Counting Blue Cars

By R.C. McLachlan

Post-Season 1 AU

Summary: Fourteen years have passed since Gus's birth, bringing with them a long since buried memory of a young

man who died at his prom.

One: The Man in the Park

The first time you notice the man is at the park when you bring your sister there to throw Frisbee with your dog.

He watches the two of you silently from a swing, hands curled around the metal chain link handles, golden hair
falling into his fervent gaze. You don't pay much attention to him until, in your peripheral vision, he begins to swing
gently, kicking almost half-heartedly at the ground to gain some momentum. It's then that you notice the man is
dressed in a tuxedo, a bleach-white scarf hanging around his neck like the drapes priests wear. The man looks up,
feeling your stare, and smiles.

And fuck if the sun doesn't shine brighter than it had been ten minutes ago, burning away the cirrus clouds and
casting the park into a warm, marigold shadow. J.R. laughs and tips her head to the sky, basking in the glow, her
arm falling slack to her side, fingers barely holding onto the Frisbee she had been about to throw. Your dog, Regina,
snatches it and bounds triumphantly to the man, growling playfully. That smile which brought the sunshine morphs
into a grin, and the man reaches down to pet Regina, whose tail thumps against the grass in contentment.

J.R. runs over to the man, giggling, and you follow sedately behind. "Sorry about Reggie. She's a real slut."

The man laughs and pats Regina's head once more. "That's all right. She's a good dog… very kind. A lot of dogs
don't like me."

Innocently, J.R. blinks at him. "Why not? You seem okay."

"Who knows?" The man sighs, shrugging and smiling with an upturned corner of his mouth. You regard him
silently, searching him for any possible sign that he might be some kidnapper or child molester. You've always been
a good judge of character. But after a minute or two, as J.R. and this guy talk about what kind of a dog Reggie is,
you relax. This guy's harmless. Maybe a bit weird to be out, wearing a tux, but harmless.

Plopping down on the ground in front of him, J.R. beams up at the man. "Why're you dressed in a tuxedo, anyway?
Are you going to a wedding?"

The man's smile remains, but an uncomfortable strain pulls at his lips. "No, not a wedding."

"Then what?" It rolls off your tongue before you can think to stop it, and the man looks up at you as if he had
forgotten you were there. The sunny smile returns.

"Jesus," he breathes, eyes shining through the curtain of blonde. "Gus Kinney, you've fucking grown into the
spitting image of your dad!"

You goggle. What the fuck? "You know me? You know my dad?"

Well, who the fuck doesn't know your dad?

J.R. leans forward eagerly. "You know Uncle B! How cool! From where?"

Please don't say Babylon. Please don't say the Baths. Please don't say from the Internet…

"I've known Brian… for a while, I guess. I'm not sure who you are, though, little missy."

She grins at the nickname. "I'm Jenny Rebecca Novotny-Peterson-Marcus."

The man blinks, jaw falling slack in surprise. "Novotny? Michael Novotny?"

J.R. lights up and bobs her head in excited agreement. Regina sniffs at the man's polished shoes curiously. "Yeah!"

"Well, I'll be damned," he murmurs, smiling softly. "That's great. How's he doing?"

"He's married to a college professor," you supply, staring at the man, something familiar about him niggling at the
back of your mind. You can't place him, though. "Ben Bruckner. And he owns a comic shop… Red Cape Comics, if
you're interested."

"Ben Bruckner? What about Doctor Dave?"

J.R. looks at you in confusion, and you shrug. You have no idea who Doctor Dave is, but you plan on asking Uncle
Mikey the first chance you get. The man hums to himself, pursing his lips in thought.

"And everyone else? Debbie? Emmett? Ted? How about your moms, Gus? Are they all well?"

You nod, itching to know as much about this mysterious man as he apparently knows about you. "They're all fine."

An interesting light enters the man's eyes, and it feels like butterflies have been released in your belly. A gentle
breeze rustles at your hair and Reggie whimpers, sniffing the air, tail wagging, ears folding back in what could be
interpreted as joy. Drawing his shoulders up impishly and gripping the swing handles, the man tries to hold back a
smile and fails.

"And your dad, Gus? Brian? Is he okay? Is he happy?"

You know that if you give any other answer, except "he's happy as bread in a fucking box", the world will end.
You're so certain that the sun will go away and it will rain for weeks on end until the ground can't hold the flood
anymore and will break, dropping into nothingness and taking everything with it. Survival itself depends on what
you say.

"He's… okay. I guess."

You're not sure how to put it other than that. Brian Kinney has always been, and will probably always be, an enigma
to you. He owns Kinnetic, formerly known as Vanguard, and works ridiculous days that consist of, like, eighty-three
hours… with no breaks, unless some hot guy is walking down the hall. He takes you and J.R. places, buys you shit
you couldn't possibly need, and supports whatever the hell you do. When you dyed your hair pink and green and
your moms were two seconds away from never letting you see the light of day again, your dad backed you up all the
way. When you got into a fight with Norman Cyr at school and were about to be suspended, he stepped right in to
your aid. He's always there… and yet, isn't. There's a part of him missing, a haunted look in his eyes that refuses to
leave. He loves and hates the world for something that happened years ago, something the entire family is tight-
lipped about. You wish now that you knew every part of him, at least well enough to give an old friend of his an
update.

The man bites his lip and nods. "Just 'okay'…" He blinks away a brief daze and looks down at his wrist, where a
simple watch rests. "Hm… Well, I best be off. It was nice to see you again, Gus. And it was an honor to meet you,
Jenny Rebecca."

J.R. beams. "It was nice to meet you, too! But we didn't get your name!"

He smiles at her, getting to his feet. "Justin. And why don't we keep this little meeting between us? Don't tell
anyone; I want to surprise everyone."

She crosses her heart and you just nod. You can keep a secret.

Justin waves at you before walking past the swing and leaving the park. Regina barks after him, whining when he
disappears from sight.

Well, shit. Justin. Why is that name ringing a bell?

Two: The Paper Gift

You've always been protective of Jenny Rebecca, ever since she turned two and learned the world was a fun place,
filled with obstacles to climb on and fall off of, things that are sharp and shiny, dangerous. You use your title as 'big
brother' to the extent; you're more overprotective of J.R. than even Uncle Mikey… which is saying something.

So when she comes running up to you in tears when you're there to pick her up from school, it's nothing unusual if
your hands ball into fists and you're ready to risk two years in juvenile hall for her… you'll tell nothing but the truth
to the judge when she asks you why you beat the shit out of the person who hurt your sister.

"Guuuuuus!" She sobs, throwing her arms around your neck and squeezing. For a nine-year old, she's pretty strong.
And usually, you love to get hugs from her. Your main goal right now is to extricate yourself to make sure she didn't
collapse your trachea with her death grip. "Guuus, I don't k-know what to do!"

Your heart begins to pound. What if something happened and she isn't supposed to tell anyone? What if… Jesus,
what if she was molested and was threatened with bodily harm if she spilled the beans?

The thoughts of every worst case scenario are running through your mind when she backs away and wipes at her
eyes, saying, "we have a project due in a week! And I don't know what to do mine on!"

And sometimes you're the biggest fucking worry wart in the world. And she's the biggest drama queen ever. Maybe
those afternoons spent with Auntie Emmett should be cut down to, like, three a year instead of the three a week.

"What's the project topic?" Never mind the finals that will be doled out to you next week before you break for
summer. You're more than willing to put aside your studying to help her. And what the fuck kind of teacher gives a
bunch of fourth graders a project right as school's ending?

J.R. sniffs and straightens out her skirt, which is pleated softly and swishes when she moves like the dresses the girls
in the West Side Story wore. All of her skirts and dresses are like that; she'll spend hours in front of the mirror,
twirling. One of her hair ribbons are askew. You love her more than anything and will sacrifice your life for her, but
fuck if you're going to fix her hair in public. "The project's a biography on someone. It's like a book report… only
you have to know the person. Gus, I don't know who to write it about!"

You roll your eyes and open your arms. "Uh, doi. What am I, then? Chopped liver?"

She wrinkles her nose and laughs. "You dork. Why would I ever want to do it on you?"

…

You wonder what the chances of being believed by some monks when you call them to say you have the next Dalai
Llama are. Because you're willing to rack up the phone bill for it. On your dad's phone, of course. And then use your
dad's credit card to send her on a one-way trip to Tibet.

"I guess you could always do it on my dad," you suggest with a shrug. "He's pretty interesting."

"Or ma!" She sings, bouncing. "She's the best lawyer. Ever. Because she's a girl."

The two of you discuss the many people in your life that you could write a biography on. Auntie Emmett, who's the
greatest party planner on the East Coast. Ted, who works for your dad as Kinnetic's go-to guy. Mom, who knows
everything there is to know about art. Grandma Deb, who knows everything there is to know about everything.
Uncle Mikey and his comics… Uncle Ben and his Zen shit and whatnot…

You hit Liberty Ave. as you start telling J.R. about your dad's right-hand woman, Cynthia, who could rule the world
in less than three hours, when you bump into someone hard enough for them to drop whatever they had been
holding.

"Shit!" Conditioned instincts of shame and courtesy take over and you immediately drop to your knees to pick up
the scattered pieces of paper that had fallen, breathing out halting apologies and laughing nervously at your own
blunder. Your cheeks are burning with embarrassment and you arrange them into something that resembles
semblance. "Shit, I'm really sorry." You stand to hand them back to the owner, pausing when twinkling blue eyes
meets yours.

"Justin!" J.R. squeaks with excitement, hugging his waist tightly. He grins down at her, stroking her hair. She looks
up at him. "What are you doing here?"

Justin looks around at the nameless queers that walk the street. "Nothing much, little missy. Just reacquainting
myself with Liberty Avenue."

She blinks, confused. "What?"

"He's getting to know the street again," You explain, winning another sunny smile. "Are you going to go see
everyone now? Because Liberty Diner's just down there." You point in its general direction, just in case he forgot.

