hadn’t thought Ethan would remember the address, but the musician was full of surprises. He’d learned that the hard way.

“What I do and where I go stopped being any of your business the minute you fucked that guy after your concert.” Justin spoke with carefully contained anger. It still hurt, even all these months later, to think that Ethan had lied to him and would have continued lying, and maybe tricking, too, if the guy from the Harrisburg concert hadn’t come to Pittsburgh wanting an encore performance. “So why don’t you save the doe eyes and the sweet words for him. Maybe he hasn’t heard it all before yet.”

“My sleeping with Matt has nothing to do with you losing your fucking mind,” Ethan returned heatedly, and Justin rolled his eyes. Again, the violinist was attempting to downplay his infidelity and spin it into something else, make it someone else’s fault. “Cut it out, Justin and listen to me. You should not be doing this.” He swung his violin case toward the boxes. “You’re worth more than to just be Brian’s last fuck of the night after he’s stuck his dick in five other assholes. You need someone to cherish you – worship you! Tell you you’re their everything!”

“And then fuck around and try to make it sound like they couldn’t help it? Like it was my fault because I wasn’t there? Forgetting that I couldn’t be there and be open because you fucking signed a contract that basically made me invisible? Were you cherishing me when the guy from your concert was sucking your dick?” Justin folded his arms, aiming a cold glare at his ex. “Fuck it, I’m not going to get into this with you again. Besides, you don’t know shit: Everything you just said about someone loving and cherishing me and making me their everything, I had that, Ethan. I had someone who loved me and cherished me and worshipped me . . . in ways you never could. No one ever could. I had all that, and because I was an idiot, I threw it away for your bullshit.” Justin watched with pleasure as Ethan flinched at the word ‘bullshit.’ “That’s the only mistake I made – leaving Brian and thinking you could even come close to giving me what he gave me every day since the night we fucking met!”

“Jesus, he must have you taking drugs again, because your memory is definitely impaired,” Ethan muttered with a shake of his head. “Justin, remember when we first became lovers? Hell, even before then? Remember how you told me that you hated the tricking and his never telling you how he felt about you? Remember how you said you didn’t even feel like you could talk to him? That he hardly ever listened to you?” Ethan ascended one step and stood almost nose-to-nose with the blond. “I remember the day we started falling in love with each other: We sat on my floor, drank cheap wine and dollar-store saltines and cheese, and we told each other things . . . things we’d never told another living soul . . . things you never told Brian because you said he wouldn’t give a shit. And I remember saying that for me, that was what I wanted in a relationship, to have a guy who loved me only and wanted me only and who I could sit on a dirty floor with, eat stale crackers and tell him things I’d never dreamed of telling anyone else. And you said that’s what you wanted, too.” Ethan breathed heavily, his eyes darkening. “What’s changed that you would compromise – again – what you want and need in a relationship?”

“What changed is that I finally figured out what compromising meant,” Justin said with a steady voice. “It doesn’t mean trying to make someone into some fucked-up ideal or trying to change stuff around because you’re too blind to realize you have everything you could ever ask for. And more. It means working together and being real with each other about expectations and goals and desires. It doesn’t mean sonnets at dawn or dark chocolate in bed or other meaningless, forgettable shit. It means work, Ethan. Real work – hard work – and it could take a lifetime.” Justin quieted, imagining growing old and gray with Brian, both of them on Viagra, maybe, still driving each other wild in bed. “It’s about talking through problems, facing them like men, and not running away from them. It’s not about being someone’s muse – it’s about being someone’s partner. That’s compromise . . . and you’re goddamn fucking right I’m ready to do it – with Brian. I’ve wasted enough time.”

Ethan shook his head and seemed about to reply when his gaze shot over Justin shoulders, widened and then narrowed into sneering, evil little slits. Justin paled and his neck grew hot. He knew, without having to turn around that Brian was behind him, and the blond shivered as if someone had dragged a sliver of ice down his neck.

“Speak of the devil,” Ethan said with malice dripping from every word. Justin then looked over and saw Brian leaning causally in the doorway, Daphne peering over his shoulder flashing an apologetic look at Justin and a heated glare at the musician. “I heard about Justin moving back in with you, and I wanted to stop by and offer my condolences.”

“Too bad. We could have used another pair of hands.” Brian’s smooth voice sent chills down Justin’s spine. The ad exec was pissed, the artist could tell. “Did you want to reprise your role as the roving, dashing fiddler, here to spirit the fair Sunshine away from his evil overlord?” The floorboards of the landing creaked as Brian approached the staircase, his expression placid and facetiously curious. “Do I need to put my mask back on?”

Justin barely held back a shudder of dread. Brian was, he realized, referring to the Rage party, when Ethan came in, spun his web of crap and ensnared him. Turning to his lover, all sexily tousled and sweaty and gorgeous in a simple white tank and frayed jeans, Justin wracked his brain desperately for a way to prove to Brian that the outcome would be different this time. No way was he considering leaving with Ethan. Justin knew he could never turn his back on Brian; not ever again.

“He was just leaving.” Justin kept his same even tone. He knew that if he sounded hysterical or nervous, the older man would think something was up. Turning back to his former boyfriend, Justin raised his brows. “Goodbye, Ethan.” His tone brooked no argument, and he hoped that his words as well as his voice conveyed to the musician that the farewell was permanent. It was beyond over between them.

Ethan glared at Brian for a minute, seeming to grow more and more incensed by the older man’s impassive expression and slight smile. Finally, with a slight shrug of defeat, the violinist turned blazing, dark eyes back to Justin. “You’re right. I am wasting my time. You don’t need a conversation, you need a fucking deprogrammer. I should just wait around and talk to the next guy you run to because you have a boyfriend who doesn’t listen to you.” He took a step backward. “And you know what? He’s never going to. Maybe he can fuck you long enough and hard enough and make you scream loud enough for dogs in the next county to hear you. But so what? That still won’t make his ears work any better.”

Justin’s face blazed, and he opened his mouth to tell Ethan just where to shove his opinion when Brian’s impossibly smooth voice cut through the tension like a machete. “You know,” Brian began conversationally, looking down the stairwell, “I read somewhere that if you tossed a Stradivarius violin down a flight of stairs and it broke into pieces, even the tiniest splinter would be worth a shitload of money.” Brian looked at Ethan with a smile that was more like a shark bearing its teeth than a normal, light-hearted grin. “I wonder if the same thing could be said if a two-bit, half-assed violin player got his ass kicked down a flight of steps and broke both his fucking arms.”

The musician blanched, and glanced instinctively over his shoulder at the very long flight of stairs that led from the second floor apartment to the street entrance of the building. Ethan looked at Brian’s face again, turned even paler, and without another word to anyone, turned on his heel and descended the stairs, holding on tightly to the railing as he went.

“Asshole,” Daphne said none-too-quietly as the three of them watched the musician reach the bottom of the staircase and storm out the door without a backward glance. “Where does he get off harassing people? Everything has to be such drama with him.”

“He needs an audience. It’s Ethan’s way of keeping focus,” Justin said quietly. “He can’t function if he just has one person’s undivided attention. It’s not as much fun for him.” The blond looked over at Brian, who was staring down the steps with a slight frown, seemingly lost in thought. “Brian?”

Brian stared ahead for a second more and then squared his shoulders, darting an indecipherable look at the blond artist. “We’re almost done, Sonnyboy. Help me untangle the cords on your computer.” He turned and walked back into the apartment, resting a hand on Daphne’s shoulder as he passed her.

Justin followed, fighting to ignore the sense of dread that was creeping over him like errant ivy vines. At the door, Daphne stopped him with a hand to his arm. “What was that all about?”

The blond shrugged. “Ethan being Ethan. What else?” There really was nothing more to it than that, really, the artist thought to himself. Not much substance there at all, and never had been, where the young musician was concerned.

“Is everything going to be okay? With Brian, I mean.” She and Justin both looked into the tiny apartment where Brian stood with his back to them, attempting to make heads or tails of the tangled mess of cables leading from Justin’s graphics computer.

Staring at the sweat-dotted back of his lover as he started unwrapping the cables, Justin sighed softly, feeling a knot of tension forming in his stomach. “Fuck, I hope so.”

~*~

Justin knew Brian hated conversation for conversation’s sake. One of the most insightful comments Brian had ever had made was something along the lines of feeling most comfortable around people who knew just when to talk and when to shut the fuck up. With that in mind, Justin rode by Brian’s side in silence, desperately wanting to sound out Brian on the Ethan visit but unable to come up with a natural way to start the conversation. In more than slight misery, Justin stared out the window, reflecting that this day was supposed to be a happy one, filled with promise and triumph. Four months of what Justin would almost call “dating,” countless nights of passion, and more than three actual conversations had culminated into this beautiful day – Justin moving out of Daphne’s apartment and back into Brian’s loft. But, like those bedtime stories his mother used to read to him when he was a little boy, an evil fairy had come to crash the proceedings and cast a pall on the day. Except this evil fairy had a violin instead of a magic wand, and three days of greasy stubble and not a huge nose with a wart on it.

Reclining in the plush seats of the jeep Brian had rented for the move, Justin wondered why he felt so guilty. Brian had to realize that he hadn’t invited Ethan to come over and be an asshole, and if Brian had been listening in on the conversation, he would have realized that Ethan’s practiced words and come-ons hadn’t had any effect. Sliding a glimpse at his lover, Justin took note that Brian didn’t really seem angry at all – just quiet, as if he were trying to puzzle out some complex problem.

“Mind if we make a stop?”

Justin nearly jumped off the seat at Brian’s voice. It was almost the first thing Brian had said to him after they’d loaded up the Jeep and left Daphne’s. The ad executive sounded very polite and controlled, and that made Justin even more nervous.

“Sure! Um, I mean of course I don’t mind.” Justin cringed inwardly. If he couldn’t even answer a simple question without sounding like an idiot, now was definitely not the time to initiate a more serious conversation.

Brian said nothing as he turned the car onto Liberty Avenue, rolling down the street for a few blocks before pulling into the parking lot of Foodland, the supermarket frequented by the Avenue dwellers and those who aspired to be like them.

“The supermarket?” Justin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Brian wasn’t the Sunday shopper type, preferring to get fresh produce from the farmer’s markets downtown.

“Yep. No food at home.” Brian carefully eased into a parking space. “It’d be pretty inhospitable to bring you back to an empty kitchen, wouldn’t it, Sunshine?”

“Wow, that’s considerate.” Smiling, Justin unbuckled his seat belt. Brian had called it home. Not my place or the loft. But home. As in their home. Something the two of them would inhabit together, sharing it as Justin hoped they would share their lives. “Did you clip coupons, too?”

Brian gave him a thoroughly disdaining smirk by way of reply as he slid out of the driver’s side. Still grinning, Justin followed the leather-coat-clad executive into the busy market. Looking up at the red-and-green sign, Justin frowned in remembrance of the last time he and Brian had been to that particular market. It was there that they’d come across a man known to both of them only as Zucchini Man, and Justin and Daphne had walked in on him and Brian fucking on the couch.

Walking a little slower, Justin wondered at the coincidence. Watching Brian walk unhurriedly through the automatic doors, he wondered if it were really a coincidence, or if Brian was trying to send some sort of message that even though they were taking the huge step of mutually agreeing to live together, that things were still going to be done in the Brian Kinney mold. After several minutes of gaping at nothing, Justin forced the dark thoughts from his mind and continued forward. The day had already started off on the wrong foot; no way was he going to let fading memories from the past make it even worse.

~*~

Walking into the market, Justin mused, was like going into a vault. A vault filled with Rite Cola on special and intricate displays of raisin bagels and Nutella. Justin blinked and looked around at the crowd of midday shoppers. He saw aging leather queens, a drag king in an Abraham Lincoln beard and two bears grabbing all the samples of Chex Mix on display. Yes, just a typical afternoon at the local gay supermarket. Justin smiled fondly at memories of shopping there. It had been quite some time since he’d been there – Daphne liked going to the Giant Eagle off Fifth Avenue because it had the best sales, and when he’d lived with Ethan, since neither had steady access to a car, they’d gone to a fleabag convenience store for necessities.

“Where the fuck were you? Collecting bottle caps?”

Justin turned and saw Brian by his side, slouching over a shopping cart. Justin knew better than to laugh in the brunet’s face, but Brian looked so domestic at that moment. Of course, the typical housewife, or housefag, even, didn’t pick up milk and eggs in a Hugo Boss leather jacket, but leave it to Brian Kinney to put a spin on tradition.

“Trying to remember where everything is,” Justin answered, looking around. “It’s been awhile. I don’t even –” He stopped abruptly when he noticed a few items at the bottom of the cart. A huge-ass box of Cheerios, a family-size box of strawberry frosted Pop Tarts and a banana-nut loaf Justin had gotten on sale once and reduced to crumbs within a day of purchase. “You’re overloading on carbs? Must not have been a triceps and stomach day at the gym.”

“No. Back and lats,” Brian replied in all seriousness, tilting his head to one side. “This isn’t for me. You’re the one who can’t get enough of this shit.” The exec made a face. “I won’t worry about being tempted to eat any of this – I probably won’t see any of it after today.”

Justin stared in wonder at the cart. The Cheerios he’d understood – the cereal was their own private joke, a nod to their first night together when Justin professed his preference for Cheerios over Special K, though the flaky kind had not been what Brian had been referring to. The other things were a bit of a shock, though. To the best of his recollection, Justin remembered mentioning his love for strawberry Pop Tarts – and they had to be frosted; the unfrosted kind tasted like cardboard sandwiching strawberry jam – only once, and Brian had been quite high on poppers at the time. Same with the banana bread – Justin was fairly sure Brian had never even seen the stuff in the loft, because the blond had decimated it so quickly. Unless, of course, the older man had seen the wrapper in the garbage, but Brian was hardly the type to root through the trash.

“I don’t want to spend all fucking day in here. These goddamn lights are drying my skin.” Brian scowled up at the bars of light above their heads “So let’s split up and speed this up. The chicken thing you like’s in aisle 13 with the other frozen goodies. Get some vanilla ice cream while you’re over there. The one in the brown-and-white carton – not that cheap Breyer’s shit. Since I’m over here, I’ll get the rigatoni and the red sauce you get hard over – the one with the chopped Portobello mushrooms in it. And – fuck – I need some more coffee. They better have Ipanema Bour this time. The supposed Blue Mountain here is even more putrid than the greasy dishwater the diner calls coffee.”

The blond could only gawk in disbelief. And when those hypnotic amber eyes locked onto his face and the lush lips asked, “What’s wrong?” the only thing Justin could think to say was, “What chicken thing?”

Brian, who had been eyeing the produce department, glanced back at his lover, brows high. “What?”

“The chicken thing I like,” Justin repeated, a blush staining his cheeks. “What do you mean, exactly?”

“The thing in the red box. Diornello’s or whatever. Chicken parmesan.” One side of Brian’s mouth curled into a smile. “The one you said was just like Deb’s – only without so much garlic and without the paprika shit that aggravates your allergies.”

“Dornelli’s. It’s called Dornelli’s. I think.” The artist gazed into Brian’s eyes and was still for a snapshot second. Justin mused at how gorgeous he thought his lover’s eyes were. It wasn’t just their color and the way they seemed to darken, lighten, dim or sparkle according to the older man’s mood, but it was their ability to reveal everything and nothing of what Brian was thinking – sometimes at the same time. “You remembered.” The younger man glanced into the cart and then looked back up at Brian, his heart fluttering in his chest, smiling. “You remembered . . . everything.”

Something in Brian’s eyes changed then, and Justin saw a flash of vulnerability and pain pass through them that made the blond’s breath catch in his throat. The easy smile faltered on the young face before dying completely under Brian’s bland stare.

“You sound surprised, Sunshine,” Brian said in with mock politeness. “But I do have eyes. And ears. That work.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Contrary to . . . popular belief.”

Flashing a smile devoid of humor, Brian turned and walked down the aisle leading to the coffee beans and bread, leaving his young lover to watch him go with mouth agape and a sinking heart.

~*~

He’d spent, at the very least, two nights a week for two months in Brian’s loft, yet stepping in the door now as a full-time tenant and not a weekend visitor, Justin saw the place through different eyes. Everything was clean and neat, uncomplicated and uncluttered. He and Daphne hadn’t been slobs, but they’d hardly kept their apartment in museum-quality shape, and the blond wondered if Brian would get pissed off at the art materials, clothes, CDs and miscellaneous items that were going to again clutter up his pristine space.

Sitting on a box marked “Art stuff,” Justin looked around the living area, growing more and more despondent. Brian had moved things around to accommodate him; the new coffee table Justin had noticed during a visit to Brian early in their breakup had been moved to a remote corner of the room to make way for the graphics computer. Justin had expected space to be made for his drawing aid, but he assumed it would have to go wherever there was room – but Brian had given him his old space back in the middle of the living room. The lighting in that very spot was perfect for drawing, and that’s why the computer had been set up there in the first place. Justin had gone into the bedroom, sure that Brian had cleaned out a drawer or two for his belongings and was shocked to find that a whole dresser had been cleared for his use along with the entire inside of the smallest of Brian’s walk-in closets. Space had been made in the bathroom, too, for Justin’s things, though the blond really didn’t have much in the way of grooming supplies. There hadn’t been much room in Ethan’s place for more than a toothbrush and some shampoo. It had cheered Justin up to see his and Brian’s toothbrushes side by side again, but looking around at all the space allotted him had gotten him depressed again in no time.

And now there he was sitting on the last of the boxes that had been taken from the rented jeep, staring into space. After they’d unloaded the boxes and the bags of groceries and put the food away, Brian had left to return the jeep back to the rental company and pick up his Corvette. Brian had asked Justin if he wanted to ride out to the dealership in McCandless, but the blond had declined, saying he wanted to unpack and settle in. The “unpacking” had taken about as long as the packing – a couple of hours or so – and now he was alone and feeling conflicted.

The silence of the ride from Daphne’s to Foodland had been mimicked in the trip from the market to the loft. Justin had stared with unseeing eyes out the window, not really knowing what to say or do. Obviously what Ethan had said hurt Brian enough for the executive to fuel his actions at the supermarket. The thought that Brian felt he had to make such a gesture in order to prove his point made Justin’s stomach churn. But worse still, Justin couldn’t think of a thing to say to lessen or refute Ethan’s words – not that garbage about Justin seeking solace in another man’s arms when and if Brian hurt him again, but all the other things, the things about Brian never listening to him, about their not communicating. He really had said all of that of Brian to Ethan.

Justin replayed in his mind all the times he’d bitched to Ethan about Brian not giving a fuck, not knowing what he wanted or needed except in bed, and it all made him sick to think about it now because it was so obviously not true. Brian knew what he liked to eat down to the brand names. Brian knew that he loved working where there was an abundance of light. Brian knew his affinity for light-blue towels, and there were four new ones hanging in the bathroom. He remembered Justin saying that he’d added a whole bunch of new things to his wardrobe, and voila – more closet and drawer space. He knew the blond’s love for jeeps, black ones especially, and had taken pains to rent one just for the move even though the artist’s paltry belongings, save the computer, probably would have fit in the ‘Vette’s trunk. Brian had even put the vanished blue lights back in, and all Justin remembered saying about the replacement orange fixture was that the glare was a little much for him. Presto – on his next visit, the blue lights had been re-installed and put back in business.

He did listen to me. Justin rested his chin his hands with a sigh. When am I going to stop being so stupid or at least stop doing and thinking stupid things? The blond tried to explain away the feelings he’d had, telling himself that he and Brian had been in a bad place for awhile and he was desperate, that’s all, and being desperate made him blind and deaf to the obvious – that Brian really did love him and always had. Justin remembered telling Ethan that Brian loved him in “his own way,” as if that were something to be disdained. And how ironic, Justin thought with a sad, sardonic chuckle, that Brian loving him in “his own way” had beat the hell out of Ethan’s loving him in his own “contrived, hackneyed and pathetic way.”

Please do not let me fuck this up. Justin wasn’t sure if he were praying or giving himself an internal pep talk, but either way, it didn’t matter. He needed to just talk himself through this somehow. It doesn’t matter if he never says “I love you.” I know he does . . . and that’s enough. It should have been enough from the start . . . I know I messed up, and I know I’m getting another chance, so please . . . I cannot fuck up this time. I can’t lose him again. He swallowed hard. I’ll do anything . . .

Justin looked up warily when the door slid open and Brian walked briskly in, a bottle under his arm. Shutting the door in one smooth motion, Brian glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t smell anything.”

The blond’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Um . . . what were you expecting to smell?” He gave a self-conscious sniff, wondering if he’d put on too much cologne or something.

“Dinner.” Brian stepped down into the living area with a wry grin. “I figured you’d have had that chicken thing ready to go by now, or did you just eat it straight out of the box?”

“No, I . . . um . . . I was putting my stuff away.” Justin stood up uncertainly, feeling foolish. Brian was expecting him to have dinner made? That was way domestic for Brian, but then again, the older man had mentioned not having anything in his stomach all day except coffee. “I could do that now, though. You’re hungry?”

“Aren’t you?” Brian held up the bottle. “I got this.” From where Justin was standing, he could make out the label of a very pricey Bordeaux. “I found this after going to five state stores in the backwaters of Allegheny County before I found a guy who didn’t think parmesan was some kind of disease. So . . . fire up the oven, Sonnyboy. I’ll put this on ice.”

“I . . . okay, yeah.” Justin, very aware of Brian’s eyes on him took two steps toward the kitchen then stopped. “Uh . . . no. Wait.” He closed his eyes and took a deep, fortifying breath. One of the things he and Brian had agreed on was that they weren’t going to tiptoe around things that bothered him. They were going to have it out, good or bad, not leave it to stew and fester until one of them did something moronic and regrettable. Justin had had many fantasies about the moving-in day, most of them involving his licking every area of Brian’s body. Justin didn’t relish the idea of starting their third attempt of cohabitation – and their first mutually agreed upon one – with a fight, but he wasn’t going to be able to relax if he and Brian didn’t clear the air.

That in mind, Justin turned to his lover. “Brian, about earlier today.” The blond gnawed his lip, forcing himself to look Brian in the eye. “The things Ethan said . . . I’m sorry you heard that.” When Brian’s expression didn’t change after a few seconds, Justin took another breath and forced himself to stand up straight. “It wasn’t about you . . . fuck, it wasn’t even about me. He just . . . hates to lose. Competitions, gigs, guys, it’s all about being the best – another medal on his stand, another victory.” Justin’s lips flattened into a pale line. “When I . . . went with him, he thought he’d won. In his mind, he’d beat you. But . . . what he didn’t know was that even then, I wasn’t completely his. I couldn’t be. I never stopped loving you, and . . . I really couldn’t pretend that I had. Ethan knew it, and he resented me and you for it.” The blond dropped his eyes briefly. “That’s what today was about; Ethan being a sore loser and thinking that I might fall for the same shit he fed me before.”

“Now why would he think that?” Brian’s voice was deceptively sweet, and he absently tapped his thigh with the bottle. “Maybe it was something in those super-secret talks you had with him made him think your gullibility immunity might have worn off by now.”

“What are you talking about?” Justin asked with trepidation. “What super-secret talks?”

“The ones you had on the floor with him. With the stale crackers and Cheez Whiz.” Brian spoke in an overly pleasant tone, and but for the dangerous glint in his eyes, anyone would have mistaken his voice for one of a happy-go-lucky man. “Before, apparently, you moved out of here. Where you two held each other’s dicks and told your inner most thoughts and fantasies. Things ‘you never told Brian because you knew he wouldn’t give a shit.’” He mimicked Ethan’s earlier words in a biting tone. “C’mon Sunshine, it wasn’t that long ago . . . you couldn’t forget the times you bared your soul – not mention your ass – for the fiddle boy, could you?”

Oh no. Oh fuck no . . . no . . . Justin trembled and groped for something to hold on to, gratefully making contact with the end of the kitchen counter. Brian had heard more of the conversation that Justin had previously thought. He’d heard that – and, sadly, Justin couldn’t deny that it happened, that he told Ethan how he felt whenever he drew, what his goals were, what he wanted out of a relationship – all things he’d never mentioned to Brian. And it was, as Ethan had stated, because Justin didn’t think his older lover would care.

“Bri, I . . .” Justin ran his hand through his hair, frantically groping for something to say that would come close to remedying the situation. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.” He grimaced as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Great. Admit that you don’t have a clue. That’s just fucking perfect! “I mean, I –”

“Don’t say anything, Sunshine.” Brian shrugged and put the wine on a side table, unstoppered the bottle of Beam and poured himself a glass. “You wouldn’t want to break any confidences. Wouldn’t want the fiddler to think he’d wasted those crackers and wine on someone who would fuck and tell at the first opportunity, would you?”

Justin watched the older man throw his head back and toss the shot of Beam back in one gulp. When those elegant fingers closed around the neck of the Beam bottle, lifted it and poured more liquid into the glass, Justin knew he had to take action. It was a too-familiar pattern: Brian would get just drunk enough to remember to put lube and condoms in his pockets, then stumble over to Liberty Avenue, hit the baths or the backroom, fuck and suck for hours and then make his way home, reeking of cum, sweat and Beam, and leaving Justin to wonder when the fuck the “changes” they talked about were going to kick in.

No. Not this time. Justin’s eyes went steely. We said things were gonna be different around here, and fuck it, they’re going to be. In a clear, calm voice, Justin said, “I’m not you, Brian.”

The hand holding the second glass of Beam halted in midair, and a puzzled glance was tossed Justin’s way. “What?”

“I said, I’m not you.” Justin walked slowly to his lover, more and more determined to make Brian see reason, even if his doing so would make him look like a pathetic loser. “I’m not some Irish working-class kid whose dad slapped him around for the hell of it, and who had ice bitches for a mom and sister, but who managed to finish school, get a kick-ass job and a life no one in his fucking family ever dreamed of. I’m not a guy whose dad died in a war before I was born, and whose mom is totally cool and scary at the same time, and who has an uncle who has a disease that nearly killed him, but who’s probably gonna outlive everybody who ever pitied him.” Justin was quiet as Brian put the glass down and turned to face him.

“I’m not an ex-porn king who manages to be really boring anyway, and I’m not a flaming nelly queen who somehow manages not to be walking joke. I didn’t know you in college. I don’t have a twat, and I’m never gonna have your kid. I’m never going to be the lover of the person who had your kid.” Breathing heavily, Justin pushed his bangs out of his eyes. “Everyone in your life – everyone you let get even a little close – has something special about them. Something different. You wouldn’t waste your time, if they didn’t. And I know you hate it when they bitch about their problems or dump their shit on you. I thought . . . I didn’t think I was anything special.” The golden head drooped a little. “I was just this kid you fucked and who fell in love with you and you couldn’t get rid of . . . and after awhile, you started falling for him, too, and stopped trying to get rid of him.”

He faced the ad man boldly, daring Brian with his eyes to refute his words. When the only response he got was a quirk of Brian’s eyebrow, Justin breathed a little easier. “I haven’t even finished my first year in college, I bus tables at a piss-ass diner, and I can draw pretty decent – and I need help even to do that! Yeah, there was the thing about me getting bashed in the head, I guess that makes me a little different. But even still, I figured you saw me as a naïve little twink from the ‘burbs who had this perfect little life didn’t know shit. I proved that, didn’t I, by falling for Ethan’s lines, and by walking away from the best thing that ever happened to me.” Justin was quiet a little while, giving Brian time to interject, cough, move, do something, but the executive did nothing, just stood there with a raised eyebrow and his arms at his sides.

“I didn’t think you thought I had anything to say that was worth listening to . . . I wasn’t sure if the stuff I thought about and dreamed about would be valid to you, so I never bothered telling you about any of it. That’s not the same as you not listening to me, though there is stuff I tried to say to you that you blew me off on. Like the bashing and the prom.” He saw Brian’s cheeks darken, and the executive’s eyes briefly found something interesting on the floor to focus on. “And there was so much I wanted to tell you and share with you, but I really believed you didn’t want to hear it, and that even if you did, you wouldn’t care. And now I feel like an asshole, ‘cause now I realize that I was wrong.”

Justin stared into the lowered hazel eyes. “Today, while we were packing at Daphne’s and you were asking me if I had this drawing program or that one, and if all the J. Crew sweaters my mom just bought me were packed. And then later at the market when you remembered all my favorite foods and that I got addicted to Ipanema Bour at Starbucks.” The teen smiled at Brian’s sheepish look. “It took me a minute, but when we got to the cashier, I remembered Daph gave me a whole bag of it last Christmas, and you gave me two bags of it after you used up almost all the one Daph gave me.” Justin’s smile faded. “You heard everything I ever said to you about anything – stuff I like, people I hang out with, songs I dance to. And you did more than just hear me – you listened. And not just about little stuff like coffee and Pop Tarts. You know what stuff I can eat and can’t because of my allergies. You know where the best place in here for me to work at the computer is, even though you had it all laid out with new furniture. You know how much space I need to keep you from tripping over my shit. You know me . . . better than anyone ever has or ever will . . . and I should’ve realized that way before now.”

He peeped almost fearfully into Brian’s face, wondering what the older man would say to it all. Justin hadn’t expected to put so much emotion out there, but he felt that it had to be said – not as any type of justification, but as simple fact. Brian had to know the state of mind he’d been in when he’d confided in Ethan, he had to know that it had been a sort of frustrated blindness, and not out of any real love for the violinist. When his and Brian’s relationship had started going south, Justin had felt really lonely and didn’t feel like he could confide in anyone – Daphne, his mother, Linds – and Ethan had provided a sympathetic ear and a not-unattractive ass. He’d been the wrong guy at the right time, and Justin kicked himself for not grasping that concept sooner.

“Very interesting.” Brian nodded thoughtfully, walking toward the silent teen. “But you seem to forget one thing, Sunshine – your dad’s tried to fucking kill me. Twice.”

Brian was quite close, which ordinarily would have pleased the blond, but Brian’s apparent response to his heartfelt speech was so random, that Justin could only gaze up at the older man in bafflement. “Um . . . yeah? So . . .?”

“So I wouldn’t flatter myself with the ‘perfect little golden boy life’ story. The psycho dad thing kind of blows that out of the water,” Brian answered, carding a hand through his hair. “It only took me five minutes of being in your lovely home to figure out the only difference between the way you grew up and the way I grew up was a zip code and a father who kicked back a bottle and a half of Beam a night.” Brian smiled briefly. “And the stuff about your thoughts and experiences not being as relevant to me as Mikey’s or Linds’ or any of those other people that you’re not – is bullshit. Taking a bat to the head and living to draw another cock isn’t exactly a throwaway life experience, Sonnyboy. It’s a hell of lot more interesting than watching juice queens whack off on cue or talking about how saggy your tits have gotten from nursing. And as for the age thing . . . aren’t you the one who told me you’re the most mature person I know?”

“Still am,” Justin said with a soft smile. He’d said that to Brian nearly two years before, and yet his lover remembered it word for word. Amazing.

“So act like it.” Brian put his hands on Justin’s shoulders, and brought his face to within inches of the blond’s. “Look, I’m not going to make this into an After School Special. You have something you want to tell me – doesn’t matter what it is – say it. I’m always all ears for you, Sonnyboy.”

“Hmm. I like it even better when you’re all mouth for me,” Justin said with a hungry look at Brian’s lips, licking his own. “I’ll take what I can get, though. But Brian, you have to do something for me, too –”

“Well . . . I thought we’d wait or that until after we ate something. But if you insist . . .” With a predatory grin, he went for Justin’s zipper.

“Not that.” Justin batted Brian’s hands away, ignoring the tingling in his groin. “Okay, well, maybe that – later.” The artist took a deep breath and let it out gradually. “You have to give me a chance, Bri. Give me the benefit of the doubt sometimes, and trust me. I know it might take some time, and I know after . . . everything that’s happened, it’s easier said than done, but you have to promise me you’ll try.” He lightly pecked Brian’s lips. “I don’t know how much of the conversation you heard, but you had to realize that no matter what Ethan said about you or about him and me and what we used to do, I wasn’t going to go back to him. Maybe my immunity to bullshit was nonexistent when I met him, but I’ve had my course of anti-bs shots since I’ve broken up with him.”

“Yeah . . . I seem to remember giving you those injections myself.” A gentle hand squeezed the bulge in Justin’s pants, and the artist barely held back a groan. “Several of them, in fact.”

“Uh-huh.” Justin fidgeted as the tingling in his groin deepened into an insistent throbbing. “Anyway, what I’m saying is, I’ve learned my lesson. Like my alcoholic grandma used to say, ‘There’s about a million different types of stupid, but only a really pathetic idiot will be the same type of stupid more than once.’ I’m not going to be the same type of stupid again, Brian, and think I need someone else – anyone else – or that you don’t care when it’s obvious that you do.” Justin wound his arms around the slender neck and pressed his face into the smooth skin, landing gentle kisses right below Brian’s ear. Pulling back after a few minutes, deep blue eyes gazed into clear amber ones. “So . . . are we okay?”

“We’re okay.” Brian nodded, running a gentle thumb over one of Justin’s cheekbones. “Unless . . . there’s some sinister, super-intense thing you need to tell me.”

Chuckling, Justin shook his head. “Not right now. How about you?”

“Nice try, Sonnyboy, but you already know way too many sinister secrets.”

Interested, Justin studied Brian’s face, and saw that he was being serious. “Really? Name one.”

There was a minute of quiet, and then Brian said casually, “You’re the only one who knows the details of my rousing introduction to man-on-man action.”

Blinking rapidly, Justin’s brows knit over confused blue eyes. “Huh?” He thought a minute more. “Are you talking about the thing with your gym teacher? In the showers . . . when you were fourteen.” When Brian nodded, Justin’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean I’m the only one who knows?”

“You’re the only one I’ve ever told,” Brian replied. “Jesus, I hadn’t even fucked you yet, and I’m telling you things I’d never told anybody. You think Baby Bach would be impressed? Maybe if I’d sprinkled some Ritz crackers on the duvet . . .”

Justin shook his head as if to rid it of the thoughts that were jumbling in his brain. He remembered that night, fuck, he’d remember it until his dying day. Going to Liberty Avenue, meeting Brian, going home with the older man, shooting all over Brian and the duvet, then Brian freaking out after getting the call about Gus . . . the older man’s guessing Justin wasn’t as old or as experienced as the blond had tried to seem, and then the brunet telling him about his first time . . . in the “most famous shower scene since Psycho” with one of his high school teachers.

“What about Michael?” Justin felt himself start to tremble, and he gave his body stern orders to be still. He already knew he’d fucked up, he already knew he’d been wrong, but if what Brian was saying was true, Jesus, but he’d been wrong and blind and foolish and . . . “You can’t tell me your best friend didn’t know how you lost your virginity. I told Daphne the day after you’d fucked me.”

“Mikey thinks my first time was in 10th grade, with some closeted chemistry geek.” Brian half-smiled in remembrance. “Everyone knew the fucker was gay, but he knew how to build these fucking nitroglycerine bombs, so no one messed with him.”

“You lied to Michael about having sex?” The blond’s throat was inexplicably dry, and he cleared his throat. “Why?”

“I didn’t lie, Sunshine. The chemistry fag was my first fuck,” Brian said. “And Mikey assumed that it was the first time I’d done anything. I just never bothered to correct him.”

They stared at each other in silence for several long moments. “I was freaking out that night. Excited. A little – um, a lot scared,” Justin’s voice was low and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. “Did you tell me because you thought it’d calm me down?”

“You’d already come, remember? I didn’t think you needed any calming down,” Brian mouth curved into a rueful smile. “Besides, I was initiating you into the wonderful world of hot fag sex; seemed fair to tell you my pedigree. And I guess I figured I could trust you . . . you didn’t seem like the type to . . . fuck and tell. So, see Sonnyboy, you know more about me than most anybody ever will, and you didn’t even know it.” The sarcasm in Brian’s voice had a tender undertone. “Don’t you feel special?”

Justin shook his head in disbelief, the rush of love he felt for Brian at that moment making his head swim. If he’d had any doubts at all about Brian being the one for him, they were obliterated there and then, forever. “Yeah.” Justin’s fingers traced along Brian’s face, and gently caressed the underside of his jaw. “I do.”

~*~

“Banana Nut-Bread Kisses” didn’t have the same ring to it as “Ice-cream Kisses” did, but foodplay with Brian by any name was still just as sweet. Especially, Justin thought with a lick of one of Brian’s hardening nipples, with a blowjob thrown in.

“Mmmm . . . Brian . . . this was a . . . good idea . . .” Justin lapped at a trail of crumbs that led from right below the brunet’s left nipple down to the thatch of dark pubic hair. Dinner had been put on the backburner figuratively and literally after Justin had caught the older man sneaking a piece of banana bread with the excuse that it contained a full allotment of potassium. Justin had teased his lover until, in an attempt to shut him up, broke of a hunk of the loaf and shoved it into the blond’s mouth, then kissed away the crumbs that lingered on the artist’s lips. Justin returned the favor by tracing Brian’s mouth with a generous morsel of the treat, and allowing the older man to nibble it from his fingers and lick and suck them clean. Somewhere along the line, Brian had maneuvered them both to the reclining chair where they’d shared Ice-cream Kisses a couple of years before. Justin had thought to bring the snack along, they both got naked and comfortable on the chair, and Banana Nut-Bread Kisses were born.

Working his way down the long, lean body, Justin licked shiny trails over the solid arc of Brian’s tummy, dragging his tongue through the furry patch of hair to the juncture where Brian’s thick cock emerged from his body. The taller man moaned softly when Justin’s tongue touched the heated flesh of his cock, and he tangled his fingers in the soft golden hair, pushing Justin down, pulling him closer. The blond didn’t mind being guided at all, and he almost purred when Brian began stroking his neck and shoulders, wriggling a little on the chair and spreading his legs wider. With a shift of his own to bring his aching cock in contact with the silky flesh that was the inside of Brian’s thigh, Justin dragged his lips up the throbbing shaft, pressing a gentle kiss to the dripping head of Brian’s dick.

Licking lips coated with Brian’s precum and specks of banana bread, Justin pulled away and fisted Brian’s hard-on, watching in lustful fascination as the knob grew shiny and darker, almost crimson. Bending his head, the blond parted his lips against the slick head and sucked Brian greedily, his hand tightening and moving rhythmically on the shaft, each movement causing the older man to buck and grunt and thrash on the recliner. Every time Brian moved, Justin’s dick was stroked in a different manner, stimulated in a different place, and the blond knew that there was a good chance that he would get off before Brian, even though technically, he was doing all the “work.” Who gives a shit, was Justin’s giddy thought as he slid more of Brian’s cock down his throat and grew warm all over when the brunet’s groans changed to nonsensical babbling. Justin was content to bob on the meaty shaft, until the sharp tang of Brian’s prejizz began to take on a salt-sweet flavor that signaled the beginning of the end.

Slowly, Justin came up off Brian’s shaft and pressed his thumb tight against the base of the brunet’s dick, pushing up in a massaging motion in a way that seemed as if he were milking the quivering cock. Justin ground his own hardness into Brian’s thigh in time with his stroking, and sighed when he felt his balls tightening and drawing up into his body, tingling with the need for release. Brian arched up, a low cry piercing the air as thick streams of creamy liquid bubbled from the tip of dick like a hot spring. Justin’s tongue shot out to catch the heavy flow as it dribbled down the still-pulsing column, and Brian’s cum drizzled across his lips and down his throat, the very flavor setting every nerve of Justin’s body ablaze. With a smothered groan, Justin felt his cock throb and his own stickiness pump out against Brian’s bare skin. The scent of their combined orgasms mixed with the starchy, wholesome smell of bananas and perfumed the entire living room with a heady, sensual aroma.

After sucking his lover dry – for the moment – Justin’s head fell limply on Brian’s tummy, and he smiled when strong fingers began tracing designs on his scalp. It was all so soothing, that even though he was hanging half-off the chair and his feet were in danger of falling asleep, Justin knew he’d have no problem napping right where he was, how he was. It was the epitome of comfort. He was, at last, home, and with the man he loved above all else.

“I love you, Brian,” Justin murmured against skin dotted with sweat and crumbs, punctuating the sentiment with a gentle kiss right above the ad executive’s belly button. A sated, drowsy, slightly tipsy-sounding voice murmured a response that was almost inaudible. At the moment of utterance, however, the loft had gone totally quiet, even the air molecules seemed to freeze. Raising his head, Justin stared up the magnificent body into slightly glazed-over hazel eyes. “What did you just say?”

Brian blinked and reddened nicely, pushing hair out of his eyes in an impatient gesture. There was a tense stretch of silence. “Nothing, Sunshine. Just muttering to myself,” Brian said at last, his voice halting and a little breathless.

A slow smile of understanding spread across the teen’s face, and he snuggled closer, enjoying the older man’s gentle fingers in his hair and the feel of the smooth skin beneath his cheek. No need for big discussions or conversations now. No need, either, for Brian to repeat himself, not out loud, anyway. Justin had heard what Brian had “muttered” well enough the first the time. He’d heard it loud and clear.

Finis

Far Away From Close

(Post-307, Pre-308 story) Justin moves out, Ethan gets drunk and Brian helps out in the only way he knows.

Justin was packing the last of his t-shirts when he saw the CD. At first he wasn’t sure what it was, since it was coated with an inch-thick layer of dust, but after rubbing off a spot with the heel of his hand, he recognized faint pencil lines that sketched out a soulful profile, a tilted head and a strong chin that rested firmly on the edge of a beautiful violin. Justin reflected that the drawing was not his best work by a long shot, but Ethan had liked it. That had been enough at the time.

He stood in the middle of the violinist’s apartment staring at the CD Ethan had given him all those months ago, and Justin tried to remember when he’d stopped playing it. The music had been in his head for weeks after he’d met Ethan, and as things had gotten progressively worse with Brian, Justin played the disc more and more, content to lose himself in the music, letting the notes represent to him the words Brian had never said.

“Justin, please don’t do this.”

Justin froze where he stood, the voice behind him setting his teeth on edge. He hadn’t heard Ethan come in; in fact, he’d picked the middle of the day to move his things out of their shared apartment because he’d thought Ethan had a meeting with his agent. Also, this time of day was the only time Justin could get Bryce, a fellow busser at the Diner, to give him a lift with his truck. He hadn’t had a lot of stuff at Ethan’s – the size of the apartment hadn’t allowed for it – but there had been the computer to think of, and Justin didn’t want to leave anything behind. He wanted to just make one trip and be done with it.

His neck grew warm, and Justin wondered what he should say. He wasn’t too experienced with this moving-out-on-a-boyfriend-thing, even though this was the second time he was doing it within a six-month period. Brian at least had had the decency to be out while Justin had gotten his things. Brian was always subtle like that.

Justin wondered what might have happened if Brian had been in the loft while he’d been getting his things. Would he have tried to talk to him, moan that he was making a mistake, beg him to stay? Justin doubted it. Most likely he would have just sat back in one of his chairs and watched, offering wry commentary and advising Justin to “bend from the knees” as he packed his things.

“Justin, please, you never gave me a chance to explain.”

The young artist said nothing. He looked down at the CD he held, knowing that if he flipped it over, he’d see the inscription – To Justin. Two little words, but to Justin, there were months of promises and dreams packed into those two words, and he wanted to scream, knowing now how wrong he’d been to count on either.

“It was a mistake. I made a mistake! Why don’t you understand? I’m begging you, Jus. Please . . . please give me another chance.”

Justin tensed, feeling rather than hearing Ethan coming closer to him. If he touches me, I’ll fucking scream. He thought of Ethan's hands, and the strong fingers that always dug into his shoulder while they fucked. Justin pictured those same fingers making the same marks on a different body, miles away from Pittsburgh, but not in the hovel they called home – no, in a plush hotel room overlooking the state Capitol, with clean sheets on the bed and mahogany furniture. Must’ve been nice.

Justin closed his eyes for a minute, wanting to throw the CD across the room. Instead, he carefully set it down on the rickety little end table next to the couch and knelt to zip up his last suitcase. “I’ll be out of here in a minute.”

Only after he’d lifted the last bag did he turn and face the violin player. Ethan stood like a statue, both arms hanging uselessly at his sides. Justin thought it was a rather pitiful pose for a musician, especially one as dynamic as Ethan normally was. Justin saw the red-rimmed eyes, the mussed hair and the trembling mouth, and he felt a pang of sympathy.

If, Justin mused silently, there had never been such a person named Brian Kinney ever in this world, if by some weird chance Brian had never existed, Justin was sure he would have forgiven Ethan his moment of weakness with the twink from the Harrisburg concert. People made mistakes; you forgave, you forgot and you moved on. He would have done so because he would never have known that there was something more, something better out there. If Brian had never been born, Justin knew that he never would have known that there was more to look forward to than a boyfriend who would – for money, for fame, or for whatever – forever keep him in the shadows and try to sell him on the romanticism of it all. If he’d never known Brian, he would have learned early on to settle and to like it.

“I have all my stuff,” Justin said steadily. “My half of this month’s rent is in the envelope on the counter. If you think you’ll need another roommate, you could check out the House Board in PIFA’s commons.”

Ethan sniffled loudly. “Justin, please –”

“Don’t. Just don’t.” Justin wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep calm. What could he say? His life was in fucking shambles. He had tests to study for, a job to go to, a life to fucking live, but now, he didn’t know where he was going to be living it and he didn’t know what he was going to do now. He’d been so sure, so fucking sure of fucking everything when he’d walked out of Babylon with Ethan, and now he was back at square one. No, not even square one – more like square negative one.

“I’m leaving. It’s over.” Justin held Ethan’s gaze. “I can’t trust you anymore – and it’s not just about the Harrisburg guy –”

“Like fuck it’s not –”

“Believe what you want. But it’s not.” Justin sighed deeply. Ethan would never get it. He was far too self-absorbed to see how his signing the contract his agent set out for him was a betrayal in and of itself, as were the coy interviews, the press kits, and the numerous invitations Ethan had gotten to schmooze with members of the artistic elite – people Justin would have killed to meet, but of course, he hadn’t been allowed to. That contract had put a price tag on his pride, and Ethan had signed his and Justin’s away without a second thought.

“I can’t explain it – if you don’t realize what I mean, then –”

“I know you’re going back to him. This is what this is all about.” Ethan’s lips had stopped trembling and his whole face look like it was carved out of stone. “I always fucking knew the minute I did anything wrong, you’d run right back to him. I bet that’s where you were last night . . . being comforted by his dick up your ass.”

Justin knew he had to leave right then, otherwise he’d do something he’d regret, like beat Ethan’s teeth in. He hated whenever Ethan referred to Brian in even the most oblique way. The violinist had a way of making Brian sound like the dirtiest, most insignificant person in the world just by the way he said - or didn't say - his name. It had always rankled at Justin, but in times past, he’d ignored it. Now it made a cold anger rise up in him, and he knew that if he gave into that anger, he’d be in deep shit trouble. It’s not worth it. I’ve already lost too much – time, pride . . . He stopped there, not wanting to go to deeply into all that he’d lost; the first two things were more than enough.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was at Daph’s. All night.”

“Bullshit.” Ethan’s voice was ice. “You’re so hysterical because I fucked around once. I bet you’re just acting on your own guilt. You probably never stopped fucking Brian since you and I –”

Justin shoved past Ethan before he could finish, blindly groping for the door. A rush of footsteps followed, and Justin found himself running down the stairs ahead of Ethan’s voice calling him to come back, his "sorrys" and "Please, Justins" echoing in the stairwell.

The artist burst into the daylight dry-eyed, his heart racing. Ethan would be fine. He’d moan and cry another day or so, and then he’d find comfort in his music, and soon after, in someone else’s arms. Justin swiped at his eyes while he walked where Bryce was waiting with the truck, trying to focus on the task ahead: figuring out what the fuck to do now.

*

Brian had never liked working late at the office. Between the clatter of the cleaning staff, the security guards clomping on each floor and the unnerving quiet of an office after-hours, it was just easier and less distracting to budnle things up and deal with it in the comfort of your home. At least he didn’t have to worry about the smell of cheap disinfectant in the bathrooms and it was not taboo to have a cold beer while he rewrote a campaign from scratch.

He stared at his computer screen, satisfied with how his project was shaping up. There were a few more things that needed to be fleshed out, but that’d come in time. And so will I. Glancing at his watch, Brian resolved to work another 45 minutes and then phone his favorite hotline and pick a likely stud for company. Arranging tricks via phone was just easier – you got to cut through the bullshit small talk and drinks, all parties could agree in advance what debauched activities would and would not be taking place, and unless the guy was a total lame-ass, he knew that the hookup was for one-night only.

Uncomplicated. What all the horny gay advertising gods are wearing. Brian smiled briefly. Things had been not bad in recent days. Work was fine, social life was status quo . . .

Well, now that he’d been cleared as a child molester. His smile faded as he remembered those scary few days that he’d been on the wrong end of a royal screwing. While Brian was sure that if it had come to it, he could have hired a lawyer that would have squeezed the truth out of his hellion nephew, he acknowledged that letting things get to that point would have been a fucking disaster. Luckily, however, disaster had been avoided.

By the Boy Wonder. Brian leaned back in his chair, his focus on work momentarily on hold. He hadn’t seen much of Justin since that night in Woody’s some days ago. Justin had been on his way to getting piss-drunk, and had looked more miserable than Brian could ever remember having seen him.

Except for the last couple of weeks he lived with me. He sat up again, scowling. What the hell was he doing, thinking about Justin at all? Sure, he’d saved his ass by getting John to back off his molestation story, but that had meant nothing, as it turned out. Justin had gone running back to his romantic boyfriend – the same boyfriend who had now put a cheap-ass ring on Justin’s finger. Brian wasn’t so sure what bothered him more – the tackiness of the ring or what it appeared to symbolize.

But if it’s good enough for Sonnyboy, why the fuck do I care? Brian rubbed his eyes, then halted. Why the fuck should I care, I mean. I don’t care. It’s his life. He sat up slowly, feeling suddenly tired. Long fucking day.

He grabbed some papers and began absently leafing through them. It had been a hell of a couple of weeks. Just when he thought the worst was behind him with the nephew situation wrapped up, everything else around him had gone to hell. In short order: Ted had gotten his pathetic ass arrested, Ben had gotten his not-so-pathetic-and-very-nice-indeed ass an addiction, and he himself had gotten his ass into hot water with just about every politicized queer – and Deb – on his balls about taking on the Stockwell-for-Mayor campaign, Mel, of all people, was about to be heavy with child from Mikey, and Justin was . . .

