The Present



“Maybe you’d rather just cuddle.”



It was ten-twenty on a Friday night, and they were lying in bed. Well, Brian was lying in bed; Justin was sitting up, reading one of his art magazines. Brian was on his side, his back to Justin and his arm stretched out, staring at his limp hand and trying to sort through a tangle of emotions. It wasn’t easy. Not only was he unused to being sober long enough to truly experience unpleasant feelings, but many of the feelings he’d never felt before. For example, was this how the soldiers in World War One felt as they spent months hunkered down in their trenches, trading mortar fire with an invisible enemy? A combination of boredom and terror? If so, then Brian could sympathize with them. He was bored out of his mind. No less than three months ago, this time on a Friday night would’ve found him in his VIP lounge at Babylon, drinking Beam and surveying his realm looking for the hottest guy on the dance floor. And now? Now here he was, glaring at his hand as though it was the source of all his angst. Despite being in his own bed in his own room in his own home, he felt like he’d been kidnapped by aliens and was currently flying around in outer space looking down at a green and blue, marble-sized earth.



And the terror? Well, that was harder to define – and even harder to acknowledge. He’d flush it down a drain of denial except he couldn’t. It was too present, too real. His heart would start pounding in the grocery store or at the dry cleaner’s or in the Vette on the drive to work; he’d never had a panic attack before, so he couldn’t be absolutely certain that that was what was happening, but he was pretty sure it was. The only question was why was he feeling so terrified? Was it the bomb? Was it Lindsay and Gus’s pending move to Toronto? Was it the lingering effects of Michael’s near-death? Was it that he and Justin were . . . ?



Brian slammed his mind shut. He wasn’t going to go there. He couldn’t go there because if he did . . . if he started to ask himself questions . . .



“Maybe you’d rather just cuddle.”



He hadn’t planned to say them. The words had simply left his mouth before he’d had the chance to consider the consequences. His voice had been sarcastic. Even biting. Definitely confrontational.



Justin had been trying his best all evening to coax Brian out of his surly mood. Just before Brian had dropped the Cuddle Bomb, Justin had been trying to initiate sex, but any thought of sex vanished when Justin leapt out of the bed as though there’d been a wasp under the covers and he’d been stung by it.



Shit.



Brian sat up. Something was coming, but what? Justin was furious, pink-cheeked and ready for a fight.



This can’t be a good thing, Brian thought crazily. He didn’t know much about rehearsal dinners, but he was pretty sure that a ripping fight the night before shouldn’t be part of the plan.



Why’d he do it? What had he been trying to communicate?



Alarmingly, he realized that he wasn’t entirely sure.





Five Days Earlier

“Brian!”



He was headed for his office when Cynthia grabbed his arm. He’d just escorted Remsen’s people to the door with a promise to present them with something “appropriate” (as opposed to “sophomoric” and “offensive”) at their next meeting. Now he needed some time alone. And a glass or two of whiskey.



“What?” he snapped.



“We don’t need them anymore,” she said. “We’ve got plenty of clients. We can afford to let Remsen Pharmaceuticals go. Ever since what’s-her-name took over the sales department, working with them has been hell. It’s not worth it. You should see how angry you look right now. I haven’t seen you this angry in months. Hell, I’m not sure I’ve seen you this angry since your mother was here and you told her you’d rather spend eternity in hell than one day in heaven with her.”



Brian snorted. Now, that was a pleasant memory. It made up for the total absence of pleasant memories from his childhood. Well, almost.



Cynthia loosened her grip, but she didn’t release him.



“Let it go,” she said. “You’re getting married this weekend.”



“Which means what, exactly?” Brian replied. “That I can’t be pissed-off because that bitch has neither a sense of humor nor a sense for business?”



“It means that it’s simply not worth it. This should be the happiest time of your life.”



Brian tugged his arm free of her grasp, dropped his head into his hands and scrubbed his face. This should be the happiest time of your life. Everyone had been saying the same thing for days.



“I wish people would stop telling me how I should feel,” he mumbled, combing his fingers through his hair with exasperation.



Cynthia didn’t say anything, but her weary, disappointed sigh spoke volumes. He knew what she was thinking and willed her not to say it. He might be scared, but he was not contemplating canceling the wedding. The wedding was going to happen. It was just . . .



“Look,” he said. “I’m just feeling a bit tired, and you know that being called ‘sophomoric’ pisses me off. Not to mention the fact that now I’ve got to spend the next few days designing an ad while trying not to puke.”



She nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response.



“Why don’t you hand it off to someone in the art department?” she said. “It’s not like it’s going to require the master’s touch.”



Brian put on his coat. The weather had been cold this morning, the rain flirting with the possibility of snow. In mid-April. Thank God, he and Justin would be in Monaco this time next week.



“Lunch or home?” she asked.



“Home,” he replied.



“Coming back?”



“Not unless I have to.”



“Do you want me to tell Elliot to find some models?”



“Sure. Why not?”



“Any requests?”



“Silver-haired. Patrician. Bland, happily-married expressions. I don’t care. Whatever. Just tell him what the concept’s going to be and let him go nuts. He’ll like that.”



“And Heidi? Do you want her to set up a date for the photo shoot, or do you want to make that call?”



“Seriously, Cynthia,” he said, pulling on his gloves and heading for the door. “I couldn’t care less. Tell her to do what she wants. Just tell the art department to have the mock-ups ready for me by Thursday.”



He didn’t wait for a response before throwing open the door more forcefully than necessary and letting it slam shut behind him. It was only then, outside and alone, that he realized he was shaking with anger. Renee Dickinson wanted “monogamy.” She wanted “intimacy.” She wanted “dignity.” What the hell did that mean? That fucking was somehow innately undignified? Something people should only do with the lights off or else in front of crackling fires with light jazz playing in the background? Because if that’s true, then he hadn’t gotten the fucking memo – nor did he want to.



But it was too late now. Far too late. He was about to join the herd. The happily married, monogamous herd.



He walked to the Vette, his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders hunched around his ears. These are conservative times, Brian. Sex no longer sells. The words echoed in his head. It was bullshit, and he knew it. Sex would always sell. Hell, look at the Victorian Era – the more hung-up and prudish society is, the more sexually obsessed it becomes. He was right. His ads were right. He didn’t doubt that. His faith in his own vision hadn’t been shaken, so why was he so upset? If he capitulated and created an insipid ad at the client’s bidding, it wouldn’t be the first time. It wasn’t like he’d be selling his soul to a puritanical devil.



So what was it? Why was he shaking?



He got into the Vette, but he didn’t start the engine. Instead he just sat there. He had no idea where he was going to go – in fact, there was really nowhere he particularly wanted to be. Before . . . before he’d gotten engaged, he would’ve headed to the nearest bathhouse, done some coke and fucked some guy senseless. But he couldn’t do that. When he’d asked Justin to marry him, he’d made a promise – a promise that he would give Justin whatever he needed to be happy. One of those things was monogamy.



They hadn’t talked about it. Brian knew that if he were to discuss his concerns with Lindsay, she (or anyone else) would tell him how stupid he and Justin had been. Sexual exclusivity – especially for gay men – was a really big deal, something that needed to be discussed and about which agreements had to be hammered out. He and Justin had done neither. At the time, Brian really hadn’t seen the point. He’d known Justin for five years and for at least 75 percent of that time, Justin had wanted them to be monogamous. Isn’t that why Justin had made the no-kissing rule? Isn’t that why Justin had left him for Ethan? Isn’t that why Justin had left again in November? Why discuss something so obvious? Why dredge up old grievances and bad memories. Brian’s tricking was over. Case closed. Why turn it into a big, fucking deal?



Because it was a big, fucking deal?



Brian rested his forehead on the steering wheel. He’d been a fool to think he could just snap his fingers and change the way he’d lived and thought for twenty years. And the truth – the honest to God fucking truth – was that he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to give up tricking. He simply didn’t want to, and why should he? His tricks had never been a threat to Justin. Never. Not since the day he and Justin had met. When Brian had taken Justin home that second time, Justin had become someone special. Someone to whom the rules didn’t apply. And from that day on, he’d become more and more special. Brian had never wavered in his devotion. Never. He could fuck a dozen guys a day, and it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t change his feelings for Justin – hell, it wouldn’t even affect them.



But the point was moot. Whether or not he regretted it, Brian had made a promise. The issue was settled. Besides, what if he did try to raise the subject? Christ, he could see it all as clear as day. Justin would feel angry, betrayed . . . and that would be it. The wedding would be off. The marriage nullified before it even began.



Uhm, Justin?”



Yes, Brian?



About this whole monogamy thing . . . .



. . . What do you mean ‘about this whole monogamy thing’?



Well, you see. It’s like this. I don’t want to be monogamous . . . it doesn’t mean I don’t want to marry you, it’s just that . . .



. . . So, what you’re saying is that you want an open marriage?



An ‘open marriage’? Honestly, I don’t even know what that means. I just want to fuck other guys now and then. Not every day. Maybe not even every week, but I still want that. I still need that.



I see. And you didn’t tell me this before you proposed to me because why?



Because I . . . shit. I wanted to marry you . . . I still want to marry you. The whole monogamy thing . . . well, it didn’t feel important at the time . . .



Didn’t feel important.

Yeah.



But it’s important now.



Well . . . uhm, yeah. I guess it is. Justin, is this going to be some kind of deal breaker? Because if it is . . .



If it is, what? Of course, it’s a deal breaker, Brian! I left you because of the tricking. I left you because I was fucking sick of that way of life! I was sick of Babylon. I was sick of you going out every night! I was sick of you fucking around!