"Oh, I know where it is. I used to go there almost every day!" Justin's grinning and J.R. squeals at this bit of news.

"No way!"

"Way. Everyone was so nice to me… And Debbie was amazing."

You're glad he described grandma so aptly… even though half the time you're convinced she's out of her mind.

"Are you going to surprise them now?" J.R. repeats my previous question and Justin shakes his head.

"Nah, not this time. But could you do me a favor, Gus? When you see your dad… give him this." He takes the
papers from you since he never took them before, skims through each one, and pulls out one from the middle. He
checks it over and then folds it neatly before giving it to you. "Don't look at it until he does it first. It's a gift."

You nod and reach around your back to tuck it into your knapsack. "He'll like it, right?"

Justin beams. "I hope so."

J.R. stares at him curiously. "Why are you wearing that tuxedo still?"

He laughs, scratching his nose. "Long story. It'll make sense to you in a while. But I need to be off anyway. Lots of
places to see!"

You nod and press your tongue into the soft inside of your cheek. "See you, then. And I'll make sure that dad gets
that."

Justin grins and reaches over to muss your hair affectionately. "Be good, you two. I'll be seeing you!"

You watch him mingle back into the crowd, disappearing into the mass of bodies that dominate the sidewalk. J.R.
waves even after he's long gone. She smiles up at you.

"I wanna do my project on him!"

"You don't even know him!"

That snipe fest continues until you breech the threshold of the diner, where Uncle Mikey and Auntie Em are waiting.
J.R. rushes over to the booth and scoots in next to Uncle Mikey, nestling against his side with a smile eighteen
parasecs wide. Auntie Em waggles his fingers at you and you spare him a grin.

"Ooh, sweetie pie, you're starting to get that scowly expression your daddy has all the time," Auntie Em warns,
shaking a teasing finger in your face as you slide into the booth, sitting across from him. You roll your eyes and sit
back to pout mockingly.


"I do not have a scowly look. And I sure as fuck don't have dad's."

You should've been expecting the slap, but you didn't, and therefore don't have time to get a helmet or duck.
Grandma growls at you like a tiger… rather convincingly.

"Watch your fuckin' language, young man. Set an example for your sister."

The entire table stares at her blankly for a moment or two. J.R. finally breaks the nonplussed hush that had fallen
over you and bounces in her seat, explaining her final project. Uncle Mikey gripes about teachers being evil and
overbearing, and Auntie Em and grandma both vie to be the person J.R. writes about. J.R. shakes her head and gives
a little smile that says she knows something they don't.

"I already chose the person!"

Grandma looks scandalized. "Well, fucking who?!"

You roll your eyes and reach to your left to play with the salt and pepper shakers. J.R. winks and says it's a secret.

"I'm sure I'm more interesting than whoever this person is!" Auntie Em declares, tossing his head like Joan
Crawford… teasing you still. J.R. giggles and shakes her head.

"Nope! This guy is so cool!"

"Who is he?"

"I can't tell you! I just said that!"

"I DON'T FUCKING CARE, THEODORE!" Shouts a voice over the din of the diner, halting only some
conversation as many regulars know that it's only Brian Kinney screaming at his poor, overworked lackey again. "I
TOLD YOU TO HAVE THAT CONTRACT DRAWN UP BY THREE-THIRTY… NOT FUCKING THREE
FORTY-FIVE!!"

You lift your head and wave at your dad, who reciprocates the gesture absently. Frowning, you rummage through
your backpack and retrieve the folded piece of paper that was given to you with specific instructions. You climb out
of the booth and wait for your dad to take his normal seat at the counter, still reaming poor Ted out about some
contract that probably isn't worth all this drama.

"YOU KNOW FUCKING WHAT, THEODORE? I THINK I SHOULD GIVE YOU YOUR BIRTHDAY
PRESENT EARLY THIS YEAR. A NICE PINK SL--"

You unfold the paper and hold it up for him to see.

The phone slips from his fingers and clatters against the edge of the counter, bouncing off and slamming into the
floor.

Blinking, you turn the paper around to see what was written on it. It must be amazing, since you've never seen such
a look in your dad's eyes.

It's not written, but drawn. A detailed sketch of two men, dancing.

Your father… and Justin.

"Gus…" His voice is a breathy rattle in the back of his throat. "Where… Where the fuck did you get that?"

Uncle Mikey, Auntie Em, and grandma all abandon the booth to come see what your dad's freaking out over. They
gasp and each try to grab the sketch from you, but your dad snatches it up first, refusing to let go.

"Gus." His voice is rising in pitch, cracking. "Where. Did. You get this?"

You swallow, trying to think of an answer, but J.R. pads over and stands at your side.

"Gus, I think we should tell them," she says quietly, and your dad fixes that wild look on her.

"Jenny Rebecca? Who gave this to you?"

She lifts her chin, a sort of defiance in her eyes, and exhales. "A man named Justin gave this to us. He has blonde
hair and is very nice." She peers up and over at the drawing. "And he dresses in that tuxedo."

Your dad closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Justin… that Justin… has been dead for fourteen years."

Three: I Want to Live Again

You're not quite sure, since you don't have anything to compare this to, but what you're staring unabashedly at can
only be categorized as "heartbreak".

Your dad is sitting at the kitchen counter, on one of those fucking uncomfortable stools, with a bottle of Jim Beam in
one hand and a cigarette half-way burned down to the filter in the other. His hair is a fucking mess, rumpled and
sleep-mussed, and his face is… he looks old. Christ. You start to shake, shock setting in. Never, not even at forty-
three, has your father ever looked old. Never. He looks beautiful, always young and impossibly beautiful and
untouchable and whateverthefuck else…

Not this. Not ever this.

Maybe Justin had been completely right in asking for you to keep his recent return to Pittsburgh a secret. But,
meeting him in the first place was -- is-- fucking impossible, because he's dead. But it wasn't just you who had seen
him; J.R. had, too… even wants to do her project for school on him. Still. Apparently, being dead and being alive
enough to walk and talk despite that particular handicap has some merit.

You avert your gaze from your dad's face to the folded paper that rests on the counter top next to his empty glass…
he didn't even pour a drop in after taking it from the cabinet, much rather preferred to drink straight from the bottle.
That drawing… even to hear the story fourteen years after it happened… it's the most beautiful thing you've ever
seen. Grandma told you the story quietly (which was something totally new and foreign to your ears), through her
tears, about the boy named Justin, who was the only person to ever capture your father's eye for more than just one
night. The only person, besides Uncle Mikey (who's family, so it doesn't really count), to keep pushing, to keep at
your father until he broke down and (sort of) accepted Justin's role in his life. The boy who turned into a man on his
prom night, who got his wish, which was to have your father with him at his prom.

When Grandma told you about what happened when they left the prom, you swallowed back tears and hoped to God
and every other deity known to man that Chris Hobbes got hit by a Mack truck and died and is currently carrying out
his sentence in the afterlife, burning in the worst pit of Hell for all eternity.

"Dad?"

He lifts his eyes from the drawing and lazily fixes them on you. They're glazed and vacant… that haunted look you
occasionally catch glimpses of is there, with all the dubious brightness of a mobster movie's neon sign. "Hm…?"

Your hand curls into a loose fist, the tips of your fingers pressing into your palm. "Dad, I…"

Your dad drops his head to the counter with a sharp thud and doesn't move for a long moment. Suddenly, his
shoulders begin to shake, and you can feel your heart freeze at the very idea of your father, Brian fucking Kinney,
crying.

"Oh, this is so fucked up."

He's laughing. You should've known.

"The dead don't come back to life," your dad snarls into the counter top. His voice is slurred almost beyond
interpretation. "He's not back. There's no fucking way. He died… I was there. I was fucking there."

Grandma also said that the funeral was the worst day of her life… even worse than when Uncle Vic died.

"Your dad didn't talk for a week. Justin's death was the hardest thing he's ever had to face. If it wasn't for you, I'm
almost sure he would've died with him."

You shiver.

"Dad… Look, it's--"

"How did you know about him? There was no way for you to know… No one ever told you about him, did they?"
He lifts his head and stares right through you. "Did they tell you how they used to call him 'Sunshine'? Did they tell
you that he was one of the smartest, wittiest fuckers I'd ever met? Did they tell you how we used to fuck every day,
like, six times every hour?" He's starting to shout and you clench your hand into a fist. "Did they tell you how
FUCKING IN LOVE WITH ME HE WAS?! DID THEY TELL YOU HOW I GOT HIM KILLED?!"

"Shut up!" You scream, spittle flying from your lips. His mouth twists in shock. "You did not! He was probably so
happy that you came to his prom that he died with a fucking smile on his face!"

The bottle of Beam whizzes by your ear, so close that you can feel its wind. It shatters somewhere behind you, loud
and piercing like a siren's screech. Your breath leaves you in one long exhale, floating away on a cloud of fucking
terror. Not once has your father ever remotely threatened you with physical harm. Never yelled at you like he did a
moment ago.

For the first time, you're actually afraid of him.

"Don't you ever say anything like that a-fucking-GAIN!!"

"Dad--"

"He shouldn't have died!" Oh, Jesus Christ, if his voice cracks anymore you're going to have a nervous breakdown.
"It should've been me!"

You rush right past him and slide the door to the loft open with a crash, slamming it behind you, unable to hear the
bang against the wall over your sobbing intakes of air. When the door is shut you run down the stairs and out onto
the street…

You run.

And run.

And run some more.

You run completely down Liberty Avenue and hit the Bloomfield Bridge before you know what the fuck is going
on. Your feet slow when you're halfway across the bridge, at the highest part, overlooking trees and street. You
come completely to a stop and bend over to wheeze, your lungs screaming at you about what a fucking idiot you are
for running so fast and so far.

When the pain lessens, you stand up and stifle a gasp. There's someone leaning against the bridge rail, elbows on it,
watching the few cars that pass.

"… Justin…"

You dare to move closer, but not by much. He doesn't take his eyes off the road.

"What are you doing?"

"Counting blue cars," is his answer. He turns his head and offers you a sad smile.