With his boyfriend. Brian stared at the ceiling. Kissing and making up, if it even was some twinkie love problem that had driven Justin to Woody’s in the first place. Brian wasn’t really sure; Justin had been wearing his little ring when he’d seen him, so maybe it had been something more mundane, like flunking a test or having a fight with his mother. No way Justin could be hurting over something his romantic fiddler had done – his perfect vision of true love, the sweet face that had moved a thousand hearts, including one Brian had sort of thought belonged to him.

A sudden loud knock on his door startled Brian from his musings. Knocking. Brian swiveled around in his chair, frowning. The fuck . . .

Very few people he knew actually knocked before coming in – much to his annoyance, sometimes. Mikey usually just came right in, as did Mel, Lindsey and Deb. Tricks generally waited to be buzzed up. In fact, the only person he could think of who might knock . . . was Justin.

Brian hesitantly approached the doorway, wondering why Justin – if it was him – would want to see him. PIFA tuition was paid up, gay pedophilia crises had been avoided. Were there any other loose ends that needed tying up? Brian couldn’t think of any. Well, all right, he could, but that was ground he knew he’d rather not cover again – not after months and months of thinking about it.

The knock came again, loud and insistent, and Brian glared at the door. That wasn’t Justin’s knock. Or, it wasn’t how Justin would behave – he’d knock once and come in if there was no answer. He had to know that the door was almost never locked – always open. At least for you it is, Sonnyboy. Brian swallowed hard.

After a minute of indecision, Brian grasped the handle of the door and wrenched it open, slower than was customary so that he could get his bearings. What if it was his fucking mother? She’d knock. He hadn’t seen the miserable bitch since that rousing bit of family togetherness after John had accused him, and Brian wasn’t sure he could deal with –

- Any bullshit. Brian took a step back, stunned. The person on the other side had his fist up to knock again, and stumbled back when confronted with a suddenly open door. It was him. Eyes red, clothes disheveled, and with the unmistakable aroma of day-old T-shirt and cheap whiskey.

“Where is he?” Ethan scowled at Brian, steadying himself in the doorway. “Tell Justin to get his ass out here. We need to talk.”

Two things became evident to Brian at that moment, though he wasn’t sure what to make of any of it. One – Ethan was very drunk – quite obviously so, and Justin was gone. He was gone, and for whatever reason, his loving boyfriend had thought to look for him at his last place of residence. The second – he had no idea where Justin was or that he'd gone anywhere, and he’d have to look into Ethan’s bloated, bleary-eyed face and say as much, admit his ignorance, and pretend it didn’t matter to him.

“How the fuck did you get in?” Brian made a mental note to check the front door. Sometimes the lock jammed, which meant any Tom, Dickhead or Harry could waltz into the building.

“Justin? Justin! Justin, get out here! We need to talk!” Ethan shouted over Brian’s shoulder into the empty loft, his sour breath puffing against Brian’s neck. “Justin? Justin, please!”

“What the fuck.” Brian squeezed the bridge of his nose, regretting now that he hadn’t taken a little something “extra” before he started working. He always got a natural high from the creative process, and now he was crashing hard. “Where the hell did you get my address?”

“You’re listed. Brian A. Fucking Kinney.” Ethan briefly lost his footing, almost slamming his head into the doorjamb. “Though I guess I could’ve just gone into whatever bar on Liberty Avenue and gotten it off one of the stall doors.”

“Or not. They paint over the cum stains every few months.” Brian surveyed the younger man who was going very red in the face and wondered why this was being laid on his doorstep. Why wasn’t Ethan slurring his words in Jen Taylor’s doorway or in Daphne’s dormitory room? What the hell could Justin have said or done to make the fiddle boy think that this would be his first stop after running out?

“Look, he’s not here. So why don’t you take yourself and your violin and go play on someone else’s stage? I’m busy.” He began to close the door, and was startled when Ethan contrived to wedge himself in the doorway.

“No,” Ethan breathed, squeezing himself in before Brian could get any more of the door shut. “No. No. I know he’s fucking here, or if he isn’t here now, he will be. Justin!” Ethan shoved his way past Brian into the larger part of the loft. “Justin!”

In a sort of daze, Brian watched the young musician stumble around the loft, barking Justin’s name, peeking in corners and turning in circles in his “search.” Brian thought very briefly about calling the cops, but aside from Horvath, and, well, Stockwell, his dealings with the police hadn’t been all that stellar lately. Besides, he didn’t necessarily feel threatened by the younger man. He was seriously tanked, and even if he weren’t tripping over his own feet, Brian doubted the kid could wreak any more havoc on his life than he had already.

“Satisfied?” Brian asked quietly when Ethan started to slow down and run out of gas a little. He folded his arms and just waited, tracking Ethan’s wandering gaze. Brian saw him looking at the same coffee table Justin had admired some months ago, and saw Ethan’s filmy eyes slide over to a few new leather-trimmed chairs and an avante garde stuffed chair it had taken two strong men half an hour to set up. Brian had been sure to tip them extremely well, though.

Brian followed Ethan’s eyes and took in the unkempt form and considered telling him not to touch anything, but before he could say anything or even move from the doorway, the violinist was facing him again.

“He left me,” Ethan ground out. “He packed his shit and left. I fucked one fucking nobody who couldn’t give head for shit. I forgot about him two seconds after I came. And for that, Justin fucking leaves.”

He turned glassy eyes onto Brian. “One mistake, and he tells me it’s over. Sucks to be me, huh? One strike, and I’m out. I fucking hate sports, but even I know that’s not right.”

Brian raised his eyebrows. “I hope he was hot, at least.”

The musician looked taken aback by the statement, then made a disgusted motion with his hand. “What difference does that make? He wasn’t Justin.”

Brian fell silent again. It wasn’t the answer to his question, but it was an answer – one he was familiar with, one that his mind offered up whenever Mikey or Emmett or Ted inquired about his latest conquests. He could give them all the details: He was ten inches; he was cut; he had an ass to kill for; he could take all of me down his throat.

But he never voiced what his mind and his body couldn’t and wouldn’t let him forget: He wasn’t Justin.

“-You.” Brian surfaced from his thoughts and saw Ethan glaring at him again. “That was my big fucking problem. I wasn’t you. Mr. Brian “I never had to forgive him” Kinney. I begged him to forgive me like he’d forgiven you. Fuck, you’ve fucked half this city, and he stayed with you for so long.” He ran a hand over his hair. “But he told me to fuck off. You never made him any promises. I did, so me fucking around was this fucked up, irrevocable sin, but since you never vowed a fucking thing to him, he couldn’t hold you to the same standard. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is? That he would see it that way?”

Brian shrugged a little. It was how he was – no apologies, no regrets, no excuses and no promises, either. Having or making any of the above was never a guarantee that your ass would be covered if the shit hit the fan, and in fact they seemed to improve the likelihood that something would go wrong.

Justin and his rules were a perfect example: He had made them and Brian had agreed to follow them, in effect, making a promise. He’d kept his end of the bargain in part to prevent Justin from walking out on him, and those same stupid rules, or at least the breaking of them, were what shot it to hell anyway.

“He’ll come back to you,” Ethan said softly, and then repeated it a little louder, moving an unsteady step forward. “He will. I was just his meantime fuck. He came to me while he tried to figure out if he was going put up with your shit. Now I know – he’ll put up with it from you, but not from me. I never had a fucking chance. You’re the special one, the only thing that ever fucking mattered to him.”

Ethan smiled unpleasantly, and lurched forward. “The one he loved. The one he pretended he was with whenever he fucked me. Always you. Brian.”

“You’re shitfaced,” Brian said blandly. “And you’re boring me.” He moved toward the door and opened it. “So do yourself a favor. Start with a bar of soap, and –”

“So fuckin’ special.” Ethan didn’t move, but his eyes glittered malevolently in his pale, sickly face. “And you are, aren’t you? Special. You’re hot. Justin always said you were a fucking god in bed. He said you were always ready for it. Sex was all you thought about.”

“Is that what he thought,” he said dryly, a cold draft from the hallway chilling his arms. In some other universe, he was sure that this whole exchange would be looked at as inconsequential, even amusing, but Brian couldn’t find a damn thing funny about it at the moment. “And I thought I was hard to read.”

“You’re probably thinking about it right now.” Ethan swayed a little, his voice taking on a low, almost sensuous undertone. “Wanna fuck me, Brian? See what it was Justin was getting all the nights he hasn’t been in your bed? What he walked out on you for?”

The older man stared in shocked silence for a minute before breaking into laughter. Okay, that was funny. “You know, some people were born to be on the stage. If the music thing never pans out, you could try stand-up comedy.”

“Why not? It’d be like in the movies. Two guys who loved the same guy, and he walks out on us both. We meet each other and start to fight over him, but end up fucking instead.”

“Like the movies?” Brian shook his head. “That one must’ve gone straight to video.”

“Please. I’m a guy. You’re a guy. A dick’s a dick.” Ethan grinned lazily, flinging hair back from his forehead in what appeared to be a seductive move, but nearly keeling over backward with the motion. “That’s what I said to myself when I fucked that guy after my concert. It doesn’t have to mean jack shit. I’d never tell Justin. I’ve always wanted to see what you were like, if you were as hot as he said. And I know you’re curious. I have a hot ass, and a better than average dick, and I . . .”

Ethan trailed off, there, blinking rapidly. Brian frowned at the abrupt end of the conversation, and became openly alarmed when he saw Ethan’s face change and the swagger drain out of it. Actually, it was the color that changed. To green. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

“I . . . um . . . your . . . your bathroom . . .” Ethan whispered, staggering backward, and holding his stomach. “I don’t feel . . . I, uh . . . I think I . . .”

“Fuck, fuck.” Brian rushed forward, steering the reeling musician away from the new furniture and through the bedroom, shoving him bodily the bathroom just as Ethan began to become very violently ill.

Brian put a hand over his eyes for a moment, as Ethan retched into the toilet, the heaving noises sounding almost like sobs. Listening for a moment as the young violinist emptied himself of what seemed to be most of the liquor supply of Pittsburgh, Brian turned over some possible choices of action, chose one, and walked back into the living room, going to his computer to save his work and shut down the machine.

Going to the kitchen, he removed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and carefully set it on the counter, knowing that some of the chill would be off of it by the time his “guest” might want it. Brian then moved to the bar to pour himself a shot of Beam, contemplating it for a moment. The sounds coming from the direction of his bedroom were enough to put him off liquor for the rest of his life, but he knew that if he didn’t have the sensibilities of Justin’s romantic boyfriend, he didn’t have Ethan’s apparently weak stomach, either. Brian downed the glass in a gulp.

That done, he made the call.

*

Justin did another baseline check of his emotions, and was still shocked to find that he was still relatively calm, despite the situation.

The situation. That didn’t sound quite right, but Justin wasn’t really sure what else to call it. He was standing in his ex-boyfriend’s bedroom gazing down at a bed in which his most recent ex-boyfriend lay sleeping – passed out, really – while the first ex-boyfriend stood in the entryway placidly smoking a cigarette.

No, forget it. Justin took it back: It was a situation, after all. Why not? Just about everything in his life the past few years had been one situation after another, sometimes good, sometimes bad. There was no other way to describe it.

So he forgot about it and focused on the here and now. Justin had to that point spent most of his day in a daze. He and his stuff had made their way to Daphne’s, and the two had spent the afternoon and most of the evening talking and eating. There might have been unpacking, too, but there really wasn’t any room to do so – yet.

Daph’s roommate was going to Dusseldorf in a week to start an internship, and Daph said her room was his if Justin wanted it – and could pay half the rent. Justin hadn’t been exactly sure what he wanted to do except sleep, wake up, and not feel like he’d been kicked repeatedly in the stomach.

He didn’t think he’d have any better options than to move in with Daphne, so he’d said yes. At least she wouldn’t “sweetie” him to death like his mother or Deb might, or give him well-intentioned lectures about the importance of making mistakes in order to experience life, or whatever the shit, like the Munchers would. Daph would just be his friend and listen and let him get on with the task of forgetting that Ethan had ever fooled him.

For the moment, though, forgetting Ethan wasn’t possible, not while he was in Brian’s home – in his bed, no less – looking sort of pale and sick and just . . . wrong. Justin frowned, realizing that he’d seen dozens of men in Brian’s bed over the years, but none had looked so like he didn’t belong there than Ethan did at that moment. When Brian had called his cell and in uncharacteristically terse language told him that Ethan was in the loft, throwing up, Justin almost hadn’t believed him, because, really, why? Why would Ethan be at Brian’s? Why would he be drunk? Why would he be drunk enough to puke? Justin couldn’t remember seeing Ethan drunk in his life aside from the time in the very beginning when Brian had busted them both, and even then, it was more like a buzz.

Then he’d tried to figure out why Brian would lie about having Ethan there. What purpose would that serve? He remembered his conversation with Ethan after the guy from his concert had split, and remembered thinking that Brian had never lied, not once. Brian never fucking lied to me. He told me how it was going to be, and that’s how it was, always. I never had to wonder . . .

Even still, Justin hadn’t been sure. It just seemed too out-there to be true.

But it was Brian, so he'd decided to follow directions and go to the loft. He’d given Daphne some story about an emergency at the Diner, hopped a bus, and hoped like hell until the moment Brian had led him into the bedroom that it was all some kind of weird joke.

“How long has he been like this?” Justin noticed that Brian’s now-orange light fixture was off, and that the only light coming into the room came from the bathroom and the living room. Justin was somewhat grateful that the orange lights were off; he wasn’t sure why he was, or even why it mattered, but . . . he was.

“Half-hour. He puked his guts out in the bathroom for a while, using my fucking towels as a spit rag.” Brian sounded more tired than disgusted, Justin thought. “I was in the other room and heard a thud, and came in here, saw he’d made himself at home.”

“I don’t understand . . . why was he even here?” Justin wanted to shake Ethan awake and tell him to get the fuck out. He didn’t belong in that loft or in that bed any more than Justin felt he did. Not that he’d be welcome there anymore, probably. “I can’t believe he’d just barge in on you –”

“He was looking for you.” Brian quietly moved to Justin’s side, joining the artist in staring down at Ethan. “Said you left him . . . and he figured you’d be here.”

Justin felt Brian’s eyes on him momentarily, but he knew that if he looked over at Brian at that moment, the older man’s eyes would be elsewhere. “Why would he think that?”

“I . . . don’t know. I told him – all I told him was that I was leaving. I never really said . . . where I was going.” Justin realized then that forgetting Ethan would take some time, and would never entirely happen, because, well, for better or worse, Ethan had meant something to him. But forgetting Brian could never happen and wouldn’t happen. It’d be like trying to dry your hands with sandpaper – useless and more painful the harder you tried. “I think maybe what it was, was that he thought I was here last night. With you. I told him I wasn’t, but –”

There was a low exhalation of breath, accompanied by a stream of smoke. “What happened last night?”

Justin didn’t answer for a moment. What had happened other than the realization that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, and he’d have to spend the rest of that life regretting it without being able to show it – to anyone.

“We broke up. I went to Daph’s to spend the night, and today, I moved my stuff out. He was there, and . . . he didn’t take it well, I guess, but I didn’t think he’d do something like this. I can’t fucking imagine what he said to you . . .”

He looked over at Brian, and saw the older man’s expression alter, as if he’d been on the verge of saying something but had changed his mind. “He didn’t say anything. All he did was ask for you. He didn’t make much sense even doing that,” he said, taking a slow drag on his cigarette. “Look, this isn’t a fucking hostel. I don’t know where he lives, so . . . that’s where you come in. Take him back to his place.”

There wasn’t any give in that voice. It wasn’t a request, it was an order, and Justin for a moment felt like telling Brian to fuck off. But, in a weird way, Ethan was his responsibility. He’d been responsible for bringing him into their lives, after all. It only made sense that he’d be the one to take him out.

“I . . . yeah. Okay.” Justin bent down and shook Ethan roughly, receiving a sharp snore in reply. The musician felt warm to the touch and somewhat oily and pliant, like putty. Touching him made Justin want to wash his hands. “Ethan? Ethan, can you hear me?” He shook harder, wanting to push the musician out of that bed roll him out the door and advise Brian to burn the sheets. “Shit. Ethan!”

“That’s not going to work. He’s fucking pickled.”

“Great.” Justin stood up, wiping his hand on his pants. “So now what? Tickle his feet? Try pouring water on him?”

“We’d have to drag him out to the kitchen for that to work.”

Justin smiled at the inference, and caught the tail-end of Brian’s fleeting grin.

“Fuck it. I can’t get any work done now anyway. Stay here.” Brian turned and strode into the living room.

Justin did as he was told, standing uneasily next to Ethan’s still form, looking everywhere but down. He hadn’t been in Brian’s bedroom since . . . since he’d come to get his stuff out of the loft. While there, everywhere he looked he was confronted with memories of him and Brian fucking – in the shower, in bed, in “their” chair . . .

He thought about it, and realized that until he’d found Ethan’s CD, he hadn’t really thought about the musician at all while he collected his things from the apartment. Justin had looked around the small room and saw heaps of papers, drifts of cat hair and dirty clothes, not sexy images of Ethan and he bathing together or having picnics on the roof or “making love” on the couch they’d picked out of the garbage. It was like those images had been as fleeting as their love had been – and worth about as much.

“Come on.” Brian walked back into the room. “Cab’ll be here in a minute. You get one side,” he said, rolling Ethan gently onto his back, “I’ll get the other.”

Justin moved aside as Brian dragged the young musician out of bed, and draped one of his arms around his neck. Justin went to the other side and took Ethan’s other arm, and they slowly carried the violinist out of the bedroom, through the loft and to the door. Justin had to bear the brunt of Ethan’s weight while Brian got the door open, but then Brian took up his side again, and in tandem they pulled Ethan into the elevator, their hands brushing each others’ as they looped their arms around the musician’s waist.

The cab was waiting in front of the building by the time they got there, and the driver, after a second of indecision, hopped out and opened the door for them, allowing Justin and Brian to carefully place Ethan into the car.

“He don’t look so good,” the driver said, looking disapprovingly at Justin as he moved Ethan to the far side of the back seat. “He ain’t going to puke, is he? He tosses 'em, that’s extra.”

“That’s been taken care of,” Brian replied, motioning for Justin to get into the car. He did, and was surprised when Brian squeezed in next to him.

“What are you –”

“How are you going to get him in to his place? Roll him up?” Brian stared straight ahead. “Where’re we going, anyway, Sunshine?”

Justin was not sure what to say exactly, so he gave Ethan’s address and looked out the window as they drove along. He was aware of Ethan’s heavy breathing on one side of him and Brian’s leg pressed against his on the other side, and he wondered at this feeling of being put in the middle of two very different men. There was some symbolism there, Justin thought, because he had chosen to leave Brian because he thought Ethan’s brand of “different” was the type that would make him happy, but Ethan’s “different” just ended up being the same sort of “different” as every other hot queer on the make. Brian’s brand of “different” was at least fairly original, even if it wasn’t what Justin had wanted. Or at least, it wasn’t what he thought he’d wanted.

They arrived at Ethan’s apartment in a few minutes, and Brian asked the cab to wait until they’d delivered their silent charge to his bed. That was a bit more of a chore, because there were actual steps to climb. Brian made jokes about how heavy Ethan was for a “starving artist,” but Justin stayed quiet. Ethan had more money now that he’d signed the contract, so he wasn’t as hungry now, which showed in his new clothes, his new attitude, and, Justin thought, in his music, too.

Brian held Ethan up as Justin rummaged through his pockets for the keys he still had to the place, and once opening the door, the artist lunged for a light so that they wouldn’t break their necks trying to navigate the apartment. Justin half-expected Brian to make some remark about the untidiness of the place, but Brian was quiet as they carried Ethan over to the low futon in the corner of the room and dropped him there, clothes and all.

Once on his bed, Ethan muttered something beneath his breath, and curled up on his side. Justin watched Ethan's arms curl around a pillow, pulling it close to him as if it were a person he was holding. It was a pathetic sight, but Justin couldn't look away. It was as if Ethan had the same exact snuggling pose for everyone, even a fucking pillow. There was no variety there, for all of his words and promises to the contrary.

“You staying?”

Justin turned around. Brian was at the door, halfway out of it, in fact, and fidgeting as if he was getting itchy by just being in the place. The older man didn’t look nervous or anything, and he didn’t look much tired, either, but he was, Justin noticed, looking out into the hallway, almost like he couldn’t bear looking around the place in which Justin had spent all their months apart. Justin felt a surge of hope, but squashed it quickly. The place was a sty, and it was more than likely creeping Brian out, that was all.

“No. I don’t live here anymore.” Justin put the key he still held on the counter ext to the envelope containing his last rent payment, and with another glance at the now-heavily snoring Ethan, walked out ahead of Brian, hardly hearing the door close behind him.

Justin hesitated on the stairs, and looked over his shoulder at Brian, who was standing still and giving him a strange, almost uneasy look. “He probably won’t remember shit when he comes around. Besides,” he muttered, looking down the stairwell. “He has his music. That’s the only thing that matters.” And, Justin thought grimly, that would be the only thing Ethan would ever be true to, in the end. “Let’s go.”

They walked down the stairs and back out into the darkness in silence. The taxi was waiting for them as promised, but this time, Brian went in first, waving at Justin to join him once he’d settled in. After a moment, Justin climbed in slowly. He thought he should thank Brian for caring enough to call someone who knew Ethan and could bring him home instead of just dragging him out of his loft and leaving him to rot near the recycling bins. He thought better of it, though. Brian would never do that, not even if he had reason to. That just wasn't his way. Besides, it was Ethan’s thank you to give, not his.

“We going back where I picked you up?” The driver asked, swinging the cab into a wide u-turn in the middle of the street.

“I don’t know.” Brian was talking to the driver, but Justin could feel that gaze on the side of his face, probing to the bone. “Is that where we're going, Sunshine?”

Recognizing that Brian was giving him a choice – again – Justin gave it careful thought. Rushing to a decision was what brought him to this point to begin with – alone and conflicted. Justin knew what he wanted – or at least, he thought he did – but he had to think it over. He wasn’t going to fuck up again for lack of foresight. He’d learned his lesson.

“No, I . . . think I better go home,” he said, and then after a hesitation, gave Daphne’s address. It was an answer. Not the best answer, and not the one he truly wanted to give, but it would have to do for now.

Finis

With Him

(Post-307 story, slightly AU) With different men at their side, Brian and Justin come together at a scavenger hunt and find more than they bargain for. Incomplete.

One

For weeks, Brian’s inner circle had buzzed with talk about Sunshine's new conquest – his post-fiddle boy fuck-buddy – and Brian had reserved comment. For one, he wasn't supposed to care anymore – never mind that he did . . . kind of. And also, unlike the fiddle boy, whom he'd had the pleasure of meeting before Justin had gone off with him, Brian had not seen Justin's new love, so he hadn’t felt as if he were adequately prepared to join in the conversation. Sure, he'd heard things from various sources: Deb, Mikey, and Linds mainly. According to them, Justin’s new boyfriend was a grad student, an education major, at Pitt, tall, dark hair, and dimples deep enough to plant radishes in them, funny, considerate, kind, blah, blah. Perfect for Sunshine.

Perfect. Brian gave said specimen of perfection a thorough perusal, now that he had time and opportunity to do so. Pittsburgh's queer community, once again roused by that bastion of tolerance, the GLBT Center, had turned out for the annual Gay Day Games. And despite its name, there was nothing cheery about the weather – gray and raw, an atypical spring day – or the activities. Brian scowled that sheet of events – a horseshoe-throwing contest, sack races – Brian snickered . . . too many easy jokes there – and the main event – what dozens of well-adjusted homosexuals were standing around waiting for – the Quietly Queer scavenger hunt, designed to foster teamwork and help bring floods of customers to local businesses.

But for the moment, the fiscal and social implications of the Games was the farthest thing from Brian’s mind as he focused on the two young men standing near the corner. Justin's new lover, who's name Brian realized he had yet to discover – was standing at the corner, one long, perfect arm around Justin's shoulder, the damp breeze pushing back perfect jet curls from his forehead, and the aforementioned dimples were in appearance on the perfect, mildly androgynous face. Brian had to admit that on the surface, the guy had been described more or less accurately. He was tallish – maybe two or three inches taller than Justin – and had skin the color of buttered toast. A perfect contrast to the fair, pale Justin, Brian admitted grudgingly, as he watched Justin smile widely at something the guy was saying.

“Some crowd, huh?”

Brian made a face as he turned toward the living, breathing, walking reminder that even someone as tireless and hardy as Cynthia needed a vacation now and then, and that meant hiring a replacement, although for a blessedly brief period of time. After a string of horrible experiences with the usual suspects from the temp agency – Cynthia had hand-picked her own replacement . . . with her boss’ business and aesthetic tastes in mind. Christian – or Fred, as he preferred to be called for some unknown reason – was cute, cut, blond, buff and young and had the sweetly submissive air of a perpetual bottom. Added bonuses: He could type, was fairly well-read, was computer literate and always had Power Bars on hand. Downsides: The kid’s braying laugh, a tendency toward babbling, his penchant for eating bologna sandwiches and putting his greasy hands on pristine account printouts, and wanting to be called Fred when his name was Christian. Brian was vaguely certain that he might have an even lower opinion if Christian had come onto him at work as that long-gone, but-not-quite-forgotten, asshole Kip Thomas had, but Christian was a strict professional within the walls of Vanguard, and even stricter outside those walls. Brian had almost threatened bodily harm when, once the younger man had recognized him among the crowd, called him “Mr. Kinney” repeatedly.

“This isn't the half of it,” Brian muttered, glancing over the milling throng and noticing that Justin's new beau was now whispering cutely in the blond's ear. Brian felt his breakfast start to curdle. “Weather must have kept the real talent in the backrooms.” Brian continued to stare at Justin and his boyfriend. It was odd, Brian thought with a frown, that he’d had never seen the guy around the diner nor at Woody's or Babylon or any of Justin's usual hangouts, and the blond himself had never uttered a word about his new friend. During the Ethan Era, Brian had been subjected to Justin’s glowing words about the violinist, mainly by accident, but there had been times Brian was sure Justin’s sweet words about the Fiddler were said for his benefit.

“You know, I’ve lived in Pittsburgh since I graduated Robert Morris, and I’ve never been to this.” Christian spoke with a little awe. “It’s supposed to be a blast, but I’ve never had a partner . . .”

“And you still don’t.” Brian knew that a withering stare would be wasted on Christian, as would his typical, “I don’t do partners/relationships/boyfriends” speech, so he saved himself the headache and the wrinkle opportunity and simply stated the facts, halting any thoughts the younger man might have been entertaining. He’d not wanted to come out to the Gay Games at all. Why should he? It was one of those events for the happily paired off . . . all the pathetic fags, dykes and fag-and-dyke-wannabes were standing hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm, etc., together. Brian had thought that he and the now-equally single Mikey would spend the day scoffing at the happy couples who had nothing better to do than to race around the city picking up items from a list. But then, like a bolt from the blue, Ben had appeared in the crowd, whisking Mikey away to “talk” about the issues that had driven the two to their improbable split, and Brian was left alone.

And that would have been just fine with Brian, really – all the better for him to hunt for a quick hookup. He’d seen a twinkish blond type all alone among the coupled-up queers and made his way over to him only to discover that it was Christian, wandering through Liberty Avenue wondering what all the fuss was about. Somewhere along the line, an absurdly one-sided conversation had begun, and Brian, had endured as much chatter as he could, all the while looking for another fuck possibility. And that’s when he’d seen another twinkish blond type wrapped around a cute guy – Brian had thoughts of inviting both of them for a “private” party at his place, but then he’d gotten a better look at the blond’s face . . .

Brian looked over at Christian and saw him good-naturedly surveying the crowd, probably, the executive figured, looking for a partner to go on the wild-goose chase. He decided to leave the young man to it, go back to his loft and get sufficiently tweaked for some night prowling. Swiveling to impart this information to Christian, he caught sight of wide blue eyes locked to his, and a smooth brow that was now lined with a slight frown, and strong, cargo-pants-clad legs striding forward . . . forward . . . toward him. Straight toward him, those blue eyes riveted to his face, and those frown lines deepening by the second. As Justin, with his new boyfriend in tow, neared him, Brian simply stopped – stopped breathing, stopped feeling cold, stopped listening to Christian. He just stopped and watched as Justin got close. Close . . . closer . . .

~*~

“Your ex? I thought we met your ex at the concert. The violinist. Ian, wasn't it?"

“This is the ex before him.” Justin didn't even smile at Arun’s misremembering Ethan's name. Somehow it wasn't quite as cute as when Brian had done it, probably because it wasn’t so obviously deliberate. “Anyway –”

“Brian?” Arun's eyes went wide. “That's the magnificent Brian?”

Now it was Justin's turn to stare. “How do you know about Brian?”

“Ian and I had quite the talk after his concert. I think you'd gone to the bathroom.” Arun smiled. “Brian figured prominently in the conversation. I got the distinct impression that Ian didn’t have the best opinion of Brian. I cannot imagine why.” His eyes strayed over to where Brian was standing. “He is absolutely breathtaking.”

“I know. He knows. Everybody knows.” Justin glanced over at his ex-lover, and he frowned at how uncharacteristically close Brian was standing next to the slender blond Justin assumed was the executive's snowy day diversion.

“Well, his lover certainly seems aware of it. He, too, is quite attractive.” Arun’s voice held a note of excitement. “Do you think Brian lets him top?”

Justin would have laughed at the thought of that skinny kid topping Brian, but two things stopped him – first, the memory that he, also a skinny blond kid, had topped Brian on more than one occasion, and second, that hilariously incorrect, slightly irritating term Arun had used to describe Brian’s companion. “That guy isn't Brian's lover.”

“No? Then who is he, then?”

“Yesterday’s fuck who hasn’t gotten a hint yet, obviously.” Justin didn’t try to hide the bitterness in his voice. He turned away from the Brian and his blond companion and focused on the crowds of people gathered for the scavenger hunt. It was his and Arun’s third actual “date,” and Justin knew this was the make or break date when they would both decide if they were willing and able to pursue a relationship, or if friendly outings would be as far as it would go.

The gang – or at least those who’d met Arun – liked him enough, and Justin would not and could not deny his own attraction to the slightly older man. More than the exotic aspect of dating someone from a completely different culture, Arun had captivated him with stories of his family in Bombay and those in his family who’d gone over to London, or who, like him had come to the States. Justin genuinely had fun with Arun. He was witty and sweet and thoughtful and amazingly intelligent. So what if he didn’t have the sweetest cranberry colored lips he’d ever kissed, or the softest, thickest, brown and chestnut and gold hair, or the most hypnotic amber-colored eyes or a body that looked like a master sculptor’s finest creation, or the most perfectly formed, suckable, fuck-ready dick this side of a television screen. It didn’t matter – no one was like Brian. No one could ever be like Brian. And Justin was just fine with that. Really. He snuck another look at Brian, who looked visibly bored at whatever his companion was saying. Somehow, that didn’t make Justin feel any better. Brian tended to just walk away when he was done with a trick, and that he was still hanging around this guy was a little disconcerting, to say the least.

The young artist huddled in his coat and turned his face away from the biting cold wind. Wet, heavy snowflakes were beginning to pelt the ground, and he shivered irritably when a few flakes caught in his collar and melted icily down his neck. “This is the worst fucking day for this,” he muttered, not sure if he meant going out or seeing Brian, but at the moment, neither situation was making him very happy.

The irritation in his voice had the welcome effect of getting Arun’s focus off Brian and back on to him. A small comfort, Justin thought with an inward grumble as more snow trickled down his neck. “I’m sorry, Justin. Perhaps I should have suggested something else?”

The snarl left his face immediately, and Justin stared apologetically at the ground. Wonderful – the pivotal date in his and Arun’s fledgling relationship, and he was spending it on thinking about Brian – and making Arun feel like an asshole. “No, this is fine –”

“It is a bit cold.” Arun frowned up at the churning sky. “Though I doubt this snow will stick. It’s not very normal to have snow in April or for people to relish it?” He inclined his head toward two slender guys with matching bleached-blond crewcuts, both sticking their tongues out in an attempt to catch snowflakes.

“This is Pittsburgh. Being normal isn’t really a requirement for residency.”

“Thank god for that,” Arun said with a cheerful laugh, and Justin smiled, feeling somewhat as if the tension had been broken. “Seriously, though, we can go somewhere else –”

“No, I mean it. This is fine. I’ve always wanted to do this. I just never had the time . . . or anyone to do it with me.” Do not look over there. Just pretend he’s not even here. Justin kept his eyes steadfastly on Arun, though in his periphery, he could see the tall, dark form of his former lover, could feel that honeyed gaze on the side of his face, and his cheeks reddened accordingly. “I think it’ll be better once we actually start moving.”

“You may be right. Apparently, in this contest, we’ll be going all over Pittsburgh. It is a good thing that this is a walker’s city.” Arun glanced over his shoulder. “Do you still speak with him?”

Justin’s smile faded into a look of incomprehension. “Huh?”

“Brian. He looks as if he’s expecting you to come over and say hello.”

With another stern command to not look, Justin shook his head. “We don’t really talk . . . much. We’re not, um, what you would call friends . . .” He surprised at how painful it was to say that, to admit aloud that how they’d made each other feel in bed was about as far as their relationship had gone, and once that had ended, everything had ended. “I’m friends with some of his friends, but . . .”

“I see.” Arun nodded, still looking over in the direction of the ad executive. “Strange, because he keeps looking over here. I would think that if relations between you were as strained as you say, he would be ignoring you, or at least not so obvious in his staring.”

Justin gave a quick glance to his left, and was let down to see Brian and his trick speaking again, and looked away. “He’s probably just wondering who you are.” He wasn’t sure what Brian had heard about his and Ethan’s breakup, but he knew that Brian knew things had ended between himself and the violinist. Debbie had told him that Linds had told Brian about the split and that Justin was squiring around a new love. In many ways, Justin resented that every move he made and every guy he was seen with became instant fodder for gossip and speculation – gossip and speculation that almost always got back to Brian. It would have been one thing, Justin mused, if it seemed as Brian gave a shit who or what he was doing, but that was never the case. Whenever Deb or Linds or Mel or someone had gloated on Justin’s behalf about Ethan, the exec would show the same maddening disregard, greeting the news with barely a quirk of an eyebrow.

Justin’s lips curled in annoyance, and he kicked at the ground. Fucking Brian. He went scarlet as those words dredged up memories of the days and nights that had been spent doing just that, and the flush crept slowly downward until the area between his eyebrows and his kneecaps felt as if it was on fire.

“Well, if that’s the case, perhaps an introduction is in order?” Arun smiled again. “I’ll confess ever since the conversation with Ian, I’ve been curious about Brian.”

The words, spoken innocently enough, nevertheless made Justin’s head pound, but he counseled himself to just remain calm. Flying off the handle or getting weird would not help matters at all.

“Brian’s not the kind of guy you just walk up to and put out your hand; unless you’re a client of his, or you’re gonna put it on his dick.” The blond wondered how he could explain his reticence to approach Brian without bringing up painful memories – the Rage meltdown, the affair with Ethan, Michael’s betrayal. All of those had contributed directly and indirectly to his and Brian’s continual estrangement, but then, the blond mused, even if they had parted ways amicably, he and Brian likely wouldn’t have talked much. “And his name is Ethan. Not Ian. The violinist,” he added at Arun’s confused look.

“Ethan?” Arun looked adorably puzzled. “I’m sorry I’ve must have misheard. At any rate, at the concert, Ian . . . er, Ethan . . . spoke glowingly of you. He said that he missed you terribly and wished you only happiness. But, he said, that I should enjoy you while I could.” Arun’s smile was faraway, and there was a bit of bemusement there. “He also said that as soon as the opportunity presented itself, you would run back to Brian. I found it odd that, if Brian had hurt you as much as Ethan had intimated, that you would consider going back to him. He is beautiful.” Arun darted a look at the other man. “But you’re capable of attracting anyone you wish. You needn’t settle for someone who’d hurt you. Ethan surely knew that, so I deduce that for him to believe that you would return to Brian, there had to be something more to Brian than meets the eye . . . something Ethan was not aware of?”

“Ethan didn’t know shit about Brian. And he knew even less about me,” Justin muttered darkly, forcing himself not to get angry at the thought of his most recent ex. Justin was amazed that Ethan would have spent so much time talking to another man – a highly attractive one at that – in full view of his manager. “And Ethan’s the last one to talk about someone running to someone else.” Justin narrowed his eyes at the memory of Julian, the adoring fan from Ethan’s Harrisburg Symphony engagement who was now Ethan’s undercover boyfriend. He let the anger wash over him, just as he then straightened and glanced over at Brian again. The taller man was turning toward his companion, but Brian’s eyes seemed to slide over the twink’s head and settle on Justin.

Justin blinked once when their eyes locked on each other, and he blinked again when Brian didn’t seem to make a move to look away. Justin held the executive’s gaze, oblivious at that moment to the chill, and the slick, cold snowflakes trickling down his neck, and even Arun chattering about a strategy to win the scavenger hunt. Justin stared into Brian’s eyes and thought he saw a flash of something intense, something deeper than the bored indifference that he usually saw whenever Brian greeted him at the diner. But on Justin’s third blink, the hazel eyes had the same blasé cast Justin had come to expect from the ad exec nowadays.

Except . . . Brian wasn’t looking away as he usually did after the first few seconds of eye contact, and Justin was captivated by the golden depths, twinkling behind a veil of snowflakes. A tiny spark of sanity surfaced in Justin’s brain, screaming at him to look away, refocus on Arun, and remember that Brian didn’t give a damn about him anymore – if, in fact, he’d ever had. Justin didn’t shift his gaze, however, a morbid desire to see Brian’s reaction if introduced to Arun. The executive had always been decent enough when face-to-face with Ethan, but he’d always made it clear that he didn’t care who Justin was fucking anymore. But if that were true, what was it Justin had seen flash in the ad executive’s eyes . . .?

Blue eyes narrowed in determination, Justin slipped his hand into Arun’s and led him through the crowd, through the snow, to where Brian and twink of the day stood. If Brian didn’t care about him anymore – fine. Justin smiled grimly. He would give the executive a chance to not care – to his face.

~*~

“Hey.”

Brian smiled fractionally before murmuring “Hey” back. It was a familiar dance, and one usually played out in the diner. He and Justin would give each other a neutral greeting, smile noncommittally, and then they’d avert their eyes and go about their business – Justin would take an order or fill a glass or bus a table, and Brian would eat his food or wait for food and attempt to pay attention to whatever was being said to him.

“I didn’t expect to see you out here.”

Brian’s smile widened. Justin was determined to keep this on an even keel. The blond knew damn well that he’d rather have rabid wolves chew his balls off than participate in a Center function, but Justin apparently didn’t want to “out” him as a Center-basher in front of his new fuck buddy. Who, Brian noted, was staring at him in a scary sort of fascination. At least this one looks like he’s bathed in this calendar year. “You know me, Sunshine. Always giving a hand to my fellow man.”

“Right.” Justin’s tone was flat, and Brian watched in amusement as Justin’s eyes darted over to Christian. The slightly taller, older blond was quiet for a change, no doubt wondering what the fuck was going on. Brian decided to enlighten his assistant and his former lover – sort of. “Oh. Where’s my manners? Christian, this is Justin.” He nodded at the artist. “Justin, Christian.”

“Hey. Nice to meet you.” Christian stuck out his hand, and shook Justin’s enthusiastically. “But you can call me Fred.”

Fucking unbelievable. Brian closed his eyes briefly, his jaw set in annoyance at Justin’s sly smile and the weirdly confused look Justin’s friend was shooting all of them. Looking into the smug face of the blond artist, Brian could practically hear Justin crowing, “Another guy you picked up and don’t know the name of, Brian? Pathetic.” Blushing slightly, Brian wondered if he should give some sort of explanation about Christian/Fred, but decided against it. So Justin thought Christian was the day’s fuck. Fine. What else would Justin think? Why should he give a fuck what Justin thought or anything having to do with Justin, except maybe how the drab olive-green jacket he wore made his eyes look even bluer. And why the fuck did Brian feel itchy under Justin’s knowing smirk and the weird little grin of his dimpled friend? At least Christian – Fred, whatever – was keeping his mouth shut.

“This is Arun.” Justin brought his boyfriend to the fore, slipping an arm around the other man’s waist. “Arun, Brian Kinney. And . . . Fred.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Arun extended his hand, and with a smirk, Brian took it, squeezing hard before letting go. So Mr. Perfect even had one of those sweetly exotic names and accents to go along with the handsome face and decent body. Brian poked his cheek with his tongue, berating himself for not getting tweaked before he stepped out the door. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“And you’re still standing upright. Amazing.” Brian’s voice was dry, and he could tell his the meaning behind his words was lost on Arun, who simply smiled a bit more in reply. Justin, for his part, glared at him, a blush staining his pale cheeks, and Christian chuckled a little beneath his breath. “So. What are you boys up to this fine day?”

“Going on the scavenger hunt. If they ever start the fucking thing.” Justin glanced over his shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

Good question, Sunshine. Brian scowled for a moment, wondering just how much Justin knew about Michael and Ben’s apparently brief breakup, but was cut off in his musings by Arun’s stunned – but eminently polite – cough.

“Why, going on the hunt just like the rest of us.” Arun gave Brian what the exec admitted was an almost Sunshine-worthy smile. Almost. “Why else would he be standing in this benighted snow?”

Benighted? Brian raised an eyebrow. Interesting that no matter how many Brits he came across, they all had such turgid language, even the non-pasty, non-geriatric ones. Oblivious to Christian’s sudden squirming, Brian was going to disabuse Justin’s friend of the thought that he’d have anything to do with the stupid contest, when Justin’s amazed laughter stopped him.

“Are you nuts? Brian?” Still snickering, Justin wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah, right. Like Brian would ever do anything like walk around the city getting baby powder and apples or whatever else’ll be on the list for the hunt.”

Brian’s brow furrowed as the artist continued to laugh. Justin was right, of course. The scavenger hunt was one of the more inane activities of the Gay Games. In addition to the list of silly items one had to “find,” or purchase, there were set stores – notably gay-friendly or gay-owned – that these items had to be “found” or purchased at, and cars or other forms of private transportation could not be used: it was walk or use public transportation, though how anyone would be able to tell who was using a car to get around was a mystery to Brian. Also, it was a miserable day to traipse around the city, all for what reward? A weekend for two at some bed and breakfast in Lower Gywnedd. Hardly worth getting muddy snow on his new favorite Prada boots.

Yet, Justin’s derisive laughter troubled him. Brian felt one of his best and most endearing attributes was keeping people off-balance. It’s how he made his living and his reputation as a top advertiser, and it was how he’d built his reputation on Liberty Avenue. He didn’t like being thought predictable, and Justin’s attitude signaled to Brian that the blond thought he still knew everything there was to know about Brian Kinney. With a small, bland smile, Brian faced the young man until he calmed down.

“You’re right, Sunshine, we’re not walking anywhere.” The ad executive blinked slowly. “We’re taking the bus. Or the T. If you boys are planning to do this on foot, I might reconsider. You’ll freeze your nuts off before you get to the fifth item on the list.” Brian grinned when Justin’s derisive smile began to fade. “Something the matter, Sunshine?”

“You can’t be serious.” Justin’s eyes widened. “You’re doing this? You’re in the scavenger hunt?” Two spots of red bloomed on Justin’s cheeks when Brian simply smiled at him. “With who?”

Brian’s eyes flicked over to Christian, who looked just as baffled as Arun did by the conversation. Justin’s eyes followed Brian’s, and the blond blanched. “You two are doing this together?”

Justin’s words were directed at Christian, and Brian turned toward the other blond, one eyebrow raised. Christian’s brow creased in thought, and Brian could have sworn the kid was staring at him out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly, though, the young man smiled brilliantly at Justin and nodded slightly. “We’re waiting for the guy to give us the item sheets.” He inclined his head toward red-shirted volunteers handing out slips of paper. “It should be a lot of fun, and I guess there’re worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon.”

Brian bit back an even smugger smile and reminded himself to give Christian/Fred a special bonus and a glowing review before he left Vanguard. The kid was swift, at least. Weird as hell, but swift.

“Cool. So we’ll be on the trail together.” Arun’s enthusiastic tone was an interesting contrast to Justin’s increasingly dour expression. “How long do you imagine it will take to gather the items?”

“Most of the day – if you’re fifty.” All heads swiveled toward a curly-haired man with eyeliner running down both cheeks. A glance at his crimson shirt identified him as Center volunteer, and a look at his face indicated that he was probably regretting his decision to use non-waterproof eye makeup. “But for young, healthy, ambitious people, maybe a couple of hours.” He gave Brian a stern look. “And we’ve timed it using a car, just so we’d be able to recognize who might be cheating, Kinney, so don’t get any ideas.” Handing a sheet of blue paper to Justin, the man smiled gently, the runny eyeliner looking making sooty tracks on his cheeks. “You’ll keep him in line, won’t you, Justin? You got him out here, maybe he’ll listen to you. Though I doubt it.”

The last bit was said somewhat viciously in Brian’s direction. Not noticing Brian’s barely concealed smile and Justin’s ashen face, the volunteer held out another, pink sheet to Arun. “Here you go. The directions are at the top. I assume you two are together.” He inclined his head toward Christian.

“I’m with him,” Arun and Christian exclaimed at once, each taking a step closer to their respective partners. Arun slipped his arm around a nonplussed Justin with a smile. Brian warily watched Christian inch toward him, and glance over with a sheepish smile. The ad exec was sure Christian was reading the don’t even try it look in his eyes, and the younger man wisely kept his hands to himself.

“Ummm . . . ohhhkay.” The volunteer’s eyes veered from Brian’s face to Justin’s and back again. Brian made no move to relieve the man’s discomfort. Should keep up with the Liberty Ave gossip, asshole. The executive smiled gently, waiting for the hapless volunteer to extricate his foot from his mouth.

“Uh, in that case, you’d better give me that back.” The man took the sheet of paper from Justin and gave it to Christian. “We’re trying to stagger the checkpoints a little and keep everyone converging at once. So pink sheet people start on the west side and the blue sheet participants begin on the east. Then everyone all meets in the middle, eventually.”

“Sounds like some parties I’ve been to lately,” Brian murmured, and Justin gave him a cutting glare. The older man smiled benignly at the glaring blond, rocking slightly on his heels as their respective partners perused the list of items. Oh yeah. Brian’s tongue traced the inside of his cheek. This was definitely worth getting out of bed for.

Two

Brian expected the firing of a gun, the shriek of a whistle, or someone crowing, “Let the games begin,” or something equally as trite. But the starting signal, such as it was, consisted of a lone man looking vaguely around and muttering “I guess you can start now” into a bullhorn.

And even then, there wasn’t a stampede when that stirring announcement was made. People continued to chat, flirt and, in some cases, adjust their leather harnesses for several minutes after the official start of the contest. A few teams moved out into the middle of the street and slowly read aloud the items on the list. After about ten minutes, however, pairs began to straggle down the street in the direction of some of the destinations outlined on the hunt list. A few couples even seemed to remember that in a scavenger hunt, speed was an essential ingredient, and quickened their steps.

In saving face, too, speed was an essential ingredient, and Brian silently congratulated himself on his quick thinking in announcing he was in the contest. Of course, the pleasure of watching the derision drain from Justin’s expression was tempered with the realization that he would have to take part in the damn thing. Recalling Justin’s yogurt-pale face as he stormed away with his piece of dimpled perfection in tow, Brian snickered. Slogging around a snowy Pittsburgh in search of Klondike bars was an annoying prospect, but it was a small price to pay for the satisfaction of knowing he could still keep Justin off-balance.

With a smug, self-satisfied grin, Brian tapped a cigarette out of an emptying pack, and turned to Christian. “So. What’s on the menu?” He pointed the cigarette to the sheet of paper Christian still held.

“Um, kind of a hodge-podge. Condoms, lubricant – they say you get extra points if it’s flavored – uh, massage oil.” Christian squinted at the paper. “It seems like a lot of sex stuff . . .”

“Fancy that.” Brian poked his tongue into his cheek. Obviously, in between the squawking and hand-wringing over the sexed-up Carnivale fundraiser, the Center had paid him to promote, someone had been taking notes on what sold. It was a decent turnout, Brian admitted, looking around at the still-milling crowd. It was definitely a larger turnout than it had been in past years, and Brian chuckled to think how many more people he could have drawn in if the Center had turned to him for help. He envisioned full-color posters, two hot, oiled studs, one of them on all fours with a flashlight between his teeth and the assignment list in his hand, and the other stud would be behind him, his body flush against the other man’s, peering over the stud’s shoulder at the list. They’d be sweating, grimacing, brows creased in an expression that could be construed as intense concentration or intense ecstasy.

“ . . . Kona . . . ladies’ black sheer knee-highs . . . and a bag of apples. Granny Smith.” Brian surfaced from his internal creative endeavors just as Christian finished reading the listed items they were to find. “For most of this stuff, seems like a person could just go to the Big Q and be done with it.”

“Yeah, well, if it weren’t for the apples and the Kona, we wouldn’t have to go anywhere. I’ve got most of it on me.” Brian shoved his hands into his pockets. “Staples. Great age we’re living in that make everything so portable.”

Christian looked down at the paper, up at Brian, and then back at the list. “Um . . . women’s stockings?” The young blond hung his head to hide a smile. “I’d heard you were, uh, one of the most innovative people at Vanguard, Mr. Kin – um, Brian – but I thought that was only doing business hours. I guess you’re never really off duty – kind of like cops.”

“Not the ones in this city.” Brian cast another casual look around, wondering if Justin and his Dimpled Wonder had set out yet. “And I know that first-hand –”

He turned back to his companion, and was startled to find himself facing Christian’s rapidly retreating back, the young man easily cutting through the crowd without a backward glance.

If this fucker makes me slip and scuff these boots, it’s his ass. Brian rushed after the blond, lengthening his steps to make it appear that he wasn’t rushing at all, elbowing his way through the masses to fall in step beside Christian. “Nice moves. But where the fuck are you going?”

Christian looked over in surprise and slowed his steps. “Um, home. I figure I’d better grab the bus before it gets too slick out here. You know how slow the buses get when the weather’s bad.” The blond gave Brian a rueful look. “Uh, well maybe you don’t know, but trust me on this. See you on Monday!”

Brian hated anyone to see him look confused – it was just asking for trouble, in his opinion – but in this case, he couldn’t help the perplexed look that was drawing his eyebrows toward the middle of his forehead. “What the fuck are you talking about? What about that?” He nodded at the sheet of paper.