It doesn’t have to be ‘a way of life.’ I mean, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Listen, I’ll be discreet about it. I won’t let it ever interfere with our time together. It’s not like I’d be going out to clubs and screwing in backrooms. Hell, I won’t even trick at the bathhouses. I’ll go off the internet . . .



What? And bring strangers back to our house, to our bed? Or are you going to set up a separate room. Hell, the house is big enough. Why not? I’ll have an art studio, and you can have a fuck studio. Very cozy and convenient, I’d say.



Justin, wait! Hear me out . . .



I have heard you, Brian. Loud and clear. You’re saying you don’t want to be in a monogamous relationship. Well, I do. And you damn well knew that before you proposed. Jesus, Brian! We’ve already sent out invitations. We’ve already bought suits and rings and . . .



Justin, please. Stop. Listen, if this is a deal breaker . . .



It is.



. . . then we’ll be monogamous. I want you more than . . .



Sorry, Brian. You showed your hand. That cat can’t get stuffed back in the bag. I know how you feel now. Every time you see a hot guy, you’ll think ‘God, I’d love to fuck him – too bad my husband is a fucking ball and chain.’ No way, Brian. No fucking way. I told you I didn’t want to be in a marriage with someone who will fail at it. What about that did you not understand? Or did you just not care?



Tricking doesn’t have to ruin a marriage . . . Where’s you romanticism? Isn’t love the only thing we need?



Fidelity is part of love. Without it, love is a mere illusion.



So . . . so what are you saying?



I’m saying the wedding’s off. Good-bye, Brian.



Brian lifted his head off the steering wheel and started the engine. That would be how the conversation would go. He knew it. The voices and images were so vivid in his mind that he might as well be watching a movie. If he brought up monogamy now . . . if he said he didn’t want their marriage to be sexually exclusive . . . Justin would leave him. Brian knew it in the marrow of his bones. His tricking was the reason Justin kept leaving him. Brian knew that when he’d asked Justin to marry him. There was no way in hell he could go back on any of those commitments now. He’d lose Justin. He didn’t want to lose Justin. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to fuck guys behind Justin’s back. Which only meant one thing. He had to change – not only his attitude about sex, but his attitude about life in general, about what it means to be a homosexual. About what it means to be himself.



He wasn’t terribly surprised when he found himself pulling into the parking lot of a bathhouse in Cleveland. He turned off the engine and sat with his hands on the steering wheel again, staring unseeingly into the middle distance. The building was made of grey cement blocks, windowless and undeniably seedy. Was he really going in? Was he really that desperate? He’d been engaged for all of two months. Hell, he wasn’t even married yet, and there he was already thinking about cheating? God. What was wrong with him?



In the end, after a long, agonizing struggle, he went in, but he didn’t do anything. He just walked the halls, glancing into rooms where men waited with their asses in the air, their holes already stretched and lubed. The sound of fucking echoed off the walls, punctuated now and then by a command or a plea. Brian felt like a ghost, like he’d died and was returning briefly to an old haunt before fading into the shadows. He’d never been in that particular bathhouse, but it didn’t matter. Bathhouses were pretty much all the same. Even the guys looked the same. Brian didn’t care. He never had. All he’d ever wanted were muscles, a rough, masculine voice, a hot ass, a cut cock, and a willing mouth. If the faces were pleasant to look at, well, then hey, bonus. But at the end of the day, it was about fucking. It was about making a stranger beg for your cock and shout obscenities when he comes. That was it. Nothing more. There was no one in any one of those rooms or in any room in any bathhouse in the world that he wanted to fall asleep next to. Justin had nothing to fear from these places, nothing to fear from these men. For Brian, going to a bathhouse was like going to a gym. You fuck, take a shower and go home feeling refreshed. That was it. Nothing more.



He jerked off watching a guy getting fucked from both ends and obviously loving every moment of it. When someone tried to take over and go down on him, Brian shook his head. No one was going to touch him. No one was even going to speak to him. After he came, he took a shower, got dressed and drove home.



Thank God, Justin didn’t ask him where he’d been. He wouldn’t have lied, consequences be damned.

Brian knows fear. He knows it has a taste. He’d spent much of his early childhood in perpetual fear of Jack’s fists and the staccato of violence that were their blows. When Justin was bashed, Brian learned that fear also has a smell – the sour tang of old sweat mixed with Clorox and bad, watery coffee. The reek of hospitals and their last moments. The stale scent of waiting for bad news.



It is that smell – the smell of fear – that overwhelms his senses when he hears the news on the radio – the news about the bomb, the announcer’s voice suddenly talking about the intimate fact that, with the exception of his son, everyone that Brian loves had been in that room. Everyone. Justin, Lindsay, Michael, Ted, Deb, Emmett, Jennifer, Ben, Daphne – and, yes, Mel. How horrible, he thinks as the car speeds down Interstate 376 back towards Pittsburgh, how horrible that he can only admit he cares about someone after they’re dead . . . that he can only admit he loves someone after they’re forever gone.



Little, trivial things seem all important in moments like this – like the fact the car in front of them has a broken taillight. Like the fact the driver has hairy knuckles. It’s the brain protecting it from itself by clinging to the mundane. Brian places his hands on his thighs and curls his fingers into claws as though that might make a difference, as though the highway could stretch like a sling shot rubber band and catapult the car straight into the heart of the Liberty Ave district. They need to get there now. Before it’s too late. Before all the reasons why he should lose the people he loves – the man he loves – can catch up with him.



Pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim.



The words stumble over each other, jostling and shoving, fighting to lose their meanings in the midst of a crowd. He clenches his fingers tighter, leaving red crescent moons on his thighs as they barrel off the interstate and are swallowed by the intestinal ramp of the downtown exit. Every traffic light is red. Every pedestrian on the crosswalks is a fat, hobbling, old lady. He tips his head back and groans in agony – the agony of knowing he’s going to be too late.



Stanwix Street. Bakers Place. Eighth Street. Ninth Street. Tenth Street. The McCullough Bridge. He knows them all, but yet he doesn’t. Has he ever been here before? The car comes to a stop. Is he here? Is this it? It must be because he has to duck under police tape crisscrossed between lampposts like a giant, yellow spider’s web.



The scene is chaotic. Rubble and soot. Sirens and screams. Greasy smoke and melted plastic. Flashing lights and bloody bandages. He remembers little except Jennifer’s voice saying that Justin is still inside – still inside that burning, collapsing building. A place of fairytales that had become a house of horrors. A playground turned into a graveyard. His fault his fault his fault his fault his fault his fault. He can barely see. His eyes burn. The smell of Sulphur makes him gag. Glass crunches under his feet. Here and there a shoe, a jacket, something that might be . . . but he can’t look. He can’t look he can’t look he can’t look. People are dead. People are dying. People are screaming names – “Jonathan!” “Harry!” “Brenda!” “Roxy!” “Chris!” Brian adds his cries to the wailing chorus – “Justin! Justin! Justin!” – over and over until he’s hoarse.



There’s no reply.



If Justin . . . but he can’t stop to think. Not now while there’s still a chance, while there’s still something he can do. He staggers against what’s left of the bar, and when he pulls away, his hand is wet. At first he thinks it’s blood but then realizes it’s whiskey. The sweet scent of past oblivions washes over him . . . how many years off his life would he give if this wasn’t happening? Five? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty? Someone on the floor scrabbles at his ankle. Someone else calls out his name. It’s not a voice he recognizes, so he doesn’t stop. Firemen shove past, some with shouted warnings on their blackened lips. He stumbles over a hose, but catches himself on a beam. Just barely. All the while death lurks in the shadow of flames, biding its time. Patient and hungry. Hungry for the man Brian loves. The man he carelessly let slip through his fingers.



He makes crazy promises as he runs. He will never do this or that again. He will never not do this or that again. He’ll never say that or do that or even think this or that again. If only . . . just this one wish . . . please . . . everything will be different from now on. He doesn’t know what or how, but it will be. It has to be because this is his fault his fault his fault . . .



Then suddenly Brian sees him and grabs his arm, pulling him close, alarmed by the blood on his temple. Brian is no longer human. He’s an animal that’s found its young, and is now bearing its teeth at approaching danger, raw, open, furious. He only barely stops himself from licking the blood and soot from Justin’s face, cleaning him, feeling Justin’s pulse under his tongue – the mad pounding of it. The life thudding thudding thudding in his veins. Life. Life. Justin is alive.



Justin is alive.



But Justin’s not out yet – and neither is Emmett. Brian grabs both men by their wrists and starts tugging and pulling and running toward the exit, pausing only for a second when one of them stumbles. He’s ready to carry both of them on his back if he needs to. He slips on a nauseating combination of blood and broken glass and nearly falls. Only adrenaline keeps him on his feet, keeps him plunging forward into the smoke, into the heat of the encroaching fire. It’s not until they’re outside that Brian releases them. Justin runs to Jennifer, and Emmett runs to Drew, and Brian collapses to his knees, bruising them on the pavement. Someone rubs his back while he gets violently sick. He doesn’t know who.



Later . . . later he’ll tell Justin that he loves him. That he has always loved him. That life is meaningless without him. But in the meantime he rests for a moment, shaking, with blood and vomit on his jacket and his face buried in his soot-black hands.

The Present



“Maybe you’d rather just cuddle.”



They were in bed. Brian had been lying on his side with his back turned for over an hour. Justin hadn’t really noticed; the article he was reading was super interesting. He’d just assumed Brian was sleeping, but when he set aside the magazine and got under the covers, he realized that Brian was just lying there, staring at his hand, obviously unhappy.



Something was wrong. Maybe even really wrong.