"How many?" This is the stupidest conversation you've ever had… and somehow the most profound.

"Fourteen. I think someone up there is playing a joke on me." Justin tips his head back to the sky and closes his
eyes. A silence that you can't categorize as neither awkward nor companionable passes between you before he
speaks again. "Go ahead. You know you want to ask."

You swallow. "Are you… really dead?"

His eyes open and he looks at the ground, thinking. "… I died… the night at my prom. I died in the ambulance,
holding Brian's -- your dad's -- hand. But… Death is weird. When you die, you can choose to keep living." He
shrugs. "You get a choice. About 99.9% of the people that die choose to move on. But I was young when I died… I
didn't do a lot of things. I wanted to travel, so I chose to… keep living, in a way. They let me do the things I'd
always wanted to do, like to go Italy and Greece and visit the Louvre, sail across the Atlantic ocean, visit Castle
McGregor and Loch Ness…" He grins. "But the one thing I wanted to do was see your dad… and everyone."

"Dad… He's a little pissed right now."

Justin shakes his head, sighing. "Your dad always needs to have his daily queening out. He'll get over it."

You sink to the ground and rest your back against the railing, holding your head in your hands. "I'm so fucking
confused. If you're dead, how can you be alive?"

Justin hunkers down next to you, taking care to smooth out his tuxedo pants. "I'm not really sure. I made my choice;
I wanted to see the world. So, they gave me a life. And I took it. Now that I've done everything I wanted, I came
back to the one place in the world that holds the most meaning for me. That holds all meaning for me." He snorts a
laugh. "The place your dad is."

You peer at him from over your arm. "You really love him."

He smiles. "More than anything, more than anyone." Justin pauses, mulls this over, and laughs. "I can be…
ridiculously romantic, sometimes. Don't mind me."

"You had a funeral, didn't you?" Oh, nice fucking thing to ask. Very tactful. Dipshit.

"Oh yeah. And a grave." He shrugs. "I don't know what you'd find if you dug it up. If there's a corpse there. All I
know is that I was given a life, to do what I wished with it."

You blink and sit normally. "Who are 'They'?"

"… God, I guess. But not just one God… like, an infinity of them." He shakes his head again, shaggy hair dancing.
"Never mind. It'll probably make sense when you die."

You open your mouth to say something, but whatever it was is forgotten when your cell phone rings. Justin smiles
and nods, so you take it from your pocket and flip it open. "Hello?"

"Your father called us in a fucking panic!" Ma. "Where the fuck are you?!"

A pale hand reaches over and plucks the phone from you.

"Hello? Mel?"

You don't have to be listening in to know that your Ma has completely fallen silent. Justin taps his fingers against his
leg to some unknown tune before venturing forward again. His head falls back against the bridge railing.

"Mel? Calm down, okay? … Yes, I'm really Justin… Yeah, I died, I know… Hard to explain, especially over the
phone, but here's all you need to know: I got a new life, so I'm living it… Yes, I know that sounds fucking stupid. …

No, Gus is fine. We're just sitting here, talking. I'll have him at your house in a while." He smiles at you and gives
you a thumbs-up. "How's Linds? … That's great! I'll have to stop in and see the gallery. And you? You're doing
okay? … That's good. … Yeah, it can be a lot to take in."

"Give me the phone!" You murmur, reaching for it.

"Okay, Mel, Gus wants to talk to you now. I'll see you soon, okay?"

"… Ma?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Gus! That's Justin Taylor!"

You laugh awkwardly. "Uh, yeah… I guess so."

"Does he still look the same?"

"Define 'the same'."

"Like he's fifteen years old."

You study the man out of the corner of your eye. No, definitely not fifteen. He looks older, maybe late twenties. Hot.
Very hot. Shaggy golden hair that curls slightly under his ears and falls in his sapphire eyes, parted so it falls over
the left. Lithe, beautiful… like an angel. Which isn't that far from the mark.

"No. Older."

"Thank God. So, he looks old like the rest of us poor suckers. … How old?"

"… Late twenties?"

"… Dammit."

Justin is trying hard not to look amused, gazing out onto the street again.

"…Yeah, I will." You need to wrap this conversation up quick. "Okay, Ma. Tell dad that I'm fine. I'll see you in a
little while." The phone snaps shut with a click and you sigh. Justin laughs at your expression, draping his arms over
his knees.

"I know the feeling. My mother was like that, too."

You smile. Justin… he's okay. He's a good guy; probably the only guy you'd ever want with your dad. He seems like
the kind of person who could keep your dad on his toes. You're glad he's alive… or dead-alive… or whatever.

"I think…" He pauses again and goes about it differently. "Gus, would it be too much to ask to have you not tell
people outside our little group that I'm alive? I don't think anyone else should know. People… might not
understand."

You hadn't even considered it. In fact, you never even thought about it. Good thing he brought it up; school
would've been weird if you widdled him into a conversation. Yeah, I'm doing good. Mm, this summer's gonna rock.
And even more than usual, because my dad's dead boyfriend came back to life.

"Yeah, no problem."

He nods and gets to his feet. "Well, you'd better get home. Call a cab; we can't have you walking alone tonight."

The cab comes in twenty minutes, during which you and he sit and just watch the cars go by. Before you get inside,
you turn to look at him. "Tomorrow. At the diner. Seven-forty."

Justin bites his lip. "That soon, huh?"

You nod. "Yeah. Oh, and do me a favor?"

His eyebrows rise in question. You flash him a teasing grin.

"Wear something else besides that." You jerk your head at the tuxedo. He laughs.

"I'll have you know I wore this on the best night of my life!"

So you've heard.

Four: The Boy You Once Knew

J.R. is running through the house, searching for her dressy shoes, when you come downstairs, rumpled and bleary-
eyed. You probably got an hour of sleep, if that. The night was spent contemplating life and what death holds for
you; this was done while you counted the number of bumps in your stucco ceiling. Half of the things you thought of
made no sense… the other half made you get up for school feeling like you had gained the wisdom of seventy years
overnight.

You could hear your parents talking through the night's hush, though.

Mom had never sounded as thrilled as she did when Ma told her who you had started to hang out with. Of course,
the grapevine of your little group already clued Mom in that someone who looked an awful lot like Justin Taylor,
someone going by that very name, was in town. She was actually more interested in Brian's reaction to the news…
the getting drunk and queening out at you.

"That just proves that Brian loved him! If it still affects him like this after a decade and a half, then he still loves
him!"

Mom didn't seem fazed to be reminded that Justin Taylor is dead.

You walk into the living room, tripping over Regina, who's dancing at your feet, tail wagging, and cross the room to
get to the kitchen. Ma is sipping at her coffee like it's liquid gold while Mom makes J.R. her sandwich (what looks
to be turkey and cheese).

"What's going on in school today, Gus?"

You shrug, heading for the fridge. "Studying for finals. But I'm not--"

There's a knock at the back door, and you turn around to see a familiar silhouette behind the sheer curtains that fall
in front of the window. Ma groans.

"It's not even seven-thirty yet. Who the hell could it be?"

Swallowing, you walk slowly to the door. "Promise not to freak." Your hand turns the knob and brings the door
away from the frame, revealing Justin Taylor, who looks almost normal in his khaki pants, tight Tori Amos tee shirt,
and converse sneakers. The scarf, however, is still draped over his shoulders. He offers you an uncomfortable smile.

"… Morning."

The knife Mom was using to spread mayo on J.R.'s sandwich clatters to the counter top loudly. Ma spits out her
coffee and jumps to her feet, eyes wide and coffee dripping down her chin.

"Jesus fucking Christ! Justin?!"

He looks a bit overwhelmed at the stares he's getting, but he only places a friendly hand on your shoulder and points
into the kitchen. "You left the refrigerator door open."

"Fuck the fridge!" Ma exclaims, rushing over, pushing you out of the way, and throwing her arms around Justin's
neck, hugging tightly. Mom has tears coursing down her cheeks as she goes to do the same. Justin peers at you over
their shoulders with a helpless smile that lights up as J.R. comes tearing into the kitchen, dressy shoes pounding.

"JUSTIN!!"

J.R. attaches herself to both of Justin's legs, resting her cheek against his hip. He laughs and reaches out with some
difficulty to pat her head.

"Hey, little missy. How've you been?"

"Great! I'm doing my project on you!"

Surprise and flattery steals over Justin's face, and a slow grin makes itself visible. "Really? A project?"

Ma releases Justin and steps back, looking him over. "You got older."

He beams. "Thirty-two years old!"

"Christ!"

Mom backs away, but still keeps a hand on his arm. "You aged? How can you age if you're…?"

"I chose to age. Who wants to be eighteen forever?"

Both your parents look like they want to raise their hands, but they don't. Ma gives Justin another once over and
grumbles, "you look like you're twenty-four". He tries hard to look not amused, but a snort escapes him. J.R.
giggles, although she doesn't get the joke, and jumps up, trying to have Justin pick her up. You roll your eyes.

"J.R., cut that out."

But Justin hefts her into his arms and knocks their foreheads together, winning another snicker. "What's the project
about?"

As J.R. explains her assignment, you watch your parents watch Justin. Mom surreptitiously keeps wiping her eyes
and Ma puts a hand over her mouth, closes her eyes, and silently counts backwards from ten. You know this routine
of Ma's… she's done it enough with you.

"How is this possible?" Mom demands in a whisper, running her fingers through Justin's hair. She sniffs and more
tears fall. "You… We went to your funeral."

This is a far cry from her attitude last night, when she was practically bouncing off the walls in excitement at the
very thought of Justin being alive. You can tell that she is reliving the funeral by the vaguely haunted look in her
eyes… the gravity of the current situation is hitting her. Her eyes go wide and her breath hitches. "Oh, my God…
Justin. We went to your funeral."

He gives her a 'what're you gonna do?' shrug. "Thanks, I guess. For going, I mean. Hey, was… Brian there?"

