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Cross-Reference 1-9 Author: Cara del sol Summary: Qaf. Justin's sure about one thing, learning to speak fluent Kinney-ese takes a lot of cross- referencing Season 1-2 (and depending on how long it gets part of season 3), however its AU after mid season 2. I don't know what episode.

Chapter 1

Justin’s been there through a lot of shit, a lot of shit. And he thinks it’s pretty fair to say that he’s handled it all well. For the most part. A minimum of queening out, the appropriate amount of push and pull, he’s been pretty damn mature about this, if he does say so himself. Shit, he’s been through Brian of the "one fuck only, what are you doing here little stalker boy" and Brian of the "pissing on Justin’s one true passion is how I express my inner turmoil" even Brian of the "deep and tongue-filled kisses with my so called best friend in front of my non-boyfriend just because I can and the little twat can’t stop me." And he’s stayed, and he’s tried to make it work, and he’s shifted through the layers upon layers of uber crap Brian dishes because he sees so much more beneath it.

And because, frankly, for all his in your face blunt honesty…

Brian’s a liar. Brian’s a big fat phony liar – bigfatphonyliar—and Justin often wonders why he’s the only one who can see it.

No apologies, no excuses, no regrets his lilywhite ass. ‘Sorry is bullshit’ is just another way of saying, "I’m going to fuck up, and you’re just going to have to accept it. Over and Over and Over again." And that is bullshit.

He can’t say "I love you" but he can say, "I love to fuck you". Not because he doesn’t feel the former emotion, but because he’s too damn chicken-shit to admit he feels it.

Except, of course, when he can say I love you, "Always have, always will" but that’s always been ‘either’, ‘or’, never ‘and.’

Brian’s never made him any promises but Justin’s assumed – hoped, wished ‘if not for me than for nobody’ – that that’s the way it was always going to be. Can’t say ‘I love you’ along with ‘I love to fuck you.’

Somewhere though, somewhere deep down he’s known it would happen eventually.

He’s known. Because Brian’s a big fat phony liar who pummels over his own rules on a daily basis, shows one face while feeling another, resists manipulations and advice from everyone and yet folds faster than … a really fast…folding…thing, Fuck! He can’t think of analogies at a time like this.

The man boasts about being his own leader, traveling to the beat of his own drum (such as it is), and not giving a damn about anyone, but when shit gets bad, when the envelope really gets pushed, when a member of his ‘family’ asks him to jump, he replies ‘how fucking high’ … And that, that, is why Justin has stayed through all of it. When the time came Brian always asked how high.

Okay, so there’s usually a ‘you miserable, pathetic, piece of shit’ tacked on the end, but the point is he does it.

The only problem was, and he hadn’t counted on this, Justin knew, he just knew one day someone (one particular someone) would get off his ass and demand both ‘I love you’ and ‘I love to fuck you’. So when it finally does happen on a Wednesday, all Justin can do is sit there, thoughts oddly jumping from ‘that was surprisingly anti-climatic’ to ‘I can’t believe he actually went through with it.’ Justin doesn’t even know which ‘he,’ he’s referring to anymore. Them both, probably.

He’s not surprised that it’s a Wednesday. He’s always despised them, the way they sit there in the middle of the week, all smug and self-important and cold, equidistant from the beginning as the end.

It wouldn’t make as much sense if it happened on any other day. Because their relationship…such as it is… is at an impasse. Not starting, not exactly ending…just stuck for a moment, and Justin doesn’t know what to do.

He loves Brian. He really does. He loves the way his face scrunches up in disgust when someone does something he finds particularly distasteful, loves his playful moods, his high as a kite without the man- made stimulants moods, he even loves his high as a kite from illegal Tijuanan shit juggling socks and fruit and pillows mood. He loves how Brian always does the right thing in the end, and usually doesn’t stray so far from "the right thing" nor wanders too long. He loves his little boy pout, his confident strut, his tongue in cheek smirk, his nervous habit of pulling his lips into his mouth and getting that tiny wrinkle between his brows. He loves how protective he is, the way he can wrap Justin in his arms and block everything out but him loves his dry humor and his wet humor and his playful humor, he loves him so much.

He just doesn’t know if love’s enough to overcome this.

Or. No. He’s not sure if he wants to try anymore.

Its not so much Brian’s fucked another man, because please, Brian’s pretty much fucked everyone. (One times 365 days -- 66 on each leap year -- times ten years plus threesomes and foursomes and orgies times a minimum of two sessions a day times never the same trick twice and…. Fuck, he’s an artist not a mathematician but he did get a 770 on his math section of the SATs.)

Justin doesn’t mind so much anymore. Or at least he doesn’t take it as a personal slight when Brian fucks around. He can’t say he’ll never mind because no matter what Brian says or how after-school special it sounds (if Gay as Blazes was produced by Turner Classic) the only safe sex is sex where you’re both party A and B -- and in Brian’s case parties C through F as well. Even if there were no such thing as broken condoms and floating so high you couldn’t land long enough to scoop one up, there were still such things as violent tricks, tricks in high places, sexual harassment suits, stalkers that weren’t so cute and so non- threatening as Justin …

Hell, the profile of the average serial killer was a twenty-thirty year old unattached white male, Brian’s fuck base of choice... or at least frequency. Of course Justin minded, of course he fucking worried, but that’s not why he’s (pissed-shocked-hurt-betrayed-feeling violent and vulnerable) upset right now.

It’s not even so much who he fucked.

Brian’s pretty indiscriminant regarding his tricks on normal days; throw in one of the alphabet drugs and some liquor of the harder variety and if it has a dick, the only things he won’t do are animals, kids, corpses, bodily liquids, and, oh yeah, bottom.

Except the latter, for Justin. But can he even trust that anymore?

It’s the fact those two sentiments were combined together that hurts. The fact Brian had no right to take that away, to give it to someone who didn’t fucking deserve it. It’s the fact Justin might have broken his own rules by kissing that frat boy, but Brian insisted it didn’t matter and then went out and trampled the shitty things in one fell swoop. He wasn’t there but he knows Brian, and he knows that whiny little obsessive ‘Brian’s my best friend, Brian’s my best friend’ can’t let go of his mama’s apron string long enough to get a life short backstabbing bastard-ass-all-I-have-is-a-high- school-diploma-because-emotionally-I’m-still-in-high-school "hereallylovesyouJustinwhenhe’snotfeelingdepressiveguilt"…

The muscle’s in Justin’s right hand begin to jerk involuntarily as he clenches it hard into a fist.

He knows him and he knows Brian, and he knows all it would take is one look at those pathetic brown eyes and he’d crumble. If he fucked him, he kissed him, he held him, he was gentle with him. And they sure as hell know each other’s names, he’s stayed out past three many times with him because that "didn’t count". So what’s left? Not doing it twice? Jesus Christ.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

What if they did it again? What if they plan on doing it again. What if they want to do it now?

The last thought is enough to break him out of his self-imposed (Kinney-imposed) state of stasis. And it’s like all the time he’s wasted staring blankly at the loft floors has suddenly caught up with him and he’s moving fast. Tearing through the dresser drawers, grabbing up sketchpads, pulling out his long neglected duffel bag, and packing, packing, packing.

How the hell did he acquire so much shit?

Somewhere in his subconscious he’s aware that the shower shuts off, and that Brian suddenly appears, clad only in a towel, water still dripping down his chest and slicking his hair back damp to his forehead.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Brian’s voice comes from behind Justin, and for once it’s honestly confused, not that infuriating false innocence ‘I know what you mean but I’m going to pretend I don’t anyway’ he typically sported. Especially when Justin tried to call him on his shit. He’s not angry, Brian isn’t, his voice is still light and wondering, still in that sweet lazy mood, like melting cotton candy around your tongue. He doesn’t quite realize anything is wrong yet, doesn’t understand what’s happening, so he can afford to be light and fluffy and …and…and curious! While Justin is just breaking. The. Fuck. Apart.

Justin slows his frantic efforts because apparently you can’t hyperventilate and pack at the same time. He utilizes his anti-panic attack methods from after the bashing, and takes deep deep breaths. By the time he answers he’s very proud of his assumed calm, although he has a feeling that maybe the shock just hasn’t fully worn off yet.

"I think," Justin says serenely, "it would be best if I stay at…" Where? Where could he go? Daphne’s (in that crowded college-student slum she called an apartment, complete with two other female roommates), Mom’s (yeah, run back to mommy so she can rhapsodize on and on about how she was so right), Debbie’s (he is not seventeen anymore, he is not going to back track), Emmett’s (oh god no), Lindsay and Melanie’s (two munchers and a munchkin, perfect), Ted’s…

"Fuck! I don’t know, somewhere else for awhile." Oh look. There went calm. He’s never had one a day in his life but he’s pretty sure he’s getting an asthma attack. Either that or his lungs are trying to flee before his tear ducts kick in and the real humiliation starts.

"Alright," Brian says slowly. God, he’s amused. How can he be amused? How dare he be amused? "I’ll bite. Why would it be best if you stayed ‘Fuck, you don’t know, somewhere else for awhile’." "Michael called."

"So? Mikey always calls. If it wasn’t for me and the phone Mikey’s pathetic excuse for a life would be too boring to bear."

He’s moving closer as he speaks, in slow increments, approaching Justin like he’s this frightened deer that will bolt with the slightest provocation. Not like his typical intimidation techniques, Brian’s using his body to box him in this time, not push him away. Which just…Pisses Justin off even more.

"He told me, Brian," Justin says flatly.

Finally a pause. Hesitation. Justin doesn’t look up, so he has to feel Brian’s indecision not see it. And he does, he can feel Brian halt, he can feel the instant Brian realizes what’s going on, finally gets it. And then he can feel the instant Brian decides to play it off. Pretend he doesn’t get it, pretend nothing’s the matter, pretend Justin’s whole world and all the stupid illusions he’s made himself believe didn’t just crumble to the wayside. Justin doesn’t know what he was expecting, but fuck if this is it.

"Told you what? Gayopolis is having a half-off sale for all the good little superheroes that could and you’re invited?

"No. He told me you slept with him. He said he couldn’t hide it from Ben anymore and he didn’t want me to have to hear it from anyone else. He said it was after you came back from the White Party but before we started the comic. He said you came to the shop one night and it just happened." Justin stops babbling, stops packing, stops freaking out, just stops everything and looks up at Brian. Faces him for the first time since Michael’s phone call, and says so very calmly, "tell me he was lying, Brian."

Order, Request, Plea…all of that and more, interwoven into each syllable of each word, and Brian is silent. Pulls his lips into his mouth in that little boy look that just erases ten years, and shifts his gaze to the right and down.

He knew. He knew when Michael told him, thickly, with tears in his voice, that he wasn’t lying, but somehow it took that look that silence before he really knew. And if only Brian had said "he’s lying" straight face or not, Justin thinks he wouldn’t have doubted. He’d make himself believe. How fucked is that?

Justin pulls at his left ear, then runs both hands through his hair, over his face, rubs his neck. Nothing helps, he’s going out of his skin, he can feel it tight and prickly, like he’s seconds away from bursting out. Then they’ll be nothing left of him but a puddle of burst Justin entrails, Brain would have finally split him open in every sense possible. They’ve been telling him that Brian wasn’t good for his health since day one, but Justin’s always assumed they meant it would be crabs or something that did him in.

That’s not funny, that’s really not funny, God, he’s a step away from hysteria.

"Right," he says, a little too loudly, "which is why I have to be somewhere else for awhile."

He moves from the bedroom closet out into the living room, picking up any random piece of ‘hisness’ he can find. All the random shit he’s acquired within the past few months he’s lived with Brian along with the basics. Sketch books go, a flyer someone gave him for some frat party he has no intention of attending goes, even a couple packets of ketchup he’d taken from the diner because Brian always conveniently forgets to pick up a bottle of the stuff when he’s at the market – they all get shoved into his duffle bag in one great big jumbled mess. "It didn’t mean anything," Brian says, following him across the room. "In fact, I barely even remember it."

Justin remembers those words from another incident, and wonders numbly how many times is Brian going to have to pull the figurative rug out from under his feet before he finally gets it? Whatever Brian feels for him, it’s not love, it’s definitely not respect, hell, it’s barely even like. You don’t do this type of shit to people you care about. You just don’t.

Justin turns back towards the bedroom, wondering if he should retrieve that box of condoms he bought. Technically it was meant for them both but why should he leave Brian means to go back and fuck Michael again? Let him get his own condoms.

"It was a one time thing that just…" Justin snorts to himself, and even Brian trails off in silent acknowledgement of the complete lameness of that argument.

"Okay, maybe I fucked up. But it didn’t mean anything, Justin."

Condoms in the bag, onto the bathroom.

"So. What? You’re just going to give me the silent treatment?"

Toothbrush in the bag. Bye bye aftershave. Wait. No. That’s Brian’s aftershave. He doesn’t even have his own friggin’ aftershave? How pathetic is that? And where the hell is his shampoo?

"Will you quit acting like some nelly queen. You’re not going anywhere. Put your shit back." There’s a note of irritation in Brian’s voice now; how quickly he’s moved from abject shame to defensive anger. Bastard. Immoral, Michael Boning Bastard.

He doesn’t really have any more toiletries so onto the bedroom again. What subsists as a bedroom anyway, the whole loft isn’t anything but one giant open space, there are no rooms. Which makes Justin feel especially exposed in only his boxer briefs, clutching the last few years of his life in both hands. He needs to get dressed so he can get out of here. Why the hell couldn’t Michael have called before Justin was in bed?

"Justin, I’m not kidding, stop fucking around and put your shit back." The note of irritation has ascended to a full-blown chord. Fucking bastard. The fucking bastard who fucked…inappropriately. Like he has a right to be pissed off?

It doesn’t matter, it didn’t mean anything, he says. It was goddamn Michael, how could it not? How dare he stand there and say that meaningless shit. He slept with his best friend. The same best friend who’s been in love with him for the past…seventeen years, however the fuck long the count is now. The best friend Brian goes to whenever life gets a little hard, the one who’s seen him through puberty, and college, and tears, and abusive parents, and God knows what else. He slept with him, and now Brian has the sheer gall to tell Justin it didn’t mean anything? What the fuck?

Where the hell are his fucking pants?

"It was just another fuck, Justin. He was complaining about how I did it with Ben and…it just happened, alright? I gave it to him like he’s been wanting, but it was just a fuck."

Justin picks up another article of clothing he’s missed and stuffs it into his bag as a response, then heads for the bedroom. "Will you stop packing!" Despite the pleading nature inherent in the structure of that sentence, there’s nothing pleading about it: Brian bellows it like an order, and without looking Justin knows the muscle in his jaw is working overtime. Good. "Christ, Justin. How the fuck am I supposed to talk to you over the crescendo of fucking noise as you shovel your shit in that godforsaken butt-ugly camping pack? Look, just sit down somewhere for a second. Take a deep breath and stop acting like Justin Taylor: Twat Princess."

Twat Princess. Cute. Fuck Him.

Justin is continuing to ignore him. Justin is going to continue to ignore him. In fact, he’ll never acknowledge Brian again, or for, oh, the next five years at least. Whereupon he’ll casually bump into him during an art exhibit fabulously successful and madly in love with a rich Italian model who wrote love sonnets during his spare time and…who…who had a gigantic cock. ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t see you there. Mr… Kinney, was it? Bart or something, right?’ Take that you backstabbing Michael-fucker. Ha!

Justin attempts to brush by him; head angled down so he doesn’t even have to look at the pathetic shit.

Except Brian is suddenly there, in his face, yanking Justin’s duffel out of his surprised hands. And funny, but as Brian is taking it away it really doesn’t seem like all that much anymore. It’s just one pitiful bag. Shouldn’t he have more? It’s been like two years; shouldn’t he have more stuff, more of himself here? And if not here, then where is it all?

Not at Debbie’s, that’s Michae—pardon "wittle Mikey’s" place, his space. He could barely put new sheets on the mattress without Michael blowing a gasket, much less storing his things there long term. Not at his mother’s, that hasn’t been his house since he moved out the first time. So where—Fuck that, that’s not important.

"What are you doing? Give me back my bag, Brian."

"So the princess can speak. I was beginning to wonder."

"Brian, give me back my bag." It takes effort, a lot of effort on his part to refrain from clawing out his non- boyfriend’s smug self-satisfied cheating eyes. He won’t do it. He won’t. He won’t turn into every gay cliché that ever existed and scream and rave and kick him in the shin while bitch slapping him. He is not some silly little whiny faggot.

"No." Brian recedes a few steps, jaw line stubborn, and Justin is forced to follow. "Not until you agree to sit down and talk to me. You’re always going on and on about how I never talk to you, guess what, Sunshine, now’s your chance."

Oh Such Bullshit. Justin has never demanded a goddamn thing from Brian. Except for the rules, that’s it. He’s given all of himself, and taken what he could get, and read into each and every little fragment of emotion Brian has ever so generously felt benevolent enough to siphon out. Justin hasn’t asked for a single thing; in fact, his mantra for the past few years has been: "I don’t want you to change. I love you how you are." So fuck you very much, Kinney.

Justin scowls hard, and sends a withering glare Brian’s way. "I’m never going on and on about how you never talk to me."

"Yeah, well, the wounded lamb looks sure as hell are saying something."

"Look, this is ridiculous, think what you want. Just give me back my bag and I’ll get out of your way, all right? That’s obviously what you want. Can we just do that?"

Justin makes a grab for it but Brian yanks his arm back too fast and Justin ends up looking like a fool, half falling over himself to clutch at empty air. This is seriously really pissing him off.

Brian recedes a few more steps and mockingly challenges Justin to try again with a grandiose wave of his arm like he’s some Spanish matador. "That’s just so like you," Brian spits. "Shit stops going your way and you take off, and then blame me for it. Big Bad Brian hurt my wittle feewings, he won’t talk to me, he doesn’t want me around. Well, fuck that! Show some balls for once and fucking stick it out."

The nerve, the pure GALL. The Fucking Fuckity Fuck Fuck of Brian’s warped- - twisted— The Pure! How Dare --

"You fucked Michael, Brian! You. Fucked. Michael! You didn’t just stop talking to me; you shoved your fucking dick up Michael’s ass and fucked him! I can’t just forget that, file it away under the list of things you’ve done but we won’t discuss and I won’t say has hurt me. Now give me my fucking bag back, you insensitive piece of shit!"

Justin’s lurch towards his duffel is desperate this time. He’s dressed only in boxer-briefs, his entire top half is flushed red from anger and the chill of the loft, his hair is a wild mess, and now he’s flying at Brian (who himself is only clothed in a towel, rivulets of water still dripping from his body) like a crazy person and Justin honestly doesn’t know how he gets himself into situations like this. His life was never full of all this drama before Brian. He’s pretty sure.

Brian pulls away before Justin can get a good grip on anything, and the next second Brian is slamming the living room window open and unceremoniously dumping all of Justin’s carefully collected shit…outside. Onto the concrete below. Out. The. Fucking. Window.

Pause. Stop. Slow motion. Something. He needs a break. He needs to sit down and just…take a moment. Because that didn’t just happen.

Justin cannot believe Brian has just done that. No, really, he can’t believe it. He just stands there staring blankly at the open window through which his bag has just sailed, and he can’t …believe it.

All his worldly possessions. Gone.

Justin has nothing left but anger and stunned disbelief.

And Brian…Brian is also staring out the window with a mildly shocked expression on his face, which consists mostly of an open mouth stare, tongue lifted and pressing teeth, eyes gone all glittery golden hazel.

Justin hates that look because he can’t resist it. Nothing makes him want to jump Brian faster than that look, that vulnerable ‘I don’t know what to do now’ lost little boy look.

Brian’s lower lip is wet and full, flushed rose red, and even angrier than he’s ever been for quite awhile, Justin has to look away to keep from imagining sucking it into his mouth. Old habits die a slow, hard death.

Justin treads over to the couch and sinks down into it. He doesn’t even have the energy to find humor in the irony of this situation. Brian (he of ‘this is only temporary’ and ‘my place isn’t big enough for the two of us’ and ‘get the fuck out’) has just thrown all of Justin’s things out the window…in order to get him to stay. And now Justin wants to ‘ride him till the cows come home’ because he looked so vulnerable after the deed was done. His life…his life could be a fucking five-act play except no one would believe it was a realistic portrayal of an actual relationship.

Justin sighs and looks at his hands. He should go get something to wear. He’s shivering now and goosebumps have officially taken over his body. He just doesn’t feel like moving. Ever again. He’ll just sit here and contract pneumonia in both lungs until he shivers and hacks his way to death, expiring messily all over Brian’s precious sofa. Explain that stain to your cleaning lady. Better yet, explain it to Deb and Mom.

He hears Brian pad out the room but he doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t do much of anything.

He isn’t really shocked when he feels warmth draped around his shoulders in the form of Brian’s 400 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. Nor is he surprised that Brian chose the sheet over the duvet.

Justin pulls it tighter around his body and refuses to look up in gratitude. He feels Brian hovering over him warily, that look probably still plastered on his face, for one of the few times in his life actually uncertain.

So fuck him.

"You want to talk," Justin’s voice is hoarse though he hasn’t really been screaming, and he speaks in a hushed decibel as if he’s uttering a prayer of reverence and not just about to break up with the only man he’s ever loved. The one man he’s admired, and wanted, and changed all his stupid naïve life ideals for. They think Brian has modified his life for him? Please. He has nothing on the contortions Justin underwent in order to appease him. Casual multi-partner sex left and right though he’s believed in monogamy ever since he could remember, all his mom’s ‘Just say no’ anti-drug programming bypassed, risking an allergic reaction every time he inhales some shit Anita cooked up, ignoring every single put down (the teenage stalker, the trick who stayed too long, the fanbase of one, how can you stand to even look me in the face) to persistently just have some of Brian’s time. Swallowing his pain along with his pride. Okay, fine, some of it was fun. There was a thrill to the life they led together, the tricking, the clubbing…and the rest he only has himself to blame. In all honesty there were more good days than bad. But that didn’t give him a right to just…jack up the bad by a power of five. To just go out and fuck Michael.

"Fine, then tell me something, Brian. When you pissed all over my art, all over my art. …was it because you were jealous because you thought I wanted Michael? Or because you thought Michael wanted me?"

There’s that hesitation again, the pause where Brian goes so still his slight wheeze, because of his deviated septum, can actually be heard. Then he’s sliding around the front of the couch, bumping against Justin with shoulders and thighs, the towel that’s hung on so precariously (miraculously) all through their earlier conniptions finally falling apart to reveal his mostly dry, lower body. Its habit (mostly) that causes Justin’s heart rate to skip, then speed up, the flush to start low in his abdomen and spread to his swelling penis. Knowing Brian it’s probably deliberate; seduction as distraction.

"That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard." Brian’s voice has lost all its un-righteous anger and is equally as hushed as Justin’s. He reaches out and runs his warm palm down the side of Justin’s face, slowly down his neck, down his chest. He slides closer, thighs spreading slowly to reveal balls reclining heavily between them.

"That’s not an answer."

Justin could easily turn him down; even now with his cock stiffening rapidly and raising its own salute. He’s turned him down before, he’s never been so far gone that anger (hurt-betrayal-embarrassment) can’t override lust. He’s not sure if he wants to turn him down though, and he knows Brian reads it in his eyes. If this is to be their last time together then he kind of wants to feel Brian inside him. Maybe…maybe even ride Michael out of his system. Out of both of them.

Brain’s eyes go soft like they do sometimes when he thinks Justin has done something particularly … well, the word ‘cute’ comes to mind, but Brian would probably call it bratty. Or perhaps twatish. Only his jaw is still doing it’s sad repentance thing, so maybe it’s less ‘ I find you really adorable right now’ and more ‘I want you to find me really adorable right now…so I can fuck you.’

"You already know the answer, Justin. Why do you need me to answer a question you already know the answer to?"

"Maybe I don’t know the---" Brian cuts him off with his mouth, opens wide and covers Justin’s in a hot wet suction, tongue expertly slipping in to caress Justin’s, entice him to come out and play, no preamble.

Justin allows it for a little, moans into Brian’s mouth, returns it with his own twisting, caressing, kiss. It feels good. It’s wonderful. Sex isn’t their problem, they could write a best-seller on the subject.

Brian takes the opportunity to divest Justin of his underpants; Justin doesn’t stop him; he wants this too.

When they break away he presses his question, and also his naked cock (against Brian’s abdomen).

"Why can’t you just answer it? Why does this have to be a fight, Brian? If it’s so dumb just answer it."

The non-boyfriend in question doesn’t stop trailing wet kiss down his stomach. Down. Down.

"Bri-- Brian."

The tip of his tongue dances across the head of Justin’s dick, Justin’ hard throbbing dick flushed bright red. Spit mixing with precum while one hand fondles a condom and lube out of apparent thin air (but which is probably more like under a sofa cushion) and the other teases Justin’s hole. Justin doesn’t know why they still bother with condoms when they cum in each other’s mouths and scoff at dental dams. But…only with each other, never with tricks.

What did Michael get? Was it the same for him?

"Answer it," he demands breathlessly when Brian comes up for air.

"You already know the answer."

"Why can’t you just say it?"

With a consistent slow pressure Brian pushes Justin back into the sofa, nudges his legs up; thighs spread wide and open exposing him, all in one smooth practiced motion.

He rips the condom package open with his teeth, rolls it over his erection, leans over with a careful deliberation and eases himself into Justin’s body, one hand guiding, the other holding Justin steady. God. Yes. Like that.

Fully sheathed he leans all the way over until Justin’s cock is trapped between their bodies, Brian’s arms wrapping around him firmly, everything flush and touching, so close he’s breathing into him. "Why do you need to hear it," he asks, so close, so very close Justin hears the words like they’re coming from inside his own head.

Then he lurches forward and thrusts deep.

There’s not too much talking after that, just panting and moaning and those slick wet slurping sounds that accompany really good messy kisses.

When Brian intends to distract, he really puts everything in it. And though he was adamant about not answering, he does that too.

Every touch, every caress, every nuzzle into his neck and tongue lick down his chest, says, "it was you, not Michael, you." But why can’t he just vocalize it? Why can’t he put it into words Justin can hear? Why does Justin always have to guess?

It starts slow but by the time Brian’s climax hits it’s hard and it’s fast and it’s desperate. But mostly it’s intense. Though sex with Brian is usually intense on a variation of levels. Hell, not too many activities with Brian were anything but intense on a variation of levels. But maybe, maybe now is not the time to analyze this. Later when he can have a complete thought without – God!

Not terribly much longer after, Justin cums. Goaded on by Brian’s muscles stiffening, Brian’s back arching, Brian’s hips jutting forward ramming his cock deeper, holding it there, pressing into Justin’s body, Brian’s thighs trembling, Brian’s ass clenching…Brian coming inside of him. Coming because of him. Oh God, that never stops being good.

Justin’s eyes roll back in his head and all he can squeeze out his throat is an agonized half-whine half-grunt of pure pleasure, tearing between clenched teeth. The world doesn’t black out exactly but for a few moments it does go blurry.

When it swirls back into focus, Brian has finished and is sliding carefully out of him; Justin has to force himself to let him go though the urge to close his legs, hold Brian inside him forever…it’s pretty strong. He watches as the condom is stripped and tied off efficiently, wrapped in Brian’s discarded towel and placed on the floor.

Kind of presumptuous. He must be planning on lying down with him, otherwise he’d just go throw the thing away.

Once he’s done, Brian just sort of sits there. Not awkwardly precisely, but attentive. He’s waiting. For what? For Justin to make a move? For a tall brunet to descend from the heavens with a time-machine so he can go back and make sure Justin never answered that call?

Justin wants to get up, wrap himself in his discarded clothing, and…just get the fuck out of there. It would be the easiest thing to do in a way, probably the single hardest and single easiest thing he’s ever had to do in his life. Feeling how he does right now, he could just do it and not give a shit…at least for the moment. And he knows what will hurt the most right now; he knows how to hurt Brian, part of him even wants to. All it would take is for him to get up, right now, dress quietly and tell him, "That was just a fuck. I wanted you to have it for future reference since you seem to have trouble telling the difference. If I’m lucky I won’t see you around, Brian." He knows Brian wouldn’t even follow him after that.

What a fucked little fantasy that is. The truth is as much as he wants to leave, as sure of going as he was not so long ago…now that the heat of the moment has worn away (and most of his energy thanks to a truly spectacular orgasm – hey, maybe Brian’s machinations do work out sometimes) he doesn’t really want to end it.

Brian fucked up, yes. A truly truly mind-blowing fuck up. A fucking fantastic fuck up.

But he’s still Brian. And Justin still loves him. And…he doesn’t want to go. He’s not ready yet. He doesn’t want to just give up.

Maybe that’s what’s truly fucked.

Instead he wipes the cum off his stomach with a corner of the sheet, and lies back down taking Brian’s wrist in his hand and pulling him along.

Brian comes easily like this is exactly what he was waiting for, drawing the sheet over both their bodies on the way down, pulling Justin closer into the crook of his arm until his face is pressed against Justin’s, their legs winding naturally around each other. He’s warm, and soft, and safe, and strong, and gentle, and all sorts of other adjectives that made Justin fall in love with him in the first place -- real love not that flash adoration he had at seventeen. Tricks don’t get this.

Justin wonders if Michael did.

It’s that kind of thinking that’ll end with him leaving tonight, so Justin pushes it away and holds on tight and says, "now what?"

Despite the blonde’s efforts, despite the warmth of their conjoined body heat, they’re both wet and sticky from sweat and spit and cum. The smell of sex is heavy in the air and neither of them makes a move to rectify any of those conditions. Instead they burrow in closer, wet, sticky, and all.

"I already told you it didn’t mean anything," Brian says into Justin’s sweat slicked hair, "I still… feel about you the same way I always have. It’s your call where you want to be. You decide."

"So basically you’re saying what happens is whatever I want. I should just do…whatever I want." He didn’t bother covering the disappointment in his voice.

"There aren’t any locks on our doors," Brian says defensively.

"No," Justin agrees, "but I didn’t think that meant we lived in a little cardboard box at the public park either. Anyone at all can just come in at will." Justin snorts humorlessly, "or should I say cum at will."

Brian doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t move, barely breathes, doesn’t agree or contradict, just silence that Justin doesn’t know what to do with.

"Do you want me here, Brian? Do you want whatever so-called non-relationship we’ve got? Or was this… was Michael supposed to be some sort of message you never really went through with sending?"

"He wasn’t a message."

"Then what," he’s going to scream in a minute, he’s going to scream or cry or some other stereotypical behavior he tries not to indulge in. Then he’ll be disgusted with himself, and Brian’ll be disgusted with him, and what then? What are they going to do then?

Justin takes a deep breath, pushes back images of Brian and Michael together, pushes back the need to dissolve into hysterics, pushes everything back and calmly asks, "what was he?" "He wasn’t anything." Justin turns his head away but Brian tilts it back so they’re looking at each other now, directly in the eyes unflinching. "Why does it matter? I mean, other than the fact that…you know, the rules and shit. You wouldn’t be so upset if I had fucked, godforbid, Honeycutt. So why’s it matter that it was Michael?"

"You actually have to ask me that? You love him, Bri, and he loves you back. He’s practically obsessed with loving you back. And…he can give you something I never can. History. He’s been there for you for over a decade, through some of your toughest times. I don’t have that, I can’t give that."

"You don’t have to be jealous of Mikey, Justin."

"Brian--"

"Let me rephrase: don’t be jealous of Mikey, Justin."

Justin lets his own silence speak for him now. Why shouldn’t he be jealous? What’s he got now that Michael hasn’t? When now…now…Michael has so many things that Justin doesn’t. I love you and I love to fuck you.

Brian’s face --the smooth contours, the stubborn jaw, the perfect eyebrows – is the very picture of gravity when he replies, reading the blonde’s silence like Justin has done so many times for Brian.

"He’s my friend. You’re my…partner. I love him, yeah, but like a brother."

Justin can’t contain a snort in response to that, and Brian’s serious expression shifts into one of mild annoyance and suddenly Justin believes it more. He wonders what it says about them, that its only when Brian’s annoyed that Justin believes his sincerity.

"Fine, we have a fucked up relationship. That’s been established, the point is I don’t love him like I – like.." Brian trails off, and Justin doesn’t bother getting excited, no longer anticipating that now’s the time. That one time Brian might actually say it. He tries not to do that anymore. He used to, before he grew up. In fact, there was a time once when he was positive those words were on the verge of spilling out if Brian even looked at him for longer than a glance. But he’s not seventeen anymore. He’s not holding his breath. He knows now that anything said while in the middle of an orgasm and tweaked out on Tijuanan tub baked, juggling-inspiring, E…well its suspect. He didn’t quite get that at seventeen. He does now. He also knows the chances of Brian saying it sober is miracle to zero.

"I don’t feel about him the same way I feel about you," Brian’s saying instead of ‘like the way I love you,’ "I feel…You already know how I feel about you. Don’t ever be jealous of Mikey. Especially not over this, it really was just a fuck that shouldn’t have happened the first time and won’t happen again. So, yes, it’s your decision where you want to be. If you want to forgive me or not."

Justin sighs and relaxes his body completely into the sofa. All the way down, all the way back, limpid. And Brian curls around him, shifting down until his nose is pressed firmly against Justin’s throat, arms moving to wrap around Justin’s waist. He was always pretty touchy-feely, but Justin thinks this goes beyond snuggling and into the realm of reassuring.

So. So. Brian’s said his piece. And Justin doesn’t want to give up. And for the most part he believes him. So…so now what. If he had known this was the kind of thing he was getting himself into when he wanted to fuck that gorgeous god in a t-shirt and jeans… Fuck. He would have gone with him anyway.

"I love you. And I love being with you. You’re smart and funny and so goddamn sweet though you want to pretend you’re not, you’d do anything for any one of us. And I know you love me."

Brian tucks his head further between Justin’s shoulder and neck, the action from anybody else (hell, the action from Brian) just screams of hiding. Maybe it is, probably it is, either way Brian doesn’t protest, and that in itself is tantamount to a confession.

He doesn’t know if that’s enough anymore though. Reading through Brian’s actions, his words, what he does say, what he doesn’t say, how he says it, when he says it or doesn’t say it, who he does or doesn’t say it to…cross-referencing it all in order to come to a single conclusion. Kinney-ese is a language all its own, and speaking it fluently requires a lot of cross-referencing.

"I know you love me," Justin continues stubbornly, "but sometimes Brian… you do these things and …you don’t think about me first. And it hurts. I’m just tired of getting hurt. I want a break from it for a little while, okay?"

First his mother and the shrink, then his father and the disowning, then St. James and every fucked up homophobic prick with a vendetta and a brand new perfect blonde target-boy to practice it on, then Daphne and her fairy-tale fantasies of happy hetero life with her very own fairy, then Hobbes…

Shit, who was he kidding? Then Hobbes, Then Hobbes, Then Hobbes… and then P.I.F.A. and not being able to draw, and in between Brian. Brian and all his issues and all his convoluted kindergarten tangled rules and shit.

Brian who can be the sweetest most sensitive man in the world, underneath a veneer that’s just bitter enough to keep you on your toes, Brian who could also in a blink of an eye (or a whiff of impending vulnerability, more like, primarily his own) turn into the world’s largest prick. In a very unflattering, un- literal, anti-pleasant feelings way. Brian who would use sex against him, fuck in his face just to prove a point, push Justin away just because he was getting too comfortable, rock the boat because still waters turn Brian’s dick soft.

He is so fucking tired of fighting. Two years of battle, even Sisyphus got a break while the motherfucking rock rolled back down the mountain, is it too much to ask for a month without some type of trauma?

"…and I’m trying to understand, trying to be understanding…but…I’m just tired, Brian."

It takes a whole three seconds before Brian spits out, "then what the fuck are you still doing here?"

Impressive really, early on in their ‘non-relationship’ it would have been an instantaneous response. Justin appreciates that. Really. Still, it’s only the fact Brian’s voice is hoarse like he really had to shove to force his throat to let them out, and his arms tighten around Justin’s waist belying those words, that keep Justin from queening out. The fucking liar doesn’t mean a goddamn word of it.

"I said I’m tired, asshole," Justin replies almost fondly, "not I wanted to quit. Does an Olympic athlete shut the fuck down at the first sign of a muscle cramp? Go home to mommy because they’re a little winded?

"You were supposed to say, how can I help revitalize you, Justin? Not basically tell me to get out. Besides we both know you don’t really want me to leave, your previous hissy fit was testament to that already, so stop being a jackass and help me figure this out, Kinney." "I didn’t have a ‘hissy fit’. I don’t do ‘hissy fits,’" Brian says petulantly.

Justin snorts freely. "You threw my bag out the window, Brian. If that wasn’t a hissy fit, this ‘Twat Princess’ doesn’t know what one is."

"I’ll go get it in a second, nothing was damaged it was mostly clothes anyway," defensive petulance.

"Mm."

Brian cards the fingers of his right hand through Justin’s hair, warm puffs of breath caressing Justin’s neck soothingly. "We’ll take a trip," he says into Justin’s collarbone, "go to the mountains of Vermont like your little friend Daphne, rent a cabin or something. Things have been stressful, we deserve some R&R."

"Rest and Rimming?"

"There’s my little protégé."

"What about your job? My school?"

"I’ll take a week off during your spring break. It’ll be fine." Brian presses a kiss, one long series of kisses, across Justin’s throat, comes back up for air and the warning, "but I don’t want you thinking this is a proposal, Justin. I haven’t suddenly turned lezzie--"

"Yeah yeah yeah, you don’t do Vera."

"Right. Good."

Justin entwines their fingers, allowing himself to snuggle into Brian’s arms, accepting his words as apology. They’re taking a break from trauma; they love each other; Brian’s willing to try…they’ll be okay.

If he wants them to be. Like Brian said it’s his decision. Justin’s been the aggressor in this relationship since day one. They’ll be okay if he wants them to be. He…thinks he wants them to be.

But…

They haven’t solved anything. Justin will still eventually want more, he wants more now. He wants Brian to be the one who compromises sometimes…or at least more often. Because he does compromise, he does give in, he does put Justin first. Just not in ways a normal human being would find acceptable. He does say he loves him. He does. Justin knows Brian loves him. Like he knows the sun will rise in the morning. Like he knows Michael’s been waiting for Brian to finish jerking him off since that one aborted episode back in the stone-age. He knows it. Only…without the words, without the words at least once, all Justin has is a bunch of conjecture.

The kind of stuff he and Daphne used to make fun of when they were in high school, in the days before 'Anno Domini Brian Kinney.' "Oh he totally loves me." "Yeah? He said so?" "Yup. He says it all the time… with his eyes." Justin swallows a laugh to himself. The kind of ridiculous hetero shit Brian says he’s so desperate to avoid. Because there’s nothing quite so straight male as an inability to commit. To just say the words when you mean them. Or maybe it’s just male. Maybe Justin’s the aberration.

Justin is halfway to sleep when Brian speaks again, low in his ear.

"Hey, Sunshine, if you promise not to start picking out engagement rings….I’d like to tell you something else."

Justin opens his eyes sleepily, lashes fluttering. Almost, but not quite worried. What can be worse than fucking Michael?

A shock of auburn hair recedes from his visual focus until it’s replaced by a pair of serious hazel eyes. So very serious.

"I um…I wouldn’t mind if you said it."

"Said what?"

"That day you told me your SAT score. Do you remember what you said before you got out of the car?"

It takes a minute, to remember, so much has happened in between. But it does come back. Justin smiles a little sadly thinking, God, so much has happened in between.

They’re in the car, Brian’s driving him to school -- a victory Justin has won in itself…Brian taking time before work to drive him to school, Brian offering to drive him to school. Tricks don’t get that, not even tricks that’ve stayed too long --and Justin is ribbing him, saying something about how his youth allowed him resilience, something about the schools he can apply to…and then Brian is saying…

Justin can almost hear it: "You’re going out of state?" Kind of …not panicky or shocky so much as... just now realizing that the book you liked to read occasionally is really on library loan, and, hey, the library wants it back. Like you just realized that not only are they allowed to take it back, you have to give it back, and you’re just realizing that now, do wonders never cease, you really really don’t want to give it back. Justin remembers how good that felt, to hear those words in that tone.

"I remember."

"I wouldn’t mind so much if you said it again."

His heart thuds painfully hard in his chest like it knows before he does that this is a moment he’s been waiting for his entire life, before he even met Brian, and even though the rest of him is still not wanting to anticipate, it – his heart-- is excited.