Brian had been acting strangely all evening – heck, he’d been acting strangely since the night before. Not only had he suggested they stay in for the evening, but he’d even turned down the opportunity to fuck one of the hottest guys Justin had seen in a long time. How Brian had found it in himself to turn away, Justin didn’t know. All he knew was that Brian had said something about prisoners and last meals, and the next thing Justin knew, Emmett was hooking up with the trick, and Brian was telling him he wanted to go home.



Supper that night had been quiet. Beyond saying he’d made a few revisions to the Remsen ad, Brian hadn’t said anything, and he hadn’t finished his meal either. Given that he went straight to bed, Justin had assumed he wasn’t feeling well . . . but now . . . now he knew that whatever was ailing Brian was in his mind, not his body



Justin had pressed himself against Brian’s back and slid a hand down Brian’s bare arm, breathing in his scent and feeling his dick twitch. Yes, something wasn’t right, but rarely had there been something amiss between them that sex couldn’t solve. Justin had done his best, telling Brian that he’d had a dream in which Brian was fucking him in their new house, in the stables, heck, even on the tennis court, but Brian’s only response had been a couple smartass remarks about cooking and gardening. When Justin had finally had enough of Brian’s sulking, he got under the covers and tried to go down on him . . . only to be asked if he’d rather cuddle than suck cock.



What. The. Fuck?





Five Days Ago

“I don’t know, you guys . . . .”



Justin, Michael and Emmett were having lunch at the diner. It was rainy and cold outside, and condensation had fogged-up the windows. Someone had drawn a dick and balls in it. Justin had been lost in his thoughts, staring absentmindedly at the rather accurate rendering, only half listening to his friends prattling on about kids and bridezillas, when he was rudely yanked back into the moment by the words “stag,” “party” and “surprise.”



“I don’t know,” he said again.



“C’mon. He’ll have a great time,” Michael said around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “He’s been really stressed out about work lately; the party will help take his mind off things.”



“And you should see the hottie-pants we picked out,” Emmett chimed in. “Beefy and brainless. Brian’s favorite kind.”



“It’s the best gift we can give him,” Michael said. “You know he’d prefer a fuck over fine china.”



“A night on the town getting high and fucking his brains out,” Emmett elaborated. “He’ll get it all out of his system in one night.”



When Justin didn’t say anything, they both looked at him with twin frowns.



“What’s wrong?” Michael said, filling his spoon with another mound of potatoes. “I don’t get why you don’t want to do this. It’s perfect. Don’t worry; he’ll have more than forty-eight hours to recover before the Big Day.”



“Is it jealousy, honey?” Emmett asked, reaching across the table and placing a consoling hand on top of Justin’s. “Because we don’t have to do the trick thing.”



This time it was Justin’s turn to frown questioningly.



“Don’t be jealous,” Michael said. “You know Brian’s fucking doesn’t reflect on your relationship.”



“It’s not like you’re expecting him to be monogamous,” Emmett said, patting Justin’s hand before returning to his chowder.



Justin just looked at them. This was not a conversation he wanted to be having in the diner. Hell, this was not a conversation he wanted to be having with anyone except Daphne. He and Brian had never discussed whether their marriage would be monogamous. Why would they? It wasn’t even an issue. Of course, Brian would still fuck other guys. Hopefully fewer and hopefully more discreetly, but the idea of a monogamous Brian . . . ? Justin shuddered.



“Holy shit, Justin!” Michael exclaimed, totally misreading Justin’s silence. “You know he won’t be able to be monogamous.”



“Sweetie, you’re walking into a hot mess if that’s what you’re expecting,” Emmett said solemnly.



Justin dropped his head into his hands and scrubbed his face. They thought the whole reason he was against the stag party was that Brian would fuck some rent boy. They couldn’t be more wrong. The reason Justin thought the party was a bad idea was that Brian had been acting so oddly lately. At the best of times, Brian didn’t like surprises, and sadly these were not the best of times. Apparently, Brian didn’t respond well to wedding stress. Michael and Emmett had already planned everything though – all the way down to the drugs and the trick. But Brian was going to hate it – Justin knew Brian was going to hate it. Why would that be news to them? They’d known Brian longer than he had, especially Michael.



“It’s not the trick,” he said.



“Then what is it?” Michael asked.



“It’s just . . . you know how he hates being put on the spot.”



“Yeah, but this is all just for fun. Hell, isn’t he kind of expecting some kind of send-off party?” Michael said, digging into his turkey slices. Why, Justin thought distractedly, why did Michael always start a meal by eating the sides and not the meat? He shook his head and returned to the unnerving conversation at hand.



“He’s not getting ‘sent-off.’ He’s not going anywhere. He’s getting married. It’s not like he’s a sentenced prisoner on his way to Alcatraz.”



Emmett laughed. “Of, course, it is. You know how Brian feels about marriage.”



“Em . . .”



“But it’s true, Michael. You’ve said so yourself.”



“Said what?” Justin asked even though he was pretty sure he didn’t want the conversation to go any further.



“I just said that it’ll be a big adjustment for him. That’s all. Em, why’d you have to say something?”



“Because he should know.” Emmett turned to look at Justin. “He’s never going to be able to stay monogamous. You know that right?”



“Whoever said anything about monogamy?” Justin asked because what the fuck? Did people think that he was born yesterday? That he didn’t know what he was getting into by marrying Brian?



Emmett and Michael stared at him. They both look stunned.



“You’re not expecting Brian to stop tricking?” Michael asked.



“No,” Justin said with his best “duh!” voice. “He wouldn’t be Brian if he stopped fucking. The only thing I want – that I’ve ever wanted—is for him to just tone it down a bit. I’ve never wanted – or expected – him to stop tricking. I just wanted for him to stop doing it every other damn day.”



Emmett and Michael were still staring at him.



“That’s what you thought I wanted?” Justin said. “A monogamous relationship?”



“We just assumed . . .” Emmett said.



“Yeah, you left him because . . .” Michael added, sounding astonished, his fork suspended halfway between his mouth and the plate.



Justin sighed. “I left him because I was tired of being the fallback plan for the night. I was tired of him being unable to grow the balls to tell me he loves me. I was tired of being mocked for wanting something more. But I did not leave him because he fucked other guys.”



“Honey,” Emmett said, sounding concerned. “Does he know that?”



“God,” Michael said. “I joked with him the other day about not kissing me because he was going to be a married man soon. He probably flipped out inside.”



“Really? You said that?” Justin asked, trying not to panic.



“Don’t be upset at Michael,” Emmett said. “Any of us would’ve said that. Especially Lindsay by the way.”



Justin combed his fingers through his hair with exasperation.



“So, everyone’s going to be pissed off and disappointed in him if Brian keeps tricking.”



“Well, . . . uhm . . .” Emmett said with a guilty grimace. “Maybe not us, but Deb and the lesbians . . .”



“I won’t be surprised, but disappointed?” Michael said. “Yeah. I guess. Why else ask you to marry him if he’s not planning on being monogamous?”



Great. Just great. Suddenly, Justin needed to see Brian. This was . . . like Emmett had said, this could all turn into a hot mess. A boiling hot mess.



He stood up from the booth, took money out of his wallet and gave it to Emmett, who tried to tell him to keep it, but then stopped when he realized that Justin wasn’t in the mood for an argument, no matter how polite and well intentioned.



“Justin . . .” Michael said, sounding worried.



“I’m fine,” Justin replied, putting on his parka. “I just . . . there’s stuff I need to do for the wedding.”



“Speaking of which,” Emmett said, obviously desperate to leave things on a positive note. “We should discuss what kind of napkins you want.”



Justin wanted to tell him to fuck the napkins, but it wouldn’t be fair. In fact, Michael and Emmett had done him a favor. They’d given him a heads-up. Who else was making assumptions about his and Brian’s marriage? Ted? Deb? His mother? Hell, Daphne?



Thank God, Brian wasn’t making assumptions. There was no way he could simply assume Justin wanted their marriage to be monogamous, right?



Right??



Justin was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost missed his stop. It was a good thing another passenger needed to get off and alerted the driver. When he stepped out of the bus, he took his hat out of his pocket and put it on. It was fucking freezing. In mid-April! Thank God, he and Brian would be in Monaco this time next week.



The cold rain made the walk to Kinnetik seem longer than usual, so he was annoyed when Cynthia told him that Brian had left to go home about an hour ago. He caught another bus and got off at the stop on Tremont. When he came around the corner, he realized the Vette wasn’t there. He was surprised. Hadn’t Cynthia said Brian had told her he was going home?



He climbed the stairs, walked into the loft and closed the door behind him. When the clang-bang stopped echoing, he was struck by the silence. He wondered why it felt strange, and then he realized that for the past two months, he’d rarely been alone. If Brian wasn’t at work, he was at home. The realization made Justin feel queasy. For as long as he’d known Brian, even when he’d been sick, Brian had never once spent every night of a week at home, let alone every night for two months.



God! Brian must be feeling totally shell-shocked!



Why hadn’t he thought about all this before? They had to talk about it now, tonight, as soon as Brian walked through that door. They needed to talk about their expectations for one another, their expectations for their marriage. Brian needed to tell him what he wanted, and Justin needed to do the same. And it had to happen now before they were married, before they made their vows to each other!



Justin went to the wine cabinet to check and make sure that there was more than one bottle. Thankfully there was some Shiraz a client had given Brian as a wedding gift the week before. Brian was going to need a glass or three to get through such an important and intimate conversation. Then he took a shower, got dressed, started making supper . . .



. . . and waited. And waited and waited and waited.



By the time Brian walked through the door, Justin was too upset that he hadn’t called that he knew it wasn’t the right time to have a deep conversation. Not to mention the fact that Brian looked pale and tired. They’d talk another time. Heck, it wasn’t like they were getting married tomorrow.