Ma snorts and crosses her arms, glowering at the table. "The bastard stood in the very back… Didn't say anything.
Even when Debbie and your mother asked him to say a few words, he just slunk around in the back of everyone like
the fucking coward he is."

Your hands clench into fists. You love Ma more than life, but you can't fucking stand it when she badmouths your
dad. Justin shoots you a comforting look.

"He was there, Mel. That's all I care about."

Justin understands. This realization smacks you hard in the face, like the basketball in gym class three weeks ago.
He understands the workings of your father's mind. He understands that being alone, keeping vigil over the
ceremony that you most likely didn't attend, as you were barely a year old, was your dad's way of dealing. That
hanging around all those mourners would've sent him off the deep end. Your dad doesn't do grief very well. He
walked around in a stupor after Uncle Vic passed away.

Mom squeezes the shit out of Justin again, sniffling into his neck. "Justin… God, we've missed you."

This wins a bright smile, and he pats Mom on the back. "I missed you, too. All of you. It's why I came back."

"Justin's an angel!" J.R. pipes up, grinning. "That's how I'm gonna start my project! Wait until everyone hears that I
know an angel!"

Justin laughs, and so does Mom. Ma cracks a smile. And you know, somehow, that everything's going to be okay.

---

The first thing Justin says when you reach the Liberty Diner is, "it looks the same."

You roll your eyes at that and snark, "Grandma hates change. Except when it comes to us. You know."

He smiles. "I know."

With a gigantic sigh, you push open the door and step inside, taking a look around. The counter is still littered with
yesterday's plates and pastries under glass cages, the air abuzz with animated discussions of last night's latest
conquests or how the music was at Babylon or what special gesture a lover made the week previous. And Grandma
is faithfully trussed up in her infamous snarky buttons and a shirt that half of the population would find offensive.
She's got a coffee pot in one hand and a plate of eggs and bacon in the other. Uncle Ted, Auntie Em, and Uncle
Mikey are seated in their usual booth, talking about God knows what. You're glad that your parents are dropping
J.R. off at school before showing up; that gives you some time before the entire family is crammed in here and
hounding Justin.

"Morning, Grams," you call out, waving Justin in. Auntie Em, seated across from both Uncle Mikey and Uncle Ted,
lifts his head and looks past them at you. His mouth opens and he abruptly stands, face pale… like he's seeing a
ghost.

Funny how that works out.

Grandma turns to greet you -- or most likely to tell you to shut the fuck up and let her complete her order -- and
drops both coffee pot and breakfast plate. "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST IN STILETTOS!"

You would laugh, but it'd be too awkward, considering that all eyes are now on you and Justin. Uncle Mikey cranes
his head around and his jaw drops.

"No fucking way! It's true?!"

"Baby!" Auntie Em shrieks, stumbling out of the booth and running toward Justin, who looks for all the world like
he's contemplating the odds of a meteor striking him down at this very moment. You're thinking the same. And the
odds aren't good. Auntie Em's crying (you weren't aware that Justin had been this popular) and babbling faster than
the guys who read the disclaimers at the end of medicine commercials. "God we couldn't believe it when Gus gave
us your drawing because you were dead and the dead don't draw and we all flipped out and Brian went a little crazy
and my God baby but you look fantastic for a dead man and I'm so happy to see you--"

"Hi, Em," Justin murmurs, hugging him. Even he's looking a bit misty. "You look fantastic, too. Fucking fabulous."

You watch, amused and a bit shocked at the force the actions is carried out with, as Grandma hauls Justin away from
Auntie Em and delivers the most bone-cracking hug you've ever seen her give. You actually think you hear a rib
pop.

"You fucking kid," Grandma sobs, tightening her hold until Justin's gasping. For air or in pain, you're not sure. "You
came back. Nothing else matters except that you fucking came back."

"Ma! Let him have some air!" Uncle Mikey gripes, trying to bite back a teary grin. Justin meets his stare and offers a
tentative smile. "I never thought I'd say this, but I've missed you something awful, Justin."

Justin's eyes are filled so much that it looks like something out of a forty's movie, like someone turned the camera to
soft focus on his face, along with a bunch of bright lights. The tears don't fall though; his smile widens to the point
where it begins to spill happiness all over the floor. You're tempted to find a 'Wet Floor' sandwich sign.

They usher him over to the booth, ignoring the confused stares of the patrons, and Uncle Ted grins and ruffles his
hair, commenting on how the length suits him. They can't stop touching him, can't stop brushing his arms or his neck
or his legs. They're trying to make themselves see that he's real, you think, and it all makes perfect sense.

Except this whole fucking thing doesn't make any sense.

Minutes tick by, and you're forced to sit in the empty booth behind them, draping yourself over the back of it so you
can listen in. Your head is next to Justin's and Auntie Em's and you steal a piece of toast from Auntie Em's plate. He
doesn't care; he's more interested in what Justin's saying. Justin's talking about his travels through Italy and Spain
and France and the art and culture he saw.

"It was amazing. You walk up these, like, twenty steps and there's a huge depiction of Michael defeating Lucifer.
Fucking huge."

"Did that really happen?" Uncle Ted breaks in, gesturing with his fork. "The battle between Heaven and Hell, I
mean."

Justin shakes his head. "Nope. Totally made up. Although it was good fodder for a lot of my earlier artwork."

They talk about everything while you listen, ask a lot of questions about what Justin thinks about the world now,
about how same-sex marriage is legal everywhere, how television and music and styles have changed, about their
new woman president. Justin answers every question with a smile and usually a joke that makes you all laugh. It
isn't until Uncle Mikey, always the fantasy and/or sci-fi fan, wants to know about life after death, hoping for new
material for the comic he's begun to write.

"What happened when you died? Did you see your life flash before your eyes?" He's too eager, and it annoys the
fuck out of you. Justin pauses and the smile falls away.

"I… I turned around because Brian called my name." This is the shit you never heard about. You'd only learned
about the prom the previous night from your mom. "And there was this, like, moving blur, then nothing. And
suddenly, I was standing in the parking garage, watching myself bleed all over the pavement."

No one pays any attention to the diner door chiming as it opens.

"It was like watching a movie. Brian was covered in blood… and kept begging me to wake up. And I was like, 'why
am I not waking up?'. And he managed to call 9-1-1…" He shakes his head, staring at the table top. "I'd never seen
him cry before. And I wanted to hold him, to tell him that I was fine, but I couldn't. By the time the ambulance
showed up, I was being… pulled away. And I didn't want to go, because Brian was a total mess, screaming and
cursing and sobbing… he wouldn't let go of my body. And everything faded."

The diner falls silent, and your breath stutters in your throat.

"And I floated away until I was pulled back down, grounded again. And when my feet touched the ground,
everything made sense. I understood the meaning of life and all that shit, I knew… I knew everything. But they
asked me, like they ask everyone, what they could do to make it better, to improve on things."

Justin lifts his head and his voice comes out as a whisper that sounds almost deafening.

"I told them to make sure that there would always be love in the world."

Your dad is standing in the middle of the diner, expression unreadable, hands shaking at his sides, looking invincible
in his Armani or Gucci or whateverthefuck. A smile curls Justin's lips and he clasps his hands under his chin, never
once removing his gaze from Dad's.

"Hey."

Your dad takes a deep breath. "Hey."

"Care to join us?" Justin inquires politely, voice dripping with affection and amusement. Your dad studies him
before grinning.

"Did they get the low-carb bread I requested?"

"I have no idea, but I doubt it."

Dad walks confidently to the booth, waits patiently for Auntie Em to get up and takes his seat. He wraps an arm
around Justin's head, fingers burying into his hair, and drags him forward for the most enthusiastic and heartfelt kiss
you've ever witnessed. They pull away after about four minutes, ignoring you as you all dumbly watch them make
out, and rest their foreheads against each other's. Your dad begins to chuckle, which soon morphs into a husky laugh
that has Justin joining in, and brings his hand to Justin's cheek, running over it to cup the back of his head.

"Welcome back, you little shit," is all your father says before bringing their mouths together once more. And you
can tell by the looks on everyone's faces that it's like Justin was never gone.

You smile and steal another piece of toast.

God, you'd think I had a life outside of writing.

Five: Whispers from Behind the Curtain

You've never seen your dad look so happy, and it's scaring the living fuck out of you.

Breakfast at the diner went without a hitch… and was actually uneventful. You almost wish you didn't skip school --
almost. They chattered about everything and nothing at all, your dad practically molesting Justin, who didn't look
like he was in too much of a hurry to put a stop to it, until Grandma forced herself into the booth. She invited all of
you to her house for a cook-out as your dad stuck his tongue in Justin's ear.

So, four-thirty finds you in your dad's corvette, trying not too catch that piercing hazel stare in the review mirror.
Not that you can, as it's alternating between watching the road and watching Justin, who sits in the passenger seat,
commenting animatedly about the new art store on something or other street. You're not really paying attention.

Finally, Justin falls silent and stares out the window, eyes taking in everything on the streets, the trees, the houses,
the people, the colors. His fingers come up to touch the glass, his breath hitting it and fogging a small patch
temporarily, and then move to toy with the ends of the white scarf around his neck. You catch your father as he
catches this, and you hate the disgusted recognition in his eyes… another something that you don't understand.

Justin turns his head and smiles at your dad, placing the hand that had been on the scarf over your father's, which
rests over the gear shift.

"Let it go, Brian."

"Christ, Justin, but you--"

Justin's gaze goes back to the window and to the world outside. "Later, Brian."

If your dad's fingers twine with Justin's over the gear shift, you don't comment on it.

----

Justin's totally fascinated with Uncle Ben, who seems to be equally intrigued with Justin. Apparently meeting Uncle
Mikey's husband and meeting Brian's dead boyfriend are on the same wavelength. When they shake hands, Justin
stiffens and shivers, peering up at Uncle Ben with calculating eyes.

"Are you… okay?"

Uncle Ben looks confused until Justin clarifies.

"There's something in you… eating away…"

Michael bites his lip and finds Grandma's floor interesting. "HIV."