The younger man looked down at the paper he held, and then up at Brian, smiling wistfully. “Oh this? Look, Mr. Kin-, uh, Brian, I know you really don’t want to do this. Uh, not with me, anyway. I just went along with what you said because you, uh, seemed to want me to.” Christian gave a little shrug that was nonchalant and a little pathetic at once. “Anyway, I’ll pick up Queer Pitts next week to see how it went. And to read the restaurant reviews, too, but, uh, I’ll check out the scavenger hunt story first.”

Brian stood silent, thinking. Christian was right; he didn’t want to be there. It was cold and wet and his toes were already beginning to feel numb. But the executive considered the alternative: What else could he do? Go home? And do what? A cyberhookup or phone-a-trick? The bars were deserted, the baths were full of trolls, Babylon wouldn’t get hot until the nighttime, his friends were who-knew-where, and Justin . . . Justin was out there, too, getting just as cold and wet as he was. The thought of that afforded Brian a bit of perverse pleasure. See how well Sunshine enjoyed the company of whathisname while standing ankle deep in yellow snow.

“First lesson in business – never make a proposal you’re not prepared to follow though with. It makes you look like a fuck-up and undermines your position.” He raised a brow. “I said I’d do this, and I’ll do it. So are you in or out?”

The blond man smiled brightly. “Really? Well, shit yeah! Sure, um, if you’re really, really –”

“Forget the condoms. I’ve got enough on me to start my own public-service announcement campaign.” Brian squinted at the list. “Lube. Check. Massage oil. Yep.”

“Wow. You weren’t kidding, were you?” Christian’s eyes were wide with admiration.

Brian gave him a fleeting grin before focusing again on the paper. There were more items on there than he’d initially thought, and sadly he realized that some moving around would be in order. For example, the next item on the list after the condoms, lube and oil were lemon bars. The executive smiled in spite of himself; the diner was going to do a brisk business, though he couldn’t recall the last time he’d been there that Justin hadn’t been working and driving him to quiet distraction with that Sunshine smile that every now and again was directed at him – all too infrequently, however.

“Come on.” Brian turned up the collar of his jacket and inclined his head to the right. “Time for a tour of the gay ghetto.”

~*~

Justin remembered clearly his father telling him that Brian Kinney was going to ruin his life. That hadn’t happened yet, but Brian had definitely ruined his day – or what remained of it. Thankfully the temperature was dropping like a stone, and he could pass off his trembling to the chilly weather and not to the effort it was taking to keep his anger in check. In the early days of getting to know Brian, the executive’s constant refusal of doing “date-type” activities had frustrated Justin. Not that he’d expected candlelight dinners and nights out at the theater, but Brian wouldn’t even go to Babylon with him for fear it would seem like a date. After awhile, Brian had relented some, and they had their incredibly dysfunctional “date nights,” but there were still certain things had Brian refused to do.

And now, Justin seethed, Brian was breaking his own rules – and for a guy whose fucking name he didn’t know! Justin breathed deeply as he and Arun pushed their way out of the presence of the great Brian Kinney to where the hazel gaze and gently mocking grin could not reach them.

“Er, Justin . . .” Arun was beside him, puffing a little as he tried to match Justin’s strides. “Is there something the matter?”

The young artist was quiet until they had put a good bit of distance and a great number of bodies between themselves and Brian. Slowing down when they’d reached a little clearing where there were relatively few people, Justin felt his grip on his self-control return.

“I’m okay,” he muttered. “I just needed to get away. Sorry if I . . . seemed a little weird, it’s just being around Brian can be hard to take sometimes.” Especially when he’s practically joined at the balls with some twink nobody’s ever heard of.

“I understand.” Arun’s voice held a note of sympathy. “I’m sorry I forced the issue with my damned curiosity. A very muddle-headed move on my part. Forgive me.”

Justin smiled into the dark eyes. “It’s all right. It’s my fault. I know how Brian is. How he always is. He’ll never change.” At least, not for me. The blond sighed beneath his breath and forced himself not to look in the general direction of where Brian and his new “friend” were likely still standing. “Let’s forget it, okay? We’d better get going if we want to have a chance to win this thing.”

“You’re sure you still want to do this?” Arun looked around. “I’d quite understand if you wanted to say to hell with it and go to a movie or something. And with Brian in the field, well . . . it could get a little awkward if we cross paths.”

Justin thought that over a few seconds. Awkward wasn’t exactly the word. It was like getting a salad fork jabbed in his heart seeing Brian so apparently content with whateverhisnamewas. The artist wondered what Brian’s new blond fuck friend had that he hadn’t. Was he better in bed than he’d been? Did he have a bigger cock? Was he closer to Brian’s age? Did he have a non-psychotic father? It had to be something.

“It’s all right. I want to. Really.” Justin tried to infuse his smile with enthusiasm. “It’ll be fun, and anyway we’re starting off on opposite ends. We probably won’t see him again today.” Justin felt a pang of disappointment at that, but rallied quickly. “Where do we need to go first?”

Arun nodded and consulted the paper. “Our first item is . . . hmm . . . lemon bars . . .”

~*~

The diner was about seven blocks from the GLBT Center, but with the snow factor added in with the crowds of people moving like so much cattle along the sidewalk, it seemed more like seven miles. Brian trudged next to a chatty Christian, thinking that dial-a-trick was looking more and more appetizing than the “hunt.” At least he’d be warm and dry and doing something he knew would bring him a satisfying reward. As it was, he was attempting to keep a brave face, even as snow stung his eyes and Christian yammered away beside him about nothing in particular, from his years at college to his career plans, to –

“Um, so . . . how long were you and Justin together?”

Brian’s ears burned. Where the fuck did that come from? “We weren’t.”

“Uh . . . no?” Christian sounded perplexed. “Oh. Um . . . really? You guys looked like you, uh, knew each other, um . . . well.”

The executive almost smiled. There had been a time that he thought he had known Justin reasonably well, or as well as you could know someone you’d spent many months denying you cared for only to realize that you’d been fooling yourself. But Justin’s defection to the Fiddler had blown that theory out of the water. “We weren’t together.”

“Um . . . it’s just that when the guy was handing out the lists, he looked a little surprised that you and Justin weren’t, um, with each other.” Christian glanced over at Brian. “It was like, he knew you and he knew Justin and he knew you and Justin as . . . like a couple, and –”

“Is English your first language or do I need to translate this into Remedial Idiot? We. Weren’t. Together.” Brian’s voice sharpened on the last word, and he felt a surge of anger and then a flash of regret at the words. They were true – he and Justin hadn’t been together, at least not the way the blond thought they should have been.

“I’m . . . sorry.” The younger man spoke quietly. “I, fuck. I keep saying stupid shit, making assumptions. Mark always told me that I always opened my mouth too big before I knew what was gonna come out of it. Mark would’ve told me that I needed to just keep quiet and listen and stop jumping to conclusions. Mark was always good at that – figuring out the score and stuff, and then making assessments.” Christian smiled slightly. “Mark, he was, uh, we were together, you know, for awhile. Uh, anyway, he was right on the money on so much stuff. He was great at practically everything. He’d own this contest – uh, no offense, Mr. Kin-, uh, Brian. But this was Mark’s kinda thing . . . finding stuff, hunting things down, real methodically.”

“Then why isn’t he here with the masses?” Brian swerved around a doddering hunter in their path. “Did he find some common sense and get the fuck out of this cesspool of a city or did he just leave you for a mandolin player with soulful eyes and an aversion to soap and water?”

Brian had not meant to sound so bitter. In fact, the executive regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. It was bad enough that he admitted to the pain Justin’s leaving him had caused him, but to actually voice his anger and hurt made him feel vulnerable, even if it was in front of a person who didn’t really know him or Justin or the whole situation.

Christian laughed in that overloud way that tweaked Brian's nerves. “What? No, no. Nothing that dramatic. He just died, is all.”

This kid’s got a weird sense of humor. Brian looked over at his companion, about to say something devastatingly witty, and saw Christian’s whole posture change. His shoulders dipped and his head was listing to one side, and when the other man turned to face him, Brian could see a flash of misery in his eyes. “You’re serious.”

The blond nodded. “Uh, yeah, about six months ago or so. Maybe seven. It’s weird, kinda. I met him at this basketball tournament at Pitt. I hate basketball. I can’t play for shit, really, but it was something to do, and I was lonely, and so . . . I went. Kinda like this thing. I’ve been on treasure hunts, Easter-egg hunts . . . I’m not real good at them, but it’s fun, and it’s good to be around people, so . . . yeah.” Christian cleared his throat. “Uh, anyway, I meet Mark there, and we talked, and it was cool. We were both same the age, liked the same things, gay and out, all that, and he was so smart, like I said. Really introspective and interesting, and just all-around nice. But thing was, he knew he was gonna die young.”

Brian got a creepy Twilight Zone feel all of a sudden. “What?”

“Yeah, um, when he first said that, I, like, nearly freaked out. I thought he was telling me he was positive or something,” Christian said. “But he was like, ‘Nope, no diseases. I’m healthy. Never broke a bone in my life. Hardly ever sick. But I won’t live to see thirty.’ He just knew. He never told me how or why . . . and he never brought it up after he first told me. It was just . . . he knew.”

The blond looked thoughtful as he spoke. “I thought maybe he had kind of, um, a depressed streak in him, but he was always cheery – not fake happy, but genuine. Like the death thing, he just accepted it. He didn’t go around wearing black, or moping, he just had his belief about it and went on with his life. He was always helping people. That’s what he loved to do. He wanted to teach kids – uh, deaf kids. He knew sign language and all, ‘cause one of his sisters was born deaf. Uh, that’s what he was doing the day he died. He’d gone to a session on teaching the deaf, and on his way back, uh, this Range Rover blew a light and broadsided him. The Range Rover guy said he’d been singing this song on the radio and didn’t notice the light had changed . . .”

They walked a few steps in silence before Christian continued in a lighter voice, “Mark liked little kids and old people. He said he never really got along with people our age. He said they were mostly shallow assholes who cared more about dicking around than anything else. I think I was one of the first guys around his age he ever dated. He generally went for older guys.”

“You don't say.” Brian's tone was dry.

“Yeah. I mean, I like older guys, too. Not ancient, though, like 40, just older . . . 30-32. Maybe 35, if he’s hot. But Mark said there was something about me that made me not seem like the typical asshole our age. And, uh, there was something about Mark, too. Not just his huge cock and the way he could rim, either! I mean, the other stuff –”

There’s other stuff? Brian grinned briefly, but was quiet.

“– Like his sweetness and his sense of humor.” Christian smiled again. “Mark’s the one who gave me my nickname. I told him how much I hate my name. It makes me sound like the son of Pentecostal ministers, or something. Christian Matthew Bathewaite. Jesus. Uh, that last part's not in my name, but I bet my parents thought about it.” He shook his head. “I hate ‘Chris,’ too. I dunno why. I guess it just seems so . . . ordinary. So, Mark started calling me ‘Fred,’ ‘cause he said I looked just like that blond guy Freddie on Scooby-Doo. Plus, I write mysteries. Um, I haven’t been published or anything, but I write them. Not the lame Murder She Wrote shit or those serial-killer cop dramas. Just mysteries . . . sometimes there’s murder in ‘em, but mostly not. I’m writing a new one now. It’s about an ad agency a lot like Vanguard.”

“Really.” Brian poked his tongue into his cheek. “Does some poor, overworked partner go on a rampage and massacre the entire junior account staff for fucking up three presentations in a row?”

“Uh . . . no. It’s actually about embezzling. But that’s an idea.” Christian grinned at Brian. “I’ve been trying to figure out what I want to do for chapter three. That’ll give it some heft, anyway.” The grin sagged a little, and the blond became serious again. “Mark did everything he said he wanted to do, though, before he died. He traveled a little, got a degree, helped people. I guess in a way, it's good he knew he was gonna die young. It gave him incentive to really live. Not that I know, but if it's anybody who died with no regrets, it's probably Mark. Um, at least, that's what I've been telling myself since he's been gone. . .” Christian trailed off, studying the list of items once more. “Uh, anyway, yeah. Point is, I need to remember him and how he used to tell me to just keep my mouth shut sometimes. Uh, don’t be afraid to just tell me to shut the fuck up. Mark did that all the time. I kinda liked it . . . he never meant anything mean, he was just trying to keep me from making an ass out of myself.”

Brian rubbed his nose, surprised that it didn’t feel as numb as the rest of him did at that moment. “He lived with me. Justin.”

“Oh, so you were like roommates.”

Like roommates? Brian fingered loose change in his pockets. “We fucked.”

“But he wasn't your boyfriend?”

He didn't think so. Brian adjusted his collar again. “Nope.”

“And you screwed other guys?”

I screwed other guys. He “fell in love.” Brian’s eyes narrowed. “That was . . . the plan.”

“I've heard of those kinds of arrangements. To tell the truth, I never thought they could work. Guess I wasn't wrong. Uh, did he really start dating a mandolin player?” The younger man ducked his head. “That seemed a little too random not to be true.”

“Close enough.” Brian muttered. He really didn't want to talk about this anymore. It had happened. He and Justin were done. Finito. The end. Even if sometimes . . . it didn’t really feel that way.

“Uh, that guy that was just with him, he's not the mandolin player, right? He doesn't look like the type." Christian sighed into the wind. "For what it’s worth, I don't think he and that Ah-roon guy are going anywhere boyfriend-wise.”

The recent memory of Dimple Boy and Justin laughing together flashed across Brian’s brain. “And why's that?”

“It’s something Mark used to say,” Christian replied. “Whenever we’d go out, he swore he could tell what guys were lovers and which were just friends. He said the guys who were just friends would turn heads. Like he’d notice them because they were hot or they were so different from each other or something. But the guys who were together, Mark said, wouldn't necessarily turn heads, but there’d be something about them that would stick in his mind. Like three hours later, he’d be eating or something, and he’d think about the two guys he’d seen earlier. Ever since he told me that, it’s been the same way with me, and I’ve almost always been right on about it. If I saw Justin and Ah-roon, they’d turn my head, ‘cause they’re both pretty hot, but I'd probably forget I ever saw them five minutes later. But if I saw you and Justin, I'd be wondering for the rest of the day what you two were doing, what your lives were like. All that.”

Brian mulled that for a moment, a slow smile lifting his lips. “You wouldn't even be able to imagine.”

Christian/Fred’s grin matched the exec’s. “I'll bet. Hey, is this the place?”

The taller man looked up, surprised that they were literally on the threshold on the Liberty Diner. Maybe he’d overestimated the distance, because they seemed to have gotten there faster than if the ground had been clear. “Good looking out.” He followed Christian into the diner just ahead of a second wave of hunters.

~*~

“You’re kidding me, right? Your dad actually paid your boyfriend to dump you?”

Arun and Justin walked leisurely in the middle of a pack of fellow hunters. Justin wondered at Arun’s laid-back approach to the game – the objective was to get all the items as quickly as possible, but Justin didn’t feel up to prodding his date. The day had already gotten off to a shitty start, and the artist didn’t have any real desire to win, anyway. Lower Gywnedd was as pointless a romantic destination as a trash dump was, and it didn’t smell much better, either.

As he attempted to get thoughts of Brian under control and berated himself for thinking about the exec at all, he and Arun had fallen to casual conversation, and not surprisingly, the subject of ex-boyfriends had arisen. Justin didn’t really want to talk about Ethan at all, and conversation about Brian was out of the question, so Justin listened with growing interest to stories of Arun’s prior loves, of which there hadn’t been many, it seemed.

“Your surprise is curious, Justin, though I have to bear in mind you’ve never met my father.” Arun smiled. “He is quite persuasive, and Sid . . . was, well, Sid was a dream come true. A dream come true who adored money – something of which my father has a decent amount.”

“How did he even find out? Did your mother tell him?” Justin remembered the anger he felt after Jen Taylor had gone back on her word and told his father about his being gay and about Brian.

“My mother? Oh no. My mother’s been dead since I was a child.”

The blond went crimson with embarrassment. Fuck, me. Great going, Taylor. “Shit, I’m sorry, Arun. I didn’t mean –”

“Justin, it’s fine, really.” Arun slung his arm around Justin’s shoulders. “Actually, the person I do consider a mother is the one who informed my father. My ayah, Suchi.”

“Ayah?”

“Er . . . let me see . . . I guess the English equivalent would be . . . nanny,” the dark-haired man replied. “An old Hindi term left over from Brit rule, I’m afraid. Ayahs are usually from India and they look after children, generally. My father engaged Suchi to care for my older sister and I after my mother died, and she stayed on through my father’s next two marriages to care for my half-sisters and brothers. She looked after us and taught us Hindi and basically prepared us for the big, bad world out there as best she could. I do believe I was Suchi’s favorite . . . until, of course, she entered my room to dust and found me on my knees learning the finer points of deep-throating under Sid’s tutelage.”

“Christ.” Justin cringed. At the very least, his mother had never walked in on him and Brian, because stopping would have been very, very hard. “And she went to your dad?”

“No . . . she fainted straightaway.” Arun brushed snow off his hair. “Then she submitted her resignation to my latest stepmother, who, after some arm-twisting, got Suchi to divulge the reason she wanted to leave our service. Suchi begged her not to tell my father, but of course Alexandra did, and . . . well . . . things got rather messy between my father and I, thereafter.”

“Did he even try to talk to you about it or did he kick you out of your house?” The blond wondered if he’d ever meet an out fag who had a father who didn’t freak out on their gay sons. His father had, Emmett’s father had, Ted had come out only after his father was dead, Brian’s dad had flipped, too, or at least that was what Justin had heard Michael tell some of the other guys. Ethan’s dad . . . well . . . Ethan hadn’t talked about his dad much. Ethan hadn’t talked about anything much except music – and himself.

“He did one better – he kicked me out of the country.” Arun laughed quietly. “My father never does anything halfway. As soon as he confronted me and I didn’t deny it, he told me to pack for America. I have relatives in New York and Los Angeles. He figured one of them could care for me, and I and my perversion would be safely away from him and my impressionable young half-brothers and sisters. But first, he wanted to teach me a lesson, and that lesson came in the form of Sid. He lived in the flat around the corner. A university student. A writer. He was quite good, actually. He’d read me passages of his works after we’d made love. His prose was excellent. He could write in a way that made you feel as if you were in the story, not just an outside observer.” Arun stared dreamily ahead for a minute. “Quite remarkable.”

“He was in college?” Justin frowned a little. “How old were you?”

“Oh, just shy of 17,” Arun answered with a shrug. “But make no mistake, Justin, I was no innocent. I seduced him. I think, perhaps, he found me a “safe” lay at first. I was this son of an investment-banking magnate, well-heeled, Eton-schooled, Indo-Brit who wouldn’t want to rock the boat and risk giving my rich father a heart attack before he’d gotten a chance to leave me the estate in his last will and testament. I don’t expect he ever thought I’d be willing to out myself for him or that we’d fall in love. And it was love, I believe. We’d meet at his flat. We’d talk. We’d fuck. Occasionally we’d sneak into clubs in Leicester Square.” His smile faded into a rueful grimace. “But as it happened, my ass was not quite able to trump my father’s bank account. My father said he was sure he could buy Sid’s silence on our ‘affair’ and get him out of my life in the bargain. I didn’t believe him. After awhile, however, Sid stopped returning my calls. Then he changed his number. Then his flat. I’d also heard from mutual acquaintances that he’d quit university and was going to Italy to devote himself fully to his writing.

“One night after I’d trawled about, searching for him, I returned home and my father was waiting for me. In one hand he held cancelled bank drafts showing that Sid had indeed accepted and cashed his cheques. He dropped them at my feet, and simply said, ‘I win.’” The dark-haired youth’s brow creased. “In his other hand, he held a ticket to the States and informed me I’d be staying with an aunt until I reached majority age, after which, I could, in his words, ‘Go to the devil, so long as I never see your face again.’ I was on a plane the next morning, destination: New York. My aunt raised me tolerably well. She was no more pleased with my chosen lifestyle than my father was, but the support cheques he sent bought her silence and allowed me the chance to roam free – and in New York, no less. I finished school with high marks, went to Columbia and partied with impunity.”

Justin swallowed hard at the mention of New York. He’d never be able to think about New York without remembering Brian finding him in the hotel room, Brian coming to take him home, Brian fucking him into the next area code right then and there on the bed. Justin could practically feel Brian still inside him . . . “Sounds exciting.”

“It was for awhile, but it got very old. One morning, I just decided that I needed calm. It was time, I suppose. I thought of Italy . . . of perhaps taking some of my trust money and going to Italy and getting a villa and seeing for myself if the splendors of Italy was worth breaking the heart of a 16-year-old virgin you’d promised to love and cherish forever.” Arun looked over at him, his eyes stormy. “But . . . I decided against it, and after a month of soul-searching and a good number of graduate school applications and decided Pittsburgh would be calm enough. So here I am.”

.

“Wow. That’s an amazing story” Justin processed it all. “Your thing with your dad . . . it sounds a lot like mine. Except, he didn’t try to buy Brian off. He tried to kill him.”

“Dear god!” Arun looked shocked. “Kill?”

Justin knew that he’d never hate his father. No matter how Craig Taylor might feel about him and his lifestyle, and no matter how many crappy things he’d done both before the bashing and since, Justin felt that his father was his father, and you just didn’t hate blood. But remembering Craig kicking the hell out of Brian on Liberty Avenue, and ramming into the Jeep with his car, the blond was filled with cold anger. No, he’d never hate Craig Taylor, but he’d long ceased to think of him as someone he held close to his heart. “He punched the shit out of him once. He could’ve really hurt Brian, but I pulled him off. And, another time . . . he ran into Brian’s car on purpose. Brian hurt his head, but he was okay after a few days.”

“My father was just a control-freak nimrod, but, and forgive me this, Justin, your father sounds like a true psychopath.” Arun’s eyes were wide. “Did he ever hit you or threaten violence?”

The artist shook his head slowly. “He just told me that I couldn’t come home again unless I denied being a fag and stopped seeing Brian.” He let out a breath. “I told him to fuck off. Brian, uh, he took me in for awhile, but it didn’t work out, so I moved in with some friends.”

“But you continued to see each other?”

“We still fucked, yeah,” Justin said blandly. “That’s all it was.” To him, at least. That’s all it ever was. Fucking. “Then that thing at my prom happened, and he took me in again, ‘cause I was driving my mom crazy. She’d told him not to see me again, and . . . he wouldn’t. I went apeshit when I found out, but in the end, she let me live with him, and it was good . . . for awhile.”

“I applaud your mother for seeing that keeping you two apart was hurting rather than helping your recover. Though, that must have upset your father quite a bit.”

“He didn’t care. He saw me in the hospital once, and then nothing after that.” But it was one more than Brian ever visited. Justin pushed that thought out of his mind. “He even stopped paying for my art school after he said he would, so I stopped caring about what he cared about.”

“Ah, yes, Ian – er – Ethan mentioned that during our talk. He also said that Brian had been paying for the institute up until your breakup.”

Justin made a mental note to take a lot less time in the bathroom on subsequent dates. “Yeah, he did. But not up until we broke up. He paid even after that. I went to my dad to ask him to help me, because I didn’t think it’d be appropriate to keep taking Brian’s money. My dad was an asshole, as usual, and Brian . . . kept on paying."

“Brian must have had a great respect for your talent and loved you a great deal to make such an arrangement.”

The artist remembered Brian seeking him out to do the Carnivale poster. Brian had a whole art department at his disposal that would have probably done the thing for free, but Brian had come to him. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you could do it. Brian had respected his artistic ability. Justin could agree to that, but he didn't want to think about Brian loving him, because it always came with the reminder that the executive probably never had loved him, but even if he had, he certainly didn't now. “Well, I have to pay him back. We have an agreement. He's not giving me anything.”

“It beats the alternative, though, does it not? No schooling? Though I don't doubt you'd be fine without it.” Arun gave Justin a searching look. “Do you still love him?”

The question wasn’t so much unexpected as it was unwelcome, and Justin’s sharply replied, “Does it look like it? I’m dating other guys. I’ve moved on. And what difference would it make? He's got another blond piece of ass. Named Fred or whatever.”

“And you have another dark-haired swain.” Arun gave Justin a kindly smile. “But that doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten Brian and what you’d meant to each other.”

Justin studied Arun’s face and saw no anger or resentment or any of the petulance Ethan had showed whenever Brian’s name arose in conversation. The blond saw instead understanding, maybe a little pity, a lot of empathy, and he knew. Whatever Arun and he were going to be, it wasn’t going to be some love affair. Friends, maybe, but not lovers. The other man could read him too well, and unlike Ethan, he wouldn’t pretend not to know what and who was the focus of Justin’s thoughts and waking dreams.

“It’s over. He doesn't want me.” That was the truth so far as Justin knew, and it hurt him to say it out loud. “And it’s probably better this way.”

Arun was quiet a long time. “I often wonder, Justin, if when Sid was cashing my father's cheques, something along those lines wasn’t in his mind. That he was too old for me, that we’d get tired of each other eventually, so leaving my life was for the best. I think that if he had bothered to come to me and tell me he was leaving me, and that it was for the best, I’d be able to look at him, just as I’m looking at you now,” The dark-haired man stared into Justin’s eyes, “and I’d be able to tell that he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying . . . just as I can now that you don’t truly believe a word of what you’ve just said.”

Justin flushed, but before he could even stammer out a denial, Arun smiled brightly and steered him through the door of the Liberty Diner, where they joined the crush of the crowd.

~*~

A cold gust of air caught Brian’s bare neck as he stood amid the crowd in the diner, waiting for Christian to return with the lemon bars, and he turned in time to watch Justin’s jaw drop at the sight of him. Brian was a little taken aback, as well. He’d assumed the blond and his partner would be on the other side of Liberty Avenue at the outset. That’s my Sonnyboy. Full of surprises.

Justin, Brian noticed, looked like he wanted to bolt, but Dimples Galore stepped forward with a cheery smile. “Well met! So we cross paths on the trail!”

Fuck me. I feel like I’ve stepped into a gay Masterpiece Theater. Brian ignored the other man as best he could. “Going out of order, Sunshine? That’s one way to make this interesting.”

“This is our first stop.” Justin muttered reluctantly. “I thought you had a blue sheet. Shouldn’t you be on the east side?”

“We’re fast tracking the process,” Brian said with a shrug, leaning casually against a chair. “We’re a third through the list already.”

“Bullshit! It just got started!” The blond gaped in disbelief. “No way you could have anything other than a couple of things unless you’re cheating!”

“Unless being a hip fag of today is against the rules, everything’s kosher, Sunshine. You know I never travel without certain necessities, and they make up a good third of the list.” Brian smiled as Justin studied his own list and paled as he reached the items Brian was referring to.

“Yeah, fine, whatever, but you’ve still got a long way to go,” Justin said as Christian approached them with lemon bars in hand. “And the last things on our list put us closer to the finish line than you’ll be when you pick up your last item.”

“Hey, how’s it going?” Christian gave the two a friendly nod. “We’re zipping through this list. Brian’s pockets are like a 7-Eleven, only without the nachos. How are you guys doing?”

“Oh, slow and steady,” Arun answered with a smug smile. “But that’s fine. The tortoise did best the hare, you know.”

The exec rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, unless you’re into bestiality, who gives a shit?” He smirked when he saw Justin struggle to hide a smile. “I’d get in line soon, if I were you. I think I heard Fifi say that they were running out of lemon bars and that once they do, it’ll be two hours before the next batch is done.”

“No problem. This isn’t the only place to get lemon bars in this neighborhood.” Justin unblinkingly faced down Brian’s confident smile. “There’s a Starbucks three blocks from here.”

Touche, Sunshine. Brian barely raised an eyebrow. “That’d cut into your time, Sonnyboy. By the time you fight through all the people waiting for their venti mochas, we’ll be cruising to the finish line.”

Justin glowered at the exec, but it was Arun who responded. “Well, perhaps. But I don’t think so, Brian. I do believe that Justin is correct and that we are poised to be better positioned at the end than you two will be.”

You wish you knew what I did about Justin and ‘positioning.’ Brian simply sneered in reply, but Christian then took up the gauntlet.

“No way, man. We’ve got four things on the list now. We’ve already got a big jump, and if you think this is crowded,” he waved his hand around at the people waiting for lemon bars, “wait until you get closer to the end of the list. It’ll be insane.”

“You seem confident.” Arun’s eyes were glittering. “Overly so, perhaps.”

“Facts are facts.” The other blond folded his arms. “We’ve got you two beat from the starting gate. Even if we don’t win it all, we’ll be in before you two will.”

“Well, in that case, why don’t we make this a little more interesting and set up a side wager?” Arun rested a hand on Justin’s shoulder. “The losing pair treats the winning pair to a drink at the winning pair’s place of choice.”

Brian eyebrow shot up. The sonofabitch was cocky in the extreme. As if he’d want his company after all this torture. Brian had big plans on getting drunk, yes, but alone, and out of sight of Justin and his new happy-fun boy.

“Sure. Why not? I never turn down a free drink.” Christian said with bravado. His confident expression wavered, however, when he seemed to suddenly realize that he was speaking for two people, and he looked over his shoulder at Brian. “Uh, if it’s okay with Brian, that is.”

Brian was about to give Christian/Fred several reasons why it was not okay with him, when Arun laughed his tinkling-bells laugh again. “If Brian is as confident as you are, how could he refuse?”

Easily. But it was a little intriguing. It’d be nice to rub Justin’s cocky little fuck-buddy’s nose in losing, and give the guy a first-hand lesson on what tended to happen when you tried to go head-to-head with Brian Kinney.

There was, however, still one wild card. The exec faced his ex-lover. “Sunshine? You game?”

The blond artist was a long time in answering, and his eventual, “Sure, whatever,” seemed hollow to Brian’s ear, and Brian thought he saw a glimmer of reluctance in the blue eyes. “We'd better get going, Arun. More people are coming down the street, and I really don’t want to get caught up in the crowd.”

”Good deal.” Arun saluted Brian and Christian in turns. “The game’s afoot. Win, lose or draw, see you back at the finish line.”

Brian resisted the urge to knock the cheery smile off the handsome face and instead turned his to the task at hand - winning. It was on, now. The game had begun.

To Be Continued....

Collaborations

Neither Here Nor There

By Eveline and Jamie

(post-220 story) Justin's latest nightmare has a twist.

There was a yell, then the flash of a bat and then, for a split second, pain. Then came total silence, or at least, silence save for the laughter, a high-pitched and ugly sound, spiraling more and more out of control. The sound rang in his ears as he faded into shadow and air. Into nothingness. And nothingness didn’t hurt, really. It didn’t have a taste to it, or a smell. It had no shape, no discernable features. It just . . . was. Or rather, it just was not. The total absence of substance. There was nothing, no existence, no world, no anything. Just this disembodied feeling that transcended pain, the darkness, and the laughter, maniac guffaws interspersed with words that hissed like snakes as they left the laughing mouth.

Die, you faggot! Die! Die –

The bat rose again, some dark liquid dripping from its barrel. It hovered in the air a moment, a beat of indecision, and then came down again hard, whistling as it sliced through the air, the dark liquid painting the crown of the bat flying everywhere as the weapon raced toward its target of bruised flesh and bloodied bone.

Justin awoke with a start, his breath escaping him in labored gasps. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the bedroom just as it took his heart a few seconds to stop racing from the horrible nightmare he’d just had. The funny thing was, he’d known all along it was a dream. Even in the seconds before his bat-wielding tormentor connected with his skull, Justin knew none of it was real, but it didn’t keep him from awaking in a cold sweat that dampened the thin nightshirt he wore. It didn’t keep him from shuddering in the darkness. The dimness in the room seemed impenetrable, almost sentient, like an evil living thing, lying in wait, ready to pounce and banish him back to the nightmare realm.

“Sonnyboy?”

The soft voice of the man beside him should have been a comfort, but hearing it just made Justin feel even more vulnerable and aware of how incredibly fucked-up his situation was, how fucked-up he still was. “Justin . . . you all right?”

The lean body beside him straightened and shifted into a sitting position, and Justin could hear the slight hiccupping sound of a large yawn being stifled. Brian had been talkative at dinner, mentioning some huge account he was looking to close the next morning. He and his team at Vanguard had been working late into the night all week to get it together, and the presentation, which Brian was helming, was first thing in the morning. Yet, the executive was awake at three in the morning, ready to whisper words of comfort and offer solace to the very person who’d awakened him out a sound sleep by screaming like a maniac. It was moments like these that Justin wondered how he could have ever rationalized leaving Brian and how he could ever have questioned the older man’s love for him.

“I’m okay, Brian. Go back to sleep.” Justin turned his head and stared out into the larger area of the loft, noticing, as he was sure he had in times past, that the bedroom was always the darkest part of the loft. It never seemed very dark in the living room or the kitchen or the short foyer; the moon shone brightly just outside the plate windows, throwing shards of silver light onto the floor and various pieces of furniture. It was kind of nice. Eerie, but nice –

“No!” Justin nearly fell out of the bed when a hand descended without warning onto his bare shoulder. Justin sat shivering when Brian hastily snatched the offending hand away, as if he’d been flicked with acid. Anguished blue eyes closed briefly when he heard Brian murmur an apology and move ever so slightly away. He’d been waiting for this, for the bottom to fall out . . . for their “sweet” reunion to hit a sour note . . . for something to go wrong. It always did, and he feared that it always would . . . like the queer remake of Groundhog Day, they’d be doomed to the same dysfunction in perpetuity. Justin had only given a brief thought as to when to the bottom might fall out.

He hadn’t had time to worry when things would go south again with Brian, as they inevitably did . . . he was, they both were, too busy rediscovering each other in bed and out of bed. They were talking, or trying to, and working through some of the issues that had torpedoed their relationship. They’d not made any agreements or any arrangements or rules or promises . . . they just talked and fucked, clinging to each other afterward, too bone weary and utterly and completely content to do anything but grin dazedly at each other and fall asleep with their hands still holding each other’s dicks.

And now it had come, and Justin could hear the echo in his mind, recognized it as the hollow, understated sound of the other shoe dropping. He was regressing now to his screwed-up form . . . to that thing that had shivered in the night and had forgotten that there was any other way to ask for help without screaming being involved. He was that person who saw the monsters again . . . not under his bed, this time, but in his skull, and he was that pale person who trembled in daylight, fearing the touch of others – even that of the man he loved.

“It’s all right, Sonnyboy. You’re okay now.” Brian said softly, and Justin then knew the hazel-eyed man was wide awake. The artist didn’t think he’d ever get over being amazed at Brian’s uncanny ability wake from a sound sleep and assume his full, take-charge, get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way mode in less than two minutes. “You know we can talk about it, if you want to . . .”

“I can’t,” Justin murmured, hating himself for saying it, for lying. He could talk about it. Talking was the easy part. It was just that talking about it would invariably involve thinking about it, and that would be the deal-breaker.

“I . . . don’t want to,” he amended. “I just . . . not now. Not now.”

It was difficult, because talking about it usually made him feel so much better. He found that recounting the details of his nightmares while lying in Brian’s arms was extremely cathartic. He drew strength from his lover, who would gently rub his back and stay silent until he was finished speaking. Then they’d talk it over, discussing what the dreams might mean, how they made Justin feel, the questions and fears they evoked, and what could be done to answer those questions and assuage those fears. Then they’d have sex, letting their lovemaking purge the horror and the sadness the nightmares invariably left in their wake.

But this dream, though, could not, Justin feared, be dealt with by conventional means. Sure, it’d had the same theme as all the others – him helpless, blood everywhere, a bat, and then the feeling of no longer existing – being dead, but still being able to feel, somewhat, to see, to hear. Been there, done that – literally, almost.

But this dream, this night was different, with a twist that made him want to tear his heart out by the roots. And it made him want to go back to the old days, the days in which he’d wake up shaking and Brian would hold him briefly, and tell him not to think about, to forget it, that it was over, and that he was safe. Justin wanted that again . . . not Brian’s gentleness, not the older man’s warmth, and not talking. He wanted to just forget.

“It’s okay.” Brian hesitantly placed a hand on his elbow – an odd place for Brian to touch, Justin thought idly, but strangely comforting. “Go back to sleep. I’ll turn some music on if you want . . . where’s that CD you like? Still in the changer?” He began to rise from the bed.

“I . . . no.” Justin slid off the bed, absently feeling for his underwear and a dry shirt. “I can’t go back to sleep yet . . . not after . . .”

Die, faggot! Die –

“No,” Justin whispered. “I don’t think I . . .” He took a deep breath, then another, then another, and he felt the desperate edge leave his voice. “I’m going to work for awhile. Draw for awhile. On the computer.” Justin took a few hesitant steps toward the living room.

“Justin . . . it’s three in the fucking morning. You’ve got class tomorrow, and I thought you said it only frustrated you to draw when you’re worked up, that you can never get anything done.”

“I’m not worked up. I just . . .” Justin began, then stopped and shrugged his shoulders, realizing the pointlessness of lying. He wasn’t awake enough to make it sound convincing, and besides, the older man knew him too well. “I can’t get back to sleep, okay? I just . . . can’t. I’ll only be tossing and turning and keeping you up.”

There was a gentle creaking sound, and then Brian was behind him.

“Come back to bed, Sunshine.” Long arms wrapped around his middle and a kiss was pressed into his hair. “Just lay down a minute . . . you’ll feel better. I promise.”

“Brian . . .” Justin swallowed without purpose for countless moments, his throat dry and raw-feeling. Had he actually been screaming in reality, as well as in his dream? It would stand to reason, would explain the clipped, pained undertone in Brian’s voice, something that only happened when the executive was worried about something.

“C’mon.” The taller man pulled him back to the bed, gently pushing him onto the soft mattress. Brian moved to the other side of the room, flipping on a lone lamp that lay close to the bathroom, and instantly, the room was covered in a brassy, yellow glow. Justin wordlessly moved over to make more room on the bed for his lover, and Brian threw himself carelessly on the bed, stretching out beside Justin and propping his head up on a bent arm.

“It was a bad one?” Brian asked softly, his eyes wide and unblinking. They shone in the light, Justin thought, like polished silver. “Worse than the one a couple nights ago?”

Justin paled, remembering the night before last when he’d woken up in a panic after a horrible dream, the first one he’d had since well before the days of his and Brian’s reconciliation. That dream had been triggered, Justin was sure, by seeing Chris Hobbes shopping with his mother at a local mall that day. He’d wanted to keep this sighting to himself, but after the dream that night, Brian had gotten the whole story from him.

Brian studied him quietly. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Justin sighed then, the first sound to come out his mouth that seemed remotely normal and not choked with fear or anguish. “No.” Okay, his voice was beginning to sound more like his own again; a good sign. “I don’t . . . I mean . . .” He struggled to corral his thoughts, noticing Brian’s expression deepen from concern to mild alarm. “It serves me right.” He glanced away from Brian’s face as he said those words. “You tried to warn me. All of you did.”

“What are you talking about?” Brian moved closer, gradually closing the gap between them. “Warned you about what?”

Justin waited a second, then another. “About seeing my dad today. You and Mel and Linds and Daph and my mom told me I shouldn’t go . . . but I did. So it serves me right that I . . .” He took a deep breath in, holding it for several seconds. Let it out. “I got what I deserved.”

The ad executive slipped an arm around Justin’s waist and pulled him closer. “I don’t understand, Sonnyboy,” he murmured into his hair. “How the fuck do you deserve –”

“My dad was in the dream.” Justin’s felt his breath hitch in his throat, and suddenly Brian’s face swam before him, as hot tears filled his eyes. “He was the one with the bat.” Two tears ran down his cheeks, trailing down the pale flesh in a streak of wet. “Not Chris Hobbes, my dad. He . . . hit me, Brian. He was hitting me . . .” The artist closed his eyes, and the tears ran unchecked down his face, no matter how hard he fought against them. There he was, crying like the helpless, hand-wringing little faggot his father believed him to be, and in front of Brian, too. But he couldn’t help the tears . . . he just couldn’t.

“Sonnyboy.” Brian’s hand was in his hair, kneading his scalp with gentle fingers. “What did he say to you?”

Justin opened his eyes by degrees, the maniacal laughter that had followed him into consciousness again echoing in his ears. “He said . . . he said . . . ‘die you faggot. Die.’” He closed his eyes again and was met with the image of his father’s face contorted in rage and bloodlust, his lips mouthing that one word over and over and over . . . Die.

The older man was quiet a minute. “That’s not what I meant.” Brian shifted his position so that they were again looking at each other. “Today, when you saw him; what did he say to you?”

Justin was silent. It all seemed so ridiculous now, his going to see his father at all, considering that Craig Taylor had said about the equivalent of three sentences to him ever since the divorce had come through. But when he’d heard from his mother that his father was moving to Tucson to run the southwestern branch of his company, Justin had been overcome with a desire to see his father before he left, and the desire was strengthened when days later, he got an e-mail from his dad giving him the same news. The artist took his father’s contacting him as a positive step, even it was just to say, “I’m moving across the country. Later.” He’d e-mailed his father, asking if they could get together and talk, and Craig had agreed, setting a time and a place for them to meet “for a few minutes” and only a few minutes. He was a busy man, after all.

“It was okay at first,” Justin said softly. “We were in his office. He talked about his new job and how much packing and shit he has to do. I asked if he needed help, but he said he’d hired some people to do all that. He said he’d already gone out there to house hunt, and that he found a place, and how it had a bunch of kids around for Molly to play with whenever she’d come out to visit. Um . . . he asked me about school.” That had surprised Justin. He’d figured Craig’s interest in his education had ended when he’d stopped paying his tuition, but he seemed very concerned about his grades and his classes, but then, his dad had always been concerned about his children excelling in school.

“I invited him to the Spring Showing, but he said he’d probably be busy packing and doing other . . . stuff, but he said he’d like to see some of my work sometime. So I told him about the art auction at the LGBT Center and how I was going to have some watercolors there. . .”

Brian’s chuckle vibrated against the side of Justin’s face. “Ballsy move, Sonnyboy. Give him a good chance to see how you’re using that education he’s not paying for.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t see it that way,” Justin said quietly. “That’s when things started to go bad. He got all pissed off, said that he’d hoped we could have a conversation without bringing my lifestyle into it.” Justin held himself tight and still at the memory. “He said he knew that I wasn’t going to ever see . . . reason, or some other bullshit, and that he’d given up trying to make me understand how I was ruining my life, so he just didn’t want to . . . didn’t want me . . . talking to him about any of it.” Justin took another deep breath, and he felt Brian hold him tighter. “I didn’t know what to say . . . I mean, all I wanted was for him to see my art, and all he could think was that I was trying to rub my queerness in his face just because I mentioned the Center.” He licked dry lips that tasted of tears.

“Until I told her I was applying to PIFA, my mom was sort of ‘That’s nice, honey’ about my art, but my dad was really into it. He even argued with my mom about sending me to an art summer camp when she wanted to send me to some stupid sleepaway shit in the Poconos. Not that he didn’t want me to be a business major and go to Dartmouth like he did, but he was into me being artistic. He always said he wished he could draw or paint or do the stuff I do. But now, he couldn’t care less. He . . .” Justin looked away, biting his lip hard. “We started . . . kind of arguing – I was telling him again about how closed-minded he was being, and he was telling me that I needed to grow up and not demonize everyone who isn’t going around embracing homosexuality as a lifestyle and sticking buttons on everyone.” Justin frowned as he recounted that part of the conversation because he now recognized it as a dig at his mother, who was becoming more and more active in the Greater Pittsburgh chapter of PFLAG; she was even considering running for office the next year.

“In the middle of it . . . this guy comes in,” the blonde continued. “Somebody’s assistant or something. A new guy. I’d never seen him before. I hadn’t seen a lot of the people in my dad’s office before . . . I guess with the reorganization, they changed a lot of stuff around.”

“Was he hot?” Brian asked with a raised eyebrow, only half-joking if the tone of his voice was any indication.

“Bri, c’mon . . . I’m being serious. I didn’t notice him.” Justin blushed when Brian raised his other brow, waiting. “Okay, okay, I did notice, but he’s balding and he’s way too thin.” He exhaled when Brian lowered his eyebrows. “Well, this guy barely looks at me, and he starts talking to my dad about some paperwork or something. Both of them are totally ignoring me, and I’m just . . . I felt weird, like I’m this bad smell in the room and they’re trying to pretend its not there. I figure dad’s done talking and he’s busy . . . so I start to leave. Then, right as I get to the door, he tells me to make sure mom has Molly’s bags packed for the weekend before he gets there . . . he didn’t want to sit in the car for an hour while she packed stuff at the last minute when she had all week to do it.”

Justin lapsed into silence and concentrated for awhile on Brian’s hands kneading his back. The ad executive had amazingly strong, warm hands that were as soothing and comforting as his embrace was. If he hadn’t been so worked up, Justin was sure he’d be lulled to sleep by the rhythm of Brian’s stroking his skin. The other man was quiet, though, waiting, Justin knew, for him to continue his story.

“When my dad said that, the guy gives me this look, like he’d just now noticed I was standing there,” Justin went on. “He looked at my dad and then at me and then at my dad again, and he says, totally shocked and shit, ‘Craig . . . I didn’t know you had a son.’” Justin blinked hard against the tears welling up in his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry again . . . no matter what, no matter how reliving those moments in his dad’s office hurt him. “My dad just stared at him . . . didn’t say anything . . . and I looked at him . . . waiting for him to say something. Tell the guy my name, or that I was in school, an artist . . . something. But he just stood there with his mouth open, like he’d just been caught embezzling or something. And that’s when I saw it . . . his desk.”

Justin paused and waited for the lump in his throat to dissolve. “He had all these pictures on it, mostly baby pictures of Molly, and some recent ones of her. There were some of him and the guys at the club that he plays golf with sometimes . . . one of my grandparents – his mom and dad. There weren’t any of my mom, which, you know, made sense . . . but there weren’t any of me, either.”

The teenager took a deep breath, riding out the series of flipflops his stomach was doing. “And there used to be. He used to have my baby pictures right next to Molly’s . . . and some of the ones from the stupid parties for the country club kids. We went every year. I always had to wear a blue suit. It sucked.” Another short silence. “Nothing there . . . they were all gone. Every picture of me. Gone. The assistant guy was starting to say something else, but my dad just shoved him out of the room really quick and said they’d talk later. Then he shut the door tight and locked it, like I was some dirty secret . . . and I guess I was. His queer son. And not only that . . . his queer son who almost got killed ‘cause I was flaunting my disgusting lifestyle in people’s faces.”

Justin pulled away and looked up into the serious amber gaze of his lover. “He doesn’t talk about me to the people he works with or the women he fucks or anyone who hadn’t known him before he divorced my mom. I felt like I . . . I’d been erased. I really didn’t exist for him anymore. I was a nonentity . . . nothing.” Justin dropped his gaze to the creamy, kissable area below Brian’s Adam’s apple. “And he was trying to finish what Hobbes had started.”

Brian’s sharp intake of breath made Justin look up. “What’s that supposed to mean? He didn’t do anything did he? If he put his fucking hands on you –”

“In my dream, I mean,” Justin said hastily. “I’m talking about the dream I had tonight. Hobbes was there . . . he . . . hit me.” He gulped, forcing down lungfuls of humid air. “But I was still breathing . . . I could still feel what he’d done.” He winced at a phantom pain right above his brow bone. “It hurt . . . and I couldn’t move . . . and then . . . I heard someone yelling.” The voices from his dream drifted into his ear, angry and sharp.

“Hobbes looked around, and it’s my dad standing behind him, looking at both of us. Hobbes . . . he looked terrified, ‘cause I guess he figured my dad was there to kick his ass.”

Justin counted to ten, slowly, before he spoke again. “He grabbed the bat out of Chris’ hands, and gives him this look like he’s about to kick him in the balls. I’m trying to move to him, to my dad. I can’t talk . . . it’s like my tongue turned into something dead. Something dead and furry, and I can’t get any words out. But I’m reaching for my dad, trying to get him to help me up . . . tell him that I’m hurting. He looked at me.” The blonde felt himself trembling. “And then he started laughing . . . it was like . . . the Joker’s laugh . . . really weird, scary, and just . . . so fucking bizarre. I’m on the ground, bleeding, and he’s laughing at me. My dad . . .” Another pause. “And he had the bat in the hand . . . and he stopped laughing for a second, and looked at Chris Hobbes and said, ‘You stupid fuck, the faggot’s still alive. Let a real man handle this.’ And then . . .”

Die, you faggot! Die –

I wasn’t there anymore. There wasn’t any me. And that’s what he wanted. What he wants . . . Justin felt his throat constrict. “He didn’t even tell the assistant guy my name,” Justin whispered. “He didn’t even act like he heard what the guy had said. The guy said . . . he didn’t know he had a son . . . and I don’t think my dad thinks of me that way anymore. Ever since I came out . . . and wouldn’t come home and wouldn’t hide it. He’s been phasing me out of his life.” Justin looked up again. “In the dream, he was pissed at Hobbes for not finishing the job, for not killing me . . . and it’s like it’s the same in real life. I bet he wishes sometimes that I had died that night . . . then it wouldn’t be so . . . inconvenient for him to have to explain who this kid is who looks just like him and calls him dad, but he never mentions him or talks about him or brags about him and doesn’t even have a fucking picture of him on his desk. His faggot son would be dead and he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone finding out.”

The blonde stopped there, because he felt too close to tears. Despite Brian’s comforting embrace, he shivered, feeling as cold as if he’d been trying to scale Mt. Everest in his underwear. After the nameless flunky had left, his father had made it clear that their “talk” was over, and Justin had been mildly surprised that his father didn’t suggest that he go down the back stairs or wear a bag over his head, but for all that, he certainly didn’t suggest giving him a lift to work or even walking him to the elevator. They’d parted without hugging, without touching at all . . . without a goodbye. Justin took to the ground floor with his head down, and his head stayed down as he caught the bus, not looking up until the bus crossed over from the sterile business section of the city to the more familiar and colorful streets of Liberty Avenue. He’d gotten to the diner and changed for his shift as quickly and quietly as he could, saying nothing to no one, going through the motions, until Brian came by after his shift to pick him up.

The artist remained quiet through dinner and worked at the computer for awhile, grateful that Brian was too wrapped up in prepping for his presentation to notice his dark mood. The blonde had turned over in his mind why his father had even agreed to see him in the first place if he was so intent on cutting him out of his life. He wasn’t paying for his school and Jenn Taylor had decided to carry both him and Molly on her insurance at work, so there were no monetary bonds. Now Craig was moving across the country, and since deserts were really not his thing, Justin was reasonably sure that he’d never go out to visit his father, and would have to rely on Molly’s reports to learn anything of Craig’s new life.