"So..." Brian prompts, "say that. Now."

Justin begins a tentative smile, heart thud thud thudding. Above the roar of blood in his ears he says, whispers, "you so care about me. You love me so much."

Brian swallows hard, whispers back, "yeah. I do."

The smile widens exponentially and Justin lets his eyes drift shut. "I know."

Yeah. He wants them to be.

Chapter 2

Justin entwines their fingers, allowing himself to snuggle into Brian’s arms, accepting his words as apology. They’re taking a break from trauma; they love each other; Brian’s willing to try…they’ll be okay. Of course…that’s all well and good and everything, but the fact of the matter is …

Brian fucked Michael.

Brian seriously fucked Michael.

Two weeks later and Justin still can’t get beyond that. Not really. And he’s tried. How he’s tried.

Justin slams the coffeepot back in its holder a little too forcefully and gets the hot beverage splashed all over his apron and upper arms. Luckily the diner’s ‘hot’ coffee usually translated to lukewarm, no different today. So he’s not burnt, just soaked in the nasty watery liquid.

“Shit.” Justin sighs softly; he does his best cleaning up the mess. But a flurry of wipes with his cleaning rag down his front doesn’t stop him from smelling like the stuff, does nothing to get rid of the stains, doesn’t even dry him sufficiently. The latest in a series of mild catastrophes.

Et tu, coffee? Et tu?

In frustration Justin makes to throw the rag away, checks the level of energy he’d like to put in the task when he catches Deb watching him worriedly. So far she’s managed to hold her tongue, rather uncharacteristically, and for that he’s appreciative, but he doesn’t harbor any illusions that she’ll forever remain this way.

Gently deposit the napkin, hopefully avoid a lecture. Don’t acknowledge Debbie’s worry, and maybe…

Maybe…

Maybe…

Shit. Eye-contact.

“Careful there, Sunshine, ‘drink it or wear it’ is just an expression,” she hollers to him across the room, then chuckles at her own joke, the worry line across her forehead smoothing out briefly.

Justin forces a smile in response. It’s pretty passable; he’s been getting better at it as often as he’s needed the expression in the last two weeks. As often as he’s had to fake it.

Things are tense at home. Two weeks later and Brian’s doing his thing where he fluctuates between an almost sickening attentiveness, for him, interceded with random bursts of impatience. He’s feeling soooo guilty it’s not even funny. Justin can’t even enjoy it.

A tiny niggling little part of him wonders if that’s where the ‘I love you’ – or at least the insinuation of an ‘I love you’ -- came from. Guilt.

As for Michael, after the call that rocked Gibraltar no more had been heard from the man. He wouldn’t mind so much if that was a constant state of affairs.

Justin doesn’t know how he feels about Michael anymore.

Debbie intercepts him at his next pit stop from kitchen to counter. Her eyes are narrowed suspiciously and she’s popping away at her gum with those fast chews she takes when she’s just about to out you in a lie. He’s not sure what he wants to tell Debbie – or not tell her. He doesn’t know what he wants to tell himself, some days.

“So, you gonna tell me what’s been going on, or am I gonna have to pry it out you?”

Fake smile. Sunshine happy. Cherub innocence. “Nothing’s been going on--”

Debbie snaps her gum and raises an eyebrow, not fooled in the least, “Don’t bullshit me, Sunshine. You’ve been moping around like someone killed your puppy and dropping something every time the diner’s door swings open. My son’s been an irritable little shit, jumpier and snappier than a tweaked out crystal queen. And as for monsieur Kinney, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of his infamous assholeness since yours and Michael’s mood swings began. So please, do enlighten me. What the fuck did he do now?”

Justin has to catch himself from saying ‘which one? Your asshole biological son or your asshole adopted son?’ His family wasn’t Catholic, so Justin hasn’t had the beneficiary experiences of the confessional but he’s pretty sure Deb’s got some of that in her genes. Being around her inspires one of two emotions, blabbing or sullen petulance. But mostly blabbing. She passed it on to Michael too because there were plenty of days Justin got verbal diarrhea around the man.

God. The shit he’s told him. All the little…confessions he’s made to him. All the---

And no. He cannot feel more like a fool than he does at this moment.

Although that phone call came pretty damn close.

Lying in bed, listening to the water run in the bathroom. Just his boxers on and once Brian comes out probably not even those, but not yet. Too comfortable to move, too warm and soft, Brian always buys the best sheets. This might sound kind of superficial, but at night this was the part he missed most during those brief few months between living with Brian round one and living with Brian round two.

If he could just bottle this feeling, and then sketch it, fuck P.I.F.A. They could take their degree and stuff it. He’d be a fucking star, rolling in money.

The phone rings shrilly dissipating his fantasies.

Rolling onto his stomach, Justin picks it up after the second. “Yup?”

“Oh. Hi. Justin.” It’s Michael but his voice is all wrong, a mixture of shock and something nasal. “ It’s me.” No. Really? Justin rolls his eyes in good humor, only two years of hearing the man’s voice practically everyday, of course he wouldn’t know who it was.

“Hey, Michael. Brian’s in the shower--”

“That’s okay, I…um called to talk to you.”

“Oh? What about? Not another revamp on Rage, is it? I still think the utility belt with built in condom dispenser is a good idea. Even if its reminiscent of a porno Batman. It encourages safe sex while--”

“No, no, it’s not about Rage.” Michael gave a little nervous laugh that immediately twisted Justin’s stomach. “Or maybe it is about Rage, just not the Rage you’re thinking of. God, I wish it was.”

“What? You’re not making any sense. What happened?” “I um...I have to tell you something, Justin.”

Breathy silence. Was that swallowing in the background?

“I don’t know how to say this.”

Oh God. Someone was dead. Someone died, he was crying that’s why the nasal voice, that’s why the wrongness. Someone was dead.

Or all the backup issues of Rage were…stolen in some freak gay-comic theft ring and redistributed under someone else’s name and sold for double what they were asking. Fucking plagiarists. “Just say it, Michael. You’re freaking me out.”

“I…need to tell you before anyone else does. I had to tell Ben, he asked and I couldn’t lie. I just couldn’t. And it wasn’t as bad at first because I could pretend it meant something, or didn’t mean something, and it was just the once, Justin. I swear. But then he asked and I couldn’t lie, you know? So I had to tell you too before anyone else--”

“Michael. Deep Breath. Then tell me what the hell you’re talking about in English, okay? Full sentences, please?”

“I slept with Brian. Slept slept. Like sex slept. And I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, kiddo, you still with me?” Debbie places the back of her hand against Justin’s forehead, testing his temperature.

“Hmm?” Oh. Right. Life altering decision to make here. To tell Debbie or not to tell Debbie. That is the question. Whether it is nobler of mind to suffer the slings and arrows of Michael’s total betrayal in silence and morbid flashbacks, or tattle on his punk ass and have his mommy smack some sense into him. Mikey, you’re goin’ in Time Out.

This isn’t funny. Stop making a joke out of it. Been around Brian too long.

And hell, Debbie’s said something …don’t know what it was.

“If something’s the matter, you know you can tell me, honey.”

“No. Nothing’s the matter.” Coward. “But, you know, actually, I need to talk to you about taking time off.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Brian’s taking me to Vermont next week and--”

“Vermont, huh?” She tries casually; it’s a wasted effort though because Debbie’s casual is Emmett’s tame fashion sense. Her face lights up in that way it does when she can’t decide between ecstatic squealing, or outright shock. It’s not very often that he can surprise Deb, make her shocky happy, it’s a shame this isn’t one of those times. That special mixture of surprised delight only Deb can do.

“Nothing like that, Deb. Just a vacation. You know Brian, the closest he’ll ever get to formal commitment is fucking a psychiatric attendant.” “Or the patient, or the therapist. One of these days that kid is going to learn to keep his dick in his pants.”

This time Justin can’t stop the wince. And of course, Debbie picks up on it immediately.

Fuck.

“Should I be asking ‘who’ he did instead of ‘what’ he did?”

Justin looks away afraid for a moment he’s going to blurt, “Not unless you really want to know the answer.” Which would be tantamount to screaming “Michael Michael!” at the top of his lungs.

A part of him really wants to do both. Fuck Michael.

But she’d probably just end up making it all Brian’s fault. It is Brian’s fault, in addition to Michael’s. And Michael deserved to take some responsibility. Besides, he’s forgiven Brian. He has. Really.

Well, fuck.

It’s just so hard to forgive when he can barely wrap his brain around the idea most days. There are so many questions he has still unanswered. Like, how does that happen? How do you avoid something like that for eons, only to slip up at the most inopportune moment and end up… well, balls deep in Michael, of all people. Whatever rules Brian obviously had against it to begin with…how do they suddenly get tossed out, with no warning, when he had the most to lose?

And Michael…Michael…how could he do that to him. Justin knew they weren’t best friends or anything but they were at least cordial. They got along. They were working on the fucking project for Chrissake. Justin had even said once that they were so in tune it was like they shared a Brain. Freudian slip? Did he know he really should have said share a Brian? How do you just betray someone like that? How could he just sleep with Brian, just like that?

Okay, so on some level he knew Michael Novotny was not his friend.

He’s ‘Brian’s friend’. The concept shouldn’t be so hard to grasp, Michael’s only been telling him (repeatedly) since the day they met. You’d think he’d finally get it after two years. He’s Brian’s BEST friend. The most bestest friend in the whole wide world. Michael only makes a point of announcing it to every not-even-semi-interested random I-just-happened-to-glance-in-your-direction passer-by.

He’s Brian’s friend, not Justin’s. Okay. Fine.

Justin doesn’t remember that thought hurting quite so much when he was seventeen; why the fuck does it make any difference now?

Mostly he just can’t stop thinking about it. Like that analogy everyone always throws around of gawkers at a train wreck. His brain keeps stuttering, often randomly incited by nothing and at any given moment, on possible scenarios. Brian and Michael together, fucking. Different positions, a whole array of places, different expressions, a veritable smorgasbord of –

“Well look what the cat dragged in.”

Justin turns to see what’s caught Debbie’s attention and is captivated by Brian’s confident strut into the diner. Speak of the devil.

“Debbie, please, for me, leave it alone?”

“If he’s done something, Sunshine---”

“Then it’s for me to handle.”

Debbie sighs, snaps her gum, and gives him one last worried look. “If that’s how you want it…”

“It is.”

“Alright. This is me, minding my own fucking business.”

Justin’s smile is perfectly sincere this time. “This is me being grateful.”

Debbie huffs but he can tell she’s not really upset, and the next second she’s patting his cheek and chuckling to herself on the way back to the kitchen.

It fades a little, so Justin plasters it back on wider, as he approaches Brian’s seat. He can do this.

*~*~*~*~* In bed together Brian’s begun to face the other way. They don’t start out that way, but in the morning Justin’s on one side, Brian’s on the opposite, as far opposite as you can get.

It’s barely like they share a bed anymore.

Justin misses him. He’s not sure what to do about that, it’s kind of his fault. He hasn’t been terribly receptive lately, he’s tensed a few times whereas before his reaction was to relax. That’s not deliberate either, it just happens.

They haven’t had sex since that last time, two weeks ago, on the sofa, after Brian chucked Justin’s things out the window -- they still haven’t found his favorite charcoal pencil, the one with the white ring on the end.

Justin doesn’t know if Brian’s had any tricks since then, and honestly he doesn’t want to know. He’s not sure how he’d react to an affirmative.

Justin hasn’t had anyone, hasn’t much felt like sex really. He’s wondered, occasionally, when there’s nothing left to do (but think of Michael and Brian together in bed, on the floor, against a wall, in a stall, would you could you in a stall), if it’s possible to be impotent at eighteen. Surely not. He’s in his prime, right? His glory years?

That night, Justin can feel Brian’s want in the air, can practically taste it. Brian’s eyes keep flickering over Justin’s abdomen, thighs, groin. He even catches him visually undressing him on his way to the kitchen, gaze like a physical caress over Justin’s back. Not surprising. No matter what he says about ass and cock, Brian’s a back man. He loves caressing it, licking it, sucking kisses into the steady flex of bunching muscles, pressing his chest and stomach against Justin’s back, running a hand between Justin’s shoulder blades.

Michael doesn’t have all that great of a back, but what he could tell through baggy jeans, his thighs were pretty good. Did Brian appreciate that? Justin bites his tongue hard as warming arousal is batted abruptly down. God, if he could just stop thinking about them for like five seconds at a stretch…he’d be so thankful.

Justin pretends he doesn’t notice Brian watching him, wanting him. They don’t have sex that night either.

He has to work this out, they can’t keep going on the way they have.

*~*~*~*~* It’s a week later, still sexless, still awkward. Brian’s quit initiating it, or trying to initiate it. Justin’s not punishing him, not trying to at least, but the thought of sex with anyone, Brian included is… it’s a turn-off in a big way. Catching your parents going at it type of turn off.

Neither of them mentions it, as if not saying anything with make the problem disappear. The weird thing is Justin hasn’t been this horny since he was seventeen years old pre-Liberty avenue days. Being that horny was what made him brave the street in the first place.

Horny and bored. This is his life.

That night at the loft, Justin’s home a full five hours before Brian. He’s going out of his mind. Each day it’s earlier and earlier that he’s left with nothing to do. There’s only so many times he can revise his homework, only so many chapters from his history of art text he can read before his eyes start watering and the words start blurring, and his mind melts from the sheer monotony. Three weeks since he’s found out about Brian and Michael and his entire social life has shut down, his social circle is Brian’s social circle is Michael’s social circle. It’s not so odd he’s been avoiding them all, but as the clock carefully clicks its way to six fifty it does leave one wondering just what he did before wriggling his way into Brian’s life.

There’s Daphne, of course, but she’d take one look at him and know something was wrong. Then she’d wheedle, and threaten, and mope, and extort, until she found out what discordance was screwing with his Chi. It’s been bad enough talking to her on the phone.

He needs to get a sane, passive, non-pushy friend all his own.

After the diner, Justin’s spent the day reorganizing the linen closet, flipping through channel after endless channel of daytime drama, planning their Vermont trip down to the last detail (gum for the pressure drop, loose sweatpants for initiation into the Mile High Club – they are having fucking sex on this trip if Justin has to fucking fake it), and really wishing he enrolled for a Wednesday class.

Fucking Wednesdays.

By the time eight-thirty rolls around, he’s envisioned Michael and Brian fucking in a combined fifteen different locations, twenty-eight different positions (some which were pretty anatomically impossible unless your spine was liquefied and extracted from your body), every approximate three point five seconds. Rounding.

But he’s also bored out of his skull, which far outweighs all else. When Brian comes in that night, Justin is ridiculously happy to see him. A physical bliss temporarily transcending any and all hurts and betrayals and warranted suppressed anger. He’s almost convinced himself (not quite but just about there) that there’s no reason for him to be upset, whatever Brian’s actions, it’s not enough to disrupt the pure symmetry and destiny that is their relationship.

He has big plans for this trip. They’ll reconnect. Talk it all out, fully this time, not just Justin freaking out and Brian freaking out and shit being thrown out windows and fucking on the sofa. They’ll have an actual conversation, work through their problems, make love by firelight; Justin will get his questions answered.

When Brian waltzes into the loft, Justin’s in a very vulnerable place.

Which is his only excuse for not immediately recognizing Brian’s steady packing for what it is. Tie after shirt after expensive suit go into Brian’s suitcase, his frame backlit by the warm glow of the closet’s 100 watt bulb.

“That’s a lot of Prada for snowboarding,” Justin notes.

Brian heaves a breath, says, “I’m not going snowboarding.”

He doesn’t understand at first, or …he doesn’t want to understand. They’re both the same thing really, same end result. It’s two weeks ago all over again, with a variation on tune. Brian’s confusion for Justin’s.

“You can’t go to Vermont and not go snowboarding, Bri, it’s part of the experience.”

“Yeah. I’m not going to Vermont either.”

“What?”

“I have to go to Chicago.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight,” Justin repeats dully. They’re leaving for Vermont tomorrow. They were leaving for Vermont tomorrow.

He sucks in a breath, holds it, lets it back out in a long sigh that pulls his lungs and heart and all the major ticking organs back into alignment. He’s waited for this; this shouldn’t hurt. “What’s in Chicago?”

“My new account.” Zip. Slam. Sink. This is how you break a heart by closing a bag. His job, his fucking job is more important than they are.

“Okay.”

“Vermont’s just going to have to wait.” Michael is more important than they are. Brian’s libido is more important than they are.

“Okay.”

“It’s business, Justin. We’ll go away after I get back.” Brian’s fucking image is more important than they are.

“Okay.”

“Snowboarding doesn’t pay the bills.” Now his job. Exactly how far down the list is he? Is he even on the list? “Okay.” Each successive answer has gotten quieter and quieter, though Justin’s not aware of it. It’s taking all his energy not to cry, or scream, or climb into bed pull the covers over his head and pretend this day didn’t happen.

By the last ‘okay’ Justin is practically mouthing the word; Brian snaps.

Sickening attentiveness to random irritation. Justin’s no more prepared for the mood switch than if Brian had been a little more attentive, a little less ‘butter wouldn’t melt’. So guilty it’s not even funny.

“Look,” Brian barks out, closing the distance between them rapidly, “this wronged damsel in distress bullshit is getting old. I’m not waiting around forever for you to decide whether or not to grace me with your royal favor.”

So spoiling for a fight that Justin would give it to him, just to shut him up, if only he weren’t feeling quite so dizzy.

“And I’m sure as hell not losing my job to placate one of your whims. This trip’s important, Vermont is just gonna have to take a backseat. If you can’t handle that then fuck it. You knew what you were getting going into this, and I’ll be God-fucking-damned if--”

If Justin has to listen to one more word he’s going to be sick, very literally very nastily, all over Brian’s floor. He’d do it too, if it wasn’t so fucking pathetic.

“Brian. Brian? Okay. Fine. Go to Chicago, go get your new account, go—just, go. Some other time.”

Brain pauses abruptly, the flow of his words chopped off, and he watches Justin with a tight jawed scowl that says he doesn’t believe him, and he’s not sure if he should let this go.

He does though. When he wants to, Brian can be very good at letting shit go.

“Well, good. Okay.” Brian reaches for Justin, leans down and kisses him briefly on the lips. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

And that’s it.

So much for transcendence.

Justin closes his eyes as he hears the loft door slide shut with a heavy metallic clang. That’s it. He permits tears this time. There’s no one around to see them, what’s the point in holding them back. There’s not so many anyway. He knew this was coming; this shouldn’t hurt.

Most of his stuff is still packed from three weeks ago. He never got around to putting them back, and Brian eventually got tired of suggesting he should -- (“are you ever going to get rid of that bag? It’s clashing atrociously with the strong Italian lines of the loft.” “Yeah, soon, I just don’t feel like going through it all right now.”)-- maybe it was a sign.

Anyway, it doesn’t take long to gather it all up again. It goes quicker than before and everything.

Justin swallows, looks around one last time, and slides his cell phone into his back pocket.

Funny how much easier it is to leave when Brian’s not around to stop him. Chapter 3

By the time Justin reaches the first floor, he’s riding high on potent rage. It feels good. Really really good. He’s decisive, he’s strong, he’s independent, he’s nobody’s fool.

He’s full of shit.

If he tries really hard, maybe he’ll eventually forget that part.

*~*~*~*~* Yeah. So full of shit.

He goes over the list of people he can crash with in his head. Again. And just like before the realistic possibilities are few. Most of them can be crossed off with a great big: “Brian’s friend” next to their name. The rest…

He really needs to expand his social circle.

Sometime around three he settles on Daphne as the lesser evil. Even if she does have two other roommates, she at least won’t mother him to death. And at least he won’t have to wander around Pittsburgh with a full duffle bag, getting strange looks from other early morning pedestrians, suspicious looks from the odd cop he passes.

Although, judging by the size of that glare, Daphne’s roommate may very well kill him and bury his body under the floorboards.

Justin doesn’t have a chance to get even a semblance of a rational excuse out, and he could have come up with one a little less pitiful than ‘I’ve left my boyfriend and I’ve nowhere else to go’ had he the time, so he feels a bit cheate – Oh. God. He’s left his boyfriend. He’s left Brian.

He’s left.

He’s left….

The red-head stumbles away from the door while Justin’s having this life-shattering epiphany, yelling, “Chanders! You have a visitor.”

A moment later Daphne descends from her room bleary eyed and puffy-haired, clad in matching baby-blue t-shirt and shorts. She looks half-asleep, dazed…not pissed. He loves Daphne.

Justin offers her a sheepish smile and gestures blandly at his abandoned duffle beside a red couch with black trim. Brian would never own a red couch with black trim. Actually, Justin would never own a red couch with black trim. It’s hideous. He’s not sleeping there. If he was back home he wouldn’t have to sleep on it, but he’s not, so he might, because he’s left. He’s not sure which is worse, that thought going round and round in his head unceasingly, or the vision of Michael and Brian…

Fuck! Now that’s back too!

“Rate it,” she orders. Her eyes keep blinking shut and taking a half a second too long to open again.

A smile flutters to life on his face. Rating the level of their personal dramas was something they used to do when they were twelve, just kids playing at being grown up with nothing really to worry about. They haven’t rated anything in years. He realizes it’s probably only slipped out because she’s half-asleep, but still…this is part of his past, part of him. Sometimes he can’t remember a before; it’s nice to be reminded. Nice to know he’ll have something left…

God. They broke up.

Not a fifteen because he left voluntarily. But he did leave, so greater than a ten. And then there were the visions, and the fact that he’s left. And the fact that his last salvation is one uninteresting comment away from passing back into unconsciousness. “Thirteen, if you make me sleep on the couch. Eleven otherwise.”

Daphne nods. “Okay,” she says in a voice that’s a trifle too loud, “lock the door and come on.”

She doesn’t have to repeat herself.

Following is not a problem. Following is good. Following keeps him from thinking too deeply about how easily his life just got shoved down the toilet. Well, okay, in the toilet but not flushed yet. His best friend since forever shuts her bedroom door with him inside, totally oblivious to his impending panic attack. She’s still too asleep to care right now. If he was at all decent, he’d let her go back to bed and talk to her about it later.

He should. He really should.

“Daphne, what do you think of Brian?”

That wasn’t supposed to come out his mouth.

Daphne yawns and flops down on her bed, burrowing her way under the covers up to her chin. “I love Brian,” she says sleepily, “he’s cool.”

That wasn’t supposed to come out her mouth. Why isn’t anyone cooperating?

Justin strips down to a t-shirt and boxers and climbs in after her. It’s a tiny twin mattress, nothing at all like Brian’s huge king size, and they’re practically on top of each other. Daphne automatically shifts over as much as she can to give him room. She’s warm and accepting and uncomplicated. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s not in love with her and has absolutely no desire to fuck her…Daphne would be the perfect choice for him. If only she were a guy. Hey, maybe he can convince her to get a sex change operation. “Okay, Brian’s cool,” he agrees in a tone on the false side of sincere, “but don’t you think he’s a bit of an ass? I mean he’s completely wrong for me, isn’t he?”

“Mmm.” Her eyes are closed now, and she’s doing that weird whuffling thing she does when she’s falling asleep, where it sounds like she’s been crying for hours on end and the sobs have just recently petered away.

He feels impending panic pressing closer.

Justin ‘accidentally’ flings a limb out and shoves her awake, nearly shoves her off the bed. “Daph? Brian’s completely wrong for me, right? He can be an ass, correct?”

She rubs her eyes, yawning hard. Blink, blink, blink. He has to nudge her again in the stomach to make her stop blinking blankly at him long enough to answer. “I guess. He can be. Sometimes.”

“Most of the time,” Justin corrects.

“Well…sometimes. He’s pretty cool though.”

Jesus, even half-asleep she’s the single most uncooperative human being on the face of the earth, forget the operation.

“Daphne. Brian’s totally wrong for me. Right?”

Say yes. Say yes. Say yesyesyesyes. God, he’s left. Say it was the right choice, say it had to be done.

Instead she says, “Any possibility we can discuss this in the morning?”

“It is the morning.”

“A saner hour then?”

“Thirteen, Daph. It’s rated a thirteen.”

There’s nowhere to go in this tiny bed so wiggling out of his reach is impossible; she tries anyway with a half-groan. “You said eleven.” Her voice is perilously close to whining, the same tone she had when she was six and Justin accidentally ate the last skittle that she apparently had to have or else she’d fall into a diabetic coma complete with epileptic seizures and, strangely, an amnesiatic fugue. And they thought he was the drama queen. He mercilessly smothers any kernel of sympathy he might have for her, she doesn’t have school tomorrow (or today, depending on your point of view), and he’s the one having the personal crisis. She can wait it out.

“That was before my best friend decided to ditch me for sleep. Abandonment moves the severity up two points. It’s in the manual, you should know this.” Daphne lets out a little laugh that’s interrupted by a jaw-splitting yawn and curls herself into a ball. A person shaped ball with a messy brown fluff poking out. “Fine. What do you want me to say here, Justin?”

“I don’t want you to say anything, just how you feel. Honestly.”

“Riiight. Okay, sure. You’re in that ‘that stupid inconsiderate asshole is lucky I don’t believe in violence’ mode again, aren’t you? What’d he do? Give me something to work with and I can better fulfill my role as properly supportive best friend.”

She’s making that face now, the one she makes when she’s trying to be diplomatic and polite but feels anything but those two, the one she made in junior high when Celeste-whatever-the-hell-her-last-name-was asked her if she ever felt weird being ‘like the only black kid’. It’s hidden beneath a haze of sleep- depravation but it’s there and he sees it. He’s known her far too long to not see it.

It’s …comforting.

“Why don’t you think he’s wrong for me? Everyone else does. Half the time I think so. Three quarters of the time. Seven eights of the time.” Albeit all those times occurred while Justin was steaming pissing mad at him…

“I think I get it. What happened?”

“He had sex with Michael.” It’s not any easier to say. Not with time and distance and someone other than Brian. It’s not getting any easier to say. It should be, he’s thought of it so often, he’s tried to come to terms with it, saying it or not saying it doesn’t change the fact that it’s happened so it should really be no big deal anymore. No easier though, still that accompanying pang of …of…bitter hurt. Of his entire chest crushing inward and deflating.

Brian fucked Michael.

Oh, Amazing. One quasi-positive product of this whole mess: Justin now knows how to wake Daphne up with a single sentence. Varying shades of melodramas throughout the years and he’s been trying to figure out how to accomplish that. Congratulations, all it took was ---

Not going to imagine them together. Not.

“Michael, Michael? Best friend Michael? Debbie’s son Michael? That Michael? Collaborator on Rage, Michael?” There’s not a single lethargic line on her body. She’s never been awake so quickly in her life.

“Yeah, that one.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” “Really wow.”

Justin shrugs halfheartedly and says no more.

“I thought they had a strictly no sex in any capacity relationship.”

Justin snorts and rolls onto his back carefully; one leg falls off the bed to the floor. “So did I.”

Daphne follows suit. “That’s kind of … creepy.”

“No shit?”

“Don’t you guys have rules about doing anyone you know?”

“Rules were made to be broken, I suppose.”

“Wow. How did that happen?”

Justin would like to know that too. It’s the single most pressing detail he’d like to know most. How.

“I don’t know. I don’t…” he takes a little breath and lies, “I don’t want to know.”

Daphne, always energetic when justice and truth and the Chanderian way is being threatened, sits up, yanking with her the blankets. “How can you not want to know? It’s kind of important, Justin. I mean, he slept with Michael.”

He does want to know. He’s just …scared. Scared to death of finding out something maybe he shouldn’t. Some reason he hasn’t thought of yet, some logical explanation for the illogical. Something he couldn’t live with.

“I just don’t okay? Why should I have to listen to the details? It’s not going to change anything. And anyway, that’s not why I left tonight. That’s just…that’s just part of it, I guess. I’ve known about the ---I’ve known about the other thing for almost a month. Michael called and told me.” “I um...I have to tell you something, Justin.” “I slept with Brian. Slept slept. Like sex slept. And I’m so sorry.”

Daphne settles back down with a little frown, thankfully she’s caught his hints and is hopefully going to drop the ‘how’s. No ‘how’s, Daphne, Okay? No ‘how’s.

“Shit,” she says, “what did you do?” What, infinitely better than how.

“Nothing. I was too stunned to say anything to him so I just hung up. Then I packed, screamed at Brian, tried to leave…”

“And?” Justin looks at the ceiling tracing the lines with his eyes, seeing instead that day he alternately couldn’t bare to think of, and couldn’t bare to stop thinking of. “He threw all my stuff out the window, told me I wasn’t going anywhere…then we fucked.”

He cuts his eyes to look at her when the bed starts shaking, then rolls them back to the ceiling. “Personal crisis of eleven, Daph,” he reminds blandly. “Eleven.”

Through stifled giggles, she forces out, “Sorry. Sorry. I know laughing’s a completely inappropriate response but…”

But his life is funny when it isn’t painful, or even when it is.

“Was the sex at least good,” Daphne slides closer as she asks this curiously, underneath the light tone a cautious note holds fast, she’s testing the waters to see how hurt he’s actually feeling, which approach she should take in cheering him. He knows this because he knows her and he allows it because this too is comforting. God, he loves Daph.

“We’ve had better, we’ve had worse.”

“You’re kidding, there’s such a thing as Bad Sex with Brian,” she teases.

Justin smirks. “I never said we had bad sex, I said we’ve had worse.”

“Ah. Excuuuse me. Then what?”

“We did what we usually do after an argument and make-up sex. Pretended like it never happened. He said hav—fu—being wi—“ Deep breath, spit it out. “The thing with ‘he-who-shall-not-be-spoken-of’ didn’t mean anything. I said bullshit. He said, no really. I said, no really, bullshit. He told me to tell him that I said that he loved me, I did, he agreed.”

“…that’s…sweet. Convoluted, but really sweet.”

“It was very Brian.”

“So then what?”

“Then we went to sleep, he promised to take me to Vermont--”

“Hey, that’s where I went with James,” Daphne interjects, she’s watching him avidly, curled around a pillow.

“That’s why. So we could have like a time out together. We were supposed to go tomorrow.” No more drama, no more trauma, they were supposed to take a break. They were supposed to reconnect. How did everything get so screwed up so quickly. “Then why the hell are you over here trying to trick me into badmouthing your boyfriend?” Daphne echoes his thoughts.

Justin smiles sadly and tucks his chin further into the warm comforter. Big, soft, warm, cotton comforter, not a duvet. Never a duvet again.

“Because he’s on his way to Chicago as we speak. I don’t know when he’ll be back. But that doesn’t matter anyway because I knew what I was getting into, he’s not waiting around for me to decide whether or not to bestow my royal favor upon his person, and he’ll be goddamned – pardon, God-fucking-damned if he loses his job over placating my mercurial whim.”

“And I heard the ominous presence of quotation marks because…”

“Because they were there. It’s pretty much what he told me before he left.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

They lay side by side quietly, practically twisted around each other because otherwise one or both of them would be on the floor. Daphne keeps smoothing his hair from his forehead over and over.

“What are you going to do,” she whispers eventually into the collected silence. The one question he wishes someone else would answer for him. ‘Tell me what to do, Daphne,’ he wants to plead. Why can’t it be that easy?

“After I finish tricking you into badmouthing my boyfriend? I don’t know. I repacked my shit, forwent the screaming and came here.” Then quietly, so quietly it’s barely a breath, barely made real and brought to life, yet still…still there. “ I think…I think I’m leaving him, Daph. I think I left him.”

No tears this time. Not in front of Daphne, not because of this, not for a decision he’s made.

Her hands don’t stop caressing for a moment, he feels four years old again, spending the night at her house, her mother tucking them into bed and brushing the hair away from their faces, whispering, ‘Goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite’.

“The ‘think,’ I assume, means he doesn’t know?”

“He will when he gets back.” She forgot to mention, don’t let life bite. No wonder he’s been so fucked, a vital piece of advice went missing. He has to swallow around a solid presence in his throat, blink back a stinging in his eyes.

“Want my advice?” “That’s why I’m here.”

“And I thought it was for the free bed and all the butterscotch pudding you can eat.”

Justin forces a tentative smile, finds it’s just as hard to fake as pretending you’re not about to cry. “That too.”

“If you really want to leave, then do it. If that’s what you think is best for you, but don’t do it this way, Justin. You can’t just not be there when he gets back, that’s really fucked.”

“I can’t be there right now either. I just can’t.”

She nods like she understands. Probably she does, who knows him better than Daphne? The girl who wasn’t fazed when he came out, who routinely supplies love and support and butterscotch jello shooters because it’s his favorite flavor even though she can’t stand it.

“Then go to Vermont, take the trip, cool off. Make a decision when you’re not hurt and angry. Take this time to think about what you really want, then either work it out or break it off when you get back. This could actually be a good thing. You both get some time alone to figure out what you’re gonna do. But let him know something, Justin.”

She hugs him because she knows that’s easier said than done. He nods and hugs her back because he knows she knows.

“What would I do without you?”

A smile’s pressed against his cheek. “A hell of a lot more drama. Just…are you sure you want to do this?”

“Sure? No. But he keeps hurting me, Daph, and I’m not sure how many more times I can… It’s hard, and it hurts, and I don’t want to do it anymore. Is that wrong?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Of course it’s not. But…no. Nevermind.”

“Go ahead and say it.”

“It’s well…you sorta let him get away with a lot of shit, you know? And never tell him that he’s getting away with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…if you don’t like something, you should tell him. You can’t just pretend like it doesn’t matter. Like you want to do it, like you like it.”

“I never--” Justin begins hotly only to be interrupted by a fierce glare. “Need I remind you of the pride march?”

“I should have gone to that, I’m glad I went.”

“You still let him talk you into it, let him drag you there to begin with. You only went ‘cause he wanted you to. How about Date Night?”

Justin stiffens. Even now, even after everything, he can’t admit agreeing to those terms was an act of desperation that arose from needing to keep Brian in his life. “What about Date Night? Monogamy is for --”

“--- ‘dykes, breeders, and breeder-wanna-bes,’” Daphne fills in rotely, “Hmm, I wonder where I’ve heard that one before.”

“It is.”

“Right, Justin. That’s really what you believe.”

“It is,” Justin repeats stubbornly.

She rolls her eyes, not even pretending to believe him. “Remember in eighth grade when Rebecca Stevens caught her boyfriend feeling up Carly Lawhorn? Do you remember what you said?”

Yes. Distinctly.

“That was eighth grade, of course I don’t remember.”

“It wasn’t all that long ago, besides I remember perfectly. You said, ‘if that was my boyfriend I’d kick his ass, and then I’d drop him.’”

Justin turns his head away and rolls onto his back, time to stare at the ceiling again. “Comments like that,” he mutters, “and no one knew I was gay?”

“‘Course we did. I knew long before you told me, and your parents let you sleep over at my house. My parents let you sleep over at my house. Everyone knew. That’s not the point. The point is you’re totally for monogamy.”

“I was twelve.”

“You were fourteen, and you were honest.”

“I’m not now?”

“I think…somewhere along the way, being gay, being with Brian, those things kind of took precedence over everything else.” He thinks about it briefly. “But I am gay, I am with Brian.”

“Yeah, but that’s not all you are. And being those things shouldn’t take away from who you are. You can’t remold yourself into what you think the perfect homosexual should be, the perfect boyfriend for Brian. Just like you couldn’t and shouldn’t remold yourself into what your father thought of as the perfect son.

“If being Justin Taylor means being monogamous, then being gay Justin Taylor, Brian Kinney’s boyfriend should mean being monogamous. But,” she stops and look at him closely, tucks herself further into his side and just looks at him. “But,” she says again in a soft voice, “that’s only if it’s that important to you, if it’s not then okay, drop it. Date Night to your heart’s content. But it should be your choice, Justin, not someone else’s insistence. You’ve been confusing the two for awhile now. So… you can’t really blame Brian for getting confused when you’re sending mixed messages. Especially since you know if it’s at all possible he’ll pick the easy way out, he’s not very good with change. You’ve told me that.”

“So what? I need to take this time to ‘find’ myself.” He’s pretty sure he wasn’t going for defensive belligerence, it’s a sore subject and possibly she’s right. Maybe. A little. He does let Brian get away with …pretty much anything he wants. Sometimes. It’s the only way he could stay in his life, not always, just sometimes.

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Daphne agrees.

“Yeah.” It’s not that he doesn’t want to believe her. Okay, it is that he doesn’t want to believe her (who wants to hear they’re a push-over and that’s why your boyfriend consistently ….well, pushes you over) but that’s not the only reason. Daphne tends to get a little philosophical and ‘consult your birth star, empower your internal voice’ early in the morning; her opinion is suspect. “I suppose,” Justin says solemnly, “while I’m out searching for myself, it wouldn’t hurt to look up my inner child.”

Daphne punches him in the shoulder, hard. “Oh shut up.”

“No. I’m serious. He’s probably feeling ignored and frightened.”

She bites her lower lip, the corner of her mouth twitching, and says, “I’m serious too: shut the fuck up, you freak.” He can tell she’s about to laugh. She pushes away from him and retreats to the opposite side of the bed, all ten inches away, pouting. “Fine. Don’t listen to me, make it into a joke. What do I know? I’m only the girl you woke up at three in the morning with a stage eleven personal crisis, why should I actually give you advice?”

She’s so cute when she rants. He can’t help it.

“Hey, Daph?”

“Yup?”

“Hold me?” They look at each other, across the peach pillows and tangerine sheets, and crack up.

Daphne giggles until she starts coughing so hard he’s afraid she’s gonna bring up something unpleasant, like drool or dinner or an internal organ. Which for some reason makes him laugh harder, which makes her start laughing again, which prolongs the cycle until they wake up her roommates who shout through the thin walls for them to shut the hell up.

Daphne throws a hard-cover book at her wall and screams back for them to stop fucking their boyfriends so damn loudly at three o’clock in the morning and she’ll consider not laughing at three o’clock in the morning. Justin points out that the comparison between having sex with a significant other and laughing uncontrollably with your best friend really says something rather pitiful about the state of Daphne’s romantic life. He can’t help it, it does. Daphne crosses her eyes at him and sticks out her tongue in response, a look created and perfected in middle school. He loves Daphne; he doesn’t know what he’d do without her.

*~*~*~*~8 The morning drifts off and away, no word from Brian.

Justin leaves for Vermont on three and a half hours sleep. His eyes feel grainy, gritty, the consistency of soft-boiled eggs rolled in sand. They’re probably red and puffy, but other than a precursory glance at himself in Daphne’s mirror he’s tried to stay away from things that will reflect his appearance. He doesn’t want to know how he looks, feeling like shit is enough of a confirmation for him, he doesn’t need to see it as well.

Originally the plan was to rent a cabin. That’s too painful now; he books a hotel instead. Actually, Brian books a hotel since it’s his money paying for it. There’s a smattering of justice in the act. Justin checks in, raids the food bar, watches the four walls of the room, pretends he’s not waiting for the phone to ring. Daphne has the number; Brian could get it if he wanted it.

He never gets around to leaving Brian a message. Picks up the phone a few times with the intention of calling...but…

It’s not pride, it’s not fear, it’s some combination of the two and probably more emotions than that that makes him put it back down without dialing a single number.

Justin spends the majority of his time in that room, lies to himself about the reason. Oh, it’s because he’s not feeling up to snowboarding right now. Later, when it’s warmer. There are hardly any good gay bars or clubs in Vermont, it’s practically the backend of nowhere, what’s the point in wasting time searching for something he’ll only be disappointed in finding?

Really he’s hesitant about leaving the room because Brian might…Brian…

When he finally does venture out beyond the borders of his self-imposed five star prison, there is a guy there. More than one, really, in fact, plenty of them are interested in him. But there’s only one Justin finally goes with. 6’4, brunette, built, deep chocolate eyes, as it turns out just a so-so package, but a huge nelly bottom so that doesn’t matter. Justin brings him back to the hotel and they don’t leave for three consecutive days. They have sex. Lots of it. Hot, sweaty, passionate sex. Repeatedly, i.e. more than once. With kissing. In fact, Justin’s tongue was all in his mouth, practically measuring his tonsils. Some of the satisfaction of the moment erodes when he realizes that he’s simply breaking his own rules. Brian doesn’t have rules.

Brian also doesn’t call. Not once.

It’s not until after the trick departs for locations unknown and uncared about, that he realizes just how much he resembled…

Ben.