Justin sucks in a breath and hastily apologizes, eyes pained and jaw taut. Ben laughs it off and begins to ask Justin
questions, about life and death, about all the secrets of the universe and about God -- is there a God? Smiling, he
answers them with evasion and clever half-truths and jokes, repeating the things he told you and the guys, never
really answering anything. Just enough information to get by with.

Grandma is out back with Grandpa, cooking hotdogs and hamburgers and turkey burgers, while Auntie Em flits
about, setting the picnic table and humming excitedly. J.R. is dancing to a song on the radio and tells Grandma and
your moms about her project and how she's going to draw the cover. Your dad steps out into the yard, dressed (of
course) like some model that just walked out of a billboard ad, Justin tagging along behind him, all smiles and

flowing white silk. He and Grandpa, after introductions and getting over skepticism, become fast friends, talking
about criminal justice and (inevitably) the bashing. Grandpa tells Justin that Chris Hobbes was tried and convicted
of Murder Two and won't get out of jail for another thirty years.

You refrain from adding to your dad's muttered, "serves you right, you fucker", and help yourself to some chips.

When the 'order's up!' you sit down together and talk. After a few rounds of the obligatory updates of everyone's
lives, you tell Justin of the most important thing he missed while dead. You don't leave a detail out when you
describe the landscape or the many people that were involved in such a renowned event. He listens to you,
occasionally stopping you to tell everyone to stop laughing and shut up, eyes focused only on you and the world you
spin. Finally, when you end your tale, an hour has passed and everyone's engaged in other topics.

Except your dad, who hasn't taken his eyes off of Justin since he arrived, who has his arm wrapped loosely around
him, hand splayed comfortably over Justin's khaki-clad hip.

"Okay," Justin says when you ask if he has any questions. "So, the kid is a wizard."

You nod. "Yeah."

"And his uncle Sirius--"

"-- godfather --"

"Whatever. His godfather Sirius was innocent, and then goes to stay with the wolf… who is his lover?"

Do people tune you out? Seems to be. "No, no. Remus isn't Sirius's lover, although a ton of people might think he is.
They were best friends in school."

"But they have pet names for each other."

"Who the fuck cares?" Your dad finally groans, head lolling back and eyes rolling skyward in askance for, yet again,
more patience. "It's a fucking book, Gus. Let it go."

Justin elbows him. "Brian, shut up. It's an interesting thought. The one thing that got me was the Veil. When Sirius
fell into it."

You nod eagerly. "Yeah. During a duel with his cousin, Bellatrix."

He rests his chin in his palm, face tilting a bit to the clouds. "Describe it to me, Gus. You said he died when he fell
through it."

You swallow, meeting your dad's confused glance, and open your mouth. "The Veil is in the Ministry of Magic, in
the Death Chamber. It's an archway with an old, beat-up curtain over it. Some people can hear voices coming from
it; usually those who lost loved ones hear them."

While you speak, Justin hums a sigh and his eyes drift lazily shut, distantly listening to you as you relay the little
you know about the Veil. Your dad's eyes flicker between you and him, and the rest of the group has fallen into a
hush, watching him. Finally, when you stop talking and a full two minutes go by, your dad reaches over and takes
the hand holding up Justin's head into his own.

"Justin."

His eyes open and he smiles apologetically at everyone. "Sorry about that. Gus, you have a very hypnotic voice."

You know that's complete bullshit. Your voice is a hideous roller coaster of sound, squeaking wheels and deep wind
as the car plummets down. Puberty hit you like a Mack truck. But it placates everyone, and they go back to

discussing Ma's newest case. Justin turns to listen in, leaving behind thoughts of two, lost men who find each other
again and a curtain that brings death.

Your dad stares at Justin, hand still gripping his, eyes narrowed in pain and what looks like resignation. While you
spoke of death, Justin was looking wistfully at the sky, lost in your words, wrapping himself up in that tattered,
black cloth and disappearing into the archway, leaving in his wake whispers and shadows. And you realize that no
matter how many times Justin says he chose life, he will always belong to whatever waits for him beyond this,
beyond mortality. He isn't yours; he isn't your father's anymore.

The night is warm, the last rays of the sun pouring fiery orange over the world, washing over Justin, who's sitting on
your old tire swing and swaying gently like he did the first day you saw him in the park. Your dad is leaning against
the tree, talking to him. You can't hear anything… and you can't get close enough to eavesdrop without making it
look like you're eavesdropping. Justin suddenly laughs at whatever was said and your dad's grinning ferally at his
own genius. Dad leans down and brushes his lips against Justin's forehead, his cheek, across the bridge of his nose…

A flash goes off at your side and J.R. crows in triumph over capturing the moment. Mom laughs and high-fives her
while Uncle Ted calls out something about 'the great Brian Kinney being caught by a twink -- and a dead one at
that'.

"If he's dead then I don't have to go to any effort to make him put out!" Dad laughs, the lines on his face that he'll
never admit to having relaxing, and Justin tries to swat him, but Dad catches his hand and uses it to anchor Justin for
a kiss. Catcalls and whistles immediately follow. Your entire family is fucking lame.

Helping Justin to his feet, Dad walks over to the picnic table where everyone's sitting and announces that they'll be
leaving, as they have their own party elsewhere.

"I'm sure," Ma sneers, but you can tell she's being amiable about it. Justin grins and shrugs.

"I probably won't see you all for a couple of days. He tells me I'm being tied to the headboard, but his sex drive's
probably not what it used to be, so we'll see."

"'He' is going to make you eat those words. You just racked up another day, Sunshine, in my bed. See if you can get
up to a week; I won't complain."

Both Ma and Mom simultaneously go, "eww", while Auntie Em, Uncle Ted, and Grandma demand to know more.
Dad ruffles your hair on the way out to the car and Justin cheerfully waves goodbye. You watch them go and cross
your arms.

"I'll get to ask him questions tomorrow about my project, though, right?" J.R. queries, hoping that Justin's being tied
to the headboard of your father's bed won't impede on her interview. Grandpa laughs and hefts her up into his arms.

"If all he needs to do is talk, then I'm sure it'll go smashingly."

He wins a smack upside the head from Grandma for that.

"Everyone's going to be so jealous because I know an angel. And I'll get the highest grade in the class!"

You stare at the place where they exited and bite your lip, an image of Justin gazing longingly at the sky burned into
your retinas.

You hope…

Interlude

He steps into the loft, fingers trailing from the wall in the hallway, to the doorway, to the countertops and the other
bits of furniture inside. Soft blue eyes carefully memorize every detail, weighing the sight against some burned into
memory, perhaps of the loft fourteen years prior, when everything was new and untouchable in the eyes of a
teenager. Finally he turns those eyes back on Brian, smiling the same smile he had on his face before --

… JUSTIN!!

Horrendouscrackandthesoundofbonebeingcrushedbeneathwoodandinertia

andhe'sfallen

andchrishobbesiscrying
andjustin'snotmovingandthere'sblood
oh
GOD
THERE'S
SOMUCHBLOOD--


"Nothing's really changed," Justin murmurs, still smiling, and Brian's aware that all of the blood in his head dropped
into his feet, leadening his legs so he can't move, can't do anything but breathe and tell himself that, yes, Justin is
here, flesh and bone and (don'tsayit) blood, standing here like he's been alive for the fourteen years that have gone
by. His hair is longer, shaggy and choppy and unbearably hot, his face lacking in some of the baby fat that Brian
found so endearing, body still shorter than his own, still lithe like a panther.

The scarf around his neck… he's wearing it like Brian did that night, draped over his chest where the tassels at the
ends tickle his stomach. It doesn't go with the tight Tori Amos tee shirt Justin's wearing, too fancy for cotton,
clashing against the Indian henné that adorns it. But despite the fashion felony, it looks at home over his shoulders,
clean and new and without all that blood.

"I--" He clears his throat. "What can I say? Classics don't change, and I'm as fucking classic as they come."

Justin laughs and rolls his eyes, like he forgot whose home he is in. His giggles taper off as his eyes continue to
roam, falling on the computer table. He moves with all the grace of a dancer, even if he's only walking, and stops
before it, fingers reaching out to touch the framed glass propped up next to the monitor.

He takes the picture in his hands and stares at it, then looks at Brian, a sadness there so tangible that it chokes Brian
to see it. "This… is me."

Brian swallows and nods once. "Yeah."

Those sky eyes begin to cloud, growing pregnant with an impending shower, threatening to burst. Brian, living
fourteen years without that sunlight, learning that tricks can't replace a fucking thing, that drugs and drinking don't
hold the keys to the doors of youth, only uselessness, walks over and pulls Justin into his arms, tucking the golden
head under his chin and closing his eyes, breathing in deeply. That scent… it hasn't changed, and Brian wants to get
down on his knees and thank whoever's up there for that.

He thinks of a night, almost too warm for tuxedos, where there was goofy dancing in a parking lot, swinging bodies
around like seventh graders, laughter and happiness over the big 'fuck you' they'd given to Saint James Academy,
over the looks on their faces as they waltzed. He clutches Justin a bit harder when he tells himself, like he's done
thousands of times before, it could have been different. Should have been different. He should've yanked the boy by

the ends of his scarf and pulled him into the jeep. Should have plowed head-first into the joy he was feeling, not run
from it, and taken him back to the loft and fucked -- no, made love to -- him. The way Justin had wanted. The way
he wants. Right now.

"Justin."

Lifting his head from under his chin, Justin reaches up and places his hands on Brian's cheeks, moving them up into
his hair, urging his mouth down onto his. Brian kisses him like the last time… soft, considerate… and vulnerable.
Brian had made it clear, before breaking away and gathering enough air to breathe that last "later", that Justin could
flay him open with his kiss, slay him with his tongue, with the smile that rubbed against his own before Brian pulled
back and left him to the mercy of a wooden bat.

Their lips pull at each other, alternating between soft and needy to hard and passionate. Tongues meet and mate,
reacquainting, mapping out unfamiliar and yet so familiar terrain, staking claim. Brian moans and pulls off,
attacking Justin's neck, nipping at the soft skin, running his tongue over the flesh, tasting salt and something that's
uniquely Justin.