“Hey,” Justin said, kissing him. “Supper’s almost ready.”



Brian kissed him back, but not deeply, not erotically.



“I’m sorry . . .” he said when they pulled apart.



“. . . Sorry for what?” Justin asked. “It’s not like anything’s burnt. C’mon, pour us some wine and tell me about your day.”



Brian gave him a wobbly smile and took off his coat and gloves.



“I’m sorry,” he said again.



“It’s fine,” Justin said. All these ‘sorries’ were making him nervous. “Just text me or something next time you’re going to be late. The weather conditions aren’t great. I was kind of worried about you.”



Brian nodded. When he kissed Justin again, it was firmer, and this time, when he pulled away, his smile was less unsure.  He cupped Justin’s cheek in his cold hand, tracing Justin's cheekbone with his thumb.



“I love you so much,” he said.



Justin blinked at him. He was speechless. Brian was totally freaking him out.

Brian . . . .



Had Justin ever seen him like that before? Maybe that was how he’d been after the bashing. Justin wouldn’t know. Maybe Brian had lost his mind then, too. He knew Brian had hit Hobbs so hard with the bat that he’d fractured his kneecaps and ruined Hobbs’ football career with one bone-crushing blow. He knew Brian had called for help and cradled his seemingly lifeless body, smearing himself with blood. He knew Brian sat in the hospital for days, waiting for news. He knew Brian wore a blood-encrusted scarf under his clothes for weeks like a monk wears a hair shirt. He knew that sometimes Brian woke from nightmares, sweating and crying out Justin's name . . . he knew these things, but most of them he hadn’t actually experienced.



That night was different. The night of the bombing . . . that night Justin had been there – awake and aware.



Brian had been wild-eyed, his voice cracking with emotion. He’d not been the same man who makes masterful sales pitches to exacting clients, his delivery smooth and precise. He’d not been the same man who scanned Babylon’s dance floor like a haughty king surveying his realm. He’d not been the same man who fucks with complete control, complete confidence. He’d not been the same man who can flawlessly deliver a deadpan joke. Instead, he’d been a man so fierce and desperate that he’d been almost scary. He’d been a man ready to fight and die. If only he’d been able to find the enemy – be they gods or men – he would’ve torn them to shreds with his teeth . . .



It had been that Brian who’d grabbed Justin and pulled him close, his body shaking with surges of adrenaline. Yes, Justin had been scared. Shit, he’d almost died for a second time! There’d been wounded people everywhere screaming, maybe even dying. Of course, he’d been scared! But not like Brian. Brian had looked like a grim fate had finally caught up with him – like something that’d been haunting his nightmares for years was galloping toward him, jaws frothing, claws gleaming.



“You’re hurt,” he’d said in a voice Justin had barely recognized . . . and it’d been in that moment that he’d realized how much Brian loved him. How unthinkingly Brian would throw himself at danger just to protect him. Brian hadn’t been there when the bomb went off. Hell, he’d been on his way to the airport. He hadn’t had to turn around, to come back. And he sure as hell hadn’t had to run into a burning building on the verge of collapse.



There remained no doubt in his mind that Brian loved him, that Brian would do anything for him. Brian hadn’t needed to say the words; Justin already knew that Brian would brave hell to save him and hold him close.



So why is he standing here, coldly turning down Brian’s marriage proposal? Why is he pulling away from Brian’s embrace? Now – now when he knows how much Brian loves him – why is he turning his back and walking away?



Why???



Why? . . . . because this isn’t what he wants, that’s why. He doesn’t want to marry Brian. He’s not even sure he wants to get back together with Brian. He needs to think about it. He needs time to fucking think about how he feels and what he wants . . .



. . . and, most importantly, he wants Brian to think about what he wants. Here’s a man who could not loathe the idea of marriage more. Here’s a man who had endangered his longest, closest friendship for no other reason than to brutally mock his friend’s life choices. Here’s a man who let the supposed love of his life walk out the fucking door on the flimsy fear that he might want to get married someday. Might! Jesus Christ! There’s no way in hell that he’ll marry Brian. No. Way. In. Hell!



Brian will fail. If they get married, Brian will fail. Maybe not tomorrow or next week or even months from now, but eventually. Brian is queer. Brian’s whole idea about being “the best homosexual you can possibly be” entails rejecting everything that even smacks of heterosexuality. Marriage is hands-down the single most straight institution there is. Brian will fail at it. He may want it right now, but he doesn’t really want it. Why would Justin risk the inevitable pain? Why? It would be hands down the dumbest thing he’d ever done in his whole entire life!



“You don’t mean it.”



He sees Brian swallow and wonders how close he is to tears. If he is, would that be a surprise? Brian had probably slept at most a couple of hours and apparently what little sleep he’d had, had been marred by a nightmare. A vision of his own death. These are not circumstances under which one makes a proposal of marriage – of a lifelong commitment. Brian will get something to eat. Get some proper rest. Maybe even have a glass or two of Beam, and presto! All thoughts of marriage will vanish like the smoke from the bomb. And then they could talk. Really talk. Justin needs to know whether things will be different; whether Brian will shut the hell up about not wanting to be “a couple”; whether he’ll stay home once in awhile; whether he’ll act like a fucking boyfriend and not some glorified fuck buddy.



No no no no no . . . hell, no! he wants to say, but then he remembers . . .



I love you.



Maybe . . . just maybe they can talk about trying to live together again. Maybe. But Justin is sure as fuck not getting married. No fucking way.

The Present



“Maybe you’d rather just cuddle.”



Brian rolled over to look at Justin. Justin was glaring at him. It wasn’t a new look for him. Glaring had been his default expression before he’d left back in November – especially after the whole stupid syphilis thing.



Fuck him.



Isn’t that what Justin wanted? To cuddle? Wasn’t Brian giving him exactly what he desired? Hadn’t he already done so? There was the house. There was the proposal. There were even the fucking pool and stables and tennis court! What else did Justin want from him? Brian had given him everything. Every Goddamn, fucking thing. He’d even refused to fuck that trick at the stag party. And now, here he was, offering to forego sex in favor of cuddling! And what was the result? The glare of death.



Brian would be pissed enough to get up, get dressed and storm out, except . . .



. . . except he’d created the whole situation. He’d thrown down a gauntlet. He’d been spoiling for a fight.



He still was.



“What?!” Justin exclaimed.



“I said wouldn’t you just rather lie here and . . .” Brian repeated.



“No, no, no. I know what you said, you said ‘cuddle.’”



“So?”



“So, I’ve never ever once even heard you use that word, much less actually want to do it . . .”



____________________________________________________________________________



Last Night



Brian was looking through the mock-ups for Remsen’s nausea-inducing ad when Justin came home. He had managed to shove the memory of his meeting with Renee Dickenson out of his mind, but going through the mock-ups was stirring up the anger and indignation all over again. Just having to look at them was pissing him off. The images were even more insipid than he’d expected, which was saying something. The background was dominated by a crackling fire, and the soon-to-be-fucking geezers were looking out at the viewer with generic, totally unsexy expressions.



In addition to trying not to heave, Brian was also trying to suppress a memory . . . a memory of himself and Justin . . . a memory of himself and Justin kissing tenderly in front of a crackling fire in their new house. Yes, the kissing had led to sex, but it hadn’t been fucking. It’d been love-making. Brian had held back, forcing himself to be gentle and “romantic,” after all that was the first time he and Justin were having sex after Brian had made his promise – his promise to give Justin everything he ever dreamed of, and Brian knew that dream included tender love-making and gentle kisses . . . and a sworn vow of lifelong fidelity. Just like the couple in the ad.



Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God.



What had he done? By swearing to be monogamous, he had already fucked up. Justin had said he didn’t want to marry someone who would fail at marriage – someone who couldn’t keep his promises without getting resentful.



Oh, God.



Brian desperately didn’t want to acknowledge it, let alone admit it, but being in total denial was hard, if not impossible when you weren’t high and fucking some trick’s brains out. But he had to, he had to deal with the fact that Justin was right. He was going to fail – if not by being unfaithful, then by being resentful. Resentful toward their marriage. Hell, resentful toward Justin, himself!



Oh, God.



It was in that moment. That blinding, sickening moment of revelation that Brian’s fiancé walked through the door.



“What are those?” Justin asked when he walked up and looked over Brian’s shoulder at the fucking Remsen ads.



“My revised ads for Remsen’s instant wood,” Brian replied. “What’dya think?”



Justin glanced at the array of photos for a second.



“At that age, I thought if they were on the floor it was maybe because they’d fallen and can’t get up.”



Brian snorted. That was why he’d wanted to get married. Justin could make him laugh under any circumstances, and he needed that. He needed Justin.



“Which do you prefer?” he asked.



“None,” Justin replied, sounding almost offended by the images before him. Brian could sympathize. His sensibilities were offended too. But he was . . . he was annoyed. Why was he annoyed?



“Just because you wouldn’t watch ‘Geriatrics Gone Wild” doesn’t mean they can’t do it.”



“I didn’t mean that; it’s not edgy,” Justin said. “It’s not funny. It’s not sexy.”



Brian stood up . . . he had to . . . he should . . . he should leave. He should tell Justin that he needed to do something at the office. He should go downstairs, walk out the door and get into the Vette. Better yet, he should go downstairs, walk out the door and keep on walking because . . . because, if he stayed, he wasn’t going to be able to stop himself from opening the shaken soda bottle that was his head.