Michael’s Ben.

He doesn’t vomit. No retching, no nausea, no regurgitation of digestible, he doesn’t react to this bit of information at all. Except for the trembling. Sitting in a fully furnished, lushly accessorized, and comfortably heated to a warm 82 degrees hotel room, shivering uncontrollably. Other than that he’s fine. He’s fine. So what if later he breaks his nightmare-free record of three months with a whopper that culminates in a sweaty, petrified awakening.

Justin boards the plane back to Pittsburgh on a Sunday afternoon, knowing two things: he can’t go on this way, he physically can’t…and…life is miserable with Brian. Equally so without.

This has been less of a vacation, more of a practice in cultivated anxiety.

*~*~*~*~* The first thing he does after dropping off his stuff at Daphne’s is head to Woody’s. No conscious planning goes into the decision, he’s functioning on no sleep, no word from Brian, no fucking idea of what he’s going to do next. In that state Woody’s a logical pit-stop.

He should have remembered… it didn’t begin as his logical pit-stop.

He is lucky though, it’s just Emmett who sees him. ‘Just Emmett.’ Right. Only the biggest gossip on all of Liberty Avenue, more importantly, the bearer of news for their tiny circle.

What if he tells him something he’s not ready to hear? Like…like Brian found someone new, fell madly in love, and got married…

Okay, even as a paranoid fear that’s just ridiculous.

“Hey, baby. We haven’t seen your bright face around these parts lately.”

“Hi. Emmett. How’s everything.” Justin has never been more grateful for the poor lighting. The other man smiles widely. “Sometimes good, sometimes crazy, you know how it is. We’re just about to head to Babylon though.” He tilts his head to the left, gesturing to the table he’s left, and presumably the other part of the ‘we’. “We’re treating Michael to a night of gratuitous debauchery to cheer him up.” Emmett lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Ever since the professor broke up with him, he’s been kind of down.” Gossip delivered, he raises his voice again, cheery, upbeat. “Care to join us, and round out our little triad?”

That would be the day. Cheering up Michael…

A kernel of a thought is born in his over-stressed, sleep-deprived, paranoid brain. His heart starts thumping loudly, Boom Boom Boom. Nice to know it’s still there, over the past few days he’s wondered.

Over the rushing of his ears he hears someone with Justin’s voice say, “Can’t tonight, but is Michael here? I kind of need to talk to him.”

Emmett’s looking at him when he responds, “Sure, he just went off to the little girl’s room.” But surely Justin couldn’t have asked that question. Justin knows better than to torture himself, he’s not going to go searching out Michael of all people …that would be just stup--

“Thanks,” the malevolent self-torturing being that’s hijacked Justin’s voice and body says. That can’t be right either, his heart pounds harder, Boom Boom, but inside he feels calm. Inside everything is still, everything is waiting.

This can’t possibly be a good idea.

Justin slips around Emmett and heads to the restroom.

The scenery passes and changes without too much consultation from him, the lighting gets worse, the stench of liquor and smoke and sex gets thicker, making it harder to breathe. His legs pull him forward, around corners, past the sound of couples fucking in stalls. Woody’s isn’t Babylon, but it has its share of bathroom antics. Heaven forbid anyone ever actually needs to piss in here.

He finds him at the sink. Standing there, staring into the mirror, and even his heart goes silent.

‘Miserable’ wafts off Michael in thick tangible waves. There’s a good five feet of ‘this man is too depressed to approach’ surrounding him in an orb of invisible force. Even Justin is starting to feel a little sorry for him, and he has just about the single most appropriate reason to hate his guts forever and ever amen. Detest, abhor, loathe, revile in the rapture that is intensely disliking Michael with every fiber of his being.

Michael doesn’t notice him at first, too busy staring at himself. He jumps, startled, when Justin speaks. There’s a bitter satisfaction in that.

“I came here to ask you what happened. Why it happened--” This is the first Justin’s known about his intentions, but once the words fall out of his mouth he realizes it’s true. “—but I’ve just realized that I don’t want to know. I…don’t want to know. So instead I have a few things I want to tell you, then as far as I’m concerned if we never speak again, it would be a perfectly acceptable set of circumstances.”

Michael looks around, miserably, with an air of resigned terror, the very picture of a man marching off to his death sentence. “Justin, could we do this somewhere else?”

“No. This isn’t going to take long.” This is the first they’ve spoken since that call, the longest they’ve gone without some sort of contact since Justin entered their lives, pushed his way in head-first stubbornly. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, he doesn’t know how he feels about Michael, but words fall out of his mouth anyway, without consulting his brain. “First, I don’t care what you tell everyone but no more invitations to hang out if you’re going to be there. I don’t feel like having to make up an excuse every time Emmett asks, or Debbie insists. Granted, family dinners are going to necessitate that you’re present, and that’s fine, otherwise I want a warning beforehand. Second, if you still want to go through with ‘Rage’ then I’ll stay on until you find another illustrator, but I want J.T. written out--”

“Justin --”

“ -- what you do to the character is your choice, he heads off to college out of state, he doesn’t survive the bashing, he gets a sudden bout of incurable amnesia and leaves never to return again, I don’t care. I just want him out. And I’ll be doing all the art remotely, meaning send me an e-mail with the storyline and how you want it to look, I’ll attach the pictures in return.”

Michael hasn’t met his eyes since that first startled glance; he’s looked at everything else with an intense fascination Justin knows is false, nothing made of plaster and cold ceramic is that interesting. “Is that it,” he whispers low.

“One last thing.” Michael freezes everything with the pronouncement, stills himself unnaturally and pales ghost-gray, still not meeting his eyes. “When you fucked Brian,” Justin tells him, “you fucked all of us. You compromised your integrity, betrayed my trust, betrayed Ben’s trust, but most of all you betrayed Brian.”

Michael, for better or worse, has always worn his emotions loudly. On his face, in his actions, spoken and lived and shown with no tact, no subtleties, no hiding. If he was jealous you knew it, if he was in love you knew it, if he was hurting…hurting so badly that the pain was an oppressive weight pulling in two opposite directions, splitting him while it crushed him…you knew that too. With each word Justin renounces his worth, and watches the weight drag down with a little more force. Still he can’t stop, won’t stop. Michael’s flinching and breaking and bleeding openly, still he doesn’t stop. Can’t. Won’t. Later, later he’ll wonder what kind of person that makes him.

Now he doesn’t give a damn-fuck-hell-shit; he’s hurting too, he’s hurting too and this is the man who caused it. The only one he can make hurt back.

“Friends, Best friends, don’t screw each other out of relationships. They don’t tattle to your lover behind your back, and they sure as hell don’t use your insecurities to get you into bed. Whatever it is that you’re telling yourself so you feel better about it, know this: it’s bullshit. You were the emotion and relationship expert in the Michael and Brian show. He depended on you to set the limitations, follow the rules. And you are the one that betrayed that.” Tears well in Michael’s eyes, his already red-rimmed eyes, but they don’t spill down his cheeks. A few more moments and they probably will, a few more words and he could probably make them cascade down his hallow cheeks with unrestraint. A biting feeling in the pit of his stomach, climbing up like acid backwash, stops him. Turns him, marches him out of the restroom, out of the bar.

He thinks it’s shame but maybe it’s just heart-burn. He can’t be sure.

Chapter 4 Walking down the street, Daphne keeps shooting him little inscrutable looks. She isn’t literally biting her tongue, but Justin knows that’s only because any moment now her diplomatic sensitive side is going to cave and she’ll spit out every suppressed syllable.

Five

Four

“He must’ve been really pissed that you just went off without saying anything, which I still can’t believe you did, by the way.”

Damn, his count is off.

“I mean, to come home and just find you gone like that? No note or anything?”

Justin shrugs and stuffs his hands into his coat pockets. He loves Daphne and all, but he can seriously see himself beginning to hate her if she keeps up this line of thought.

So. Okay. He admits it; it’s pretty chicken-shit cowardly to end a relationship (is that what he’s doing?) by simply avoiding any future contact with the… other party – dumpee is such a harsh word. This is true. And…yes. He’d be pretty – livid, irate, furious, simmering with indignity and rage -- upset if the return was ever done to him. So, granted, it’s cowardly and hypocritical and he’d never tolerate it nor excuse it were he on the other side of the situation. But! In his defense…Brian hadn’t made a modicum of an effort to find out what was going on. Not one tiny, insignificant inquiry. And, not only that, but the entire situation was his fault to begin with.

First Michael. Then Vermont. Now the not calling…

Maybe that doesn’t justify his cowardly chicken-shit behavior, but come on. You have to have someone to relate to in order to carry out a relationship. If Brian wasn’t even going to try, then it was already over. A phone call wasn’t going to change that.

He’s so not at fault for this. So Daphne can take her admonishing mom voice and stuff it.

“That was a really shitty thing to do, Justin,” Daphne echoes his thoughts unhelpfully.

Seriously, utter and complete hatred.

“You’re the one who told me to go to Vermont,” he reminds in a tone that has moved so far past defensive that it’s circled back around and picked up bored indifference. He’s tired, his brain hurts, school has recommenced…

He’s still no closer to figuring out what he’s going to do about (with, to, for) the Brian situation. It’s a situation now; somehow it’s developed that status. A stagnant situation but a situation all the same.

“Yeah,” Daphne says, “but I thought the ‘tell him before you leave’ was kind of self-evident.”

“Well I guess it wasn’t.”

“I guess not. It should have been.”

He shrugs half-heartedly.

“So was he,” Daphne prods insistently at his side.

“Was he what?”

“Pissed.”

They’ve had exactly one conversation since Justin’s returned from Vermont. One. That Justin initiated. That lasted all of thirty seconds whereupon Justin blurted the bare essentials, Brian said ‘Fine’ (Fine. Fine, their relationship is combusting all around them and all he can say is fucking fine), and they both mutually decided it would be appropriate and prudent to hang up. Is he pissed? Who the hell knows, not Justin.

“Who the hell knows with Brian.” He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.

“You do normally.” Daphne’s strides begin to quicken to keep up with him, his speed unintentionally picking up.

“Yeah, well.” Justin shrugs, bunches his coat further around his shoulders and practically buries himself in it up to his ears as best he can. He’s doing a defensive turtle imitation. Back stiff, shoulders hunched. “I didn’t go by, just called to let him know I was back and that I was going to stay with you for awhile.”

He hesitates, feels his chest constricting vice tight, blurts, “I think there was someone there with him.”

“Wow,” Daphne says. It’s her sympathetic, ‘this is a wow not of awe but of stunned incomprehensibility because fuck that’s a terribly shitty thing,’ tone. “You gonna ask?”

“What’s the point? He won’t tell me even if I did. And I don’t really want to know anyway. Fuck him if he is pissed. I’m the one who should be pissed. I should be in a constant state of pissdom. Eternally.” Damn fucking right, if Brian really cared at all about him he’d be groveling right now, telling Justin how he worshiped the ground he walked on, how very wrong he was for …

Anything but this ridiculous silence.

“No. I meant, are you going to ask him if he had someone over.”

“Same answer.”

Daphne forces a smile and pretends she misunderstands, that entertaining the idea of Brian ever actually admitting anything he doesn’t want to is plausible. “Ummm…You should be the one who is in a constant state of having someone over? Reverting to sexual promiscuity is a defense mechanism that will only lead you to heartache, Justin. It solves nothing. Buy a cat instead. ”

He allows her to pretend. “Thank you, Dr. Chanders.”

She smiles at him and they walk a little longer in silence.

A part of him thinks he should be over this by now. Shit or get off the pot, as Debbie would say. It’s been over a month, all this … all this back and forth …it’s avoidable angst. Doesn’t he have enough of the unavoidable kind in his life as it is?

It’s not fair that each time he comes to a decision one way or the other he’s clobbered from behind with reality, heart over head biting in, pulling in two opposite directions with equal strength.

There hasn’t been a single moment since they’ve met that he’s not loved Brian. Plenty where he’s not liked him so much, but never any where he’s not loved him. Not even now. That must mean something. He knows he had a life without him, he can’t imagine it anymore, surely that means something. Despite what’s been done, you don’t just walk away, you don’t stop fighting, not when you purportedly love someone. You don’t walk away from them. You don’t. Just…walk away.

Then he remembers, then he pictures them together, then he hears Michael’s voice. And it hurts. It hurts like something substantial, something vital being ripped away, softly sickly.

And that has to mean something too.

He’s so tired of indecision.

He’s so tired of wanting to cry.

He’s so tired. Period.

“Hey, he’s pretty good.”

Justin looks up, for once since they met for lunch today grateful for Daphne’s intrusion. He hasn’t noticed they stopped moving, neither has he heard a note of the sidewalk string concert Daphne’s watching with avid – forced – interest.

A familiar brunet passionately weaves notes to a sad song around them, his eyes closed as his whole body sways with the rise and fall of his music.

Black curls cling to the light mist of sweat on his forehead, his flushed cheeks a warm pink.

Ethan Gold is still a heartbreaking combination of tortured love lost and vulnerable passion. Charming, talented, sweet, wrapped around a just shy of revoltingly arrogant exterior.

The day they met he knew Ethan was the beginning of something terrible. It’s not often you get warnings so 20/20 preceding an event, hindsight and all that, he knew with Ethan from the first. The first word, the first smirk, he was dangerous.

Because… Being with him would be breathtakingly …simple. It’s tempting.

Brian Kinney a la mode, a little cream and sugar added to black coffee, herbal tea with a packet of sugar. The same charm, the same arrogant appeal, same obsessive attention to detail, same aura of intensity, in an easier to swallow capsule.

Still, now, it’s tempting.

“Look at his eyes, they’re gorgeous.”

Justin rolls his own. “Daphne, not only is his back to us, but he’s like twenty feet away. You can’t see his eyes.”

“So I’m extrapolating a little. I’m sure if I could see them, they’d be gorgeous.”

“They’re okay.”

Daphne rapid fires questions at him that he barely hears; too caught in reverie. “How do you know? You know him? What am I asking? Of course you do. Who doesn’t Monsieur Social Butterfly know? He’s probably gay too, isn’t he? It just figures.”

Brian tied his tie for him that day, acknowledged the importance of the day in one breath denounced it in another. Then sent him off to be wooed by a five-eight watered down version of himself.

That’s not fair. Neither to Brian, Ethan, nor to himself. This isn’t about Ethan Gold. It’s not even really about Michael Novotny. The hell if he can figure out what it is about.

“I go to school with him. He’s the guy that Lindsay and Mel took me to see for my birthday.”

“Cool. How was it?”

“Fun. I talked to him after the program, he’s pretty…confident. It was a little disconcerting really.” No it wasn’t. It was flattering. It was exciting. It was the first time Justin can remember actively flirting with someone he had no intention of fucking, playful flirting that wasn’t meant to go anywhere. Daphne doesn’t need to know that.

“I thought you liked confident.” Her smirk says she already knows. One of those downsides to best- friendship.

“I do,” he admits, “it’s sexy. But if he was cruising me any harder the audience would have gotten another show for their money; Gay Karma Sutra to the soundtrack of Schwann: The wooing of fresh meat.” Reminded him of Brian.

Daphne laughs. “I have to head to Bio.”

“Yeah alright.”

He watches Ethan, aria melting into concerto. It’s tempting.

Just not that much.

“Daph! Wait up, I’ll walk you.” “You sure?”

“Yeah. Nothing better to do.”

*~*~*~*~* The weekend floats by on clouds of pot induced false content; instinctively he knows he wouldn’t be able to get through it without that inducement. He has a project due on Tuesday he has yet to begin. He has an exam on Thursday he has yet to study for. These things hold no credence over his current state of indigence.

It would probably help if he stopped calling in sick at the diner. Beggars can’t be choosers, but the emotionally fragile can’t risk confrontation.

What to do, what to do.

He and Daphne bring up his homelessness over fruit loops, mixed berry yogurt, and vodka shots.

“You can stay here,” Daphne pipes excitedly. By the expression on her face she’s having delusions of never ending slumber-party madness. Nights they’ll stay up giggling and gossiping and drinking hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows. Mornings they’ll take turns making each other breakfast while they plan what exciting adventure they’ll have that day. The kind of arrangement they thought they would have when they were twelve and planning their futures, before things like boyfriends (and bills and space issues and potential nervous breakdowns) got in the way.

Justin doesn’t bother replying, he simply looks around Daphne’s small (cramped-smothered-tiny-packed- no-room-to-breathe-if-there’s-more-than-five-people-present-at-the-same-time) three bedroom obviously.

She deflates. “Okay, maybe not here.”

“You could kick your roommates out,” Justin suggests amiably.

Daphne’s forehead squinches up, thoughtful, as she considers it. “How would we pay the rent?”

“You pay half, I pay half.”

“You don’t have a job.”

“I do too. At the diner.”

“By the time you get up off your ass and return, you won’t have a job,” Daphne modifies.

“Debbie wouldn’t fire me…I’m her little sunshine.”

“Who bitched out her little baby boy.”

“He deserved it. Had it coming. Besides, I doubt Michael even told her. He’d have to tell her why I bitched him out.”

Daphne takes another shot followed by a spoon of yogurt. “Still…”

Yes. Still. There’s a reason he’s been calling in sick. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you? Moving out?”

He sighs and directs a red fruit loop into elegant figure eights in the middle of his purpling milk. “I…I don’t know. I think so.”

Her gaze is full of compassion…and worry. “Maybe before we decide all this you should…get sure. Like soon. Which would probably require you actually speaking to him. Hint. Hint.”

Justin takes another shot.

*~*~*~*~* A week slides on past. Then another. He finally realizes that time’s passing when Daphne sends him out for groceries and he wanders by the wine coolers.

The bottles of burgundy and dark blue remind him he’s yet to get Linds and Mel an anniversary present -- Linds and Mel…LindsandMel…how long has it been since they’ve been individuals, not one half of a sacred dyad.

He stops in the aisle, remembers he needs to buy them a gift, remembers their anniversary is right around the corner….realizes the date.

Realizes it’s been nearly three weeks (almost a month…almost a complete month) since he’s spoken to Brian, never mind seen him.

He didn’t mean for all this to happen, for the silence to stretch so long. It just sort of spiraled further and further out of control, longer and longer with no contact, no speaking, until it was easier to let go than to hold on. Easier to not say anything, to simply forget there was anything that needed to be said.

Daphne is going to be unforgiving when he tells her he completely ignored her advice, and has still not said anything to Brian.

Maybe he won’t tell her.

He never really decided what to do, but his indecision was probably just as good as a decision. It’s been too long with no correspondence to suggest they’re still together.

In the parking lot he unlocks his mom’s car with what Molly calls the ‘clicker,’ and realizes that their ‘relationship’ ended the same way it began. Without formal agreement, without them sharing a word about the subject. He guesses that’s only fitting.

It’s weird being single though. Especially since he was never un-single, or whatever the opposite of being ‘attached but not in an officially validated relationship’ is.

*~*~*~*~* In penance for his lack of decisiveness with Brian, that night he takes immediate action, and brings an expensive bottle of wine along on an impromptu trip to Lindsay and Melanie’s.

The wine used up half his savings, he seriously needs to go back to work before he’s destitute and writing “Will work for food” across his t-shirt ‘cause he can’t afford cardboard.

Then again. Debbie. Michael. Avoidance. He knocks on the door nervously, appalled to find his hands are shaking and sweating in equal measure.

There’s just enough time between his knock and the sound of the door unlatching for him to work up a healthy panic. These aren’t just his friends, they’re his family too, in all but blood and name. But they weren’t his first.

God. Gus is Brian’s son, his biological son.

They probably know already. They probably hate him. Lindsay is probably feeling all torn and betrayed on Brian’s behalf.

They’ll be uncomfortable, awkward, blatantly disapproving.

Why did he come here? Why couldn’t he have mailed the stuff?

There’s no time to change his mind, the door’s already opening.

Justin takes a deep breath and plasters on ‘indifferently brave’.

“Hey cutie,” Mel greets with a warm smile.

Shit. It’s worse. They don’t know.

If she did the smile wouldn’t be so …sincere. Brian and Melanie like to play “evil arch-nemeses” but they’re more friends (in their own sibling rivalry Lindsay-loves-me-better-than-you twisted way) than anything else, and they’ve always been there for each other when it’s counted so Justin figures if she knew she’d at least shoot him a disapproving frown. Or congratulate him for finally getting his shit together. You never know with Mel.

She turns, tracing her way back the way she came, assuming Justin will follow, so fucking predictable. Etiquette insists he doesn’t turn tail and run though he’d very much like to, he’s forced to render her assumption correct. Damn filthy WASPy upbringing.

“Lindsay, look who’s here,” she announces, all friendly and approving. Shit shit shit.

Indifferent. Brave. Bravely indifferent. “I wanted to drop this off,” Justin says crossing the room after her. Lindsay is sitting at the dining room table, Gus and a book reclining on her lap, snug and comfortable. The very picture of domestic bliss.

Her expression fades from bright delight to disappointed confusion.

Shit.

“You’re not coming to the party on Saturday,” she asks, “is something wrong?”

Shit. Shit.

“Everything’s fine…I just unfortunately have a previous engagement I can’t get out of--”

The look on her face cuts him off mid-sentence. Why doesn’t anyone believe that? It’s plausible! He could have something else to do. “Justin, if something’s the matter you can trust us.” Melanie circles around behind him.

Shit.

“Whatever it is, maybe we can help.” Lindsay stands and covers the front, little Gus watching with sleep- glazed interest.

Attack and counterattack, they’re good.

All he needs is Gus to look up at him with those hazel eyes and say in that cute high pitched warbling slur of his “Jussin, was wong?”

Don’t look at the baby. Don’t look at the baby.

“No. It’s…nothing’s wrong…” Don’t look -- oh fuck it. “Brian and I are no longer together.”

“You left?” From Lindsay, neither as shocked or appalled as she’s trying on.

“What’d the asshole do?” From Melanie, less smug than he expected. That makes it worse somehow.

How many more times is he going to hear that question before he breaks and spills everything?

“Brian didn’t do anything,” he lies, “we’re just…incompatible. And anyway, he could have left me. I could have been the one who did something.”

The girls’ share a look.

“Well I can’t say I’m surprised. It lasted a lot longer than I thought it would.” Melanie. Of course.

“Are you worried about him being there,” Lindsay interrupts. She’s good at that, playing go between. Justin imagines she has to be; falling in love with one Brian Kinney is bad enough. Two in one lifetime is insanity or great organizational skills. “Because he’s already said he’s not going to attend, which makes sense now considering.”

Clench in his stomach like something live rebelling, hard, twisting clench. Yes it’s that. Yes avoidance. All of that. But not only, not only, and he didn’t even know there was more until he was knocking at their door, hands trembling.

“That and…I didn’t think you’d want me around. You’re his friends.”

“Oh, baby, you’re our friend too.” Mel’s voice is soft in a way he’s only heard when she’s talking about Lindsay and Gus.

“We love you both,” Linds adds. God. There’s nothing to say to that. Nothing.

“You possibly more than Brian.” Melanie. She doesn’t mean it, the tone hasn’t shifted, hardened, her arms hang loose at her sides, it’s a joke because she’s seen the shimmer in his eyes.

Lindsay hoists Gus higher on her hip, the toddler one long line of languid comfort, and gives him that hopeful smile. “So we’ll see you there?” *~*~*~*~* Looking around, Justin doesn’t know how he ever thought he could do this. He knows why he did it; he just can’t seem to understand how he thought it would work. Lindsay said they wanted him there. Mel called him “cutie” and said he would always be their friend, Brian or no Brian. Even Gus looked up at him with Brian’s eyes, held in Lindsay’s arms protectively like some serene little baby Buddha, and somehow his attempt at fading unobtrusively from their lives was aborted before it ever had a real chance of gaining ground. That was why.

Now though, with Emmett and Ted wrapped in each other’s arms – not like usual, like lovers, when the fuck did that happen, by the way -- staring at him from one side of the yard, and Debbie glaring at him from the other side…

Fading unobtrusively sounds like a brilliant idea. The best idea he’s ever had. Like, ever.

It doesn’t happen, but still. Brilliant. Deb corners him between the refreshment table and the porch.

“I heard you broke it off with Brian.”

Justin shrugs. Yes. No. Kind of. Yes by default. Toss a coin and pick one.

“And why, pray tell, did I have to hear this from the girls instead of from the source himself?”

He shrugs again, finding the napkin that cradles the hors d’oeuvres he’s never going to eat really fascinating. Look at those…designs, and lack of color, and stuff.

“Is this why you’ve been so scarce lately? Are you avoiding me?”

Shrug. He knows this isn’t going to work, it never does. Debbie’s everyone’s interfering overbearing mother and combined pit bull, she leads herself down a self-appointed path of ‘righteousness’ (truth, justice, the Novotny way) and doesn’t fork left or right for anyone. He tries anyway, he’s an idiot like that.

Idiot for Brian, idiot for Debbie. The same tactics over and over again, thinking somehow somewhere something will change.

“Justin.”

He looks up guiltily. Deb never calls him by his real name. Not unless she’s royally pissed. It’s like the full name rule, everyone knows your whole name but your parents only utilize it under the direst of circumstances. With Debbie it’s Sunshine, kiddo, kid, never plain Justin.

“Whatever happened between you and Brian, it stays between you and Brian. We all still love you, and you’re still a member of this family. Do I make myself clear?”

They’re killing him. They must know this. He nods because to speak is to cry.

“Good. I expect to see that cute little ass of yours back at work on Monday, Sunshine, and I don’t want to hear any shit about it.”

The rest of the party is uneventful. Emmett and Ted are together now, together together. It’s frightening. He smiles anyway, without a wince and everything. Congratulates them. Best friends turned lovers. Any other day, any other day that wouldn’t be so melodramatically gut clawing ironic. Speaking of which, always speaking of which these days, Brian and Michael are both mysteriously absent. No one mentions it. Conspicuously no one mentions it.

Not even Debbie, an even more frightening thought than Emmett and Ted engaged in ‘intimate relations’ of the depraved and sordid, her silence might mean she knows. Everything.

Maybe not. Brian and Michael are still absent.

A tiny insecure part (fucking bullshit lies, a larger than average insecure section that derives from and belongs solely to that special place called Brian & I: our-mutually-inclusive-self-destructive-‘relationship’) of himself wonders if maybe they’re together right now. Brian and Michael. Dynamic duo till the end.

They’re not together anymore, that shouldn’t still hurt.

Life would be so much more palatable if it followed the fucking rules.

*~*~*~*~* One month, two days. It’s taken one month and two days to get to here, to get to this.

He stands outside the loft. Head resting against the cold metal door, forehead pressed against it, into it. The grains of the cold metal forming indentations in his flesh. There’ll be lines when he moves, this moment imprinted visibly on him. Not forever, but long enough, lasting enough that he’ll have time to look in the mirror and see the physical proof of tonight.

He rocks on the balls of his feet.

Might as well stay a few seconds longer, it’s already too late, he’ll always remember what happens next, red lines across his forehead or no.

The steel’s too thick for any movement inside to reach him; nothing crosses that blatant barrier without written consent-- drawbridge to Brian’s castle fortress. All he hears is the steady thrum of his own blood pumping through his veins.

If he could dredge up something other than this terrible numbness…this would be so much easier. Or…or harder depending on what he dredges up.

He takes a deep breath that goes nowhere, inflates him emptily, pushes off from the door and uses momentum to unlock and slide it open all before the exhale leaves his lips.

Step one complete. See? That wasn’t so bad.

He half expects sounds of fucking to assail him. They don’t. He isn’t.

Brian’s at his desk.

God. He looks good. He usually does, but today. Tonight. He’s wearing an open collar black sleeveless shirt that’s classy lounging around the house casual meets clubbing dressy so it’s probably ridiculously expensive, and the tan slacks Justin loves to see his thighs framed in, the ones that mold to his flesh and ripple with him as he walks. He’s barefoot, his shell bracelet is mysteriously missing, clean shaven, and his hair has grown a little longer (like Justin’s own, actually, though not nearly as long as Justin’s).

He looks the same. And different – it’s been so long. And gorgeous. And welcoming. And so many nouns and so many adjectives Justin wants to forget because remembering only makes this burn in his throat and that solid presence around his stomach worsen.

Justin swallows visibly, and decides that’s the last moment of weakness he can have tonight in Brian’s presence. That’s it. He can break down when he gets home, no more in front of Brian.

“So,” he says moving further into the room and sliding the door shut behind him. Inadequate. Completely inadequate. It’s the best he can do, carefully scripted speech or no.

“So,” Brian repeats woodenly; he hasn’t looked up. He hasn’t startled, he hasn’t looked up, his tone is one of bored concentration – the one he gets when Michael starts in about comic books. The: ‘I would care, I’m trying to care…but the lack of a semblance of something worth investing an iota of genuine interest in is making that really fucking difficult’ tone.

This could be any other day for him, except…There’s nothing on his desk but an unbooted computer and an eraser-less pencil. “Forget something,” he asks, words flirting with sarcasm but as of yet unsettled on one night stand or lifetime commitment.

One month, two days, not nearly ready. Not slightly prepared. Justin starts to shake his head ‘no’ but honesty prevails halfway through and he ends up nodding. “Forgot to talk to you.”

Brian heaves a big sigh, then turns to him, looks up, meets his eyes, with a smile so fake – so plastic—it’s painful to see. “ ‘Bout what?”

Automatic violent pain in his right hand forces Justin to unclench the fists he’s unconsciously made. “You know about what.”

“I figured your absence spoke for itself.”

Nice. Beautiful. Perfect shot. He’d trade the pain of this with clenched fists, any day. The flash of guilt that shouldn’t be. It’s not his fault. Not.

He gave and he tried and he did, and Brian’s the one who fucked Michael, and Brian’s the one who went to Chicago, and Brian’s the one who said never-won’t-can’t-not-for-you. No guilt. Play by the fucking rules, Brian!

“I didn’t plan on doing it this way. I wasn’t going to at all until…I don’t know; I don’t know how everything got so screwed up.” He’s blurting these things he doesn’t want to say, the prepared script he had falling away useless.

Brian shrugs and stands, taking this time to turn away and head for the kitchen. His face is blank, all expression shut down, Justin can’t read him anymore. He used to be able to.

Which means what? He either got better at hiding, or Justin stopped trying. The thought runs on repeat in his head, tongue twister nursery riddle with no answer in sight, no answer that matters.

“Where’re you staying?” Questions like that matters. Like he gives a shit. Justin’s tempted for a second to say on the street, cold and homeless. Gonna pay for a new apartment for me? Quarter me away somewhere warm and safe, out of sight, out of mind? Big brave Knight riding to the rescue, just in time to come to the aid of his poor wayward twink on the side?

That’s…not fair. To either of them. “Daphne’s for now.” This is so…strange, surreal, talking like this. Saying nothing and everything while ignoring the pink elephant they’re sitting on. “Later… I think I’m going to get my own place.”

Brian’s nod comes from halfway across the room and the distance isn’t purely physical. He’s gone from this, this room, this conversation, this planet if he could figure out how to wear an astronaut’s jumpsuit and still keep up his quota of tricking.

It feels wrong doing this to his back, but he’s not…he’s not feeling up for the drama it’d take to wrench him back in. What would be the point? All that energy wasted for nothing, it’d change nothing.

He abandons twelve different sentences that start with “I’m sorry” and “I didn’t mean for this to happen” and end with twelve different variations of Brian saying “You do what you have to.”

Instead he fidgets around inside his jeans’ pocket, fingers grappling for the cold sting of hard metal. “I wanted to drop off your keys.”

Gone. Totally gone. “Leave them on the counter,” Brian says, head tilted slightly while he examines the contents of his refrigerator. One month, two days, and Justin remembers what the inside of Brian’s refrigerator looked like before he moved in and stocked it with actual food. Nothing in there is that fascinating unless you’re stoned high out of your mind. Maybe not even then. “While you’re at it, take your computer with you.”

It takes a minute, longer, to figure out what he means, longer than it should to sort through his memories and figure out when exactly he bought a computer and with what funds did he manage this endeavor. It clicks only because Brian’s pointing in its direction, a previously unnoticed behemoth of a box neatly packaged with his computer. His. It says something about their relation--- about them that he’s never considered this gift to be his. But Brian does.

Another useless question with hopeless answers, or is that the other way around?

“It’s yours,” he refutes half-heartedly. This isn’t a fight worth having, isn’t one he wants. But that verbal momentum thing he has is going here, that habit of faux independence.

Justin watches him carefully as his lips form the words his face is too impassive to emote. That too is familiar, he doesn’t give anything. Not when it matters, not when it’s really important, not the really important things. Yes his time, yes his money, yes bits and pieces of himself here and there but a hint? Could he give a clue? A tiny hint or a word or a syllable that could be deciphered from Kinney-ese to human normal? No. That’d be too much. And right now all Justin has to cross-reference with is Brian Fucked Michael.

“Bullshit,” Brian says, clipping the word hard, “it’s yours, you need it, take it.”

It’s stupid to feel betrayed by that sentence. So stupid since he’s doing something nice, something a year ago Justin would have sold his right kidney (and possibly a piece of his liver) to have been offered. A selfless act of sacrifice that was irrefutable proof of Brian’s love for him; now it’s an extension of that same old modus operandi: Do whatever you can for you.

“I can’t anyway, I don’t have any transportation right now---” “Fine. I’ll mail it.” Brian shuts the refrigerator without extracting anything from it. He completes half a pace that ends abruptly in front of Justin, his focus needle-sharp and fully concentrated on him, but otherwise impassive and unreadable.

“Was there anything else?” Brusque, blunt, Brian all the way.

No. No nothing and everything. His choice was made, the keys are returned. There’s nothing left.

He leaves. Brian doesn’t stop him. He wasn’t expecting, he wasn’t hoping, he just thought that maybe…

Something inside lets go. Something he hadn’t known was still holding on, waiting, hoping, clinging right along beside the hurt.

Time slows down to normal pace after that. He’s able to go through each day without actively suppressing the urge to forget what day it is or how long it’s been, after that.

In fact. After that? It’s six months one week and four days before they see each other again. And by that time Justin isn’t counting. Really.

Really. Chapter 5

It’s six months one week and four days before they see each other again. And by that time Justin isn’t counting. Really.

Really.

But… backing up a bit…

After leaving Brian (God. That sounds off, leaving Brian. Left Brian. Having left Brian) Justin returns to the sanctuary of Daphne’s humble abode. For all the reasons previously stated. Namely: where else is he going to go?

It…doesn’t last.

Why? Three girls, two with steady boyfriends who for some odd reason believe their dating status gives them equal apartment ownership rights and never fucking leave, and Justin. All cramped into a small three bedroom. Six people. Three girls. One bathroom. One. Bathroom.

Does he need another reason? It was okay when he was hiding out from Brian for the past month, but now that that’s over and this is his permanent home? No. No no no.

This brief educational (and frightening) foray into the world of feminine hygiene quietly reconfirms two things: 1) He needs his own place and 2) If being gay became a choice tomorrow, he is so so choosing it. Lesbians must be fucking insane.

A friend of a friend of a passing acquaintance knows this “guy” who knows a “guy” who’s renting out his former apartment real cheap. Is Justin in? Like phat is the new cool.

*~*~*~*~* A week after the final confrontation, the emotionally stilted showdown between “I don’t give a damn if you leave or stay” and Justin’s own pathetic “I don’t give a damn if you don’t give a damn if I leave or stay --- but do you really not give a damn?” ---

Fuck.

No thinking of Brian. Fuck Brian. Brian doesn’t exist, remember?

A week after living with Daphne (that’s better), and he’s moved into his very own first apartment.

It’s kind of nice in his new place.

Well, in the sense that it’s his new place.

Otherwise, it’s nothing terribly elaborate, four walls, a floor, a few windows to let the sun in…

Not exactly the color scheme he’d choose (The former tenant/landlord called it apricot fire, but honestly? Orange is orange is orange, there’s no way to spin that and make it cool) but he doesn’t plan on living here the rest of his life and that five hundred dollar deposit fee isn’t something he’s willing to forfeit in sake of palatable interior design.

And so it’s a little…well…he prefers the term ‘cozy’ to small (cramped, compact, claustrophobic, et cetera et cetera et cetera). ‘Quiet’ to maddeningly silent….until the neighbors decide to have a random, abrupt, with no warning or invitation “2 a.m. – till” party that causes the ceiling rafters to shake and rattle distressingly, bits of ceramic filing tumbling in bursts of white flutter.

However! This is okay. This is completely okay. First apartments are supposed to suck. It’s practically a mandate; poor college student thou shalt live in thine merry hovel, suffering jovially in the spirit of character enhancement, until such a time as you are deemed worthy to upgrade. It’s a right of passage.

This is --

An insect suspiciously shaped like a cockroach (though he is as reluctant to name this as he is to use the word “small”) scuttles its way across faded floorboards (all hard wood floors his ass, plywood is not real wood) and squeezes bodily into the cracking molding between kitchen cabinet and living room wall.

Jesus. First apartment. It gets better.

*~*~*~*~* It does get better. Mostly because he’s learned how to judiciously ration the amount of time spent in said hellho—homestead.

For example: It’s completely tolerable in forty-five minute increments, with a side of an eight hour span of time allotted for sleep.

Still, at first it’s a little too quiet (barring neighborly high-jinks); he lies awake staring at the four walls, the floor, the windows. Thinking things that follow no logical train of thought and that he makes himself too busy to remember in the morning. But otherwise it’s good.

And the nights are a little lonely…

Sometimes. Not always. And not for always. That’s the key, it’s not for always. He doesn’t know exactly when he got used to the feeling of someone else’s body heat emanating beside him while he slept, but the absence is felt strongly, harder to dispel than the memories of the good times he’d no longer have.

He doesn’t trick anymore. It doesn’t matter anyway, he hasn’t been able to sustain an erection long enough to actually come in a good damn while. He’s trying not to worry about it. Nineteen year olds are not impotent. No tricking, No drinking, no drugs (illegal or prescribed – even if there was the urge, he doesn’t exactly have money for that lifestyle anymore), his mother would be so proud.

Except for the fact he’s going to have to drop out of school next semester (his father still makes too much for him to get a loan, and without Bri—without financial backing he can’t afford tuition), he has no direction in life, no idea what he’s going to do in the next week much less the next ten years, and barely any money in which to do it if by some miracle of a chance he figured the former out.

These things take time, everyone tells him so. Linds, Mel, Deb, Daphne…

He never realized how many women were in his life until all the men were carefully extracted.

Until he carefully extracted them. Not that Brian really gave him a choice –

Stop.

If this is going to work, if this is really going to work, he needs to forget about everything that went right or wrong, suppress every flash of disappointment and hurt, every moment he’s ever had that included Brian in any shape or form. He needs to forget him until remembering no longer hurts.

He can do it.

He’s had a lot of practice in the field. Different topic; same concept.

*~*~*~*~* Mom leaves a message on his cell-phone. He doesn’t have a landline yet. He won’t have one for a long long time because that costs money, which he doesn’t have. The roaches can bear witness to that fact. Of course, his mom doesn’t know that because she doesn’t know he’s moved. Because he didn’t tell her about anything, not moving out, not the stuff with Brian, not getting a new place. Nothing.

Her message is short and cheerful and he winces through every sincere syllable.

“Hi Justin, its Mom. I keep calling you at home but I don’t get any answer so I thought I’d give your cell a try. Call me back. Love you. *sound of a virtual kiss* Bye honey.”

It’s the “I keep calling you at home” that freezes his blood. Home isn’t home anymore. At least not his. The time he spent at Daphne’s, he made sure to call his mother first in order to avoid this very situation.

As long as she thought everything was status quo, he could pretend and then he wouldn’t have to answer any questions.

But what if…what if between the time she left the message and he picked it up, she tried again? And Brian answered? And told her …told her what?

He can’t talk to her. She’s going to want to know things…. About the break up, the move, where he’s living now ( roaches…roaches…falling ceiling…), how he’s doing in school (breathing gets a little harder, lungs shrinking from the thought of confrontation with his mom, heart palpitating), how he’s paying for everything ---

Oh God. Oh God-God.

His thumb plays nervously over the tiny number pad as the automated voice asks him which option he’d like to choose from the main board. Save, Erase, Replay?

Oh God-God-God.

What if she knows about school? What if she knows?

Message Erased.

*~*~*~*~* He has an apartment warming – at behest of Daphne (wheedling, whining, threatening, extortionate behest) after living there for two weeks.