Justin grips Brian's hair and gasps, hips rutting up and against Brian, searching for some pleasure that only Brian can
give. "Brian… oh -- Brian, God, the bed--"

"Fuck," Brian hisses, and they barely make it to the bedroom, stumbling up the stairs, pawing at each other's
clothing, leaving it strewn across the floor. They fall onto 300 count sheets, grinding, kissing frantically. They can't
get enough… there is never enough.

"There is no such thing as 'enough'…"

Brian's words from the first night reverberate through his mind unexpectedly and he moans as his skin becomes
feverish, a fire eating away at him from the inside. He shoves his hand into Justin's khakis, fingers curling tightly
around his cock and squeezing, drawing forth a loud keen from the man underneath him. Wet, so hot and wet and
perfect…

"Brian… Brian…" Justin's pleading now, head thrown back, mouth open, tongue darting out to wet his lips, swollen
with their kisses. Together, they manage to get Justin's zipper down so he can shimmy out of his khakis and his
underwear, freeing his cock to touch Brian's bare stomach, rubbing precome in an obscene painting on golden skin.
Brian slithers down his body, taking no time in pressing his lips against the leaking head, wrapping his lips around it
and suckling hard, reveling in Justin's resulting breathless cry. Brian's hands come up to hold Justin's hips to the bed,
restraining him, temping down the writhing. Justin begins to keen and Brian moves off his cock with a soft pop,
descending further to bathe his balls with his tongue, pressing against them, feeling them tighten with impending
release… which he denies.

Justin looks beautiful against the navy sheets; Brian props himself up with his hands to take in the image he
presents. Pale skin flushed with desire, with mutual heat, chest heaving and cock trembling and erect and so fucking
hot… golden hair matted, covered in a light sheen of sweat. Those eyes… so seductive and promising… half-lidded
with lust and love. How Brian lived without this for fourteen years, he's not sure.

"Brian…" Justin gulps, mouthing his name on an intake of air. Brian's cock impossibly grows harder at the sound. "I
want… you to see…"

He stops all talk with his lips again, crushing them against Justin's, bruising and vicious and possessive. Justin's
tongue slides alongside his, swallowing his spit and his air, making it his own. "Show me… whatever the fuck you
want…"

"Inside me," groans Justin, arching up, whining when their cocks rub. Instinct takes over and Brian reaches for the
relic on the nightstand, the bowl of condoms, when Justin's hand closes over his, pulling it away. "No… no
boundaries."

It almost makes him lose his erection. "Fuck you, Justin, I can't--"

"You can…" Breathless and soft, the barest whisper of a summer's breeze. "Safe…"

Justin's dead… By all rights, he should be dead, but he's writhing beneath Brian, blood pounding and cock hard,
spitting precome all over his belly. And Brian can't bear to let him down again, even if it goes against everything
he's ever stood for. He reaches over again, grabbing only the lube, and flips open the cap, spreading the gel over
Justin's flinching hole, unceremoniously shoving two fingers inside, scissoring them, opening him up.

Justin hisses, whimpering when Brian's fingertips graze his prostate, and shifts down, welcoming the invasion.
Brian's lips land on his collarbone, sucking at the skin, moving down to bite at Justin's nipple, tonguing it, toying
with it.

"Now… Now Now Now!"

He positions himself at that entrance, pressing forward, eyes rolling back into his head at the heat… the unbearable
heat that he's never felt before, always dampened behind rubber… and finds himself crushed by most exquisite
pressure. Justin clamps down around him and Brian lets out a fierce cry, surprise and lust stealing over him, forcing
his hips forward, his cock sliding in until his balls slap against Justin's ass.

"Jesus… Jesus fuck…" Brian thrusts hard, Justin's body arching, rising and falling like an Olympic swimmer
struggling to finish the 200-meter Butterfly stroke. Pale, artistic fingers tangle in Brian's hair, tugging him down for
another kiss.

"Look… at what… could've -- ohgodyes -- been…"

The sun explodes behind Brian's eyelids as he thrusts again, as scenes and images from a life that should have been
his barrage him from all directions.

Room 312B… a glass pane separating him from the boy in the bed… waiting and hoping for him to wake up…

"Justin…"

"Fuck, Brian… harder…"

In and out… in his mind… out of his mind… God, why wasn't he allowed to have this…?

A warm embrace on a crowded street, eyes closing in sweet rapture behind dark glasses.

"I didn't think I could do it."

"I did."

Justin rises to meet Brian's thrusts, which are becoming more animalistic, harder, as Brian tries with all his power to
fuck himself into Justin's body, insinuate himself into every vessel, every vein, every artery.

Watching him through the throng of dancing bodies, through a haze of disbelief and morbid understanding, as he
walks away. With another. Without as much as a backwards glance.

Without a goodbye.

Brian grips the hair behind Justin's head and drags him up for a soul-shattering kiss, deep and wet, teeth raking at his
tongue gently.

"I gave it some thought… I decided you should take me back."

"Oh?"

"Even though I've made a few mistakes, I think you'd be making an even bigger one not to give me a second
chance… because now I know what it is you want from me… and what I can expect from you…"

"God, Justin… You…" Brian can't stop, can't slow down his thrusts, can't get out a coherent fucking sentence. He
can only feel… only bury himself into that constricting heat and pray to God that his heart doesn't give out. But what
a way to go…

"… Well, I guess I've lost everything…"

"Not everything."

"Brian… I'm…" Blonde hair thrashes against the pillow.

"I thought we had a commitment… and I plan to stand by it."

Burning behind his closed lids, pinching and trickling liquid fire through his lashes, spilling over onto his cheeks.

"Why are we still doing this if we both know it's never going to work?"

Fingers wiping them away, erasing them from him, purging this sorrow from him…

"Brian… Please…"

Oh God, not again… you nearly lost him once… please, not again…

He's still inside, trapped… what if he…

"Justin…" The end had drawn nigh, and Brian times thrust and stroke perfectly, with all the precision of an artist
shading in the final object, of a man in love…

"Marry me…"

Justin is a fantasy made real in his undoing, head thrown back to cry out and body arching. Brian knows there
should be wings unfurling from his back, filling up space with white majesty. It is this thought that sends him into
oblivion, orgasm washing over him like a powerful series of waves, dragging him down by the undertow, pounding
against him relentlessly, until he's barely conscious enough to kick to the surface for air.

But he understands.

He understands that what he feels for this man, the boy who broke down the carefully-erected walls with a smile and
left him in a maelstrom of pain and sorrow, the one who came back to him, is love.

Brian collapses with a huffed groan, bearing his weight down on Justin as he goes boneless, melting into the man
beneath him as slender arms wrap around him loosely. He grins into Justin's shoulder, feeling himself soften inside
his body… no rush to pull out just yet.

"Justin…?"

"Hm…?" Sated, lethargic, satisfied… His boy.

"If we never have sex like that again, I'm going to be fucking pissed."

Justin's soft, exhausted laughter chases him all the way into sleep's open arms.

Chapter Six: The Night You Were Born

You slide open the loft door, playing the gentleman and allowing J.R. to go in first, and walk inside, shutting it
behind you. If you ever dared to leave it open, your dad would string you up by your balls in the ceiling rafters.

"I love Uncle B's house," J.R. says on a sigh, gazing around the loft like she does every time she first walks in. You
remember coming here when you were growing up and comparing it to the art museum Mom always took you to.
Everything was so clean, so stark white and untouchable. When you were seven, you hocked up the courage to ask
your dad where the identification labels were for everything. And even as a child, you never put your hands on
anything, lest your dad dusted for fingerprints whenever you left.

Throughout your life so many things have changed… your father's home being the only constant. He never
redecorated, never moved anything from where it was. Nothing new was ever added unless your dad was replacing
the sofa or a desk… but always with the same make and model. That's why it nearly stops your heart to see what
looks like a makeshift easel smack in the middle of your dad's window. J.R. squeaks in surprise and slowly makes
her way over to it, steps cautious. She's attempting at stealth and silence, but the soles of her shoes clack like thunder
against the hardwood floors.

A blonde head peers from behind the easel, blue eyes wide. Justin smiles at the two of you, face streaked with paint,
and steps away from whatever he's doing to greet you.

"Hey guys. How was school?"

"Boring," you mumbled as J.R. simultaneously whines, "stupid!"

Justin's grinning at her. "'Stupid'? How come?"

She gives him a pained look, which turns into a spoiled child's glare, and stomps her foot loudly, crossing her arms.
"The kids at school don't believe me when I talk about you. Marty Walls says that you can't be an angel because you
don't have wings."

Justin's smile falters and his eyes grow serious and cool. "J.R., how many people have you told about me?"

"I told Ms. Hamill, because she asked us who we were all doing our projects on, and then I told all my friends when
we had recess--"

"Okay," he stops her quietly, holding up a hand and rubbing his sinuses with the other. "Okay. J.R.? Do me a favor
next time? Don't tell anyone else."

Her eyes go wide. "D-Did I do something bad? Justin, don't be mad at me, please."

Christ, but she can manipulate people. Justin's tense face relaxes and he smiles at her again, sweeping her into his
arms where she burrows her head under his chin, snuggling. You roll your eyes and walk the distance to the easel,
looking past the side onto whatever is there. Your breath catches in your throat and you move to stand in front of it
to take a closer look.

"Justin…"

It's a painting of your father, standing on a grassy knoll, overlooking an entire world, meadows and forests and lakes
and mountains beneath his feet, dressed to perfection in a tuxedo, that same scarf that Justin wears draped over his
neck. The picture is shown at a downward, distant angle, obscuring your father's face somewhat, because he's
looking down at a precious bundle in his arms.

You.

From the angle, whoever's point of view you're seeing this picture from, is a ray of sunlight, pouring over you and
your father. Sunlight. Sunshine. Justin.

You press your lips together to stem the trembling, but your eyes burn and you barely register the hand that is placed
gently on your shoulder, unable to look away.