The thing was, Justin had a sneaking suspicion of why his father had consented to meet with him. His mother had let it slip one day that she’d mentioned his breakup with Brian to her ex, but had not gone into the whys, which meant that she’d not said anything about Ethan Gold, and Justin wondered if his father thought that his breaking up with Brian meant he was going straight or something moronic like that. Or, knowing his father and his hatred for Brian, maybe Craig Taylor had been so happy to hear that it was over that he’d been willing to overlook the queer thing . . . and then he had to bring up the LGBT Center . . . had to remind his father that with or without Brian – and with was definitely the preferred choice – he was still his big, queer son . . .

“You could be right, Sunshine.” Brian’s voice startled him, and Justin glanced up. Brian wasn’t looking at him, exactly. There was a faraway look to the older man’s eyes that was . . . unsettling a little, and Justin wondered what it was his lover was really seeing. “If Hobbes had . . . killed you, it would’ve justified your father’s fucked-up world view. He could’ve played the poor, bereaved father who lost his little golden boy to those depraved homosexuals who’d brainwashed him . . . got him thinking that he liked dick. . .” Brian’s fingers went beneath blonde bangs and traced along the faint scar above Justin’s eyebrow. “Not to a homophobic piece of shit with a bat and a grudge, but to the fags . . . and everyone knows what happens to the fags . . . they get discriminated against. Picked on at school. Shit thrown at them . . . beat up . . . beat on . . .”

The fingers trailed down the pale cheek and rested on his collarbone. “But probably not. Your father, such as he is, gave just enough of a damn to make me think he’s not a total psychopathic asshole. He might’ve thought the bat would wake you up . . . get you to see the error of your cocksucking ways and get you to walk the straight and narrow. But nope, you got better . . . and you’re still the same queer you were right before . . . before prom.” Justin noticed Brian’s stumbling over the sentence, and he squeezed Brian’s ass in reassurance, saddened that Brian still had trouble talking about that night nearly two years after the fact. “Maybe that’s why he’s rewriting the script . . . cleaning house . . . cutting you out. You’re not the same little blonde kid in the bunny slippers and the Mets cap –”

“I have never worn bunny slippers, Brian,” Justin said with righteous indignation. “Big Bird slippers, yes, but never bunny slippers. And I hate baseball.”

“Big Bird?” Brian looked at him askance. “You should’ve quit while you where ahead, Sunshine.” He grinned widely before turning serious once more. “You’re different, Sonnyboy . . . and he knows it . . . he doesn’t fit in your life anymore . . . and you don’t fit in with his, either. You’re never gonna be a chip off the old block, and he’s never gonna be like your mom, passing out pamphlets and condoms and working the car wash fundraiser for the AIDS hospice.” The dark-haired man sighed softly. “But I don’t think he’d ever wish you dead, Sonnyboy . . . he doesn’t have the balls to be that dysfunctional.”

Brian smiled a bitter smile that made his eyes look glassy. “Not like my dear old man, who even on his fucking deathbed managed to always remember what a selfish asshole was supposed to act like. I came out to him when he was sick. Know what he told me, Sonnyboy?”

Justin shuddered at the depth of hurt in Brian’s eyes, and pressed himself tighter against his lover’s body. “He told me I should be the one dying. Not him.” Brian gave a sardonic chuckle. “Here this fucker was, sick . . . had cancer everywhere because he smoked anything that had a filter and drank whatever he could get his hands on. Stupid prick got canned from just about every job he ever had . . . followed the time-honored family tradition of being a shitty father and husband . . . but I’m the one who liked fucking ass and sucking cock, and not good, wholesome, American values like gambling away rent money or smacking your kid across the face because he had the fucking gall to apply to college, get accepted and plan on going, so I was the one who deserved to die. Nice, neat logic backed up by the religious text of your choice.” Brian turned away slightly. “If somebody’d taken a bat to my head . . . my old man would have cheered . . . maybe even given the guy a medal.”

Justin couldn’t hide his surprise or his growing anger at Brian’s words. Brian hardly ever talked about any of his family, and to Justin’s best recollection, he hadn’t said much about his father, even back when the elder Kinney had died. Now the blonde understood why. With a father like that and the type of mother Joan Kinney seemed to be, no wonder Brian was so . . . Brian, so seemingly afraid to love and trust. What sort of fucking father would say to his kid that he should die . . . and just because of the way he chose to live his life? It was then that Justin understood how sucky Brian had had it growing up – a father who resented him and a mother who . . . well, Justin had no words to describe Mrs. Kinney. He could still remember the crestfallen look on Brian’s face that one morning that his mother had dropped by . . . and stormed out after she realized her son’s preference of bedfellow, emphasis on "fellow."

“It surprised me to hear him say that . . . I don’t know why. My old man was nothing if not consistent.” Brian shrugged slightly. “He reacted just the way Jack ‘Screw You’ Kinney would. It was comforting, in a way: cancer or no cancer, he was gonna die just as he lived – as a pathetic asshole who fucked up everything he touched . . . and got off on doing it.” The hazel eyes narrowed a little. “Not like your daddy dearest. He’ll hurt you from afar . . . and say he’s doing it for your own good. He’ll stop paying for your school . . . pack up and move without telling you . . . never call, never go to see your art shows . . . and he’ll think that’s fine . . . that it’s for the best. And you know what, Sonnyboy? He’s right,” Brian sat up a little, taking Justin with him. “I think that’s what he was going for in your dream. What is it you said he said? Kill the fag?”

Justin swallowed hard, beginning to shake again. “No . . . it was – die, faggot . . . just die . . .”

“Die faggot. Not die, Justin. Not die, son. Die, faggot.” Brian looked thoughtful. “Like he wanted to kill the faggot in you, beat the faggot out of you. Seems like he’s been trying to do that since I met you . . . one way or another . . . just never physically . . . right, Sunshine?” Brian stared at him, wanting, Justin knew, confirmation of that.

“He bitch-slapped me once,” Justin admitted. “After he told me he was going to put me in military school . . . but it didn’t hurt. And he didn’t touch me after that.” Not even to hug me . . . Justin bit his lip. Or shake my hand . . . like I was diseased.

Brian nodded. “I think he gets it now, though. The queer in you can’t be beat out – not by Hobbes, by him or by anyone else, no matter how much he wishes it could be, it’s a part of you, and if getting a bat to the head didn’t knock it out of you, nothing will. There’s nothing more he can do for you except get the fuck out of your way.”

He gave Justin a meaningful look. “He’s given you every reason and opportunity to write him off the way he wrote you off . . . so you can say you don’t have a father just as easy as he can say he doesn’t have a son. You may not see it now, Sunshine, but he's making it easier on you - on the both of you. You don't need his bullshit, and he doesn't think he needs the hassle of having a queer for a son. So fuck him. He doesn't deserve you." Brian paused. "He’s even moving across the country to a place so fucking putrid, he might as well not exist.” Brian rolled his eyes. “Too bad my dad croaked, they could’ve gone together . . . he knew the best fag jokes . . . they could've kept each other entertained. But that would have been too easy. Twice I offered to get my parents out of the Pitts and into some nice, sunny little condo in Sarasota. My mom never went for it . . . wanted to be near her sister and her grandkids. And my old man . . . well he knew that it wouldn’t be as much fun to call me a fucking loser reject over the phone as it was in person. Just doesn’t have that same effect.”

“My mom says you shouldn’t speak bad about dead people, but your dad was a stupid twat.” Justin fingers buried themselves in Brian’s dark hair, and he planted kisses along his Brian’s jaw, wishing he could kiss away every bit of pain Jack Kinney had ever caused his lover. “I bet he did all those things and said that stuff because he was jealous of you . . . I think your whole family was. You were smarter than all of them. You’re more successful than any of them, doing things they only wish they could do, going places they only wish they could go. And you’re more beautiful than any of them . . . that probably pisses them off the most, especially your sister.”

“That’s not too hard, Sonnyboy.” Brian grinned wryly. “My old man used to say that the Kinneys didn’t flee the potato famine, they were kicked out of the fucking country. Everybody thought they’d caused it by going out to the fields without covering their faces first, and made all the crops shrivel up and die.”

Justin smiled, his eyes roaming a familiar landscape of ruddy skin, fine-boned jaw and hooded eyes, the blonde wondered if Brian had any physical feature that couldn’t be compared to something in nature, something wild and beautiful. “Those genes must have skipped you.” Justin bent close and gently kissed Brian's chin, feeling the last of the horror of the dream loosen its hold and slip away. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

Brian’s answering grin made Justin’s cock sit up and take notice. He knew that look, that smile. It meant the conversation hour was done for the time being . . . and that it was time for talk of a different kind. While Justin knew he wouldn’t mind talking more, and Brian probably wouldn’t either, they’d both hit some serious nerves, and maybe it was time for a little break from the pain.

“Mmm, Sunshine, funny you should mention fucking . . .” A large hand was instantly palming his crotch, squeezing the rapidly filling flesh there. “As long as we’re both up . . . if you’re feeling any better . . .” Brian let his voice trail off and raised his eyebrows in silent question.

“Getting there.” Justin felt his whole body grow warm when Brian began stroking him through his briefs. “I wouldn’t mind feeling a lot better, though . . .” He kissed his way up Brian’s neck, over his chin, to his lips. Justin planted his mouth on Brian’s, and kissed the older man hard, not minding the scrape of Brian’s stubble against his chin. His hands wandered Brian’s body as they kissed, and his fingers delighted in the feel of smooth skin, tracing over the muscles and ridges that hours in the gym had carved into Brian’s flesh.

Breaking their kiss, Justin bussed the tip of his lover’s nose, tongue playing in the shallow divot at its end, before moving down to tongue Brian's neck and then his collarbone, driven downward by Brian’s sighs and the feel of strong fingers tangling in his hair. Moving down to Brian’s chest, Justin flicked his tongue over a dusky nipple, sucking it and nipping at it playfully, smiling as the bud swelled to hardness between his lips. Justin dragged his tongue across the tender flesh of Brian’s chest and gave similar treatment to the executive’s other nipple, lashing it with gentle, wet strokes.

Continuing his lingual exploration of the long-boned body, Justin slid his mouth and tongue over the ridges of Brian’s abs and down the trail of hair leading to a very impressive hard-on. Justin mouthed the pulsing flesh covered by Brian’s briefs, darkening the silken garment with his saliva. Hooking his thumbs into the briefs, he stared up at Brian as he pulled them down, laughing softly when the older man’s erect dick sprang out and whapped him on the chin. Brian was staring down at him, eyes hazy with longing and lips slightly parted. A glimpse of tongue peeked from between Brian’s rosebud lips, and Justin allowed himself to marvel at how beautiful the man of his dreams truly was before he turned back to the lovely organ pulsing just inches from his mouth.

He took Brian’s dick into his mouth and moved his head progressively down until his nose was buried in silky auburn pubes, the musky, sharp scent bypassing Justin's nose completely and making the detour straight to his dick, which swelled and hardened in response. Justin moved up the throbbing flesh slowly, rolling his tongue gently over the swollen head and teasingly dipping into the slit. He fought hard not to smile at Brian’s low groan as the executive pumped his hips, fucking his face with long, slow strokes. Justin closed his eyes to better enjoy the sensation of Brian’s cock sliding in and out of his mouth, and the teenager opened his throat wide, with effort managing to take Brian’s entire dick each time he shoved his hips forward. A keening cry and a gentle hand on his shoulder let Justin know just how much Brian was appreciating his efforts.

The blonde ran his hands across the firm flesh of Brian’s ass, burrowing his fingers into the crack, probing for the puckered opening of his lover’s body, massaging it as he pulled away from Brian’s dick and moved down to his balls, tonguing the fleshy, swollen orbs, laving the sac that housed them until it looked as if it had been laminated. Justin kissed and licked the wrinkled flesh, not minding at all the stray hairs tickling his lips or Brian's strengthening grip on his shoulder. Nothing at all fazed the blonde, in fact, until Brian sat up, reached down and pulled him up so that they were face-to face.

Brian leaned in and began kissing his eyes, forehead, all over his face. “I love being in your mouth . . . but I’d rather be fucking you right now.” He reached down and Justin gasped at the feel of Brian’s warm hand on his cock and shivered at Brian’s voice, rough and urgent, in his ear. “I want to be inside you, Justin. That all right with you?”

Despite the maelstrom of sensation Brian’s hand on his cock and his very nearness was wreaking on his body, Justin found the energy to laugh. Brian just sounded so . . . polite, which was not very like him at all. It was kind of kinky, in a way. “It’s always all right with me, Bri.” Justin murmured, rolling onto his back. “Always.”

Brian grinned, and for a moment, Justin stared at the golden expanse of Brian’s back as he rolled over to the nightstand, removing condoms and lube from a drawer. In less than no time, Justin found himself with his legs over Brian’s shoulders and his lover’s cock entering him with excruciating tenderness. Justin breathed shallowly as Brian began fucking him slowly and delicately, leaning down until their foreheads pressed together, whispering reassurances and caressing every bit of skin his hands could reach as he plunged in and out. Justin stared into honey-colored eyes and moved his body in rhythm with Brian’s and felt whole again. Everything was all right again, finally . . . the dream was gone, his dad soon would be, too, he was gaining strength in his drawing hand every day, and Brian was deep inside him, fucking him, loving him with everything he had. Justin arched up and cried out with relief and pleasure. Everything was finally all right again, the hateful words and the laughter that had been echoing in his head replaced with the sounds of their fucking, the wet slap of their bellies sliding together . . . the gentle rasp of hand on dick as Brian began slowly jacking him off . . . Brian’s soft words of reassurance . . . of tenderness . . . of - dare he think it - love . . . Brian’s breathless voice telling him that it felt good, that being inside him was amazing, that his dick was beautiful . . . that his ass deserved to be bronzed . . . that he needed this, they needed this . . . that it was good, their fucking was good, so, so good, Sunshine . . . so good . . .

“I love you, Brian,” Justin groaned and closed his eyes, barely aware of the other man’s response . . . not that he could be aware of much at that point in time. Sensations were sweeping over his body, starting from the root of his cock and radiating out, threatening to consume him as Brian’s hand and cock continued to work their magic on his body.

“Look at me,” Brian said with an urgency that shook Justin to the roots of his hair. “Open your eyes, Justin. It’s me . . . I want you to see me . . . see what you do to me.” He thrust in hard, rocking his hips. “How you make me feel . . .”

Justin opened his eyes and saw Brian staring down at him, eyes locked to his. Justin held his lover’s gaze and that was how their fucking went; eyes riveted to one another’s, breathing in perfect sync and their forms thrusting together and pulling apart in a seamless, continual rhythm. Justin felt keenly aware of the soft cotton sheets beneath his body, and saw clearly on the ceiling his and Brian’s shadows flickering as they moved as one. Justin felt his heart beating in his chest, felt the sweat pooling into his navel, heard the air in the room sizzle, the darkness fade away like a healing bruise, but mainly he was aware of Brian, of those amber eyes and strong chin and dark hair and thick dick. Justin felt it all, saw it all . . . it existed . . . there were no shadows, no nothingness, no netherworld of pain . . . he existed . . . everything around him, around them, was real, including the love he was sure he saw radiating out of Brian’s guarded eyes.

Justin reached up to palm away the sweaty hair hanging in Brian’s eyes, and that’s when he saw the change in his lover’s expression, the slight shift of eyes and the tautness of neck that meant he was on the precipice of orgasm and getting closer and closer to the edge. The teen, too, felt his end approaching, and he bucked faster and with purpose, attempting to complete the synchrony of their fucking by climaxing together. Taking note of Brian’s ragged, uneven breathing, Justin clamped his ass hard on his dick, reaching back and thrusting one finger shallowly in and out of Brian’s flexing asshole. That seemed to do it for Brian, who bent and kissed Justin fiercely, thrusting deep and hard. Justin felt the older man’s dick pulse inside him, and that set off his own descent into orgasm. Justin's cries were muted by Brian’s mouth over his as his cum shot out, slicking the space between their bellies. Justin panted into his lover’s mouth as he let himself go, bonelessly jerking and flopping on the bed as his load spurted out in ropy streams.

It was some time before he felt Brian loosen his hold on him; several minutes after they’d both come, at least. It could’ve even been hours afterward. Justin wasn’t sure; he’d been too wrapped up in his post-orgasmic haze and in the wonderful feel and smell of a sated Brian Kinney to care one way or the other. But when Brian opened his arms a little – just enough to let Justin roll onto his side and spoon up beside him – Justin came back to himself. He felt drowsy now, but not very, and he could tell by Brian’s breathing and the way the older man was kissing his neck that Brian was not going back to sleep any time soon, either, and would maybe even like to talk some more about what else had happened that day, what more his father had said . . . but Justin didn’t want that, anymore. The rift between himself and his father, the anger he’d felt about being written out of his dad’s life, the helplessness, the residual horror from the dream, all of it seemed inconsequential now. Nothing existed for him except the subtle burn in his ass, soft lips at the nape of his neck and a pair of arms that held him close, protected him, kept him safe no matter what, and always would. That was Justin’s world at that moment, the certainty and safety of the arms that held him tight, and he was quite content to live in the here and now for as long as he was able.

Finis

Fool You Once

By Eveline and Jamie

(season 2 story) Brian grapples with suspicions and jealousy of two college boys who seem eager to befriend Justin. Incomplete.

One

As Brian pushed his way into the Liberty Diner, he tried to forget that he, a high-powered executive with money in the bank, an array of credit cards, an expense account to envy, a 1 ½-hour lunch break, a finicky palate and loads of culinary options at his fingertips, was instead going to spend his vaunted hour in a divey greasy spoon, sandwiched in among the “colorful” regulars, and where the commingled aroma of hamburger grease and chili could knock a grown man on his ass.

And he tried to forget that he wasn’t in the mood for a turkey sandwich, though he would order one anyway, and that he’d never seen the “magic” of the Diner’s famous lemon squares, though he’d take four of them to go – two for him, two for Cynthia who loved the things – and that the coffee was just on this side of strychnine, but he’d drink two cups with his dry-ass sandwich and would probably order a third cup to linger over while he waited for his lemon squares to be boxed up. Brian put all these thoughts out of his mind as he lounged in the booth, waiting patiently for the real reason he’d driven 20 minutes out of his way to eat average food among company that was anything but.

He hadn’t long to wait. An aproned blond emerged from the kitchen, a salad in one hand, a Philly steak special in the other, a pitcher of water dangling precariously on his fingertips and “Sunshine” smile at the ready as he delivered the meals to a couple of gray-suited businessmen. Relaxing now, Brian picked up the menu and pretended to study it, content to be still until he was noticed, knowing that wouldn’t take long, either.

And he smiled when about two seconds later, a Justin-shaped shadow fell across the menu. “Brian! Hey.”

The executive did a silent count to five, eyes lingering on the description of the teriyaki mahi-mahi, before looking up into the smiling face of his young lover. “Hey,” he said softly. “How’re tips?”

“Excellent.” Justin filled Brian’s water glass. “Earlier, one guy came in, and all he ordered was a meatloaf platter to go, and he gave me a $50 bill . . . and told me to keep the change. He said I was beautiful, that I could be a model.”

“How original,” Brian said dryly, quite aware of the effect those blue eyes, that blond hair and that round ass had on much of the homosexual population, and on some of the heterosexual population, as well. “Was he hot?”

“Not really.” Justin slid in opposite Brian, brow furrowed. “I mean, he was okay, I guess. Tall, kinda thin. Dark hair. But he was old. Like maybe late forties.” He shrugged. “He gave me his card.” Justin fished something out of his apron pocket and held it out to Brian, who took it and studied it with feigned indifference. According to the square of paper, the generous tipper was “Terrance Kull, Investment Banker,” who apparently had an office somewhere on Fifth Avenue.

Investment Banker. Brian gave the card back with a grin. They were the most boring fucks imaginable, even more so than accountants. He didn’t have a thing to be concerned about.

“He was really nice though. We talked for awhile,” Justin went on in a conversational tone, shoving the card back in his apron. “He asked me if I had a boyfriend.”

“Mmmm.” Brian felt his throat go dry inexplicably. Taking a sip of water, he glanced around the half-full restaurant. A dark, well-built man in a muscle shirt and bicycle pants sitting at the counter was giving Brian the eye, and he gave the cruiser a brief appraising look before turning back to Justin. Even with mussed hair and in an old shirt, ratty jeans and a grease-streaked apron, the teen was the hottest guy in the place, hands down. No one even came close. “And what did you tell him?”

Justin held Brian’s gaze for a moment, and the older man felt his heart pound. The quiet, questioning stare was familiar. He’d woken up to it that morning, had seen it again as he and the blond shared a shower, and it had made a reappearance as Justin kissed him goodbye on his way out to class. That look had burned itself into Brian’s brain, and he’d driven himself crazy all morning trying to decipher it. Justin was so open, so earnest, Brian could usually read his every expression, but not this one. And it bothered him, because he knew Justin was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t figure out what that something was.

“I told him that . . . I probably don’t,” Justin said quietly, standing up from the booth. “Anyway. You want your usual, right? Turkey sandwich on whole grain, no mayo. To go.”

Brian stared up at him for a moment, watching the boy fiddle with his order pad. Suddenly, the meaning behind the look was crystal clear, and Brian felt the urge to run his head through one of the restaurant’s plate-glass windows. Fuck. Me.

“And some fries,” Brian muttered, his cheeks staining red. Fuck! “And a cup of coffee.” His mouth didn’t seem to want to stop moving. He had to say something; he knew that, but what? What? Saying something, after all, was probably what got him into this mess. “Black. And I’m eating here.”

Justin nodded and jotted down the order. “Okay. Be right back with the coffee.” He turned to walk away just as Brian found his voice and his courage.

“Justin . . .”

The blonde hesitated and turned back. “Yeah?”

Brian stared into the beautiful blue eyes and heard Justin’s words from the night before echo back to him.

Brian, I love you. I love you. I love you, Brian.

And the executive heard his own reply, whispered in between passionate thrusts into the sexy young body. I . . . love . . . you . . . too, Justin.

Brian sighed, and stared down at the table, the memory and the voices fading. “Never mind.”

“Right,” Justin said in a barely audible tone, biting down on his lower lip. He turned away again and had very soon disappeared from sight.

Brian frowned down at the menu, banging his fist on the table in a frustrated gesture. It had been a stupid thing, a very stupid thing, to have suggested to Justin that they stay in last night instead of going to Woody’s to shoot pool with the guys. Brian had tried to rationalize it by saying that Justin shouldn’t be up late on a “school night,” though he knew that the blond wouldn’t have to be at PIFA until late afternoon. The truth was, Brian was a little tired of the bar scene and wanted to just be with Justin – just the two of them together. Nothing fancy, no bullshit. Justin had been amenable to it, so they’d ordered pizza and Justin ransacked Brian’s DVD collection for suitable viewing choices.

Somehow, the teen had stumbled across the movie “Trick,” which, looking back on it, Brian could not imagine having ever bought. It was more than likely given to him as a gag gift by Linds – or maybe Emmett. At any rate, Justin thought it’d be the perfect movie for them because it was about two guys who hook up for a night of hot fucking but end up falling in love. The thing was supposedly a romantic comedy, and though it was not particularly well-acted and was somewhat corny in places, Brian found himself smiling wistfully as he watched. It reminded him of the early days with Justin, meeting him under the streetlight, their first night together (watching the movie, Brian was never more thankful that he didn’t have a roommate to worry about), the meddling, but well-meaning friends, the misunderstandings.

For his part, Justin had loved the movie, laughing at all the lame jokes, getting teary-eyed when the trick in question seemed about to leave the hero’s life forever. Smiling when he realized that wasn’t going to happen. But the blond didn’t say anything until the movie was over.

As the final song played and the credits rolled, Justin turned to his older lover, his voice soft.

So it can happen. That a guy you only plan on fucking for one night becomes the love of your life.

Knowing what Justin was alluding to, Brian had scoffed, reminding the blond that it was only a movie, but something had stirred deep within him as he looked at Justin. It was lust, yes, but there was something else there, the same something that had been fomenting in him well before the night of Justin’s prom, that threatened to bubble over just before tragedy struck on that fateful night, and had been simmering beneath the surface ever since. Brian had to swallow hard against to keep it down.

Just another part of why Hollywood sucks. Brian had said. They try to make a movie about fags wanting to fuck, and we don’t get a single dick shot.

He’d meant it as a joke, needing to say something to distract him from the pounding in his heart, but Justin was looking at him with eyes that were so large, so blue that Brian’s heart only started beating harder and his head started to swim. His thoughts jumbled together in an incomprehensible mass. Justin stared at him for a long moment. Asked the next question in an almost inaudible voice.

Do you . . . do you think it’ll ever happen . . . with us?

It already has. The words were out of his mouth before Brian could think. And, in fact, he was almost certain that he’d said them only in his head, but then he heard Justin’s gasp and saw those eyes get even larger and bluer, Justin’s mouth opening in surprise. Brian had wondered if he should try to retract the words somehow or make some sort of a joke like, “It already has in a parallel universe somewhere.” but then Justin had spoken again, his voice still hovering at a whisper:

It already has for me, yeah. But . . . what about you?

Brian saw that the boy was giving him an out, a way for him to remain the Brian Kinney that he professed to be – the man who didn’t believe in love, who didn’t “do” relationships, who didn’t need to rely on anyone but himself for anything. Brian wondered now what it was that made him refuse the out Justin had given him – maybe he’d been poisoned by the cheese on the pizza, maybe he’d drank a little more wine than was good for him. There could be any number of explanations as to why when they made love later, and the boy whispered words of love to him, Brian had responded in kind, giving vent to the feelings that had been building inside him for months. There had to be a reason why he’d said anything in the first place, something behind why he’d wanted a “night alone” with his golden boy instead of a night out with the boys. There had to be some explanation. And there was.

He was in love. It was that fucking simple. It was also that fucking scary, but never mind that for now.

But he’d never planned on telling Justin that. Even during all the nights at the hospital he’d whispered it as he looked in on the boy while he recovered from the bashing, he’d never planned on telling Justin that he’d fallen for him. Why, the twink would be insufferable then, knowing that he’d captured not only the eye of the great Brian Kinney, but his heart as well. But now it was out in the open, like a 10-inch dick in a backroom orgy. Brian had fully expected a gloating Justin crowing from the rooftops, “Brian Kinney loves me!”

Instead, he had that look. That searching, slightly sad expression that made the blond look more like a kid who’d just found out Santa Claus didn’t exist. Brian couldn’t understand it until Justin had brought up the “boyfriend” thing. For, the executive realized that look for what it was – disbelief and doubt. For some reason, Justin didn’t believe that he was serious about loving him. And Brian was aware that he couldn’t blame him much; he’d said over and over about how much romantic love was a crock of shit, a tool used by straights to justify fucking. If he were Justin, he probably wouldn’t believe it, either. But it still hurt that he’d taken such a huge leap of faith only to be met with skepticism and suspicion.

Brian was picking absently at the sleeve of his leather jacket when Justin returned, setting a steaming cup of coffee in front of him.

“I’ll be right back with your sandwich,” he said crisply. “The fries’ll up in a second. Jade had to change the oil in the fryer.”

“Forget the fucking fries,” Brian muttered, watching the steam rise from his coffee. “Wrap the sandwich. I’m taking it to go after all. There’s a shitload of work waiting, and Ryder’s been up my ass all morning.” He braved a look upward. Justin’s face was impassive.

“Sure. One second.” Justin turned away again before Brian could utter another word. He let out a frustrated sigh and shook his head. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck staying in. Fuck whoever gave me that stupid movie. Fuck Mikey for dragging me out of Babylon in time for me to see him standing under that fucking light looking like something out of a fucking Hollywood script. Fuck him for getting under my skin. Fuck me for telling him I loved him, and fuck it for being true.

The door behind him opened, and Brian glanced over to see two men wander in, both of them taking in their surroundings with open mouths and wide eyes as they walked into the middle of the diner, selecting a booth in the middle of the restaurant. They looked young, Justin’s age maybe, and Brian could tell from their fish-out-of-water expressions that they were newcomers not only to the diner but to the Liberty Avenue scene. His mouth twisted into a smirk as he sized them up – they were both good-looking in a sort of nondescript way, tallish, decent builds. One had hair about two shades darker than Justin’s, and curly. The other had near-black, wavy hair. Cute, Brian decided, but nothing he hadn’t seen a billion times before.

Justin reappeared a couple of minutes later carrying two paper bags in his hand. Brian noted with some surprise that as he walked past the newcomers’ table, the dark-haired one reached out and grabbed his arm. Justin looked surprised – and pleased – to see the young men, treating them to his trademark smile, and chatting easily with them. Interest piqued, Brian watched the boys interact. The two looked about college-age. Maybe they were PIFA students, or could be they were old classmates of Justin’s from St. James. He watched the boys watch Justin, looking for any sign of lust in either of their eyes. He couldn’t really tell – the dark blond, in fact, seemed engrossed in the menu while the dark-haired boy talked a mile a minute or so. He might have fucked him. Brian eyed the dark-haired teen with new interest, feeling a slight twinge of . . . what? Not jealousy. Surely not that. They fucked whomever they wanted whenever they wanted. Nothing would change that, not even this . . . this . . . love thing. No, he was hungry, that was all. That’s why his stomach was clenching the way it was, Brian thought, stirring a packet of sugar into his coffee. Still, there was something in the way the raven-haired boy was looking at Justin that Brian didn’t sit well with Brian at all.

Justin glanced his way, still talking to the pair. Saying something that made the two of them turn around and look at him, Brian leaned back in the booth made sure he was the picture of nonchalance. Took a sip of his coffee and let the curious stares of the strangers wash over him. Looked into the eyes of the dark-haired teen . . . and liked him less. The curly-haired one had resumed studying the menu so quickly that Brian hadn’t gotten a chance to really gauge his expression.

Justin said something else to which the dark-haired teen laughed and then resumed his walk to his lover’s table. A harried-looking waitress took Justin’s place, taking the teens’ orders.

“Here you go.” Justin placed the bags on the table, placing the check next to Brian’s cup. “I can take that whenever you’re ready.”

“What the fuck is all this?” Brian eyed the large bags, one of them spotted with grease. “All I asked for was a sandwich.”

“The fries were ready, so I got ‘em for you. You wouldn’t have asked for them if you didn’t really want them” Justin shrugged. “And I put in some lemon squares.” He pointed to the smaller of the bags. “I know Cynthia likes them . . . and so do you – even though you say you don’t.” Justin raised a brow. “No charge.”

Brian smiled in spite of himself. His boy knew him well – too well, sometimes. But maybe . . . maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Brian took a sip of his drink. “So, what’s with the Cub Scout meeting?” He nodded toward the table in the middle.

Justin looked around. “Oh. That’s Josh and Seth. They go to Duquesne. We’re working on a project together.”

Brian frowned. Duquesne University, the Catholic college that often managed to get lost in the shadows of Pitt and Carnegie-Mellon, was kind of like Euro Disney – you heard all sorts of stories about it, but you never knew anyone who’d actually gone there. “A project? You go to different schools. How the fuck does that work?”

“It’s . . . kind of like a cooperative learning thing,” Justin answered. “Duquesne has this writer’s workshop, and every semester the people who are in it do a different project. This semester, they have to make a children’s book – nothing fancy, but it’s gotta have a cover and illustrations. That’s where PIFA comes in. A bunch of artists get paired with the writers to do the artwork. I got Josh and Seth. They’re writing their book together.”

“So, what, are they fucking?” Brian looked at them again. “And who’s who?”

“Seth’s the blond, Josh’s the brunette, and no, they’re not fucking.” Justin smiled a little. “At least, not each other. I think they might be related, I dunno. We met a few nights ago when we got matched up, but I don’t know much about them; this is the first time we’re meeting to work on the project though. They seem really cool. Or as cool as straight guys can be.”

Brian took a last sip of his coffee, picked up the check and reached for his wallet. “Working with straights . . .” He mock-shuddered. “Don’t let them warp your mind. But I wouldn’t be too sure that they aren’t fags. I think the guy with the dark hair wants your ass.”

“Josh? Nah.” Justin shook his head. “He’s got a girlfriend. He told me.”

“He told you he had a girlfriend? Then I take it back: He definitely wants your ass.” Brian stood, fished a bill out of his wallet and placed it atop the check. “I’ll be home later. Ryder’s holding one of his lame-ass “Happy Hours” after work. I have to put in an appearance.” He groaned inwardly at the thought of the boss’ “morale-boosting” initiatives outside the office, plying his employees with alcohol and cheap appetizers all in the name of fostering collegiality. “Don’t bother cooking. I’ll bring something in on the way. From that Cuban place you like.” Seeing the boy’s face brighten made him smile, and Brian pulled him close, placing a lingering kiss on the soft lips. Pulling back and gazing into the earnest face, Brian made the decision to try to put the boy’s mind at ease.

“The stuff I said last night.” His voice dipped low. “I meant it. All of it.” He stared into the darkening blue eyes, seeing confusion give way to comprehension give way to joy. Brian felt his stomach unclench.

Justin’s cheeks colored, and the smile that spread across the handsome face was like a rush of sun. Brian allowed himself to be dazzled for a moment before turning serious again.

“But don’t expect to hear it every day, or have me say it with flowers or candy or start singing on bended knee or any of that other bullshit.” He gave him a stern look. “Like I told you before – we’re queers. I’m still going to fuck around with no regrets, and I expect you to do the same. Are we clear?”

“I . . .” Justin bit his lip again, seemed about to say something, but didn’t. “Yeah. We’re clear.”

“Good.” Brian nodded, shrugging on his leather jacket. “Later, then.” He turned to go.

“Later,” Justin returned softly, a slight smile on his lips. He grabbed Brian’s money and the bill and did a double-take. “Hey! Wait for your change!” He held up the $100 bill the executive had put down.

Brian turned and grinned at him. “Keep it . . . beautiful.” No way he was going to let some sonafabitching stuffed shirt show him up. “And if Terrance Kull, banker extraordinaire, happens to come back in, tell him you don’t do old. Or boring.”

As he left the diner, Justin’s laughter trailing gently after him, Brian knew he’d be hearing that laugh, seeing that smile, in his mind for the rest of the day. Maybe he’d be able to survive Ryder’s little gathering after all.

Two

Counting out the change from Brian’s bill, Lala, the cashier, made a tsk-ing sound. “Honey, if I’d had your looks when I was a lad, maybe I would’ve stayed a boy.”

“I bet you were just as hot as a guy as you are as a girl, Lal,” Justin said gallantly, wiping his hands on his apron. The lunch crowd was thinning out a little, the Liberty Avenue regulars and the wannabes returning to their jobs, their dens of desire, their drugs or their sugar daddies.

“No, honey.” The transsexual shook her head. “I was a geeky little fuck. Knock knees, glasses, horrid hair.” She sighed theatrically, eyeing him with a fond lechery. “But you, Justin . . . umph. Simply sinful. You must let me know your beauty secrets . . . or at least let me borrow your ass sometime.” She handed him the change with another shake of the head.

“Sorry, Lal.” Justin pocketed his money with a smile, adding it to the already-sizeable stack in his pocket. “I’m kinda attached to it.”

“Oh, honey, so is everyone who has eyes.” Lala murmured, giving the bubble butt an appreciative look. Justin laughed again, pecking her on the cheek before walking over to join Josh and Seth, who were decimating plates of burgers and fries.

“Sorry about that. It’s been kind of busy today.” Justin took a seat next to Josh. “Is your food okay?”

“It’s great,” Josh said around a mouthful of hamburger. Swallowing, he elaborated. “The food on campus sucks hard; it’s been forever since I’ve had a decent burger.”

“You don’t cook?” Justin raised his brows. He knew that his own culinary prowess was probably the exception rather than the rule, but since enrolling in PIFA, he’d found that a lot of college students had contraband hot plates or utilized friend’s (or parents) kitchens to escape the swill served up on campus.

“Dude, you kidding? We live in the dorms,” Josh said, snagging a fry from Seth’s plate. “We don’t even have microwaves! It fucking blows.” He chewed viciously for a few moments. “But it’s all good. Me and Seth won’t be in that shithole long, right, Curls?”

Curls? Justin gave Josh a look, missing the murderous glare the blond shot across the table. Maybe they are fucking each other.

“Yeah. Right.” Seth muttered, turning back to his food. Justin looked at the blond with interest. He seemed very shy. Even at the first meeting, Justin noticed that Seth let Josh do most of the talking and hardly ever met anyone’s eye.

“We’ve never been on Liberty Avenue before.” Josh stirred his milkshake. “Dude, is it always so . . . um . . .”

“Wild?” Justin asked with a smile. Josh grinned back and did a double-take as two drag queens with five o’clock shadows sauntered past on their way to the bathroom, no doubt to fix their makeup.

Justin laughed out loud at the shell-shocked look on Josh’s face. “You should see this place at night. This is totally the slow period.”

“Damn.” Josh shook his head in disbelief. “But don’t you get weirded out by some of it?”

“You get used to it. And you get really into it – if that’s what you want.” He smiled a little, remembering how overwhelmed he was his first time on Liberty Avenue. Considering how crappy a start he’d gotten off to that night, it all ended pretty good. Very good in fact.

“So. . . that guy you were talking to back there. In the leather jacket. Uh . . . is he your boyfriend?” Josh asked.

“Um . . .” Justin hedged, wondering how to answer that. Though he’d seen the evidence of it all along, he’d just about given up on the hope that Brian would ever admit to loving him. The closest he’d figured he’d ever come was after Brian told him that while the bashing was the reason he’d opened his home to him, it wasn’t the reason he wanted him to stay.

Although the previous night, he’d gotten an actual admission of love, Justin had not allowed himself to be awed. Brian had, after all, told him the same thing the first time they’d fucked, and it turned out to mean nothing to the executive, though Justin had managed to fight his way into Brian’s life. So when he’d said it again in bed last night, again while they were fucking, Justin had that feeling of déjà vu – wanting to believe that this time, after all that had happened between them and to them, Brian was serious, but unable to forget the numerous times Brian had said he didn’t believe in love.

I meant it. Every word. Brian’s words lingered in his ear, and they made him shiver. And the look in his eyes as he said that told the blond that this was the real deal. And god, he wanted to just start dancing or singing or skipping or shouting or something. Brian Kinney more than just gave a shit – Brian Kinney loved him. Loved him, Justin Taylor, a 19-year-old former twink that he hadn’t even planned to see again after the first night. It was just too perfect.

And it was that – too perfect. Just as he was ascending to that bright heaven where angels existed and the Brian Kinneys of the world professed their love, Brian had bought him back to earth with the “This changes nothing” spiel. Justin couldn’t believe that Brian could tell him he loved him in one breath and then say he was still going to fuck around in the next. Love to Justin meant monogamy, it meant a relationship – a word Brian despised. But love to Brian apparently meant something entirely different. So why bother with it in the first place? Why say anything? They’d already set rules for their . . . nonrelationship, why complicate it with an emotion that they obviously had conflicting views on? It was times like these that Justin realized that as much as he loved Brian, he would probably never truly understand him.

“We’re . . . together,” Justin said at last. It was the best he could offer. Seeing Josh and even Seth give him puzzled looks, he wondered if he should explain the whole “open nonrelationship” thing. He decided against it – he didn’t know the guys that well, and besides, he really didn’t want to think about what he didn’t have with Brian right then. “It’s a real long story.”

“Oh.” Josh still looked confused, but he nodded as if he understood. “Cool. He seems like a nice guy. I like the jacket. . . he’s got awesome style.”

“Thanks.” Justin smiled. It’s what everyone said, and it was true. But somewhere in the recesses of his mind, his gaydar was sounding a faint alarm. The remark, as casual was it was, wasn’t typical of a straight male college student. “I won’t tell him you said that though. He’s conceited enough as it is.” Josh laughed along with him, but Justin noticed Seth shifting uncomfortably in his seat, picking at his food. The other teen’s apparent discomfort prompted Justin to move the conversation to the task at hand.

“So, have you guys started your story yet?” He rested his chin in his hands. “It’s a pretty in-depth project. I’m surprised they’re making you write so much first semester.”

“You know? It’s total bullshit. Like we don’t have other classes and shit to do,” Josh grumbled. “I knew I shouldn’t have signed up for it, but he talked me into it.” He snatched more fries from Seth’s plate, grinning when the blond looked annoyed. “Don’t even start – the way I figure it, you owe me for the aggravation, bro.”

Bro. So there it was. Related. Not gay. “So you guys are brothers? I was wondering –”

Seth glanced up, an unreadable expression on his face. “We’re not brothers.”

“Well at least not yet.” Josh said with a smile that was both charming and slightly menacing. Grabbed some more fries. Justin gave him a sideways glance. Not yet?

“We’re pledging,” Seth said in low voice, responding to the look on Justin’s face. “Pi Kappa Alpha.”

Justin hid a grin. Frat guys were kinda hot – for beer-chugging breeders, that is. And the whole fraternity system itself was pretty gay really, a house full of guys, all living cooperatively, taking part in drunken bacchanals, and basically living on top of one another? They didn’t call it “Greek life” for nothing. “Cool.”

“Another reason that this assignment sucks. PiKA’s, like, the most social frat on campus,” Josh said. “Pledges have to all sorts of shit for the parties, for Greek Week after Homecoming, all sorts of stuff. And there are our other classes, too. So me and Seth were thinking that the faster we get this done the better. Fuck it. I mean, I bet you have stuff you have to do, too.”

That was an understatement. Between work, therapy for his hand, and the myriad assignments his sadistic teachers piled on, he’d be running from one thing to next all semester. And what the hell had possessed him to take a bas-relief class? Though he probably could – and should – drop it. Doing this assignment, though, would enable him to waive the final assignment in one of his studio classes, though, so there was something, at least.

“Sounds good.” Justin turned over his order pad, took out a pencil and began drawing an oval, creating the foundations for a full-face sketch. “So, what are you guys writing about? Just give me a basic idea of the storyline, and maybe some of the characters, and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“We e-mailed you what we’ve written so far,” Seth said, pushing his plate away. “It’s about half-done. There’s still some stuff in the beginning I want to rewrite –”

“Rewrite? Fuck that.” Josh waved his hand and Seth immediately fell into a cowed silence. “Why stress? Nobody’s gonna give a shit after this semester, not even the professors, why waste time?”

“Well,” Justin began, noting the dark look Seth was directing at his limp, cold fries, “if it’s good, maybe you could shop it around and get published. I hear there’s a lot of money in making children’s books. And we could all be famous.” He grinned. “You guys for the story, me for the artwork.” He studied the sketch he was creating. Erased a bit, smudged some, and then sketched more, enjoying the increased flexibility in his right hand. His physical therapy sessions were really starting to pay off, and he was glad to be able to return to pencil-on-paper drawing more, though he’d come to love the computer Brian had bought for him.

“Fuck money. My old man’s got plenty. He said he’d cut me off if I flunk out, but that’s all bullshit. He didn’t do it to my sister after she crashed and burned. Stupid bitch.” Josh spoke with the ease of a person who’d known nothing but privilege his entire life. Justin could see the easy posture, the half-curled lip, the self-absorbed expression. He’d seen it every day for four years throughout the halls of St. James, and but for the grace of . . . whatever, he might have been counted among the throng of the young, rich, straight –

And boring as fuck

-- white bread leaders of tomorrow who would marry good girls from nice families and try to forget that what they really wanted to do was take it up the ass. Josh seemed decent enough, though. It was a shame that he didn’t seem to know better. He would have made a fabulous out-and-proud fag. Justin eyed the curled head across the table. Seth had perked up a little when he’d mentioned the “famous” thing. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

As if sensing Seth’s darkening mood, Josh held out an apologetic hand. “Look, I’m not trying to be a dickhead, just practical. I’m all about the speed, dude. The sooner we get it done, the sooner we can get to enjoy the keggers. Anyway, the story’s fine. It’s kind of like a mystery/thriller, with sci-fi thrown in, but for kids, so it’s not weird or gory.”

“Uh-huh.” Justin smiled, picturing a preteen Keanu Reeves in a Matrix-like scenario. Keanu Reeves was damned hot. “Go on. You’ve got my attention.”

“Basically, it’s about this kid, Carlos. He’s like 11 or 12. A Puerto Rican kid. He’s like this total genius at solving mysteries around the neighborhood, so his friends call him “Clues.” ‘Cause he’s always findin’ ‘em. So he’s Carlos “Clues” . . .uh . . .” Josh paused, frowning. “What the fuck was the last name again?”

“Consuelos.” Seth didn’t look up, but his voice was loud enough. He sounded pissed.

“Yeah, that’s right. Consuelos. Clues Consuelos. We think it’s kinda catchy. think it’s a cool name for a kid detective. And making him Puerto Rican’ll win us points for being P.C. and shit. So anyway, he’s pretty cool. Not geeky or anything. Kind of different than other kids. I mean he looks different, ‘cause he’s Latin, and you know, he’s this genius that even the adults don’t get . . .”

As Josh talked and Seth sulked, Justin drew, nodding at appropriate intervals, taking note of information he could use in designing the cover and discarding information that would only muddle up his ideas. His pencil moved in time to Josh’s prattle, swooping high when the teen talked excitedly, slowing down to shade in a circle when the boy stumbled over some detail. And he stumbled a lot over the details, Justin noticed. Judging by the way Josh would stop and look over at Seth to fill in the blanks on such items as characters names and settings, Justin understood that Seth was doing most – if not all – of the writing. Why then was Josh doing most of the talking, Justin wondered. It could be because Josh was more charismatic or it could be because Seth was very uncomfortable for some reason. Justin watched the teen shrink back in almost abject terror when a leather daddy decked out in full gear sauntered past, a very visible hard-on framed nicely by his leather chaps. Maybe it had been a bad idea to have them meet him at the diner, though they seemed to know what Liberty Avenue was all about, even if they’d never been there before. Still, it might be easier for all parties involved if subsequent meetings took place in a more academic setting.

Though, Justin thought with an internal smile, he was sure Josh and Seth could get quite an education on Liberty Avenue if they wanted. And the way Josh’s knee was continually brushing up against his own, Justin wasn’t sure that those lessons would be unwelcome.

“ . . .So that’s basically what we’ve got so far.” Josh rubbed his chin, cheeks pink from the exertion of speaking. In those twenty minutes, Seth had barely said a word unless he was directly asked a question or needed to elaborate in some point on which Josh was unclear.

“What do you think? It’s not done yet, but that’s the basic idea,” Josh said. “Will it be hard for you to draw something like that? We don’t need anything fancy, just something that’ll make the professors think we give a shit.”

“I think I can handle that.” Justin added another line to his sketch, squinted at it, and sighed. Not bad. Placing the order pad on the table between the two boys’ plates, he watched their eyes widen when they saw what he’d drawn. The eyes – hazy, hooded, guarded, intense, indicating an intelligence that went way beyond the surface – had been the easiest to create, as he’d drawing them for almost two years now, and could sketch them in his sleep. A set of ears that weren’t freakishly large, but big enough, gave the kid a cute, jug-eared look. A dark mop of hair covered a wide forehead and drew more attention to the patrician nose – a bit large, but lending the face the type of serious beauty that was only seen in the very young – or the very lucky. The boy in the portrait was biting a full lower lip, a nervous gesture that had seemed somehow appropriate to the character. Judicious shading gave the boy a Mediterranean look, and Justin had added a mole above the left eye just for fun. Sort of a nod to Enrique Iglesias, who was hella hot. And it just looked cool, too. Justin sighed at the drawing. He’s beautiful. And he was thinking not of the portrait, but of the man who inspired it. A man who inspired just about every piece of his artwork, it seemed. A man who, no doubt like “Clues Consuelos” was way, way ahead of the game even when he was a boy.

“Well?” Justin looked at the writers. Even Josh had gone silent, which was a little disconcerting, considering his loquaciousness. “I know it’s kinda rough, but it’s a start. Maybe if you want him to look a little younger –”

Seth’s smile, wide and genuine, stopped Justin mid-sentence. “Shit, man. I like it. I really like it.” The blond said, darting another glance at the sketch. “The ears are just like I pictured ‘em . . . there’s even a part in there about how much he hates the way his ears stick out. I didn’t think of the mole though. It’s nice.”

“Damn, dude. You are good.” Josh gave him a light punch on the arm. “Fuck. I think me and Seth hit the jackpot with you, Justin. Ya think, bro?”

Seth said nothing, continuing to smile at the picture. Justin sat back in the booth and smiled, basking in their admiration and in his relief, until a slight cramp in his right hand drew his attention. Caught up in massaging his stiff fingers, the blond missed the tension-tinged glance the two teens exchanged across the table.

~*~

“I’m done here at midnight. I could be screaming your name by 12:05.”

“I think you’re taking the idea of express service a little too seriously.” Brian barely looked at the swarthy man leaning toward him from behind the counter of the crowded restaurant. He’d registered the hungry look in the well-muscled hunk’s face from the minute he’d walked in to pick up the order he phoned in. Guy was okay – a little too much hair gel and he talked without moving his lips, but he was pretty decent nonetheless. Still, he’d come in for food, and he was determined that food would be all he’d walk out with. “Is my order ready?”

The would-be trick sighed in resignation. “We’re backed up. One of the cooks called in sick. It’ll be another 15 minutes.” He leaned in closer, licking his lips. “If you want something to . . . munch on while you wait. I’m sure that could be arranged.”

Christ . . . “Fifteen minutes. Fine. I’ll be at the bar.” Left before the guy could draw breath to make another lame appeal for his ass.

Taking a seat at the small bar in the back, Brian ordered a Corona with lime, and waited until it was delivered to withdraw his pack of cigarettes, grateful to have something to do with his hands. To say his day had sucked would have been a gross insult to the term “understatement.” He’d returned from lunch to an office in chaos. Ryder had been in and out of his office all afternoon with some crisis or another, the results of some key focus group sessions had been muddled, and the Moronic Matched-set, Bob and Brad, had astounded him with yet another stunning display of their idiocy. And the cocktail party, held at the breeder watering hole of Ryder’s choice, had been a definite trial. An hour and a half of drinking “of the moment” cocktails with people he barely ever looked at, let alone wanted to talk to, had eroded what was left of his patience, and he’d taken his leave, daring Ryder to say a goddamned thing about his cutting out early. Ryder had wisely kept his mouth shut, offering the harried executive only a quiet goodnight.

Which brought him to La Carretera, a decent-enough Cuban place on the other side of town, where he was drinking a decent beer, enjoying a decent smoke, and waiting for the food he ordered to be cooked and put into containers so he could go home . . .

. . .Where Justin was waiting.

And eat . . .