It consists of exactly one other person. Daphne. Because, let’s face it, the number of people he knew, liked, wasn’t currently awkwardly avoiding (ahem ahem – Mom), could stand to spend a few hours in the same room with without aid of pharmaceutical hallucinogens, and was willing to allow entrance into the Beast (without fear of never ever again being able to look them in the eyes because of the eternal eternal shame that comes from a non-relative discovering you cohabitate with roaches, Or being bodily hauled out and made to return to the care of his mommy because obviously he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing and couldn’t be entrusted with the care of a self-sustaining plant much less his own life )…

Well, there was only one person who met all those requirements.

And she still hasn’t learned a thing about diplomacy.

“Hey, Justin! What’s wrong with your closet?”

Justin closes his eyes and contemplates an alternate universe where Daphne never finds the shambles that is his closet, one where the closet is possibly even no longer a shambles, a universe happy and serene with little chirping bluebirds flapping about.

Hello bluebird. Chirp Chirp to you too.

“Why’s it all …shrunken?” Her voice is muffled through what he imagines is the closet walls given her insistence upon that topic, and as she’s disappeared around his bedroom corner. He’s reluctant to check.

So he does.

Daphne’s standing on the threshold of his door, peering inside as though she’s never seen anything quite like this before and she really wishes she’d brought a camera.

“Oh. That? Nothing’s wrong with it….” If you ignore the plaster chips stubbornly clinging to the molding molding (a homonymic hovel, how hooking), and the fact the rack fell down two days into his move-in, so he had to stick it back with crazy glue because obviously wood glue is for wood not plaster. It fell down again, forty-five minutes later. “It’s an economical blend of efficiency and space management in a modern aesthetically appealing package.” “Really. It looks more like your closet collapsed. Why’s everything so short?”

Because the closet collapsed.

“I hate to break it to you, Daph, but I’m short. What’s the sense in trying to deceive everyone with racks too tall for me to reach in my own closet?” Deep breath and smile. Though to be honest? That’s never worked on Daphne either.

“Yeah, you are,” she admits. Thanks a lot Daphne. “But come on, Santa’s elves would have to bend to reach these. It really looks like your closet collapsed…are you sure--”

“That’s a blatantly hyperbolic dramatization if I ever---”

“Oh My God, it did!” She lets out shrilly and punches him in the arm at the same time. Hard.

“Ow! Daphne.” He rubs his upper arm sourly, positive it’s going to bruise. It’s a filthy habit she picked up when they were kids and never dropped. He’s simply learned how to dodge over the years. Which he does, the next blow misses him by a few crucial inches.

“It did! It collapsed! Your closet collapsed!”

“Stop hitting me! It hurts. Besides, it didn’t. This is all completely deliberate.”

She stares at him disbelieving and they both glance around the room, silently taking in the systematic disarray. The ceiling bulges outward in a grossly convex threat of explosion. The walls crack and peel with chipped paint, what was beige now more a dusty off-gray. Along the baseboards seepage from – honestly, who knows where - - is cultivating mildew. As for the pole that runs through horizontally, the trick was even distribution, each item had to be carefully placed on the hanger and hung up based on its weight. Too much on either side causes bunching, bulging, then falling down.

Daphne shakes her head. “Umm…I don’t think so. You live in a great big collapsible orange shack.”

“First of all, no I don’t. Second, the proper term is Apricot Fire. The walls are not orange, they’re Apricot Fire.”

She rolls her eyes singularly unimpressed. “I’d hate to tell you, but this place is the slums, Justin. No, no, I take it back, this place aspires to be a slum. It dreams of the day it’ll be elevated to the status of slum.”

“Oh fuck you, my apartment is the bomb.”

“Yeah, a fucking blower-upper. I seriously hope they don’t make you pay rent. Why don’t you just let your mom help you find a place? I still don’t understand what the big deal is.”

“Sure. And while I’m at it let her worry about how I’m going to pay for it, and who’s going to feed me, and clothe me and if I’m doing alright anno-Kinney, and pop over periodically because she’s conveniently ‘in the neighborhood’ to see how I’m handling my money and my schoolwork. I’m not a kid anymore, Daph, I don’t need to be treated like one.”

With perfect timing, the rack waits for him to complete his rant to tremble alarmingly, halt, then crash the remaining fifteen inches to the floor, spilling Justin’s clothing everywhere.

That’s one way to make a point. So Justin’s a liar, what else is new? Daphne sighs and does that thing with her mouth that is such a mom thing it’s frightening. “Yeah, well, guess what, Justin? You better swallow your fucking pride before this place swallows you, that’s all I’m saying.”

*~*~*~*~* Daphne leaves and it’s quiet again. Justin makes himself dinner (ham and cheese on white bread) which he eats standing up. He hasn’t bought a couch yet and his living room set consists of a single piece of seating that’s entirely too close to the floor for comfort.

*~*~*~*~* Today, 4:15 p.m. Beeeep.

“Justin, Debbie told me you broke up with Brian? Are you okay, honey? Where are you staying? Please give me a call back. Love you.”

To keep this message press 9, to erase this message press 3, to repeat this message press---

Message Erased.

*~*~*~*~*

He buys chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream at the supermarket. Later he’ll pick out the cookie dough and bake it in his newly scrubbed oven, that’s like an entire meal. Dairy, fats and salt, protein, fiber, the vanilla counts as a vegetable.

He turns down aisle 12 and picks up some maraschino cherries. There, fruit.

Dinner is served.

Brian would be appalled ---

Nothing.

*~*~*~*~*

The first time it happens he’s still zipped up in his fall jacket, jeans and briefs pooled around his ankles taunt and stretched from spread thighs opening as wide as cotton and denim limitations allow. Everything’s like that, taunt and salty stretched. It feels vaguely ridiculous half bared, ass and cock and thighs the only naked parts of him. He’s even wearing leather gloves, for Christ sake, and a wool cap shoved low over his sweat misted forehead. Brian takes him from behind. Engulfs him in warmth. Arms encased in soft fabric wrap around him. Hard body-hot flesh rubs against his ass, pressing teasingly light against his, erect penis nudging between the meeting globes with not nearly enough pressure to do anything productive, no thin cover of latex separating his body from Brian’s.

No. Not-Brian then. Brian wouldn’t take him raw, there’re only a few sacred rules, and sacred rule (the Golden rule) number one is Not Without A Condom. Ever.

So not Brian. Which is good, which is better, which doesn’t matter. He’s hard and it’s lasting finally, like it did in Vermont that one time. Fuck, that was ages ago. How could he not have done this for that long? His cock is bobbing between his legs in anticipation, rod thick, velvet steel stiff, twitching and hard and staying. God it’s back.

He can’t help but let breathy moans spill from a slack jaw, eyes squeezed tight shut.

Not-Brian smells like Brian and feels like Brian, lies like him too with his body making all kinds of promises Justin knows his mouth will take back in the morning. He won’t forgive him, but he won’t have to either because it was never okay, it was never acceptable and besides, this isn’t Brian really.

Not-Brian pushes him open and fills him with a smooth graceful liquid thrust, long and slow, and in.

Justin’s not sure where his hands are, there’s only those pinpoint locations of ass and cock and thighs, and neck where Not-Brian is leaning in and breathing against him, warm puffs of scotch rich breath fluttering over his ear.

It’s too soon because it’s been too long. He’s reaching for completion with tense muscles and arched back, that special place where everything breaking apart leads to better things being put back together. It’s there. There. There-There. Attainable.

Not-Brian says in Brian’s voice, “I love you, just not that much. Deal.” and he comes. And he comes. And it’s everything and nothing and no one cries.

Shuddering Justin blinks his eyes open to darkness so thorough it’s a new world, a warm, lightless, void. Wakes alone and quiet, the only noise the sounds of his apartment creaking and his own heart thudding from the residuals of the disturbing dream.

His sheets are stuck to flushed prickly skin, moving up and down with him as he heaves in gulps of thick air. Looking down he peels them back and tentatively touches a limp, wet, sensitive penis. At least he knows everything still works down there. So not physiological. Just psychological. Great.

*~*~*~*~*

“We can either watch a movie or Law and Order,” Daphne says as she drapes herself languidly over her couch – the red and black one he refuses to sleep on.

It’s funny how ever since he’s found his own place he seems to spend more time here. He might as well transfer rent.

“I think I’ve seen all your tapes, which Law and Order?”

But at least he has his own shower.

“Either the one with the bitchy brunette, or the one with the cute cop. Or there’s CSI, cute cop and bitchy brunette, two for one sale.”

A tiny little half bath thing, beige paint rusted and half peeling at the bottom making it virtually impossible to actually take a bath even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. Once he found a creature in there that his landlord insisted wasn’t anything to worry about, “silverfish” weren’t dangerous. Nothing that ugly could be harmless. He’s taken to wearing shower shoes.

“Law and Order, bitchy brunette.” *~*~*~*~*

Watching the sun set takes a really long time.

It sounds like such a romantic, wonderful idea, like something moonstruck lovers do together. It’s not. It takes forever.

Positive point: his apartment has a good view --- and if it keeps crumbling away a bit at a time, he’s not even going to need windows for that view soon.

The sun keeps sinking, lower and lower, inch by excruciating inch. Practically like it’s not moving at all, bathing his apartment in light which bounces off the already garish color scheme and reflects a wincingly bright neon (vibrant neon) carrot color that stings to look at.

This too has a positive side. It’s a reminder that the way things are going, he’s more likely to suffer retinal damage, go blind, tumble blindly into an end table which promptly collapses triggering a domino effect that culminates in the ceiling falling on his head, thereby causing his immediate death. It’s far more likely that will happen than the scenario where he fades away quietly, a lovelorn victim of a failed relationship.

Really, no one actually dies from a broken heart. A cardiac arrest, yeah, clogged arteries, burst vesicles, heart enlargement, sure. But bitter loneliness? Hell no.

His life is…his life is okay.

Growing up means being okay with being alone, right?

And he has to grow up sometime, now is just as good a time as any.

*~*~*~*~*

He misses Brian like a physical need.

*~*~*~*~*

You have one new message. Yesterday, 12:35 p.m. Beeeep.

“Justin, it’s Mom. I’m worried about you honey, Daphne says she’s seen the new place? If you told me you were looking for a place, I could have helped. Anyway, give me a call back. Love you. Molly says hi.”

To keep this message press 9, to erase this message press 3, to repeat this message press---

Beeep.

Message Erased.

There are no new messages in your mailbox, to return to the main menu---

*~*~*~*~*

If he says he’s okay with being alone, does that actually count as being okay with being alone? And if so… surely he can not be alone anymore. Right? Part of being an adult is maintaining a stable committed relationship, right? He doesn’t have to be alone to enter a new phase of his Brian-free existence.

It’s not a requirement.

Besides, he’s a nineteen year old male, no one expects him to actually stay celibate. And dating is infinitely better than tricking. Right?

Hmm…

*~*~*~*~*

There are five new messages. First message, Friday, 2:47 p.m.

“Justin, it’s Mom again. Calling when you know no one is going to be home does not count as returning my call. If you don’t get me at home, you have the cell number. Call me back. Love you.”

Message Erased. Second message, Friday 3:19 p.m.

“Hey Justin, it’s me, how’s life in the collapsible orange? Okay, okay, I’m sorry, the collapsible ‘apricot fire’. I know, I’m a bitch. You love me anyway. Talked to your mom, she’s not royally pissed but I think she’s heading in that direction. But what do I know? I’m just the best friend with food benefits. Talk to you later.”

Message Erased. Third message, Yesterday 9:10 p.m.

“Sunshine, don’t forget you’re coming to dinner tomorrow. Brian’s bowing out for a business trip and Michael’s being a moody little shit and refusing to come. So you fucking better not back out too! Okay, sweetie, have a good day, Vic says hi.”

Message Erased. Fourth message, Today 2:15 a.m.

“……………………………………*Click*.”

To keep this message press 9, to erase this message press 3, to repeat this message press 1.

Beep

“……………………………………*Click*.”

To keep this message press 9, to erase this message press---

Message Saved. Fifth message, Today 4:10 p.m.

“It’s Mom. Call me back.”

Message Erased. There are no new messages.

*~*~*~*~*

Dinner at Deb’s is uneventful. They have something that resembles Rigatoni, but actually isn’t. Michael indeed does not show up, Ted and Emmett are joined at the hip, Linds and Mel are …Linds and Mel, Vic is ---shock of all shocks – out on a date. Fucking couples. At least Debbie is loud, funnily unfunny and single as ever.

The highlight is when Gus, typically quiet, watchful Gus, runs into the middle of the room does a half spin and shouts at the very top of his lungs: “Look! I can spell my name!” then promptly does so amidst coos of awe ….for the next half-hour. Straight. With Authority.

He might be a Marcus-Peterson, but he does presentation like a Kinney.

If Brian were here he’d ---

Nevermind.

*~*~*~*~*

He meets Nick at the library.

They trade words like ‘forever’ and ‘monogamy’ and ‘true love’ and ‘instant connection’ over crème brule from Barnes and Nobles and white wine at Des Moines.

There’s even talk of a commitment ceremony. Sometime in the future. Vast vast future.

So it’s a little fast, back off Deb. True love knows no time constraints.

Except the one where they end up lasting a week. Apparently things like ‘forever’ and ‘monogamy’ function under Einstein’s law of relativity.

Justin finds Nick trading something a little more …carnal than a soul match with a guy browsing the homoerotic literature section of Shop on a Corner.

Fucking academic types. They’re so full of hypothetical theoretical bullshit they probably have to envision their next crap before they take one.

At least he got a week of decent free meals out of it.

And they fucked. And he came. With another person for the first time in months. Hallelujah a grand new time has arrived.

*~*~*~*~*

Donnie. The Park. Five days. Numbers exchanged with some fucker who sold hotdogs for a living. Hotdogs.

Positive point: when Debbie asks where Donnie is – “Whatever happened to that cute little carrot top you were over the moon about, Sunshine? A week straight of Donnie this, Donnie that and then nothin’” – and Justin’s forced to regale her, Emmett, and Ted with the entire morbid embarrassment, Emmett has enough decorum to keep from making any comments about the Hotdog part. Okay fine, but they were at least tasteful. If Brian was there he would have ---

So anyway.

The gang has shrunk from four to two. Michael is “still sulking,” according to Deb – “Over God knows what, but it’s driving me batshit. I know I didn’t want him with Ben in the beginning, and to be honest I’m still not thrilled over it but if I have to suffer through one more puppy-dog eyed, pouty lipped mope I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

And Brian hasn’t been around lately. Not that he’s noticed or anything.

It does remind him that he needs to move the computer from Daphne’s to his own place soon. Brian went through all the trouble of mailing it (and he still can’t believe he remembered Daphne’s address) he might as well use it.

*~*~*~*~*

Jonathan, just Jon. And if the alliteration wasn’t bad enough (Justin and Jon) the tramp sets a new record: three days before he’s caught with his tongue so far down – get this—a big bosomed brunette, and his hands so far up her dress it’s kind of hard to mistake what they’re doing for anything else.

He’s been cheated on with a girl. A girl.

Justin feels used.

And cheap.

He doesn’t tell Daphne, Deb, or EmmettandTed. They’re a fucking new entity now, an Emmed, a Temmet. Couples are disgusting.

*~*~*~*~*

12:32 p.m.

“Justin, it’s Mom. I came by your place but obviously I didn’t catch you. I assume no one was there. Call me back, alright? And if Molly says I’m sleeping again tell her to wake me up. Love you.”

Message Erased

5:12 p.m.

“Justin---”

Message Erased

8:09 p.m.

“Jus--”

Message Erased

*~*~*~*~*

He goes clubbing-- at this new place that doesn’t charge a cover if he wears a really tight outfit and smiles a little, and also has the additional appeal of being Brian-free -- and finds Robert. Bobby, a senior in high- school, with the big brown eyes and the dimple that flashes when he smiles, who isn’t quite so attractive with his bare ass waving in the air, while his lab partner (who knew Biology was that hands on? — Mr. Steiner, you big liar.) high as shit and twice as horny fumbles around for his zipper in the near dark.

This is too predictable to even get upset over anymore. Justin meets interesting guy, Justin gets cheated on.

“Don’t bother getting dressed. I was just leaving.”

He doesn’t say it loud enough for them to hear-- even if they weren’t too fucked up to recognize English at this point-- and he’s not surprised when no one goes chasing after him as he leaves.

He doesn’t close the door on his way out. That’s not pettiness it’s justice.

*~*~*~*~*

There has to be a gay man in this city capable of fidelity. Seriously, he can’t be the only one in all of Pittsburgh who thinks it’s a decent idea. Look at Michael and B—

Hmm. Okay. Bad example.

So he only knows sluts; that is not indicative of anything.

*~*~*~*~*

“Jesus Christ, Justin! You’ve turned into a big serial dater!” Daphne, later the same night his very first high-school boyfriend decides he needs to expand his horizons. Kids are so fickle.

“I’m the unfortunate victim of dating morally ambiguous, lying, cheating bastards. I don’t need your bullshit too, Daphne. So shut up, I’m not a serial dater.”

They’re sitting outside on the cold cement stoop of her building, it’s a chilly night and they’re both wearing jackets that have been demoted from winter coats recently. Justin’s puffing on a cigarette rhythmically, comforted by the steady inhale exhale as much as the nicotine. Daphne huddles beside him, her knees knocking slightly together because she always gets cold faster than him. She’s only out here because he is; there’s nowhere else he’d like to be and her place is too crowded, both roommates are home today. The cold doesn’t bother him. Justin was born for winter, born for ice and snow and crisp winds breathing over his face

She shivers a little and leans into him. “Remember when I suggested you should buy a cat?”

“No,” he lies, stubbornly.

“I still think you should. You really really should. They’re much better company than the trash you’ve been bringing home lately, and besides, this is becoming pitiful now. You’re probably exposing yourself to all types of diseases,” her face scrunches up on the last word, “and and … body lice. At least when a cat gets fleas you know where it’s been.”

“Daphne,” he says pleasantly, breathing out a cloud of smoke, “remember when I told you to shut up?”

She leans against him harder, a full-body shiver running through them both, transferred from her to him. “No.”

“I meant it. I really really meant it.” *~*~*~*~*

“Justin, it’s Mom. This is getting ridiculous, the only way I actually know you’re alive is through Debbie and Daphne. I’m your mother for fuck’s sake. ….Sorry. Sorry…call me back, okay? Now. Love, Mom.”

Message Erased

*~*~*~*~*

He’s stuck on a Robert fetish for two blissful subsequent weeks. There’s Robbie, Bobby, Bob, and the twins: Robert Alexander and Robert Anthony Douglass the II and III. He just fucks them though, so it’s not exactly a relationship.

Daphne doesn’t seem to quite understand this, and is still prompted to say, “You know, maybe you’re not ready to re-enter the dating world. Maybe you should give yourself time to get over Brian.”

Which is such complete bullshit. “Fuck you, I’m over him. I’m so over him I’m under him.”

She levels a look at him over a box of Chow Mein that’s as much amusement as total disbelief, a slight tilt to her left eyebrow, and a smirk twitching at the corner of her mouth. He needs to stop telling her things, really, only there’s no one else.

“Actually,” she says all high and mighty in a faux superior tone, “you’re paraphrasing from Friends. I never realized how dirty those words were though. Maybe it’s a Brian thing…You know, anything you say in reference to Brian acquires a level of previously unattached sexual subtext.” She bats a discarded fortune cookie across to him with the end of her chopstick. “Sort of like adding ‘in bed’ to the end of a fortune.”

He bats it back and it topples into her sweet and sour sauce, a little brown boat in a sea of red. “Daphne? If you don’t stop that line of thought immediately, I’m buying that fucking cat and replacing you with it.”

She shrugs unconcerned. “Go ahead, but think about this, who’ll buy you Chinese food and let you vent over the cheating bastardly ways of this week’s cheating bastard, while you avoid the impoverished collapsible orange that is your apartment?”

She has a point.

*~*~*~*~*

Matthew Westley Pear – ever since the Princess Bride he’s loved the name Westley, how perfect is this? 5’11, dark blonde hair almost auburn that falls in golden waves across his perfect baby-smooth forehead. Huge, perfect light brown (sparkling hazel in some lights) doe eyes dusted with sinfully long lashes. He’s never exactly been into blondes – he is one, why would he want one? – but Matt’s different. They meet outside Woody’s just as Justin is deciding accidentally bumping into Brian is too much of a risk for maybe – but then again maybe not—buying a drink.

Arms wrap around him from behind, and for a moment he’s positive his decision is moot and he’s bumped into Brian anyway. A leather jacket rubs against his parka’d back, and a low voice breathes into his ear, “Where ya headed?”

It’s kind of pathetic how such a dumb line sells him every time. But anyway.

This time is it. This is the time. Matt is the one. Brian isn’t even a thought anymore.

Less than that. He-who-Justin-cannot-remember, isn’t even a th--- You know what? Forget it. It doesn’t even matter. Matt is the one.

*~*~*~*~*

“Justin, don’t make me come over there. I know where you work and when, I’ll take some time off if I have to and I will make a scene. You seem to have forgotten who taught you how to make a scene. Molly sends her love.”

Message Erased

*~*~*~*~*

He knows the moment he hands over a copy of his keys that it’s a bad idea. Destiny, true-love, eternal commitment and soul-mate-ness aside, moving in together should be taken slowly. Slooooowly. Matt grins, snatches the keys from his hands, and tumbles him into bed. Too late now. He’s not sure because he hasn’t done this all that often, and the times he has have ended in …well, less than pleasantly in the same manner that every major war ended less than pleasantly, but he thinks it wouldn’t be conducive to everlasting approximated-marital bliss if he snatches them back.

Briefly in the pause it takes for Matt to slide jeans over hips, past knees, off he thinks he might be going about this all wrong. This growing up, Brian-exorcism, new life thing. Because it feels a lot more like basking in misery than creating a new self.

In the pause between entrance and the first thrust, he thinks it might be a little late for introspection.

If not, he’s still kind of sick of living inside his own head. It never shuts up.

*~*~*~*~*

“……………*Click*”

Message Saved

*~*~*~*~*

2 weeks.

Justin realizes, keys dangling from tense fingers, that this is all Brian’s fault.

Brian was his first. Brian was the first. He set the precedent for all who followed.

Justin is still looking for another Brian.

Oh, maybe not literally, not literally, but…subconsciously Justin is looking for someone like him. First love, last love, that sort of shit.

Brian was first, in everything. First to take his virginity, first to take his heart, first to share his life and his goals and his home. First to give them all back. So maybe it isn’t so far fetched to think this is why his romantic life totally sucks ass (like a three dollar whore – pun totally intended) in the ‘love department’.

He’s still looking for someone like Brian.

Someone confident and witty, with a big heart, a faster tongue, and gorgeous looks.

Who, coincidentally or perhaps simply concurrently, also doesn’t know what the word “fidelity” means in a practical context, and who can’t keep his dick in his pants any longer than the time it takes the next willing hole to prance by.

Glad that one is figured out. Hate to have wasted too long in an ignorant state of not-even-close-to-bliss.

Great. Nice.

Now, all he has to do is use that information and work with it. Analyze, Synthesize, and move on.

That should be his fucking mantra. Analyze, Synthesize, Move On.

“Get out,” Justin demands hoarsely.

The trick is already moving, throwing on his clothes haphazardly, shooting terrified looks Justin’s way all the while. Matt is watching from the bed, frantically wrapping himself in its comforter around and around and … His eyes are huge, deep hazel orbs stretched wide, flushed cheeks feverish, red lips parted sucking in heavy gasps as his recent orgasm flutters away from him.

God, he’s pretty.

If he doesn’t say anything, Justin promises himself, I’ll kick him out tomorrow.

“Justin, this isn’t what it looks like.”

Well, there goes that.

“When I said get out, I meant you too.”

“At least let me explain…”

“Explain what? What’s there to explain, Brian? How could you cheat on me in my own apartment? In my own fucking apartment! At least the others had enough fucking RESPECT for me to keep it out of my apartment!”

Matt freezes, the incessant winding abruptly stopping, while Justin realizes what he’s said.

Oh. God.

“Did you just call me Brian?” Matt’s voice sounds strangled, pressed out through clenched teeth on a breath whose only true function was perhaps meant to be the expelling of carbon dioxide.

There’s…nothing to say to that. Justin’s throat works miserably but no words come out. His lips feel numb, too heavy on his face, his tongue is dry in his mouth clicking the words, “get out,” loose from a resisting palate. As he walks away his footsteps are muffled and filtered through the rushing in his ears.

He locks himself in his bathroom and waits for the sound of the front door slamming shut to reverberate through thin plaster walls.

The rest of the night is spent sitting on the closed toilet seat staring blankly at his rusted tub, holding perfectly still because to do otherwise is to shake uncontrollably.

*~*~*~*~*

This latest blatant disregard for propriety forces him to ask the one question he’s always sort of wanted to know since the day (night really) his father gave him an ultimatum and then made good on it.

On bad days he thinks he’d like that moment back, one of many, and maybe in the end he wouldn’t have done anything differently…probably not, but he thinks…he thinks maybe he would have at least thought about it for a little longer.

And in order to do that, he has to talk to the one person who has the answer. So he sucks it up and does better than return her call. He shows up on her doorstep at three in the morning, soaking wet from the rain still pounding down around his ears and bathing the street. It’s quiet and it’s pretty with the street light reflecting off of steadily growing puddles against black asphalt. He would have drawn it, once upon a time.

She opens the door on the third press of the doorbell in a thin blue robe and white cotton slippers. Nothing else. Her blonde hair flat to her scalp, her face pale without make-up (how long has it been since he’s seen her that way?), she looks thin and fragile and interestingly enough wide awake and panic flares as his thumb releases the smooth opaque button.

How could she have just answered the door like that? With no hesitation or anything. Without even asking.

You can’t do that, Mom. What if it wasn’t me? What if someone else was at the door? You can’t just answer like that in a fucking bathrobe. It’s not safe. What about Molly? What about me? What would we do if anything ---

“So he lives,” she sighs, not looking particularly surprised, nor like he woke her up except for the bed- wear. Her lips curl in a small moue of a frown. “I was beginning to wonder.”

He smiles a little sheepishly and whispers, “Hi, Mom,” his heart pounding hard inside his chest. How many more times is he going to have to do this? Quietly stand outside someone’s door as fear and terror and nausea sweep through him in burning anticipatory waves.

“‘Hi, mom,’” she repeats, “ ‘Hi, mom’ Three months without a word and he says, ‘Hi, mom.’”

He opens his mouth to --- what? Make an excuse, beg for forgiveness, blow it off, -- she interrupts him with a look he knows well enough to heed.

Then she’s ushering him in, a firm grip around his shoulders directing and walking to the couch (the new one all white leather and suede finish) soggy jeans, soaked jacket, trailing rain in big snail-slow puddles and all.

The frown stays, and the condo is bright newness and modern décor and plastic wrapped fine china so fragile that breathing on it risks breaking it, and nothing close to comfortable or his or home. But she’s wrapping a towel around his shoulders, pressing a cup of hot tea in his hands (the sleepy-time stuff mixed with condensed milk she used to make when he was five and was forced into his own room filled with corners for monsters and shadows for hiding creatures and under-the-bed spaces big enough to fit a axe murderer and no big people to hold onto when he woke up shivering and lonely and scared in the middle of his bed, then again when he was seven and Molly came along, a tiny red faced squealing little creature that made his parents say No, Justin, not right now. Justin, later. Hang on a second, Justin, now’s not the time. The sweet creamy stuff she laughed and called “Milk with a hint of tea” and kissed his forehead and hugged him tight and told him without words that everything was different but the same too), while simultaneously scrubbing at his hair with another towel, rough and firm and familiar. And it’s okay because he thinks, he really…kind of needs his mom right now. He never thinks to ask why she was up making comfort tea at three in the morning.

When she’s finally done his hair is fuzzy and standing on his head and curling around his neck in cowlicks of duckling down. She sighs and pats it into place, fingers combing and twisting through the stuff.

“You grew your hair,” she says smiling slightly. There’s a wistfulness in her tone that’s become familiar in the last few years – or at least he’s never noticed before he hit puberty. It always makes him simultaneously uncomfortable and irritated -- because there’s no reason for him to feel guilty and itchy and stagnant when he hears that tone, but he does.

“You look so grown up,” the smile stretches and he thinks maybe she doesn’t quite mean that because there’s wistfulness and then there’s amusement.

She rubs the towel through it one last time and orders “Go change your clothes before you catch pneumonia.” One of the least possible productive things to think of right now is how parents always threaten you with pneumonia, never ‘or you’ll get a cold. Or you’ll starting sneezing and shivering uncontrollably. Or keep sitting in those wet things and they’ll get stuck to you. Or you’ll start growing your own bacteria and be known as the human fungus.’ Always pneumonia.

“I didn’t bring anything with me.”

“You still have things in your room.” The sentence, the concept, rolls easily off her tongue but Justin knows better. There is no room of his in this house, nothing that’s truly his, even the strangest of strangers could walk in and with the barest of cursory glances would see the difference between his mother’s pastel floral accented space, Molly’s purple princess paradise, and his…white walled, blue-bed spread showroom. The brief time he’d stayed there his mother had asked if he wanted to design it, but he’d known it was temporary, the pain of considering it anything but was too much to bear.

“I’m not a child anymore, Mother.” The words leave his mouth petulantly, child-like without consulting his brain. Force of habit at the moment because right now…being one doesn’t sound like such a bad deal.

“Oh I beg to differ,” she replies evenly. “You are a child. My child. I don’t care how old you get, Justin, you’re always going to be my child. You could be an eighty year old man shitting in his Depends--”

“Eww, gross.”

“—and you would still be that baby I brought home from the hospital, who didn’t sleep for the first week because he had colic.”

Justin sinks into the couch, letting his head loll back against the white cushions. “I think you’ve been hanging out with Debbie too much, you never used to talk like that.”

“I never talked like that in front of you. You’re an ‘adult’ now,” she teases, “you can stand to hear your mother say ‘shit’. Now go change your clothes. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done.”

*~*~*~*~*

When he manages to drag himself back down the stairs, warm and dry in new clothes, he finds her in the kitchen like she said she’d be. She’s sitting in a chair at the table ( a smaller, newer one than they had while he was growing up) cradling a cup of tea in the palms of her hands. She looks up immediately eyes asking, “So what’s going on?” Lips moving out the words, “Is this about Brian,” a little less questioning, a little more weary.

“Why would it be about--” There’s that look again. Justin sighs and approaches the table, hovering over her like he never can when they’re both standing.

“He never loved me. He loved to fuck me, but he never loved me.”

If he wasn’t so depressed he’d be able to enjoy that same rebellious joy out of saying that to her now, that he got when he was seventeen (which was really only a year or so ago) and expounding over the many ways in which he enjoyed cock in his temporary therapist’s office, even though his mother has been pretty desensitized to the topic and the automatic wince is barely there.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think he did, probably still does.” What a strange world it is, his mother is more sure of that than he is.

Justin sits across from her heavily and shakes his head.

“He never came for me, you know. In the hospital…at first I thought maybe it was the guilt. He blamed himself for my being--” In the hospital. Trapped and broken and useless in the hospital, with his brain patched up and his skull in melding pieces, and his memory shot, “--- in there, but it was a lie. It was all a lie, he just never cared enough.”

“He was there, Justin.” She says it so calmly, quietly, that at first the significance of the statement is lost. It’s really the way she looks, all miserable and determined, miserably determined, that makes it sink in.

“What?”

“I…” She looks down, looks up, returns her gaze to her cup and her breath hitches, caught in her throat like it does when she’s getting ready to admit something she’d rather not. “I found out before you were released. He came nearly every night. Watched you through the window while you slept.”

Jesus. So long thinking he just didn’t care. Dying in the hospital and the two most important men in his life just didn’t care. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew what would happen if I had. I knew I’d see that…that flash of hope spring to your eyes, and I knew you’d be willing to forgive him anything.”

Fuck, she would have been right, he didn’t know and he still forgave Brian. What would he have done with the hope of an admittance of love? Exactly what he’d done without, run with it and surmise surmise surmise.

“Don’t expect me to apologize for that, Justin,” she says before he can demand just that. “You were an eighteen year old boy going through a horribly traumatic experience.” He looks away and she takes his chin in the palm of her hand to turn him back, force him to look at her. “I was doing what I thought was best for you.”

“You had no right.”

“No right? You’re my son, you were in my care, I had every right.”

He shakes his head rapidly from side to side; it’s all the energy he has for denial. Nothing more indignantly fierce is left in his body. “It was my life, I should have known, you should have told me.”

“You were an eighteen year old boy playing at being grown up, just learning how to keep yourself together. It wasn’t your responsibility to take care of him too. Not then.”

She’s silent and he says nothing. So many times he wished to know this, the day it comes and ….and what.

“Sweetheart,” she says softly after some time, “does it really even change anything?”

Does it? Does it change anything at all? What’s different now that he knows?

You didn’t abandon me. You just made me think you did.

“You never liked him,” he says changing the subject.

She inclines her head slightly, the switch not going unnoticed. “No. I didn’t. Eventually I did come to respect him but Justin….as much as you were a child trying to be an adult, he was an adult trying to be a child. No parent wants to hear that’s the kind of person their son has fallen for, especially so young.”

“Especially since Brian is so male,” he utters petulantly. He doesn’t mean it, it’s a trump card. You’re being unreasonable mother, it’s because I’m gay, isn’t it? That’s ridiculous; you wouldn’t say that if I were straight. Hey, Mom, you don’t like my older lover who fucked me while I was still a teenager and living in your house, has a small child, and sleeps with anyone male that glances in his direction, because he’s a guy, right?

She heaves a breath and pushes herself up, standing slowly. It might be his imagination but he feels bad when she wobbles slightly as she recedes to the opposite side of the kitchen silently. She sighs again and turns, bracing herself against the sink. When she meets his eyes she acknowledges without blinking, “There is that.”

That. Is not what he’s expecting at all. “I thought you were over all that…I thought…”

I stupidly thought that wouldn’t matter anymore.

“You want so many things for your children,” she says slowly from her position by the sink. “You want them to be happy and safe and loved and well off, and yes, accepted.” She pauses and looks down at her clasped hands entwined together tightly in front of her.

He watches them too, wondering when they became so wrinkled, when she picked up this habit of wringing them.

“When you were three you could read an entire book all by yourself with maybe some help from me or Dad with the big words. You loved to do everything by yourself, you loved trying new things and usually you excelled at them, first time, right from the start. You were like a sponge you just soaked things up, reading at three, tying yours shoes at four, and these questions you used to have. All these questions you used to connect these gigantic ideas so the world fit.” She smiles a sad little smile that reaches her eyes in a nostalgic way. “I’ll never forget the time you said, ‘Mommy why does the stove tick before the fire comes on, how does electricity make it start, if I put gas in the light bulb could we cook up there?’ You scared me to death. But only partly because I was afraid you’d blow up the house by attempting to cook on the ceiling. The other part was a fear that you were too smart. You’d be too far ahead of your peers, they wouldn’t understand you, wouldn’t be able to relate to you and consequently you’d be an outcast. Socially shunned and turned away. And then you found Daphne and I stopped worrying so much.”

“So what? You wish I was born dumber?”

She shakes her head the way he shakes his head, as if every extra ounce of energy has gone into it and there’s nothing left to spare. “No,” she says, eyes shutting briefly, voice hitching with a pause in that way again, “but it would have been easier if you weren’t so terribly bright. It’s the same with you being gay. It’d be easier if you weren’t. And you want the easy things for your children, you want life to be easy for them.”

Finally, finally, his mother looks up, and the sadness, the weariness, he sees on her face is nothing compared to the fierce love that’s there too. The same love that caused her to leave her husband when he told her in not so many words, ‘the son that’s disappointed us both or our happy normal life, choose now’ the same love that’s always made her choose him.

“I wouldn’t change you, baby, not for the world. I love who you are, I’m so proud of you. I’m so very proud I can call you my son. But for awhile…yes, I did…I do want.” She swallows thickly and adds, “don’t stay away so long. No matter what’s going on in your life, okay?”

He can’t speak so instead he nods.

“Good. Because next time I’m waiting a week, and then I’m humiliating you in front of everyone. Naked Baby pictures in huge 20 by 20 full color fliers.”

He smiles knowing she means it.

In the mess of things, he accidentally on purpose forgets to ask his question. Mom, how did you know that Dad was the one? And now that you’ve given him back, and he’s returned us too, do you regret it? Do you think you made the wrong choice, or somewhere in there do you still love him like you first did?

Like the last question the reason behind the answer won’t change the circumstances, and therefore doesn’t make any difference. You didn’t abandon me. You just made me think you did. You weren’t pushed into your decision, you made a choice.

*~*~*~*~* It’s somehow easier after that. Different, smoother, like sludging your way through quicksand, struggling and struggling so long and still getting sucked down inch by careful inch and then it stops sucking and its regular sand again. Still difficult, still weighing you down, still making you sludge your way through, still having to work for it, but easier. It’s like that.

And so he’s lonely. And so it’s quiet. And so he doesn’t have school, or a boyfriend, or a group of family/friends to hang out with anymore. But so what? Most of that, all of that was a conscious decision he made for himself. He can change it.

He can get school back, there has to be loans or scholarships or something. Fuck his father and tax refund claims, the man hasn’t provided anything for him financially or otherwise in two years. And if he can’t get any loans or scholarships then he’ll audit, a class at a time. PIFA is about the information, right? Not the degree. This is fixable.

And fuck the boyfriend. He doesn’t need a man in his life to be happy. This is better anyway. They weren’t working out.

All the rest….all the rest he doesn’t even have to work to get back, he just has to stop being so damn self- pitying. No more hiding.

It’s hard and it’s scary but in a way he’s been forging his life by himself for a lot longer than three months. Definitely before this last break, way before he chose Brian over his family, probably even before he knew anything about Liberty Avenue at all.

Besides, introspection is boring. He needs to stop living in his head.

*~*~*~*~* Three months roll by, during which life is calm. Serene. Okay. Not great but okay. The closest Justin has come to drama is vicarious enjoyment of the Ted and Emmett show.

He’s…maybe not happy, but content. And that’s just as good for now.

Three months roll by. Then it starts again. With Michael.

Chapter 6

“How’s school,” his mother asks abruptly one day, a propos to nothing, out of the blue, suddenly, unexpectedly, and more of those pat little phrases that mean she’s successfully managed to make him break into a cold sweat with two words and no warning.

This is why he was avoiding her. This. Justin you great big idiot, you couldn’t just set the boy’s car on fire like a normal jilted lover, could you? Nooooo. You had to run home to mommy like the pathetic, naïve, child you are.

Justin sits frozen and silent at his mom’s breakfast table—technically brunch table, given that its 11:50 -- wondering in panic how this is happening. Three months she hasn’t asked a single intrusive question, three months, and now she’s wondering? Now? Over bacon and fucking eggs she has this burning need to know?

He opens his mouth to tell her school hasn’t started yet (which is true…) but he’s interrupted.

Jennifer Taylor rolls her eyes and huffs out a breath that’s more frustration than sigh -- he didn’t know she could do that, wow, her repertoire keeps expanding – and answers her own question before Justin can figure out how to string together nonsense syllables into plausible lies. “You’re not going, are you? Justin, damn it! You dropped out, didn’t you?”

He flounders, mouth open fish-like, no words coming out. How the fuck does she do that?

“I knew I should have followed up sooner, but I thought ‘he’s not a child anymore, quit babying him, Jennifer. If he needs help, he’ll ask. Give him a chance to make it on his own.’ I can’t believe you dropped out!”

He did not drop out! He--- He-- He was pushed! Can he help it if he’s financially challenged? That his father’s an ass who won’t pay for tuition if it’s at an institute he doesn’t approve? That he no longer has a financial backer? That the last semester has ended and a new one has begun and Brian’s no longer paying for PIFA? No! So not his fault.

“Dropped out from what?” Molly bounces in, auburn pigtails swinging behind her. She’s a welcome distraction that he’s going to seize quickly before his mother cuts him off at the pass.

“Molly! Look at you, you get bigger every time I see you,” he gushes for the sake of gushing and pretends he doesn’t know exactly how much he sounds like their great aunt Julia before she brings out the cheek pinches.