It wasn’t fair to Justin. Hell, none of this, right down to the proposal, was fair to Justin. Because at the end of the day – the fucking end of the fucking day – it’d all been about him, Brian, about his fear of losing Justin, or more precisely, his fear of never getting Justin back. Buying the house, selling Babylon and the loft, the proposal – all of it was a Hail Mary, a desperate grab for a future with the man he loved. It wasn’t about Justin and what Justin might need or want; it was about Brian being selfish. Being greedy. Being afraid.



And now? Now he was going to fuck it all up. As the wedding approached, he was going to let it seep out – the fear, the regret, the resentment. It was going to ooze from his words, from his expressions, from his unwillingness to laugh or even smile.



It wasn’t that he was regretting asking Justin to marry him – he was regretting that he’d promised their marriage would be monogamous. That was what he regretted. Nothing else. And it was such a little fucking thing! So, he got his dick sucked once and awhile? WHO CARES? . . .



. . . it was the answer to that question that scared him so much because the answer was Justin. Justin cared. Justin cared a lot. Justin cared so much that he’d leave in a heartbeat if Brian disclosed his thoughts, his worries, his desires . . .



So, actually, it was Justin’s fault – or at least half of it. If Justin didn’t want SO FUCKING MUCH . . . !



“Haven’t you heard?” he snarked, because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Sex is out.”



Justin didn’t detect the twinge of resentment. Brian could still stop. He could still slam on the breaks and avoid the pending train wreck . . .



“Who told you that?” Justin replied, reaching down and sliding his hand between Brian’s legs.



Brian bit his lip. It was all he could do. No kiss. No innuendo. Just a bit lip and a lack of response.



“Now put on your sluttiest club clothes and bring plenty of drugs,” Justin said playfully, “because we’re going out.”



He started walking to the bedroom, but Brian didn’t follow because . . . because he’d decided to ruin his life.



“I was thinking we’d spend a nice, quiet evening at home,” he said and only barely stopped himself from adding Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To stay at home and snuggle-wuggle?



Justin stopped dead. He wasn’t an idiot. He recognized a below-the-belt jab when he heard one.

Even though he can’t clearly recall it, Brian must’ve asked Jennifer for Justin’s address because here he is climbing up six flights of chipped-cement, pissed-stained stairs to what will no doubt be a total dump, not to mention a poster-perfect example of the necessity of safety codes. Jesus. Justin left the loft for this? He must’ve really wanted to leave . . .



. . . As he reaches the top floor, he exerts all his waning mental energy to push the past few months out of his mind. Things are different now. Everything is different. The old rules no longer apply. It’s all new, uncharted territory from here on out . . .



. . . which is why he’s braving this homeless shelter disguised as an uninhabitable apartment building to ask Justin for his hand in marriage.



He’s pretty sure he knows how Justin will react. Last night, he’d teared-up and put his arms around Brian’s neck when Brian had told him that he loved him. This morning, Justin is going to positively fling himself into Brian’s arms – forget tearing-up, Justin is going to sob with happiness. Brian hopes he has some Kleenex handy. Well, if he doesn’t, then he can probably use a brush-cleaning cloth. Hell, Brian is going to need one too because . . .



. . . because he is finally doing what he’d wanted to do for ages – tell Justin he loves him and needs him and will do anything to have him in his life. Any fucking thing – including marrying him. Hell, especially marrying him. Fuck the sock drawer. Been there, done that. Nope. No more “let’s live together” bullshit. He’s going to fucking marry Justin’s ass. Rings, flowers, vows . . . even a fucking garden trellis if must be. He is going to pull out all the stops. There will be nothing that Justin might want that Brian won’t give him . . .



. . . but most importantly, he’s going to give Justin himself. Not only his heart and soul (which he’d actually given Justin a very long time ago) but his body. No one will ever touch him again. EVER! If he’s going to get married, he’s going to fucking do it right. No more of this tricking bullshit. Hell, he won’t even look at another man.



MONOGAMY, HERE I COME!



. . . . except that’s not how things turn out. Not even close. Justin doesn’t run to his arms. In fact, Justin pulls away and laughs . . . laughs . . . as in “ha-ha, you moron” and says “don’t be ridiculous.” But that’s not the worst. The worst isn’t the actual rejection, the worse is what Justin says next.



“You don’t mean it. How can Mr. I-Believe-In-Fucking-Not-Love mean it?”



If Brian had a moment to swallow Justin’s words, he might’ve gagged on them. He feels sick. How . . . how . . . can Justin say that? Hadn’t he finally told Justin he loved him? Hadn’t he run into a fucking burning building for Justin? Okay, so maybe Justin’s points about marriage were well-founded. Yes, there’s no doubt Brian had been railing against it practically since the first day they met. But did Justin really believe that he was just a fuck? That Brian didn’t love him? HOW COULD HE?



He’s shaking so hard as he walks down the stairs that he has to hold on to the rusty railing with both hands. The words echo through his mind . . . fucking not love, fucking not love, fucking not love. Really? After five years . . . five fucking years . . . Justin still believes he’s nothing but a fuck? That Brian thinks love is a bullshit heterosexual pipedream? Because if he does . . . if that’s really what Justin thinks . . . then he, Brian, has fucked up big time.



That’s it. Never again. Never again will he let Justin doubt his love for even a nanosecond. Justin had said his shithole apartment was going to have to do until he got a country manor. Okay, yes, he was exaggerating, and yes, even being snarky, but why not? Why not buy Justin that country manor? Why not? Brian could sell the loft, he could sell what was left of Babylon – he could probably even use Kinnetik as collateral for a mortgage. Hell, he’d all but bankrupted himself to make sure Stockwell didn’t become mayor – that meant jack shit compared to marriage to the man he loved. If Justin wants a manor, then that’s what he’s going to get. If Justin wants babies, then that’s what he was going to get. If Justin wants him to leave his past behind, then that’s what he’s going to get. He’ll sell the loft, he’ll sell Babylon, he’ll stop going to bathhouses; hell, he’ll even sell his “fuck mobile” (as Justin had gotten in the habit of calling it before he left).



He’s almost at the bottom of the stairs when he stumbles and only barely stops himself from tumbling headlong against a wall. Jesus, he’s tired. He’s never been so tired. Mikey . . . God, Mikey almost died. Ted . . . Ted’s in shock. Lindsay . . . Lindsay is brokenhearted over her dead friend. Everything . . . everything was almost ruined. Everything was almost lost. Almost, but not quite. He still has Justin . . . well, he’ll have Justin. If at first, you don’t succeed, try try try the fuck again.



He shouldn’t drive. He knows he shouldn’t. He’s practically hallucinating with exhaustion, but there’s no time to call a cab. There are THINGS TO DO! He starts making a list in his head. He needs to call Jennifer. He needs to tell Ted to put Babylon on the market. He needs to see how large of a loan he can take out on Kinnetik. He needs to find a country manor – but not just any old, country fucking manor. There has to be stables and a pool. There has to be room for a huge, sun-filled studio and rooms for Gus and his half-siblings . . . speaking of which, who are they going to use for a surrogate? Would Lindsay do it? What about Daphne . . . ?



. . . He barely slams on the breaks before he rear-ends the car in front of him. Shit. God, he shouldn’t be driving. He might as well be drunk out of his skull – hell, he’s probably in worse shape as he is, forget a bottle of Beam. He’s exhausted. He can’t keep his eyes open . . .



. . . it’s only thanks to the luck of the Irish that when he passes out, he’d just pulled into his parking spot.

The Present



“What?!”



“I said wouldn’t you just rather lie here and . . .”



“No, no, no. I know what you said, you said ‘cuddle.’”



“So?”



“So, I’ve never ever once even heard you use that word, much less actually want to do it . . .”



Justin was in shock. All he could do was stare down at “Brian” with his mouth open and a thousand words dancing on his tongue like twinks at a rave. Brian had just said . . . no, it was not what Brian had said, it was why he had said it. Brian was trying to get a rise out of him – to prod him into a confrontation. Why?? What was going on? They were going to be married in less than forty-eight hours! Why was Brian doing this?



Isn’t the answer clear as day? whispered a little voice in his head. He’s backing out. He wants to call off the wedding. He no longer wants to get married . . .



Well, fuck him.



It was you! Justin wanted to yell at him. You’d been the one who suggested we get married! You’d been the one who proposed, and now here you are acting like I’m some kind of ball and chain?



Fuck you, Brian!



He hadn’t wanted to do it. He should’ve held firm to his decision not to marry Brian. He should have stood his ground, but there Brian had been, standing in the living room (or whatever-the-hell-room) of the mansion he’d just bought for his “prince.” How could Justin say no again? Brian had put him on the spot. He was selling Babylon. He was selling his loft, and why? Because he wanted to make Justin happy. It was like some straight dude buying his girlfriend dinner to get her to sleep with him. How had Brian gotten it in his head that any of those things would make him, Justin, happy? Yes, they showed that Brian was serious; that he really did want to get married. But THEY WEREN’T NECESSARY. The whole country-manor-stables thing had been a snarky little joke, not a statement of genuine desire. Did Brian even know him? When had Justin ever given him the impression that he didn’t want to live in the city. Hell, his alternative to marrying Brian was going to New York – a person who wants a country manor doesn’t want to move to Manhattan! And vice versa.



ARGH!!



God, Brian was unbelievable – truly fucking unbelievable, and not in a good way. Justin had wanted one thing from their relationship. ONE THING! He’d wanted Brian to behave like a real partner. He’d wanted an assumption that they’d do things together. That they’d plan and dream together . . .