. . . With Justin.

He took a quick swig of beer and struggled to understand just how the “Justin” part of that equation became so important to him. Failed at that. He looked over at the man behind the counter of the small restaurant and wondered if a quick fuck wouldn’t be just the thing to distract him from these oddly domestic thoughts he was having . . . brought on, no doubt, by the love thing.

The love thing. He wished he could blame it all on Deb. Goddamn her insight, her “Tell Justin what you could never tell Mikey” crap. He’d been perfectly content fucking, sucking and inhaling the occasional controlled substance, not giving a second thought to any deeper feelings he had for the blond. But it wasn’t her fault that she could see through him like a freaking sliding glass door. And it wasn’t her fault that he’d broadcast his feelings for the boy like a ham radio – from going on that silly-ass road trip to New York to haul Justin back to Pittsburgh to showing up at his prom. She’d just said what no doubt every single person in his little circle was thinking: “You love him, so tell him already, you prick. Don’t wait until you nearly lose him again to tell him. Because the next time, there may not be a “nearly.”

Love. Brian grimaced, the tart taste of beer washing away the cloying sweetness of whatever the fuck had been in those purple drinks at Ryder’s shindig. Love. What the fuck good was it, anyway? Hadn’t ever done a thing for him.

Until Justin.

And he’d never given it a second thought.

Until . . . Justin.

He drained his beer and signaled for another. Yeah, okay, fine. So he loved him. And? So? What now? He’d already told the kid that they were NOT gonna exchange rings, they were NOT going stop fucking other people and he was NOT going to start in with candlelight dinners, love poems or any of that other soap opera bullshit.

So what the fuck are you going to do for him, Kinney?

It was . . . a good question. It was also, for the moment, unanswerable. He wanted to assure himself that this love thing wasn’t going to change him, but he should have known better – he’d also said that jerking off into a cup so that Lindsay and Mel could have a baby would have no impact on his life, but there was a dark-haired, hazel-eyed, Barney-loving, chubby-legged toddler out there as a reminder of how untrue that turned out to be. Hadn’t he learned by now? Would he ever?

Short answer, fuck no. Long answer . . . Brian knocked the cap off his second beer, throwing a $20 bill in the general direction of the bartender. Nodded at her pleased look. He was always in a generous mood whenever he felt the need to delude himself. He was always at his most charming, his most pliant to people he couldn’t give a fuck about when trying to figure out ways to push away the people he did. Was that what he was trying to do? Push Justin away? Build the teen up by telling him he loved him, and then pop his balloon by continuing to trick like there was no tomorrow, knowing the hurt that it caused him, that there could come a day when Justin wouldn’t stand for it anymore?

He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head no. He wasn’t trying to get rid of Justin, not willingly anyway, not anymore. Their “rules” were a testament to that. The curfew, the no-kissing-on-the-mouth, the no-names, no-numbers, no do-overs. Brian had thought it would be a cold day in hell before anyone could get him to agree to modify the way he fucked around. Yet he’d done it for Justin, willingly, knowing that the teen figured it would be as close as they would get to fidelity. But now he’d thrown those three words out there and he could tell that Justin expected more, that perhaps now that the words were said, they would magically enter into a conventional “relationship.” He’d indicated as much by the “boyfriend” comment earlier in the day. Justin was dreamy. He was a romantic. He was the type who liked candles and sweet words and soft touches. And as much as he liked hard and fast fucking, Justin liked making love just as much. Maybe more. Brian could tell that after their first time together after the bashing. They’d made love that night, and the look on Justin’s face as they moved together, well, Brian had never seen anything like it before. It was an expression that radiated a feeling of calm, of safety, of love. It had taken Brian’s breath away, made him wish he could do it slow and gentle every time. Made him wish he had the patience to take his time more, to kiss every inch of skin, and murmur sweet nothings in the boy’s ear. Made him wish he were different, somehow. The type of man who could be romantic without being cynical. The type who could say “You’re all I need,” and be completely serious. The type of man who could say “I love you,” and know what the hell that meant. Or at least know what had moved him to say it in the first place.

But in his heart of hearts, he knew why he’d said it at last. Brian had never been the type of man who believed that words – ambiguous, easy to twist -- could do what actions could not. The language of bullshit was universal and quite easy to pick up, and anybody could say anything that anyone might want to hear. He knew – his whole business was based on it. But actions, well, there was no disputing actions. There was nothing ambiguous about a dick up an ass, or a tongue down a throat, or a mouth on a cock. Actions were foolproof.

But they were not infallible. Brian was made painfully aware that they were not on the night of Justin’s prom. He’d known that despite his best efforts to prevent it, he’d fallen for the boy, and that night after being saved, discovered, or whatever the fuck it was, by Mikey, he was ready to show it. Hence the prom, and their dance, where Brian let his very presence there and their twirling around the floor, and that kiss in front of Justin’s classmates speak the words he found to be so meaningless and empty.

But for all that, his actions nearly cost Justin his life. Brian gripped his beer bottle as the sickening, soul-rending sound of the bat connecting with Justin’s temple echoed in his mind. And in the end his actions had been all for naught. All Justin remembered of that night was Hobbs bashing him in the head, and Brian’s own anguished scream --

Too late. Words didn’t work then, either.

-- just before it all had happened. And all through the ambulance ride, all through the nights he spent unseen at the hospital, all through Justin’s recovery, and through their continued consorting, all through that, Brian rethought his disdain of words – and three words in particular – and resolved that he would, when the time was right, just tell the teen. Even if he did consider the words themselves to be devoid of any real meaning, even if he did think he “told” Justin in every kiss, in every fuck, in every gesture, hell, in every glance, that he loved him, fuck it – he’d get the words. It wouldn’t kill him. And better, it wouldn’t kill Justin, as his actions almost had.

But the words could hurt Justin, nonetheless, if he thought that his loving him was going to change a thing. It would not, because *he* could not. And didn’t want to. Did he?

Fuck it. Stop. Thinking. About. It. His internal conversation was quickly becoming way too Lifetime Channel for his liking. It was always that way; when he was tired, and hungry, and just plain worn out from work, he tended to get analytical.

Looking up, Brian saw the would-be trick approaching him with a large smile and empty hands. Brian greeted him with a raised eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Sir, I’m sorry. It’s going to be another little bit. There’s a wedding rehearsal across the street that we’re catering, and with us being a cook short –”

“Bottom-line it for me,” Brian said, ignoring the man’s little grin. “How long?”

“At least another fifteen minutes. We’ll be happy to comp your drinks on your final bill, of course.” His broad smile wilted under Brian’s bland stare. “If you’d like to wait at a table, sir . . . somewhere more comfortable? . . .”

Brian looked around, ready to bail on the whole thing. He could always order Thai later. It was healthier than Cuban fare anyway, and he was eager to get home, put his feet up, unwind . . .

With Justin.

Ohh yes. That unwinding might take a good, long while. Half the night at least.

About to answer the expectant waiter, he caught sight of an open table near a window. It was tucked away, almost secluded in the restaurant, a burning candle atop the table casting a golden, heart-shaped glow on the opposite wall. Cozy. Brian stared, tongue in cheek, wondering just what the hell could have happened to him in between the time Mikey dragged him out of Babylon just in time to see Justin walk under that damned lamp and this very minute. Because the Brian that had existed would not have allowed himself to be guided over to that table, would not have gotten comfortable in one of the straight-backed wooden chairs. That Brian would not have taken out his cell to dial a taxi, giving the loft’s address as the pickup point, and he certainly would not have dialed Justin’s cell, telling him to drop whatever he was doing and get dressed – a cab would be there any minute to pick him up and take him to the restaurant where they would be having dinner that night.