Molly skids to a stop a few pertinent inches from a crash into the breakfast table with that remarkable ungainly timing of an eleven year old still young enough to believe nothing in the world can truly hurt her, and stares at her brother like he’s voluntarily covered himself in feathers and announced he’s a duck. “You just saw me like an hour ago. When you first arrived.” She turns to her mother, then back to him, and adds, “you’re a freak.”

Siblings.

Jennifer’s automatic, “don’t call your brother names” is overrun by Justin’s, “I’ll not only ignore that horrendous example of character defamation, but I’ll also throw in a free trip to Sergio’s, because that’s just the type of brother I am. What do you say?”

She brightens. He’s now a duck with possibilities. With a small wrinkle of her nose she asks, “Do we have to take the bus?”

He has to laugh; when did she get so high-maintenance? The consequence of slumming with the upper- crust, he supposes, you turn into a snob. “Do you care?”

Molly shrugs and shakes her head simultaneously, the ends of her braids dipping and bobbing against her shoulders.

“Great! Then get your jacket, let’s go.” Justin pushes himself out of the chair and away from the table as fast as he can without it being obvious he’s running.

Fine. It’s obvious anyway.

Especially to his mother, who he can see from the corner of his eye crosses her arms and glares. “Justin, we were in the middle of a conversation.”

He whirls around and offers a gigantic smile while inching his way backwards out the kitchen. “And we’ll finish it when I get back,” he assures her. “Promise. You’re the one that always says Molly and I should hang out more often.”

He flashes another smile and back-peddles a little faster before his mom can call him on that lie.

He has no intention of re-entering his mother’s domain anytime today. Molly can walk herself to the front door, he’ll watch from the sidewalk.

Molly who has totally gotten into the idea, if only because whenever Justin takes her places she not only meets a variety of colorful people (between public transportation, liberty avenue, and the world of a fledgling artist) but also gets to eat all the junk food she can handle, jumps to agree. “Yeah, mom, I’m at that fragile stage of life where a girl really needs to cultivate bonds with a strong male influence that will help guide her through the trials and tribulations of adolescence.”

It’s a passionate impromptu speech. Their mother is not moved. “I’m sorry; I was under the impression that’s what your father was for.”

Molly shrugs again and Justin’s almost out the door, when she casually adds, “Dad’s a shit.”

It’s the last thing he expects his little sister to say; not the cursing part so much because he taught her how to say “shit” when she was two and she’s never quite given up the lesson, despite parental disapproval – though it came out more like ‘thit’ back then, which was funny because the only way anyone could tell the difference between her request to assume a position of rest that is supported by the posterior and her version of an obscene oath, was by the constipated expression that bunched her little brows together when she uttered the latter. The unnerving part stems more from the fact she’s used that word in conjunction with their father.

It’s…shocking. Molly is …or rather, was Dad’s biggest fan.

Their mother appears to be equally as stunned. “Molly!”

“What? You say it. Justin says it. I can’t?”

“No! You most certainly can not.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re eleven!”

“So? My age doesn’t make it any less true.”

“And you have a different relationship with your father than either Justin or I.”

Molly mulls over their mother’s words briefly. “I can love him and still acknowledge he’s a shit.” It’s a very mature observation, Justin’s pro – no, actually, Justin’s creeped out.

“Molly Elaine Taylor! You will not call your father names, nor will you curse.”

“But why when--”

“Because I said so.”

On the other hand, she’s managed to distract Mom from his life. You rock, Molly. He should do something in thanks.

“Okay,” Justin interrupts cheerfully, “so we’re gonna go now, bye, Mom!” He latches on to the little girl’s forearm and yanks her along behind him.

His mother throws her arms up, the picture of exasperation, and doesn’t bother to call them back.

You know, the only thing more thankless and wrought with lies, drama, and constant roller-coaster emotions than being someone’s boyfriend? Is probably being a parent. Justin’s crossing that off of his list of things to do too.

*~*~*~*~*

You have one new message. Today 3:14 p.m.

“….Click…”

Message Erased

*~*~*~*~* In his defense, he hasn’t been sitting on his ass regarding PIFA. He’s written to the dean, talked to financial aid – which, for accuracy’s sake, should be renamed ‘Ha ha, that’s very funny. You expect us to give you money? Get back in line.’--, went to a tax lawyer to see if there was any way (short of getting married or having a kid) for him to file as an independent in the next seven years – there wasn’t. He filled all the paperwork out for a loan, but his mother couldn’t get one because she still hadn’t paid back the ones she took out in college and he really didn’t want to end up in that same situation a few years down the road, and really if he went to a bank what was he going to hock for collateral? He talked to professors about sitting in on classes, they wouldn’t let him unless he went through the school and audited. So he talked to the school about auditing, and sorry they “don’t do that anymore”. As for scholarships, everything for the upcoming semester had already been sent out; he’d have to reapply next year. And waiting tables didn’t pay shit, he’d have to have three jobs to pay for one year of school, bare minimum of credits.

Which all amounted to: Sorry, Mr. Taylor, it seems you’re S.O.L.

The whole situation is quickly becoming highly fucking frustrating.

*~*~*~*~*

You have three new messages. First message Today 5:23 a.m.

“…..Click….”

Message Erased

Second message Today 5:36 a.m.

“….Click….”

Message Erased

Third message Today 6:19 a.m.

“….Click….”

Message Erased

*~*~*~*~*

It never ceases to amaze him how many people are voluntarily up and fully functional at seven in the morning. Idiots. Freaks. If he didn’t need the money, he’d be buried under a pile of blankets deep in the land of slumber right now.

It’s something of a personal affront that his stalker is a morning person.

“I’m telling you, Daphne, I’m being stalked. Another hang up.”

Daphne rolls her eyes at him, he doesn’t even need her to turn around to see, he can tell. She’s so predictable. “Well, you should know the signs,” she teases.

Justin sticks his tongue out at her as he slides by, clearing all the dishes off the table and making room for her to sit. “I was never a stalker. I was…an avid admirer. Completely different.”

“Mmhm.” Daphne carefully arranges herself into the booth, pocketbook on her lap, equidistant from the table’s edge as back of the booth, not a single inch of exposed flesh touching any of her surroundings. It’s funny as hell. “You know, Daph, despite what you’ve heard, no one actually fucks in these booths.” “What? I never said anyone does.”

They really need to stop telling her about fucking in public places, one day she’s going to show up head to toe in Latex.

But then…there’s no Brian so there’s no they.

One day that thought’s not going to hurt. It’s a familiar pang though, numbing with its sting.

“Whatever. I wasn’t a stalker.” If she notices any change in his tone, she’s too busy surreptitiously checking for cum stains on the seat beside her. Just as well. “What do you want?”

Daphne looks up from surveying the booth. “Hot chocolate. Extra whip cream.”

He nods and heads off like a good little server boy.

By the time he returns she’s gotten over herself and has both elbows planted on the table, swinging her jean clad legs back and forth like she’s all of five.

“Maybe it’s that hot guy… whatever his name was from the club the other night. I told you he was checking you out.”

Justin sits her hot chocolate in front of her and scoots into the opposite seat. Fuck it. He’s on break. It’s too damn early.

“We were at Techno, I’m pretty sure he was straight. I’m pretty sure everyone there was horrendously hetero. Besides, the calls started before that.”

“Everyone there was not straight. You were there.”

“You dragged me.”

Daphne shrugs and sips at her drink. “If I can go to gay clubs with you, you can go to straight clubs with me. At least you didn’t have to dance alone like I always have to do.”

“No, worse, I had to dance with a girl.” There’s whip cream on her nose. In a moment she’s going to go cross-eyed from attempting to see it. Justin automatically circumvents her and hands her a napkin.

“Very funny. Anyway, he was totally checking you out.”

“No he wasn’t. Just because he was color coordinated doesn’t mean he was gay. I know plenty of gay guys who think clothes should be worn in tones, bright with bright, dark with dark, and never the ‘twain shall meet.”

“Sure. But how many straight guys do you know who don’t believe that?”

“How many straight guys do I know period? But for argument’s sake…Mel Gibson.”

“Someone without a publicist?”

He can’t help it, he knows he’s stirring up trouble, but she’s so funny when she’s insulted. “Lex Luthor.”

Daphne makes a face of total and utter disgust. “First, publicist. Second, comic book character. Even if he was real, or wasn’t gay, that so wouldn’t count.”

“Third Lex Luthor is not gay.”

“Clark Kent would disagree. More to the point, Clark Kent’s ass would disagree.”

“Whatever, they aren’t doing each other. You’re sick. They’re best friends.” He grimaces at her smile and amends, “in a happy, safe, plutonic sense, not a sick distorted Michael/Brian,” A flutter goes through his chest at his words. For a second he can’t catch his breath and then he’s pushing on, and then he’s normal, like nothing has ever happened. It’s over and done so quickly Daphne doesn’t even notice “or Ted/Emmett way.”

“Clark,” she clasps her hands beneath her chin and flutters her eyelashes madly, “you are my destiny.”

He’s only seen the show because of Daphne but he recognizes the quote and he’s absolutely positive there was no eye batting when it was said.

“You need to stop taking crack before you watch Smallville.”

“You know I’m right, you’re just too deep in denial”

“It’s sick Daphne. It’s like finding out your parents fucked each other.”

“But…they did. That’s how you’re here.”

Justin claps his hands over his ears melodramatically and Daphne giggles. “Ew Ew Ewww! Stop it! You’re ruining what’s left of my childhood.”

“Clark Kent and Lex Luthor are hot,” she sing-songs, “you know they are.”

“They are not. They’re my childhood idols.”

“It’s lucky you’re not a child anymore then, right? Besides, how can you idolize them both? Superman was good, Luthor was evil.”

“One idol per mood. Happy days I was Superman, The weird kid with the marker covered fingers ate my playdough days, I was Lex Luthor. It balanced out.”

“And I’m the sick one?” Daphne pushes her half-full cup towards him (he doesn’t know why she bothers ordering hot chocolate when all she does is eat the cream), and rises, “I better get to class, Professor Koleman blows a gasket if you’re late. Eight o’clock classes are hell. You’re so lucky you have another week before yours starts.”

Yeah… The ones he won’t be attending no matter when they started.

His body tenses, every individual bone and hair curling up in defensive posturing. There goes the meditative qualities of an early morning break.

He’s never been so glad that Daphne’s already anticipated his return goodbye and is going through her ritual of pocketbook adjustment.

Justin’s looking down at the brown mixture of cocoa and foam when she finds her keys along with a thought. “Hey, Justin. Maybe it’s Brian.”

“What is?”

“The stalker. Maybe he’s been calling.”

And it’s back, the flutter, with millions of cotton eating moth friends.

Cocoa and foam, and you’re never graduating college, think about that. Brian means nothing. “Yeah, I don’t think so. It’s not his style.”

Daphne throws him a tiny smile and a shrug, then she’s gone.

Cocoa, foam, no college.

Cocoa.

Foam.

No college.

Debbie’s bellow is almost welcome.

“Sunshine! You’re being paid to move that cute little ass of yours, not sit on it!”

*~*~*~*~*

He tries not to, but he ends up thinking about her words the rest of the day. Daphne’s. Not Debbie’s. All through his morning break, all through the lunch shift, all through flirting with old customers, serving new customers, and squatting when the perverts drop their utensils instead of bending over so they don’t get any ideas.

Brian… calling…

It’s not likely. Six months of nothing, he wouldn’t start calling out of the blue. Especially without leaving a message. Brian’s more forthright than that. He believes in getting things out in the open and out of the way. Or, conversely, forever denying they exist and obliviously going about his business. Neither of these mottos make for stalker calls at five in the morning.

Justin’s still thinking about it while washing down the tables during his shift as a busboy (his jobs are many and varied at the Diner, thanks to Debbie. According to her there’s more money that way) and nearly jumps out of his skin when someone comes up behind him and places a tentative hand briefly on his shoulder.

“Justin, could I please speak to you for a minute?”

And you know, he thinks now is really not the time for this to happen. Not that there ever will be a time for it.

Justin’s hand automatically bears down on the rag he’s holding, squeezing it into a tight fist of white fabric and soap bubbles, his arm never stopping the mechanical motion of wiping down the diner’s table, only speeding up and pressing down. There’s a second to be thankful he wasn’t facing the other direction; his heart just hit one twenty and he’s not sure if he’s more pissed or nauseous, but either one, he knows, shows all over his face, and he has no intention of ever being that vulnerable again, not in his presence.

“I’m busy,” Justin says shortly, directed to the table. If only it will be left at that.

“Please.” Michael is an uncomfortable presence standing too close behind him. His voice is wrong, low and hoarse and raspy and wet, thick with a genuine earnest that’s a little frightening in its ferocity. All this from one word.

And he’s not sure what to do; now’s not the time but there never will be a time and Michael used to be…if not a friend, then something closer than an acquaintance. He was like a really snotty older brother, someone who had flashes of common goals with you and when it was good it was enlightening, it was fun, it was family, but …who also was in love with your boyfriend so when it was wrong it was frequent. He’s gotten into the habit of forgiving him and it’s a hard habit to break. Which is probably one of the reasons it took him so long to confront Brian that last time; any sooner and he would have caved.

Staring straight down at the table-- focused so intently he sees the individual grains, food particles and old stains outlining the wriggles and jagged indentures like fingerprints-- Justin stills. “I’m working, Michael, and even if I wasn’t, I don’t have anything to say to you.”

It would have been easier if Michael had gone on hating him from the first; he could swallow it better if there had been no betrayal, just hate.

But of course life doesn’t work that way, there’s always a little bit of cloying sugar lingering behind the sharp acidic taste of poison.

And wow that’s melodramatic. But an effective diversionary tactic, now if only Michael will just Go The Fuck Away!

“Justin, Please. I know you don’t owe me anything and you have every right to be mad--”

Justin snorts bitterly. Why thank you, Mr. Novotny for your divine permission.

“--but I really need to speak with you. I wouldn’t ask otherwise. Give me a few minutes, please.”

There’s a cord of desperation so pathetic in his plea that it can’t be anything but sincere.

It’s hard pushing someone away when they insist on staying around, Justin knows this better than anyone, he practically wrote that rule – he sure as hell took advantage of it often enough. It’s even harder maintaining a searing hatred for someone you once loved (in that casually fierce way only relative’s demand, blood or no). He’s known that one for a little over a year. That’s his only excuse.

Or maybe one more; he’s extremely curious how Michael’s going to spin this. Will blame be assigned? A scapegoat procured? Profuse wet apologies? Defensive anger?

Around them the diner continues to buzz with the white noise of patrons eating, talking, going about the business of living.

“I get off at five.”

He has a break in an hour, but he’s not wasting that on Michael’s shit.

*~*~*~*~*

Five o’clock comes and Michael arrives precisely on the hour. He doesn’t recall the other man ever being that punctual ever. So this must be desperation.

Sometime between leaving the diner with Michael and entering the bar – “Taboo” not “Woody’s,” Michael’s not a total idiot, not even mostly. Just a backstabbing, two-faced viper –

Justin realizes the topic has begun to bore him. Justin, Brian, Michael, the eternal triangle. It’s not a shape he wants to contort his life into.

He figures this out now. Here. In the middle of a cheap smoke-filled, gay-bar with sticky floors and stained walls, that calls the dim lighting from broken florescent lights ‘ambiance.’

As Deb has been known to say: ‘isn’t that just the shit?’

Michael, whose idea this all was but who’s been trailing behind him like a scolded puppy, hesitates by the front door, both feet just clearing the threshold.

He stands there shrunken and small, hunched into himself all awkward misery and burning angst; it’s almost hard to believe he’s a man of thirty-two and not a prepubescent twelve year old boy whose mom caught with a dirty mag.

Justin leaves him standing there to find a table buried way back behind two drag queens, a bear, and a man far too old for a purple mid-riff. The seats have that tacky feel of something spilled and cleaned up improperly so that a thin residue remains, smudged and scratchy.

The décor barely registers; he’s been in worse places. Hell, he lives in one. And discounting that, being with Brian was an educational experience to match no other.

He pulls out a cigarette and is contemplating lighting it up when Michael sits down across from him.

He considers it carefully like there’s actually a remote chance that he’s going to smoke it while Michael squirms in his seat. He never was an avid smoker, he started and maintained inconsistently for the sake of looking older – which never really worked – and therefore, it’s a rare day, which today isn’t, that he actually has a lighter on him. Besides, he’s decided to quit altogether, the past month has just been a little stressful and it’s nice to have this as an option. It is a useful distraction technique though. He rolls the cigarette between his fingers, watching the crushed tobacco spin in its brown and white wrapper.

“So, go ahead.” Justin motions randomly with his unoccupied hand wondering if it’s wrong to feel really… superior right now? “Talk.” And kind of smug?

Michael swallows almost desperately, one might even say convulsively, and trains his gaze on the wood- grain beneath his hands as he speaks, as far as Justin can tell, to his collar bone. “Thanks for meeting with me. I really appreciate it.”

Justin could say something like: ‘yeah, well, it’s not for you’ or ‘you don’t deserve it’ or some other Michael Novotny special but he is in actuality not a twelve year old and he has a feeling that yes, superior and smug is wrong. He continues rolling the unlit cigarette around his fingers instead.

“I…um…I know you have no reason to listen to anything I have to say ---”

Twist, turn, over index, under middle. Oh fuck it; he can’t resist.

“You’re right. I don’t. So stop stalling and spit it out, Michael. I’m kind of busy.” Yeah, he has an apartment to fumigate.

Around ring finger, skimming past pinky.

Michael fidgets. “Brian’s a fall down mess without you.”

Fwump to the table.

Justin’s head snaps up as his cigarette clips the edge of the table, bounces off, rolls to the floor, a limp circle of tobacco stuffed paper. “What?”

“Brian. He’s a mess. He tries to pretend it doesn’t matter, but I know him. I can tell. You’re the best thing that ever happened to him. At least before you came along he didn’t know what he was missing, but now that you’re gone he can’t go back to the way things were and he’s a fall down mess for trying.”

It’s only the fact Michael’s directing all speech to the round, black band of his collar, and twitching in his seat like a diarrheic toddler, that keeps Justin fairly certain he’s not having auditory hallucinations.

Blinking, he asks the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re talking again?” Because Justin knows for a fact that Brian was everything but actively cursing Michael’s existence those last few weeks after Michael’s enlightening call. Completely unimportant. Completely beside the point. Better than stuttering out, ‘Miserable? Because of me? He wants me back? Really?’

He thought he was over that as an automatic response. A Triangle is Not the shape he wants for his life.

Justin swallows hard and fingers the crumpled cigarette with numb fingers.

Michael’s never looked up, so he can’t exactly look down now, but his head does tilt subtly implying his gaze has lowered from his collar to his lap and a flush spreads up his neck and over his face. “Yeah,” he answers quickly, “just recently though.”

He’s wondering how to deal with this revelation (with pounding heart and shallow breaths) when Michael finally lifts his head and looks at him earnestly. Big wet brown eyes glistening.

“Justin, you were right. Everything you said. I—I did have a responsibility to all of us to prevent that from happening.” He pauses like he expects Justin to disagree, or agree, or blink something definitive…

Fat lot of luck there. Justin isn’t even sure he was right when he had said it. He wanted to hurt Michael and that was the most effective way of doing so. Every once in awhile he’s graced with the ability to say just the right thing that will burrow down into your chest and extract your heart to compress it into a solid little bundle of bleeding pain. He’s good at it. He did it when he told his father he’d always have a faggot for a son, he did it when he told that kid he only pretended he liked him to get in his pants, he’s done it a few times to—

He did it again with Michael. It’s a bad habit he hasn’t learned from Brian.

He could tell him that, let him know it wasn’t all his fault, Brian had some responsibility too (more if you consider Brian was the only one that was supposed to protect Justin’s interests) but as much as he regrets the things he’s said sometimes…he doesn’t actually regret it. If that makes him a bad person, he’ll have to make up for it in some other way.

Michael’s still talking. His words are practically running over each other as his tongue trips them out and he alternately meets Justin’s unflinching gaze (shock not bravery, because Justin’s not feeling much more than the former) and drops his eyes to the table.

“Don’t make Brian pay for my mistake,” he says. “He loves you, he misses you, it was a stupid dumb thing that should never have happened and never will again,” he says. “I am so sorry. You have no idea how sorry, and I know that doesn’t change anything but please don’t punish Brian because I screwed up.”

He’s so sincere. So fucking sincere it’s heartbreaking. Well, you know, if Justin wasn’t so beyond that pity the backstabbing elfin ex-friend bullshit. Which he is.

Big earnest wet brown eyes.

“Why do you even care, Michael?”

“Because Brian…Brian loves you,” he answers promptly, “and he’s still my best friend, I still—I—I still love him. I want him to be happy.”

Justin stumbles over the ‘I still love him’ like Michael trips over his words. Ignoring that, filing that, leaving that for never. Instead he focuses on the fact Michael says, “Brian loves you” like it changes something. Like he wouldn’t have given practically anything to have heard those words a year ago.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because he’s going to be at Ma’s…and I thought that maybe…” Michael trails off awkwardly.

Yeah. Maybe.

Something in his stomach feels a little stale. A fluttering disturbance he’s neglected is coming back to life. Maybe he just won’t go to Debbie’s this Sunday.

*~*~*~*~*

These are the things that Justin knows:

1) The first time you do anything important is terrifying. Peeing in your pants, babble-inducing, heart in your fucking throat terrifying. Case in point, the first time you realize Marco from The Animorphs is more appealing than Rachel. The first time you realize why. The first time you admit why out loud in the bathroom mirror, like some twisted little mantra you need to make it real. I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay.

2) Everything everything you do has to have a first time. Especially the really hard stuff, like taking that bathroom leap out of internal thought and into external action and telling your parents—well, acknowledging vaguely to your mother and telling her not to let your bastard father know, while knowing eventually she’s going to anyway, because come on how realistic was it to tell your mom anything back then, and expect it not to make it back to your father’s ears? Justin, you poor little idiot, you had crying out for attention emblazoned all over you in florescent body paint.

Another first time, eating dinner with your ex-boyfriend (or whatever word that then and now and concurrently applies) and his extended family after a less than amiable…dissolution. Not break up, because to break up suggests there was an official parting of ways, when really they simply drifted off into the land of too silent to really be in a ‘relationship’.

So after not seeing said ex for six months (six months one week and four days) – who’s apparently miserable without you, though he hasn’t made the slightest overture, the tiniest effort to change the state of things -- it’s natural you’re a little tense over the prospect of dinner with him (okay, and Debbie, and Linds, and Mel, and Gus, and …everyone else. And fuck. Michael too. Jesus Christ, he can’t believe the stalker was Michael). It’s perfectly, naturally, completely understandable.

And finally:

3) None of these revelations mean shit if you have a panic attack in your bathroom and pass out. So. Go.

Now.

Justin checks his image in the mirror one last time. He grabs his keys and his jacket on the way out. This is a regular night at Deb’s. So what if he’s known for three days now that Brian’s been miserable without him. This changes nothing.

*~*~*~*~*

Those words come back to bite him in the ass. Because apparently…it really changed nothing. Not for Brian.

Brian opens the door, dressed casually in loose jeans and this ridiculous cable knit sweater vest they would have mocked together and then dared each other to wear in public a year ago, even still looking really really good. Really. Not fall down messy at all good.

The Bastard.

And it’s funny that the one time he has legitimate clearance for vomiting up the contents of his stomach is the one time he feels the calmest.

It’s been so long, the first time since that awful night he dropped off his keys, that he should be nervous. Only he’s not. There’s only a hollow sort of emptiness in the pit of his stomach that contrasts with a wet muffled presence on his chest, and he thinks that maybe he’d prefer nausea. At least you know what to do with nausea.

“Hi,” he says dumbly because it’s either that or silence; the only time he’s able to pull a conversation out of the air is when he’s anxious or nervous or agitated or scared to death or vibrating-with-excitement- thrilled and now he’s neither of any. Just calm.

And babbling in his head. Great.

Justin shifts his weight from his left leg to his right.

Brian looks at him and raises an eyebrow. “Hi yourself,” he says. “Are you planning on living out here?”

How different this man standing before him is from that man who blankly accepted his keys back. Justin refrains from doing a double-take.

“What?”

A smile that could pass as a smirk twitches to life on Brian’s face. “Are you coming in or not?” His tone is mocking and slow, the one he uses when he wants to emphasize how retarded he thinks you are.

Jesus. Nothing has changed.

And it’s funny that he’s getting pissed off, because the stirring of irritation in the pit of his stomach, prompted by that smirk is almost a relief.

“Are you planning on moving out of the way,” Justin returns.

Brian inclines his head a little to the side like he’s thinking about it, and that smirk blossoms full fledged. He swings an arm out Spanish matador style and motions with it for Justin to enter. Only, for a second Justin’s remembering another time with the same arm movements that mocked and challenged him to take his things, dared him to leave if he had balls enough.

He has balls. He had them then, he has them now. Their shoulders brush as he passes; a light bump and rub from scapula to scapula, brief warmth through cotton and wool, nudge and release. It’s on purpose.

From both ends.

His arm is tingling from where they touched and he has the urge to reach up and pinch the tingle out, rub it raw if he has to before his entire arm explodes in flames ignited by the spark of electric pulse passed from Brian to him. It’s entirely insane. So. Okay. Justin’s man enough to admit coming tonight was a very bad idea.

First, they sit him next to Michael because obviously Brian and Justin together is just too incendiary of a combination. Which is probably true. If Brian wasn’t busy ignoring him, and he wasn’t busy ignoring Brian. So instead he’s squeezed uncomfortably between Vic and Michael with Debbie’s boring eyes bearing down on him across the table (in between hovering over him with refills). It’s a triple dose of Novotny/Grassi silent inquisition. Justin feels like a little bug right before the nozzle on the can of Raid is depressed, that second of intense observation while the can is being shaken up and the bug freezes and …

Yeah, okay, he’s spent too much time in his apartment again.

Anyway, then there’s the small talk. Justin’s gotten out of the habit of small talk (roaches don’t make very good conversationalists and Daphne’s been bearing the brunt of his whining recently which cuts straight past small talk altogether) and it’s weird. Everyone wants to know what he’s been up to, and how he is, and what’s going on in his life, and let me tell you Justin it’s been a crazy few months Linds has been doing this and Mel has been doing this and Debbie and Vic and some androgynous character named Kenny or Candy or something that might be feminine might be masculine because no one’s really sure if it’s a guy or a girl…

But the worse thing, the double chocolate lemon fudge icing on top of pistachio cake of it all is Debbie’s jovial, “How’s school? It’s your first week back, right?”

What is it with moms asking hard questions over meals? That question in particular. Do they think it’ll make it any easier to answer if you have something solid to swallow around? Or maybe they’re hoping the acts of lying and eating are mutually exclusive tasks and you’ll be forced to do one or the other, thereby you’ll be tripped up into telling the truth.

Or maybe it’s supposed to lull you into a false sense of security. Who’s defensive after they’ve been stuffed with comfort food?

“Sunshine?”

Yeah. It’s the last one. Definitely.

Justin takes a deep breath, twirling his fork intently in a puddle of fish gravy. “Yeah. I’m not going.”

Except for Debbie’s unsurprising, “What the fuck do you mean you’re not going?” the table’s quiet, the multitude of conversations has ceased in lieu of this horrifying pry into Justin’s personal life.

In fact, the only person who doesn’t seem to be paying rapt attention is Brian, who’s casually sorting through salmon slices to find the least fatty. Even Gus has felt the sudden tension in the air and looked up, face attesting to the fact he hasn’t inherited his eating habits from his father.

“I…um…can’t afford tuition this semester,” Justin sort of mumbles around a wedge of saffron rice (with Debbie rice was always served in wedges). It’s not that he’s ashamed to admit he’s broke, it’s not that he thinks they’ll look down on him for his brokenness, it’s not even that he’s afraid Debbie will start some crazy collect money for the poor broke boy fund, it’s just he feels like he’s disappointing them and himself and he doesn’t know how to --

“Yes you can.”

What the fuck?

Very calmly Justin reiterates aloud, “What the f—I mean, what?”

Very calmly Brian sorts through another serving of salmon and replies, “it’s already been paid.”

Infinite seconds pass in silence as everyone tries to make sense of the exchange, particularly the words coming out of Brian’s mouth.

Justin especially. He wonders, dimly perhaps, how Brian could possibly know what’s going on with his school tuition. Justin hasn’t said anything to anyone except his mother and he doubts Brian would ask – oh hell.

He wouldn’t.

He—Fuck he would.

“Brian, I can’t take your money.”

Brian doesn’t bother looking up. He’s carefully slicing off the non-existent fat from his piece of carefully chosen salmon. Okay, now it has to be an act, even Brian’s not that meticulous about what he eats.

“You’re not taking it,” he says, “You’re borrowing it. I fully expect you to repay every cent with interest. We have a deal. It’s still good.”

Like nothing has changed. Justin’s not so calm anymore, his heart has finally sped up and is doing some form of really funky aerobic gymnastics inside his chest, while his lungs insist they’re going to require more oxygen if he expects them to continue functioning under these sort of circumstances, but his brain is having trouble processing what’s going on. Beyond that …hope. Why is Brian doing this?

Justin opens his mouth to refuse again but is intercepted. “Ow! Deb!”

Justin rubs the back of his head, still stinging from Debbie’s admonishing slap.

“Brian is doing a very nice thing,” she says, “the gracious thing to do is to say thank you, honey. Go ahead.” It’s said with a level of sweetness that’s less of a suggestion, more of a command lathered in warning.

Justin grits his teeth stubbornly and complies anyway because he’s not a complete fool.

She can make him say it, but she can’t make him mean it. So there, Deb!

“You’re welcome,” Brian answers sweetly. Then he’s looking up and their eyes lock and something passes between them.

Justin looks away quickly, devoting his attention to Debbie scooping a mound of soggy green peas onto his already overcrowded plate.

“Very good,” she says as she plops more of the vegetable into his rice, “now eat your peas before they get cold.”

He can feel the weight of Brian’s stare still on him. It’s heavy and intense and unflinching.

He…doesn’t know what it means. Before it might have been a challenge: Think you can keep up with me, little boy? One that Justin would have met on principle.

Now he’s not sure what Brian’s continued interest says. Revenge head-fuck?

Not his style.

Brian doesn’t do much out of revenge really. Not often anyway. He has a Que sera existence that compliments his “I don’t give a fuck, no regrets” lifestyle. His life is so up front that there’s no need for revenge. If someone fucks him over he deals with them and moves on. If he’s in the wrong he accepts it as the rightful consequence and moves on. He’s forever moving on.

Brian’s simultaneously the most principled person Justin’s ever known and the most morally flexible.

So what the fuck’s this?

“That’s right, honey,” Brian mimics in a falsetto voice that oozes amusement, “eat your peas.”

Debbie pounces, serving spoon still in hand whirling as she talks until gravity drops an errant pea on the table. Despite the current danger of vegetable pelting, Justin’s body relaxes and he releases air on a soft exhale as Brian shifts his attention from him to Debbie.

“Brian, don’t you start any shit. I haven’t seen all of us together in one room for too long. We’re having a loving, harmonious, serene family dinner tonight.” The spoon doubles as a lecturer’s pointer and a threatening weapon. “And the first one to fuck it up gets to wear their balls for earrings and breathe through a straw. Now, who wants some more rice?”

Brian rolls his eyes theatrically, leaning back in his chair with an easy casualness tilting into rebellion. “I resent that Linds and Mel were implicitly left out of that threat. What if they’re the ones to fuck it up?”

“Dream on, Kinney. Linds and I have far more class than that. There’s this little word called tact --”

Brian, Michael, Ted, and Emmett interrupt in tandem. “Booooooring.”

Justin is silent.

*~*~*~*~*

Justin knows it’s no coincidence that Emmett arrives at his doorstep the next morning, full of cheer and concerned frowns. He’s been expecting something like this to happen ever since he left Debbie’s the night before, and she gave him this look that bespoke of her deep and undying devotion towards finally figuring out what the hell’s been going on. She’s been uncommonly un-Debbie-ish with her patience. This is so not a surprise. This checkup is just part and parcel of being an honorary member of the clan Novotny. Frequent violations into his private life doled out with Lemon bars and unsolicited advice; it’s sweet. Mostly.

He was kind of hoping, though, that the interfering babysitter/ secret agent spy would have been Lindsey. Alas, he’s forgotten, Debbie doesn’t do subtle. Besides, someone had to have the unenviable task of checking up on Brian. Justin doesn’t even have to ask to know Debbie is across town, probably at this very moment, making a similar visit to her son.

Still. It would have been nice if they’d left off for a day at least.

Or you know, Emmett knocked first. Or called.

Or his deadbolts actually bolted. The little things in life.

Emmett does an intricate backstep across the threshold and shouts “Jesus Christ and Holy Mary of freakin’ Magdalene. What the fuck was that?”

It’s probably the most religious he’s been all at once since his HIV scare which resulted in a brief but intense pray-the-gay-out phase. Justin only knows of this phase because Michael told Brian who has a big mouth when it comes to an opportunity for mockery.

The that in question is light brown, furry, and comes complete with squeaks, whiskers, and in some historical areas ticks which at one point carried the bubonic plague. Emmett probably doesn’t need to know about that last part.

“Um… I’ve been calling him Mickey. You know, like Mickey Mouse? ‘Cause he’s a mouse?”

Name invoked, like a supernatural thing Mickey finally takes notice of Emmett and dashes madly across the room and ducks under the safety of Justin’s recycled computer box cum new coffee table. Aww, isn’t that cute, he’s shy.

Emmett stares dubiously off after it and appears to contemplate venturing further in or turning around mission incomplete. After the barest of moments of silence, he shrugs slightly and bundles his coat in his arms, apparently set to stick it out. Justin’s always admired Emmett’s particular brand of insane courage.

“Honey,” Emmett says awkwardly, “I’d hate to be the bearer of bad news…but that thing was no mouse.”

Justin grins. Okay so the technical term might have been more along the lines of common house rat. Close enough. Anyway he has the right to take creative license. It’s his fucking humble abode; he gets to decide the species of all the tenants! He’s just about to open his mouth to say as much when Emmett gives the place a final cursory glance and says,

“Yes. Wow…sweetie…you live in a very--” He’s visibly attempting to pull an inoffensive word out of the air. Justin’s not sure if that’s possible, he’s tried, and he’s the positively biased one.

“In a slum. In the ‘Collapsible Orange’. In a regurgitated abstract painting by Picasso. Yeah, I know. Daphne’s been particularly vocal on the subject.”

Emmett looks visibly relieved. “Oh I’m so glad you know; I was afraid I was going to have to be diplomatic.” He edges forward conspirationally, daring to enter, “and to be perfectly honest, southern hospitality really doesn’t extend that far.”

Justin grins and offers him some potato chips. He was going to give the rest to Mickey, but what the hell, he likes Emmett better. Besides, Mickey’s behind on his share of the rent.

The visit goes smoother after that. Emmett finally stops holding his coat in front of him like a woolen shield when he accepts the half-full bag of salt and vinegar chips while Justin laments over the unfortunate circumstances that have made it so that the only beverage in the house is tap water - the kind that’s a gritty rust sort of color unless you run it for a few minutes, no less. Debbie isn’t brought up once, nor Michael or Brian. So it’s obviously less of a reconnaissance mission and more of a general well being expedition, which is great because Justin still doesn’t know what to do with the whole ‘paying for my tuition behind my back’ thing. He doesn’t want Brian’s money. It feels like bribery. It feels like he imagines prostitution would. And that’s stupid because Brian’s not expecting anything back. Which only makes it worse somehow.

Because…well, he wants to prove he can do it on his own, just this fucking once. He wants Brian to see …

Hell, he doesn’t even know anymore.

It’s nice speaking to Emmett again, he treats him simultaneously like an equal and like the little brother no one’s really sure if he’s ever had or not. Emmett’s told tons of anecdotes about Mississippi family but only about half of its true, if that. Justin figures the lies are easier to bear which makes it less pathetic and more understandable. And he’s re-remembering that when he lost Brian…well, maybe he didn’t lose everything.

His mouse-rat friend reappears as Emmett’s heading out the door. It sticks its little nose out carefully then clambers from beneath Justin’s table and scampers into full view, whereupon it squats on its haunches, sniffs the air once, then commences washing its face. Thoroughly.

“Fearless little thing, isn’t it,” Emmett announces in a tone that’s just shy of awe.

Justin’s only excuse for offering, “it’s not entirely his fault. Sometimes I feed him,” is that he’s comfortable. And when he’s comfortable he tends to run off at the mouth.

Emmett looks at him askance and asks, “deliberately?”

“Yeah. It’s cute, he comes up to me and I hand him a cashew or something and he’ll grab it with both paws like a little person and...um…yeah.” Emmett’s looking at him like he just suggested missing the Madonna concert for Beethoven’s Fidelio.

“Justin…maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time alone.”

“I know Debbie asked you to check up on me, but I’m fine really.”

Emmett doesn’t bother to deny the purpose of his visit. “You’re feeding your feral rabies infested house pests,” he says instead. He’s always liked that about Emmett, he knew when to be honest. His subtlety could stand a little work though. Lindsey would have offered him the use of her couch and fed him while politely setting up an appointment with an extermination company.

“Mickey is not a pest. He’s practically a person. Besides, mice are perfectly acceptable pets. Michael had Ben.”

“I hardly think Ben was a rodent. Granted the way he dumped Michael was a little harsh but--”

Justin flashes another grin out of habit, this one accompanied by a bracing chill in his stomach, and rubs a hand across the back of his neck attempt to release some of the tension that’s gathered in the bunched muscles there. “I meant Michael Jackson.”

“Oh. Well. Then there, you proved my point.” Emmett smiles a little and wraps his arms around Justin, pressing him to a solid chest and ending with a fond farewell pat on his back. “Honey, Teddie and I would be thrilled to see more of you. You ever get lonely for a little furless company.”

Then he’s gone and it’s just a boy and his mouse.

*~*~*~*~*

So here’s the problem. There’s no way Brian is paying his tuition. None. That’s just, no. There are reasons. Lots of them. Reasons that don’t start with “my pride won’t let me” and don’t end with “if I let him do this it’ll be harder to let him go, and god I thought I had already let him go.” But they aren’t reasons he can vocalize because he doesn’t have the words, he just knows letting Brian pay for his tuition sets a churning in his stomach so fierce from the intrinsic wrongness of it that he has to press a fist against the rolling muscle to keep himself from ….well, vomiting, he supposes, but it’s not gotten that far. And really how dramatic is that? So the problem is this: Brian can’t pay his tuition. Justin can’t stop him short of withdrawing from the program or paying for the tuition himself. Justin can’t bring himself to do the former and has no means of achieving the latter. He could always dance again but what’s the sense of continuing the program if he’s destined to fail every class he takes because he’s too exhausted to complete the assignments?

Classes start in three days and he’s got no idea what he’s going to do. But Brian can’t solve this for him. Not this time.

Justin laid the problem out for Daphne in short sentences filled with single syllable words and peppered with graphic expletives. She in turn sat idly twirling the end of one pigtail around her index finger, the palm of her unoccupied hand cupping her chin, the picture of laissez-faire benevolent acceptance. He has a feeling she’s a proponent of taking Brian’s money but is too smart to tell him.

“Want my advice,” Daphne asks when he flops backwards on her couch with a sigh of agony. “Schools, like everything else, don’t listen to you unless you have power. Call in the big guns: the disgruntled overprotective parent.”

Justin sighs again for extra emphasis. “That didn’t work in high school, why would it work in college?”

“Because St. James was different, you were battling social mores there; here you’re backed by your talent and hard work. You’re brilliant Justin, they’re looking for brilliance, it makes them look good. How do you think they became an internationally institution in the first place? By finding and cultivating brilliance then shoving it on the world with the phrase: a graduate from The Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Art attached.” Daphne is warming to her topic, her voice ebbing and raising as she speaks; she’s sat up attentive and her hands move in a flurry of motion as she expounds.

“Trust me, Justin,” she says, “bring your work and your mom on by and you’ll be re-enrolled before you can say ‘Financial Aid is a myth’.”

Well, what else is he supposed to do? He _can’t _ let Brian pay for this. He’d die first. Or else just not go back to school this semester.