"The night you were born… was the night I met your dad. And I named you." Justin's voice is warm in your ear,
washing a soft breeze over your cheek, smelling of toothpaste and a bit of candy. The combination should be gross,
but it fits him. Clean and sweet. You close your eyes and lean back against him, a pillar of strength in this odd
moment of weakness, and think of the family picnic and of him gazing at the sky, quietly yearning for something
that can't be found on this mortal earth.

J.R. slips her hand into yours and studies the painting silently, resting her head on your arm. This feeling… this
warmth welling up inside of you… is unlike anything you've ever experienced. This is the taste of something you've
been denied for too long… something you should've had all along. Something that met its end with a single swing of
a bat.

"The night you were born… I became the exception to your dad's rule of 'one fuck only'."

You shiver. What would your life growing up have been like with Justin Taylor in it? Would you be any different?
You know your dad would be… he'd be happier, more relaxed… what about you, though? Would you be artistic?
Kinder? Smarter?

Who cares? He's here now and that's all that matters.

"You're staying with us forever, right, Justin?" It sounds stupid and it's a childish thing to ask, but you want him to
stick around. For good.

He hesitates, and you feel your heart leap into your throat at that pause. "… I'll always be here, Gus."

There are far too many ways to interpret that.

"J.R., how about we start on that project?" Justin cheerfully inquires, hand lifting from you and body moving away.
J.R. takes her hand from yours and bounces away to follow him to the couch. Your eyes open and you take a deep
breath, focusing on the painting. Your fingers lift to touch the canvas, running over the dry paint, and you feel the
tears coming back. The back of your throat closes up with them.

You have a feeling that you're not going to get the happy ending you want.

-----
The diner is crowded, as usual, with the same people who come in for a quick bite to eat before they go out to hit the
clubs. You're seated in a booth with Justin and J.R., picking half-heartedly at your chicken wrap, which has been
unraveled to spill all the tortilla's contents onto the plate. All of your concentration is fixated on the painting, which
you can't stop thinking about.

The night you were born… was the night I met your dad. And I named you.

You steal a glance at Justin, next to you, from out of the corner of your eye. He's sketching for J.R. a rendition of the
first thing he drew. Her questions have been endless… and Justin has answered them as best he can. He's made J.R.
promise to not put in the part of his life about dying and returning. It took the purchase of a huge sundae from the ice
cream parlor down the street to seal the deal.

"Okay. So, I'm probably around your age when I come home. I'd gotten a bad grade on a test and I needed to let out
my anger. So I grabbed my mom's notebook from the coffee table and started drawing. Until I thought my hand
would fall off. And what I was drawing wasn't anything special. Just things around the house… the T.V., the couch
and the window behind it, the stairs… and I saw what I'd created and thought, 'wow. I'm really good'." He smiles.
"And that's when I knew I was an artist."

J.R.'s eyes are shining and you're grinning suddenly.

"You drew your couch and you decided you were an artist?"

He cuffs you affectionately. "Shut up, you. It was a really good drawing for a ten-year old. Mom found them and
had me enrolled in art class the next week."

"And this was all over a bad grade? You're such a geek."

A shadow falls over the booth. "A bad grade for Justin is a fucking B-plus. Don't believe a word he says." Your
father slides in next to J.R., wrapping an arm around her and kissing her on the temple. She giggles and shows him
the notes she's taken on Justin's life. He squints at her handwriting, going over the list with interest.

"Hm… Parents divorced… Art… Me… Y-- You ran track? When the fuck did you run track?"

"Ninth grade," Justin says, leaning across the table to snag a quick kiss, which turns into some serious tonsil hockey.
J.R. watches, curious, and then scribbles something down onto her list of all things Justin. You lean over to see what
she's writing; it's upside down, but you can make out the words 'love' and 'Uncle B'. "Why?"

"You're just not the athletic type," Dad sneers. "Then again, all those sweaty boys in short shorts…"

Justin wrinkles his nose and grins, sticking the tip of his tongue between his teeth. "Well, sorry. I know it's not
Chemistry Club, or anything…"

You follow Justin's gaze to your father and burst into laughter. "Christ, Dad! You were in Chemistry Club?! You big
dork."

Dad looks like the entire world is against him. He tosses the list back onto the table top with a huff. "What the fuck
is with you people? I was never a geek, or a dork, or a dweeb, or whateverthefuck. Christ!"

You catch Justin's eye and he winks at you. You have a feeling you just aided in an inside joke.

And that's when it happens.

You're not sure, looking back, if anything different occurred. If the food you finally began to eat again, just as Dad's
cell phone went off, tasted any different than usual. If the air felt heavy, or stagnant with the smell of grease and
body odor.

Justin is going over J.R.'s list about himself when your father finishes his call, snapping the phone shut, face pale
and haggard.

"Dad?"

"Brian? What--"

"It's Ben… he's in the hospital."

You close your eyes and pray… you pray for the first time in your life… for your happy ending.

Chapter Seven: And They All Lived

Uncle Mikey and Grandma are already in the cubicle room when you get to the ER. Grandma's holding him,
stroking the back of his head, which rests in her lap. Every so often he draws in a shuddering breath, whimpering at
the tail-end of it. Dad automatically drops to his knees beside him and rests a hand on Uncle Mikey's back. You
move forward, but you're restrained by the back of your shirt being held. You turn and look at Justin, who gives a
small shake of his head.

"God, Brian," Uncle Mikey moans, fresh tears starting, soaking through Grandma's purple skintight pants. "He-- He
just… God, he just collapsed…"

"Okay, Mikey," your dad shushes. "Okay."

Justin closes his eyes, hand on the curtain to the cubicle room, and then opens them to look at Uncle Ben. His hand
moves from your back to your shoulder, gripping hard enough to be painful, and you turn to gaze at the bed, too.
You almost burst into tears.

Uncle Ben looks like he's dead. He's still, like ice, skin tinted white and eyes shut. You think morbidly back to all
the vampire movies you've seen and want to throw up. The machines around him loom like wraiths, too bright and
casting terrible shadows in the fluorescent lighting, beeping, like periodic drops of water into a pond. It's torture. It
doesn't even look as if he's breathing…

You spin on your heel and bury your face into Justin's chest, sobbing. His arms enclose around you tightly, chin
resting on your head. "Gus… shh…" His voice is soft, cracking, staccato words that spill from him. You know he's
trying to keep his own emotions at bay.

"Justin, get him out of here," you hear your dad order, but it sounds washed out, white noise. It doesn't register, not
until Justin tries to steer you out of there. Something inside you snaps. You can feel it. And suddenly, you burst into
motion, fighting against him, struggling to get to the bed, to shake Uncle Ben awake. Uncle Ben, who helps you
with your homework, who taught you to meditate, who keeps trying to get you to eat healthier. Who has always
been there. Uncle Mikey's other half.

"Gus, stop it!"

"LET ME GO! UNCLE BEN! UNCLE BEN, GET UP!"

"JUSTIN! GET HIM THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!"

You don't remember passing out, but when you come to you're resting your head on Justin's shoulder, comfortable
and warm against his side. He's just sitting there with you in the waiting room, staring down at his hands, which lay
in his lap, fingers loosely twined. Your eyes are on the floor, so when you see the shadow of your father's Gucci
loafers you close your eyes again and listen.

Justin lifts his head, muscles shifting. "Well?"

"… Medically-induced coma. They're almost seventy percent sure… that he won't make it." Your dad sounds tired,
and you don't know how long you've been out.

"Jesus," Justin murmurs, exhaling slowly. "And… there's nothing…?"

"No." Dad sounds closer; he must've sat down. "Justin, if he dies… it'll kill Mikey. It'll absolutely destroy him."

"Yeah," is Justin's soft agreement. And the tone sends a shiver down your spine. So acquiescent… so defeated.
"What do you want me to do with Gus? I don't think he should stay here."

"Mm," your dad whispers, followed by silence, broken only by the sound of shared breath and soft moans. They're
kissing… with you, like, three inches away. "Take him home. Let him sleep. I'll be there in a while." There's a jingle
of keys and Justin tenses under you.

"What about you?"

"I'll get home. Don't worry."

"All right." Justin shifts out from under you, hands clasping your arms to hold you up. You play along, pretending to
be half-asleep. "C'mon, Gus, we're heading out."

And suddenly, you're hit with a wave of exhaustion that isn't fake and you slump against him. He chuckles quietly,
balances your weight, and starts to help you walk down the hall. Your father's voice floats toward you, and you're
not sure if it's a dream or not.

"Justin?"

The two of you stop. "Yeah, Brian?"

"… I love… You know that I--"

"Brian, don't get yourself all worked up. The last thing I need is you in a bed here, too. Of course I know. I've
always known. I'm on to you, remember?" You start to walk away again.

The last thing you hear is Justin's trembling breath.
-------

He isn't moving, and you aren't sure why. He's lying on the grass, pale arms stained crimson, body contorted into a
relaxed sprawl, not unlike the paintings of debauched women painted once upon a time. He isn't breathing, and you
find yourself holding your own air in, waiting for his chest to rise and fall.

Ticking. Thunder, periodic clicking of clocks and their mechanical organs. You lift your head and look around. The
landscape is completely barren, trees dead and branches clawed. The only bit of green is under you. Hanging on
each branch is a clock, melted and dripping, but still in working order. You turn away from your surroundings and
look down.

The body, broken and battered, belongs to Justin.

And when you suck in a breath of horror, all the clocks solidify at once, slipping from the branches to shatter, one by
one, on the ground.

You wake up into another dream. To the cool 300 count sheets of your father's bed, legs and arms tangled in them,
face half-buried into his pillow. Lifting your head, ignoring the trail of drool that is connected from the edge of your
mouth to the pillow case, you gaze around the dark loft, squinting to adjust your eyes to the sparse lighting of the
moon. There's a lithe silhouette standing before the window at the far end of the loft. Removing your limbs from the
vise-like grip of the sheets, you walk unsteadily down the stairs and attempt to not bump into furniture hidden in the
shadows.