No, the Brian who’d existed before that night would certainly not have done any of those things, nor would he have stared out the window expectantly, eyes fixed on the street, waiting for the taxi to show up and discharge a certain bubble-butt blond. So the new Brian -- the post-lamp, post-road trip, post-prom, post-every-fucking-thing that had happened just after he set eyes on a twink with hair like the sun and a smile to match. Brian continued to stare out the window, waiting . . . ignore the ravenous looks of the waiter not five feet away from him and pondering just where his old self had gone, and wondering why he didn’t miss him all that much.

~~~~~

“You fucked him, didn’t you?” Justin’s eyes shone in the candlelight, giving the blue depths an otherworldly, almost ethereal, glow. “He’s the one you were telling Ted and Emmett about the other day, right? The one who blew you in the backroom and wanted you to come in his hair.”

Brian looked over at the man who’d been staring at their table since Justin walked in the door of the restaurant. The starer, sitting with two or three unremarkable guys, was tall, brown hair, blue eyes. Very good-looking. He worked at Mikey’s bank. He’d met him ages ago, back when Mikey was dating that pitiful fuck of chiropractor. Had been an average fuck, though, if Brian recalled correctly, and he knew he did.

“I thought we were talking about your day.” Brian pushed roasted chicken around on his plate, wondering how something that sounded so appetizing on the menu could be so bland in actuality. He wasn’t very hungry anymore anyway, having eaten a decent-sized salad and a cup of black bean soup. “Learn anything interesting in class today? Draw any more nice pictures of my dick?”

“C’mon, Brian, spill! I know you did him; he is so your type, and he hasn’t stopped looking at you.” Justin shoveled rice and chicken into his mouth at an alarming speed. “He looks like he gives good head. Does he?”

“I don’t remember. So I guess the answer’s no.” The words came out sharper than Brian expected, and he took a sip of wine to calm his nerves. “Why are we talking about this? What about ‘the rules’?”

Justin looked genuinely puzzled. “What about them? There’s nothing in them that says we can’t talk about the guys we fuck.”

Maybe there should be. Brian took a bite – a large one – of his flavorless chicken dish to smother those words, keep them from making their way from his brain to his mouth. Saying that could be too easily misconstrued as wanting to take a step toward the dreaded monogamy. Besides, he knew Justin got a kick out of hearing about his exploits, and, in truth, Brian didn’t mind hearing about Justin’s, either. But that night, especially in that setting . . .

Now this is ridiculously romantic.

. . . Brian wanted to forgo the Tales of Tricks Past talk. They could do that any time. Now he just wanted to eat and -- god, he couldn’t believe he was thinking this -- just enjoy being with Justin. “My day was shit. Ryder talked out of his ass half the afternoon, the Idiot Twins set a new low for incompetence, which is pretty fucking amazing considering their track record, and I had to spend a fucking hour of my free time mingling with the same assholes that make my working life hell, drinking some purple shit out of a glass shaped like a flower.” Brian put his fork down. “Now I would like to hear about a day that presumably did not suck . . . so tell me what happened in school today, sonnyboy. Entertain me.”

“Fuck, Bri. I’m sorry you had such a crappy day.” Justin reached across the table and stroked his lover’s cheek. Brian surprised himself by not slapping the hand away. Surprised himself even more by enjoying the caress, and by missing the hand when Justin pulled it away. “Mine was all right I guess. Not sucky, but not too interesting, either. I worked on a presentation for my Visual Communication class . . . um . . . drew in my studio for awhile. Came home. I talked to Daph. She says hi –”

“Was that what you were doing when I called? Talking to her?” He noticed Justin had seemed distracted on the phone, a little out of breath.

“Uh-uh. I was working – drawing. Clues.”

Brian blinked. “Clues? What . . . am I supposed to guess?”

“No, Clues. That’s who I was drawing.” Justin popped a fried plantain in his mouth. Swallowed. “Clues Consuelos.”

“Clues who?”

“Consuelos. He’s like a kid detective –”

“A kid detective? Sounds like a bookie”

“Well, it is a little lame, but I’m only the artist. Besides, it’s a mystery, so it kind of fits.”

Brian’s face was a study in confusion. “Would you care to tell me what the fuck you’re talking about? What story?”

“The project with the guys from Duquesne? The kids’ book.” Justin waited for recognition to appear on Brian’s face, and smiled when it did. “They’re writing a mystery, and their main character is Clues Consuelos. I’ve been working on a cover page all day. I’m totally inspired.”

“Then I take it your meeting with the Brothers Grimm went off without a hitch.”

Justin chewed. Swallowed. Wiped his mouth again. “Yeah, it was really cool. I’ve read was they’ve got so far, and I like it a lot. It’s really well-written. Interesting. If I were a 10 or 11-year-old kid, I think I’d read it.”

“Remind me to recommend it to Mikey.”

Justin grinned and shook his head. “Seriously, the story’s good. So I have to make sure I hold up my end of things with the art. I’ve been sketching all day.”

“I wouldn’t worry. You’re pretty good at holding up your end.” Brian let his eyes linger on Justin’s lips, feeling a telltale stirring below his stomach. All appetite for food gone now, he nevertheless kept himself in check, content to listen to Justin talk, watch how the candlelight reflected in his eyes, making them shimmer. Justin appeared to be created to be drenched in the subdued half-light of the restaurant, the flickering glow from the candles making him a study in jewel tones, all golden hair, sapphire eyes and ruby lips. Brian was mesmerized watching those pouty lips move, mind racing ahead to what those lips were going to be doing later that night. “How long is it going to take you to finish?”

“Not long. They want it done quick,” Justin answered. “They’re pledging some frat, and that’s all they’re worried about right now. Except . . .” He frowned a little, toying with a plantain.

“Except . . .?” Brian raised an eyebrow.

“Except . . .” Justin hesitated again, then shrugged. “I dunno . . . it seems like Seth is way more into this than Josh, even though Josh is the one who’s doing all the talking about it, setting the timetable --”

“Well if it’s a team effort,” Brian said, “You have to have a division of labor –”

“That’s just it, though. I don’t think there is a division of labor. I think Seth is doing all the work,” Justin said. “And Josh is just . . . along for the ride or something, but making everything work on his schedule.”

“Well, maybe they have an arrangement. Seth writes. Josh swallows.”

“It is sooo not like that,” Justin’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Although I think you might be right about Josh. I was getting a serious closeted-queer vibe from him. He kept bumping my knee under the table and was so flirting with me.”

“Really.” Brian’s voice was flat and his eyes narrowed. Trying to pinpoint just why this tidbit of information was troubling, he failed and took another drink of wine instead. “Josh. Which one was he again?”

“Dark hair.” Justin said, scraping up the last of his carne asado. “He’s funny. He talks a lot, though. I think he was just freaked out by the diner and nervous. We’re gonna meet on campus from now on. I think Liberty Avenue was a little too much for Seth, and he and Josh are, like, joined at the hip. Josh calls him “Curls.” I wonder what their deal is . . .”

Brian finished his glass of wine, feeling a slight ache begin right behind his eyes. The dark-haired one was the one who was giving him the creeps. Something about his eyes that didn’t sit right with him . . . the way he looked at Justin that made him want to knock the boy upside his head. But he couldn’t say why. He knew one thing, though . . . if Justin ended up fucking him, he didn’t want to hear the details.

“What do you care who does what?” Brian asked. “If this Seth guy wants to do get saddled with work when it’s supposed to be a group project, it’s not your problem.”

“I know that. I’m just curious that’s all.” Justin shrugged. “They’re interesting. And kind of weird. And they like my stuff. It might be cool getting to know them.”

Brian pressed his tongue into his cheek, staring down at his half-eaten food. As much as he’d gotten used to – and, yes, enjoyed – having Justin around with him and the boys, he wasn’t unaware of the boy’s need to have friends his own age, with his own interests. The stifled atmosphere and rampant homophobia in St. James had prevented Justin from developing that sort of camaraderie with the majority of the kids in his high school, but the boy was in college now, and was presumably going to be meeting like-minded individuals. He’d be forming his own alliances, making his own little group of friends apart from the core group of Mikey and Emmett and Ted, the Munchers and Gus, Vic and Deb.

Good. Maybe I’ll be able to go to the fucking baths without seeing that wounded-puppy look of his.

Still, there was a lump in his throat he couldn’t quite account for, and even after he’d drained both his and Justin’s water glasses, it remained. Debating whether to tell him about the special “vibes” he’d gotten from Josh, Brian decided against it. The guy wanted him, that’s all, and was too chickenshit to come out and say it, most likely.

Like Chris Hobbs . . .

Brian went pale, his stomach flip-flopping, the sound of the bat once more assaulting his ears. “Justin . . .”

The boy looked up, wiping sauce from the corners of his mouth. “Yeah?”

Brian hesitated, hearing himself calling out Justin’s name, saw him turn right before the bat connected with solid bone.

Too late. Words were too late then.

“Bri?” Justin leaned close, his brows knitting when he saw the older man wince. “What’s the matter?”

Brian shook his head as if to clear it, and wished he had more wine. He was being idiotic, a drama princess. So maybe this Josh kid was playing it straight while probably thinking about how nice it would be to take it up the ass. So what? It didn’t mean he was lurking in the shadows with a baseball bat in his hands, ready to take a swing at Justin’s head.

Ready to try to take him away from me again.

Screw it. And Justin wasn’t stupid. He might have been fooled before by the likes of Chris Hobbs, who’d managed to hide just how dangerous he was behind a mask of typical – and, up until the prom, physically harmless -- teen jock behavior. But after what he’d been through – what they all had been – there was no way he’d allow himself to be caught off guard that way again by a self-hating closeted fag with an agenda and a mean streak.

“Forget it.” Brian traced the rim of his glass with one finger. “You want dessert?”

“Ummm . . . I don’t think so.” Justin smiled and put his hand over Brian’s. “You know, this has really been nice.”

“What has?” Brian’s voice was wary. Stop fucking worrying about him. He’s a strong little fuck. He doesn’t need you to hold his hand.

“Today at the diner. And tonight, right now. I know you don’t really do dates, so this is a nice surprise,” Justin said softly. “And last night was . . .” He trailed off, unsure whether to go further.

“Last night was . . . nice, too.” Brian wished he could say more, could articulate just what the night before had meant to him, but he couldn’t. Not yet. He was still mistrustful of words, and though he’d found the courage to say what Justin needed to hear, it would take a very long time for him to become comfortable enough with words to let them serve in place of deeds. He looked up and immediately was confronted with those ocean-blue eyes. Brian found himself drawn to them, in them, more conscious at that moment that he would kill with his bare hands anyone who tried to hurt his boy. Chris Hobbs had been damned lucky that he’d not been thinking straight after he’d wrested the bat from his hands, because Brian was aware that he could have easily brought that fucking bat down on his head instead of the fucker’s stupid knee. If there was ever another person stupid enough to try to harm Justin, Brian knew he would not be so charitable.

“So what now?” Justin mistook Brian’s misty-eyed look for boredom, and hurriedly sought to fill the silence. “Wanna go to Babylon? It’s Creatine night. Muscles everywhere. Should be hot.”

Brian shook his head. “I can see gym queens every day of the week. I don’t need to pay a cover for it. Besides . . . I’ve had enough of bars for one night. Next stop is the loft.”

“With me? Or are you in the mood for ‘the game’?” Justin grinned a little. “That guy I know you fucked is still here, and he’s still looking at you.”

Brian hid his disappointment behind an indifferent expression. Playing the fucking “game” had not been in his plans for the night, but fuck it. If Justin wanted to get his rocks off elsewhere . . . “No doing the same guys twice, remember?” He couldn’t even manage a smile at Justin’s pleased grin. “You want “the game,” you pick somebody.”

He watched Justin’s eyes roam around the room for some moments before turning to study the tablecloth. Maybe he’d just leave Justin and Trick de la Noche to it and go to the Baths or something. Or maybe check in with the guys who were sure to be at Babylon. Or . . .

He glanced up and was startled to see Justin staring at him. Smiling. “What? Found someone?”

“Yep.” The teen reached over and cupped Brian’s chin, staring deep into the hazel eyes. “Someone.”

The executive refused to let the pleasure show on his face. “You didn’t look that long.”

“I didn’t need to,” Justin said, licking his bottom lip before turning a full-force “Sunshine” grin on his lover. “Who compares to the Pittsburgh-renowned Brian Kinney? I’ve already got the best. And I’m going home with him.”

Fuck. I will never get tired of that smile . . . “Smart boy,” Brian said with a smirk, and signaled for the check.

Three

As Justin munched a blueberry muffin, bopping his head along to the Jeep’s stereo, he couldn’t help but think that Tuesday was a very, very underrated day. People bitched about Mondays because it was the beginning of the work and school week. Wednesdays were the “hump” day, Thursdays were one step closer to the weekend, and good television-viewing night, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays were “the weekend.” But Tuesdays? No one gave a shit about Tuesdays.

Justin didn’t think he would have cared about Tuesdays either if it weren’t for his Colors and Textures class. The class met at 9 a.m. sharp on Tuesdays only, was three hours long, and was taught by a man with who spoke in a whine so shrill it made Mikey’s voice sound like James Earl Jones’. But none of that mattered. He got to start his day in almost “couple-like” coziness with Brian, and that was what made Tuesdays worth getting out of bed for. He and the executive rose together, showered together, and drove into town together, making time for a pit stop at Arabica, hands-down the best coffeehouse in all of Pittsburgh, to allow Justin to grab a quick breakfast and Brian to get his requisite triple nonfat latte. It reminded the artist of the “old” days staying over at Brian’s and getting a ride to St. James in the morning – only now, Justin didn’t have to worry about burning lockers or a passel of jocks waiting to kick the shit out of him. Life was good, or getting there, anyway.

“Quiet.”

Startled by Brian’s voice, Justin jerked, nearly dropping his breakfast on the floor. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you could hear me.” Civil Disobedience was on, and he couldn’t help humming along to the song.

Brian glanced over at him, smiling. “No, I mean you’re quiet. What’s the matter?”

Justin blinked. This was the same guy who chided him about running his mouth a mile a minute? “Nothing. I’m just thinking . . .”

“Save the strenuous activity for later tonight.”

“Fuck you, Brian.”

“It’s not gonna be that strenuous, sonnyboy.”

Justin relaxed and grinned, taking another bite of his muffin. Brian had been light-hearted most of the morning – even before he’d had his vaunted triple latte. It was amazing, considering the night they’d had. After dinner, they’d walked around the quiet streets for a while, window shopping in front of darkened storefronts. They’d talked about anything and nothing, flitting effortlessly from topic to topic, some of it silly, some serious. The conversation continued until they’d returned to the loft, where communication of a different kind took over. Justin leaned back in the seat and sighed, eyes closing at the memory of their lovemaking. And it had been lovemaking. Even several hours removed from the event, he was still in awe of how gentle and sweet Brian had been. They’d lain on the bed and kissed for what seemed like hours before even taking their clothes off. And it just got better from there, as their exploration and pleasuring of each other lasted for hours. And then, wonder of wonders, they’d talked some more. Or, at least, they’d fallen into sleepy conversation while wrapped around each other, sweat and come cooling on their bodies. Justin couldn’t remember all they’d talked about, but a portion of one exchange drifted into his mind as the opening strains of Moby’s Everytime You Touch Me came on the radio . . .

~***~

“Go to sleep, Sonnyboy. Before I take your teddy bear away from you.”

“No! Not until you tell me what else he said.” Justin grinned in the darkness, his hand closing around Brian’s cock. His “teddy bear.” “You were on the phone with him for almost an hour.”

“Since when have you ever given a fuck about anything Mikey’s had to say?” Brian’s voice was soft, and tinged with fatigue and satiation. His “well-fucked” voice, Justin called it.

“I’m just wondering . I mean it was Creatine Night. It must have been hot with all those ripped guys. Did they have a good time?”

“According to Mikey, yeah,” Brian stroked Justin’s hair as he spoke. “Apparently even Teddy-boy got his rocks off. With two guys. Who were sober. And breathing. And hot, apparently. Mikey swears even I’d have fucked them. Amazing.”

“What is? That Ted got lucky or that there’re at least two hot queers in this city you probably haven’t fucked yet?”

A pause. “If they’ve been in this city more than two weeks and I haven’t fucked them, I’m sure I’m not missing much. Besides . . . they did Ted. You know, there’ve been studies about the side effects of Creatine. Maybe dementia’s one of them.”

Justin snickered, and burrowed his face deeper into Brian’s neck, tonguing the sensitive area beneath his Adam’s apple. “Don’t be such a dick. Ted’s not that bad.”

Brian’s sighed into Justin’s hair, his breath causing the blond’s scalp to tingle. “Yeah, well, if he doesn’t think so, why should anyone else? Anyway, a good time was had by almost all.”

“Almost?” Justin shifted again, finding a comfortable ‘nook’ to rest on between the ad exec’s chin and shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ahh . . . Mikey’s still pining over Professor Plum.” Brian’s hand migrated from his hair to his back, massaging the warm skin. “He saw him there tonight . . . guy ignored him. Mikey moped the rest of the night.”

“Poor Michael.” Justin had vaguely remembered the man Brian was talking about . . . some professor at Carnegie-Mellon . . . hot . . . and positive. “It could work, you know. I mean, if they’re careful and all–”

“Mikey never knows what’s good for him . . . until he doesn’t have a choice but to know. Then we’ll all hear about it.” He pulled Justin closer, ducking to nip the artist’s ear. “Hey, sonnyboy . . . I think your teddy bear wants a kiss . . .”

~***~

And that began another hour of pleasure, one that had left them both breathless and speechless until the alarm woke them up several hours later. Justin smiled at the memory of that and looked down at himself in amused dismay. Even after all they’d done last night, he could still find the energy to get hard. Sneaking a look over at Brian, the artist wondered what had prompted the older man’s gentleness in the past few days. Justin wondered how he could get the executive to be like that more often – more of a “boyfriend.” More of a lover. More his.

Justin wriggled and sighed when Brian made the left onto the tree-lined avenue on which the campus of the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts was located, and he sighed again when the executive put the car in park and looked over at him. “So, sonnyboy, guess we’ll see each other later.”

“Uh, yeah.” Justin tugged his jacket down over the lump in his jeans. He was definitely going to have to take a trip to the restroom before class. “Are you stopping by the diner for lunch today?”

“Hadn’t planned on it. Why would I?” Brian’s brow furrowed. “It’s Tuesday. Aren’t you off?”

“Yeah . . .” Justin would have been surprised that his working or not working had any bearing on Brian’s lunch plans, but his cock was hardening at an alarming rate the longer he stared at Brian. He saw the heavy-lidded hazel eyes, still slightly out-of-focus from lack of sleep and the reddened lips, puffy and wet from the coffee he’d been sipping. He looked absolutely breathtaking, and Justin wondered if it’d be out of the way to suggest they both say to hell with work and school, turn the jeep around, drive back to the loft and drive each other wild in bed for the rest of the day.

“Um, Bri, listen . . . you feel like getting together later? I mean for lunch or something?” Justin said hurriedly, taking note of the ad executive’s raised eyebrow. “There’s this place Daph was telling me over by The Carnegie that sounds pretty good. You know, if you have time or whatever.” Brian kept his eyes on him, but said nothing. Blushing, Justin lowered his head. “It’s cool if you don’t. I just thought maybe –”

“I’ve got meetings most of the morning,” Brian cut in. “I gave the Idiot Twins an assignment I expect they’ve totally fucked up by now, and the client’s flying in to be wowed on Thursday. If Bob and Brad have kept the damage down to a minimum – for them – I’ll probably have some time freed up this afternoon. Call me after you get out of class. Call my cell . . . leave a message if I don’t answer.” He shook his head. “Ryder must not be getting any at home; he’s been more longwinded than usual these days. Meeting’s have been running overtime lately.”

“Um, okay. Sure. So, I’ll . . . talk to you later.” Justin unfastened his seatbelt and tugged at his jacket again. “Uh, have a good day.” He winced at that. It was something his mom had always said to his father when he’d left the house for work. And just the way it sounded was so . . . so . . . hetero. Justin unclasped the lock on his door and grabbed his backpack. “Later.”

“Hey, sonnyboy. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Justin glanced over his shoulder at Brian, who was smirking at him. “Uh . . . what?”

“This.” Brian leaned over, placing a gentle kiss on the teen’s lips that quickly deepened into something more serious. Justin lost himself in the kiss, reveling in the feel of Brian’s mouth, where the tang of coffee, tobacco and shortbread together to create one electrifying flavor. Justin’s tongue swept the warm recesses of his lover’s mouth, his voracious tongue determined to lick all of the taste from it.

“What was that for?” Justin rasped when they came up for air at last.

“Since when do I need a reason to kiss you? And what the fuck was in that muffin you inhaled? Tasted good.” Brian’s eyes darted up and down Justin’s body and he brushed at the teenager’s jacket. “Though it looks like you got more of it on you than in you. You’ve got crumbs all over, sonnyboy.” His hand brushed into Justin’s lap, and the blonde jumped when Brian’s fingers touched the hard flesh there. Blushing under Brian’s sudden grin, Justin attempted to squirm away, but stopped when Brian’s fingers closed around the bulge. “Where’d this come from? Now I really want to know what was in that muffin.”

“Um . . . just blueberries . . . and maybe . . . some bran . . .” Justin breathed when the squeeze became a caress, and his cock pressed uncomfortably against his zipper. “I just . . . um . . . ummmmmmmm . . .” His head lolled back on to the seat and he moaned when he felt the zipper being tugged down and Brian’s hand slip in, breaching the barrier of his underwear. “Brian . . . Brian, what are you doing? We’re in . . . oooh . . . we’re in front of my school . . . people are walking by . . . they can see us.”

“True.” Brian’s voice was laconic, matching his gentle strokes on Justin’s cock. “So maybe they should see just you. Relax, and try to not call attention to yourself. Oh . . . and . . . enjoy.” Brian unsnapped his seatbelt and in the next moment, the executive’s face was buried in Justin’s lap. Justin helplessly raised his hips while Brian tugged his pants down, and he groaned when the ad exec licked the tip of his dripping cock.

“You . . . ohhh . . .” Justin glanced down and nearly came right then and there. This was too surreal. Brian was impeccably groomed, turned out in his finest Zegna suit, looking almost painfully corporate, and this beautiful, professional man was about to wrap his lips around his cock and suck him off right then and there within screaming distance of his Colors and Textures class. Could anybody get any luckier? He gently rubbed the back of Brian’s neck, smiling. Forget anyone . . . could he possibly get any luckier? It was doubtful. Justin barely held back on a yelp when Brian started mouthing his balls. Oh, no, it was . . . highly doubtful he could get any luckier.

“Bri . . . we don’t . . . oh god . . .” Justin began to pant as Brian began placing gentle kisses along his shaft. “Brian . . . shit . . . you’re gonna be late . . .”

Brian stopped his ministrations and looked up at Justin, his hazel eyes glittering. “Now, sonnyboy, you’re the one who’s always bitching about me going to work without eating breakfast.” He gave the glistening head another lick. “This’ll be the first time in awhile I’ve gone to work with a full stomach.” Flashing a predatory smile, Brian sank down and proceeded to partake of his breakfast.

**********

Twenty minutes later, Justin walked onto campus with his pants crumb- and bulge-free, with just a touch of wobbliness in his step and with a full stomach of his own. Licking his lips and savoring the taste of Brian mixed with blueberry muffin, he recalled the faint white scar he’d recently noticed right above the executive’s left eyebrow. The ad exec had said it was a college injury sustained in a “friendly” basketball game, but considering the events of the past few days, Justin wondered if it was possible that the mark was a scar from a lobotomy or some other type of brain surgery.

On some level, the blonde artist knew he shouldn’t be so cynical, but the attitude and behavior of Brian “I don’t do romance, boyfriends or relationships” Kinney had undergone such a change in past weeks that Justin would have been concerned if he weren’t enjoying this “new” Brian so much. Ever since he and Brian had set the “rules,” things had been going amazingly well. They were communicating . . . and doing couple-y things . . . and telling each other how they felt about each other . . . and making love, not just fucking. Though fucking was still a good thing . . . and quickies would always be welcome. His cock pulsed in agreement. It was a great thing that he had just one class that day – after the jeep session, his concentration was pretty much shot to hell. Thank god Colors and Textures was a lecture class – he wouldn’t have to do anything more than take notes and keep his eyes open, and frankly, Justin didn’t think he’d have the energy to do much else . . . at least not for another, say, three hours or so. He’d get his second wind just in time for lunch . . . and a possible rendezvous with his lover.

Justin smiled as he slid into a seat in the back row, and surreptitiously adjusted himself noticing his cock was still damp from Brian’s saliva. He could smell Brian’s cologne drifting up from his crotch and it made his mouth water to know he’d be smelling and tasting Brian the rest of the day. God, but he loved Brian. And he loved, loved, loved Tuesdays.

**********

Brian looked up over the mock-up ad for Lindner’s Athletic Supporters on his desk and fixed his gaze on the two junior account executives squirming before him. Bob and Brad wore matching suits, ties, haircuts and terrified expressions. Both of them were clutching Cross pens in their left hands, tapping them against the inside of their thighs while waiting for Brian to pronounce judgment on their creation. Glancing back at the mock-up, Brian’s eyes narrowed and he blew out a breath, ruffling the papers on his desk. Looking up once more, he noticed Bob and Brad had gone even paler and the pen-tapping had ceased. Brian’s brow furrowed. Time to put the drones out of their misery.

“Boys . . . every time I think you two can’t surprise me any more . . .” Brian held up the poster board upon which was the image of a buff, oiled man in nothing but a baseball hat with the brim pulled low and neon-green jockstrap. And below the buff man read the caption: The Perfect Jock – find it at Lindner’s. “. . . You do. This is . . . not bad. Not bad at all.” Brian’s smile was razor-blade thin, but Bob and Brad beamed as if Brian had thrown his arms around them. “The copy needs work,” Brian smiled wider as the younger executive’s grins deflated a little, “but the concept’s pretty decent. How’d you two come up with this?”

“Well, we thought this was an account you’d sink your teeth into,” Bob (or was it Brad? Brian still wasn’t very sure) said with an obsequious smile. “So we approached it the way we thought you might.”

“You are the best, Bri.” Brad chimed in. “We’re constantly learning from you.”

One side of Brian’s mouth quirked into a smile. “And it’s only taken you three years to learn something useful.” He smothered a laugh at the pair’s stricken looks. This was really too easy, unnerving them this way . . . which was why despite rare – very rare – flashes of competence, Brian was sure that the Bob/Brad tandem would remain just like this; licking the boots of those they deemed their protector. Though they’d been coming up with better ideas lately, and Brian wondered if that didn’t have to do with the persistent rumor that Ryder was thinking of selling the agency. Just the week before, a tallish, smarmy-looking man had been in the office poking around . . . Vance something-or-other . . . and word around the office was he was making an offer for the agency. Ryder hadn’t mentioned a word, however, so Brian wasn’t concerned. He understood, though, why Bob and Brad might be. In a takeover, they’d be among the first to go. He, however, had job security . . . he was the agency star, after all, and he knew Ryder and the advertising business inside and out. He gave Bob and Brad a thoroughly sympathetic smirk. Poor saps.

“Roy Lindner’s gonna be here Thursday, boys.” Brian pushed the display across the desk toward them. “I want to see this again before he gets here. With something punchier than this.” He pointed to the words beneath the picture. “We want to this to smack Lindner right between the eyes. Right now, with this copy, we’re just poking him.”

“Sure, Bri. We’ll work on it.” Brad flashed another toady smile. “We’ve got all day today . . . maybe later we can run some ideas by you?”

“You can do it over my cell.” He glanced at the clock. “I’m going to be working on the Culpepper Electronics account. At home.”

Bob and Brad exchanged a look. “Uh . . . home?” Brad looked confused. “Is . . . everything all right, Bri?”

“Sure.” Brian shrugged, grabbing some papers. “You two seem to have this under control.” For a change. “And I have full confidence that you two aren’t gonna fuck this up.” He stared at them both, resting his chin on steepled fingers. “I . . . do have a reason to be confident, don’t I, guys?”

Out came the smiles again. “Sure, Bri. Sure you do.” Bob nodded vigorously, and Brian was amused to see that not a hair on his head moved. “We’ll work this out.” He grabbed their mock-up and both men stood. “We’ll call you with the new copy. Or maybe we can fax you?”

“Call. Me.” Brian wanted to be able to berate them in real time if the ad copy was not where he thought it should be, and he knew that the two understood his thinking when he saw them go pale again. “So back to work, boys. Make this sing. You’re on your way.” He grinned them out of the room and sighed loudly when the door closed behind them. Dialing Cynthia, he toyed with a Sharpie while he waited for his assistant to pick up the phone. Hard to believe that it was nearly noon already. The morning had flown by, thank goodness, filled with meetings and planning sessions. It had been much of the same as in the past few weeks, and now that he saw that, wonder of wonders, the Moronic Matched-set had put together the basis of a decent campaign, he could rest a little easy for awhile, though he had a feeling he’d be rewriting Bob and Brad’s copy no matter what they came up with. They were consistently hideous at coming up with catchy phrases that sold.

Hey, boss. Ready for lunch? Cynthia sounded harried. Need me to bring in the menus from Blarney Stone? Or are you in the mood for something less ancestral?

“Cute.” Brian aimed the Sharpie at his pen holder and missed it by quite a ways, sending it clattering to the floor. “I’m heading home. Call the service and have them route calls to the loft.” Brian pressed his tongue into his cheek. “I’m going to spend some quality time with Culpepper account.”

At home? Everything all right? Concern colored her voice. You feeling okay?

“I’m fine.” He ran a hand over his hair. “The Lindner campaign’s coming together, and I figured I’d be spending most of the day retooling that. Jones and Chirac have it pretty much done, so I’m going leave them to it and deal with Culpepper. All the paperwork’s back at the loft. I’ve already cleared it with Ryder.”

Okay . . . but why call the service? I’ll be here. I’ll just direct all the calls.

“No, you won’t.” Brian said. “I won’t be here . . . no need for you to be, either.”

Brian . . . are you serious? It’s not even noon. Brian guessed one of Ryder’s assistant’s was about, judging by the serious edge to Cynthia’s voice. I still have your trip to Santa Fe to arrange . . . the notes from the Jertson meeting to transpose . . .

“Santa Fe’s in three weeks and the only thing I need to know about Jertson is the budget. You’ve been busting your ass the past few weeks same as me. Go home. Go shopping. Get laid. Just get out of here.” Brian loosened the knot on his tie. “But call the service first. Tell them to put the reps from Culpepper, Lindner, Jertson and Egle right through. Anybody else can wait ‘til after four.”

After four? Cynthia sounded amused. The Culpepper account, huh? Isn’t that the one you said you had all but wrapped up . . . two weeks ago?

Brian stuck his tongue into his cheek. There was something to be said for having an assistant that was a little . . . too on top of things. “Last-minute details. Enjoy the rest of your day off, Cyn.”

He hung up the phone and pulled out his cellphone, dialing in to check his messages. With a lifted eyebrow, he listened to successive messages from Mikey, his sister, Mikey, his tailor, his cleaning lady, and Mikey again. Frowning, he glanced at the clock, wondering if he should call Justin and tell him to meet him at the loft for lunch. It was five of twelve . . . likely Justin wasn’t out of class yet. Brian put away his cell, figuring Justin would call him after class as he said he would. He’d tell the teen then that he was taking the rest of the day off . . . and that they could spend it however they liked. Brian smiled remembering that morning, dropping the teenager off at PIFA. Brian had been thinking about it all day, had been thinking about him all day; those sweet lips . . . and those eyes . . . and that smile . . . and more . . . so much more. He could still feel Justin’s lips against his, and still had the taste of Justin in his mouth from their before-work/school “activities.”

Brian felt a stirring in his groin, and he sighed softly, standing and reaching for his coat. He wanted to be near the teen again and continue what they’d started the night before. They had talked: Justin was a very good listener, he’d been a little surprised to discover, even better than Mikey. And he hadn’t even gotten too freaked when Brian had told him some of the more sordid stories about the good, old Kinney clan. Justin had held him tight even when Brian had recounted some of Jack Kinney’s drunken rampages, his mother’s frigidity, and Claire’s unrelenting bitchiness. After the talking ended, they’d fucked, and that had been, as always, extraordinarily hot.

Fucking. Brian’s brow creased in thought. It hadn’t felt exactly like fucking. And not just because they’d gone slow. No, it was something more . . . they’d touched more . . . kissed more . . . it had been . . . nice. Real nice. And Brian wanted to do it again that day. Spending the entire afternoon, just the two of them alone, talking and touching and fucking . . . making love . . . whatever, sounded ideal. That’s what Brian wanted, and the knowledge of that didn’t even scare him anymore. In fact, it made him feel kind of . . . good.

See what you’re doing to me, sunshine . . . got me playing hooky just for you, Brian thought to himself with a grin, turning over in his mind places he could stop to pick up a nice lunch for two. He grabbed his briefcase, striding out the door without a backward glance. Who would have thought a Tuesday would hold the potential to be so much fun?

*********

You are sooo shitting me! Right in the Jeep? No fucking way!

“I’m dead serious, Daph. It was so hot.” Justin cradled his cellphone between his shoulder and ear as made his way out of the lecture hall in PIFA’s main building and out into the open air. “Best blowjob I’ve had. Well, today, at least.”

Did you do him? Or was it just for you? And seriously . . . in the jeep?!

“Of course I did him . . . I’m not selfish.” Justin walked slowly to the bus stop at which a sizeable crowd had already gathered. “Daph, I’m telling you; since that thing with the guy from the supermarket –”

Zucchini Guy?

“Yeah, him.” Justin’s lip curled in distaste. “But ever since that whole thing and me leaving and Brian coming to Babylon and us making those rules, Brian has been a totally different guy. We’re talking more – actually talking. And last night, we even went out . . . on a date.”

Wait a minute . . . I thought Brian didn’t do dates.

“Well, he did last night. We were in this romantic restaurant . . . candles, flowers, the whole thing.” Justin lowered his voice when he approached the congested bus stop. “Then we walked around and talked about all sorts of stuff . . . school . . . family . . . everything. We went home and talked some more. And then . . .” He let his voice trail off mysteriously, knowing it would drive his oldest friend wild.

And then . . . And then . . .?! Daphne was practically squeaking in excitement. What?! You had BETTER not hold out on me, Justin. What happened?!

“Three words, Daph. Just three: All. Night. Long.” Justin grinned. “Literally. Oh, I guess that was four. My fault.”

Dayum, Jus. And you’re able to walk okay? Or did he let you fuck him, too?

Justin pouted a little . . . now that would have been the one thing that would have made the night absolutely perfect. He’d never screwed Brian, and considering Brian’s “exclusive top” status, he didn’t have any hope that he’d ever get do it. But maybe now that things were changing between them, Brian would trust him enough to let him. The executive did love him, after all. He’d said so. “Well, no . . . but he was really gentle and sweet . . . and sometimes we just, you know, sucked each other off.” Justin craned his neck to see if the bus was coming. “Besides, it’s not supposed to hurt much the next day if you’re used to it. If it does, something’s wrong.”

Thanks for the lesson Mr. “All Night Long.” The sarcasm in Daphne’s voice was palpable.

“Don’t forget the Literally.” Justin was startled by the beep that cut into the connection. “Hold on a sec, Daph, I’ve got another call.” He clicked over, and was suddenly nervous. He’d told Brian he’d call him right after class, and he’d been out for 20 minutes, talking over an assignment with his TA, and then talking with Daphne on his cell, eager to share the morning’s exploits with his best friend. What if the exec had thought he’d blown him off. “Hello?”

Hey . . . uh . . . is this Justin? Justin Taylor?

“Yeah . . .” Justin frowned. He didn’t recognize the voice at all, and for a change, his connection wasn’t fritzing out on him.

Hey, ‘sup, Justin. It’s Josh . . . um . . . Josh Grey. From Duquesne? We’re doing the book project together?

“Oh, hey, what’s up?” Justin felt only slightly relieved. Maybe Brian’s meetings were running late, as he’d mentioned they might. “How’s the story coming?”

Dude, it’s done. Seth was up all night banging it out. Good stuff. But listen; we got a little problem. Remember how we said we’d get together Thursday to start ironing out everything?

“Yeah . . .” Justin craned his neck again. Still no bus. “Is that not a good time or something?”

I had flu last week and had to reschedule a midterm. Got email from the prof today and he says Thursday afternoon’s the only time I can make it up.

“Damn . . . and I’ve got work Thursday night.” Justin frowned. “Well . . . can we get together tomorrow night?”

I can, but Seth’s got a night class, and he’ll need to be around for this . . . it’s his thing, y’know. Can you come in the afternoon?

“I have classes until six tomorrow. Uh . . . how about Friday . . . or any time this weekend?”

Can’t happen. My folks are coming up for the Pitt-Penn State game. They get here Friday, and I’m gonna be stuck playing tour guide all fucking weekend. Shit . . . I really didn’t wanna have to drag this out an extra week, dude. Fuck!

“Me, either. I have midterm projects I’ve gotta start.” Justin chewed on his lip, thinking. “Maybe we can exchange stuff over email this week. You send me the story; I do the rest of the illustrations. That way, we’ll have the preliminary stuff done, and maybe early next week, we can get it all together.”

Sounds sweet . . . still . . . it’d be cool to see some of the actual drawings. Seth was asking about ‘em. He has some ideas or something. Shit. I’d say let’s get together today, but it’s way short notice . . . and besides, you probably haven’t had a chance to work on anything.

“Actually, I did some stuff last night. I like the story . . . it totally got me inspired to draw. Nothing concrete, and I still haven’t thought about what I’m doing for the cover, but it’s a start. And . . . I’ve kinda got a free afternoon.” He bit his lip, thinking about lunch with Brian. But it was nearly 12:30 and he’d hadn’t heard from the ad executive, who would have definitely called him by now if he could, if only to see why Justin hadn’t called when he said he would. Brian was probably up to his ears in work, eating a box lunch at his desk or having some catered meal at one of those meetings he’d been complaining about lately. “If you want, I could stop by. I just got out of class for the day.”

Sweet! Nice schedule you art guys have . . . I knew I shoulda learned to color inside the lines. Josh’s laughter was hearty and full without being overbearing or unpleasant, and Justin found himself laughing along with him. Cool. We’re both here. We’ll be here for awhile. We don’t have class ‘til four-thirty. You’ll be able to get here by then?

“No problem. I’ll grab a bus uptown . . . should be there in ten, fifteen minutes.”

Cool. We’ll be here. Thanks, man. We totally owe you. Josh became faint as he directed his voice away from the phone. Hey, Curls . . . Justin’s coming over . . . get this shit off the bed so he’ll have some place to sit. His voice became clear when he returned to the phone. Dude, just to warn you, we . . . ah . . . entertain a lot here, so it’s kind of a sty. We’re in St. Ann’s Living and Learning Center. Room 511.

“St. Ann’s . . . 511.” Justin committed the information to memory. “Got it. See you in a while.”

Yeah, dude. Later. And thanks!

Sighing, Justin clicked back over to Daphne. “Hey, Daph . . . sorry about that.”

How’s Brian? Does he want another encore in the Jeep? Maybe you two will make it to the back seat this time.

“Wasn’t him. It’s a couple of guys I’m doing a project with. Something came up, and I’ve gotta head over there. They’re at Duquesne, so I’ll be in your neck of the woods. Wanna get something to eat? Try that place by The Carnegie you were telling me about?”

Can’t, Jus. I have three solid hours of class starting in fifteen minutes. But what about Brian? I thought you two were getting together now.

“Yeah, well, he said he might be busy, and he hasn’t called, so . . .” Justin shrugged, trying hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “I’ll see him later. Besides . . . I need to get this out of the way. I have to work on my midterm printmaking project and I’ve got two concept sketches due for Life Class. It’ll work out in the long run.”

If you say so. Guess I’ll talk to you later . . . if you can find the time between romantic dinners and blowjobs to call.

“I’ll squeeze you in somehow . . . don’t I always?”

You better . . . this is the closest thing I’ve got to having a sex life – at least ‘til after midterms, she laughed. See you later. And say hi to Brian for me.

“I will. Later, Daph.” He cut the connection and stared at his phone for a minute. He could at the very least leave Brian a message and let him know that –

A low whine from up the block caught his attention, and Justin turned his head in time to see the bus heading toward Oakland and the Bluff, where Duquesne was located, ambling a block away across the street. “Fuck!” Justin flipped his phone shut, shoved it into his pocket and rushed across the street to the bus stop opposite the one where he’d been standing, not noticing that in his haste, he’d flicked the off-switch on his phone’s ring/vibrate function.

Four

Brian arrived home to an empty loft and a troubled mind; two things he hadn’t experienced much of in the months since Justin had moved in with him. Putting some “purchases” on the kitchen counter, Brian chewed the inside of his cheek and tried to calm down. So what if Justin hadn’t called him and, apparently, had his cellphone turned off? So what if class had ended for his young artist an hour ago and Justin was not in the loft, nor was he, according to Mikey, at the diner. It was not a cause for concern. Justin might be stuck downtown somewhere in lunchtime traffic, or he may have stayed after class to work on a project, or he might have just . . .

Forgotten. Until that moment, Brian had been able to keep that word from surfacing in his mind, but a combination of his concern for Justin’s whereabouts and a simple tiredness from what work he had done that day lowered his defenses some. Could his Sonnyboy have forgotten that they’d sort of made a date for lunch? It didn’t seem much like Justin, especially since –

“Brian Kinney doesn’t do dates,” Brian muttered aloud, yanking open the refrigerator, putting in the bottle of wine he held in one hand and taking out an Old Pitt with the other. And the whole lunch thing had been Justin’s idea. Sure, Brian had been amenable to it, but it would be an awfully shitty thing to make a suggestion, have it accepted, and then forget all about the damn thing.

Grabbing his purchases from the counter, Brian strode to the bedroom and dumped the bag on Justin’s side of the bed, realizing a second too late that there might be liquids and/or breakable things in the bag. When nothing seeped out of the paper bag, Brian threw himself on the bed and toyed with a frayed edge of the bag. He’d gone to the gourmet store down the block that he and Justin had passed numerous times but had never gotten around to going into and asked the queenish-looking guy behind the counter to pull together some items that would make a decent lunchtime spread. The guy had worked quickly and silently, not bothering to volunteer what he was putting in. After five minutes of watching the guy literally grab stuff off the shelves and stuff them into a basket, Brian thought it as well to tell the guy that his lunch companion had allergies out the ass, and that if he was putting anything in the little care package that would touch off the allergies, he'd be spreading his balls on one of those pricey crackers. The guy just looked back at him, shrugged, took out one can of something Brian didn’t recognize, and went on with the snatch and grab routine.

An enticing aroma that was a cross between sugar cane and apple-and-cinnamon oatmeal rose from the bag, and Brian’s mouth watered as he tried to guess what it was. Some of the things – water crackers, brie, hard salami – he’d recognized, but there was a bunch of imported shit that he wasn’t quite familiar with, but that he was sure Sunshine would love. Now, if only he’d get his bubble butt home . . .

Brian glanced at his watch and frowned. It was nearly two, and barring Justin’s forgetting about wanting to hook up for lunch, the boy would have definitely called to explain his lateness or to even ask if Brian still wanted to get together. Taking out his cellphone, Brian flipped it open, frowning harder when he saw he had no new messages, and then pressed a button to speed-dial Justin’s cell. Placing the phone to his ear, it was all Brian could do to keep from throwing his beer on the floor when he got the soft click and then a softer voice breathing, “This BellAtlantic customer is not available. To leave a message . . .”

Brian thought about leaving a message, but instead closed his phone with a vicious snap. He glanced at the bag bulging with their lunch items, took a swig of his beverage, and sat up, a grim grin on his face. He’d give Justin fifteen more minutes, and if he didn’t show or call, he was out of there to find someone – or some people – who would welcome his company, with or without $11 crackers. Running a hand over his hair, Brian reflected that he’d never been to the baths so early in the day, but there was, as evidenced by his attempts to make a “romantic” lunch at home for himself and Justin, a first time for everything.

~*~

In all his years as a native Pittsburgher, Justin had never heard a bad thing said about Duquesne. The campus was pretty, the education one received there was apparently top-notch, it was in a good neighborhood, their sports teams – such as they were – were respectable. But walking a long, meandering hall to Josh and Seth’s room, Justin figured he’d finally found a flaw in the preternaturally perfect college: the dorms sucked. They were squat little buildings, barely functional as living spaces, and dark on the inside, like little nun’s cloisters. Which, DU being a Catholic college, it might have been by design.

Still, it was sort of am affront to his artistic sensibilities to come into a place where the campus was laid out beautifully, but the inside of the buildings were so dank and drab. It reminded Justin of a trick Emmett was talking about once – the guy was hot, hung, intelligent and smart, but when he and Emmett had gone to bed, it became readily apparent that the guy had no skills whatsoever. It had, Em had said, been the biggest let-down of his life beyond finding out that Zach O’Tool was no longer going to endorse the ‘Go Long’ cock ring. Climbing the stairs to the fifth landing of Josh and Seth’s dorm, Justin felt that same sense of disappointment upon getting an up-close-and-personal-view of Duquesne as Emmett had with his boring-as-fuck fuck. Only Justin figured that at least he didn’t have a hard-on to compound his sense of disillusionment, so he figured he was one up on Emmett.

Justin shouldered his portfolio as he walked down a dim, quiet, low-ceilinged hallway. Glancing from left to right at the standard, teak-colored doors, the blond shook his head. The doors were stark and bare, not even bearing cardboard name signs of the occupants like at most colleges. PIFA was probably at the opposite end of the spectrum, with glitter collages, intricate lacework and other manifestations of artistic talent adorning dorm doors and hallways. Some of it was a little obnoxious, but at least it hinted at individuality and personality. Here, the uniformity was so total it was almost scary, and Justin wondered if it was the same at all colleges that had been borne out of some religious ideal or if it was just a Pittsburgh thing.

Five-one-one. Justin stopped at a beige door almost directly in the center of the hallway and was a little taken aback to notice what looked like an intricate design scribbled above the doorknob in black marker. Upon closer inspection, Justin realized that it was not a design in the typical sense – it was a series of Greek letters, and he smiled a little to think that his creative partners would be the individuals of their floor.

Knocking on the door, Justin readjusted his portfolio and began thinking about the sketches he was going to display. There were a few he wasn’t sure about, and though he was sure Josh and Seth probably wouldn’t be overly critical, Justin wondered if he should have pushed to wait until he had something more concrete to show them. Then again, he figured that if he just showed them he was working on something, they’d be satisfied, and he could go home. Home to draw and relax and wait for Brian –

“Shit! Brian!” The blond reeled when he realized the time and that he had not yet called the executive about his change in plans. Looking at his watch, Justin nearly pissed himself. Five after fucking two! Justin fumbled his cellphone out, heart pounding as he realized that he’d said he’d call more than two hours before. Brian was likely up to his ass in meetings now, and the blond hoped fervently that Brian had been busy through the morning and early afternoon and wouldn’t have had the time to get together anyway.

The door swung open just as Justin flipped open his cell, and the blond glanced up, poised to ask Josh or Seth to excuse him for a minute while he made the call, but he was caught off-guard by the unfamiliar – and very large – presence in the doorway. The guy staring down at him was about as wide as the door and solid. Like a brick wall with stubble.

The immensely polite, “Can I help you?” caught Justin even more off-guard. It seemed weird coming from a guy who looked like he crushed beer cans on his forehead.

“Hi . . . I’m, um, looking for Josh Grey or Seth Williamson.”

Justin unthinkingly put his cellphone away, and stepped back a little as the guy leaned sharply forward, almost as if he’d been looking to knock foreheads together. The blond chewed his bottom lip and tried not to squirm. The blond knew he wasn’t being checked out in a hook-up way, but the guy seriously looked like he wanted to sniff him or something. The young artist frowned a little when he saw something like recognition flash across the taller man’s eyes, but before he could study it more, the other man had straightened up and was smiling again.

“Yeah, they’re here.” He jerked his head back toward the room behind him. “Come on in.”

Justin stepped into the room a little reluctantly. He thought that as talkative as Josh was, he would’ve mentioned a third roommate, but as weird as the guy who answered the door seemed to be, Justin understood why they might not say anything. Looking around at the small room, Justin wasn’t sure how even one person could fit there, let alone three, and was about to ask the still-unnamed guy how he could stand it, when he saw Josh and Seth.

Justin stopped dead in his tracks and blinked once or twice. Check that: He was seeing a lot of Josh and Seth.

“Uh . . . hey.” Justin wasn’t sure what to say, exactly. There were his partners, standing flush against a wall, naked except for two index-card-size signs in front of their crotches. There was writing on the cards, but it was too small for Justin to read, and getting close enough to read it would have been . . . weird. He glanced over his shoulder at the big guy, who wore an expression of complete calm, and then back at Josh and Seth, neither of whom were looking at him. “Listen, if this is, um, a bad time . . .”

“Pledge Grey, you gonna introduce me to your . . . buddy here?” The bigger man strode past Justin to stand in the middle of the room. Justin found himself paying more attention to the imposing man than to the two naked guys, which, he thought wryly, would probably lose him his “fag card” if any of the guys found out . If this was what Josh meant by “entertaining a lot,” Justin knew of quite a few men who’d enjoy the show.

“Sir, yes sir!” Josh flushed as he stared into space. “This is Justin Taylor, sir, for PIFA, sir, we’re doing a project together, sir!”

“Oh, this the book thing, right?” He looked at Justin with the same sort of assessing stare that he’d given at the door. “I’m Doug. PiKA Pledge Master.” He held out a beefy hand and gave Justin another long look. “You look familiar . . . you from the Pitts originally?”

“Yeah. All my life.” Justin resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his jeans; Doug’s hand was cold and clammy. “You?”

“Yep. Went to Trinity Prep over in Squirrel Hill.” Doug raised an eyebrow. “Heard of it? It was pretty lame.”

Justin nearly rolled his eyes. Now things were beginning to make sense. Trinity had more assholes per square inch than Babylon’s backroom on a busy night. “I almost went there. Would’ve if St. James had waitlisted me.”

“St. James?” Doug chuckled beneath his breath. “You’re a Jamesey? Your football team sucked. We beat their ass in the ground every single homecoming. You know a kid named Reid Erlich? Played cornerback? He lived next door to me.”

The name rang a bell immediately, but it took Justin a couple of seconds to place the face, and when he did, it didn’t improve his impression of Pledge Master Doug. Reid Erlich had been in the whole obnoxious, aggressive breeder clique. Reid was a good friend of Hobbes’ best friend Fred, an all-state running back, and was often referred to as the second banana to the second banana, since Fred’s lips seemed permanently attached to Chris’ ass from freshman year on. Reid had never been a huge problem, really, just a face in the “Fags die!” crowd at St. James.

“Yeah, he was in my History class,” Justin muttered. “I didn’t know him well, but he used to hang out with this guy . . . Chris Hobbes . . .”

“Hobbes? Yeah I know him. Played quarterback. He sucked, too.” Doug’s voice was bland and he turned his attention to the shivering boys against the wall. “Pledge Grey, Pledge Williamson, at ease.” Doug nodded as the two peeled themselves carefully of the wall and simultaneously rubbed their asses. Shifting a sideways glance at the taller student, Justin wondered if a spanking had been part of this “friendly” visit. “Pledge Grey, I wanna see you out in the hall a minute. We have to go over your schedule for the week.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Josh grabbed at a pile of clothes puddled at his feet, grinning ruefully at Justin. “Justin, hang out a sec, okay? Fill Curls in on the art stuff –”

“Now, Grey.” Doug barely glanced over his shoulder, but his voice sharpened considerably.

Josh straightened up immediately. “Sir, coming, sir! Guys, I’ll catch up.” Clad only in plaid boxers and a ratty T-shirt, he rushed after Doug, shutting the door tightly behind him.

Justin smiled tightly. Seth’s obvious discomfort was making him nervous. “Um . . . wow . . .” The blond glanced around the relatively neat room, despite the imitation beer steins, goofy joke cars, and full-color supermodel pinups that cropped up in most rooms of het college guys. “This is a lot bigger than it looks.” Seeing Seth turn yogurt-pale and clutch the little card tighter to his crotch, Justin hastened to add, “Uh, the room. It just looks kinda shoebox from the outside.”

“I guess.” Seth’s eyes darted from his pile of clothes to Justin’s face. “Uh . . . you mind turning around a minute? I need to . . . you know, get dressed.”

“Uhhh . . . okay.” Justin obligingly turned his back, frowning a little. The more he hung around Seth, the weirder the vibe he got from him. The other blond hadn’t seemed like he had much of a problem being naked in front of Josh, but maybe, Justin thought, that was the point. Josh, and presumably Doug, were just guys, whereas he was a gay guy, and to some het guys, that was a huge difference.

“So, um, I was telling Josh that I really like the story. It’s shitloads better than the stuff I used to read when I was a kid.” Justin found it a little strange to be talking while facing Heidi Klum’s breasts, but he continued on. “I like how you don’t make Clues this super-genius; he’s just a kid who notices things and can put them together in his head.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted it to be something kids could relate to. Um, it’s cool. You can turn around now.” Seth sounded almost shy, and Justin turned in time to see the other blond cast a disgusted look at the index card that had been covering his modesty before tossing it aside. “Plus, I don’t think anybody feels real comfortable around kids that sound like Rhodes Scholars and stuff. It’d be unrealistic. I had to make him just sorta average . . . but totally plugged into other people’s actions and deductive reasoning.”

“Sorta like a Sherlock Holmes, but with four Watsons instead of one.” Justin sat gingerly on a footstool between the two slim beds, balancing his portfolio on his knees. “I like his friends; the triplets and Julie. Their scenes are pretty funny. You’re really good at writing dialogue, especially for them. They sound like kids, without sounding too juvenile.”

“You read all the way up to that?” Seth’s eyes grew big. “Jeez. I figured maybe you’d just skim over it.”

“Well, I was gonna, ‘cause I have a lot of midterm projects I haven’t even started yet,” Justin admitted. “But I started reading, and got really interested – which is good, because I do my best art for projects that interest me personally and not just stuff I need to do to get a grade.”

“Me, too. I always hated writing those crap essays on the importance of the Louisiana Purchase and all that other bullshit.” Seth flung himself on his bed, stretching himself out until his head was nearly in Justin’s lap, but then pulled back in alarm when he realized how close they were. “Uh, sorry about that.” Another deep blush darkened his cheeks, and after an uncomfortable silence, he continued. “I love short stories. Always did. I was in Lit Mag in high school. My last year, the editor quit and the faculty advisor wanted me to do it. I said forget it.” Seth pushed his hair off his forehead. “That would’ve meant me cleaning up other people’s shit and hardly doing any writing myself.”

“You’re an English major?” Justin asked. “Do you want to write professionally, like for a magazine, or . . .”

“Nah. I’m declaring a finance and marketing major next quarter.” The other blond rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “My parents would go ballistic if I did something like declare English. There’s no money in it . . . nothing you can do except teach or write, and I’m not good at either. At least not good enough to make money.”

Justin watched the other boy maintain his focus on the ceiling. Seth seemed a little bit more relaxed than he had just a few minutes previously, and Justin felt the need to proceed carefully. “That’s crap. Your story –”

“Is lame,” Seth interrupted and flipped over again, leveling a steady gaze at Justin. “Look, I’m glad you like it, and all, but I’ve gotta face facts. You’re not a writer. And I don’t mean that to be a wise-ass. It’s like . . . uh . . . you know, like, have you ever showed a drawing to somebody who didn’t know shit about art, and they went on and on about how kick-ass it was, even though you knew it wasn’t all that great?”

Justin was caught off guard by the question. “Yeah . . . yeah, I suppose . . .”

Seth nodded. “I could do five hundred times better on that story, but . . . Josh wants it done.” The other boy went silent for awhile, and Justin thought he saw a shadow of annoyance cross the blond’s face. “Anyway, there’s a type of writer I want to be, but I dunno if I can be . . .” Seth looked up again. “Like, do you ever read Harry Potter?”

“Not really,” Justin said, slightly confused at the random turn the conversation was taking. “But I have a younger sister who reads ‘em. She likes the movies more, I think.”

“The movies were good.” Seth nodded. “But the books suck . . . the writing blows. I mean that JK Rowling chick can’t write her way out of paper bag. But you know why the books are so popular?” Seth waited for Justin’s head-shake. “They’re popular because the characters are so unforgettable. That’s Rowling’s one talent. She created these characters people remember, people can’t get out of their heads. And that’s what gets her over – well, that and the fact that most people don’t know really decent writing. But then you have somebody like Stephen King. You read his stuff?”

“I’ve read some of it.” Justin thought a minute. “I like his short stories best, like Shawshank Redemption and Stand By Me.”

“Yeah, they made the best movies. But I bet you can’t tell me the name of one character from either of those stories. Just one.”

“I . . .” Justin’s eyebrows knit as he thought about it for a minute. “Shit . . . I can’t think of . . . but, it’s been, like, forever since I’ve read that stuff.”

“Okay, but you remember what the stories were about right? Like the storylines and shit?”

“Yeah, but –”

“That’s my point.” Seth nodded happily. “Don’t feel lame. I love King’s stuff, and I can’t remember any of the characters either, really. That’s the point. King is a fucking amazing writer and he creates these intricate plots, but the characters themselves are forgettable. There’s nothing really special about them. Nothing that makes ‘em stand out, really. Now, the kind of writer who can create the setting and the plot like King and make-up characters like Rowling . . . that’s rare.” The blond drummed his fingers on his bedspread. “And that’s the kinda writer I’d want to be. But I don’t have the time or the patience to work hard, and I’d haveta work hard, since I don’t think I’m, like, naturally gifted and junk. Plus, marketing’s lucrative. Boring as hell, but I’ll get a job, I guess.”

“Sure, but what good is a job if you hate it?” Justin asked softly. “My dad wanted me to go to Dartmouth and get an MBA just like him. I’d go fucking insane in some office crunching numbers and writing reports. Art is who I am . . . it’s what makes me feel like me. If writing is what you love, then you should go for it. Maybe I’m not a writer, but I know what I like. You have the talent –”

“But not the time. Or the energy.” Seth hunched his shoulders. “My dad wanted me at Duke. I gave him Duquesne instead, so now I’ve gotta bust my ass to make him not regret it. That means graduating in three years, not four, and scoring the best internships in town. I wanted to write for the newspaper here, but with all this PiKA shit, I won’t have time.”

Justin noticed the vehemence with which Seth said the word, and he wondered at his lack of enthusiasm. Every frat guy he’d ever met had lived and died for their “brothers” and their houses, yet Seth said PiKA with the same sort of disgusted tone as someone would say “herpes.” “I guess it’s kind of hard when you’re pledging.”

“Hard? Try excruciating.” Seth snorted. “People barging in on you all times of the day just to humiliate you . . . going through all sorts of stupid and dangerous shit . . . being marginalized and insulted daily . . . and paying for all that. Besides, this is so lame. This is Duquesne. Greek life is like an oxymoron here. We can’t even party on campus. The frat rents this suite of rooms downtown, and the dues are way high just to maintain that.”

“Sounds harsh.” Justin looked over his shoulder at the still-closed door, and wondered what could be taking Josh so long. He didn’t think the guy relished being out in the hallway in just his underwear. “Why put up with it if you feel that way about it?”

Seth didn’t respond for several long minutes, and Justin squirmed uncomfortably, afraid that he’d said something that had ticked the other student off. He was fiddling with the latch on his portfolio when Seth, his voice, soft and a little sad, responded with, “Dunno. Old habits hard to break, I guess. Me and Josh, we’ve known each other practically since we were born, and we’ve always done stuff together. I guess I figured this wouldn’t be any different. But it is . . .” Seth cast a sad glance at the closed door. “It’s a whole ‘nother ballgame, now.”

The young artist didn’t know quite how to respond to that, but in another second, the door opened to a beaming Josh. Doug, Justin noticed, was nowhere in sight. “Hey, sorry you had to walk in on that, Justin. We get ‘sneaked’ once or twice a week, but it’s usually during the weekend. Doug wanted to get his quota of frosh meat early, I guess.”

That’s . . . kind of a weird way to put it. Justin smiled anyway. “It’s no problem. I’ve seen . . . stranger. Believe me.”

“I’ll bet!” Josh cracked up, sprawling out on the bed behind the blond artist. “Anyway, Curls, I’ve got fucking awesome news. Doug gave me our schedule for the week, and guess what?”

“Now what?” Seth looked as if he were being punched in the stomach. “We on puke patrol again this weekend?”

“Nope! We’re free! No keg runs, no puke patrol, we actually get to hang out and enjoy ourselves at this party. We’re detached!” Seeing Justin’s questioning look, Josh smiled gently, and explained, “Being detached means that we get out of doing the usual pledge chores, like mopping up puke at the party or watching the door or cleaning out the bathroom. It’s a sweet designation, and hardly any pledges get detached during Rush!”

“Then why are we?” Seth seemed less than thrilled, a marked, and to Justin, strange contrast to Josh’s enthusiasm. “What’d we do to get such special treatment?”

“We were . . . just ourselves, I guess. You know. We are the kick-ass pledges. Doug loves us.” Josh grinned widely, seeming to ignore or not notice Seth’s deepening frown. Justin took note, however, and it made him wonder just what about the dynamic between the two youths was troublesome to him. Seth was now stiff and awkward again, which struck Justin as more than a little strange now that Josh was back in the room. It seemed to Justin that Seth would be more at ease with his friend around than when he wasn’t, but that didn’t seem to be the case at all.

“Anyway, enough of that.” Josh was still grinning, and he rested a gentle hand on Justin’s shoulder, seeming almost to . . . caress it a little. Justin blinked, wondering if it was just his imagination, and his gaze went to Seth, who was now giving Josh an almost hostile glare. “Let’s see those drawings, Justin. Thanks again for coming all this way on such piss-ass notice. Wasn’t it cool of him, Curls?”

Seth shrugged slightly, saying nothing, and Justin nodded and unlatched his portfolio, wondering just what the hell was going on with those two.

~*~

The Baths were brimming with plenty of fuckable possibilities – an odd thing for a late Tuesday afternoon. Brian surveyed the muscled businessmen, the chiseled leather pigs and the smooth-chested twink-types with an appraising air and they eyed him back with lust and hunger evident in their gazes. It would be hard to choose just one, or two, or three . . . to screw, so . . . Brian went on the past of least resistance and did what he’d done since he’d entered the Baths, dropped his clothes and wrapped the requisite thin white towel around his waist; he continued to pass all the prospects by, tuning out all the moans and sighs and smells, and concentrated hard about not worrying about Justin.

That was the sticking point in his midday plans; his conscious effort not to worry was making him worry a little, and that worry in turn was making his dick soft. Not a pleasant turn of events. And not all that regrettable, Brian admitted to himself. The guys at the Baths were fuckable, but that didn’t necessarily mean they’d be good fucks.

What the fuck am I doing? You don’t think in here. You fuck. Or you get the fuck out. Brian did another loop of the dim rooms, many of them occupied by writhing, moaning “bathers.” Not even watching the action was helping his libido any. Fighting the urge to give it up and go home, Brian brushed by countless studs with that same hungry look in their eyes. Occasionally, a blond would pass by and Brian’s thoughts would again turn to Justin.

Brian knew that on some level, his concern was prompted by that screwed-up “Why am I here?” mess that happened a couple of weeks ago. Justin had walked in on him fucking some guy, freaked out, grilled Brian on just why he’d opened his home to him, and left after Brian had been able to give an adequate answer, and Brian remembered how . . . vacant he’d felt after the blond took off. It was a weird thing – he’d actually been sweated a little at the thought of the teen walking out of his life for good. It reminded him of a milder case of what he’d felt in the first days after the blond was bashed. Brian remembered how he’d sat in the hospital for three days not moving, not talking, not doing anything, thinking that it was an odd thing to discover that the vulnerable side he worked hard to hide was out on very public display – but all he could think about was Justin, and that if the blond died, Brian knew, he just knew, that he’d be empty inside for the rest of his days.

The dark-haired man cast a vague, weary look around. There were so many choices, lots of ways he could get off, many guys he could choose, but there’d be a new crop of fuckable men the next time he visited the Baths. And the next time. And the time after that. That was the appeal of the Baths; the faces changed, but the opportunities never did. It was both amazingly exciting and a little dull, all at once. Brian rubbed a hand over his eyes, making his way back to the locker area where his clothes lay. His mind had killed the mood for him, and it seemed only appropriate to return the favor by killing a few braincells. It was nearing happy hour time at Woody’s, and there was a good chance the gang would be around to regale him with tales of their pathetically ordinary days. And he could not worry about Justin while downing a few shots of trusty Jim Beam.

To Be Continued....

Heeding the (Bugle) Call

Story One-Reveille

By Eveline

(AU Season 3) Changes abound after an accident befalls the CEO of Vanguard. Complete.

Prologue

It was on impact. Still can’t believe it. Poor bastard never had a chance. His driver wasn’t so lucky . . . he got ejected . . . was conscious for awhile before the EMTs got there . . .

Shit . . .

Yeah. Jesus-fucking-Christ . . . laying there in the middle of a street watching your guts spilling out. What a way to go. Vance had it easy. Never saw it coming. Just BAM, and then . . .

Do you have to go to the funeral? I thought you hated them.

<Chuckle> I’m a partner, Sunshine. Have to go pay my last respects. Got a call from Vance’s wife today thanking me for the flowers . . . talked for awhile . . . got the whole ‘I don’t know what I’ll do without him.’ Never met her . . . Vance had a picture on his desk, but I never thought to look at it. They’re doing a rush job on putting him in the ground. They waited almost a week for my old man, and they didn’t have to put him back together.

Did they have kids, the Vances?

Two. A girl, sixteen I think, and an older kid, a boy, in college.

That’s so fucked up . . . <Pause> Brian?

Mm?

Weren’t you . . . weren’t you supposed to be going to that conference in Latrobe with him? Traveling with him?. . . In that car?

<Long pause> Yeah. Something got fouled up in Cincinnati, though, and I had to stay in the office and handle it on conference call. I was gonna drive down later, but . . .

If you hadn’t stayed . . . you would have been in that car with him . . . you might have . . .

But I wasn’t . . .

But you could have been!