. . . it was Brian who’d deliberately, pig-headedly taken Justin’s desire to be a real couple and turned it into a wedded suburban hell. It was Brian who was talking about white picket fences and babies. It was Brian who was insisting on cuddling and staying in. Hell, it was Brian who was talking about getting married. He’d built windmill after windmill, claiming Justin wanted them, and now here he was tilting at them like he was Don Quixote.



All Justin had wanted was a relationship with a man he loved and whose company he enjoyed. That was it. It was Brian who’d gone and made it all so complicated. Hell, he was still making it complicated!



__________________________________________________________________________



The Night Before



Had Brian just said, “nice, quiet evening in?” Really?



Justin stared at him. Bullshit, he wanted a ‘quiet evening in.’ In fact, Justin was willing to bet that after looking over those fucking Remsen ads, Brian would sell his soul to go out dancing, drinking and fucking. He was lying.



But why? And why the dismissed gesture of desire? They had time before they needed to turn up at Woody’s – plenty of time to fuck before they showered and got dressed. When had Brian ever rejected a sexual advance? Never, that’s when.



“What the fuck?” Justin asked. “What’s wrong? Are you not feeling well or something?”



Brian shrugged and went back to looking over those Goddamn ads.



“No, I just thought you might want to stay in.”



“We’ve stayed in every night for weeks,” Justin replied. “I’m bored. Aren’t you bored? How can you not be bored?”



“Because I’m not.”



“Bullshit.”



Brian lifted his head and looked at him, biting his lip in That Way he does when he’s annoyed and is trying to stop himself from saying something shitty.



“C’mon,” Justin said. “We’ll have fun. I’m sick of wedding stuff . . .”



“Really?” Brian said. “You’re sick of wedding stuff? Don’t you have another fifty Modern Brides and Pottery Barn catalogs to go through?”



Justin refused to take the bait.



“I’m done looking through magazines,” he said. “The wedding is fully planned and there’s nothing else we haven’t agreed to register for.”



Brian closed his eyes wearily.



“I’m sorry,” he said.



Justin wanted to strangle him.



“Since when are you sorry for anything? And since when do you not want to go out?”



Brian stared at him. Justin stared right back. Eventually, Brian closed his eyes again and sighed.



“Okay,” he said. “But only for a little while.”



Well, that was a start.



“Good,” Justin said. “In the meantime, let’s fuck.”



Brian was being a grouchy asshole for some reason, but he couldn’t suppress an arched eyebrow.



Justin took advantage of the opening and approached him, putting his arms around his neck and pressing their cocks together. Soon, Brian was kissing him. Reluctantly at first, but increasingly less so. When Justin felt Brian’s heartbeat quicken and heard his breaths grow shallow, he slid his hand between Brian’s legs, cupping his balls in his hand and rubbing Brian’s hardening cock with the heel of his palm. Brian moaned into their kiss and reached down to clutch Justin’s ass, pulling their bodies even closer.



“Gonna fuck you,” Brian said, his voice gravelly with desire. “I’m gonna fuck you raw.”



Justin’s heartbeat spiked. He pulled back and looked up at Brian’s face.



“What?”



“I said, ‘I’m going to fuck you raw.’”



Justin pulled away. He wished Brian’s words turned him on. Instead, they freaked him out – even more than Brian’s endless apologies. If Brian was talking about having sex without a condom, then that meant he hadn’t been with other guys in weeks, if not months!



“What do mean? How can we . . . ?”



“I got tested,” Brian said. “It’s safe unless you . . .”



“No, I haven’t,” Justin replied. “But . . . Brian, you haven’t fucked anyone recently?”



Brian arched both eyebrows with genuine surprise.



“Of course not,” he said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”



“Will you stop telling me you’re sorry,” Justin snapped.



Brian ignored his tone.



“Well?”



“Well, what?”



“Do you want me to come in your ass?”



The answer was yes . . . and no. If Brian was clean, then that meant . . . And they’d been arguing. It wasn’t the right time. Justin wanted it to be . . . well, he wanted it to be special. Not rushed and not with Brian in a dark mood.



“Not tonight,” he whispered against Brian’s mouth.



Brian pulled back so suddenly that Justin almost lost his balance.



“You don’t believe me,” he said.



Justin frowned. “Believe what?”



“That I’m clean. That I haven’t been tricking.”



Justin’s frown deepened. “I . . . no . . . Brian, what’s going on?”



But it was too late. Brian obviously felt rejected. Before Justin could register what was happening, Brian was headed for the bathroom.



“Brian!” he called.



Brian didn’t reply. At least not in words. The sound of the shower starting was answer enough. They weren’t going to fuck, raw or otherwise.



Just then the phone rang.



“What?” he snapped.



“Whoa, it’s just me,” Michael said. “I’m not trying to sell you something. I just wanted to find out if everything’s running on schedule.”



Justin didn’t reply right away. Too many things were racing in his mind.



“Sorry. I . . . Brian is . . . he’s being a little weird.”



“What does that mean?”



“That means that I might not be able to get him to go out.”



There was a momentary silence.



“What?”



“He’s being . . . he says he doesn’t want to go out.”



“Is he feeling okay?”



“I . . . I don’t think that’s the problem. Look, I’ll do my best. If I can’t get him to go out, I’ll let you know, okay?”



“Maybe you should let me talk to him.”



Justin winced. That sounded like a bad idea.



“No, that’s okay,” he said. “I’ll do it. Don’t worry.”



“Okay,” Michael said, not sounding convinced. “But call me . . .”



“I will. Look, he’s getting out of the shower. Gotta go.”



He didn’t wait for an answer before he hung up.



Brian was pulling on his jeans when Justin came upstairs.



“So, my sluttiest club clothes, huh?” Brian said.



Justin blinked at him. They weren’t going to discuss what had just happened between them. He couldn’t decide whether he was worried or relieved. Probably a mixture of both.



“Something black and tight,” Justin replied.



He watched with irritation as Brian pulled out a shirt that was anything but slutty. At least it was black, though. When Justin joined him in front of the closet, Brian smiled and kissed him.



“I’m sorry I was a dick earlier,” he said.



Justin wanted to strangle him, but he decided to let the “I’m sorry” go.



“You weren’t a dick,” he said.



“Yeah, I was. Let’s just . . . let’s go out and have a good time. Where are we going?”



Justin kissed him back. This time all he felt was relief. But it didn’t last long . . .



. . . As he’d predicted, Brian wasn’t thrilled about the surprise. He wasn’t thrilled about the stag party. He wasn’t even thrilled about the hot guy in the shimmering thong. When the guy took his wrist and started leading him to the backroom, Brian turned away, stopped and held up his hand to silence the cat-calling crowd.



“Okay, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” he said. “The prisoner respectfully chooses not to partake of his last meal, but to be lead instead to the gallows a hungry but happy man.”



He walked straight up to Justin and put his arm around his shoulders.



What. The. Fuck? Since when was Brian a prisoner? And since when was getting married a hangman’s noose? If it was, then Brian was his own fucking executioner.



“C’mon,” Justin urged. “Have a little fun.”



“It ain’t so little,” Emmett said lasciviously.



Brian just looked at him.



“No, seriously,” Justin said. “Have some fun.”



For some reason, he felt desperate for Brian to agree. Absolutely, desperate. Fuck barebacking . . .



“I’m content to take my winnings,” Brian replied and then added pointedly, “and go home.”



Then he kissed Justin’s cheek.



What. The. Fuck?



What the fucking fuck?

Justin hasn’t seen – or even heard from – Brian in days when suddenly Brian shows up unannounced at his door. He’d been taking a nap, but he was more relieved by the intrusion than annoyed. Brian had been avoiding him. Hell, as far as Justin could tell, Brian had been avoiding everybody. No one had seen him except Ted, and when it came to Brian, Ted’s lips were sealed with rubber cement. Nothing short of torture could get him to divulge Brian’s whereabouts let alone his intentions.



“Get dressed,” Brian says when Justin answers his knock. “I want to show you something.”



Justin glares at him. No “hello, how are you,” just a command. How very Brianesque.



“I was sleeping,” he says.



“Well, now you’re awake.”



Jesus. Justin stomps over to the old steamer trunk where he keeps his clothes and pulls on a pair of jeans. As for a shirt . . . Crap. Everything’s at his mom’s to be washed except for a couple of dress shirts. Goddamn it. He glances at Brian and realizes he, too, is wearing a dress shirt – a pink dress shirt, jeans, and a blazer . . . on a weekend.



. . . oh boy. The afternoon is going to be weird. Brian has never worn pink in his God-given life.



They descend the stairs in silence, ignoring the smelly drunk asking for change. Justin expects Brian to say something shitty to the guy, but he doesn’t. He seems preoccupied. The Vette is parked at the curb; they get in, and Brian starts driving west on Interstate 376.



Sooooooooo, Justin wants to say. What’s up? Haven’t seen or heard from you since you asked me to marry you. You haven’t even answered my phone calls. Not that that’s weird or anything – not to mention rude. Speaking of which, thank you for showing up unannounced and ruining my nap. Want to tell me where we’re going? We seem to be headed for Buttfuckville, West Virginia. I hope you haven’t gone all Appalachian on me. By the way, I’ve been doing some thinking . . . I don’t want to go too far out on a limb or anything, and I think we should take it slowly, but I think we should talk about maybe getting back together. Not living together, I mean. To be honest, I’ve kind of enjoyed being on my own for a change. Plus, moving back in with you might be a little too much a little too soon. But I still love you, Brian, and now . . . well, now that you said you love me, I think things can be different than they were. I mean, the whole marriage thing was batshit crazy, but I can tell that you’re more serious about us than you have ever been. Maybe we could start over from the beginning. I know it won’t be easy after everything we’ve been through, but I think we can do it. Let’s talk more and fuck less . . . well, that’s not what I mean, exactly. We can still fuck as much as we ever have, but, dammit, Brian, we need to talk to each other once in awhile . . .”