*~*~*~*~*

He hasn’t said in awhile but he really loves Daphne. And Mom. And Professor Ingham. A lot. If she was a guy he’d marry Professor Ingham. Well, okay, so he couldn’t in the U.S. but he’d definitely make Professor Ingham his sex slave for at least a week and they’d have mad passionate love because he loves Professor Ingham that much. And he loves his depressive shadow-land period where he became obsessed with sfumato and made everything look like it was crawling out of a deep mist. He loves that most of all. Oh and the Dean. He loves the Dean. Even if he is an arrogant little pissant asswipe sonofamotherfuckingbitch that only wanted to be a dean in the first place because he thrives off the adulatory humiliation of desperate sophomores. He still loves him.

But he can’t think of that now, or else he’ll break into a grin and they’ll know he got back into school (on his own goddamn merits) before he can properly break the news with the necessary dramatic pause which would be too anticlimactic of a denouement.

“So,” Ted prompts. “Don’t leave us in suspense.” He’s voicing the common feeling of the room apparently because over the clacking of silverware against dinner plates several voices pipe up in concurrence.

Justin refuses to acknowledge Brian’s not one of those voices.

When he hesitates a little too long in order to refuse acknowledgement, Debbie adds pseudo-sweetly, “Sunshine, don’t make me pull your teeth out literally.”

“I could help,” Emmett offers, “I once fucked this dentist…well, he was actually more of a dentist’s assistant which was really strange because he had this phobia of--”

Vic from his right calmly cuts in, “Emmett let the boy tell the story first.”

There’s a sense of completeness in this, sitting around Debbie’s dinner table with everyone amiably jostling over stage time in the comfortable familial way Justin once had with Molly over his own dinner table. He’s missed this.

It’s almost enough to make him forgive Michael because he’s the one that pushed him back here wasn’t he? Despite Deb’s “we all still love you” and Melanie’s “your as much a part of this family as Brian” he still wasn’t doing much in the way of reclaiming his rights as full member.

It’s almost enough to forgive him; and Michael’s persistent cowed expression trained firmly and obsessively on his own plate goes a long way to soothing his bruised ego.

But almost only counts in horseshoes.

“Anyway, I took my portfolio, mom, and one of my former professors to talk to the Dean about how I could stay in the program on my current budget. And the funny thing is, he was a lot more understanding when I had backup. It turns out if you’re an employee for the university for a year, they’ll pay your tuition. You’re looking at the new school librarian, boring as hell but I get time to work on projects and all my classes are paid for. Until then, I’m auditing classes with approval from the professors, provided I get A’s then they’ll award me the credit once I’m officially re-enrolled.”

Immediately following his last sentence, Debbie grabs his face in both hands and plasters a vacuum suction worthy kiss on his cheek, gushing, “Oh, Sunshine! That’s wonderful.”

There’s probably a huge red smear all over his face now, remnants of her lipstick.

“Yeah, Sunshine, that’s wonderful,” Ted mimics in that slow easy way of his, overlapping Lindsey’s, “I’m so proud of you, honey,” and assorted other choruses of congratulations. Michael grunts something that sounds like a slurred “I’m happy for you” but his eyes are still trained on his plate and his mouth is bulging with food so Justin’s not sure if it was actual words or mild indigestion.

There’s also a careful lack of response from Brian. Not that Justin’s paying attention. Hell, he’s directly across the table from him, squished in his newly instated position between Debbie and Vic so it’s kind of hard for Justin not to notice, there’s no actual will involved. But there it is, Brian’s not paying the least bit attention. Justin’s status has returned to that of ‘ye of mild annoyance and insignificant presence’ and what kind of fucking shit is that when it’s Brian’s goddamn fault he had to leave in the first place?

The burn of anger that rises from his gut is surprising and strange with its pang of familiarity. Not too long ago he was coasting on this, his convictions and his stamina and his absolute assurance that every choice he made since the night he slammed the loft door closed behind him and slipped off to Daphne’s was the right choice, all of that was tied up in an unwavering anger. Then there was nothing but sadness and procrastination, caught firmly between the lines of every time he accidentally purchased guava juice alongside his apple, every night he half-asleep rolled to his left to be shocked awake by cold mattress. Then nothing. Then numb. Brian’s run him through the gauntlet of emotions these past few years (three, nearly three. He’ll be twenty in a few months) and he’s circled back around to cold piercing betrayed anger. That can’t be healthy.

“…about your romantic life. Any hot young stud catch your eye?”

Justin blinks and dryly swallows the lump of food that’s turned to dust on his tongue at Debbie’s question. “Wha…? Oh, um. I’m…concentrating on school right now.”

“Whatever happened to Mark?”

It takes him a minute to realize who ‘Mark’ is and then another to keep the wince off his face and the blush out of his cheeks. Blond built Matt with the softest fullest lower lip and the tendency to grab Justin from behind and fuck him like that, both their pants haphazardly shoved to their knees and no further in their haste. Gorgeous Matt who would surround him and hold him and talk to him until one or the other fell asleep mid sentence, beautiful Matthew Pear who was simultaneously a mini-Kinney and an anti-Brian salvation. His whirlwind love affair that whirled right back out when he found his lover and roommate had decided on a few mini-Kinney tactics with an anti-Brian twist.

“Matt. We’re not together anymore.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t know what makes him add more, but it’s a slip of the tongue he regrets as soon as it happens. Before even. “He fucked around on me.”

The table’s unnaturally quiet for long seconds where Justin is able to count each reverberating thud of his heart in his ears and only broken by Brian who’s, surprise surprise, tuned back in.

“That’s right.” Brian’s tone is that of a man who’s recently been enlightened and just now remembered, “you’re above that sort of shit now, right?”

His tone is needling. Deliberately. And Justin responds like he always does. The sound of his heart has graduated from a gentle pounding to an all out throbbing crescendo in his throat and his ears. “Yeah. I am. I guess I just grew out of that superficial bed-hopping bullshit.”

“Mmm. So now that little Sunshine is all grown up, what’s he looking for? Moonlight Serenades in the park? A dreamy-eyed school boy to tell him ‘You’re the only one I want, Justin. You give meaning to the cold, flat existence that is my life. When I see you my heart stutters and my every breath hitches and I know that now, I have finally found love’?”

He’s doing it to piss him off. He’s looking for a rise. He’s a master asshole, it’s like his non-tax-deductible second job. He probably can’t help himself.

He’d probably explode or …go into cardiac arrest or something if he repressed his assholeness.

So getting upset would not only be counterproductive, but as morally reprehensible as screaming at a toddler for wetting himself.

Justin has to remind himself of this to keep from launching a fork at Brian’s head.

Even so it’s a close thing.

Instead he smiles big and fake (he knows Brian reads it as ‘one more word and I’ll fucking kill you, you gigantic prick’ by the amused grin he responds with. Prick.).

“Perhaps something a little less Harlequin,” Justin says as dryly as he can manage. All the food in his stomach is curdling, and pressing its way back up inch by gentle inch. Justin as unobtrusively as he can licks his lips. They’re still dry and his heart’s still jumping like he imagines it would on the verge of a seizure. “Ted, could you pass the soda?”

Ted moves to handover the two liter bottle and Brian intercepts him with a firm grip on his wrist that pushes Ted’s hand back down in a move that looks almost unconscious, all Brian’s focus is zeroed in on Justin. The way he’s staring with that completely there gaze locked permanently on.

“No seriously, now that you’re all mature and adult and shit. What is it that makes mature adult Mr. Taylor’s mature adult heart all twitterpatted.”

It’s the condescension that makes Justin reply offhand, “actually, I am sort of seeing someone. It’s not serious or anything yet…but it could be.” He’s a liar but if he wanted he could be dating so it’s not a serious lie. And it could be serious. Serious is about the only way he’s dated the last few months, brevity of relationship notwithstanding.

“Really.” Brian smirks like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s heard, ever. Bar none.

Fuck him.

It’s a spur of the moment decision and his brain latches on probably the only gay man in Pittsburgh he hasn’t dated in the last six months. “Really. He’s a musician, violinist, really amazing. His name’s Ethan. Gold.” The fact Brian knows who he is and for awhile there suspected Justin was doing more than admiring his artist skills from afar is an added bonus. That probably makes him an ass, knowing that and saying it anyway. “Actually, Brian you know him. I met him in concert, for my birthday, remember? I came home and played his cd all the time? Turns out we have more in common than musical taste.”

Despite the smirks, Justin doesn’t realize Brian was at all amused, or how frivolous and joking he was being, until suddenly, he’s not.

“Yeah, what’s that? An affinity for -- ”

“Among other things,” Justin cuts off shooting a look in Gus’ direction.

Brian takes the hint and suppresses the derisive innuendo Justin’s positive was about to spill from his mouth, and instead replies with an obviously unsatisfying, “I’m sure.”

The silence around the table is awkward and Justin feels like the biggest jerk. Brian’s torn his gaze away but the quiet intensity of his stare reverberates all over Justin’s consciousness and his conscience still.

His mouth’s like sandpaper, his tongue feels foreign. “Ted, the soda?”

Brian pushes back from the table scraping chair legs against linoleum and shoves Ted’s hand down again harder than before as he goes. “He’s a big boy, Theodore. Let him get his own fucking beverages.”

A moment later the backyard screen door slams shut.

*~*~*~*~*

“I really don’t think this Ethan is good for you.”

Officially the last thing he ever expected to hear. Ever. And Michael needs to stop sneaking up behind him while he’s clearing off tables. It’s a little disconcerting to be half-bent over when someone pops up behind you all solemn and mournful.

And not making any sense whatsoever.

Justin blinks, stands, and turns all on the same breath of, “excuse me?”

“It’s too soon, he’s a rebound fuck, and you know how those go. You’ve had like ten of them since the break up.” Michael’s tone is scandalized with a little bit of personal affront mixed in. Though he’s still speaking to his collar and his shoulders are hunched protectively.

It’s…

It’s fucking weird is what it is.

Justin can play this one of two ways, he can get pissed off at Michael’s presumption or he can find the whole thing hilarious. He’s still stuck at shock though, and repeats, “Excuse me?”

“Your boyfriend,” Michael puts every last nuance of disgust into that word that Brian ever has, “he’s not what you want and this is just prolonging stupidity. It’s not fair for anyone.”

“Now Brian thinks you’ve been cheating on him.” Here Michael raises his head to meet Justin for the first time in nearly two weeks. His expression is a strange mixture of left over cowed and newly emerging indignance. “If you were that’s kind of shitty, Justin. I mean where do you get off--”

Oh screw this. He is not getting a lecture on hypocrisy and impropriety from his ex-boyfriend’s clandestine affair. In the middle of the diner. Ten feet away from a very interested but trying to hide it Debbie Novotny.

“Michael can it. There is no Ethan.” There goes another regret added to the long pile of catastrophic fucking admissions and inconvenient actions Justin can no longer take back. “I mean there is, just not for me. There never was. I never cheated on Brian. I only said that because…I don’t know why I said that, so I guess I didn’t look like I was still pathetically hanging around for him, waiting until he noticed me again.” Verbal fucking diarrhea. Shut up now!

“Are you?”

“No!”

“Then I don’t get why you’d make up a boyfriend. If you really don’t miss him, you wouldn’t have to make him jealous.” How quickly ‘every right to be mad’, and ‘please listen to me just for a minute’ can morph into this. That’s why you can’t give ‘little Mikey’ a fucking inch.

“I wasn’t – God! Were we listening to the same conversation? You heard him needling me, going on and on about how my expectations were unrealistic---”

“Maybe they are.”

“What’s unrealistic about them, Michael? Expecting your so called partner to have more respect for you then to do something he knows will break your heart? Expecting to be able to actually trust your partner? Is that too fucking unrealistic?”

“If you knew how it was up front then maybe it’s your fault your heart got broken in the first place,” Michael says softly, tentatively. There’s a stubborn set to his jaw that makes Justin think he wants to believe his words more than he actually does believe them.

“Look, Michael, I’m happy right now. Like I am. Without him. I want it to stay that way.”

“Justin--”

“And besides that! It’s really none of your fucking business, Michael.”

“Yeah, maybe. But at least I know that, I’m not the one full of shit trying to convince myself of something that’s not true.”

Shoulders hunched Michael exits in a little boy shuffle, before Justin’s jaw unlocks from indignant shock.

Full of shit?

What the fuck was that?

The little arrogant ---

Full of shit?

Justin shakes his head in disbelief, too disconcerted to even be properly pissed off.

*~*~*~*~*

Six hours later and he realizes just how full of shit he is when he catches himself typing into google “should you take back a cheater?” Those words precisely.

There’re over one hundred and nine thousand search results.

The first twenty say no. Christ if he doesn’t look up the twenty-first though.

*~*~*~*~*

When Brian happens to find himself in the diner during Justin’s scheduled shift the next day, Justin can’t help but wonder how much of a coincidence it is that after a sixth month silence he chooses now to start being all present and available. He’s a lot more cheerful than when he last saw him though, which set off the fucking bells of St. Ives.

“I have a proposition.” Something on Justin’s face must show offense because Brian’s practically grinning the next second and saying, “Not that kind. A business proposition.”

He places a palm against Justin’s shoulder, completely unassuming…if he wasn’t Brian. Nothing he does is unassuming.

Brian lays out a plan that includes Justin being paid an absurd amount of money to design and create flyers for a bazaar Brain’s throwing at the GLBC, to make matters even stranger it seems to be a circus theme of some sort. It’s such bullshit. Brian’s got a whole art department at his disposal where he could have these things drawn up for free. But Justin agrees because the money would be nice…and he’s full of shit too.

They finally get around to the real purpose of his visit three customers and one slowly sipped cup of coffee later.

“How’s Ian?”

“His name was Ethan, as you’re well aware.”

Brian arches an eyebrow and Justin catches himself too late. Shit. Accident. Watch your tenses Taylor.

“Past tense? Already? What’d the little fiddler do?” He smirks. He fucking smirks.

Despite everything that’s happened, Justin knows Brian’s smirks and what they each individually mean.

So he knows Brian knows he knows that Brian knows he knows that he knows he ….

Starting over.

Michael’s told him there never was an Ethan, this whole conversation is one big string along. And Justin knows this, and knows Brian knows he knows. …he just can’t force himself to take back the lie and admit it out loud. Brian probably knows that too. The stupid manipulator. He’s tempted to ask if Michael’s told him the other part, the one where Justin is perfectly happy without Brian in his life, the part where he said he didn’t want to try again. But he knows how that would go. Brian will smile indulgently and ask ‘try what?’ then Justin will quietly exploded, or perhaps implode, getting goo and internal gray matter mush all over the place and generally making a mess. Debbie would not be pleased. Which is why it’s imperative he play this thing out; the smug, superior, I’m too good for mere mortals, under-moralizing bastard. Knowing Justin knows Brian knows…

And that’s just a little too much knowledge for seven thirty in the morning.

“I told you already, I don’t want a boyfriend right now. I’m concentrating on school and my art…I don’t have time for one.”

“Come on, Sunshine,” Brian cajoles. No one else says that quite like he does. With such smug…smugness. “I know you. You said that through the last three boyfriends. What happened?”

“I already told you. Nothing. Shouldn’t you be at work or something?”

Brian lifts his cup and motions with it. “Coffee,” he explains. “Though I didn’t realize the diner was serving twenty questions with the morning sewage.”

The grimace is a very near thing but Justin manages to suppress it in time. Brian’s not getting the satisfaction if Justin has choke on every automatic expression his face tries to dredge up. He turns away muttering, “neither did I,” under his breath.

“So Dasani or Evian?”

“Huh?”

“What brand of water did your shining prince use to rust the armor? Since we both know it wasn’t for lack of wanting, what’d Ian do?”

“Will you give it --- Fine. He told me he loved me,” Justin rolls his eyes, “After two weeks. He was either lying through his teeth,” much like Justin is doing now, but whatever it takes to make Brian shut up, “or deluded, and I didn’t feel like figuring out which.”

“That’s awful pessimistic coming from the boy of--” he changes his mind, or catches his slip, or is just fucking with Justin’s head, mid sentence and finishes with: “coming from you.”

Justin would really like to know what Brian was originally planning on ending that sentence with. The boy of what?

He’s twisting the possibilities over in his head and replies offhand. “No one falls in love that fast, Brian. Not in the real world, you have to know each other you can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch.”

“Oh? I seem to recall a certain blonde twink rhapsodizing about the emotion after a single night.”

It was not a single night! It was at least a few weeks, and he never once told Brian so that early. So maybe he told Michael but… Fuck. That was as good as telling Brian.

“Yeah, well. I was seventeen. A stupid, naïve, kid, who was wrong about everything. What did I know about love?” The moment he says it he knows it was entirely the wrong thing.

Brian’s entire face sort of …evens out. ‘oh’ for fucking two. In three days time, that’s gotta be a record.

“Brian…that came out wrong, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Like what? You’re entitled to your opinion. Love’s bullshit anyway, I thought I taught you that.” He drains his cup and places it too deliberately careful on the counter. Tosses money down after it (in bills too large for one lukewarm watered down imitation beverage) and throws a, “keep the tip,” after that.

Justin doesn’t say anything as Brian leaves. Because…maybe he’s right. And maybe it was exactly what he meant, what he means, and really what does it matter? Brian’s done more and worse. Brian would have to admit that he loved him in order to suggest he didn’t know what the term meant.

And then Justin remembers…. He did though didn’t he? Once upon a time he did admit it.

Chapter 7

Debbie finally corners him on his way out of the diner one night. No particularly special night, nothing major in the way of happening, no cues, just Debbie, the moon, and oil clogged pores from greasy diner food. It’s the wrong time for her to exercise her investigative surrogate mother rights to butt in; he’s just come off a ten hour shift, his feet hurt, his hair smells like fried food and cigarette smoke and there’s that feel of a layer of oil coating his skin in grime he’s not sure three consecutive baths will eliminate, but here it is: the conversation he’s been simultaneously anticipating and dreading (between Brian-angst, apartment- woes, and serial-dating) since that very first night of Michael’s phone call. Here it is. Honestly, it’s a relief.

As a rule Deborah Novotny nee Grassi was the antithesis of subtle, she was the thing you threw at the broad side of a barn to make the visually graphic point that yes! I can too aim! It went against everything in her, her nature, her genetics, her fifty odd years of practice and societal reinforcement to refrain from asking any questions, to check her tongue and keep her opinions and suspicions to herself. And she’d done it for what constituted a freakin’ ice age for her.

Christ, Justin was beginning to think it was a psych out. She was using intimidation tactics to wear him down until he was a malleable wad of human confession and all she’d have to do was look at him to get him to spill.

It would have worked too. If he hadn’t been too busy convincing himself breaking up with Brian was such the right thing to do that most times he completely forgot the rest of the world even existed.

“You asked me to butt out, and I did,” Debbie opens with a rejoinder that’s the disgruntled employee side of defensive, as if they’ve already had this conversation and he’s walked off accusing her of atrocities she’s never committed and she’s afraid if she doesn’t talk fast enough he’s going to do it again.

“But it’s been almost a year and all of you are still skulking around here with your tails between your legs and your heads shoved up your asses. So what the hell’s going on, and I want an answer this time.” Statement not question. She folds her arms under her chest, snapping her gum in time to some demented rhythm only she can hear.

Justin’s too exhausted and amused – how the hell do you have your tail between your legs and your head up your ass? – and completely over the entire Justin-Brian-Michael triangular melodrama to be offended.

It’s been nine months since Debbie’s first asked, and Justin pled with her to leave it alone. Nine months since Justin found out Brian’s done the unthinkable but not the impossible. Nine months since home meant with Brian and not anywhere he’s not even if it’s rat infested and crumbling to pieces plaster block by plaster block.

Nine months.

He’ll never think of Michael the same, they’ll never be friends, he’ll forgive him but he can’t forget that for one instance Michael valued some intangible “what if, could be” over their burgeoning brotherhood. And he mourns that too. When the anger burns itself out there’s betrayal and grief for their “what if, could have been.” He can’t forgive Brian, can’t even begin to understand why in order to think around the what and get to forgiveness. He does loves him, still loves him, probably always will. But then…love doesn’t really change much in the scheme of things.

It’s been nine months. What the fuck is he protecting?

“Brian…cheated on me.”

He pauses. Waits for that to sink in a little before he springs the second part on her. He’s had time to come to terms with this, and he’s still trying to adjust. “With someone who was more than a trick, with someone who actually meant something.”

“Oh honey,” Debbie sighs into the cold night air. She envelopes him in a full body hug and breathes into his hair, “I figured it was something like that.”

That stops him for a minute. Everything stills, the night, his heart, her voice. Because surely that’s not…she didn’t mean… Jesus. Maybe he’s the only one who was caught off guard. Maybe he’s the only one this surprised.

When she lets go and steps back there’s another question in her eyes, he can see it floating there in the subtle crinkle of eyebrow and the questioning glitter of resigned sadness. She’s Debbie, he doesn’t have to wait long for it to make its way out her mouth.

“Justin? It was with Michael, wasn’t it?”

He can’t force an answer out of the sucker-punched oxygen depleted vice of his lungs.

Debbie nods firmly once, head jerking a little, mouth pressed into a harsh thin line.

He guesses that’s answer enough.

*~*~*~*~*

Justin’s had a lot of time to think. More time than anyone should be given really if they expect not to go totally batshit insane from over thinking every tiny minute excruciating little detail.

And in the end he thinks it all comes down to one thing. One word that sums up their entire relationship.

Inconclusive.

Which is to say they’re inconclusively shit at everything but ending inconclusively. Case in point: Last Thursday they left it badly. Just like every other time they’ve had some sort of spat in the last three years. Nothing’s solved, nothing’s wrapped up or closed or finished. There’s just this empty space where resolve should be, indecisiveness in place of understanding.

Brian throws out some words, Justin throws out some worse ones (or equal quality), they withdraw to separate corners snarling and hurt until round number two hundred and fifty six thousand and twenty three. Sometimes, most times, when they were still…“together” it’s the other way around.

But either way, inconclusive.

That’s why they always end up here, with moments like this.

Somehow two unproductive meetings at various neutral settings have morphed into Justin going with Brian to his loft in order to finally come to some agreement on what the stupid bazaar flyer will look like. Fifty- four drafts and a combined seven and a half hours and he’s back here because it’s a better “working environment.” Ha fucking ha.

Both elbows are planted on cold marble, bracing Justin in an awkward lean against Brian’s kitchen island. The same island Justin spent most nights chopping ingredients on so they could have a home cooked meal. So much has happened here in this apartment, he doesn’t know why he thought he could come back like nothing.

They’re supposed to be working on Brian’s bazaar fliers, but Brian’s been watching him intently and silently from beneath thickly lowered lashes for the last few minutes, ignoring the drafts Justin’s trying to remember not to fiddle with nervously. Sunlight pours in through the opened curtains of the living room and bathes half of Brian’s face in light and casts shadows across the other half in a strange mosaic of visual obscurity.

He can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Fuck, half the time Justin barely knows what’s on his own mind, muchless Brian’s.

Then there it is. Laid out on the table between them, bold, brash, blatant, a physical imperfection in their carefully civil interaction.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving,” Brian asks softly. No. Asks is the wrong word. Brian manages to turn the question into a statement; the phrase caught between nuances that suggest he already knows the answer, he just wants to see if Justin is going to lie about it or not.

It’s not terribly accusing, but it feels like an accusation all the same.

“What did you want me to say, Brian? I think we should see other people?” Justin replies, question for question, tone just as soft. He’s no more ready for this conversation now than he was nine months ago. It’s why, despite Daphne’s advice, he never got around to initiating it. He’d been counting on Brian to do the same.

He forgot Brian favored unpredictability at the worse possible times.

“Couldn’t be that,” Justin answers his own question dryly. “We already were.”

He doesn’t realize how close Brian was sitting until Brian shifts his entire body backwards and tilts away, his hands spasm around his share of the crumpled efforts of their brainstorming session.

Shit.

Things were going so well too. If a bit awkwardly. He’s not ready for this. He never will be.

“Look, let’s just get back to the flyer, okay? None of that’s important anymore. I came over so we could discuss what you wanted the flyer to look like; we only have one more day to produce something.”

Brian slams the crumpled papers on the countertop between them with a dull slap that makes Justin jump. Then he’s up and pacing the room, long legs eating up the area twice before coming to a sudden stop an arm’s length in front of Justin.

Too close to breathe.

“I really don’t understand you,” his voice has a guttural hoarseness to it, like he’s trying to reign in his temper and keep from screaming, “I told you, I fucking told you, Justin. I told you how I – how I felt. What else did you want?”

Oh Christ.

Justin’s head dips a little involuntarily. “Actions speak louder than words, remember?”

“You’ve always wanted the words.”

Justin shakes his head; his long hair blocks his eyes, hides Brian, for a split second before it sways back into place. He thinks to himself if it was longer…he’d have longer before he had a clear view again. Longer to think about what he wants to say before he has to say it.

“Not at the expense of actions. They don’t mean shit alone,” Justin turns his body so he’s facing Brian at profile instead of dead on, and tosses out another, “remember?”

Brian moves in closer, sudden, cobra fast. He uses his body like a weapon and traps Justin, boxes him in between hard marble and unyielding flesh. “Will you stop saying remember? I was there. I know.” Softer, leaning in closer until Justin breathes in Brian. The clean crisp smell of sweat, minty shampoo, and that fancy French shit he swears by to get rid of wrinkles. Brian’s not even thirty-five yet, what fucking wrinkles? Closer still, so Justin’s practically pressed into his chest. They aren’t touching, not yet, but there’s the threat of tactile connection that sends a thrum of energy vibrating down Justin’s shoulder- blades. “You told me to go.”

“What else could I have said? Would you have stayed?”

Underneath all those other smells there’s the indefinable but uniquely identifiable aroma of eau du Brian. He’s missed it. “You told me you forgave me. And then you told me to go, Justin. If you didn’t mean it you should never have said it.”

He’s missed it so much.

Justin’s head dips lower and his eyes flutter shut, one beat, two. “I know. I know that. But what would you have had me say? What would you have listened to?”

“You told me to go and then you bailed as soon as you could.” Brian threads his fingers through Justin’s hair, a gentle tug pulling his head back so blue eyes meet hazel. “Tell me something else, Sunshine, did you wait to leave the next morning or just until I was out of sight?”

“Did you call to find out? Did I even matter at that point?”

“Were you there to answer? Would there have been a fucking point?”

Brian disengages, untangles them from around each other, stepping off and away. Justin’s arms have remained at his side’s the whole time. “If it was too late you should have said. I never would have – fuck it. Forget it. Fucking prancing around each other like two fucking ballerinas on fucking eggshells for three goddamn weeks when you were just planning on taking off anyway.”

Justin’s still in the same position, head tilted at the same angle, numb. He still feels him, smells him. Wants to keep on feeling him, smelling him… wants to hold and touch and kiss and keep and tell him it’s not too late, it’s not too late…

…but Christ it is.

“You should have fucking said something,” Brian is saying, more to himself than Justin. And all Justin can hear is Daphne’s voice saying “if you don’t like something, you should tell him. You can’t just pretend like it doesn’t matter. Like you want to do it, like you like it”

And completely unsolicited, from somewhere deep within bursts, “It was never just about the fucking words, Brian!”

It shocks them both. Justin’s panting in shallow breaths from adrenaline and surprise, Brian is stock still frozen, back straight, head turn away so Justin sees only beautiful auburn hair and not intense hazel eyes. He has to read his expression through Brian’s shoulders.

“Yes, I wanted them,” he continues lowly. “Yes, I still want them, fuck, yes. But I could have lived my entire life without ever hearing you say you love me once, if you had just acted like it. Words don’t mean shit, it’s what you do, right? Isn’t that what you told me? Isn’t that your motto?”

The words keep coming. Nine months of aggravation. Nine months of unfinished sentences, bitten tongues, and un-dialed numbers explode from his throat, rumbling in vocal cords. “But you kept giving me these things, showing me you loved me in all these little ways and then as soon as I got a little comfortable you threw something in my face to show me it didn’t mean shit.”

Justin doesn’t pause for breath, doesn’t stop to swallow, so perhaps he can forgive himself for the squeak that elevates his voice an unnatural octave. “And then Michael! You fuck Michael, Brian?”

His shoulders tense then forcibly relax, then Brian swings around to face him again. Just that, no closer, jaw wired shut it’s held so tight. It does nothing to soothe Justin’s anger.

“So excuse fucking me if I had a hard time taking another fucking disappointment after finding out my partner fucked around on me with his best friend. If you cared so much you would have said something nine months ago. Or you would have taken that bullshit trip with me and not backed out at the last minute. Better yet, you wouldn’t have fucked Michael in the first place! So don’t you dare try to lay this on me, don’t you dare try and make it about words. What I did or didn’t say. How about what you did and didn’t do?!”

The sliding metal clang of the front door as it slams shut emphasizes Justin’s last word and makes it ring in echo. Michael’s standing there, with bags of takeout in his hands. “I brought Chinese…”

And really, that’s about it, isn’t it? He’s out of breath, out of words, and suddenly, he’s nauseous.

“Speak of the motherfucking devil. I’ve gotta go.”

He hopes they choke on it.

*~*~*~*~*

He spends the night ruminating over the things he should have said, despite his firm belief their relationship ended not because of words, but because of actions. He believes this. He does. It’s true.

The next morning Justin winds up at Lindsay’s somehow. It’s not conscious, it’s not planned, it just happens.

Which is probably theoretically impossible when your final destination requires a train and three buses to reach…

They end up on her front porch, sitting side by side on the steps cradling mimosas between their thighs. He doesn’t know what it is about his friends that make them ply him with alcohol when he’s distressed. The quiet chatter of breakfast conversation (half baby babble) plays behind them.

Lindsay breaks the silence with a gentle sigh, a soft flutter of breath whistling between her teeth. “Oh, Justin, he loves you. I remember when your mother asked him not to see you again. He was so heartbroken.”

It’s not that the concept of Brian being in any sort of emotionally vulnerable state such that would leave Lindsay to believe his actual heart was broken is inconceivable... It’s just that Justin’s had entirely too much experience with Lindsay himself and knows how desperately she wants to believe in true love and romance and the unfailing goodness of humankind to believe she was viewing the situation as accurately as possible.

“Yeah? He told you this?”

“Not in so many words, you know Brian. But we were talking and I remember saying how the night Gus was born he was in such awe, he couldn’t believe he had a son, and he pauses then says ‘two sons’ with this look on his face--”

He doesn’t know which is worse. The fact that Brian said that shit…or that Lindsay sees nothing wrong with it.

“He thinks of me as his child? He equates me to…He thinks he needs to take care of me like Gus?”

“That came out wrong, that’s not how he meant it.”

“So at best…I’m this kid he kept around because maybe eventually he would have been able to mold me into a perfect little stepford boytoy, someone who lets you do what you want, doesn’t ask for any emotional commitment, is always available for a fuck when other options don’t pan out, adores and worships at your alter, and oooh look, he even cooks and cleans too.”

And Justin encouraged that thought. He’s the one that insinuated himself into Brian’s life. He’s the one that started cooking dinner. And washing the dishes. And folding the laundry and organizing the kitchen utensils (about the only things Brian wasn’t a control freak about touching).

“Justin--”

He’s the one that made himself available at all hours of the night. He’s the one that volunteered to babysit Brian when he was high as a kite talking in rhymes and swearing the air turned colors with every breath.

“—at worst, I’m an obligation. A fucking responsibility, like a credit card bill.”

He’s the one that told Brian whatever you want, however you want it, whenever you want it.

“Justin it’s not like that.”

He’s the one that did that. And Brian agreed.

“You’re right, I’m exaggerating. I’m a credit card bill covering the Armani spring collection. So see? He does love me, he’s even willing to pay on me monthly so I’m not all run up.”

Lindsay says nothing to that. Silence stretches between them, heavy, thick as that frozen corn syrup Mom gets in lieu of commercial pancake syrup. The way it doesn’t solidify, doesn’t ice over, just gets thicker and gooier.

*~*~*~*~*

One mimosa becomes two, becomes a screwdriver (and at least he’s had his daily dose of vitamin c), becomes a whiskey sour, becomes something in shot form that is dark and bitter but he isn’t sure what exactly it’s called because by then he’s so far past pleasantly sloshed the word slosh is on repeat in his head. Slosh. Sloshhh. Slossssssssssshhhhh.

Then he picks up an unidentifiable bottle of something potently alcoholic in nature and decides it’s the perfect time to tell Brian exactly how he feels.

He has a limited window of opportunity before he starts slurring…or dies of alcohol poisoning.

*~*~*~*~*

He doesn’t know how he makes it to Brian’s loft. Brian’s home, which was once his home but now instead he’s got mysterious stains and crumbling plaster and Ben the fucking friendly wundermouse for a roommate. He especially doesn’t know how he makes it up six flights of stairs under his own power, feels more like seven, eight, twenty billion never ending succession of ascending ledges. Brian called it – jokingly, ironically, smugly- the stairway to heaven.

Anyway the point is it takes him awhile and he very well may have gone into a fugue state because he’s here at the stupid metal door but he can’t remember the logistics of getting from Lindsay’s to his apartment to the package store to here, there’s just flashes of almost haze that could pass as a memory. Or a dream. Christ it is quite possible that he’s that brand of fall down stupid drunk and enraged like he hasn’t been since the first time he became a crippled one handed artless piece of broken blond boy ass that he blacked- out for a ---

“You’re back.”

Justin straightens up against the door jamb; Brian an unyielding presence suddenly in his face.

He swallows a little around a swollen tongue. “You sound surprised.” Thank God, it’s not slurred.

Brian’s eyes slide up from his trainers, across his torso, to the tips of his sweaty mass of unruly hair. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“What, you thought I’d just take off without saying anything? Now does that sound like me?”

Brian raises an eyebrow eloquently. The words, ‘it wouldn’t be the first time’ hang thickly and silently on the air.

“Yeah, well it’s not. It’s not like me at all.” The air’s too thick in the hall. And it’s hot, Justin’s shirt is sticking to the nape of his neck like a second skin branded there.

He pushes past Brian to enter the loft, all false confidence and swagger that melts to relief when Brian allows him in. Just like every other time. Brian determines what’s allowed, Brian decides how Justin feels, Brian gets to all the final decisions.

He’s sick of it, sick of it, sick to his stomach. And tired of all the lies and contradictions.

I love you. I don’t believe in love. You’re important, be the best you can be. You’re not as important as this, or this, or this.

He’s tired of all the implied promises, tired of hoping, tired of giving up only to start right back again.

Tired of being the only one vulnerable.

“In spite of everything you almost loved me. I almost made you love me, right? Tell me that wasn’t a lie too.”

Brian’s eyes darken a shade, dark green with brown flecks instead of hazel. He stays by the door, arms firmly crossed. “You’re drunk.”

“Brian…”

“You’re drunk,” he repeats stubbornly, voice flat, unforgiving, no other inflection.

Again. Like always.

Justin loses the little bit of the patience he still claimed beneath the uninhibitory factors of anger and alcohol. “Excellent observation, Mr. Kinney. Any more words of wisdom you’d like to impart to us poor unworthy urchins of little intellect? Come on, I know you have to have a life motto in there somewhere.”

In the incaution of his rant his legs get twisted around each other and he trips, Brian’s there to catch him, righting him immediately, strong hands gently gripping his hips and bracing Justin’s fevered body against his own. “Yeah, I think you’ve had enough, Sunshine.”

It feels too good to be here, that’s his only thought, it feels so good. How pathetic is that.

Justin attempts to extract himself but Brian tightens his hold effectively. His heart slams into his chest, Boom Boom Boom. Funny it can do that, when it’s already lodged in his throat. “And I think you need to take your motherfucking hands off me,” Justin enunciates slowly, calmly, “I know when I’ve had enough and I don’t need you to bring me to heel. You don’t have that right anymore, Brian.”

He pulls away hard and takes a careful ste—stumble to the right that nearly undoes all the precise deliberation of his words and sends him on his ass.

“In fact, you never had that right. I’m not your fucking son.”

“I’m not Gus, I’m not Michael, I’m not some little boy that doesn’t have a thought in his head and needs you to fill him up. And I’m Not, I’m NOT a credit card bill.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Lindsay told me what you said. About having two sons?”

At first its obvious Brian still has no clue what Justin’s talking about, then something shifts and everything about him, from his facial expression down to his body stance, says he’s thinking ‘Well thank you, Liberty Avenue’s answer to the untimely retirement of Dear Abby.’ It’s not fair Justin can still read it, how are you supposed to get over someone when you can still read them? How are you supposed to get over someone when you can’t read them.

Fuck, how’s he supposed to do this.

As good as Brian is at letting shit go, Justin never learned how. Not from Mom not from life. Definitely not from Dad who can carry a grudge and turn into an irrevocable humiliating personal affront.

“I’m not your son. I don’t think things have gotten that depraved yet.” a laugh slips out that Justin is sure wasn’t meant to, but if he disguised it as a hiccup Brian would think he was drunk. Which he is, but Brian doesn’t get to know that. “Always remember what the wise men say, Handcuffs are kinky, Incest is a sin. But then I’m preaching to the orchestra, you know all about kink and sins and shit.”

“Choir. It’s preaching to the--”

“I know what it is! I can’t be a little creative? See that’s what I’m talking about Brian, stop fucking correcting me.”

Brian approaches him again, slower this time with less haste and more hesitation, his steps careful, the brand of cautious vets use when approaching a wild injured animal. His arms are outspread, palms up and empty.

“Justin. You’ve had enough.”

It pisses Justin off even more. You did this, you wounded me. You fucking bastard you don’t get to be cautious now, You. Did.It.

“How could you fuck Michael?”

“Give me the bottle before you throw up all over my floor.”

“I loved you. I loved you and loved you and loved you and you took that knowledge and threw it back in my face every single time. And still I came back and tried again.” He laughs again, “Fuck, I answered my own question. I’m a blonder, hotter Michael Novotny. That’s how you could, there was no difference was there?”

“Justin, give me the bottle.” Brian’s level, controlled. If Justin wasn’t so off his ass drunk and livid like only the inebriated and the self-righteous can be, he’d be very proud of Brian’s self-control. Rather, proud of him for choosing to remain calm. Brian’s the most self-controlled motherfucker he’s ever met.

When he wants to be.

“Was it good at least? Did he roll over like a perfect little bottom, give and take? Was it the fuck of your life? Did he tell you how big and strong you were? How he loved spreading his legs for you? How he’d die if you didn’t push inside him right now? Was it worth pissing all over us for?”

“We are not doing this. Give me the bottle and sit your ass down before you vomit.”

Oh God, he does feel a little nauseous actually.

“Heaven forbid! We wouldn’t want that. At least I know what gets your attention. Three years of loving you and not a twitch, but threaten the upholstery and you’re all over it. Thank you, Brian. I’m glad I finally figured it out.”

Finally that shell cracks, Brian’s own patience evaporates. “Oh Fuck You! You don’t get to do that, Justin, you can’t rewrite what happened to fit your sense of drama. You can’t turn yourself into the helpless innocent victim and me into the mustached villain whenever you want to. That’s fucking bullshit! And it’s not the way it happened.”

Justin loses the bottle of brown liquid to Brian’s hard wood floors and neither of them notice.

“You’re right. That’s not at all how it happened. We were both equally to blame. You for dishing out the shit, me for standing there and taking it. Excuse me; let me correct that right now.”

Brian backs up, intercepting him at the door, bodily blocking the only exit.

“Bull. Shit. You can’t walk in and out whenever it suits you. We’re not fucking playing that game.”

He’s not cautious anymore. But there’s still something of a wariness there, a hesitation in his eyes, a desperation in the tilt of his jaw, that can’t be hidden by impatience or anger.

Justin tries shoving by again, this time it’s not allowed and he finds himself firmly in Brian’s arms again.

“Get off me.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t want me, that you don’t miss this, don’t fucking lie to me.” He breathes in deep, exhaling a waft of warm air that ruffles the curls at the nape of Justin’s neck. “Your body’s already telling me the truth.”

“Get off me,” he repeats breathlessly. It comes out sounding like ‘Fuck me’ and Brian hears it.

“Who makes you feel like I do?” His voice is intoned low, soft and hoarse already. “All your Ethan’s and Matt’s and Roberts, it doesn’t matter, does it? There’s no one, no one. No one but me.”

Never anyone. Never anyone but him. Always, Forever, Till the End. Just you for me. That’s the problem.

“Get your legs open.” He uses his knee to nudge between Justin’s thighs, spreading them wide. And Justin goes with it. God, he doesn’t mean to go with it but he does. A high moan slips out and his legs slip open and he’s going to be so fucking embarrassed when he’s sober enough to remember what embarrassment is.