I could’ve born with a twat, too, but I wasn’t, was I? Good thing . . . I kind of like being able to fuck your ass –

I’m serious, Brian –

<Exasperated sigh> It’s too fucking early in the morning for serious. Bottom line is, yeah I could've been there. It could've been me. But it wasn’t. I wasn’t in the car. Vance was. I wasn’t cut off by a fucking semi and sent into the guardrail. Vance and his driver were. I’m not leaving behind a family, a wife and kids, a fucking business. Vance is.

<Pause> I’m sorry, Brian, I just . . . I guess I just . . . <Sigh> I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry he died and his driver died. It sucks. You’re going along, not hurting anybody, doing your job . . . you don’t expect to DIE . . .

Me, too, sonny boy. I’m sorry, too. Say what you want about Vance, he was a good ad man, and he could be decent when he wanted to be. I had my doubts about him after the buyout, just some cocksure prick from Chicago coming out here to tug on his nuts and run the place into the ground . . . but he made a name for himself and Vanguard. I don’t know what the fuck the company’s gonna do now.

Well you’re a partner . . . can’t you run it?

I don’t have controlling interest . . . Vance does – did. Now it goes to his family. Cynthia’s been keeping her ear to the ground. Said Ryder – my old boss, remember? – was in talks to buy the company back . . . but it’s getting held up. Bogged down in details.

Held up? By who? Why?

Vance’s wife. And I don’t know why . . . maybe she wants to fleece Ryder a little . . . work the ‘grieving widow’ angle a little to wring more money out of him – or whoever buys the thing.

But . . . who’ll run it in the meantime? I mean, they’re not gonna close the agency ‘til Ryder buys it, are they?

Dunno, sonny boy. Maybe. <Yawn> Teri Vance’s and her lawyers are gonna meet with upper management in a few days to talk about the next order of business. She’ll probably designate an interim CEO.

And that could be you? Right?

It could be the fucking night janitor. She can name whoever she wants. But . . . I guess it could be me. I’m a senior partner, and the move would make sense. She seemed friendly enough on the phone . . . she said “Gardner always spoke highly of you . . . said there was no way Vanguard could gave achieved such growth without you.” So . . . yeah . . . maybe it will be me . . .

Would you get his office? A bonus? A new car?

Don’t be morbid, Sunshine. Guy’s not even cold in the ground. <Pause> besides, my office has a better view. I’d stay there . . . IF I were designated. But even after a designee’s chosen, there’s still gonna be a shitload to do . . . we’re gonna have to work hard to not let the clients think we’re fucking treading water. The longer we go without a leader, the more skittish they’ll get. I’ve already put in calls to most of ‘em, keeping them up to date. So far, most of them are staying game.

You’re a genius.

Yeah, well, that’s what I’m paid to be. <Yawn> Shit. It’s after three already. Need to get some sleep, or Vance won’t be the only thing looking dead tomorrow.

I love you, Brian.

<Silence>

Brian?

<Long sigh> Go to sleep, Sunshine. Gotta be up early – you’ve got school. And I’ve got a funeral.

One

I was working the lunch shift at the diner, trying not to laugh as Ted went through all the reasons why he wasn’t gonna have the pork loin special, when I felt him come in. I know it may seem corny, but I really can sense when Brian enters a room: Most of the time it’s because I know his cologne and I know he’s pretty much the only guy in the Pitts who wears it – but sometimes, I can just feel his eyes lock on me like some sort of missile guidance system, making the back of my neck all hot and my dick hard. Sometimes, I think it works both ways, ‘cause there’ve been times I’ve come in some place and he’s had his back to me, and he’ll know it’s me – it could be Mikey or Linds or Em or somebody, but he’ll know that it’s not. That makes me feel good, in a way – like our essences are hard-wired into each other’s brains.

“Boys.” Brian kissed my ear and squeezed my ass, and I moved aside so he could slide in next to Michael. He was in one of his favorite suits, a gun-metal gray Donna Karan, and he looked hot as hell. I put my order pad over my crotch, and tried to think not-sexy thoughts – a total waste of time, since Brian was right there, and he was staring straight at what I was trying to hide. He looked at the pad, smiled, then looked at me. “What’s up?”

“Brian!” Michael’s eyes lit up, and he lunged at him and hugged him, nearly pushing Brian off the bench and into me. Not that I would have minded, but I don’t think Bri would have been too thrilled about getting the barbecue sauce I had on my apron on his suit. “It’s about fucking time. Didn’t you get any of my messages? What’s the news?”

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Fortune 500.” Ted passed him his menu. “Come to dine with commoners? How Mayor Bloomberg of you.”

“Commoners? Honey, speak for yourself. The only thing of lowly birth at this table is the pitiful cow that was killed to make this burger. Has having the pleasure of my company taught you nothing?” Emmett rolled his eyes and winked up at me. I smiled back. I thought Em and Ted were really cute together, and I knew that I was probably in the minority with that opinion. I didn’t care, though: they were both so . . . different, that it just seemed to work. Kind of like me and Brian, but with less overall weirdness. And less porn, too, I guess.

“I could ask the same thing of you. Glitter is still not deductible as a business expense, Em.” Ted shook his head and looked at Brian again. “So . . . how’d it go? They hand you the keys to the kingdom? On bended knees, waiting for your command and vying to service you?”

“Goodness, Teddy, he didn’t have time to stop at Babylon.” Emmett was fanning himself with a napkin. It was hot in the diner, for some reason. I think the exhaust from the grill was backing up again. “Our Brian is moving up in the world, running a company. He has to set new priorities.”

Brian was quiet, and just looked at the menu, which was weird for him, because he always ordered the same thing for lunch – turkey sandwich on grain, no mayo. I stared at his hair, his clothes, and suddenly realized what they were talking about. This was the day he and the other higher-ups at Vanguard were meeting with Gardner Vance’s widow to decide on an interim CEO. He’d left too early in the morning that day for me to wish him luck, and I felt really bad. I’d been working on this charcoal portrait for school, and I’d come to bed at 4 a.m. and crashed, not waking up until Brian was long gone. The least I could have done was given him a good-luck blow job in the shower. What a shitty boyfriend I’m turning out to be.

“I’d bet he’d rather have the keys to every backroom in town.” That was from Michael, who was talking through a huge mouthful of bread, and I can see it all smooshed up way in the back of his mouth. He can be so gross sometimes. “So . . . what’d they say? Are you in? Will you have to work more or less? C’mon . . . we want details!”

Brian looked at Michael for a minute, and then looked up at me, and that’s when I noticed his mouth. Well, I always notice his mouth, ‘cause looking at it always reminds me of kissing him, or him blowing me. But I looked at it, and thought that it was . . . wrong. I mean, it seemed wrong somehow; wrong, as in, not normal. He wasn’t frowning or anything, and he wasn’t smiling, but his lips looked weird . . . stiff, or something, like a wax dummy’s . . .

And then they moved. “Any decent specials, Sunshine?”

I stared at him and tried to remember all the times he’d had great news related to work and how he acted. Sometimes he’d be vague and jokey, keeping everyone in suspense until he got tired of toying with everyone. Other times, he’d be really, really, jazzed, breezing into Woody’s or Babylon’s, buying rounds for people and being as friendly as is comfortable for him. The way he was acting didn’t follow either of those patterns, and looking at him, noticing the lines in his forehead, and how his eyes didn’t seem like they were really looking at anything, and his lips and how weird they looked. I felt my stomach drop. They hadn’t picked him . . . he wasn’t going to run the company until it was sold. Son’s of bitches . . . they’d passed him over. I could see it in his eyes.

Then he asked me again about the specials, and I started babbling about stuffed flounder, pulled pork sandwiches and sweet potato puree, all of which sucked ass today because the regular short-order cook called in sick, but I didn’t take my eyes off him or his face. And somewhere between the pulled pork and the potato, I his eyes change a little, get a little wider, I guess, and I realized that he knew that I knew that he’d been fucked over. He looked a little surprised, and then he smiled a little and wiggled his eyebrows like we were sharing some sort of private joke, except . . . it wasn’t really funny. He looked so vulnerable for a minute that I wanted to just put my arms around him . . . find some way to fix it, make it better . . . there had to be some mistake. There was no one more qualified to run Vanguard than Brian. Nobody.

“You’ll have plenty of time to eat.” Michael said and shoved more bread into his mouth. “CEOs make their own hours, don’t they? Come in when they want, leave when they want, work when they want?”

“Fuck who they want.” Ted put in. “When they want.”

“Will you have to work longer hours?” Emmett asked him. “Will your duties change much? Might we actually see you only in the day time?”

“No, no longer hours.” Brian glanced over at me. “And yeah . . . my duties are gonna change big time.”

I looked at him close when he said that, trying to gauge his voice – and I couldn’t. I was wondering if I’d been wrong; had he been promoted after all? If that were true, he didn’t seem too enthusiastic about it . . .

“If you really wow your clients, maybe you could be voted CEO and chairman!” Michael was stroking Brian’s hand, but I don’t think Brian noticed. “That would leave you set for life.”

“Doesn’t exactly work that way, Mikey.” Brian grabbed the bread Michael was and put it back in the bread basket. “Don’t eat this shit . . . unless you’re gonna do more than 15 reps on the leg press.” I could have kissed him for doing that. Fuck, you would think Deb or Vic would have slapped some sense into him and taught him not to look like a pig or a three-year-old when he’s eating. “I’d have to be appointed by the majority owner . . . and to hold both titles; I’d have to be the majority owner.”

“Well, start saving those executive bonuses, and start wooing the stockholders,” Ted said, and then, to me he said, “Um, I think I’ll try that pulled pork sandwich. Fries, slaw, and . . . chocolate pudding.”

I wrote it down and tried not to puke. Since he’d gone into porn, Ted had gotten increasingly weirder in his lunch choices, but whatever. Who listened to me? I just worked there.

“Not to mention,” Brian said and flipped over to the ‘Sides and Drinks’ section of the menu and ran his finger down the list, “to hold both those titles, I’d have to be an employee of Vanguard. Which I’m not.” He put the menu down and looked around at everyone, totally calm, his voice totally casual. “Effective today.”

I’d been scribbling down the last part of Ted’s order when he said that, and the ‘g’ in pudding tailed off the edge of the order pad when the words worked their way through my head. I stared at him, mouth hanging like a fucking garage door. Emmett and Ted looked exactly how I felt – like I’d been kicked in the balls. Michael looked confused.

“What?” I couldn’t get my breath, and it sounded a little like I was wheezing. I hate sounding like that . . . like I’ve been sucking on helium or something. “What are you talking about?”

Then he looked at me with those eyes again and gave me this little smile that made me want to fucking drive my head through a wall, because it looked so damn out of place on his face. It was the dazed, sort of involuntary, smile of someone who’d just been blindsided big time – the kind of smile I bet Gardner Vance had on his face two seconds before he realized that his driver wasn’t expecting a huge-ass truck to barrel in front of them and cut them off. I had never been so freaked out in my life as when I saw that smile on Brian’s face. “Brian . . .”

“Vance’s brother’s coming in from San Jose.” Brian sounded like he was reading from a sheet of paper, like a news caster, talking about some other event, someone else’s life. “Gardner’s widow signed over her inherited stock and her children’s to him. Added in with the shares he already had, he’s the new majority owner of Vanguard. And he got rid of all upper management. He’s restructuring. He’ll be chairman/CEO, and he’s bringing in his own people to fill in the gaps.”

“But . . . but . . . I thought your old boss was going to buy it back?” I guess the light had dawned for Michael, and he sounded horrified. I couldn’t tell what his face looked like, though, because I couldn’t take my eyes away from Brian. I was waiting for him to call us all twats and say he was joking and that he didn’t get promoted, but he damn sure didn’t lose his job. No way the best advertising executive in Pittsburgh could lose his job, but most of all, I was waiting for him to stop smiling like that. Just stop Brian. I hoped he could hear me through our, I don’t know, our telepathic connection, or whatever. Just don’t smile like that, don’t look like that Brian . . . please . . . please . . .

“Ryder backed out. No one knows why. People are saying that he only offered a token bid, and was never serious about buying back the company.” Brian shrugged and started playing with the paper from a straw. “As of today, Vanguard’s being run by Coy Vance, and his team of West Coast visionaries. All of ‘em are coming with their yoga mats and their lotus beads, ready to promote a new, positive, socially-conscious image for the company. Instead of manpower selling goods, they’ll have manatee power, or some shit. And the old guard . . . is through.”

“They brought you in just to kick you out the door?” Emmett covered his mouth with his hand. “My god . . . and they say retail is cutthroat.”

“Can they even do that? You’re a fucking partner!” I so thought Michael was gonna jump on the table and start hopping on it. “They can’t fire a partner, can they?”

“It’ll be more like a buy out, I would think,” Ted said. “In any case, they do, however, have to present him with severance, and I’ll bet it’s pretty sizeable. Plus, the market . . .”

“Fuck severance, Ted! They fired him! He busted his ass for that company, his boss croaks, and they kicked him out, just like that! What good is severance? It’s his job!”

I stared at Brian, watching him pretty much ignore everyone around him, including me, and start tearing a napkin into bits. Yeah, it was his job, Michael was right about that. But I knew it was more than just that – it was his life, too.

~*~

I bagged school for the rest of the day and went back to the loft with Brian, needing to know that he’d be okay. Not that I was afraid he’d hurt himself or get a gun from somewhere and shoot up the offices of Vanguard, but I just . . . I needed to be with him, try to support him, be a sounding board or whatever. I needed him to know that I loved him, and that I’d do anything to help him and make this easier for him to deal with.

Except . . . I didn’t have a clue what I could do. Being nineteen, in school and working as a waiter in a diner didn’t really give you a whole lot of options. My savings were pitiful, and the money my dad had put aside for me when I was a baby couldn’t be touched until I was 24 – not without my dad’s permission, and no way he’d give it. Not for any reason, not even for me to pay for school. I thought about ways to save money and take some of the pressure off Brian: I could eat free at the diner, so maybe I could bring stuff home. My hand was, like, a thousand percent better now, and I was only using it for really special projects, so we could sell the computer. And then there was Rage. Michael and I had just put the second issue to bed, and if it was anything like the first, maybe I could start seeing Rage as a source of income. Thinking it over, I realized that at best, my money-saving measures would be a drop in the bucket for Brian. He made . . . fuck . . . a lot of money, but I needed to know that I could do something to not be a burden to Brian for a change.

We rode home in silence, went up to the loft in silence, and once we were there, we went our separate ways in silence. I was busy calculating how much I could save Bri if I took the minimum number of classes a semester and . . . god only knows what Brian was thinking about. I looked over at him a few times, and I couldn’t get a reading. I bet, though, he was doing the same thing I was doing, but on a larger scale, going over his situation, trying to figure out how much he had to live on, what he could do now. But then, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he wasn’t thinking about any of that stuff. He was probably still in so much shock – just yesterday, fuck, this morning, he was on top of the fucking world, looking at really running an ad agency, even if it was just for a little while. And now . . .

“You should be in class.”

He was at the computer, and I was in the kitchen, fixing us some real food. Nothing fancy, just some leftover chicken and a salad. Brian hadn’t eaten much at the diner, and I’d worked through my lunchtime. I was starved, though my stomach did feel a little funny . . . nerves, I guess. But I wanted to feel, I dunno, useful. Like I wasn’t going to be getting in his way like Michael might have if he’d come, too. So I just headed to the kitchen and lost myself for awhile. I didn’t even think he knew where in the loft I was, he’d been so engrossed in what he was doing on the computer.

“Fuck class.” I checked the chicken and cut up more tomatoes for the salad, grabbed some olive oil and some garlic. “It’s just lectures anyway. I can get the notes tomorrow.”

“Don’t be a twat.” He walked into the kitchen then, holding a bunch of printouts. They looked like spreadsheets, and I wondered if those were financial statements, or something. I knew he did most of that stuff himself now that Ted wasn’t doing his accounting any more. “The other day, you were bitching about midterms coming up. You blowing off class isn’t part of our deal about your education.”

I stopped cold. Shit. Shitshitshit. “I . . .” Couldn’t speak. Breathe. He was right . . . fuck . . . he was right. Already, I was fucking up. Here he was, totally out of work and with commitments, and one of them is me and my school, he’s paying for it, and I’m pissing on it, and . . . fuck! Fuck me. Fuck me. “I . . . I’m sorry.”

“Sunshine –” His voice sounded apologetic, and he was reaching for me, but I ducked under his arm and went into the living room, looking around for my shoes. If I hurried, I could make my late lecture. I had a friend in my Spanish masterpieces class, the class I was missing, I could get the notes from, and as I was trying to figure out how long it would take me on the bus, I thought maybe I had my answer on the best way of helping Brian: Quitting school. I could work at the diner, work on Rage, and though it wouldn’t bring a lot of money in, at least Brian would save on tuition. Everything seemed like a blur to me, mainly because I was looking around so fast (but the tears might have something to do with it, too), I saw my sneakers sticking from underneath the couch, and I went for them, sitting down to pull them on. I figured that that it was probably okay to leave Brian alone. He probably wanted to be, anyway. And Michael would be by soon, knowing him. He wanted to come over with us, but no one was around to watch the store for him.

“Hey, Sunshine. I turned off the stove. Your meat was burning. Hate when that happens.” He was in the living room, standing in front of me. I didn’t say anything. I heard him sigh, and then he said, “What I said . . . you know I didn’t mean anything by it.”

I shrugged like it didn’t matter, but I didn’t look at him more than a second, because I think my face would have given me away. “But you’re right. I . . . I’m being a dickhead. You . . . you . . .” You just lost your job. Fuck, I couldn’t even say it; it was like it wasn’t real to me. It was something I never even thought could happen. Yeah, I knew that theoretically it could, but it was like those instructions on bus windows about how to get out in case the bus tips over or a fire breaks out or whatever. You read them and forget them, because the bus tipping over or catching fire or blowing up is just so fucking unlikely that you’re gonna need to know how to do that. “I just thought you might want the company.” I said it really soft, and I wasn’t sure if he even heard me because I was kind of talking into the floor while I tied up my sneakers. I was taking a long time tying them, because I was waiting for the tears in my eyes to go away. I couldn’t let Brian see those. Fuck . . . even he hadn’t cried about it. I could tell. So I wasn’t going to, either.

“Teri Vance is fucking her brother-in-law. Or she wants to. I couldn’t really tell.” Brian made this announcement in one of the most deadpan voices I’ve ever heard, and then came over and sat next to me on the couch. I just stared at him, wondering if that was supposed to be an excuse for me being a total dickhead. “It seems cliché, doesn’t it, Sunshine? Beautiful, young widow and older, ne’er-do-well, charming brother of the cold fish man she married. Throw in a payment to the trucker who ‘accidentally’ cut Vance's driver off, and we’d have a Columbo episode.”

I wasn’t sure I was following. “You think they . . . planned this?”

“Vance dying? No. But what was gonna happen with the company? Oh fuck yeah. The more I think about it, the more I realize they were blowing smoke up our asses on the Ryder thing. They were never gonna accept his offer.” He closed his eyes, and stretched his arms over his head, looking more relaxed than I’d seen him since the night he heard about the accident happened. “But the second I walked through that door, saw all those lawyers and the two of them all comfy and cozy at the head of the table, I felt like I’d walked on the set of Dynasty, and I knew I’d been fucked. I’d helped them lock down the wild cards – the clients.”

“But . . . then . . . that’s wrong.” I stopped playing with my laces and looked at him. Something just wasn’t clicking, and I hate that. I hate when something’s right in front of my face, but it’s just enough out of focus that I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m seeing.. “That’s stupid. They’re your clients.”

“Nope. It’s fucking brilliant.” Brian’s eyes were still closed. “Think about it, Sunshine: Say you’re a business man, and you’re doing business with someone reputable, someone who owns a reputable and successful business. And something happens to them . . .”

“Like they die?”

“Like they die.” Brian nodded. “Or get incapacitated. Anything but thrown in jail, ‘cause that’s a whole different game. But say, in the wake of this accident, a person within this reputable business, the right-hand man, let’s say, of the deceased or the injured, calls you. Now this right-hand man is someone you know. He’s been with the company for years, and has seen it go from a little hole in the wall to one of the biggest firms in the region. This right-hand man has even been there longer than this now dead or severely injured boss has. Let’s say he tells you to relax, that everything would be fine, and that word is, another reputable businessman, well-known in the industry, was going to buy the firm from the now-dead or injured owner’s family..” He opened his eyes and rolled his head toward me. Fuck . . . he looked so tired. “And let’s say that right-hand man was so persuasive, and has a reputation for being upfront and honest, persuades you to sign a commitment – a contract – to stay with the company even though the new owner, CEO and chairman haven’t been named. Let’s say he asks you to do it on faith, because he knows, he just fucking knows, that the person taking over the company is a proven industry star . . . hell, he even owned his own firm before he sold it out to the very person who is now dead or severely injured.”

I went totally white, I know I did, ‘cause then I got it. I got it. All the phone calls Brian made to Vanguard clients after Vance’s accident – he didn’t just calm them down, he got them to renew their commitments with the company, because he thought Marty Ryder was gonna buy it and that he’d at least be a partner – if not acting CEO – in the meantime, and by doing that, he’d just handed a ready-made client base to the new fuckwad owner of Vanguard, on fucking silver platter. He’d given them all they could have hoped for, and I guess they figured they didn’t need him anymore. I felt like I was going to puke.

“So you see, Sunshine . . . brilliant strategy.” Brian smiled a little, but it wasn’t really a smile at all . . . too bitter . . . and those cute little wrinkles he gets around his eyes when he really smiles weren’t there. “Teri Gardner does her Niagara act, gushing about my ‘contributions to the company, and Vance loving me like a fucking son,’ when probably only thing Vance ever said to her about me was, ‘There’s this insubordinate fairy I got forced into making my partner, but I’d never fire him because I’d lose two-thirds of my client list, including an account I tried fifteen years to get that this asshole got in a week.’ She knew my ambition, probably kept tabs on what I was doing, and watched everybody hold on to Vanguard on my say-so. Canning me was probably always on the agenda, but . . . I made it a helluva lot easier for them to do. I was so busy picturing me running one of the biggest fucking ad agencies in the state . . . already started the reorganization process in my head . . . Hoist with my own petard.” He laughed a little. “Shit . . . quoting Shakespeare and I’m not even high. There’s a side benefit of unemployment – erudition.” He laughed again and laid down on the couch, dangling his feet over the edge, and resting his head in my lap.

“I like this, sonny boy. Your cock makes a good pillow . . . nice and firm . . . not too hard, not too soft. Heh. Come to think of it, that’s good quality to have in a cock period, I guess . . .” He closed his eyes for a second or two, and then he opened them again, really, really slowly, and just stared at me a minute, totally serious. “Thanks for staying . . . guess I did need the company. Especially since I don’t work for one anymore . . .”

He closed his eyes, and I just stayed still, smoothing my hand over his hair and his forehead, just trying to give any comfort I could in any way he’d take it. I could smell the chicken burning in the kitchen – well, not burning exactly, but even though the stove was off, the pan was still hot, so it was getting way crisp on one side, and I hadn’t finished cutting up the tomatoes, and my feet were kind of falling asleep, but I ignored that. Brian was breathing harder, not snoring really, but almost, and I let him stay there, on my lap, just like that. I let him stay.

~*~

The phone in the loft hadn’t rung all afternoon, and I think Brian’s cell was on vibrate, ‘cause I never heard that ring, either, but somehow, word got around to everyone, and right after six, three hours after Brian had woken up from his nap on my lap and we’d gone to stretch out and sleep on the bed, two hours after Brian hit the computer again and called some more industry contacts, one hour after I remembered to throw out the chicken, because it was pretty much ruined, and about 20 minutes after Brian changed out his suit and showered, the loft was full. Michael and Ben were there, and so were Linds and Mel. They’d left Gus with a sitter, which I thought really sucked, ‘cause seeing him always cheers Brian up, and cheering up was what Brian needed. I could tell Brian was disappointed, too, but he didn’t give them shit about it, which told me that he was really, really still in shock. Ted and Emmett came, too, and Em helped me reconstruct a salad and order pizza for everyone. Someone – Linds, I think – said food wasn’t necessary, but Brian shut her up, and said he was starving, and if we all wanted to sit around and watch him eat, fine with him. Then everyone tried to chip in for the pizza, and god . . . Brian just looked around at everyone, and it was like someone cracking a whip. They all put their money away at the same time while Brian gave his card number to the pizza guy.

Everybody was looking at Brian when he hung up the phone, and he gave him the eyebrow. I watch Brian whenever I get the chance, so I know there’s different degrees of the eyebrow. If he raises one and doesn’t smile, that means he’s skeptical. If he raises one and does smile, that means whatever he’d just said should be taken lightly. If raises both and kinda smiles, that’s the either the “You’re fucking shitting me” or “You get my meaning” look. But if he raises both and doesn’t smile, it was the, “Challenge me, and you’re so fucked” expression. He was doing the both brows up, no smile thing, and I don’t know if anyone else has noticed the different degrees of the eyebrow, but they all did the right thing when they saw his look: shut up and let him run the show. There was another minute or two where no one said or did anything, just looked at Brian and waited for his next move. Then the eyebrows came down, and it was like all the tension in the air had gone. The pizza came, and we ate and started talking. Brian told them all what he told me, adding in some of the stuff he’d heard from some of his friends in other advertising circles about the new head of Vanguard. Nobody said much while Brian was talking, and I found myself worrying about him while he was talking. He sounded so fucking exhausted . . . and I didn’t think he’d be able to take a big interrogation. I know how much Brian’s friends – I guess they’re my friends, too, but they’ve known him longer – love him, and I know they were all worried about him, but I really wish they hadn’t all converged at once. I could tell it was way too soon: Brian always liked to have thought things through before he talks to the Gang, and he really hadn’t had a chance to yet.

“You have no recourse?” Linds was on the couch, almost in the exact spot where I was when Brian fell asleep in my lap. “They just shoved you out the door, no thanks, no explanation, no nothing?”

“Not quite.” Brian was sitting at the computer still, but he wasn’t on it. It was really the only place in the loft left to sit. All the chairs were taken up by people, and even I had to sit on the kitchen counter. It was weird – Brian has this crazy amount of living space: when I first saw the place, I thought I’d need a map . . . but it seemed totally crowded with just eight people in there. “There was plenty of explanation. Three long, boring, redundant hours of it. I heard all I needed to the minute I walked into the conference room when I saw the Widow Vance and Brother dear at the head at the table with their hands down each others’ pants and their lawyers sitting around like sharks in water that had just been chummed.”

“How exactly does the language in your contract read?” Mel was on the floor, sitting cross-legged at Linds’ feet. “If you’ve performed well for this company, and you have proof, I have a hard time understanding how they think they can terminate you without just cause.”

“Loopholes. What else? Since this . . . transaction technically counts as a change in ownership, even though it’s still the Vanguard family, the new owner has every right to retain and terminate whomever he wants . . . for any reason. And he can restructure it however he wants . . . and what he wanted to do was eliminate the need to have a partner. He’s going to be chairman, CEO, and v.p. all by his lonesome.” Brian got up and started wandering around, zigzagging between everyone’s legs. It was sort of weird to watch, because he totally does not pace, but I know that he believes he thinks best on his feet, and even though it kind of tired me out to watch him move, I knew it made him feel more at ease, so I didn’t say anything. Neither did anybody else.

“Coy Vance’s song is ‘Keeping it in the Family.’ He tried to sell this reorganization as a move to make Vanguard a family-run organization, ‘cause that’s how his brother would have wanted it.” He rolled his eyes. “And Vance’s widow started burbling about having a legacy for her poor, fatherless kids, and wanting her children to look at the company as an heirloom. Something their father left just for them. Meanwhile, Uncle Coy and his West Coast granola gang will keep it safe and profitable until they come of age and take over Daddy’s place. That conference room smelled like a fucking stable after all the bullshit they laid down.”

“I don’t understand, though. Won’t this move raise all sorts of red flags in the industry?” I looked over at Ben, the one who’d asked the question, and saw him put his arm around Michael, but Michael kind of squirmed away from him. Michael had been pretty quiet the whole night, and that made me a little suspicious. I wasn’t sure if he was still pissed because Brian wouldn’t take him home with us and wouldn’t go hang out at the comic store with him, but I noticed Michael went straight by me without saying hello and immediately started hugging all over Brian, telling him that his getting fired was crap, and that he’d be there for him for whatever he needed. He was the one sitting closest to Brian, and before Brian got up to start moving around, Michael had been all over him, patting his back and touching his knee and leaning on him. I understood about being best friends and all, but the way Michael was acting was weird and awkward – not so much for me, because I guess I’m used to it, but Ben had looked a little uncomfortable, but he hadn’t spoken or anything until now. “You’ve got a successful company and a fairly popular owner who dies in a tragic accident. And two days after the funeral, his widow sells out to his brother, who then fires all of the management staff that helped the company get to where it was in the first place?”

Brian made another loop around the computer table. “The lines are already sizzling. It’s been the talk of the advertising world. I’ve been on the phone all afternoon, talking to the clients whose heads I delivered to them on a fucking platter. Most of them are ticked, because they heard the exact same shit I had – Marty Ryder was about to reclaim his company.”

I was so fucking happy to hear that. Brian had been so worried that what he’d done would hurt his credibility with the contacts he’d spent so much time building, but if they’d all heard the same lie Brian had, then they couldn’t blame him – at least not too much.

“Vanguard’s about to take a huge dump on the Exchange . . . they might have been slaughtered if I didn’t have most of my client list signed on already. That’ll buy the company some time,” Brian said. “But unless this guy has a better idea than revamping the Brown Athletics account from featuring hard-bodied fag flesh to Joey and Janey playing in their little pool with a big rubber ball, then the Vance kids won’t even be able to pawn their heirloom.” He stopped walking and stared I saw his bottom lip move and his jaws work like he was trying to swallow a yawn. “Any more questions?” He was looking up at the ceiling when he said it, and I could hear that little hitch in his voice that meant he was going to answer one or two more things, tops, before he said or did something that would run just about everyone out of the loft. “Anything?”

No one said anything for a long while, then Linds spoke up: “Brian, are you going to be all right? How are you going to live? How are you for money?”

I think it’s what we all wanted know. I know it’s what I wanted to know almost right away. Brian was always so free with his money, and he seemed to have a lot of it, relatively speaking. I remember once, back when I was still getting to know him, I kinda, um, accidentally looked in his checkbook, and nearly flipped out at the how big the balance was. Still, I really had no idea what Bri’s finances were, how much he put into the loft, how much support he was paying for Gus, or what other debts or things he might have going – plus there was me and my PiFA tuition. I was still trying to work out how to make my tuition issue my issue only, once more, and not Brian’s. I wasn’t having any luck figuring it out, though.

Brian picked up something from the coffee table – I think it was the remote to the DVD player – and started looking at it like he’d never seen it before. “My buyout – their term – is a year’s salary. A lump sum, less taxes. Health, dental for a year. I get a commission on my client list for every year they stay with Vanguard. It’s in my contract. Except, there’s about 20 clients who haven’t sent in their renewal contracts, and I only get commission on the clients that signed while I was in Vanguard’s employ. So, if those 20 firms decide to wheel and deal with the new Vance regime, I’m shit out of luck as far as commission on that goes. ”

“You didn’t haggle? You had some leverage,” Mel said, totally sounding lawyerish and official. “They bought you out; you weren’t fired, exactly. They would have needed to deal with you if you’d dug your heels in.”

“If . . . I’d dug my heels in, they would have fired three junior execs and my assistant with eight days severance and no medical,” Brian said. “The juniors just got there. I trained them myself – they’re good, and they might be the only chance this company has to stay afloat. And fuck knows I wasn’t gonna leave Cynthia out to dry. She just got fucking engaged . . . she’s got people to take care of, a life to plan. That was the deal – I agree to the terms they set out, they’d sign a statement that the juniors and Cynthia would be kept on. I did it and they did it. End of story.”

I stared at all of them, trying to see how they’d react to that. Everyone thinks Brian is so selfish, so only into himself and says ‘fuck you’ to everyone who can’t give him something, and that is so totally wrong. He’s one of the most caring, giving people I know, and he shows it again and again. Knowing that he’d given up a chance to get even more money to help people who didn’t have anywhere near the resources he had seemed to shock everybody except maybe Michael, and me, and that his friends could be act surprised that he would do something like that really pissed me off.

“Savings . . . 401(k) . . . stocks?” Ted was talking, and everyone looked at him funny, like they couldn’t believe he even remembered what those things were. I guess porn king or no porn king, an MBA’s forever. “You’ve got things socked away for a rainy day, yes? I mean after the last scare with that asshole accusing you of sexual harassment . . .”

I blushed and remembered that asshole Kip and how he tried to screw Brian after Brian had fucked him. It seemed so easy . . . too easy to work, but it did, and Brian’s job was saved. I wish it was that easy now . . . I’d do anything . . . anything to help him . . . I just needed to know where the fuck to start . . .

“I’m fine. You won’t see me in any soup kitchens, or wearing Armani ‘til it’s threadbare. Or clipping coupons.” He grinned at me when he said that. It was the first real smile I’d seen all day, and I was just so relieved to see it, that I didn’t think to smile back until he’d already turned away from me. “Anything else?”

Everybody was quiet for a minute, and then, I think for the first time since he’d first come in, Michael opened his mouth. “What about a new job? Are you gonna look? Do you know if there’s anything available?”

“I’ve had some ideas,” he said, and he shrugged again, like he hadn’t really given it much thought, but I knew better. Advertising wasn’t all Brian did, but it was a big part of who he was, just like being an artist is a huge part of who I am. If I couldn’t do art, I’d die, seriously – or at least I’d wish I were dead. Back when I was recovering from the bashing, and my right hand was still weak and gimpy, I didn’t think I’d ever draw again, and I was so fucking miserable. I felt like, like Hobbes might as well have killed me on prom night, because being an artist is all I really ever wanted to do. I tried to pretend that I didn’t care about PiFA or that I couldn’t do my art, just like Brian was trying to keep cool and act like he hadn’t been thinking about where he might go and where he could go to do what it is he really loved – advertising. I hadn’t been eavesdropping on his phone calls, but I didn’t need to do that to figure out that in all the time he was on the phone to his friends in the business, openings at other firms had to come up in the conversation. “But from what I hear from my contacts it’s pretty thin . . . at least here. Might be able to find something else somewhere else, but . . . who the fuck knows?”

It was quiet again, but I could hear my heartbeat. I suddenly remembered New York and how Brian almost got a job there. Almost left the Pitts and his friends . . . and me . . .

“Come on, Brian, you’re, like, the Pittsburgh advertising god,” Michael said in this really high-pitched, Mickey Mouse voice. I swear, his sense of humor is so bizarre sometimes. “They’ll be banging down your door.”

“Yeah, Mikey, maybe. God knows I’m responsive to banging.” Everybody cracked up then, and I was pretty sure he was looking at me when he said that, but I couldn’t tell. As soon as he said the words “somewhere else,” I’d turned to look at the kitchen wall, and I’d just stared at it until everybody got their coats and went out the door.

Two

I woke up, stretched, rolled over in bed, and suddenly realized I was by myself. At first, I thought Brian might be in the bathroom or in the kitchen making one of those gross creatine-soy shakes that he likes so much. After about two minutes, though, I knew that Brian had left, and it wasn’t just because of the quiet. The loft just felt empty – like all the personality had been sucked out and all that was left were the walls and a couple of pieces of furniture. I just laid there for a minute, thinking that this was exactly how yesterday began, and that if today had any chance of turning out as crappy, I’d be better off in bed. I got up, though, remembering that I had a quiz in my 19th Century frescoes class, and I actually studied for this one.

It was a little after nine, and even though I didn’t know where Brian had gone, I could tell that he’d been out at least an hour. His side of the bed was cold, and when I walked into the bathroom and started getting stuff ready for my shower, I felt his towel and saw that it was only a little damp. I was a little surprised that he’d gone out so early, because after everyone had gone last night, he’d stayed up to work on the computer. I was up, too, for a while, drawing and going over some notes, staying out of his way, but still making it clear that I was around if he wanted to talk, or vent or whatever. I guess he figured, though, that he’d talked enough, because he didn’t say much to me or even move much once he got on the computer. I wanted to know what he was doing, but I kept out of it, figuring he’d tell me when and if he wanted me to know. Besides, I didn’t want to hover – he really hates that. I did go over and kiss him goodnight around two, and I kinda peeked at the computer screen, but then I saw that he was writing an e-mail, so I looked away, not wanting him to think I was being nosy. It was a long time before Brian came to bed. I don’t know what time it was, exactly, but I felt him slide in next to me and put his arms around me after awhile. And when I turned around so we could spoon together, I got a glimpse out of the window and saw strands of pink and purple in the sky, so it had to be pretty early . . . which meant Brian had gotten two, three hours of sleep, tops, before getting up and going out . . . somewhere.

I shaved, and then jumped into the shower, going over in my head just where he could be: I heard him tell Linds that he had to go to Vanguard sometime this week to pick up his stuff, so he could have been there. It would make sense that he’d go into the office early and lower his chances of running into the new owners. I also heard him tell Mel before everyone left that he was going to stop by her firm to have her look over his buyout papers and make sure he wasn’t getting screwed any more than he already had been, so he could have been there, too. He might have wanted to grab breakfast with the gang, but I thought after last night, Brian would probably stay clear of most of them, except Michael and maybe Lindsay. Other possible destinations: the gym, the Munchers, the bank – Really, he could be anywhere. Just as long as he was in the Pitts somewhere, I wasn’t worried.

Then I did start to worry, because I wondered why I would even think something like that. Of course Brian was still in Pittsburgh. He wouldn’t just leave his loft, his clothes, and all his kick-ass Italian furniture here and pack up and move somewhere else. Sure, I kinda did that after the loft got robbed and Brian kicked me out, but it wasn’t the same situation – my dad was being an asshole, I’d just been tossed out on my ass of a cool place because of my own stupidity, and I really didn’t expect to get far. I stole Brian’s fucking credit card – I knew I’d get caught eventually, I just hoped it would be by him. And it was. I think it was back then, when I opened the hotel room door and saw him standing there, all killer and sleepy-eyed, and sexy, telling me he’d come to take me home, that I thought that maybe he could love me someday.

Anyway, I figured I was just freaking out a little because of what he’d said about maybe having to leave Pittsburgh to get a job. I knew I shouldn’t have been too surprised, because back when he was going for the New York thing, he said that the heavy hitters in advertising were in New York, Chicago, and L.A. – not Pittsburgh. I guess I figured that when he made partner at Vanguard, he had planned to stick around for awhile. Gus is here, Bri’s mom and sister are here – even though he really doesn’t talk to them – and the people he does consider his family are here. Brian would probably kill me for saying it – for even thinking it – but he’s settled here. He’s brilliant, and just ‘cause that one firm in New York didn’t hire him didn’t mean that there weren’t others that wouldn’t, but he stayed here, worked hard to make partner, paid off his loft and his car. I don’t think Brian ever planned on going anywhere, and now that he might not have a choice, I wonder how he’d deal with it, if it’s scary to him, or if he’s thinking that maybe there’s some other way to stay here and work – freelance, maybe or even start his own firm.

I got out of the shower and air-dried while I made a quick breakfast and got my clothes together. I thought about Brian opening his own advertising company, and the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. Brian would be great with his own firm. He’s got killer contacts and he has a way of dealing with people that’s amazing. I thought that he’d the type of boss that can bitch you out and you wouldn’t resent him or anything because you’d know that he was bitching because he knows you can do better. And if you did a good job, Brian would be the type that would let you know that, too, not hog the glory like some bosses do. I wondered if he’d given any thought, ever, about going into business for himself. He didn’t say anything about wishing he could do what Michael had done when he’d opened his comic store, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t thought about it. In fact, it makes sense that he had, since he was so into the thought of running Vanguard. But I guess there’s a big difference between starting your own thing completely and stepping into an already-established business that you know by heart.

Breakfast was just cereal, and I grabbed the first thing that matched out of my side of the closet. Not that I was checking, or anything, but I opened the closet just to see if I’d left my gray sweater there, and I saw Brian’s tan Bruno Magli boots. I immediately relaxed. Brian might leave some of his suits, especially some of his older ones, but he would not go anywhere far without those fucking boots. Even if the loft was on fire or something, he’d grab those boots. I’m not sure what the deal is with them – they’re in good condition, and they’re cool, but they’re, like, from 1999, and Brian usually doesn’t hold on to clothes past a few seasons. Those are his favorites, though, and since they were still there, I knew that Brian was, too – not that I really thought he wouldn’t be, but still, I felt a little less on edge seeing them in their usual place.

I ate quick, got dressed quick, and was out the door in about 10 minutes. Usually, I liked to linger in the loft, ‘cause I think the quiet is kind of cool, and the place looks killer with the light coming through the windows. It’s all very peaceful and calm. But this day, I just wanted to get out, ‘cause with Brian not in the loft, and the place being so silent and boring and empty-feeling, it made me think that this is exactly what it would be like – feel like – if Brian were to leave for good.

I left before I could freak myself out more, and closed the door harder than I needed to, hoping that when I came back later, Brian would be there and the loft wouldn’t feel like it was full of dead, hot air.

~*~

I really hate McDonald’s, mainly because the hamburgers always taste like Styrofoam, and no matter which one you go to, the milkshake machine is always broken, but it was the only place me and Daph could sort of agree on for lunch, and besides, she was paying, so I didn’t think I should argue much.

Daph and I don’t see each other much anymore, mainly because she’s declared premed and she’s doing all these classes in or around Presbyterian Hospital on this really fucked-up schedule. Besides, she and Ethan didn’t get along too well, so while I was with him, I saw a lot less of her than I was used to. It sucked, because, well, she’s my best friend and I can talk to her about anything and call her any time, and I missed that. She was the first person I called when I found out Ethan was cheating, I called her first when Brian and I got back together, and we stayed on the phone for hours after the accident with Brian’s boss, ‘cause I was still really shaken up about how close Brian came to being in that car. But she was the one who called me to meet up after class. She’d known about what happened at Vanguard, which shocked the hell out of me, because I didn’t think it’d be so big a deal outside of the advertising world. There was an article, though, about the changes in the Post-Gazette, which she had to read cover-to-cover for one of her communications classes. At McDonald’s, Daph showed it to me, and it was all I could do to not barf up my fries all over the page. They had a picture of Gardner Vance that had been taken when he first took over the firm from Marty Ryder and then a picture of his brother, the new CEO, who was sitting at a desk and kind of smirking at the camera. Coy Vance looked just like his brother, except maybe a little thinner and with hair. They had a picture of Mrs. Vance at the funeral, and I thought Mrs. Vance looked a little like Cruella de Vil – she was bone thin, and had this pinched-in, plastic surgery face and weird, poufy hair. I don’t think about straights having sex at all, but I definitely did not want to think about these two going at it; I had enough problems with nightmares. I looked through the story to see if Brian was mentioned by name, but all it said was that the new owner of Vanguard “in a daring move, downsized his corporation by eliminating several top positions and shelving plans for satellite offices in the region.”

“So is Brian broke?”

“Nope.” I took a sip of the new “extra-thick” milkshakes that were supposed to taste just like ice cream, and nearly choked. It was extra-thick, yeah, but it tasted like glue. Chocolate-flavored glue. “At least, he says he’s not. He’s getting a decent severance package. A year’s salary, plus benefits, plus commission on the clients he signed. And he has savings and stocks.”

“Are you broke?”

“Always.” I stole one of her fries, and wondered why hers were crisper than mine, even though she got her order later than I did. “That’s why you’re paying for lunch, remember?”

“You wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t.” She looked at me with this smirk, like she was daring me to say that wasn’t true, and out of respect for her intelligence, I didn’t lie. “Anyway, so Brian has money, you have school. I still don’t get why you’re worried. I mean, it sucks that they fired him, but things could be a lot worse for him. For both of you.”

“It’s not just about the money.” I sighed and tried to figure out how to explain what I was really antsy about, because she was right. Technically, if what Brian was saying about his money situation was true – and there was no reason to think he’d lie – he wouldn’t have any money problems for a long, long while. “He put a lot into that company. He started working there straight out of college when he could have gone to places with bigger names that were more established. And he helped make the company as successful as it is. And to be just tossed out on his ass . . . . I mean, you should have seen him, Daph. He was fucking devastated.” Saying that, I remembered his face in the diner just before he told us what happened, and I shivered. “Not that he broke down and cried or anything, but you could tell. I could tell. And Brian is not stupid – everything he does, he thinks through, and makes all sorts of plans and counterplans . . . and he did not see this coming.”

“Poor Brian.” Daphne looked sad, and I knew it wasn’t any kind of fake sympathy or her commiserating with me, because I’m sad, and he’s my boyfriend and I’m her best friend. Daphne really likes Brian, and she was almost as happy as I was when we got back together. “What’s he going to do?”

“Look for another job.” I took some more of Daph’s French fries and ate them not because I was hungry – thinking about the way Brian looked at me yesterday, and how vulnerable he was when he fell asleep on the couch had wrecked my appetite – but I still had this glue taste in my mouth from the shake, and I was trying to kill it. “He was on the phone for hours to all sorts of people, and he was on the Internet all night, I guess looking around, e-mailing people who might know something.”

“Any luck?”

“It’s only been a day. He’ll probably start looking around soon, though.” I thought again about him leaving home so early, and I wondered if maybe he’d already started on the job hunt here in Pittsburgh. “He knows just about everyone important there is to know in advertising, so, I don’t think he’s too worried.”

“If he’s okay with money, then why is he looking now?” Daph asked, looking really confused. “The economy bites right now, and it’s going to get worse if we go to war. If I were Brian, I’d just take it easy for awhile, live off my savings and wait until something killer opens up. Maybe he could even take a trip – you say he almost never goes on vacation – now would be a good time.”

“I don’t think he’d want to do that.” I said it, and I knew it was true, but when she started talking about going somewhere, I started thinking about it seriously. He’d just been kicked in the balls in a major way . . . maybe just getting away for a little while, from all the guys and from all the shit that’s been dumped on him, would be a good idea. That way, he could just relax and not have to deal with all the bullshit around him for a week, maybe two. “But it’s a good idea. I’ll mention it to him later, maybe. ”

“And you could go, too. Spring break is coming up . . .”

I didn’t say anything. I mean, I would love to go away with Brian, especially since we’ve never done that before, but I wouldn’t want to get in the way of him relaxing. Besides, making arrangements for two people to go someplace cool and hip – and Brian wouldn’t go anywhere unless it was cool and hip – could get expensive. “Where would we go, though? It’s February. What’s cool in February?”

“Cool? How can you even think cool when we just got eighteen inches of snow?” Daph grabbed my shake and drank some. “You should go somewhere warm. Somewhere tropical. Maui or Palm Springs or Tahiti or Miami.”

I thought that over. Warm in February made sense, and Brian was always complaining about how white he gets in the winter. Still . . . “But . . . I heard somewhere that Miami sucks.”

“Miami sucks?” She looked at me like I just told her there was a dead mouse at the bottom of my shake, which, you know, wouldn’t have surprised me. “How can you say that about a place that’s 80 degrees practically year round, has amazing beaches, and, god, palm trees everywhere?”

“I didn’t say it. I just said I heard it somewhere. Maybe I read it somewhere.” I couldn’t remember, and thinking about it, it was kind of strange. What would there be to hate about a place that never gets snow or ice and has hot guys all over the place. “I’ll bring it up. I bet after another day or two when the guys start getting on his nerves about what he’s gonna do, he won’t be able to pack fast enough.”

“What do you mean what he’s gonna do? What’s to know?” Daph asked. “It’s Brian. He’ll get another job, you’ll finish PiFA, you two’ll live happily ever after in the loft, and everything’ll be normal – or as close to it as you guys are gonna ever get.”

I started to say something, to tell her about what Bri had said about maybe having to go to another city for a job, but something about the way Daph sounded made me feel . . . well, optimistic, I guess. Maybe that’s why I always feel so fucking lousy whenever we don’t talk for awhile, because she can see stuff I can’t – and put in perspective and get me not to worry so much. She was right – it was Brian Kinney we were talking about, and for fuck’s sake – he is Gay Pittsburgh. No way would he give up his foothold on this city – not without a fight. Feeling about four-hundred times better, I smiled at Daph and grabbed my milkshake back and took a big sip, and fuck if it didn’t taste a little more like ice cream.

~*~

Technically, what I do at the diner is considered a “job,” but it really doesn’t feel that way most days. So many of the people who come in are regulars, so a lot of times I just feel like I’m talking to friends and bringing out food to them, just like I would at some of my parents’ parties. The only difference is at the diner, I get paid for clearing the tables and the customers are usually way neater eaters than my rugrat toddler cousins and my drooling great-uncles.

Sometimes, though, the diner can be real work. That happens when the place is crowded or when the cooks are backed up or if people are generally having a really pissy day . . .

Or if Michael is there, talking loud, shoving bread in his face, and whining about Brian not being around.

I was a couple of hours into my shift when I saw Michael, Ted and Emmett walk in. When I noticed Brian wasn’t with them, honestly, my first reaction was relief. They can get on his case so bad about even the stupidest things . . . I could just imagine them getting on him at the gym or wherever about joining the ranks of the unemployed, or being brought down off his high horse, or whatever the fuck. And yeah, I know they’d rather shit than see him really hurting, but I notice that they don’t seem to mind when Brian’s a little down. Ted especially seems to get off on ribbing Brian, but I guess that’s because Brian so quick to return the favor. Still, it annoys me, and I wished I could think of a way to get them to lay off him awhile.

“Where is he?” were the first words out of Michael’s mouth when I came to fill their water glasses. That caught me off guard a minute, because Michael almost never asks me that. He was always bragging about how he can get hold of Brian anytime of the day, so what the hell could I know about where Brian is that Michael didn’t already know? I guess him asking me should have made me worried, but he was giving me one of those, “I’m only tolerating you because of Brian, you stupid twink” looks, and he was chewing the bread with his mouth open again, so I just felt pissy instead.

“Running errands.” I looked away from him quick and saw Emmett and Ted give each other a kind of “uh-oh” look. That made me a little suspicious and I wondered just what the hell was up with Michael. “You ready to order or do you want to hear the specials?”

Ted and Emmett were sharing a menu, and Em looked up. “Well . . . I don’t know about them, but I am dying for –”

“I’ve been calling him all fucking day, and he’s got his fucking cell turned off.” Michael sounded as pissed off as I’d ever heard him – even more pissed off than back when Brian and I had first broken up and he told me to just “disappear.” “Where the fuck is he?”

Emmett shut up real quick, and Ted looked kind of uncomfortable – or at least as uncomfortable as a guy who watches up to 30 men a day beat off can look. I stared at Michael, and was surprised that he’d stopped chewing and was giving me this glare like I’d turned Brian’s cell off or I was holding him hostage or something. I thought it was a little weird that Brian would have his phone off, but he did that sometimes, especially when he was in a place where he couldn’t be or didn’t want to be bothered. It really wasn’t a big deal, and I was wondering why Michael was making it one.

“He had a shitload of stuff to do,” I said, shrugging. “He left early – I wasn’t even up when he’d gone.”

“Then how do you know he’s running errands?” Fuck . . . Michael sounded really angry, and Em and Ted were shrinking back in the booth like they were afraid his head was going to explode into their water glasses. “I haven’t talked to him all fucking day . . . he could be anywhere, doing anything . . .”

“Michael, Brian is a big boy. I’m sure he’s fine.” Ted darted a look at me as if to say, ‘please help me out on this,’ and suddenly I got a picture of Michael whining to him and Em all day about where Brian could be. I don’t think I’d ever felt sorrier for Ted. “He’s probably out floating his resume around, taking some meetings, maybe putting the final touches on the buyout offer.”

“He said he had to go see Mel so she could look over the papers,” I added, not so much to Michael’s mind at ease at it was to put mine at ease. Michael was looking so wild and weird . . . I could feel all the calm I’d felt when I was with Daphne slipping away. “Plus he has to clean out his office still, and that alone would probably take most of the day.”

“Right . . .” Ted nodded. “That’s a chore. Going through papers, purging files, making sure he deletes all his bookmarks to demondick.com . . .”

“You’re supposed to be analyzing, honey.” Emmett patted Ted’s shoulder. “Not reminiscing.”

“Anyway.” Ted rolled his eyes. “Your concern could be put to better use, Michael . . . as in what the hell are you thinking to blow off Ben’s faculty mixer to grind among lesser-heeled fags at Babylon tonight.”

“What’s going on at Babylon?” Not that I was interested in going – I had a shitload of work to do – but I thought it’d be a good idea to change the subject. “Navy Night? Leather Lords? Freshman Day?”

“Oh, sweetie, I wish,” Em said with a yawn. “Just the run of the mill Bike Night. Sweaty, muscled hunks in motorcycle leathers and chains. Dull.”

“Uh . . . yeah. Boring stuff.” Ted’s eyes looked kind of glazed over, and he was squirming all of a sudden. “But, well, it’s a night out anyway.”

“And Michael is fibbing to Ben about needing to do inventory, so that he can get out of Ben’s department head dinner.” Emmett gave Michael this look of disdain. “Really, sweetie, is seeing a bunch of men who probably have never even seen a Harley, much less fucked someone on one, worth lying to your boyfriend? As tedious as I’m sure din-din with the dean of Carnegie-Mellon will be, there really is nothing to see at Bike Night.”

“Brian’ll be there,” Michael said, as if that explained everything. “At least, he better be there.” Michael glared at me again and took this vicious bite out of his roll. “He loves Bike Night. It’ll cheer him up, and he could use it . . . he did just fucking lose his job, you know.”

He said that like I didn’t already know that . . . like I hadn’t been right there when he told all of us and had that terrible smile on his face . . . like I hadn’t been there last night after everyone left and saw him sit down at the computer and stare into it like it was a crystal ball, waiting for it to tell him what the fuck his future was going to hold. I felt like telling Michael about all the phone calls Brian made, and about how he’d fallen dead asleep in my lap out of exhaustion, or about how when he came to bed last night, he tossed and turned for god knows how long before he put his arms around me and finally went to sleep. I felt like looking Michael right in his smarmy eyes and asking him if he knew anything about that . . . if he knew anything about what his “best friend” was really going through . . . what Brian had been like when there was no one around except him and me.

But I didn’t say anything, because it really wouldn’t have mattered. Michael is always going to be a little clueless when it comes to Brian, and Michael is never going to admit that there are things I see and know about his “best friend” that he’ll never see . . . and never know. That made me feel bad, in a way . . . bad enough to just shut up, even when Michael took out his cell and left probably what was the fiftieth rambling message on Brian’s voice mail, and turn to the others to talk about the specials of the day.

~*~

The rest of the night passed as kind of a blur, which was a relief after my sort-of run-in with Michael. By my count, he’d called Brian seven times during the time he, Em and Ted were at the diner, and at one point, I thought Ted was going to take Michael’s cell and shove it down his throat. They finally left, though, but not without Michael cornering me and hissing at me to make sure Brian called him, and if he wasn’t at Woody’s by eight, he was coming to the loft to get him. I wondered if he knew how pathetic he sounded saying that, and I was also a little perturbed that he was lying to Ben and going to Bike Night because Brian would be there. I’ve had more experience than I want to think about when it comes to lying to a boyfriend, and I wondered if Michael knew how bad this could blow up in his face. I would have told Michael that, but he’d never listen to me. Besides, it’s not like we’re friends or anything . . . we just work together, and that’s enough of a headache.

When I opened the door of the loft, I knew immediately that Brian was there. The loft felt more like . . . itself again, if that makes any sense. Less empty and more . . . lively, or something. Plus I could smell curry in the air, and this weird music was playing – one of those obscure Greenlandic/Trinidadian techno-fusion CDs that don’t make sense to me but Brian loves. Only a few of the lamps were on, so the place was sort of dim, but I could see the blue lights in the bedroom on. I hung in the doorway when I saw that – was he tricking? Did he have someone in bed with him? I couldn’t hear much, and the music wasn’t loud, but it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d come home to Brian fucking someone . . . though it would be the first time since we’d gotten back together. I was sure Bri still fucked around, but I hadn’t walked in on anything – yet.

“Sunshine? That you?”

He was in the bedroom, and he didn’t sound like he was . . . exerting himself, so I relaxed a little and closed the door behind me. “How long have you been here?” I looked around and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The computer was off, the lights in the kitchen were off, though I could see grease-stained bags of takeout on the breakfast bar, and the TV was off. It looked like he’d just gotten in.

“Awhile.” I heard soft footsteps, and then there he was, standing at the top of the stairs to the bedroom. I was walking toward the bedroom, but when I saw him, I stopped dead in my tracks, and . . . I just stared.

He watched me pretty much gasp for air for awhile, with that little smirk on his face he gets when he knows he’s taken someone by surprise. “Is there something wrong, Sunshine?”

Wrong? Not even fucking close. I just shook my head and gaped at him, at Brian, who was standing right in front of me in a pair of black leather pants that did not only fit – but kissed ­­– his ass . . . and nothing else. Now, that’s not even an extreme look, considering what people wear on Liberty Avenue – especially in the summer time – but on Brian, that combination of tight leather and bare chest and feet, and tousled hair and deep-set eyes was so fucking sexy, especially with the blue lights sort of outlining him with this soft glow. I was never so pissed that I didn’t have a sketchbook with me so I could capture him at that moment . . . I think sometimes even I forget how beautiful Brian is, but I love reminders like these.

“Uhm . . . nice pants.” I only said something because I didn’t want to stand in the middle of the floor looking like an imbecile. “Are they . . . umm . . .” I had to actually stop and think of a fucking designer. Shit! “Uh . . . Versace?”

“Nope. Wrong Italian fag. From the Armani Collezione. Last pair in my size.” He motioned for me to come into the bedroom, and after I remembered how to get my feet to work, I followed him. “I wanted the brown suede, but . . . these just spoke to me.”

I nodded. They were speaking to me, too, and my dick really, really wanted to answer back. “They’re nice. Uhm . . . are you wearing them to Bike Night?”

Brian was bending over the bed, and watching his ass in that leather made me almost come in my jeans. He straightened up, though and gave me a puzzled look over his shoulder. “Bike Night? Why the fuck would I be going to that?”

“I thought it was your favorite. Michael said so,” I murmured, then blinked, looking around. There were bags everywhere and heaps of clothes spilling out of them. There were a few boxes at the foot of the bed, too. I could have been wrong, but the stuff didn’t really look like the typical stuff you’d keep in an office, but then again, Brian’s not even close to typical. “Um . . . what is all this? I didn’t think you were picking up the dry cleaning until Thursday.”

“I’m not. These,” he waved his hand over the bags and boxes, “are brand-new. For months, I’ve been wanting to shop the collections, but didn’t have the time. Today, I had the time, and so I went.”

It took me a quick second to process that. Fuck, those pants were distracting. “Shopping? You were shopping all day?”

“Not all day,” he said with a shrug. “Just most of it. In the morning, I met some contacts for breakfast. Early afternoon, I took Cynthia to lunch. And then I hit the stores.” He held up a soft-looking dark-blue sweater. “What do you think?”

I didn’t say anything at first, because I was a little uneasy – Brian doesn’t just shop for one or two things – he really gets into it. And by the looks of all the bags around, he’d not been keeping a tight hold on his wallet. He shops at these high-end men’s stores, so I could only imagine how much money he’d spent . . . and I wondered if him doing that was a good idea under the circumstances. “It’s nice,” I said at last, and it was. It looked like cashmere, and the color was beautiful. It would look amazing on him, but then, Brian didn’t own a thing that didn’t look like it was made just for him.

“Prada,” he said offhandedly, and put it back into a bag. “You know, Sunshine, every time I’m ready to write off Pittsburgh as a backwater where no one in his right mind and a modicum of style would live, I find a place where they sell three-ply Prada cashmere sweaters, and I start thinking this place isn’t so bad after all.” He grinned at me, and I smiled back, a little tentatively, I guess. Brian looked okay, and he sounded okay, but I couldn’t really get a gauge on how he was feeling, really. I couldn’t see his eyes too well in the light of the room, and they, to me, were the only accurate mirror of his true state of mind.

“Most of this I’ll need to take to be altered . . . except these.” He smoothed his hand over the front of the pants, one hand stopping on his thigh right under the swell of his dick . . . as if I hadn’t noticed it. “I guess these fit all right, wouldn’t you say?”

I nodded and felt my cock jump. “They, um . . . yeah . . .”

“By the way, Sunshine . . . I picked up a couple things for you.”

That snapped me out of my daze. “What? Shit, Brian, I don’t need anything . . . you know my mother –”

“—Means well, but she’s got a lot to learn about dressing an up-and-coming queer.” Brian pulled me over to where the boxes were stacked, and pointed to the top one. “Open that one first. I wasn’t sure about the fit, but I think it’ll be okay.”

I looked at Brian, looked into his eyes, and almost fell on my ass. The blue lights made his eyes look the same gold color as those stacks of autumn leaves you see and just want to dive into . . . get lost in. “Brian, I . . . you didn’t need to.”

“Open. It.” He gave me the eyebrow ­– both of them, and, fuck, no smile, so I sighed and picked up the first box. It was kind of heavy, but I really couldn’t tell what it was. It seemed too heavy for a sweater or pants, but not heavy enough to be shoes or boots. I put it back down and then lifted off the lid. I blinked when I saw a jacket all folded into a neat square, and I carefully lifted it out, feeling the soft, suppleness of leather.

“Holy shit.” It was a shearling jacket, kind of like one Brian had, but a different color and not as long. It was a beautiful dark brown and sleek and amazing and . . . I looked at the label and nearly shit myself. It was Remy. Remy! Jesus, my tuition probably cost as much as this fucking coat. “Brian, I can’t –”

“Try it on.” He folded his arms and looked at me. No eyebrows this time, but he seemed so serious that I just did it without thinking about it. Well, I did think about it a little. It was too much . . . too fucking much money. No way I was keeping it. No fucking way. I slipped it on, watching him watch me, and fuck if it didn’t feel good – the coat, that is. It was soft and it was warm, and it was cool, all at once. I couldn’t see myself, but I knew it looked great on me by the way Brian was staring me up and down, trying not to smile. “Well, Sunshine . . . what do you think? Good fit?”

“It’s fucking incredible.” I pushed my hands into the pockets, and my fingers sank into downy drifts of fleece. “But, Brian, I don’t need it. I already have a coat.”

“You mean that green disgrace you’ve been wearing all winter?” Brian shook his head. “Fuck that. It’s February, and the rodent of Punxsutawney has spoken: Six more weeks of Jack Frost nipping at your balls. That should keep you from freezing your ass off walking around campus.”

“But it’s so . . .” Expensive. I thought maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say. “Extravagant.” I wasn’t sure that was any better really, but Brian shrugged sort of noncommittally, so I guess it wasn’t too bad a choice.

“It’s a good investment. It’s a classic; you’ll have it for years if you take decent care of it. That means no getting food on it, or any fucking paint, or jizz.”

I had to smile. “Brian, I think I can control myself a little. I don’t think I’ll get so turned on that I’ll shoot all over a fucking leather jacket.”

His face remained dead serious. “Who was talking about you?” And then I saw that glint in his eyes and the flicker of a smile that meant I was so going to be screaming at the top of my voice really soon, and I felt my dick harden to the point where it could have been used as a drill bit. Brian stepped back and unzipped his pants, stepping smoothly out of them before I could blink twice. He put them somewhere out of sight and I ogled him while he did it. He was half-hard and rising, and his balls swung between his thighs like windblown fruit. Turning back to me, he said, “Take that off,” in this sexy growl that almost made a liar out of me having enough control to not come on the coat. I hurriedly removed it and put it back in its box, putting the lid on it again, and practically tore the rest of my clothes off. I turned to Brian, my eyes raking over his beyond-amazing body a split second before we lunged at each other, kissing and touching, falling on to the bed.