Speaking of talking . . . or not . . .



. . . unexpectedly, Brian turns on the radio and takes the exit for Route 22, and that’s when Justin realizes . . . holy shit! They really are going to West Virginia. It’s . . . well, it’s alarming. Has Brian ever even been to West Virginia? He, Justin, has, but only for ski vacations and only for a week at a time at fancy resorts. Isn’t West Virginia kinda . . .



“When you said there was something you had to show me, I didn’t think it was in West Virginia,” he said.



“It’s less than a half an hour out of Pittsburgh,” Brian replied.



Okay. What is “less than a half an hour out of Pittsburgh”? What is Brian saying? That there aren’t going to be any scary hillbillies where they’re headed? Which, by the way, is where again?



They’re silent for the rest the trip, mostly - but not entirely - because the radio is too loud for conversation. Justin tries not to fidget even though he’s getting increasingly annoyed. Finally, they pull up in front of a giant, Tudor-style mansion. Justin’s stomach sinks. Shit. It’s a fancy restaurant. That explains the blazer. Is Brian going to get down on his knee in front of a room full of grey-haired, straight people, because if so, then . . .



. . . but there’s no one else there. There isn’t even a parking lot. So, it’s not a restaurant. It’s probably not even a B&B. Is it a client’s house Brian has borrowed for the weekend? If so, why hadn’t Brian told him to pack some clothes?



They get out of the car. It’s dripping wet and nasty outside, but even in the shitty weather, the house looks pretty grand, even a bit imposing. The client must be rich as hell.



“Wow.”



“Wait till you see the tennis court,” Brian says.



Tennis courts? Neither of them plays tennis, and even if they did, they wouldn’t be playing outside in February. But still . . . pretty fancy. As usual, Brian is going all out.



Justin tries to ignore his creeping sense of unease. Brian has removed them from their usual surroundings. With the exception of that ill-fated trip to Altoona to fuck in a freezing trailer, they’ve never been outside Pittsburgh together (something, by the way, that had always bothered him). Something’s up. There’s got to be a reason Brian is knocking him off balance. If Brian wanted to do something special for whatever reason, he could've rented a room at the Omni. But no. This is a road trip. A journey. Something new on top of too much newness.



“And the pool,” Brian continues. “And the stables.”



Man! Who does this place belong to? A Rockefeller? Where are the servants? Shouldn't a butler be standing at the door?



“Stables?” Justin says. “Who lives here?”



Brian takes a deep breath and then says in the same rough voice in which he’d told Justin that he loves him.



“We do.”



Okay. What?!



“What?"



“I bought it.”



WHAT?!



“You bought this house??”



Brian takes his collar because that’s what Brian does to the people he loves, which means Justin can’t punch him or even yell at him. But even if he could, he probably wouldn’t. He’s in too much shock . . .



. . . and not in a good way.



The boards creak under their feet as they walk into a room with a large hearth. The paneling is all some kind of dark wood, which makes things seem rather brooding and Wuthering Heights. Without saying anything, Brian kneels down, puts some crumbled newspapers under a stack of logs in the fireplace and lights them.



Since when did Brian know how to light a fire?



Justin feels oddly alarmed when he realizes that he doesn’t know.



What else doesn’t he know about Brian?



Apparently, pretty much everything.



When Brian stands, Justin can’t look at him. He’s too nervous – too freaked out. Instead, he walks the periphery of the room, dragging his fingers through the dust on the windowsills. A branch scratches against one of the panes. Clearly, nobody has lived in the house for a long time. The few pieces of furniture in the room are draped with white sheets. They look like ghosts in the gloom. Meanwhile, Brian starts talking. It's as though he’s a surreal chef laying out an elaborate banquet of what-the-fuckness. He’s bought this house. Why? Because Justin had supposedly said he dreamed of a country manor. He’s selling the loft. Why? Well, that’s a harder question to answer. Babylon, less so given the memory of the bomb, but why the loft? Say, for a second Justin did agree to rattle around in this turn-of-the-century monstrosity with Brian like two marbles in a coffee can, there’s no reason to sell their place in the city. What’ll they do if they want to go out to Woody’s and get plastered? There’s no way they’re driving back out here at two in the morning, and Justin sure as hell isn’t going to be the designated driver every damn time.



So why??



But why ask when he already knows the answer. He might not want to acknowledge the truth, but it’s the truth nonetheless. Brian is selling the loft because he wants to prove that he’s a Changed Man.



The only questions are how changed and changed in what way . . .



. . . and, most importantly, will Justin like that change – or will it break his heart?



Apparently, there is only one way to find out.



“Okay,” he says when Brian again asks him to marry him. “Let’s do it.”



And just like that, he’d jumped out of an airplane with a man he didn’t recognize and a parachute that might or might not open before they hit the ground.

The Present



“What?!”



“I said wouldn’t you just rather lie here and . . .”



“No, no, no. I know what you said, you said ‘cuddle.’”



“So?”



“So, I’ve never ever once even heard you use that word, much less actually want to do it . . .”



“Okay, can we just turn the lights off . . .”



“No! No. Brian Kinney fucks, sucks, rims, rams, but never cuddles.”



Brian’s first response to Justin’s words was not the one he would’ve expected. If someone had told him that Justin was going to tell him that he was fine with Brian tricking, he would’ve said that he’d grab Justin’s hand, pull him close and say “thank you.” But that was not what he did. Not even close. No, his first reaction was to get angry. What did Justin mean when he said that Brian “never cuddles”? Because that was pure bullshit. Why didn’t hugs and kisses totally unrelated to sex count as “cuddling”? What about lying with Justin after they’d fucked with Justin’s head on his chest and Brian twirling his finger in Justin’s hair? Okay, so maybe they didn’t spoon each other all night long, but Justin knew why. He knew that Brian couldn’t sleep if they were touching. It wasn’t that he was categorically opposed to sleeping in each other’s arms, he just couldn’t. He got too hot – and not in a good way. Plus, he was a light sleeper, and Justin would wake him up every time he moved.



Okay, so maybe after sex, sometimes all Brian wanted to do was smoke some pot, hold hands and have little foot battles under the sheets. Did that make him an uncaring lover? A heartless prick? And the ironic thing – the real kicker, in fact, was that it was he who was into public displays of affection, not Justin. Justin rarely spontaneously reached for him or kissed him on a whim. And that was okay. So, Justin was less tactile. Brian had never taken it personally, but here he was being more or less accused of being nothing more than a dick that fucked assholes and a mouth that sucked cock.



And even if it was true – even if Brian never did show Justin affection outside the context of sex – then why was the fact he was offering to do it now a bad thing for which he deserved a lecture and the glare of death?



“Okay,” he said. “So, I used a word that offends your sensibilities. Forgive me. I apologize. I will never do it again.”



Wow. Wow, he was a dick. Why did he keep saying shitty, passive-aggressive things? Was he channeling his mother? Justin had basically just told him that he'd be fine if Brian started tricking again. That was a huge big deal . . . and all he can focus on is the whole “cuddle” thing? What was he doing?



Was he trying to punish Justin for some unknown crime? Was he out of control of his emotional responses? Was he trying to torpedo the wedding? Was he testing Justin . . . just as he’d felt tested the night before?



Maybe . . . no, probably that was exactly what he was doing.



He’d wanted to fuck Justin without a condom. He’d needed to fuck Justin without a condom. Wasn’t it yet another gift – something to make Justin happy? Hadn’t Justin always wanted to bareback? Brian had gotten his most recent test results that afternoon. He was negative for every STD under the sun. He’d even planned on wrapping a bow around his dick and giving it to Justin as an “early wedding present.” But then the damn Remsen ads had pissed him off, and he’d been a prick to Justin for no reason. He’d thought fucking raw was off the menu, but then . . . Justin ignored his bullshit. Amazingly, Justin decided to let the whole “quiet night in” go, and then he kissed him and rubbed his cock, and . . . oh God! Suddenly all Brian could imagine was fucking him raw and coming inside him. It was as much a vow as the words they were going to speak on Sunday – I’m yours, no one else’s, just yours.



But then Justin had said no. Why? The only reason Brian could think of was that Justin thought he was still fucking other guys – that he was a cheating asshole. A lying, cheating asshole.



___________________________________________________________________________



Last Night



After Justin turned him down, Brian jerked off in the shower, and for once the term “jerked-off” was spot on accurate. He was rough, angry, coming with a shouted “Fuck!” and then slumping against the wall, spent and exhausted, the demon exorcised – at least for the time being – as he watched with a strange kind of grief as his semen washed down the drain.



That same searing grief hit him again later that night when he saw the rent boy in the shimmery thong. His cock responded instantaneously, swelling and hardening. He was so hungry to touch the guy, to get his mouth around the guy’s cock and his fingers in his ass. He ached to fuck him, pound him against the wall . . . he could practically hear the guy begging to be fucked harder, faster, deeper, begging for Brian’s cock to stretch him wider, even to the point of pain. Brian imagined their moans – he could even smell their sweat. He’d give the guy the fucking of his lifetime – a fucking he’d never forget. A fucking he’ll never get again, but will always long for.



“C’mon, Brian!” someone yelled. “Go for it!”



The guy got down from the table and took Brian’s hand. God, how Brian wanted to go with him . . .



But he couldn’t.



He was being tested. He knew he was being tested. Everyone was watching him. Justin was watching him! There was no way Justin actually wanted him to go through with it. How could he? He wanted Brian’s body for himself. Hell, Brian had promised his body would belong to him and no one else. This guy wouldn’t just touch him – he’d rim him and finger him and suck on his cock. Brian would come over and over. But, Hell, he didn’t even have protection with him! He’d have to ask for it.