Your dad is naked on the couch, a blanket pulled up to the tops of his hips, sprawled out, satiated and snoring
lightly. He really does look younger than he is… facial lines relaxed in sleep, ever-present frown in hibernation.

"Gus?"

You look away from your father to the window. Justin's cloaked in night, barely visible in the moonlight.

"Gus, can I ask you something?"

You take a step forward, and it feels like you're floating. "Yeah…. Sure. Go ahead."

His head turns slightly and you can see something shining on his cheeks.

"Hypothetically… Say you had the chance to help someone, but doing so might make other people sad. Would you
do it?"

You nod your head immediately, and the entire loft is filled suddenly with a soft light. Justin is slowly disappearing
into it, but he's smiling.

The tears falling from his eyes should alarm you, should warn you, but they don't. And you're smiling, too.

"Good answer."

And you wake up.
-------

"Still not answering?" Auntie Em inquires of your father when he snaps his phone shut angrily for the fourteenth
time. You've only been here for, like, ten minutes, and already your dad is working himself into a state. Maybe you
should've gone to school instead of skipping again. Your dad really can't be dealt with when he gets like this.

"No. The little fucker," Dad snarls, tossing his phone onto the table and sitting back, crossing his arms. And, oh
God, he's pouting. "I knew I should've bought him a cell phone."

Justin's not answering at the loft. "Well, maybe he took a walk. Or went shopping."

Your father shudders. "You can't trust him when he goes fucking shopping. Old Navy, the Gap… I remember all the
shit he wore back then… I bet it hasn't changed, either."

Well, judging from the shirt and khakis he'd been wearing the day he changed out of the tuxedo, the answer would
be no.

"How's Michael?" Auntie Em asks softly, eyes mournful and teeth gnawing at his lip.

"How the fuck do you think he is, Emmett? Christ Almighty." Your dad fumes for a minute as Auntie Em gazes
down at the table, chastised. "You can't use cell phones in the hospital, and Michael can't be pried away from Ben,
and Debbie can't be pried away from Michael, so who the fuck knows what's going on? I haven't gotten so much as a
phone call from either of them since I saw them last night."

The diner falls silent as your dad's phone rings as if on cue. He flips it open faster than he -- or anyone -- ever has
before. "Yeah?" He doesn't even pause to check the caller ID.

You watch an assortment of emotions wash over your father's face, ranging from surprise to shock and finally to
excitement. Then back to shock. "What the fuck do you mean, 'Ben woke up'?! H-- Yeah, I'm on my way." He snaps
the phone shut, grinning. "Pack up, kiddies. We're going to the hospital."

Auntie Em squeals, clapping his hands together, and whips out his own phone to call Uncle Ted. As you all push
your way out of the diner, your dad calls your moms to tell them the good news.

But sitting in the car, on your way to the hospital, you can't help but wonder… where's Justin?
------

"Of course they admitted him, Gus," your dad says, like he's surprised that he forgot you're retarded. He's walking
leisurely down the hall of Western Penn. Hospital like he owns the fucking place, you and Auntie Em tagging along
like jesters of his court. "He has HIV and collapsed. He's got fucking pneumonia. Of course they admitted him --
what happened to your fucking common sense?"

"We lost it back on Corday Way," you mutter, winning a chuckle from Auntie Em. "Remember? You were driving
so fast we popped a wheelie? Well, it's back there, along with my balls."

Dad grins at your joke and slows down enough for you to walk at his side. He wraps a loose arm around your
shoulders, squeezing briefly. You smile and match his stride.

Justin should be here for this. To see this easy affection that your father gives you, to get that affection for himself.
Your ending… it's turning out the way you hoped it would. Ben's going to be okay. Uncle Mikey's not going to be
doomed to walk the earth alone. And chances are, to celebrate, Grandma will whip up a batch of hot cocoa for the
entire diner, on the house. With extra whipped cream.

You're still fantasizing about your hot cocoa when your dad steers you to stand in front of a door. Auntie Em throws
his arms around your neck in happiness as the door is pushed open, revealing a stark white room.

But no one's smiling.

Uncle Mikey turns around, face guilty and so sorry, brows tilted with grief. He steps forward, away from Uncle
Ben's bed, and lifts a hand to touch your father as he walks in.

"Brian, I'm--"

You look at Uncle Ben, who's sitting up and looking for all the world like he's the healthiest fucker alive, and the
world closes in on you, into a pinpoint. The only thing you can hear is your breathing, and that's barely audible over
the pounding in your ears.

In Uncle Ben's hand… is Justin's white scarf.

"Brian." Grandma rises from her seat on the other side of Uncle Ben's bed. "Sweetheart--"

Your dad swallows audibly and something wild and terrible enters his eyes. He snatches the scarf away from Ben,
then turns on his heel, pushes Auntie Em out of the way, and flies out the door. You can hear his shoes in the hall,
slamming against the linoleum and fading as he becomes farther and farther away.

"Uncle Ben, I'm glad you're okay," you say quickly before darting out of the room, ignoring the calls for you. You
pound down the hall, watch the elevator door swing shut, and pass it immediately. The door marked 'STAIRS' looks
lonely, and you nearly rip it open, tearing down them, flight after flight, thinking vaguely about how your father can
get stupid when he's not thinking straight. When you hit the 1st floor, you push open the door and race into the
lobby, bursting out of the hospital doors and across the street to the parking garage. You beat your dad there by
almost three minutes.

He doesn't even look at you when he presses the unlock button on his remote starter, doesn't acknowledge you when
you get inside and buckle your seat belt. Your dad guns the engine and flies out of the parking garage like a dragon
after a cowardly knight. He banks a right and speeds back for the loft. You grip the 'oh shit!' bar and pray silently
that you make it there in one piece.

Your dad double parks in front of his building and gets out of the car, leaving it still running, and disappears inside.
You shut the car off and grabs the keys, running after him, up all the stairs, until you get to his floor. He's punching
in the alarm code, grab the keys from you, and unlocks the door, sliding it open with a great bang.

You peer inside and your jaw falls slack.

The entire loft is covered in art.

The walls, the floor, the furniture, the decorations and appliances, the windows… all completely plastered with
drawings, sketches, doodles, and paintings… digital art and hand-created art. Depictions of you, of the family, but
most of all… of your father. Your father working at Kinnetic, your father fixing himself a drink, your father reading
the newspaper, watching TV, sleeping, showering, laughing, frowning, smiling, dancing, flying… The loft's newest
editions are taped to everything, flapping in a breeze caused by a single open window.

You step in after your father, cautiously moving forward, paper crackling under your sneakers. You wince as you
walk, accidentally defacing quick pencil drawings and portraits.

Your dad, gripping the scarf at his side, strides into the center of the loft and stops. His head is slightly bowed, and
he looks almost eerie against the white of all the paper. And then his shoulders begin to shake.

Shit, he's cryi--

He throws his head back and laughs long and hard, tears rolling down his cheeks. He's grinning, glowing…

"Very fucking funny!" Dad shouts through his humor. "But just you fucking wait, Justin Taylor! Wait until I fucking
get up there! Wait until I see you again! Your ass will be mine! For all eternity!! You hear me?!"

There's a small gust of wind that comes from the open window… but it's no regular wind. It causes the drawings to
billow before blowing them away from whatever they were stuck to; they ride it, filling the loft with the sound of
beating wings, with every color you can think of, and swirl around your father's lone form. He opens his arms and
tilts his head back to laugh, tears still flowing freely.

"Do you fucking hear me, Justin?!"

Sunlight washes through the loft, and you know that your father was heard.

Epilogue

"Open your eyes, Brian, and take a look around."

That gets your attention.

Your lashes part reluctantly, and you find yourself staring up at nothing. No, that isn't quite right, because your eyes
focus and there's a great big… swirl of light in a black void that makes up the sky. It's an indescribable sight; it's like
looking at all of existence in a single place.

"Ah, I see you're admiring the artwork. Yeah, the Boss was pretty pleased."

You tear your gaze away from the light to the person sitting a few feet away from you, smiling impishly. You blink.

"You did that?"

He beams. "Mm. And I'm working on the meteor shower for next week."

Your eyes find that swirl of light again and you feel the air leave you. If you're even breathing air. Or breathing at
all. What you're looking at is a galaxy. Your boy created a fucking universe.

"Then I take it you were responsible for the sun on Gus's graduation."

He only smiles wider.

With a huff, you get to your feet and dust yourself off, hands pausing when you notice the material they're brushing
against. Tuxedo. You lift your head and find the world has changed again; you're in a hall, balloons tied to posts and
lights flashing obnoxiously. He's standing in the middle of the floor, eighteen again, grinning.

You touch your face and close your eyes against the relief that swells in you. You're young again. Thirty. Christ, all
the wrinkles are gone…

"Brian."

Your eyes open and he holds out a hand to you. A song so familiar begins to play, echoing through the empty hall,
and you swallow against that tide that rises in your heart. The scarf brushes against the skin of your neck as you
walk to him, when you take him in your arms and begin to waltz him around the room.

"What's all this for, Sunshine?"

He looks up at you, stars and planets and solar systems in his eyes, and smiles. "You promised me that you'd have
me for eternity. Eternity is forever, Brian."

You spin him, grinning. "So?"

His body falls flush against yours, hands reaching up for you, tilting your head down to meet him. He whispers
against your lips, breath sweet and warm.

"Forever starts now."

You laugh at the cliché, spin him away from you, and then pull him into your arms again. Closing your eyes, resting
your cheek against his right temple, you twine your right hand with his left and slowly sway to the music.

When you slipped away, you'd hung in a sort of limbo, until They asked you for a suggestion. What could They do
to improve the world?

Forgoing your original answer of 'make better drugs', you'd decided to plagarize, to steal words that came from
another, someone better, someone who fits so well against you. Someone who brightens up your life just enough to
make it bearable. Someone… the only one… who stayed.

"Make sure there's still love in the world…"

Le Fin.