I love the way Brian and I make love. It’s so . . . personal. That may seem like a stupid thing to say, because it’s hard for any activity where you’re sticking your dick up someone’s ass to be impersonal, but it’s just . . . different with Brian. We sort of know each other’s triggers, I guess, and we know just how to fuck so that we can get what exactly what we want out of it – if we want to come quickly, we know how to pace it so we do that. If we want a slow buildup, we know how to touch each other so that we can last awhile. And it’s never formulaic, never stale . . . but it’s always the same end result; both of us coming everywhere, all over each other.

Somehow I ended up on my back with Brian between my legs, licking my cock. The way he was tonguing my slit and licking all around the head of my dick made it hard for me to hold on, because I’m most sensitive there, and he knows it. I fought my orgasm down, though, and just lay back against the pillows and tried not to spontaneously combust while Bri started taking my whole cock into his mouth, licking and gently sucking while he did it. I knew enough not to thrust into his mouth, even though my hips wanted to move, but he was taking me all in, so I had to lie as still as I could and just fight wanting to fuck that warm, beautiful mouth that was driving me so crazy. He kept going down until I could feel his nose buried in my pubes, and we stayed like that for a minute, him with my cock all the way down his throat, and me just barely holding on, before Brian started bobbing up and down on my dick, working it with his lips and tongue. I laid back and played with my nipples while he sucked me, pinching them every time he went down and pulling them when he came up the shaft. He was really enjoying giving me head – sucking me, licking me, flicking his tongue across my dick, running his fingers from my balls to my asshole, and gently massaging me there. After awhile, his mouth followed the path of his fingers, and I moaned when he started kissing and sucking my balls. He was staring up at me while he played with them, and I could see the exhilaration in his eyes, like he was getting off on just what he was doing. Knowing that I was the one who put that look on his face made me even hotter, and I had to think about my Matisse final for a second to calm down. He ran his tongue down to my asshole, probing inside me. I jumped nearly a foot off the bed, gasping loud. It felt like the air in the room was closing in on us, like a piece of plastic wrap being put over a bowl. Sweat was rolling off my body and onto the bed, and I felt lightheaded, dizzy, and I wanted to come . . . I wanted to come so bad, I could practically taste it, but I knew this had to be for him, too. It wouldn’t feel as good to me if he was left out.

“Brian,” I rasped, trying to squirm away from his tongue. “Bri – fuck me. F-f-uck me now.”

He lifted his head up and just stared at me for a second. “You sure that’s what you want, Sunshine?”

Oh, fuck did he even need to ask? I reached out to the dresser and grabbed lube and a handful of condoms, tossing them in his general direction. Then I laid back and just concentrated on breathing and keeping calm while he got ready to fuck me. I could feel prejizz dripping down my cock, and my ass was twitching in anticipation of his cock making its entrance. I heard him rip open the condom wrapper and flick open the cap to the lube. Then I didn’t hear a thing for awhile. Suddenly, my legs were going up and over his shoulders, and I could feel him lean into me, his cock poking at my asshole.

“I love this, Sunshine,” he growled next to my ear and then kissed it. “I love making you feel good.”

Those words put me in heaven immediately, just as his dick thrusting into my ass landed me in paradise. I knew what he was trying to say, I knew that it was me he loved, and I loved him so fucking much for trying – for even attempting – to let me know how he felt, for trusting me . . . for wanting to be with me again all the shit I did . . . I loved him. I loved him, and I wasn't ever going to stop.

“Ohh fuck, Brian. . .” He was pounding me hard, and he had a hand on my cock stroking me just right, and I knew I wasn’t gonna last long. People always say lightning never strikes twice, but that is such bullshit. I felt it hit every time Brian pushed into me, and each time his thick dick pressed up against my prostate, it was like I was being jolted by an electric shock from the top of my head down to my toes, and the bursts of sensation were hot enough to turn my body to ashes.

“Yeah, yeah . . . that’s it . . . fuck, you feel so good.” Brian was groaning in my ear, pumping into me, and I was moving my hips to meet him, angling up as he pushed down. Brian pressed his face into my neck and moaned, “Ahhhh . . . damn, you’re good at this, Sunshine.”

I repaid his compliment by reaching down to cup his balls, gently rolling and squeezing them in my hand. They were tight and swollen, and I could tell that he was holding on and waiting until I got a little closer to coming. I started moving faster, and so did he, and our bodies settled into this amazing rhythm; we were coming together and pulling apart smoothly, both of us moaning and holding on to each other tight. Brian was jacking my cock in sync with our fucking, and I could feel my balls start to pull up into my body, pinpricks of sensation tingling from my dick and spreading all over. I was coming, I was coming, and it was going to be intense and incredible, and amazing, and it was gonna happen with Brian inside me. I squeezed his balls a little harder, clamping my ass down on his dick, wanting him to come with me. When I felt him start to shudder, I knew I could let go. “Brian . . .” My voice sounded shrill and tense and out of control, and my body didn’t feel much different. I was nearly there . . . “Brian! Brian! Bri –”

“What the fuck?”

It took me awhile to register the shock and anger in Brian’s voice and it took even more time for me to realize that I hadn’t been the one calling out Brian’s name – at least not out loud. That shrill tone belonged to one of the three guys who were at the entrance to the bedroom, watching us. My interrupted orgasm made me groggy, and when Brian rolled off me, his dick still stiff, I still wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. My eyes snapped into focus in another second, and I saw Michael standing there, frowning at both of us as if he’d caught us screwing on top of his first-edition X-Men display case. Ted and Emmett were standing behind him, both of them looking pretty mortified. All of them had on leather jackets, and Em had a pretty cool biker cap on, wearing it sideways. Michael had a chain around his waist, and I probably would have laughed at how weird it looked on him, but I took one look at the fury on Brian’s face and any thought of laughing or even breathing too loud quickly left my mind.

Three

“Well, for shit’s sake, Brian, I didn’t know you were fucking him.”

Totally self-conscious about having been seeing in the middle of fucking by Brian’s closest friends, I’d been on my way to the shower when Michael said that, and it stopped me for a second. He was talking – well, yelling, really – at Brian but I could tell the words were directed at me, too. I didn’t know really how to take them: On the one hand, it seemed like an insult, like Michael was reminding me again that Brian and I aren’t exclusive, even though we are back together. But then again, he sounded almost kind of sorry, like if he had known that it was me and Brian making love and not some quick hookup Brian was fucking, he and Emmett and Ted wouldn’t have interrupted us. Either way, though, Brian was still pissed off and I still had to go to the shower and jerk off before my dick turned to confetti. I closed the bathroom door just as Brian was saying something back, and I just sort of stood in the bathroom for a minute, looking around, and trying to ignore the screaming on the other side of the door.

Bri’s loft was a lot of things – cool, modern, fashionable, tasteful – but soundproof wasn’t one of them, and I thought that if he and Michael kept on shouting at each other, one of Brian’s neighbors would come banging on the loft door for sure. Then again, I couldn’t remember ever seeing any of Brian’s neighbors or anyone else in the building except for this homeless-looking guy wearing an AC/DC t-shirt.

I turned the water on as hot as I could stand and jumped in, letting the water wash over me and sort of caress my dick like a really warm, really wet hand. I had been so close to coming when we were interrupted, so I figured that it wasn’t gonna take me long now to explode. Problem was, every time I closed my eyes and started stroking, instead of Brian’s face and voice, it was Michael’s face and his voice yelling out “Brian!” that I saw and heard in my mind. I tried getting off with my eyes open, but I couldn’t concentrate too well because having my eyes open reminded me that Brian was not in there with me, helping me out with my problem. I tried closing my eyes again and started pulling, imagining I could feel Brian moving inside me in that way he does when he sort of grinds his hips when he’s all the way inside me. It feels incredible because I get like three or four hits in a row on my trigger point when he does that, and it drives me so fucking insane, and he knows I love that, so he’ll do it more than once while we’re fucking, and I scream every time he does it, and – and –

“God . . .” I groaned, feeling my balls start to tighten. My cock jumped in my hand, and I bit down on my lip when my load shot out, mixing with the bubbles from the shower gel that was running down my legs. It was over in a few seconds, and I held onto the soap dish for balance until I stopped feeling like my legs had turned to Jell-O. It wasn’t as earth-shattering as it would have been if I’d been with Brian, but it did the trick. Now I could stop focusing on my hard-on and go back to over thinking everything, starting with Michael’s comment right after Brian jumped up and started giving him hell for interrupting us. I’d been yelled at by Brian only a couple of times – once when we first started living together after my dad gave me a choice between being his son or being myself, and the second time when like an asshole, I didn’t check to make sure the alarm was set in the loft and Brian got cleaned out – and trust me, I figured out real quick that I never again wanted to be on the receiving end of one of Brian’s screams (unless we were in bed, I guess). So when he’d started in on Michael, calling him a “useless twat” and saying that he was always sticking his nuts where they didn’t belong, I started flinching at how angry he sounded, all of it reminding me of the two times he’d been that angry at me. Even Ted and Emmett looked shaken up, and none of us noticed – okay, I did, because he had been fucking me – that Brian was still hard and wasn’t exactly trying to hide it. But Michael just glared back at him, taking it, not saying anything until Brian had to stop and take a breath. And then Michael looked at me still on the bed – covered up, though – and back at Brian, totally calm and took a step toward Bri and said, “So now what? Are you going to hit me again? Give me another black eye? Over him again?”

And then everything and everybody just sort of . . . stopped. Brian had been getting ready to rip Michael a fifteenth asshole, but when Michael said that, Bri just stopped dead. Em and Ted just sort of looked at the floor. Michael kept staring at Brian. And I . . . was confused. I had no idea what he was talking about for a second, and then when Brian looked over at me, his face contrite, I remembered. I remembered Mel and Linds’ anniversary party – the one they insisted I bring Ethan to, and the one Brian wasn’t supposed to be at. I remembered hearing Michael and Brian arguing about . . . something, but I had been too far away to really hear, plus I’d been trying to concentrate on Ethan. But all that went out the window when I turned my head in time to see Brian’s fist connect with Michael’s face, and Michael hit the grass. It went kinda nuts after that, and everyone yelled at Brian and he got kicked out of the party. Ethan and I left, too, because, well, it just got too weird – I’d never seen Brian hit anyone before, no matter how angry he got, and he was hitting Michael – his best friend.

I didn’t get it then, but now that I knew that that their fight at the Munchers was about me, I wanted to know what Michael had said, but part of me – a really big part – didn’t want to go there. It was ancient history, and from the look on Brian’s face when Michael had brought it up again, he didn’t want to relive it, either. Still, it made me wonder: Michael had practically kissed my ass to get me to start doing Rage with him again, and this was after the stuff at the party had happened and after he’d said . . . whatever. It just reminded me that no matter what, Michael was not on my side . . . or on our side. That wouldn’t have bothered me much before yesterday, but with Brian in as vulnerable a state as he’s in now, I started wondering if I should stop just shrugging it off when Michael takes shots at me and start considering him a real threat to what Brian and I are trying to build.

I was still thinking that over when I turned off the water and climbed out, so I didn’t notice how quiet it had gotten in the loft until I was at the sink and someone came knocking on the door. First I thought it might be Em or Ted, because Brian barely ever knocks – especially if he knows I’m in the shower – and Michael wouldn’t knock so politely, not as worked up as he was, unless he really, really had to go.

“Just a second.” I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around me tight, before opening the door. Brian was on the other side, half-dressed and looking . . . well, it was hard to describe. He didn’t look angry – not in the way he had looked just before I went to the bathroom – and he didn’t look sad, really, either. He looked sort of tired, which was to be expected, I guess, but he looked . . . I guess resigned. Kind of like a parent with a bunch of screaming kids in the supermarket, and no matter what they try to do to shut them up, nothing works, and they can’t do anything except kind of shrug and smile when people turn and look at them like their kids need to be slapped. That’s when I looked over Bri’s shoulder and noticed the guys were gone.

“Feel better?” Brian was kind of smirking at me, and I blushed. He said he could always tell when I’d jerked off, because apparently the tip of my nose turns bright red, like Rudolph’s. I’d just been looking in the mirror, and I didn’t see anything unusual, but Brian was looking straight at my nose, and I wiggled it at him like the witch in Bewitched did; I used to love that show. Brian laughed, and I wanted to hug him. I fall in love with him all over again every time he laughs – but not one of those bullshit ha-has that he’ll give when he’s pissed off or trying to be sarcastic – a real laugh, a turn-your-cheeks-red, feel-it-deep-in-your-tummy, bouncing-off-the-walls laugh. It fit him as well as the leather pants did. Better even.

“You need to get in here?” I was a little ticked that I’d had my fun in the shower without Brian, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t give him a hand, if needed. Just the thought of it made my cock twitch a little.

He quieted down, and shook his head, getting all serious and resigned again. Damn, his mood changed quick. “Need to get out of here before the Pod Squad gets back.” He looked over his shoulder, into the loft, like he was expecting the door to be broken down, and then looked back at me. “Get dressed. I want to be somewhere else in 15 minutes.”

Fuck, then, so much for shower fun. “Um . . . where are we going?”

He gave me the eyebrow again – one, with a smile. “You tell me.”

That caught me way off-guard, and I just looked at him for a little while until the eyebrow changed to two with a smile. “Um . . . what?”

“Where do you go,” he asked, “When you want to get away from all the bullshit, and just . . . think? Or relax . . . or whatever the fuck.”

“Um . . .” I had to think a second. The real answer was, well, the loft. There’s nowhere else I feel more comfortable, and not just because of the cool furniture, the gourmet-stocked refrigerator and the duvet. But Brian wanted to get out of the loft, so I had to think of a backup. After a second, I had it. “I guess . . . uh . . . my studio.”

He looked a little surprised, like he hadn’t been expecting that, and I started to wonder if I should have just said the loft, just so he knew that it was the place I really did feel the most comfortable, but then he shrugged, and muttered something about hoping he didn’t get paint on his new pants, and before I knew it, we both managed to get clothes on and were out the door and running down the steps just as we heard the service elevator – and Michael’s voice. And seriously, the slow whine of the elevator and the sound of Michael were almost identical.

~*~

PIFA accepted about 10 people a year into its art program, and it was a good thing, too, because it meant bigger and better studio space for students. My work space was pretty standard for a PIFA student, but I’ve been to the art departments at Carnegie-Mellon, Pitt and Chatham, and the offices of some of the faculty could fit in my studio. Well, if I didn’t have so much stuff in it – aside from the computer Brian had bought for me, after I’d caught Ethan with the trombone player from brass orchestra, I sorta moved into the studio, and a couple of things – a chair Daph let me have, and a fold-out mattress I got from the Big Q – were scrunched up in a corner. It wasn’t any more cluttered than Ethan’s place was, and it was a hell of a lot cleaner, but as we walked in the door, I wondered if Brian might be a little claustrophobic. As big as the place seemed to me, it was about the size of one of Bri’s closets.

“Not bad.” I turned around and saw Brian looking around. If he thought I was total pig and the place was a sty, he didn’t show it – and he would have. He was looking at the drawings I had on the wall. Most of them of them were of him, naked. Some of them I’d done after we’d broken up, just, you know, to see if I could do it from memory. It hadn’t been a problem.

“Um, let me turn on a light or something –”

“Don’t bother. I like it this way,” he said, wandering around, and I had to agree. The studio has huge windows, which is great for lighting purposes, and the moon had the studio lit up like it was noon. “You didn’t do this one on the computer.” He was looking at a huge charcoal and chalk print I’d done about a week or two before I broke up with Ethan: Brian had come into the diner alone one day and had his usual dry turkey sandwich and coffee at the counter, so I drew him on one of the diner’s stools, sans sandwich, coffee, and clothes, with his briefcase at his feet. I was real proud of the shading and contouring I’d done on it, and Brian was right – I hadn’t done it on the computer. My right hand wasn’t perfect yet, but it was getting strong enough to do some special projects if I went slow enough. It had taken me about two weeks to finish that picture of Bri, though I knew I could have done it faster if I hadn’t stopped every once in awhile to whack off thinking about him.

“Yeah, um, I was going to turn it in as my second-term Art and the Body project, but . . . my professor’s kind of a prude.” My face was hot as hell, and I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like Brian hadn’t seen pictures I’d drawn of him, but I guess I was a little afraid that my studio looked a little like a shrine to Brian, which I guess technically was true. “She’s a real weirdo – she has this thing for kids and trees. You draw a kid under a tree, and even if it sucks you’ll get at least a B-plus –”

“I’ll buy it.” He walked over to me and pulled me into him, kissing me gently on the forehead. “How much?”

“Are you serious?” I was fucking floored. Brian’s always been enthusiastic about my art, but he’s never offered to pay, other than that one time he wanted to buy a piece of mine to help me pay for school – this was before our loan deal. I wondered if he was just trying to humor me because I’d drawn it with my gimp hand and it didn’t suck. “If you like it, take it. You know you don’t have to pay me anything.” I always felt like I should be paying him for giving me so much material for my art.

“Giving away your masterpieces? Christ, that’s no way to not be a starving artist, Sunshine.” We kissed again. “How much?”

I don’t know why his attitude surprised me. It was typical Brian – not wanting to just take something that was being offered to him. His unselfishness really makes me proud most times, but right then, it made me sort of sad. I couldn’t understand why, but I knew he wasn’t going to budge – and I knew I wanted him to have the drawing. He was waiting for me to say something, looking down at me, and smiling in that way that always made me wish I could just think our clothes off, like one of those guys in Michael’s comic books. And that’s when I got an idea for what a fair price would be.

“How about we do this on the barter system?” I took off my jacket and his, put them on top of my desk, then turned back to him and slipped my hands underneath Brian’s shirt, rubbing his back. “You get the drawing – framed, too – and . . . you do something for me in exchange. . .”

His smile was amazing. “I’m guessing we’re not gonna seal this deal with a handshake.” He went for my zipper, but I stopped him, tugging him over to where I kept the portable bed. I unfolded the mattress, and laughed at the look on Brian’s face. “It’s better than the floor, trust me.” I got it completely unfolded and I motioned to him to lie down. “Get comfortable.” I watched for a minute as he peeled out of his pants and shirt, and grinned at me as he took off his briefs. He was hard and leaking, from the look of it, and I felt my cock start to perk up. My recovery time was pretty fast, but it was almost zero any time I saw Brian that way. I squatted next to him, and ran my hands over his body, positioning him in just the way I wanted: sprawled out on the mattress, one leg thrown over the side, and his cock hard and glistening, precum dripping down into his pubes. “There.” My mouth was kind of dry, and I swallowed a few times. “Perfect.”

“You’re still dressed.” Brian again went for my zipper, but I got up really quick and headed over to the other side of the room, grabbing a sketchpad and a pencil. “Hey . . . what the fuck are you doing?”

“Drawing.” I unfolded Daphne’s chair, and got comfortable, finding it kinda hard to keep the sketchpad in my lap because my cock was poking into it. I looked over at him, and the look on his face nearly made me lose it completely. He looked like I’d just kneed him in the balls. “This is the deal . . . you get that picture, you let me draw you – don’t move.” He looked like he was about to sit up. “I have you in perfect position.”

“Yeah, well, this isn’t exactly the position I had in mind.” He didn’t look happy, but he settled down, at least. “You can draw me anytime you want . . . why waste an opportunity to get something more for your hard work.”

I shrugged as I started my outline, flexing my fingers a little while for luck. “This is definitely payment in full.” I smiled over my pad at him. “Trust me. Besides, I’ll need a drawing to replace the one you’re gonna take, won’t I?”

I had always had these kind of fantasies about Brian and me and my studio . . . getting him to pose for me there. I do know him by heart, and could draw him in my sleep – and his – but having him pose for me was a real rush. I got to stare at that long, lean body and beautiful skin and eyes, and his gorgeous cock. His dick reminded me of a tusk of ivory – creamy and long and delicate and solid. Ivory tusks aren’t edible, though, I don’t think, and I sure as hell wanted to nibble on Brian. Later, though. That’s what I kept telling myself while I drew, and my cock seemed to buy it.

“How long is this going to take?” Brian didn’t sound whiny or angry, just curious. I wonder if he was worried about losing his hard-on. Even if he did, it would be okay, it’s not like I don’t know what it looks like.

“Not long. I just want to get the foundation done. The rest I can do later. I want to do this in mezzotint, I think, and I don’t have ink for that here.” Mmm yeah . . . Brian in shades of sepia . . . now that would be a fucking masterpiece. “And the less we talk, the faster I’ll get done.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

I pretended I didn’t see him grab his dick when he said that, and concentrated on capturing the gorgeousness that was in front of me. It was times like those I wished I could sculpt, because Brian deserves to be captured in as three-dimensional a medium as possible. Maybe next semester I’d be able to fit in a sculpting course as an elective.

He got quiet, and for a long time – an hour or more, at least – neither of us spoke and the only sounds in the room were my pencil scratching on the page, and now and then, my eraser. Brian was a good model: He held position, didn’t yawn or blink or scratch himself like some of the guys they get for Life Art do. I wondered if he’d done something like this before. I could totally see him posing for extra money while he was in school. He would have been in high demand, I bet.

“You’re doing great. I just have to get a little more shading done.” I worked as fast as I could, ignoring a slight cramp in my hand. To me, what we were doing was the epitome of romance. It was like I’d told Bri once we got back together – it wasn’t about hearts and flowers and sweet nothings. I got all that from Ethan, and yeah, it was okay at first, but it got way old, way quick. To me, romance was about being together, sharing things . . . having little inside jokes or places only we go to. Hanging out quietly at home doing all the stupid little things like cooking dinner and organizing CDs. Brian hadn’t said anything that remotely sounded like “I love you,” from the moment we walked into my studio, but by him laying there, posing for me, and being so sweet about it, it was like he was saying those words over and over and over again. At least, that’s how I saw it.

“There. This’ll work for now.” I looked at what I had, and it wasn’t too bad. It was definitely recognizable as Brian, though I didn’t like the cushion too much . . . it looked too mundane, I guess. It would look better in mezzotint, definitely. Satisfied, I looked up and smiled at Brian. “You can relax now, thanks.”

“That’s what you think.” He looked down at his cock, and so did I. It was still hard, twitching, and red from the looks of it, and still so fucking delicious looking. My stomach growled, and I knew having dinner or something would probably have been a good idea, but I was in the mood for a little snack beforehand. Standing up, I put my sketchpad next to our jackets and I went over to him, unzipping my jeans and stepping out of them as I got to the mattress. I watched him watch me take my underwear off, and when I started stroking my dick, I saw his eyes widen the slightest bit. “Is this a throw-in to our little bargain?”

“Nothing little that I can see.” I dropped onto the side of the mattress, positioning myself between Bri’s legs, and before he had a chance to get both legs on the cushion, I had his cock in my mouth. I could tell by the way he sucked in his breath that he had not been expecting that, but it only seemed fair: I’d gotten off in the shower, and he hadn’t had a chance to at all, that I knew of. I wanted to make up for our earlier interruption, and then some – this was the second part of my fantasy about me and Brian and my studio.

I don’t know what makes me a good cocksucker – and I know that I am good – but I always like to be more than just good when I’m with Brian. Part of it is that he’s had so many blowjobs, I want mine to stand out, and part of it is me wanting him to enjoy getting head as much as I enjoy giving it. I slid my mouth all the way down Brian’s dick, and just enjoyed the feeling of having my lips stretched around his cock for a minute before I started to bob my head on him. I cradled his balls in my hand while I sucked his dick, tugging on his sac each time I came up on his dick and ran my tongue over the head. Brian likes to fuck my face when I’m blowing him, and I like that – I love it, actually – because when he lifts his hips up, I get access to his ass and get to play with his hole. This time, though, he wasn’t moving his hips: He was just lying there, letting me run the show. I moved to the side a little so that I could watch him while I was mouthing his dick, and we locked eyes. I loved that, too: Brian’s like me – a visual person. He gets off as much on seeing something sexy as he does on having sexy things done to him. I always wondered why he didn’t have a mirror on the ceiling or something – it would make sense for someone who likes to watch as much as Brian does, and as much as I do.

The moonlight made Brian’s eyes look green, made them shimmer like emeralds, and his mouth was half open, breathing in and out in ragged gasps. I moved my hands up his body to his nipples and start stroking them gently. I love mine pulled, pinched or anything rough, but Brian likes a gentler touch. He groaned when I began playing with them, and I felt his dick start to throb in my mouth. I flicked his nipples just a little harder and slid my mouth down to his pubes, twisting my head from side to side while I did it. Brian moaned louder then, and his body started shaking and his dick went from throbbing to pulsing, and he arched up sharply when he began coming. With each pulse of his cock, I swallowed, not missing a drop. Brian tasted kinda sweet, I thought, and I figured it must be all the guava juice he drinks. Even after Bri stopped shooting, I kept his dick in my mouth, licking the head clean of jizz and just savoring the silky texture of his cock. He let me do that for awhile, but when he started getting soft, he moved away and waved for me to climb up beside him. I did, wondering if he was going to let me fuck him, since he wasn’t really in a position to fuck me. I was trying to remember if I had any condoms when he pulled me down and kissed me, our lips barely touching. We kissed again, a little harder, and his tongue swept into my mouth, tasting himself on my lips, I knew. It was a turn-on that he was into that, and while we kissed, I grinded against his hip, knowing that it wouldn’t take too much for me to come again. Brian knew that, too, and so when he started stroking my cock, I pulled away from his mouth and looked down, watching his hand jack my dick, the head of my cock appearing and disappearing in Bri’s fist like a jack-in-the-box. I moaned and tried to think of something to keep myself from shooting fast, but it was too late – Brian was stroking my balls at the same time he was jerking me off and the sight of it and the feel of it and Brian looking at me . . . fuck . . . it just felt too good not to come. I hollered when Brian started beating me off faster, and I shuddered as I came, my jizz splattering on the mattress and on Bri’s chest in thick, creamy wads, one pulse after another.

I sorta lose my mind for a little while after I come, but I forced myself to stay lucid for Brian’s sake. Looking at him, his chest glistening with my juice, I started to get up to try to find something to clean Bri off with – a piece of canvas or a discarded paint cloth or something, but he stopped me and kissed me deep, putting my hands on the wetness on his torso. “Rub it into me, Sunshine,” he whispered in my ear, and if I wasn’t all tapped out, I sure as fuck would have come again right then and there. That he wanted my jizz on him, my scent on him, was beyond incredible. It was like . . . like . . . he was letting me mark him as mine . . . letting me claim him. Fuck. Me. If that wasn’t showing love . . . what the fuck was? I was speechless, and I kissed my thanks to him as I did what he asked, my fingers slipping and sliding across his chest like drunken little ice-skaters.

Afterward, we just sort of lay there next to each other, listening to each other breathe, and talking about everything we could think of in what seemed like our own little corner of the world – away from his friends and mine and prying eyes and random morons. He told me he was thinking about sending his resume out to some headhunters and getting placed right away. It was his best shot, he said, at getting a position comparable to one he’d been let go from, and there was a good chance he’d get to stay in or around Pittsburgh. The only problem was, he said, was that it could take a week or two to find just the right fit. “Meantime, I’ll be at home keeping tabs on Theodore’s website, and hiding all the sharp objects so that I’m not tempted the next time Mikey comes over.”

He said that with hardly any humor in his voice, and I thought of the scene in the loft earlier. I really wanted to ask him what it was Michael had said to him at the garden party, but I let it go. “You know the guys mean well, Bri. I guess they just don’t want to see you give up hope or self-destruct or whatever.”

Brian looked me dead in the eye. “Do you think I’m on the verge of a breakdown, Sunshine?”

“Of course not.” I answered that one real quick. “But I guess to the guys, and to Mel and Linds, things are really up in the air. You and your job have always been a constant, and now it’s not anymore. I don’t think they should be calling the Gay Crisis hotline for you, but I can understand why they’d be concerned.”

“Well, I wish they’d all just leave me the fuck alone,” Brian muttered, and I started stroking his shoulders to relax him. “Christ . . . I’d be handling my change in employment status a lot better if they weren’t always fucking underfoot. Mikey’s shrieking that I’m isolating myself. Bullshit . . . I just want some time to fucking think without five hundred assholes asking me what I’m going to do. Time to myself.”

I didn’t say anything for a long time, and just enjoyed the feel of Brian’s skin beneath my fingertips. “If you want, I could . . . you know . . . crash at my mom’s while you get stuff together . . . sort things out.” I said it with as straight a face as I could make. I didn’t want to leave the loft, but if Brian needed some down time, well, I could understand that, even if I would miss the hell out of him.

“That’s not what I want.” He put an arm around my waist, and we leaned close until our foreheads touched. “What I want is to not have my cellphone ring and have it be Mikey or Linds ‘checking in’ on me, or Theodore offering to balance my books, or Emmett offering his employee discount for those ass-poor clothes he sells. I’m okay . . . or I would be if my friends would let me be.”

Playing with his hair, I thought about what I’d said to Daph about Brian’s friends sort of ganging up on him, and now I had first-hand proof that it was getting to him. That’s when I remembered Daph’s suggestion about getting Brian out of town for awhile. Some R & R and peace of mind . . . and sand . . . and sun. “Bri . . . why don’t you get out of here for awhile?”

He gave me a weird look. “Get out of where? This room? Why? I think it’s kinda cozy . . . and you can’t beat the decor.”

“No, I mean get out of here. The Pitts.” I hesitated. “Why don’t you take a trip? Go someplace co— um, someplace hot. Somewhere with a beach and blue water and hot guys. Take some time for yourself. Regroup. By the time you get back here, everybody will have calmed down, and you may have some solid leads for a new job. In the meantime, you’ll have had a week or two with nobody on your back and a tan.” And a new wardrobe, if I knew Brian.

Brian looked like he was giving that plan some thought. “You have a place in mind?”

I tried not to smile. I knew as soon as I said beach and hot guys, Brian would be game. “I don’t know . . . some place with no snow. Like, uh, Maui . . . or Tahiti . . . or the Bahamas. Or Miami.”

“Miami?” He said that kinda strangely. Maybe he’d heard, just like I had, that Miami sucked.

“Somewhere nice. Wherever.” I kissed his nose. “You totally deserve it – no one’s gonna say any different – and now’s the best time to do it. Once you start a new job, you’re not gonna be able to just jet off and take a long vacation. Do it now while you have the time.”

“Hmmm. A trip.” Brian looked thoughtful. “I’d been thinking about going somewhere . . . P-town with the guys, maybe, in a couple of months, but I like the idea of hot. Beaches . . . sand . . .”

“Hot guys.” It hurt me to think of Brian tricking, but I knew I had to push that as a selling point. Brian needed to get away for awhile more than I needed to worry about us not being exclusive.

“Hot guys.” Brian looked at me and smiled, running his hand over my hair. “What’ve you got coming up this week, Sunshine? In school.”

“School? Um . . . not much.” I thought it over. “Some lectures, a couple of recitations. I have a printmaking project due, but that’s after Spring Break.”

“Uh-huh . . . so if you were to head out somewhere . . . say South Beach . . . for a couple of days, you wouldn’t get your hand whacked with a ruler?”

“Well . . . I could get some of the notes from my classmates, I guess. But –” I stopped short when I saw the smile on his face, and my stomach did a flip-flop. “Me . . .? You’d want me to come?”

“Might as well make sure there’s at least one hot guy in paradise.” Brian grinned at me, and held me tighter. “Besides . . . you’ve never been to the City Beautiful before, have you?”

“Um . . .” Well, no, I hadn’t, and I really, really wanted to, but . . . “No. But, you’re sure you wouldn’t want to be alone? You know . . . do some soul-searching . . . clear your head?”

Brian sat up on the mattress. “Soul-searching? I would, Sunshine, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have one. And as for clearing my head . . . I have a nice selection of very illegal substances in the refrigerator that’ll do the trick. But they won’t keep Mikey from banging down the door.” He looked at me. “And it was your idea . . . I always reward those who come up with good ideas. So . . . are you in or out?”

There really was never any question, but I just wanted to be sure Brian wanted me to go because he wanted to be with me, not out of some guilt thing. “Well, if you insist.” He grinned, and I knew I wasn’t fooling him. “I’d love to go.” I hugged him tight. Me and Brian’s first time going away together, and it was gonna be to Miami! For that reason alone, the place didn’t suck. I didn’t care what anybody said. “Fuck . . . we should get home and get on the Internet, look at hotels and airfares –”

“Fuck that.” Brian stood up and started picking up his clothes and mine, throwing my stuff into my lap. “We know where we’re going, we know how to get there, I’ve got my AmEx, and we’re fifteen minutes away from the airport. We need anything else?”

“Um . . . how about clothes? Sunblock . . . um, insect repellant.” I just stared at him, suddenly understanding why he asked me about my coming week and what I had going on in school. “Brian, we can’t just pick up and go! What about my shifts at the diner? What about the guys? Michael will shit if you just disappear without saying anything.” My brain whirled. I was jazzed that Brian was into going away, but fuck . . . a little planning was a good thing.

“I’ll call Mikey as soon as we hit Ocean Drive, tell him that he doesn’t need to cut into his mother’s prime fuck hours to have her private dick look for us in any Dumpsters. And the diner can get along without its Sunshine for a week or so . . .” He looked me up and down. “You’re needed elsewhere . . . the beach beckons.”

Not that I was thinking about turning him down, but if I had, I couldn’t. Not after he’d said that to me. I was needed. As in, he wanted me to go and he needed me to go. For what, I couldn’t understand: It’s not like he wouldn’t have a good time without me, and he definitely would have his pick of hot guys: there were more than a few in Miami. But I could not look at Brian, and see how jazzed he was – even though he was trying to hide it – and say no. Brian needed me.

“Shouldn’t we at least go home and pack?” I slowly put my briefs and jeans on, and pulled my shirt over my head. “I can be ready in 15 minutes – ten, if you don’t want me to bring any toys with us.”

“Forget it.” Brian was back in his pants, and was buttoning up his shirt. “You don’t have anything South Beach ready. Luckily, there’s a nice store on Lincoln Road that’ll remedy that. And there’s stores all over the Beach where we can get ‘toys.’” He took his cell out and dialed a number, held it to his ear and made a face. “I have five new messages, Sunshine. Three guesses how many are from Mikey.” He listened for awhile, smiling in a way that’s more him baring his teeth than actual smiling. “Oh this is nice. Mikey’s pissed that we skipped out on him, and he’s waiting outside the door for us so that he and I can talk some more about my situation.” He listened for a minute more, then flipped his cell closed and looked at me. “You still want to go home and grab a few things and run the gauntlet of Mikey and his bitching, or do you want to go to the airport and see what flights they have leaving tonight?”

I remembered Michael’s face contorted in rage when he interrupted me and Brian earlier, and I could only imagine how he’d look when Brian told him that he and I were going to Miami together. I didn’t say anything directly to Brian, but I took out my cell, dialed into the diner, and told Kiki I wasn’t gonna be in for the next few days . . . something came up suddenly and I, well, I was needed elsewhere for awhile. Brian was behind me while I talked, kissing my neck and holding me close until I hung up the phone. Then we split. We left our jackets, ‘cause really, who needs fleece in Miami, and ran out to the parking lot where the Jeep was, but not before I grabbed the portrait I’d started of Brian, figuring I could get some more done to it on the plane.

End Story 1. To be continued in Story 2: Drill

Reveille: The first call sounded in the morning. Used as a wake-up call.

Story Two - Drill

By Eveline

An unforeseen occurrence throws a wrench into Brian and Justin's plans. Incomplete.

There was a time in the too-recent-for-comfort past that I was sure I had died. The running joke with people who know me is – how would anyone be able to tell the difference. Ha. Ha. That really gets old after about the fiftieth time – or before the fifth beer. Whichever comes first.

But yes. I was dead. Or so I thought. Can’t blame me for believing it . . . all the hallmarks of, well, deadness, were there – the white light, the hearing disembodied voices, the feeling like I was floating on air. I don’t remember being afraid – just tired, and congested – like someone had shoved lime Jello up my nose. Lime Jello. With cherries. And I didn’t feel a thing – no pain, no heat, no cold, no ben-wa balls in my –

Sorry. Lost focus there for a moment. But to continue, I felt nothing but lightness and air, and my body was going up and up toward this big fucking bright light. I swear I heard this sound . . . like Michaela in her first aria in Carmen – sweet, melodic and a little sad. Angels, maybe? Wondered if any of them would be hot. Forgot about it – I wouldn’t be able to get lucky even in Heaven.

Then came the weird sounds – less like Michaela and more like Michael Jackson – post-Thriller, squeals and all – and that’s what really got me suspicious. The ten-ton weights holding my eyelids closed lightened a little, and I was able to force eyes to open, just a little bit afraid of what I’d see, all those Sunday School lessons and Latter-Day Saint pamphlets about the hereafter coming to haunt my brain.

Instead, I found myself looking not at the face of God, but at the ass of Brian Kinney. Some would say that those are one in the same. And having seen it my fair share of times, I’ve gotta say I’m in the latter category. But watching Brian’s ass clench and release, outlined in a fine sheen of sweat and exertion, as he rammed into some guy in scrubs in the bed next to me confirmed my worst fears – not that I was dead – death I could deal with. But that I was dead, and in hell . . . and doomed for all eternity to watch Brian Kinney’s ass as he fucked trick after trick after trick . . .

“Make a right here – no here, Em! I swear the car in front of the car in front of us is his! Hurry!”

It’s funny – before tonight, I haven’t thought about death in any way, shape or ass – er, form, since that day of my “miraculous” awakening in the hospital. It’s not just that the whole experience was traumatic, humiliating, painful, etc. – it also had that touch of inevitable pathos that seems to color my life – I couldn’t even fucking die without incident. No – my mom had to come, and from what I heard, make a scene. My friends had to do a sex-toy sweep of my house. I had to wake up to the fucking executor of my fucking living will in the act of . . . fucking.

So what I’m doing now – riding shotgun next to the love of my life as our good friend barks driving orders from the back seat as we go in hot pursuit of the ex-executor of my ex-living will, who is out in this fine city doing who-knows-what, shouldn’t seem as ridiculous and ludicrous as it would if it were happening to someone else. Someone not named Theodore Alvin Schmidt.

Whew. Glad I cleared that up. Now it’s back to nodding and smiling and hoping Emmett doesn’t drive us off the road and into a ravine. But then again, that would be almost a normal turn of events for me.

One

It’s been years since I’ve been actively jealous of Brian Kinney. Sure, he’s what half of Gay Pa. aspires to. The other half just wants him to fuck them, and they’d be satisfied. He has the looks, the clothes, the home, the car, the je ne sais quoi, the attitude.

But I didn’t begrudge him any of that. What he had that I wanted was a lot less fashionable and superficial than any of those things: He had Michael’s unconditional love. He had his heart, he had his loyalty. Sure, the rest of Michael’s friends, me included, I suppose, weren’t exactly day-old foie gras, but there were only four people in the world I imagine Michael would lay his life down for, and two of them are his relatives. Another would be Ben. And the other, Brian Kinney. Not necessarily in that order.

For a long time, I envied Brian that. I could tell from the first second I met him that he didn’t view Michael as a potential lover. It would be a couple of years more before I found out that Brian didn’t view anybody as a lover, per se – well . . . no one except one very unlikely person, I suppose. At any rate, in those days, I was, to use the vernacular, ga-ga over Michael, and though it would’ve hurt me if they’d become involved, it hurt me more to see Michael’s eyes follow Brian around Woody’s, around Babylon, around wherever there was a decent-looking fag within 10 feet, and realize as his oldest friend worked his “Kinney Magic,” that he again was getting shut out of the Brian Bedding Bonanza. I fucking hated Brian for hurting Michael that way, and I was more than a little piqued at Michael for continuing to pine for the unattainable, while the attainable – yet slightly less glamorous, sexy, hung, etc., etc. – was right in front of his face. Namely me. Michael never took the hint when it came to me, of course, but in recent years, he’d seemed to have loosened his hold on his Brian fantasy sufficiently enough to form relationships with decent men.

However, now that I can look at Michael without wanting him –

Really, I can. I’m over it. Truly.

– Uh, yes, anyway, now that I can see the situation with a more objective eye, I wonder if Michael doesn’t sometimes think that he and Brian are heading toward a riding-off-into-the-sunset ending. This whole business with Brian losing his job has plunged Michael back into behavior patterns I haven’t seen him exhibit in years: The almost-smothering clinginess where Brian is concerned, needing to know Brian’s whereabouts every second of the day, convincing Em and me to barge into his home and persuade him to go to Bike Night. Oh, that had gone over marvelously. As I’ve mentioned, I’ve seen Brian fucking before, more times than I care to remember. The man truly has no real shame or sense of a proper place to get his rocks off. For some, only the bedroom will do for fucking. For Brian, if the place has walls, he considers it a bonus. And good lord, he loves an audience. My theory is, he figures he’s doing a service to all those men he’ll never get around to fucking – they watch him and they get sort of a “Kinney Experience” through osmosis. Perfectly safe, clean and without the performance anxiety or the extra lube.

But, and this is a huge but, I don’t think anyone – not any of us, anyway – had ever seen him with Justin. Not with him in the way we saw the two of them when Em, Michael and I came barreling into Brian’s loft. I say barreling because Michael literally pushed us in, and I’m sure that if Em and I hadn’t moved fast enough for Michael’s liking, he would have rolled us to the bedroom. All of us could hear the unmistakable sounds of Brian doing what he does, well, if not best, than definitely more often than just about anyone in all of Pittsburgh, from outside the door. If that wasn’t unmistakable proof that Brian was just fine, which had been Michael’s main concern, then I didn’t know what was. Michael, though, insisted on seeing Brian for himself, and Em and I could only watch as he threw open the door, rushed in and . . . well . . . found what we found.

“Teddy?”

My blood ran cold. Since Emmett and I had come home from dropping Michael off at his apartment, Em had been manning the phones. Honestly, we – mainly Em, but some of me, too – were worried about Brian. Michael’s continual gloom-and-doom talk about him had rubbed off on the rest of us, I suppose. Brian had been incommunicado most of the day. He had nearly taken Michael’s head off when we interrupted him and Justin, and he had disappeared without a trace no more than five minutes after we’d come back to get him. Frankly, all of that was standard Brian behavior, but Michael’s manic attitude, our three hours of combing the streets of downtown Pittsburgh looking for Brian’s car had put us all on alert. Now Emmett standing behind me, saying my name in that wavering, whispery voice that meant he was close to tears. I took a deep breath, put down the CD I’d just been staring at for the past half hour or so, and looked up. Em was standing in the doorway with eyes glassy and his throat moving like he was trying to choke down a mouthful of lead.

“Em?” I stood up and moved toward him on shaky legs. “What – what is it? What’s wrong?”

He took a deep breath. Put his hand on his forehead. I love when he does that . . . it’s a little almost helpless gesture that normally is so cute. Normally. “I . . . uh . . . Michael . . .”

Jesus, no. I thought about Michael’s rantings about Brian being in trouble and I heard myself telling him he was being silly, he was being fatalistic, he was being overdramatic. . . Yes. I am brilliant. Just. Fucking. Brilliant. “What . . . is it Brian? . . . Is he all right? Is he –”

Emmett shook his head, and moved his hand away. Put it on my shoulder and looked at me a full minute before he spoke again. God, I love his eyes. They’re like gold, but a little green and a little light brown, and maybe a smidge blue, and yes, I do ramble in my mind when I’m scared shitless.

“That was Ben who just called, but not about Brian. It’s Michael.”

With that one word I found something I long wondered about to be true. Feeling one’s heart stop for just one moment does feel like a bad case of heartburn. “Michael? Michael? What’s happened to Michael?”

We were moving. I didn’t even notice until I saw this yawning darkness and realized we were out in the hallway, navigating our front steps and heading toward the car. Everything that Emmett was saying to me – something about Michael having been mugged and beaten, something about him being treated at the local hospital – were things I heard and processed without really understanding what in hell was going on.

“Someone broke into his apartment? What happened? When you say hurt, do you – do you mean, hurt like he scraped his knee getting away from them or hurt like – like reconstructive surgery necessary or –”

“I don’t know, Teddy.” I saw the flash of the car keys, and then Em’s eyes on me. I thought he looked cold. Not emotionally cold, but actually chilly. He was still dressed in his leathers, but no jacket, and a turtleneck with no sleeves. He would’ve gotten snapped up in two seconds at Babylon wearing those pants. There’s times I really can’t believe he’s all mine. And . . . I was rambling again. “I . . . don’t know. I . . .”

I didn’t hear any more. I was in the car before Em could draw another breath, but I swear I couldn’t remember even opening the car door, or closing it or sitting down or buckling my seatbelt. I barely registered when we started moving, just stared into space and tried to remember to keep breathing. It was, literally, the least I could do.

~*~

I don’t hate hospitals, which is interesting considering my history with them has been consistently poor. I watched my father die in one. I myself nearly died in one. My crystal-meth-loving, but still endearingly beautiful, now-ex-boyfriend nearly died in one. Ben nearly died in one. Justin . . . nearly died in one.

Hmmm. On second thought, maybe it’s time to change my opinion on hospitals.

At any rate, Emmett and I were the last of the clan to gather in the over-bright, over-clean corridor of Presbyterian Hospital’s ER. I could see Deb’s hair practically from the parking lot. She was sitting with her private-eye suitor, Horvath, with Vic on the other side of her looking as grim as I’d ever seen him. It didn’t get any more cheerful as I surveyed the expressions of the others; Ben was up and pacing, Melanie and Lindsay were there, and they both looked as if they’d been crying. Justin was sitting there in shirt-sleeves, chewing on his lip. I irrelevantly wondered if I was the only human being in the Western world who caught a chill if I went out without a jacket when the temperature was a degree below 70. And the elusive Brian Kinney was there . . . just . . . sitting. He had on more clothes than when Em and I had last seen him, and the maniacal expression he’d chased out the door with has shifted into more of a perplexed uneasiness. It was Brian’s face I studied the most, and it was him I addressed my first, rambling, “Where is he? Where’s Michael?”

Em rushed past me to Debbie, asking a variation of the same thing, and I half-heard her hushed (Debbie hushed? Holy shit, it must be horrible.) reply, but I kept my eyes on Brian. He looked up at me and . . . his face. Well, I couldn’t describe it. He had the same sort of defeated look like the one guy in those prison movies. You know – the one who always gets left behind during prison breaks because he can’t scale the wall in time or the guard dogs grab his leg and fuss with him while the others get away, and as soon as he realizes he’s caught and his chance at freedom is gone, he gets this look of resigned devastation on his face. That was what I saw in Brian’s eyes, and for a split second – just one – my internal question changed from ‘What happened to Michael’ to ‘What the hell happened to Brian to make him look like that?’

“Oh thank god!” Em’s voice shook me out of it, and I looked up to see him smiling in that way that turns me into a huge S’more – a study in mush and goo and fluffy sweetness. “Thank god; we were so worried.”

“Thank god? For what? Why? Michael? He’s okay?” I went to Em’s side and grabbed his shoulders. “He’s going to be all right?”

“He’s going to be . . . okay.” Ben stopped pacing and faced us. He looked, well, like he always looks – a fag boy’s wet dream, and in a suit no less. I remembered that he’d had a faculty dinner that night. That must have been some wonderful night. Right between the duck comfit and truffled potato courses finding out that your lover had been attacked and robbed and was in the hospital. At least he probably got to escape the boring speeches that inevitably accompany those sort of academic gatherings. “He’s got some bruises and cuts, but he should be fine.”

Should be? Those words didn’t exactly fill me with a hope that made my soul soar, or whatever that soap commercial’s pitch line is. “Well, why wouldn’t he be? Cuts and bruises, you know, are cuts and bruises. They –”

“He says he’s got a pain in his neck,” Debbie said, dabbing at her eyes. “The doctor’s say it could be a sprain . . . or whiplash . . . or n-nerve damage.”

“But they don’t know.” Ben was pacing again. “They want to keep him overnight for observation. They haven’t let any of us in to see him yet, but maybe soon. Maybe . . .”

Em was sitting next to the girls, and after a minute, I joined him, feeling a little bit conspicuous about being the only one standing. Well, save Ben, of course, but I was the only one standing still. Neck pain? Well, that was not . . . good, but it could be nothing. If the thief had clocked him one, it could be just some soreness, a bit of bruising. Nothing terrible. Nothing to worry about, Ted. It’s Michael. There isn’t a person on Earth more resilient than Michael.

“I need to see him, too. Take his statement while it’s still fresh in his head.” Horvath was speaking in his best Pittsburgh’s-finest voice, but with his arm wrapped around Deb and the hangdog look on his face, he looked more avuncular than authoritative. “It’ll be hard as hell catching the asshole, though. All types of scum in Youngston. Michael may never have seen him.”

Youngston? Youngston? My antenna rose immediately. What the hell would Michael have been doing in that hellhole of a neighborhood? It was a ghost town at high noon, and downright deadly after dusk.

Em, too, looked confused, and he stared up at Ben. “This happened in Youngston? But – but I thought someone broke into your place and, and, poor Michael surprised him, and he got . . . what on Earth would Michael be over in Youngston?”

“That’s a good question,” Ben said, and I saw his eyes shift to the left. “Especially since Michael told me he couldn’t come to my dinner tonight because he was going to be helping Brian sort through some old work papers.”

Whoops. Poor Michael. There went his cover story. I’d told him, I’d told him that lying to Ben would come back to hit him upside the head, but good god, I didn’t mean it literally. “Uh, well . . .”

“Yes. Yes! We were all going to help Brian.” Em was speaking too brightly, too loudly, a sure sign that he was about to lie his cute little ass off. “But, then Michael, er, actually someone had mentioned to Teddy and me that Babylon was having Bike Night tonight, and Michael remembered that Brian loves Bike Night, so we thought we’d go for a little while and then look through papers, the four of us, because four eyes are better than one . . . well, except that no one has four eyes . . . or one . . .”

I casually looked over at Brian, ready to give him the “just go along with it, and we’ll discuss it later” eyelid flutter, but Brian wasn’t looking at me or listening to Em. He was still just sitting there, looking stunned. In fact, I was about to ask him what was wrong when a petite red-haired woman in a lab coat and horn-rimmed glasses came out with a chart under her arm and her head bobbing as if she were listening to music.

She looked at all of us. “Are you here for Mr. Novotny?”

“Finally!” Deb got to her feet with the help of Horvath’s shoulder, and we all followed suit. “I’m Debbie Novotny, his mother. How is he? Is he awake? Has the pain gone away?”

“He is awake, and we have given him something for his head. He suffered a mild concussion.” The doctor frowned a little. “As for his neck, from what we can gather, Mr. Novotny may be suffering a mild case of whiplash, which is not consistent with his other injuries, but it is consistent with the sensation and range of movement in the neck Mr. Novotny is exhibiting. We’re going to watch him tonight to make sure that mild whiplash is all it is, and we’re reasonably certain that it is.”

“Can we see him?” Ben asked. “Just for a few minutes? We’ve been out here worried sick.” Horvath thrust himself and his badge forward, muttering something about his statement and police business.

The doctor looked at us all, probably assessed the fag quotient, and smiled a little, her head still wobbling distractedly from side to side. “Mr. Novotny is resting, and he can’t move his head much, but you can see him – but not all of you at once. I’m afraid the room isn’t that big. But he has been asking for whom I assume to be his . . . er . . . significant other, and wants to see him right away.”

Ben raked his hand through his hair. “Uh, that’d be me.”

She bobbed her head in a circular motion that reminded me of that scene in The Exorcist. “Fine, Brian. Follow me.”

It’s hard to describe Ben’s face right at that moment. If I were pressed, I’d say that his expression put me in the mind of what Pompeii must have looked like immediately after the volcanic eruption. Just complete and total desolation, and a slight widening of the eyes. Everyone’s head swiveled toward Brian, who looked more confused than concerned.

“I’m Brian.” He walked up, not looking at Ben, not looking at us, not really even looking at the doctor. “You can just tell Mikey . . . I’m here. Let his mother see him. Let his uncle. His lover.” He emphasized the word, and glanced at Ben, who was still doing his best impression of a stone statue. “Let the good detective in. I’ll wait.”

Doctor Bobblehead looked from Brian to Ben to us, possibly gauging that this was not the happy queer world of Will and Grace she’d stepped into. “I . . . um . . . I . . . I . . . well, as I said, Mr. Novotny has been a little agitated. I think seeing him, er you, would help him settle down –”

“Go ahead,” Ben said to Brian in a voice that was too soft – way too soft – for so big a man, and a college professor at that. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Go see him. Tell him I’m out here. Just tell him . . .”

“Fuck that. Tell him yourself.” Brian grabbed Ben’s sleeve and smirked at the doctor. “Lead the way.”

She didn’t need to be asked twice, and was half down the corridor before Brian had taken a step. I craned my neck and watched the five of them – Brian and Ben and Horvath and Vic and Deb – follow the doctor, and I noticed Brian held onto Ben the entire time, and Ben allowed himself to be led like a child, walking slowly with his head down. Silent.

~*~

“Ma, I don’t need escarole or lemon bars. I’m all right!”

Michael did sound all right, and save for an ugly bruise above his left eye and a foam collar encircling his neck, he looked like the same old Michael. Same puppy-dog-bright eyes, same smile, same cheerful can-do attitude, and all of which was aimed in Brian’s direction. Of course, that could’ve been because the foam thing was limiting his range of motion, but Ben was standing beside Brian, and I think I saw Michael’s eyes turn toward Ben once or twice.

Despite the doctor’s warning, we all packed into the room anyway, having been summoned about five minutes after the vanguard had gone to see him. I was standing near the door, quiet after getting in my variation of “Michael, you shit, thank god you’re not dead” greeting to the patient. No one else seemed to expect me to say much of anything else anyway, so I didn’t. I was fine with letting the others do the taking, and I just kept watch from my ‘post.’ Em was practically bubbling over with relief, and the girls were cooing in a way I hadn’t seen since Gus was in diapers. Horvath was being police-y, Deb was being mother-y, Vic and Ben looked tired. Brian looked . . . like Brian. Justin alone looked concerned, which I found interesting. Even with the renewal of their “Rage” partnership, our resident twink and Michael haven’t exactly become bosom buddies. Michael grumbled for weeks after Brian and Justin picked up where they left off before Fiddler interruptus, but I had noticed that Michael’s overt animosity hadn’t bothered Justin much. I guess when you’re young, blond, hung, and fucking the man of Gay Pa.’s wet dreams on a regular basis, you can bear a little sniping.

“I still don’t understand why they’re keeping me here tonight. I feel fine.” Michael was pouting, something I always found endearing. “It’s not like I broke anything or was shot or stabbed.”

“And you’re damned lucky of that!” Debbie looked indignant – well, sort of. With her wig askew as it was, it was sort of a muted indignance. “What on earth possessed you to go into that pisspot of a neighborhood alone after dark? If you wanted to see a disaster area, you could’ve stopped by the diner and gone into one of the bathrooms.”

“Ma, please . . .”

“She has a point, Michael.” Ben’s voice was one of those “false quiets.” He was speaking in a low voice, but even from the door I could hear the tension. “What the hell were you thinking going over there? You don’t know a soul over there, there’s nothing to see . . . what happened to going to Babylon with the guys?”

“I was worried about Brian.” Michael’s voice had this hazy, prescription-drugged-out quality to it. “Bri, you remember that fleabag bar we went to that one night? It had the black olives on the floor and the black strobe lights?”

All eyes turned to Brian except mine. I looked at Michael, not sure what I was seeing or hearing. His eyes looked too bright and his voice sounded . . . off. I was sure part of it was the medicine, but there was something else there. Something that set my teeth on edge.

“Rings a couple of bells.” I could tell from Brian’s little smirk that not only did he remember the place, but he probably recalled what he’d drank and the guy or guys he’d fucked that night. “It’s been five fucking years since then. Why the fuck did you go there?”

“We couldn’t find you. Me and Em and Ted . . . we tried. You weren’t at Babylon, you weren’t at the usual places. . . I didn’t know where else to look.” Michael put a hand to head and winced. “God, I feel like I’m pumped full of horse tranquilizer. How’d you know I was here, Bri? Who found you?”

“The good professor.” Brian looked up, but not at Ben. He was giving Justin this look that I couldn’t quite read. It was almost like . . . contrition. Wait – Brian Kinney contrite? Maybe I was on drugs. “I got the message and Sunshine and I turned around . . . came here.”

Michael pulled his hand away from his head. “Turned around? Where were you?”

I wasn’t sure, but I was nearly positive Brian was about to lie. I saw his body stiffen and his jaw got real tight and his hands twitched twice at his side. I couldn’t imagine why Brian would lie. It’s not as if we didn’t know the types of places Brian tended to frequent. Hell, Michael, Em and I had checked some of the more scurrilous venues.

Then I saw another look – indecipherable, at least to me – pass between Brian and Justin, and saw Brian’s body language relax into his normal careless slouch. “We were at PIT.”

PIT? All right . . . now that was a place we wouldn’t have thought to look. The airport. A vision of Brian and Justin going at it on the baggage carousel entered my mind, and it was with real difficulty did I dislodge it.

Michael’s eyes widened. “PIT . . . what the hell were you doing there?”

“About to hop the red-eye for the great Southeast.” Brian spoke with little emotion, the same sort of nothing’s-there tone he had when he’d told us about losing his job. Only this time, there was nothing really to account for it. And he wasn’t high. He wasn’t drunk . . . and yet he seemed as if he were some combination of the two. It was, perhaps, the single scariest sight in that room, save for Michael in the collar. “For a little R & R.”

Michael’s face fell, and for the second time, I felt like I was looking at the after-effects of a natural disaster. “You were going to just take off without telling anybody? Without telling me?”

Brian’s little shrug set my blood to boiling. He was barely even looking at Michael, just kept shooting these weird little glances Justin’s way. “Spur of the moment, Mikey. You know how that is . . . You know you would’ve gotten a call.”

That little tidbit of magnanimity didn’t seem to do much for Michael, and for a second, I was having thoughts of calling Dr. Wobbly into the room because Michael’s face was scaring me. He’d gone awfully pale, and he looked like he was trembling. When he spoke next, he sounded shaky. “My neck is hurting . . . it’s really hurting . . .”

“Do you want me to get the doctor?” Ben leaned over the bed, neatly and subtly elbowing Brian to the side. I could have cheered. “If the medicine they’re giving you isn’t working –”

“Yeah . . . I mean I guess so . . .” Michael’s eyes were closed. “It might be this fucking bed. It’s so hard. Why can’t I just go home? I can hurt in my own bed. At least I’d know the sheets were clean.”

“They just want to make sure your neck injury isn’t something more serious,” Lindsay said softly. “I’m sure that if you’re feeling better in the morning, you’ll be able to leave. But staying overnight is probably a good thing, Michael.”

There were various murmurs of assent, and Michael held up a hand. “Fine. Fine. Whatever. Just . . . get the doctor. I think I need my dosage rounded up to the next hundred milligrams.” His eyes opened, and he stared directly at Brian, moving his head with a little difficulty. “Bri, tomorrow . . . when I get out . . . are you going to be here?”

I glanced at Justin, and noticed that he had stopped studying the floor and the walls and was looking at Brian as if he had an inkling as to the answer, but was dreading hearing it. I thought over Brian’s words – the southeast? So Washington, maybe? Or Baltimore. But no . . . we were in Pennsylvania. You’d just say Washington or Baltimore if that’s where you were going. The southeast? Was that some sort of code? And why did Brian look as if he was preparing to down a cup of hemlock?

“I’ll be here, Mikey.”

“Promise?” Michael’s voice brooked no argument, and I got that teeth-on-edge sensation again. I hadn’t seen Michael this agitated over Brian since the days before Justin became a part of our set’s lexicon. “You swear you will?”

“Promise.” The word seemed forced, and the smile that accompanied it even more so. Michael’s smile, however, was genuine, and beautiful, and I found I couldn’t really look at it without my stomach getting tied up in knots. So I looked around the room instead, and my eyes stopped on Justin. He was nodding a little to himself, his face almost an exact duplicate of Ben’s when the doctor had let it slip that it was Brian, not him, Michael wanted to see.

~*~

After about half-an-hour of useless conversation, the doctor came in and shooed us out, assuring us all that barring extreme circumstances, Michael would be released in the morning and that the pain he felt was most likely due to the stress he’d been putting on his neck and throat in order to talk to us all. Ben and Deb opted to stay with him, and Vic and Horvath stayed put, as well, promising to call any and all of us if there was anything worth calling about.

We all walked slowly out into the parking lot, none of us saying much. Em and the girls were talking about Horvath’s chances of finding Michael’s assailant. Michael told Horvath he hadn’t seen the guy, which could have been a blessing or curse depending on the guy’s level of psychosis. Michael’s wallet had been stolen, so if the criminal was stupid enough to try to use the credit cards, Horvath and the rest of the Keystone State Cops would be on hand to trace him and snap him up.

“They won’t find him.” This was Brian’s great contribution to the conversation. “They won’t look. Pittsburgh’s finest’ll hold this up as another example of a fag not knowing his place. Michael shouldn’t have been there in the first place. He knew that shithole we’d gone to was condemned five years ago.”

“Five years ago?” Justin glanced over his shoulder at the emergency room entrance, and I thought I saw him shiver. “Why would he go over there, then?”

“Good question, Sonnyboy.” Brian turned and looked at Em and then me. “Michael was with you geniuses. How the hell could you leave him alone over there? And in leathers – it was like an open invitation to those lowlifes to ‘bash the fag.’ If Mikey wanted to play rough, he could’ve waited for Paddle Night at Babylon next week.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. I’ve often wondered what people mean when they say they’ve felt something inside them “snap.” I wondered if the “snap” was like a shooting pain or a snap like a rubber band or what. I found out at that moment that something “snapping” inside you felt more like a “ping” right in the middle of one's gut. A loud “ping.”

“You’ve got some fucking nerve, asshole.”

Brian’s nonchalant look faded when he realized it was him I was talking to. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

Em’s hand came down on my arm and he squeezed it hard. “Teddy, Teddy, sweetie, now is not the time –”

“No, Em. Now is the time! Now is the perfect time. Brian asked how we could have been so careless as to leave Michael to wander into the lion’s den, so I’ll answer.”

I faced him, and I noticed shadows under his eyes. It didn’t make him look old – just tired. Tired and sad. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care, because I was tired of him assuming that because he was just about the only person in the world Michael truly cared about, that it meant no one else but him cared about Michael. Fuck that. I couldn’t hold it in – call it latent jealousy, call it anger, call it fear of the knowledge that Michael would risk his life because he feared for Brian’s safety, and Brian was taking off to some southeastern destination with his boytoy without so much as ‘check my mail while I’m gone.’ Maybe it was none of my business, but I loved Michael even if I didn’t have a chance in hell of getting even one-third the amount of love in return that Brian so often took for granted.

“Michael was worried sick about you.” I barely recognized my own voice, but I could feel the ‘pinging’ in my gut get more pronounced, and I started to try to talk over it. “He just wanted to know that you were all right. Yes, I didn’t agree on his ambush tactics at your place, and I apologize to you and Justin for that, but Michael was concerned. You weren’t answering his calls, you hadn’t stopped by the comic shop. And when we got back to your place and you were gone, he went absolutely ballistic. The three of us drove three fucking hours –”

“Teddy, please –”

I ignored Em and the girls and Justin. This was just me talking to Brian in a way I never thought I had the nerve to before. At least not sober. “Three fucking hours looking for you, chasing cars, looking in alleys, looking in backrooms, looking in the baths because Michael thought you were mad at him or us or at the fucking world and was out tweaking or getting piss-drunk somewhere where you could’ve been really hurt. And after three hours, he asked Em and me to take him home so he could sit by the fucking phone just in case you deigned to call him.” I watched his face pale, and a chill shot up from my toes straight to my head. I was going to have a hell of a sore throat in the morning. “So get off your sanctified high horse, Brian, with that ‘Why weren’t you two with him’ bullshit. Why the hell weren’t you with him?”

Before that moment, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen Brian Kinney absolutely speechless. Watching his eyes cloud over and seeing him stumble backwards into Justin, I realized, just as Em pulled me away from everyone and toward the car, that I could now count on two hands the number of times he’d been unable to zip back a witty riposte, and I was the direct cause of it. I had bested Brian Kinney – well, at least this one time. But I didn’t get even the slightest bit of pleasure from my “victory.”

To Be Continued....