Just you always and forever, for everything. Brian can’t say the same.

“You want it hard, don’t you? Hard and slow on all fours, my cock shoved so far up your ass you can taste it.”

Justin’s not sure how he wants it, except always and never again, but short of those two contradictions, Brian’s suggestion sounds pretty good. “Yes,” hissed, sibilant.

“Yea,” Brian echoes. “You’re hard and wet for me, aren’t you?” Brian reaches down as he talks, between Justin’s legs, slides a hand past belt buckle and boxer briefs to press against Justin’s blood engorged penis and feel the evidence for himself; Justin is indeed both hard and wet. “You can’t wait for me to put it inside you; you want it so bad you can come just from this.” “My hand wrapped around your cock. My dick ready to burrow into your tight little hole. You want to come now, just listening to me.” Their hips undulate against each other, Brian’s hand doing a soft petting caress that must be awkward from this position. “Don’t you, Justin? Don’t you?”

Brian’s never asked him this many questions in tandem in the entire three years they’ve known each other. He usually comes to his own conclusions himself, with little to no help from Justin.

Hell, he hasn’t been asked this many questions by Brian in the entire three years they’ve known each other period. In tandem or no.

Then he’s extracting his hand, legs intertwined so Justin can barely move no thoughts of escape. The other comes up to unbuckle one handed while Brian wipes the slick mess of pre-cum and sweat over Justin’s lips, tracing over them with two fingers, then he leans over and licks it off, takes his mouth in a heady kiss that slips and slides salty thick. Pre-cum is such a weird thing, its slippery and sticky in a manner nothing else mirrors, except perhaps slug slime, which is really beside the point. And disgusting. Really disgusting. Why is he thinking this? Why is he thinking this Now?

He finds himself kissing back, tongue seeking, pressing so hard against Brian’s mouth all skill and self- possession and three years of experience lost. It doesn’t seem to matter.

Brian lets out a grunt as they fall backwards into the door together, humping each other in their haste, shoving against it.

His pants are around his ankles now, boxers twisted somewhere under his ass. Brian’s still dressed because Justin can’t seem to make his hands unbury themselves from his hair (his soft, thick hair he hasn’t touched for nine months), can’t move his arms from around his neck to undress him, and Brian’s too busy grabbing Justin’s naked ass and trying to lift him as they do a shuffling, uncoordinated backwards dance, blindly seeking the bedroom.

His mouth, the lower half of his face including jaw and throat and lips, are covered in slick wet heat from Brian’s red kissed lips and constantly moving tongue. It’s all Justin can do to keep up, to arch and moan, and stay out of the way enough to accept what’s on offer.

A whispered litany of “Come on. Come on. Come on.” floats between them, between kisses, during kisses, in place of kisses.

They make it to the bed and fall down onto it together, Brian on top automatically clasped between Justin’s thighs, cradled there like a mimosa was five hours ago. How things change.

They wriggle into familiar position, hands everywhere. Throat, lips, chest, nipples, stomach, down to the hard shapely grind of hip bones, up across the smooth swell of ass, legs moving together, bodies press flush.

Fumbling for each other, for closer, hotter, firmer, more.

Somehow they remember a condom, habit moving them more than concern now, no thought left in their heads for concern instead of no need. Then Brian’s hands are shoving his own damp and wrinkled clothes away until he’s as bare as Justin. And he moves between him, arches, each warm hand on Justin’s sweat slick thighs, hold him open and tight to Brian’s body.

Justin’s eyes are shut, tight, so tight the muscles will hurt in the morning. So all he feels, all he hears, is all there is. Heavy breathing, the wet soft slap of sweaty bodies writhing together. Brian’s so close their skin sticks together and is gently pried apart every time they rock, every time Brian’s cock jutts across Justin’s belly (one hand holding the condom on but not moving to penetrate) painting an abstract pattern of lust born of sweat and Justin’s own precome (only his now since the condom) all on his stomach. He’s so close just moving with him, his own penis feels like it’s never been touched, rock hard and stretched thick and throbbing between them. Brian’s mouth doesn’t let go of any part of Justin, slides up and down, licks and kisses, moans words between nibbling teeth, groans steadily around a thick searching tongue across shoulders and up his sternum and back to Justin’s own mouth. But it doesn’t let go.

There’re no words anymore. No more thoughts. Just sounds and feelings and sweat and heat, and the pure rich smell of sex. Of their sex. Which is different somehow than sex with Matt or Robert or any of the Bobbies; smells different, feels different. God he was right. Always and forever and never anyone else.

He’s going to come; he’s going to burst just like this. Right now.

He can’t stop it if he wanted to. It helps that he doesn’t want to.

Then Brian’s shifting him, cum still pumping as Justin comes, it’s surreal. He’s weightless and limp, body strung tight as he’s flipped over, their bodies rolling over each other in constant contact as Brian maneuvers him onto his knees, thighs still spread.

They come together again, though they were never separated at every point -- thighs touching, hand to the small of Justin’s back, hair brushing Justin’s nape, a foot against a calf.

Then he’s in, moving, thrusting and sliding inside him. Brian’s in him. Arms around Justin’s waist and shoulders, body pressing into him from everywhere, not even a slit of air between them, mouth incessantly busy on the back of Justin’s neck; he rocks Justin into another orgasm that comes too soon on the heels of his last earth-shattering climax. Justin pulls and claws at the sheets beneath his grasping fingers, eyes shut tight, lets his throbbing cock slice through empty air unassisted, flushed red, pumping ropes of semen that splatter onto the bed, dribbling and spurting out of his slit.

Brian moans low and long, mouthing a cry, open-lips wet-tongue, onto the back of Justin’s neck. His hips stutter, the rhythm they’ve established faltering briefly as everything tenses and Brian tilts his pelvis and thrusts so hard Justin’s entire body jolts forward sharply, knees nearly slipping out from under him and causing him to fall on his face; if not for Brian’s arm suddenly wrapped around his chest, the other twined around a thigh, while the entirety of that warm palm swallows the base of his cock and balls gently, fingers spread around him like he’s cradling something much more fragile than Justin’s softening dick.

Brian comes on the near fall; even as he’s pulling Justin back into him his body tenses, cock jutting so far forward Justin imagines he really can taste it, shivers bone deep in telltale orgasm. Keeps going even after that, plastered to Justin’s back, hips bumping into – grinding against-- Justin’s sweaty buttocks tirelessly, cock rubbing inside him relentlessly, with an inexorable devotion and damn the SATs. And damn his brain that won’t let him just ride this out. Ride it out, fuck, it feels so good, Brian humping and rocking and rubbing and thrusting and sliding in and out and in and out of him, half-hard inside of him but growing stiffer even as Justin’s cock remains wet-sticky-sensitive-quiescent nestled between Brian’s fingers.

Then he pulls out slowly.

Justin is left crouched on the bed, ass in the air. Unable to think…to move not even to fall face forward into the bed. He’s panting hard and every single inch of him is tingling and sweaty, his hair is plastered against his ears and the back of his neck and he can’t summon enough energy to move it.

Brian is making sounds behind him; the soft rustle of fabric against skin, the paper tear of a condom being opened, a pop of a cap that can only be the bottle of lube.

These sounds should mean something but he’s too tired to figure it out.

It should mean something…something familiar.

Brian’s back against him the next second, skin warm and slick, and then he’s in again and it all makes sense.

Justin lets out a soft groan and rolls his head into the crook of his arm, breathing in his own salt skin while Brian rolls them forward and eases them down.

“Lay down with me.” It’s an order because Brian doesn’t know how to request, not when he really wants something he thinks he shouldn’t. Not when he really wants something, period. Justin lets out a sigh, complying. Back to status quo so quickly, nine months of separation for nothing, back to fucking status quo. It takes some maneuvering with Brian’s cock providing a bridge between them, still firmly and happily ensconced up Justin’s hole, but they manage it. Practice indeed makes perfect.

He falls asleep with Brian still inside him, one of Brian’s arms around his waist, the other curled loosely against his neck, Brian’s chest pressed to his back, their legs entangled. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt quite so much like burying his head into a pillow and never moving again.

Chapter 8

After their initial coupling, they ma—fuck twice more during the night, Brian forcing himself back into a state of arousal after climaxing and returning to Justin’s body both times.

When they’re done, when they’re finally done, he falls asleep with Brian inside him, stiff cock providing a bridge between their bodies while the rest of them go through various degrees of skin melding. Sometimes mouth attached to nipple, sucking, sometimes tongue slowly caressing a broad stripe of sandpaper wet across the gentle dip of collarbone, sometimes palms massaging into the smooth flesh of open thighs, sometimes just the gentle trail of silky hair brushing against the nape of a sweaty neck, but always touching, and always connected, the whole night through.

It’s exhausting, it’s nice, it’s the most relaxed he’s been for quite some time.

Which is why he knows he’s going to regret the hell out of it really really soon.

Because he and Brian? They don’t do relaxed and nice. They do tumultuous. Chaotic. Loud, dramatic, cacophony of repressed emotions straining against grit teeth. That’s what they do. The anti-nice, the anti- relaxed. The anti couple. Christ.

*~*~*~*~*

When Justin wakes in the morning – sun streaming over both their faces warmly –he knows where he is immediately. He remembers everything from last night the minute his eyes open. He wants to pretend he doesn’t though.

Lying there, the morning sun bathing their faces in gentle golden orange, Brian’s arms wrapped around him securely, the steady thump thump of their hearts synchronized and calm…

He’d like to indulge in a moment of post-inebriated amnesia. Hell, he deserves it.

His body’s sore everywhere, from ankles to temples, with a sort of gathering pulsation in his ass and the small of his back to the pit of his stomach that burns in a not entirely pleasant way…nor entirely unpleasant. He hasn’t bottomed much in the last nine months, and certainly nothing as … energetic as last night.

And jeeze. Fuck. What’d he do? Swallow an entire liquor store? His throat burns, his head pounds (throb throb throb flash of light throb) and there’s a twisty turny thing going on in his stomach, like a solid ball of melting wax entangling with his intestines pressing on his bladder and his stomach – the urge to piss and vomit are about equally as intense.

His kingdom for a toilet. One attached to the bed. So he could just roll over and --

Then there’re lips brushing warmly against his face, over his closed eyes, down the solid line of his jaw, gently pressing and touching until they open and a warm mouth descends to suckle a long wet kiss into the base of his throat. And he can’t very well claim amnesiac fugue now.

Justin shoves Brian away gently with one forearm against his chest. “This was a mistake.”

It’s not really a surprise when Brian clears his throat and rolls back on top of him -- he never takes Justin seriously, not until there’s no other way to take him -- squashing Justin into the tangle of bedsheets. Oh god, he’s going to vomit and piss. He’s going to wet the bed, Brian is going to be sooooo beyond fucking agitated.

“Alright,” Brian says, there’s a glimmer of humor in his eyes, “I concede. I’ll be your little cliché this morning. But only because I’m in a good mood.” He smooshes Justin a little further in, hips grinding, lowers his head, forehead brushing forehead. “That’s not what you were saying last night,” he intones huskily into Justin’s ear.

It sends a shiver down (up? Across?) Justin’s spine. And every other available square inch of flesh, muscle, bone.

With eyes shut, Justin shoves harder. It’s easier with the physical discomfort distracting him. “I was drunk.” They open again of their own accord with Brian’s weight is suddenly removed.

Those three words, a mimic of Brian’s own from last night, work better than ‘Get off’ ever has. Brian pulls away just far enough to stare him full in the face, blinking slowly, nothing even synthetically similar to humor anywhere in the vicinity.

“You knew what you were doing.”

“I was drunk. It was a mistake.”

“So, what? You’re sober now and I’m not allowed to touch you again?” There’s an expression on Brian’s face that could possibly pass as the mutant lovechild of disbelieving affront having a one night stand with disgruntled disbelief while the latter was role playing stunned hurt. Then it disappears, flatlines, we’ve lost him doctor, and Brian looks only vaguely disgusted -- Justin Taylor you unique prudish hypocrite. “Wait, sorry,” Brian says mockingly, “I’m allowed to touch you, just as long as it doesn’t resemble anything sexual.”

“Didn’t know you wanted to, after all you still have Michael.” For some reason being around Brian brings out the petulant eight-year old within like nothing else.

Brian rolls out of bed, bare feet slapping against cold wood. Naked and unashamed he struts (nothing so plebian as a stomp) determinedly to the bathroom, where he promptly shuts the door behind him. Firmly. Apparently, something about Justin brings out his stubbornly silent wrongly accused and grandly misunderstood preteen.

Justin flops back down, expelling a frustrated explosion of air between clenched teeth. Only the most recent mistake in a long list of recent mistakes.

Pain.

Nausea.

Urgent need to pee.

Really can’t move.

Even laying down, flat on his back, his legs feel like rubber. And not the solid stuff balls and other assorted objects are made from, no, more like rubbery plastic slinky material rubber. Wobbily, loose. That’s going to present a problem when he tries to get up.

Somehow, hobbling a little, he manages to leave before he embarrasses himself by defacing Brian’s property.

There is something to be said for the fact he hasn’t even thought once that perhaps Brian would deserve it. He’s maturing or something. Maybe.

Brian’s still in the bathroom.

Neither of them say goodbye.

*~*~*~*~*

He’s lying down on his mattress – bed is too generous of a word – a wet cloth pressed over his eyes when the banging starts. First he thinks it’s the pounding in his head upping the ante, or maybe a neighbor deciding to get a head start on weekend celebrations – like a three day headstart but then he starts hearing his name.

Bits of it scrambled underneath POUND POUND POUND. He’s not insane. Voices don’t talk to him. And his neighbors think he’s that boring antisocial guy who’s the youngest looking sixty year old on the planet. They probably think he watches Matlock and keeps his teeth in a cup of water. But anyway, they wouldn’t be yelling through the walls for him. So clearly it’s someone at the door.

Justin feels proud of himself for deducing so.

Plus the pounding is yelling ‘open the fucking door, you hypocritical shit’. So, you know, the most verbal hallucination ever, or the mice are talking. Which it couldn’t be because, again, he’s not insane. Just hung over. And depressed. And really really fucking stupid with his heart. And still really really wants to pee, but can’t because, Christ, hung-over, every ounce of water in his body has completely dried up and been sucked out through all his pores so his bladder is all confused and empty but throbbing – Pain pain, must pee, can’t pee, pain.

Anyway, he’s all those things, he’s just not insane. So clearly someone is at the door.

He rolls out of bed, clutching his stomach tightly with both hands you can’t escape, my pretty and hobbles to the door, half naked, hunched over, sweaty, and looking thoroughly pathetic.

Maybe whoever it is will take pity on him and go away.

“You know I never took you for a hypocrite, Justin. You’ve been a lot of things since you stalked your way into my life but never once did I think you were a cowardly little hypocrite.”

Or maybe not.

Hmm. Retraction. Clearly he is insane. There’s a hallucination in a Brian skin at his door.

“---this fucking martyrdom; give it a fucking rest, would you? You kissed your frat boy, I screwed Michael. We both fucked the rules. Get over it. I am not the only one who fucked us up.”

A perfectly solid, cotton clad arm thumps against his side as the Brian-skin hallucination pushes its way past Justin and further into the depths of his apartment. With not even a “may I come in,” though it is now staring around with a grimace of distaste on its mirage-esque face.

Jesus. Has to be actually Brian.

“Could we do this when I’m not hung-over? Please? Or maybe just not do this, ever? That sounds good.” He straightens just enough to hobble his way back to bed and flops face first into his mattress. Face buried into the singular flat pillow he owns, he mutters, “that sounds really really good.”

Then it hits him what Brian’s just said. He’s hung-over, his head still aches despite the four aleve he popped this morning, his reaction time is a little slow.

He flips over with effort and makes to sit up, makes it up on his elbows instead.

“Wait a minute! I kissed the f—Daphne’s stupid party? You’re talking about that? That equals Michael! Boning? Are you completely retarded? Kissing some anonymous trick is not the same thing as cheating on your partner with your best friend, Brian!”

Brian’s hands are balled into fists at his side and his jaw is methodically clenching and unclenching, chest rising and falling in the same rhythm, “Wait a minute! Wait a fucking minute, suddenly tricking doesn’t mean shit? Why? Because you’re the one who was doing it?”

“NO! Because mine was a trick, you asshole! A virgin scared kid who guilted me into---” Justin stops. Words not swallowed but shut off light-switch final. Nine months. Nine months of angst, poverty, anxiety, anger, bullheaded tenacity, and now it finally clicks. Now he knows the why, all the fucking whys. Jesus Christ, Brian.

The funniest part? The irony to outlast all ironies? It doesn’t change anything. Nothing.

Justin’s always kind of figured there’d be this point when enough was enough, when you’d make a decision and that would be it. When all the hurt and anguish and upset would just …hit a volume, expand, combust, and then dissipate to nothing. Like …like a phobia. Like having a phobia and exposing yourself to that feared stimulus in excessive amounts. The anxiety can’t last, you don’t actually _die_, and then when it’s all over when it’s all done, when you’re quite finished hyperventilating it would all just disappear. They even have a name for it, a therapy, fucking exposure or something. He’s always expected love to be like that. When it wasn’t perfect. A relationship to be like that. When it’s time just *Poof* no more emotions. Screw me over, screw me over, screw me over, now we’re done. And that would be it. Done.

And he’s somewhere in the cluttered recesses of his mind suspected if he only knew why Brian did what he did …then that would be the turning point. That would be the light switch. That would be the fucking poof.

Jesus he was naïve. He feels like a fucking pansy assed moron. It’s not like that at all. It’s screw me over ad infinitum. Indefinitely. For ever and ever a-fucking-men. It’s fucking recess, stasis, oasis and time out.

It’s fucking love where nothing makes sense, nothing self repairs, nothing ends or mends or glazes over.

“Get out. Get the fuck out now.”

He locks himself in the bathroom. And somewhere over the sound of running water he hears Brian get out.

Justin doesn’t piss, not for twelve more hours and roughly a half gallon of water later. But he does end up dry heaving.

And maybe there was a tear or two expelled, and a box or two turned over (what he wouldn’t give for a table, a functioning intact mirror, a fucking dish that didn’t bounce when you threw it) but in the end he’s okay. Really.

*~*~*~*~*

“I can’t believe---” he is going to be calm about this. They’ve been screaming at each other for the past twenty-four hours with an interlude for sex (magnificent sex, but useless all the same) and clearly that tactic isn’t working. So calm Justin. Breathe. Soothing voice, anger released, just a normal conversation.

“I can’t believe this entire insane thing was about the rules. This whole,” he’s afraid he’s shaking a little, breathe, breathe, “this whole fucking gut wrenching experience is because you were pissed off I didn’t follow the rules? How could you have done something like--” How could you have deliberately betrayed me because of those stupid fucking useless ridiculous attempts at – Jesus Christ! Oh he’s not going to be able to do it. He’s not going to make it through this. “Fuck You, Brian! They weren’t even your rules to begin with! You never even cared about them! You only agreed to humor me.” The last trots out a sadly miserable thing, throat hoarsely attempting to commit hari kari and prevent him from the final indignity: Pathetic Sniveling.

Though maybe it should have thought about that and sent a memo to his legs like forty-five minutes ago, because there’s nothing more pathetic than showing up at your ex’s doorstep, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, at three in the morning. Completely uninvited.

“I only agreed to get your ass back,” Brian corrects, “though honestly I don’t know why! No one is worth this shit.”

He’s obscenely well put together at this hour, looking freshly scrubbed, wide-awake, and completely coherent. It’s an unfair advantage that for once Justin can only blame on himself, he has no business being here at this time of the morning.

He should have left it at “get out,” should have taken Brian’s acquiescence as the last say on the matter and actually went back to sleep. This should not be happening right now. Or at the very least he should have waited until tomorrow. Brian had the decency to burst his way in during the afternoon, why the hell would Justin think its okay to arrive on his doorstep at three in the morning?

A tiny part, cousin by arranged marriage to sadly miserable things, whispers why at our hour. Why did you have to choose our hour?

Because he’s a fucking brainless masochist, that’s why, and if Brian was in there fucking someone or at Babylon, well, really, Justin would have deserved no less.

Brian’s turning away from the door, leaving it open and Justin on the other side. He stops him before rational thought steps in, grabs him by the arm and halts his progress. What’s that saying, in for a penny in for a pound? He’s already embarrassed himself tonight, might as well complete the humiliation.

“You want to know why I kissed him? It wasn’t because I liked him, or loved him, or cared about him. It wasn’t about the sex either, I’d already fucked him before I kissed him on the mouth. It wasn’t because he was a better lay, or younger, or easier, or more attractive, or because I had delusions over falling for him. I was so head over heels in love with you that didn’t even rate! He didn’t even compare. And it wasn’t to get back at you, or whatever other bullshit reason you slept with Michael for. It was because I remembered being him in that position, a scared virgin, fucking you for the first time and you leaning down and kissing me and not making me feel like a two dollar whore. And I thought what’s it matter? Brian doesn’t give a shit about the rules anyway. What’s one fucking little kiss?”

Brian blinks at him, shoulder pulled back in a halted attempt to yank away from Justin. He stares; his bottom lip briefly sucked in and wetted, something about him…something relaxing for the first time in nine months. No. Longer than that. A tenseness about his shoulders, an intensity in his eyes, a grimace and stubborn jaw falling away, dissolving like it had never been. And Justin realizes that unnameable something has been there a lot longer than their break up, before Vermont, before Michael’s phone call, before…jesus all the way back, way back when -- sometime after the zucchini man.

And Justin realizes, now that it’s gone; now he can name it. Insecurity.

“You fucking bastard,” his words are tinged with more wonder than anger now. He never could stay permanently angry at Brian and at this point…this whole ordeal is looking like something out of All My Children: the lesbian saga. Which, for the record, he only knows about because of Lindsey and Mel. “Did you really fuck Michael to get back at me?”

“I never said that.”

“No, but you remembered the frat boy. You wouldn’t have remembered him if it didn’t mean anything to you.”

He breaks away now, leaves Justin standing morosely by the front door, and collapses on the couch, legs sprawled open in front of him, arms lax, head tilted back against the headrest. “Justin,” he says, “leave it alone.”

It’s a gentle command, but a command all the same. Justin’s never delt well with those.

“And Michael said after the White Party but before the comic, and you said after Michael found out about you sleeping with Ben which was after the frat party, but not that long after it.” He slides the front door shut behind him. He knows this timeline like he knows his art, like he knows his hand will cramp after an hour and a half of charcoal sketches but only forty-five minutes of pencil shadowing, like he knows Molly’s middle name is Elaine and his is Sebastian but the only people other than his parents privy to that particular information is Daphne and Brian, neither of whom have ever used it against him. He knows this timeline because for awhile there he tried to pinpoint the exact second Brian kissed Michael. The precise minute kissing evolved into fucking, the moment everything changed for good. Where was I? Where were they? How could I not know after?

“So given that timeline and the fact you remembered the frat boy enough to bring him up, in conjunction, might I add, with your affair with Michael, and given the way you’re acting now…you fucked him to get back at me? That’s the shittiest thing I’ve ever --”

“I did not fuck him to get back at you,” Brian denies, face pinched and stubborn, recalcitrant child caught with a hand in the cookie jar but really no I was only putting it back not eating one. “You had nothing to do with it. I fucked him because he was there, and he wanted it---”

“What a fucking lie. He’s been there for fourteen years, Brian, he’s wanted it for fourteen years--”

“—and you weren’t a sure thing--” Head still tilted back, now his hand comes up to rub the bridge of his nose.

“I wasn’t a what?”

“—but Michael’s been there,” Brian continues stubbornly, “Michael’s been there for me through everything, always, without complaint. And I’ve given that part of myself to everyone else but never to the one person who probably deserves it more than anyone.”

Dear Lord his ego knows no bounds. “Okay, so now I know how you rationalized it. And now I know why. You fucked Michael to get back at me.”

Brian sighs, irritated, raises his head to finally look at Justin (who finds himself in front of the couch practically cradled between Brian’s thighs). “I already told you--”

“Yeah. Sorry, it was because he deserved it. Poor martyr Mikey, the saintly friend who’s been there for everything. The one who can always be counted on. Not like that ungrateful slut Justin Taylor who, the very nerve, broke his own rule that he had to put into effect because otherwise his boyfriend – but don’t say that word out-loud because otherwise the boyfriend in question will fall into a neurotic self-cleansing regimen of inhaling every narcotic known to man, fucking everything within reach, and retreating faster than a performance shy cock at an orgy…” he trails off abruptly with the weight of Brian’s palms pressed against his own tensed thighs, just above the knee. “What the fuck was I saying?”

“You’re an ungrateful slut,” Brian provides. His hands trail around, slide down to Justin’s calves, then back up gently stroking the back of his knees. It’s scratchy because of his cargo pants not being the softest material ever invented, his fingers trailing too lightly to present any type of real pressure.

“Fuck you.”

“No please, continue, this is better than cable.” The fingers spider crawl up his thighs and stop inches from his ass, let go, hover there, then press in again in the most tentative seductive massage in the existence of man. Brian’s head leans in, his hair doing an uncharacteristically shaggy thing around his ears, hanging in his eyes which seem to be focused somewhere below the belt. Justin’s, Brian’s, he’s not sure, he can’t see from this angle.

“Because otherwise his dysfunctional,” Justin continues, a little bit of a gasp to his voice, “sex-addicted, commitment-shy, uncommunicative boyfriend would continue to make him feel like the abandoned kitten no one really wants but they take home anyway because it’s raining and he’s such a miserable looking little shit.”

His head raises again, Brain’s, hair falling away from his face to return perfectly in place as hazel eyes turn on him, amusement clear from the twitch of a grin on his lips to the softening of brows. “Are you done?” He of the mercurial moods.

“Why? Am I boring you?”

“Frankly, yes,” Brian agrees dryly, “self-pity is tedious, unimaginative, and pathetic. I’m embarrassed for you.”

Those long fingered hands smooth down the creases in the khaki material, drawing Justin closer until thighs press against calves, a shin bumps against what is clearly _not_ Brian’s embarrassment. The immediate tell-tale intake of breath is a sharp reminder that he’s not quite immune to this, not Brian’s actively wanting him, probably never will be.

“Whatever. You’re such a liar, you so totally get off on it.” Oh god, does he sound as breathless to Brian as he does to himself?

This has got to be the second dumbest thing he’s done in the last two days.

“Arguing makes me hard, it’s the adrenaline,” Brian denies.

“Breathing makes you hard. It’s your generalized response to all stimuli; you’ve fucked so much you’ve confused your dick into a constant erection.”

“You complaining?” Brian looks honestly curious about that, while his hands maintain a steady pressure that’s somehow simultaneously parting Justin’s thighs and pulling him down into Brian’s lap.

“No.”

He provides minimal resistance, folding over Brian, incrementally sliding down down down until ass meets thigh and groin meets groin. Between them Brian’s right forearm is pressed flat against Justin’s chest, while the other arm surrounds his waist.

“Mm, didn’t think so.” They huddle together like the funkiest cotton and flesh cocoon, he can feel Brian’s heartbeat from here, he’s practically cupping it in his hand. Holding his heart in his hand God, he would have loved that at seventeen. Ashamedly, he kind of loves it now.

They’re sort of leaning into each other now, slow slow, heads tilted automatically, Brian’s eyes flutter shut.

“Brian, I can’t.” Justin winces at himself. Couldn’t have said that quieter if he tried. Can’t just pretend like you mean it, can you?

Brian sighs and continues forward, bypassing his lips to rest his forehead against Justin’s own. “Sure you can.”

“No. Really, I can’t. Last night was a mistake; this would be an even bigger one.”

“Didn’t we already go through this?”

“But that’s the point though. We keep doing this to each other. We don’t talk and then I think something and you think something and they’re both … different things, and we end up hurting each other and it’s… It’s not even about Michael anymore. Not…well…not all about him. It’s about why you slept with him, and I’m sorry I hurt you with the frat boy--”

“You didn’t.”

Justin levels a looks at him quietly and Brian turns his head away. Turns his head away but doesn’t let go.

“I … thought you kissed him for reasons that you didn’t and when I tried to talk to you about it you walked off, so maybe I drew conclusions that weren’t completely accurate...which might have…influenced some of my following actions.”

“And that’s why open relationships are bad ideas.”

“Justin.”

“No, it’s true. It’s hard enough with just two people and you can’t tell me tricking means nothing. If it meant nothing you wouldn’t need to do it.”

Justin is shifted off and to the side when Brian stands abruptly. “I don’t need--”

“You and every crack addict. You can quit at any time, suuure.”

“They don’t mean the same--”

“Don’t. It doesn’t matter; it’s not about that either.”

“Then what is it about? Because obviously you’ve been bringing up everything it’s not about just for the hell of it.”

“It’s about that. It’s about how we make each other miserable.” Justin follows him up off the couch, tracing behind each step, each pace. “For every really good time we’ve had together I can think of something equally horrible that’s happened because when you get pissed you lash out or I--”

“You run,” Brian cuts in. They nearly collide and once again are so immersed in each other’s personal space it might as well no longer be personal. “Every time. As consistent as one of those little Duracell bunnies. Shit gets hard and you’re out the door. You get hurt and you’re out the door. And you keep going and going and going until you decide it’s worth your time to try again, if you decide that. And then it’s back to business like everything’s normal. Like nothing happened. You can’t communicate with someone who’s not there, Sunshine.”

“That’s not true.”

Brian raises one eyebrow, just one, and a sad little smirk blooms to life on his lips challengingly. “Oh? You can?”

“I don’t run.”

“Okay,” Brian nods reasonably. “Excluding the obvious like a certain Vermont trip that you neglected to mention you were even continuing to go on but turned out to be less of a week long vacation and more like a nine month hiatus…let’s talk about IFA.”

“Let’s not.”

“If I hadn’t stepped all over your self-imposed boundaries by paying your tuition, how long would you have waited to find a way to pay for it yourself?”

“I was looking for ways.”

“So it’s just a coincidence that you couldn’t find one until your pride was wounded?”

There’s nothing he can say to that. Nothing that’s not a lie, and what’s the point in that when they both know better.

“You fight for a lot of things, Sunshine,” his voice is soft again, calm, light, reasonable, when his eyes are anything but, his eyes are tired, “but when you’re finished… you drop it like you never fought for it at all.”

“That’s not running, that’s exhaustion.”

“And if you leave now, what’s that?”

Brian eases forward again, arms encircling Justin’s body. He watches Justin carefully as he leans in, waiting for a rejection that Justin should give…but doesn’t. His mouth makes contact and opens, his eyes closed now, and Justin returns the kiss with his own eyes open, staring cross-eyed at this man he doesn’t know what to do with.

It’s fucking self-preservation

*~*~*~*~*

Afterwards. After they fuck again, slow, smooth, more of a rocking horizontal dance than mind blowing sex. Comfort, reassurance, possibly even habit, not so much lust. Afterwards, they lay side by side, Brian’s palm high up on Justin’s thigh, gently caressing.

The sun is rising over the horizon. He can see the sky turning orange from here. It’s pretty, and it’s cold, and he remembers the first time here realized watching the sun rise wasn’t as romantic as people would have you believe. “I have to go.”

He stumbles up, legs feeling like dead weights, body tacky with sweat-saliva-semen. He needs a shower.

From the bed, from his peripheral vision, he sees Brian flip over to his stomach, one arm braced under his head as he casually watches Justin gather his things.

“So I’ll see you tonight.” It’s phrased as a statement, but there’s the slight tilt to Brian’s voice that lends credence to a questioning nature. Justin looks at him blankly; something of confusion must be in his expression because Brian qualifies: “at the Bazaar.”

“What? I thought that was next week. I didn’t get a chance to finish the flyers.”

“I used your first draft and might have hedged a little about the real date. It’s tonight, same place, same time.”

“You played me?”

Typically, Brian doesn’t have the grace to look ashamed, so it’s the epitome of amusing (confusing) that he chooses to do so now. He bites his lower lip and does this little boy pout that Justin’s pretty sure is entirely subconscious, because Brian doesn’t allow himself like this – when eyes are sad because that’s what they are, not because it’s a game to make you feel sorry for him, and the jaw is loose because he hasn’t figured out what to do with a suddenly too awkward tongue. Then he shrugs defensively and says, “How else was I supposed to talk to you?”

How indeed.

*~*~*~*~*

It’s really a shame he doesn’t remember he’s supposed to work today until halfway back to his place.

It’s a fucking tragedy when he remembers he said he’d do the early shift and he’s got fifteen minutes to get there.

That thing people say about a steaming hot mess? Justin’s that. Right now. Maybe Debbie will let him bus tables, keep his interpersonal interaction down.

Maybe he’ll pass out before he gets there. Maybe he can tell her he’s contracted a rare viral disease which requires lots of bed rest and silence. Hung-over-itis. My boyfriend-causes-me-mental-anguish-iridae.

Hell. He just called Brian his boyfriend.

In a fog, he arrives clothes wrinkled; face pale, and overall a bit grumpy. God, if Debbie is cheerful this morning? I formerly renounce you.

One look at him and Debbie asks without really asking, “so you two made up.”

Hmm. Is it the hickey on his neck or the general air of well-fucked emotional turmoil?

Justin shrugs.

“You’re back together,” she presses.

So much for shrugging.

“In the strictest of literal senses.”

Debbie raises an eyebrow, popping her gum, and stares at him like he’s a dunce. Not for the first time he wonders if it’s a look she picked up from Brian or Brian’s picked up from her.

Justin sighs explosively. “If you mean are we dating, or committed, or anything like that then no. We’re fucking on a semi-regular basis. We enjoy each other’s company. We enjoy each other’s bodies. That’s it. Friends with benefits.”

“Justin, I don’t know who you think you’re fooling with that shit, but surely you don’t actually believe--”

“I have to, Deb. That’s all he’s willing to commit to and that’s all I have to offer. I have to believe it, I have to do it. Otherwise we don’t have anything and I don’t see why I should torture myself with that unnecessarily.” He parks himself at the counter and leans closer in so only she can hear him. “I know I can live without him in my life, these past nine months have taught me that if nothing else. And I did damn well for myself I think. But I missed him. I missed talking to him, I missed getting cheered up by him, I missed all his corny obscene jokes; I missed having him in my corner. I missed him being my friend.”

“And that’s enough for you? Fuck buddies?”

“I can’t…I can’t offer him anything else. I can’t do that again. I can’t trust him. If we never get any more intimate than close friends…I think I’m okay with that. I think I really am.” He smirks a little, a little fakely, but if you want it enough right? If you want it, it’ll be true. “And honestly? I’ve never had better sex.”

With that he gets to work. Further harassment can wait 'til lunch. Chapter 9:

So.

This is how it goes.

He meets Brian at the Bazaar. He has just enough time to make it back home, change out of his sex- rumpled, diner-stained, two-day old clothes, run a comb through his hair and catch the bus.

Exhaustion is being disguised as a roiling tumble of nerves in the pit of his stomach.

The entire time at work (while covertly dodging worried looks from Debbie) he promised himself he wasn’t going to go. He wasn’t going to let Brain manipulate him anymore. He was tired, he looked a wreck, he was going home and getting some sleep.

Then he stepped foot in his apartment and was forcibly assaulted with vivid imagery of Brian backing him up onto the couch (his mind whispers their couch) at Brian’s (their) place.

And somehow he found himself rushing around, tossing out outfit after outfit like he was seventeen again hoping to meet Brian at Babylon and needing to look his best.

So much of the last few years have been dedicated to Brian it’s hard to turn that off.

He needs to turn that off. Redirect it, sublimate it, reject that part of himself and act like a normal human being again.

He doesn’t fool himself into thinking he’s only going because he put so much effort into the flyers. He’d meet Brian in an abandoned parking lot if he was asked. How pathetic is that.

It’s nine-thirty at night; he’s been in various states of consciousness and indecisiveness for the past thirty- six hours. Liar. For the past three years. Now he’s on a bus heading towards his ex-non-boyfriend to pretend to be fuck-buddy real non-boyfriends.

He remembers when he was twelve and he and Daphne were planning their lives, art-school and world- travel, how the hell did things get so complicated.

He watches out the window as another Pittsburgh night trots by, light-posts and street signs blur against wet concrete. When did it rain?

He sighs and presses his forehead against the cool glass.

*~*~*~*~*

When he arrives he doesn’t have to look long, all the energy of the place seems to have concentrated itself into a circular tornado formation with Brian at its vortex.

He’s playing host, in his element, comfortable using his natural magnetism, and for a moment all Justin can do is watch.

Brian’s surrounded by people but still manages to maintain an aloofness, a superiority, an alone quality that says, ‘you can see me, you can touch me, you can want me, but you’ll never get me’.

He’s forgotten how beautiful he is.

Brian greets him with a time-stopping spit-swapping tongue-sharing I’m your lover not your friend kiss. Full frontal contact, full body involvement. Forgetting the commotion long enough to pull Justin into the tight circle of activity with him. To include him. One arm slung low around his waist possessively; Brian maintains flesh to flesh contact.

More than Justin’s cock stirs.

“And that’s enough for you? Fuck buddies?”

Justin would give pretty much anything, his art, his right hand, his heart, so that Debbie wasn’t right about this.

But he fears…

They can be a lot of things, but fuck buddies will never be enough.

*~*~*~*~*

Everyone keeps saying…’you knew who he was when you started this’.

Three weeks pass. They see each other every day.

The thing is though; Brian….that’s not you.

They end up sharing their days, sharing their bodies, touching, fucking, freakin’ talking. Talking.

You aren’t the sum total of your pissy actions. You aren’t the indiscriminate fucking or the drugging or the asshole remarks.

And everyday Justin thinks of a million things they’ve left unsaid

That’s not you. Yeah I knew who you were when I started. Yes. I know who you are. This…This bullshit? I don’t accept this.

And how he should say it.

I deserve better.

And every day it stays bottled up, stuck in his throat, circulating his head. Justin’s good at that. He’s got the right sort of stubbornness to allow him to pretend. At least for a little while.

So do you.

“You know me,” Brian hands out casually, slid between the cushioning grip of a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

Justin doesn’t know what they’ve been talking about. Doesn’t matter, the answers always the same. “Yeah,” Justin agrees, softly, “I know who you are.”

*~*~*~*~*

Brian hands over the condom, presses it into Justin’s palm, and proceeds to back them both to the bed.

Three weeks two days thirteen hours since he accidently on-purpose fell with a muffled thumpty-oomph obscenely drunk into Brian’s bed. One way or another it’s been replaying in live action (minus the alcohol but including all the obscenity) an approximate three times a day, times that one and a half on Sundays.

Each day starts anew with the vow: I, Justin Sebastian Taylor, solemnly swear the following with no exclusions, stipulations, or room for wiggle. Today, Brian and I will have sex and it won’t mean shit. Bodily pleasure, scratching an itch, that’s it. May minor unpleasantries and discomforts be showered on my head should I prove false. So say all.

Sometimes Mickey bears witness.

As is clearly evidenced by the fact Justin is currently naked and Brian’s well on his way to the same, and Justin is currently thinking just how amazingly gorgeous Brian is with a thin film of sweat cleaving to his body and his hazel eyes flashing with desire and God that grin the sultry happy we’re sharing a secret grin…

Well, yes, clearly Justin has again failed his oath. Unpleasantly and discomfort. Fuck.

He thinks, sometime soon, he needs to reword his oath to exclude (include? Cut out?) all fucking altogether.

Brian lets go when Justin’s knees thump against the bed; he does a little backwards shimmy up the bedspread the like of which if Justin tried he’d end up looking like a complete moron.

And he thinks, just. Maybe not today.

The ex-non-boyfriend fuck-buddy person formerly known as ‘you can only have me once’ twists one final time, all limbs loosely arranged amongst dark sheets. He swallows hard and lowers himself onto his back. Where he promptly rolls to his side.

“C’mere.” The voice that pours out of Brian’s throat is husky, rich and thick like caramel coating on a candy apple.

It sends a shiver sliding up Justin’s spine, or maybe down rather to pool at the base of his stomach, clench it warm and gooey and tingle in trickles to his cock in rivulets of lust.

Brian reclines with his head on their shared pillow, silky brown hair water falling across silk – satin – really expensive cotton. Some sort of material, Justin’s not a sewing machine-ist type person. How should he know what kind of fucking material Brian uses—

He thinks he’s starting to panic. A little.

“What are you doing?” Oh good. His voice doesn’t shake.

Brian throws a sardonic grin his way. “Don’t tell me it’s been that long, Sunshine,” he says. On the next breath, really more like a tail-end than a brand new exhalation, “Come here,” he orders.

He can’t be asking for what Justin thinks he’s asking for. He can’t. Despite concrete evidence that contradicts that statement, Justin’s 110% positive, no, 120% and 3/4ths positive that Brian Can NOT be asking what all body language, subtle gestures, and verbal confirmation suggests he is asking.

It’s not that Brian doesn’t like to be fucked – it’s the one guilty pleasure he pretends not to have, Brian enjoys sex too much in all its multitude of variety not to enjoy bottoming occasionally, not that he’d ever admit it in public. It’s not even that Brian’s never let him top – if he’s not admitting it in public, he has no qualms with getting it in private, Justin certainly wasn’t going to share the secret, not and risk Brian’s wrath (and embarrassment and the possibility of being cut off). It’s more that he never asks for it. Never.

Fucking never. Justin had to plead, or demand, or motion really really blatantly, or cajole. Or expect which led to demanding in sweet little innocent ‘you can’t resist me’ verbage. Brian never once asked.

Excuse him for being a little discombobulated.

“Justin,” intoned quietly but firmly, it rocks Justin out of his rumination. Then he’s in Brian’s arms, one motion flowing to the next. The kiss they share is slow and sloppy the way Justin likes, lips warming soft and pliant, noses brushing, tongues there everywhere, tangling and touching everything, massaging against each other until their scents mingle, until each breathe you pant between kiss-lit mouths is an amalgamation of all that they each are, individually, conjointly.

It’s slow and thorough like it only is when Brian’s making a point. Or letting himself go long enough not to make one. ‘This I Love’ in the brush of splayed fingers against the solid curve of a shoulder-blade, ‘This I’d die for’ in the tense of thigh against undulating hip, ‘This is me and us and we together’ in clutching arms and open eyes connecting until the last moments of climactic bliss when pupils dilate – blown wide -- and vision blurs out of focus.

Afterwards Justin pulls out. Because Justin loves it but Brian doesn’t, once he’s come he’s too sensitive down there to do much but drop his legs and secret away the elusive orifice for another (month, two, three) time.

Afterwards he’s not too sensitive or too exhausted to keep from gathering Justin against his chest and tucking his head under his - Brian’s - chin.

Afterwards Justin realizes he’s a fucking moron.

A twenty year old naïve self-deluding jackass. Fuck buddies. Right.

*~*~*~*~*

Brian says he loves him with hands and lips, tongue, teeth, the palm cupping the back of Justin’s thigh as Justin moves inside him, pressing him forward -- deeper.

He doesn’t know if that’s enough anymore though. Reading through Brian’s actions, his words, what he does say, what he doesn’t say, how he says it, when he says it or doesn’t say it, who he does or doesn’t say it to…cross-referencing it all in order to come to a single conclusion. Kinney-ese is a language all its own, and speaking it fluently requires a lot of cross-referencing.

Afterwards, Brian groans softly and clears his throat. They’re still touching, arm to arm, laying side by side. And for the last ten minutes Justin has been trying to figure out a subtle way of reclaiming his space, and making his way to the door. There’s no way he can stay here tonight. Brian doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to move though.

The groan turns into words and Brian turns towards Justin, “Christ. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand tomorrow.”

His words come out husky like he’s been screaming for the past forty-five minutes, when sex for Brian (especially bottoming) is a surprisingly silent experience. Grunts, sure, the occasional moan, maybe a whimper or two if he’s really into it, definitely a sigh towards the end…but that’s about it.

“Quit being such a baby, you fuck me three times a day and you don’t hear me complaining.”

“Yeah well, I guess that’s what happens when you only do it a couple of times a year.” There’s a pause; Justin gets the feeling it’s supposed to be significant. “You get out of practice.”

He just can’t figure out why.

“Longer than that really,” Brian goes on, “since what? Last august?”

“Why are you asking me, how would I know?”

“You were there. I figured you liked keeping track of all that shit.” He grins and rolls Justin into his chest, “Makes you all warm and fluffy inside, like a little twinky marshmallow.”

Yes. And there’s why. Justin gets up, gets his clothes.

“What are you doing?”

He’s tempted to toss Brian’s words back in his face, Don’t tell me it’s been that long

“Going home before I get tempted to fall asleep.”

Brian has this look on his face, contemplative, curious. “Get tempted.” His voice is all intent, though, serious.

“I can’t. I have to get up early.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“I have projects to finish.”

“You’ve had to get up early every night this week.” On anyone else it would have been a whine, a plea. On Brian it was a challenge: Don’t lie to me, Justin. Say what you mean, if you have balls enough to mean it.

What would he say? What could he say that wouldn’t sound stupid coming out his mouth? I can’t stay here. I can’t sleep here. I can’t ever let myself get comfortable with you again; I can’t let myself imagine being here, with you, in your life. Not now, maybe never again.

And then Brian’s saying the words he would have …he would have killed to hear ten months ago. “Justin. Stay.”

Despite himself, Justin’s eyes flutter shut for longer than they should. And a part of him absorbs those words, holds them in his metaphorical grasp.

He smiles, small, a hint of a grimace buried underneath automatic reassurance, and thinks to himself there’s so much I need to tell you, so much we both have to say before that could even be a possibility, and neither of us is willing to voice it. And I’m too fucking scared to try.

He has a million conversations to Brian every day.

“See you later.”

In his head.

*~*~*~*~*

Other things are going on in his life.

Brian isn’t the sum all.

He’s still going to class. He’s taking this neat textiles course that combines traditional oil with brickwork, of all things, which he’s pretty excited about .He’s going to his boring library job…which is…hell, boring .But at least it pays for tuition. Or will after his year is up. Daphne meets him for lunch and an update on the Brian-front every afternoon. He sees Mom once a week (frankly he’s a little worried she’ll follow through on her threat if he leaves it any longer). He’s seeing more of Molly. It’s really weird considering his little sister an actual person now, with her own mind and her own friends and her own way of doing things. By the time she’d hit that stage he was a little self-involved and kind of missed it, now that he’s rediscovering it…wow. She’s funny and witty and head-strong, and jeeze he feels sorry for Mom. The teenage years aren’t going to be any easier with Molly.

He’s still working at the diner as often as he can, as that’s the only real source of income he has. It’s a little weird there now though, a kid was found dead in a dumpster out back. So far the cops haven’t been able to identify him. It’s sad, it’s scary, people have been simultaneously more cautious and more appreciative of their own lives.

He sees Michael occasionally. He misses their burgeoning brotherhood. He doubts he’ll ever be able to forgive him enough to recapture it. They greet each other with those random empty pleasantries you say to strangers out of politeness. Rage will forever remain a shared chapter of their lives left incomplete.

His father called the other day. Left a message, said he’d heard he’s no longer living with Brian. Said he’s trying to understand here, maybe they can talk. Justin’s still not sure what to do with that. Doesn’t know what he wants to do with that. Their – his and molly’s - stubbornness was a genetic gift from both parents. Mom says it’s his decision, Dad will always be his father, he’ll always be the man who unconditionally loved him for seventeen years until he slammed against a condition he couldn’t accept. The man who defended Justin’s art to his friend of thirty years, and then kicked the bastard out of his house. “My kid has a talent, of course I’m going to encourage it. If you have a problem with that you need to take it up with the other side of the door, because you’re sure as hell not going to disrespect me and my family in my house.” The man who taught him to accept nothing less than the best, then fucked it all up by taking it back. Brian says he doesn’t deserve his forgiveness, and to be careful that he’s not suddenly all understanding because he thinks Justin’s suddenly single.

Justin kind of wonders what Brian means by “he thinks” Justin’s single.

No. Justin doesn’t wonder. He’s trying to pretend he misunderstands.

How the hell did things get so complicated?

*~*~*~*~*

Brian isn’t the sum all of his life.

He isn’t the only person he spends time with.

But.

They are spending a significant portion of their days together though. Possibly…more than friends with benefits should.

It’s almost looking like a relationship.

Which is …God. Justin is so fucking dumb, fuck-buddies didn’t even last a day, how could it when he was the only one thinking in those terms?

It’s funny how the situation is reversed, the polar opposite of where they began. All those nights, minutes, hours, spent wallowing in misery over their doomed love, plotting ways for Brian to want him, keep him, love him. To this. This stupid mind-boggling unnamed relationship they have that Justin can’t allow.

And can’t bear to end.

They’re at Brian’s place (it’s a problem that Justin automatically thinks our place, isn’t it?) because that’s where they normally end up, no matter where they begin. Diner, lunch-meeting, Debbie’s, once the lawn outside of Justin’s borrowed studio at PIFA, doesn’t matter they always end up back here.

Both of their backs are pressed against the lower ledge of the couch, their shoulders bump gently. Between them lay the remnants of their meal. Justin’s legs are tucked underneath him, Brian’s splay open stretched to full length so their knees touch. The television is on but neither one of them are watching.

“Wow, congratulations. Partner. That’s really wonderful, Brian. I know how much that means to you.”

Brian shrugs a little and tilts his head back with a smile that’s almost…shy. Justin wants to lean across aluminum tins of extra cheese and paper bags spilling over dry nachos to suck that full lower lip into his mouth and absorb that shy look for posterity.

He compromises and allows a broad grin to form on his own face. “I really am proud of you.”

“I figured you would have heard. It’s been awhile.”

“No. You know how it is; they tried not to say much about you in my presence.”

“Mmm,” Brian swipes a chip out of Justin’s hand and eats it himself, with a little grin, “glad all that’s over.”

His hand, now empty of chip, wraps around Justin’s wrist and Justin finds himself tugged gently into Brian’s lap before he can respond.

Doesn’t matter, he didn’t have a response.

I want this done. I do. .

It doesn’t count as trying to convince yourself if it should be true, right?

They end up at Woody’s when Justin decides …

Deep breath, and maybe your heart won’t fly out of your throat along with lunch.

When Justin decides it’s time. Really this time, no second guessing, no backing out. They can’t be what he needs, so he needs for them to stop pretending.

It’s not a heat of the moment thing, he’s been thinking about it for going on two months now. But somehow he’s let it evolve into this crazy warped sickly thing that dangles between them half alive trying for mostly dead.

It’s always been easier following the rhythm Brian sets than to keep his own…when it means they can be. Together, with each other, breathing each other’s air.

Brian habitually orders for him when they sit at the bar. Justin’s not yet legal, not for another year (eight months? Seven?) so it’s not a habit he tries to break.

When it’s poured, Brian doesn’t even wait for the bartender to turn around, he automatically hands it over to Justin, hand to hand without a look behind.

One – handed surety that Justin will be there to grab it, that he’s exactly right there not too far to the left, not too far right.

It sends a flood of something straight to his stomach, churning in butterfly flutters.

Justin reaches over with both hands to take it. It takes both to keep the glass steady. He’d like to blame it on dysfunctional nerves, i.e. faulty synapses, ‘It’s my gimp hand acting up again’ but for once this involuntary embarrassment has more to do with emotions than muscle control.

He has a million conversations to Brian in his head. Every day.

You give everything to someone else. There are parts of you I’ll never have, nothing I can share and keep, nothing that differentiates our relationship from yours with a trick or yours with Michael or yours with Lindsey or yours with a fucking client.

Every breath.

I just wanted – something for me. And I thought maybe – maybe. And I can’t remember, I can’t remember the one time we did share something just for us.

Every tentative smirk.

Do you know how that kills me? Knowing you were there and we shared something only for us, the thing I’ve been waiting for all this time, the one thing you’re not willing to give me ever again, and I can’t even remember it. And then it pisses me off, Brian, because why? Why can’t I have that again, why can’t you give it back, why won’t you? Why did I only get

Every

One

Searching

Fucking

Gaze.

Chance.

And now when it counts? He’s all out of words. Nice, Justin. Real nice.

I want this done.

“There’s been something I’ve been wanting to say to you for awhile.”

Brian raises an eyebrow, sipping his drink quietly.

“I uh...I’m not entirely sure what it is we’re doing here, Brian,” Justin grabs at his ear in nervous habit, then sweeps his hair off his forehead in one rough motion. “I’m not holding you to any of the rules. You’re right; we’re together because we wanted to be, not because we had to be. Both of us should have decided what together looked like,” Justin smiles a little, self-depreciatingly, “voluntarily. It wasn’t fair of me to demand all those rules…nor was it realistic. Even if you did abide by them it wouldn’t have been because you believed in them.”

And I think…I think I wanted you to want them more than I cared about you following them. After awhile it probably wouldn’t have made a difference if you followed them or not. But I can’t make you want that anymore than I can make what happened with Michael disappear.

Brian nods along, eyebrows crinkled, obviously gesturing more for ‘continue and maybe somewhere in between all that babbling I’ll actually get what you’re trying to say’ than ‘I understand completely and agree with my entirety.’

“I don’t think we really know each other, we don’t… we have these images of each other in our heads but they don’t sync up to the reality. We’re expecting things we shouldn’t and being blindsided by things we should expect,” Christ, he’s going to choke on his own spit before he’s through. His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth, overgrown and over awkward. “This… relationship…it fell on us both…”

Confusion clear in hazel eyes, Brian looks so…so unguarded, so unprepared. Jesus, he knows how Michael felt when he couldn’t meet Justin’s eyes. He wants to do his own version of turtle impersonation.

“What are you saying, Justin?”

“I don’t think we should have sex anymore.” It’s blurted, unsophisticated, but at least it’s out. Not really all he wanted to say, but truly? In his hearts of hearts, it’s the only point he can concede to.

Brian’s silence stretches for several seconds, long, unending, intermittently broken by the gentle flutter of his eyelashes blinking.

“It confuses things,” Justin adds finally when the white-noise of the bar bustling behind him rises in his throat and assaults his eardrums with the lack of Brian’s response.

“It confuses things,” Brian repeats.

“I still want you in my life. As my friend.”

“Your friend.”

“Just my friend,” Justin clarifies, “I think that would be best. For both of us.”

With the barest hint of a swallow, and the gentlest incline of his head, Brian says, “whatever you want, Justin.”

If the words are a little dull, a little unenthusiastic, that’s just Justin’s wishful thinking. And he’s done with all that.

He wants to be done.

*~*~*~*~*

Secretly he believed his revelation would change more things about their relationship than their sexual status.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he wasn’t expecting to see Brian again; not deliberately, not because Brian wanted to see him.

And he’ll be honest. That thought hurt. It gutted him, reached in through his vulnerable parts and tore out a little piece of something, of him, but –

But being with Brian, pretending….that hurt more. And he couldn’t….

It’s hard and it’s scary but in a way he’s been forging his life by himself for a lot longer than three months. Definitely before this last break, way before he chose Brian over his family, probably even before he knew anything about Liberty Avenue at all.

So what does it mean that they’re seeing more of each other now…than they ever did when they actually lived together?

And for once…Justin’s not the one fabricating reasons to be suddenly there, fucking everywhere.

*~*~*~*~*

Justin feels like shit. Like the stuff that grows on half-buried shit left in the woods by some feral animal before it’s taken down for being…a wood-shitting feral animal.

No. No. He feels like warmed over bacteria growing on feral-animal shit. Worse.

Justin rolls over; clutching his pillow to his chest, pretending it’s someone who gives a damn propping him up.

This has got to be the worst part about living alone, no one to take care of you when you’re swollen and stuffy and red-eyed and dying of pneumonia in your mattress on the floor. Bed is far too generous of a word.

And he’s far too miserable to be generous.

He hears his refrigerator humming, reminding him if he just has the energy he could go get some soup, or orange juice or something.

It’s right there fully made right next to the also fully made pasta in his nice refrigerator where Mom left a grocery store full of items earlier – Justin’s defenses were lowered and when she called he handed over his address like a rat hands over the headquarters of his partners in crime when tagged by the Feds.

Hmm. Maybe he’s been watching too much Law and Order with Daphne again.

Oh. Daphne. If only she wasn’t having mid-terms. She’d take care of him. Daphne, how thine have abandoned me in my time of need.

Justin rolls over again taking the pillow with him on another cross-bed journey. He forcibly pries his eyes open to squint at the red dots on his alarm clock, they all line up to form the number 2:47.

He should definitely get up. All he has to do is warm the soup up, or pour the juice. But first he has to move.

Aww. Crap.

His throat’s sore. It hasn’t felt this raspy and bad since his first too-enthusiastic blow job during the early days of his sexual career.

Justin moans pitifully to himself, the only other occupant that could possibly hear is Mickey. And Mickey’s been distressingly absent for the past three days. Distressing because Justin is pretty sure Mickey might actually be a Minnie…and could possibly be giving birth at present.

His/her lower regions were looking a little heavier lately.

A knock on the door breaks his train of thought - visions of rodent overpopulation and miniature funeral pyres as the exterminator adjusts his gas mask run through his mind). The relief he feels is complicated with curiosity and horror (he’s going to have to get up!).

The knock comes again louder. More insistent.

Justin groans, wraps the sheet carefully around his achy waist (he didn’t know it was possible for someone’s waist to ache) and climbs slowly, reluctantly to his feet.

Behind the door is …

“Brian?”

“Mother Taylor insisted I confirm you didn’t off yourself in a fit of flu-inspired histrionic despair.” Brian’s dressed, full suit, tie, expensive watch combo. Which probably means he was at work.

“Brian,” Justin repeats dumbly.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” He gently shifts Justin backwards to slide around him. “How’s the little princess fairing?”

“Oh fuck you,” Justin mutters grumpily.

“Sorry, Sunshine, we aren’t doing that anymore remember?” It …isn’t said meanly. Just. Matter of fact. It was Justin’s decision and yet that still…wow…it still stings. “Alright, back to bed with you.”

Justin finds himself herded back to his mattress and bundled in his blanket. Soon he has juice in his hand and tissue at his knee and Brian’s perched at the foot of his bed pouring through a shitload of documents Justin would be too bored out of his mind to decode on a healthy day.

Brian only complains once about the state of his apartment (when Mick—Minnie peaks her head out briefly to belatedly check on the status of the only paying member).

Still. He doesn’t leave until the next morning.

*~*~*~*~*

When he announced the end of their sexual relations (ha. Sexual relations – I did not have sex with that … Brian.) He didn’t expect to see more of Brian. Outside of mandatory family dinners and the occasional passing hello – because come on, Liberty Avenue is one fucking street, his chances of not bumping into Brian without deliberately internalizing Brian’s schedule and then being elsewhere…they were slim – he really thought he’d never see Brian again.

So when Brian actually makes an effort to be his …God, fucking God, Jesus fucking Christ and God….his friend. It’s a shock. It’s…

It’s warming.

Like hypothermia is both shocking and warming in a “limbs will now promptly fall off they are so cold and stiff and basically dead” way.

So when Justin finds himself …well, being a friend back? It’s only logical. He’s keeping moving, he’s drinking fucking warm sugary liquids, he’s curing his fucking hypothermia.

It’s self-defense.

Of course, prevention is always the best cure…But it’s too late to have never loved him.

It was probably too late their first morning after.

*~*~*~*~*

He finds him after dinner standing quietly observing the vast beyond of Debbie’s back yard, looking serious and contemplative while periodically drawing in deep breath after deep breath of nicotine. It’s been a few days since he’s last seen him. Their daily numbers cut drastically down while Brian worked on an important project for work. Something about some asshole of a congressman and conflicting agendas, and dissatisfaction with the current power-play going on at the office.

Being a partner at his firm was something Brian had wanted for a very long time, it equaled power and freedom and independency in his head. Justin got that. He felt badly that it wasn’t the same in reality as it was in thought. Brian deserved something going his way for once.

Or maybe that’s just Justin being maudlin and guilty.

Either way he looks good, all broody and serious, dark hair falling in soft waves, jeans molded to his legs, cashmere sweater hugging his body tight.

“Two of the main causes of temporary impotence are tight pants and prolonged cigarette smoking,” Justin says. Brian does the opposite from what normal people do when they hear a voice coming out of the darkness of a poorly lit yard; he relaxes. “Just thought you should know before you go out tonight, so you know, you won’t feel like the eventual results are a biological concern, or a personal failing. Of course, the age factor probably won’t help matters…”

By the end of his sentence, Brian turns to face him. Body still fluid, loose. Either E or …MJ. Or a really really great blowjob.

“I haven’t gotten any complaints.” Brian grins suddenly, flash of upturned lips and drop, covered by a loosely gripped two fingered fist around his cigarette, amusement still shining from his eyes. He has the most gorgeous smile, when he lets it completely out, no hidden meanings, no mocking twist. Okay, even then, gorgeous. “You never complained. Unless ‘Oh God Yes, Brian. Jesus that’s good,’ was your way of announcing your displeasure.”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” Justin assures.

Brian rolls his eyes and rolls the cigarette back in his mouth. He lets out a stream of smoke on the next breath.

Justin hasn’t smoked in nearly a year. He wonders if it’s possible to get re-addicted by standing too close.

That thought doesn’t make him move back.

“I’m thinking of starting my own company.”

“Oh,” Justin asks. Brian smells woodsy under the smoke.

“It’s about time I branched out on my own. Choose my own clients; keep the credit for my fucking ideas. I already have the reputation, the experience, the connections… all I need are the clients.”

“And a name.”

Brian inhale exhales, it burns Justin’s lungs sweetly. “And a name,” Brian acknowledges.

It’s quiet for a long time; they stand beside each other, staring, thinking. There’s no need for Justin to tell him he believes in him, believes he’ll be great no matter what he chooses. They both already know that.

Brian’s arm finds its way around Justin’s shoulders and Justin finds himself pressed into Brian’s body, held against him loosely. He could pull away if he wanted. He doesn’t want.

“Kinnetik.”

“Hmm?” The cigarette is nearly done, one final burst of soft smoke curls around Justin’s head.

“That’s the name. Kinnetik.”

“Kinnetik,” Brian repeats reverently. The word sounds right on his tongue.

*~*~*~*~*

At first Justin can’t tell anything’s wrong except Daphne’s acting nutso, shielding her face, moving in a flurry of unnecessary gestures and whirling dervish motions. But let’s face it, it’s Daphne.

She is nutso, that’s why he loves her.

Then her face catches the light and at just the right moment her hair slides away from her face, and then he sees it.

The perfect dark blue edging on green in places that has covered half her face including her swollen shut left eye.

“Fuck! What happened to you?”

Daphne immediately turns her back on him, but it’s too late for hiding and she knows it. With a sigh she gives up and faces him again. “It looks worse than it is.”

Justin air-traces the outline of her puffy face. “It looks pretty fucking awful, Daphne,” he says softly.

“Yeah, but you should see the other guy,” her attempt at a joke falls flat and the smile she tries to give causes a wince instead

He leads her to the monstrosity of a red couch she insists on keeping, and seats them both down, hand automatically clasping her own fluttering mad things. “What happened?”

“This guy…I was kind of seeing, fucking bastard slapped me.” She flutters them once more briefly, coils a fist and slams it into her own palm for emphasis on the last two words, then lets them fall silent. “Hard,” she amends.

It’s really stupid but the only thing Justin can think is : “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

“Yeah, well, not anymore,” she says sardonically.

They sit there, hands clasped, just breathing together. He’s been doing a lot of that lately.

“Are you okay,” Justin asks finally.

“Moron did it outside my parent’s house, Dad soundly kicked his ass. I almost felt bad for him after. I’m fine. It looks worse than it is.” She sighs and gently touches her swollen eye. It’s scary seeing Daphne like this. Heart in his throat sort of bated terror. “I didn’t want to rub it in, the dating stuff. I mean with you and Brian being all terminally over and angsty.”

He rubs her arm, and gathers her to him. She trots out one final shuddery “bastard” broken by the threat of sobs, then she lets go and he’s strong for her while she cries. Later that night, he finds himself picking up the phone and dialing a familiar number and doing something entirely unfamiliar.

He thinks…maybe…he might understand a little better what they went through while he was in the hospital. He’s never felt this helpless in his life. Not even with Brian. He’s always had a choice there, this…Christ.

“Brian, the entire left side of her face is black and blue. Her eye – it’s so swollen she can’t see out of it. She had to go to the hospital to make sure there wasn’t any damage to her sight.”

“Want me to mess him up for you?”

Brian says it almost teasingly…but Justin knows if he asked, he so totally would.

“No thanks, Riff. Her dad took care of that, anyway.” The smile melts away slowly. “I feel like a jerk. All this time I didn’t even know she was dating anyone. If I hadn’t seen for myself, she probably wouldn’t even have told me he had hit her.”

“You’re not a superhero, Sunshine. Despite the mysterious powers of your bubble-butt of wonder,” his tone is still surface light, but underneath there’s steel. “You can’t be there for someone who doesn’t let you know they need you there. That’s not the way life works.”

Justin sighs, marinates himself in that comfort. Hold, breathe, enjoy.

The sound of shifting material brings him back.

“I interrupted, didn’t I? What were you getting ready to do?”

“Head out.” The sound of keys jingling together travels its way over the phone.

“Suds and Studs Night at Babylon?”

“You think you know me so well.” He sounds amused, fond.

Justin likes fond.

“That’s because I do. Or I’m always right. Or both. Probably both.”

“You’re starting to babble. Get some sleep, Sunshine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He likes it when Brian calls him that too. Damn, he probably should go to sleep before something slips out.

“Alright, have fun.”

Brian doesn’t agree or disagree, he whispers, “Later,” then hangs up.

*~*~*~*~*

Life goes on as it was meant to. Daphne heals, the asshole Justin never met but Daphne had dated for nearly half a year fades away as a spiritual presence along with her jumpiness and excited startle reflex and bruised skin. He doesn’t quite forgive himself for not noticing. But he tries his best to make it up to her.

Growing up is about learning you’re not the center of the universe. As much as it’s about learning when to hold on, and when to let go.

Justin sees Brian at least once a week, talks to him (on the phone, trading voice mail, or through a text message) more often than that. And it’s nice. It’s Daphne, it’s a Daphne with a Brian perspective and a dick. Plus he gets to keep Daphne too. What more could he want?

Brian’s going all out on building Kinnetik, Justin couldn’t be prouder if he tried. Yet they still find time to …jesus there’s no masculine way of saying this: emotionally connecting.

Maybe it was the sex that fucked things up.

Because they’re doing a lot better now than they ever were before.

Yeah…on that front. The only sex he’s had in the past …wow, four months since they stopped? Has been with himself. It’s been a solo relationship, monogamous in the fullest sense of the term. Unless porn counted as a second party.

He’ll be twenty-one in a few weeks. The girls want to take him out for his birthday, dinner and a movie. It’s time he started enjoying his birthdays again.

He still goes to Debbie’s on Sundays, even though lately the atmosphere has been a little oppressive. Emmett and Ted broke up, in between round number ….well, in between the drama with Brian he missed it. And the girls are thinking about another kid but fighting over who’s going to carry it (muchless father it) so it’s tense. Michael’s dating this new guy, which for some reason makes him blush beet red whenever Debbie points it out (the guy’s a dentist, Debbie’s pointing it out every 3.5 seconds) and ducking his head away from Justin’s gaze in what can only be shame. If Justin was a better person he’d tell him to let it go, for the most part…Justin has. As best he can.

Debbie’s pretending the entire thing never happened. Like Ben was a bad chapter in the Novotony daytime soap. Ben deserved better than that but …

Sometimes Justin’s glad enough he wasn’t that chapter, and he lets that go too.

It’s over dinner that he hears the latest news. Lord knows Brian didn’t tell him. In his defense he was probably too busy fighting it to think about sharing.

Its better that way, Justin doesn’t have to worry about convincing him, he can just do when he needs to.

He finds the kid at the arcade. The eighth he’d checked in the last three hours. He’d lived in Pittsburgh his entire life and never knew there were that many damn establishments dedicated to taking the money and all the available brain-cells from the younger generations.

He resembles Brian in the loosest of senses, chunky where Brian’s slim, full features where Brian’s tend to lean towards chiseled, light brown hair that hangs lank with the cusp of adolescence where Brian’s is deep auburn with darker hues. There’s a shade of the Kinney genes in his height, that particular head tilt that was so familiar on Brian, and the flat ass.

But really, the only reason Justin recognizes this particular juvenile delinquent as Brian’s nephew is because he glimpsed a family Christmas card once with the vague visage of this boy on the front squeezed in between a younger child and young couple with grins plastered on their faces.

Plus, he’s wearing Brian’s cowry shell bracelet.

“Are you John?”

The kid glances quickly over and promptly returns his eyes to the video game he’s obsessively pounding, opposable thumbs have never been so honored Justin’s pretty sure.

“Oh great. It’s the faggot brigade. I know you, you’re Uncle Brian’s boy-toy.” Well, if nothing else he does snide like a Kinney.

If this child thinks he’s going to be intimidated by anything a thirteen year old says…damn, that’s self- confidence right there.

“Listen. I’m only here because,” Justin swallows hard. Play the part, be the part, don’t strangle a pre-teen. “I just, look I just wanted you to know you’re not alone. And I’d like to help you when you go to the police.” He attempts closing in a little without looming. “I-I was just a kid when he fucked me the first time too.”

John’s eyes blow wide and he whirls around. There’s shock, and there’s triumph, but mostly there’s a horrible sort of self-righteousness in everything about his expression and Justin cringes for the prospects of the next generation.

“Christ,” the boy practically squeals, “I was right, he is a perv, I knew it!”

Justin affects innocent confusion, although honestly? He thinks he could affect Justin-on-E-while-hopping- on-one-foot and the kid still wouldn’t be paying attention. “What do you mean, I thought he …I thought he did all that stuff to you too.”

John scowls and looks at him like he’s crazy. Yeah, the Kinney expressions too. “Fuck no! Do I look like a pansy? I made the whole thing up ‘cause he’s an ass, but I knew he was the type. Jesus, wait until I tell mom!”

Which is pretty much all he came for. Justin shuts off the tape recorder he was carrying, gently removes Brian’s bracelet from around John’s arm, and says, “Thanks. I appreciate your honesty. So will the cops. ”

*~*~*~*~*

Between starting his own company, and the stupid molestation allegations, and a million other little tribulations, they cut down from once a week to once every two weeks. The phone calls, the text messages, those things don’t stop though.

They talk. They talk about everything under the sun, about Vic moving into his own place, about Ted’s sudden decline and apparent addiction, even about Michael. And that…that is the most uncomfortable conversation they’ve ever had. But …he’s glad for it. It doesn’t feel like an excuse when Brian says without saying how much he loves Michael, and how he was his first and only real friend for a very long time, and how sometimes he gets a little desperate and looks up and Michael’s …there. And then he’s not so desperate anymore. And how he’s sorry and how he doesn’t know if he’d change it if he could, because it’s over and he can’t go back, and if he could who knows if he’d know what he knows now in order to make those changes, but goddamn he’s sorry.

And Justin listens, and without the complication of the sex of the “relationship” it feels like Brian being honest.

And that’s...that’s better than okay.

And then one night he shows up on his doorstep. Justin opens the door and he’s there, Justin practically stumbles over him. No knock, no phone call, if Justin wasn’t on his way out the door who knows how long he would have been there. Who knows how long he’s been there.

He looks … odd. Lost. Vulnerable. Bare in a way he’s never been completely naked.

Justin closes the door behind him and slides to the floor, back against door, to sit next to him.

“I have testicular cancer.”

He knew it would be something big. He was thinking death.

Debbie…Gus…Michael…Lindsey…Vic…HIV

He has to bite his tongue and clench his fists, eyes shut tight, to press the automatic tears back and make himself keep breathing anyway.

“It’s not a …it’s not a big deal. The doctors say I have a 99% chance of full recovery after surgery.”

“When’s your surgery?” His voice is gravelly and low. The only reason Brian hears it is because they’re practically sitting on top of each other.

“I’m scheduled for next Tuesday.”

“That’s fast.”

“I waited to tell you. I wasn’t sure if I was going to say anything or not. ”

“Does anyone else know?”

Brian shakes his head, eyes closed. “Not yet. You’re the first.” He leans closer and Justin grabs his hand. Brian grabs back. “Congratulations, I guess.”

Brian sinks lower and allows himself to lean into Justin. For once Justin’s the one doing the holding.

*~*~*~*~*

They get through it. Its funny thinking of them as a ‘they’ but…there it is. They get through all of it. The cancer – with the vomiting, and the exhaustion, the radiation, and the nausea and the weight loss. Justin’s there as a supportive shoulder for Brian’s after-chemo temporary impotence that didn’t seem to be temporary for awhile there. And though they don’t fuck, sometimes Justin does spend the night. Because Brian needs him to. And sometimes Justin needs it too.

They get through Vic’s passing. They get through Justin’s little slip ups with the present tense, and Debbie’s hyper-festive obsessive christmassing, and the empty Vic-shaped hole that’s always there. They get through it.

Justin finishes his first year of school probation, and makes all A’s. Brian doesn’t help him celebrate his birthday, but he’s the first one there for the after final’s Chinese food and black-and-white movie-a-thon. He even lets him wax poetic on animation and pick out two movies about the subject Justin wants to see, with minimal protestations.

And it’s not right, but it’s okay, and it’s life, and …

Justin is good with getting through it. Together. As a family. He and Brian and Debbie and Mom and Daphne and Molly and Lindsey and Mel and Gus and the little baby to be Mel’s carrying (Michael’s. wow. That's all Justin's saying.) and on the outskirts, his extended family of Emmett and Ted and forever and ever Vic and yes, even Michael, the brother he never had with the wackiest case of sibling rivalry in existence.

And then one day when he’s only half paying attention, Brain squeezed in tight to him like he typically is, Brian announces: “I’ve come to a decision.”

“Oh?” Justin’s working on a piece for Debbie, sketching Vic from memory with fingertips and brain.

“This only friends shit? It’s for underachievers.” Brian’s muscles are bunched, tense, the only give to his nerves, “We can do so much better; currently we’re undershooting our potential. The way I see it, neither one of us is ever going to meet another person that matches us as well as we do each other. And believe me, I’ve seen you try. As for me? Who’d remember to stock the refrigerator with guava juice as well as you? It doesn’t even make sense to try. To continue remaining ‘just friends’ goes against all that is natural and right.”

On some level Justin’s been expecting this, not in these words, and not so soon, but when Brian didn’t give up on their ‘friendship’ he started waiting somewhere inside for him to not give up on ‘them’. Still the only thing coherent that comes out of his mouth is: “I’m sure.”

Not because he is sure, or he’s not sure, but because his tongue is dead and so’s his brain.

Brian being Brian ups the ante and gives him a tentative grin, looking little boy shy as he says, “Besides. I’m in love with you,” he whispered.

Tongue dries, throat locks, there’s no words for this, real or imagined.

Brian wraps one hand behind Justin’s neck and pulls him forward until their foreheads touch. “I love you,” he whispers onto Justin’s mouth. He hears the words and feels them, on his lips, in his gut.

Dear God, he can’t do this again. Shame of all shames Justin lets a literal whimper out, and wrenches away. He’s going to have to try a little harder if he expects Brian to take that as a no though.

“Look, Justin, you can’t honestly say we’ve been acting like friends anyway. We don’t have sex, sure, but that’s pretty much all that’s changed. What the fuck is the point?” Brian follows him up off the couch as soon as Justin stands. If his intention is to blockade the door and halt Justin’s escape its unnecessary. Justin’s legs give out as soon as they get underneath him and he finds himself flopping back down to the couch. Brian follows that too, kneels in front of him, Justin’s legs open wide to accept him.

“I get that you’re scared I’ll hurt you again. I get that. I can’t change it; I can’t change what’s already happened. All I can do now is my best to never let it happen again.”

“You don’t understand, it’s not that easy.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I’ve tried that already.”

“Try again,” Brian gently insists.

Both their voices are low with that hoarse this is serious caliber people only take at funerals and wakes. And apparently life-changing gut-wrenching conversations where decisions that were decided can be undecided even though Justin had already decided them Don’t Do THIS BRIAN

“Are you happy?”

Justin nods, there’s a bit of a frantic quality to it. Justin can’t help that.

“Like this? Without me,” Brian continues. Then seems to get annoyed with himself, places the palms of his hands firm on Justin’s thighs and says in practically an order, “don’t worry about my feelings and just answer the question. I’m putting myself out there like all the lezzie books say to, and its fucking killing me, so just answer Justin.”

Justin’s possibly not the only one who’s frantic.

It probably doesn’t say good things about him that that’s what makes him calmer. Not calm. Just calmer.

“Since we started this the second time…when you took me in and let me be a part of your life, I never imagined my life without you. I don’t think there was a moment I honestly believed I’d have to think about it, or that I’d have a life without you, that I could make it alone. So I tried my best to turn myself into this person that would be perfect for you, someone you couldn’t imagine being without. I tried and tried and tried myself right into a person I couldn’t stand. ”

“Justin...”

“I lost myself,” Justin continues, then adjusts, modifies, is honest, “No. I let myself go. I forcibly forgot who I was. What being Justin Taylor meant”

In his head he hears Daphne’s voice.

“I think…somewhere along the way, being gay, being with Brian, those things kind of took precedence over everything else…If being Justin Taylor means being monogamous, then being gay Justin Taylor, Brian Kinney’s boyfriend should mean being monogamous.”

“I can’t do that a second time. I might not remember again.”

Brian’s adam’s apple moves as he swallows and his jaw tightens briefly. “You don’t need to,” he says. It sounds like a swear, like a promise, and for one brief insane moment Justin wants to ask him spit-shake on it. He’s never spit-shaken on anything in his entire life. It’s fucking gross. He’s losing his mind, Brian is turning him into an idiot savant.

“I know you,” Brian’s saying, “There’s no one I know better. You know that, I don’t have to reiterate.” And then those words. And Justin’s lost and found in one breath. “I want you in my life. I want you as my partner.” Carefully, distinctly, more importantly purposefully, “I still want you in my life… in every way I can have you.”

“You really mean that.”

Justin can see the words replaying in Brian’s head. His jaw tightens briefly, spasmodically. Despite everything…or maybe because of everything…Justin knows the exact instant that Brian thinks to take back everything he’s just said. Reclaim it, laugh it off, obfuscate and deny deny deny.

And then he knows the exact moment he discards that thought.

“I’ve never meant anything else as much as I mean that.”

“What happened to never run after anyone?”

Brian shrugs halfheartedly, a drop of his shoulders and spread of his arms, “I walked.”

His heart jumps. Brain dead and heart attack, nothing left but the colon. “Took your fucking time about it,” Justin half laughs. “I need you to promise me something.”

For the first time doubt – not nerves, not hesitancy but doubt moves into Brian’s eyes. “Justin, I won’t make you any promises. I won’t break them,” he says seriously, “I don’t make promises I don’t keep.”

“I know. That’s why I want you to promise me this.”

Before he continues, Brian interrupts with a reluctant head shake. “The sex is so much of who I am. It’s as much of a defense mechanism as a stress reliever…it’s not just sex. It’s been a part of me for longer than you’ve been alive. I don’t know if I can promise …” He trails off, tongue bitten and head turned away. But he doesn’t get up. And he doesn’t leave.

“But it’s not all you are,” Justin says carefully. “That’s not what I wanted you to promise me, anyway. If we’re going to do this, really do this…then all I’m asking is for you to let me love you.”

Brian turns back, listening.

“Let me love you,” Justin says, “Let yourself love me back.” He doesn’t think he’s ever said anything as important as this aloud ever before. “Think you can do that?”

“It’s going to be hard. We’re fighting twenty-nine years of conditioning.”

“Thirty-two,” Justin corrects.

“Semantics,” Brian allows which prompts a smile, which is probably why he said it in the first place. “I might need a reminder every once in awhile.”

He didn’t get up, he didn’t leave, he didn’t say no. And what’s more, Justin believes the tentative yes. Maybe because it’s tentative. “I think I can provide those.”

Brian leans in, Justin meets him halfway. As their mouths meet in a shared kiss, Justin realizes this is what he was looking for. This is how he knew it could be. This is what he’s been holding on to when he couldn’t let go. Brian’s giving him everything. When it matters, when it’s really important, the really important things. Yes his time, yes his money, yes bits and pieces of himself here and there, yes a hint. Words spoken in both Kinney-ese and transcribed into human normal, with word and deed alike; with breath and breadth, heart and soul and image ever reflecting one united symmetry, one truth cross-referenced. Say it, show it, mean it. This he can hold on to, this he can believe.

This he wants.

Le Fin.

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