Hey! he’d have to yell. Anyone have a couple condoms I can use?



Of course, everyone would, and he’d be peppered with them like rice at a wedding, like rotten tomatoes and shouted accusations in a Puritan town square.



He couldn’t do it. It was a test – a public test. He couldn’t . . . no, he wouldn’t fail it. He’d made a fucking promise, dammit!



But that didn’t mean he was going to pass the test gracefully.



“The prisoner respectfully chooses not to partake of his last meal, but will be led to the gallows a hungry but happy man.”



Wow. What a dick. But then again, so were his friends . . . so was his fiancé.



When they got home, Brian went straight to the bathroom and jerked off in the shower again. When he emerged, Justin was already in bed, naked beneath the sheet, stroking his dick, obviously asking to be fucked. Brian got into bed beside him . . . and then turned away.



“Brian?” Justin said, sounding alarmed.



“Tired,” Brian replied. “Sorry.”



He was greeted with silence. A long, terrible silence.

The real estate guy picks him up at quarter to eight, which means Brian is already pissed off. He thought they’d agreed on seven-thirty. He hopes this isn’t indicative of Gregory “Greg” Gosselin’s professionalism because Brian doesn’t have time for bullshit. There are five properties he wants to look at, one of which he’s going to buy before his bank opens in the morning. The longer he gives Justin to think, the less likely Justin will want to marry him.



The first house is too close to the city, but he takes the tour anyway.



“Seven beds, five baths, 7,280 square feet,” Greg says as he unlocks the door. “Country cottage style. Newly renovated gourmet kitchen. The whole nine yards.”



“Not far out enough,” Brian says. “And where are the stables?”



Greg sighs. Brian can tell that Greg is already annoyed with him. The lecture about being fifteen minutes late probably hadn’t set the friendliest of tones.



“There’s a pool and tennis court,” he says. “Two outta three ain’t bad.”



Brian walks in and looks around the . . . the what? The foyer? The parlor? The entryway?



“You had one Meatloaf quote,” he says. “And that was it.”



Greg laughs. He thinks Brian is joking.



As they wander around the first floor, Brian tries to picture himself living there. What do people living in turn-of-the-century mansions wear? The floors are cherry. They’ll have to make people take their shoes off, which means . . . oh God, will he have to wear slippers? He supposes he could walk around barefoot, but he’d probably freeze. There’s no way a house this old can be draft-proof. Slippers. The only men Brian has ever seen wearing slippers are his grandfather and Emmett. The former’s were a dirty, beige color and Emmett’s had been blue rabbits. Brian can’t decide which is more emasculating.



“The house was built by Oliver Kaufman,” Greg says as though Brian knows who the hell he’s talking about. Should he know? Should he ask? Does he care? He just wants to buy a fucking house not, as Greg had put it, a “piece of history.” Although, maybe Justin will care. Maybe Brian should brush up on his Oliver Kaufman.



“Who’s that?” he asks, trying to sound bored and not ignorant.



“Who’s Oliver Kaufman? The owner of the first major department store in the city. He started out selling lady’s stockings and became the . . .”



Blah blah blah. Brian tunes Greg out only seconds into his history lesson. He already knows he doesn’t want to buy the house, but learning it belonged to a guy who started out life as a nylon salesman cinched the decision.



“Nope,” he says.



Greg stops mid-sentence.



“But we haven’t even gone upstairs . . .”



“Don’t need to go upstairs,” Brian says. “Too close to town, no stables, too many of those . . . those pointy things on the roof.”



Greg looks confused for a moment.



“Do you mean the eaves?”



“Whatever,” Brian drawls. “I don’t like them. They’re too Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”



Greg looks even more confused.



Poor Greg. He’s going to have a long day.



The second place is just plain, old hideous. Brian hates it on sight.



“But there are stables,” Greg says, sounding forlorn. He’d obviously worked very hard to find properties that come close to meeting Brian’s exacting requirements. Considering Brian hired him late Friday, he’d probably been up to all hours for the past two nights.



Brian doesn’t even get out of the car. He doesn’t need to. The house is built from what looks like poured cement and stands alone in the middle of a frazzled, sunburnt yard the size of a football field.



“I know it’s a bit of a fixer-upper,” Greg says. “But there’s tons of space for an art studio.”



“I don’t want a fixer-upper,” Brian says. “I want a house that’s move-in ready.”



“But the stables,” Greg says. “Don’t you at least want to look at them?”



“Nope,” Brian says. “Next.”



The next place is so far away from the city that Brian starts getting heart palpitations as they drive closer and closer to the Alleghany Mountains. Please, he thinks. Don’t let this be the one.



The road is narrow and winding. By the time they arrive, Brian is feeling car sick. They pause at a large, iron gate, which Greg has to get out and unlock before they can proceed to the grounds. The gate clangs shut behind them, and Brian’s heart palpitations quicken erratically.



When they reach the house, Greg stops the car and turns to Brian, rubbing his hands together as though he’s about to dig into a feast. It’s obvious that he thinks this house will be The One.



“Alrighty,” he says. “Now this baby is 12,000 square feet and was built by Robert Brooke for his beautiful new bride, Alice in 1888.”



Brian’s upper lip starts to sweat. He feels the sudden need to pinch himself. Where is he again? Why isn’t he at Kinnetik? No, wait, it’s Sunday. Why isn’t he at the diner? Greg doesn’t notice his distress and prattles on.



“Ten beds, eight baths, 3 acres, vaulted ceilings, greenhouse, RV parking, pool, gazebo, tennis court, both English and French-style gardens, and, of course, stables large enough for four horses.”



RV parking?



Suddenly, Brian can see himself driving a Winnebago with Justin in the passenger seat pouring over a map of Yellowstone and Gus and a pile of multi-aged kids in the back fighting over the remote for a mammoth-sized T.V.



“Mr. Kinney?”



He snaps back to the present when Greg says his name . . . wait, that is his name, right? Kinney? Yeah, he’s pretty sure it is. Maybe he should check his driver’s license.



“Uh, yeah, sorry. You were saying?”



“I was saying that this property has everything you’re looking for and more. Yes, I know it’s more than the budget you quoted me, but this isn’t simply a house – it’s a lifestyle. C’mon, let’s go in.”



They get out of the car. Brian pulls off his glove so he can wipe the sweat from his upper lip before Greg can see it and misinterpret it as anxiety over money when, in fact, money is the last thing on his mind at the moment.



“My God, look at this beauty!” Greg exclaims. “Ready for the full spiel?” He opens the door and steps aside so that Brian can enter before him. “The finest oak, rosewood, cedar and other exotic woods are used throughout the 12,000 square-foot living area, and there’s a 1,600 square foot wraparound covered porch, ten unique fireplaces, stained-glass windows, intricately carved staircases, elaborate metalwork. You name it, this place has it.”



Brian clasps his hands behind him as though he’s just stepped into a museum. Would Justin like this place? It’s certainly grand, but . . . would he like it? Hell, for that matter, did Brian, himself, like it? He can’t say for sure. How can you like something you don’t want? Or want something you don’t like. Or . . . . Christ, the last time he’d been in a place like this was when his high school American history class toured one of the Carnegie estates. Not that he remembered much of it – he’d stayed behind in the greenhouse and blown the gardener while the rest of the class toured the buildings. The only thing he recalled with any clarity was that the gardener had red hair and that was the first time Brian had ever seen red pubes.



“So,” Greg says, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Wanna hear the price? You’re not going to believe it.”



Brian nods. Sure why not? It’ll be out of his budget, so what the hell?



“One and a half million.”



One and a half million??



“What the hell’s wrong with it?” Brian asks, because, Whoa! He’d been expecting to hear it was at least three million if not more.



“Nothing,” Greg beams. “Priced to sell. The owner needs the cash. Didn’t say why. My guess is gambling debts. What do you think? It’s only $300,000 more than you’d planned on spending. Brian . . . I mean, Mr. Kinney . . . this is the chance of a lifetime.”



Brian swallows. Fuck. This . . . God, if he bought this house, he would blow Justin’s mind. He’d also blow his budget, but, then again, if Justin loved it, a blown budget would be more than worth it, right?



Greg takes his silence as a good sign. At the very least, he probably thinks Brian is considering buying the place, and he is. It’s just that . . . God, he simply cannot picture himself rattling around in this enormous house in the middle of fucking nowhere. The commute would be over an hour one way and that was when the weather was good. When it’s bad, he probably wouldn’t even be going to work at all. But Justin . . . Justin would love it, wouldn’t he?



Wouldn’t he??



They walk the length of the porch, which, in and of itself, is nearly as large as the loft. Just the fucking porch! The views are stunning. The house is perched on a steep hillside overlooking Dans Mountain and Spruce Knob (or at least that’s what Greg had told him). Even in mid-February, the sweeping lawn is green and sparkling with frost. Brian closes his eyes and tries as hard as he can to imagine sitting on a swinging chair, side-by-side with Justin, gin and tonics in their hands watching the sunset.



And equally hard, he tries not to think about standing in his VIP lounge at Babylon with a glass of whiskey, surveying the dancefloor teaming with half-naked bodies. Or leaning against the bar at Woody’s with a beer in one hand and a pool cue in the other. Or, hardest of all, lying on his back while Justin rides him, his skin pale and sweat-shiny in the neon light.



“Well?” Greg says, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.



Brian doesn’t answer right away, but he knows he needs to say something. Time’s ticking and he’s hell bent on making his purchase today. He wants the financing settled and the title transferred before he asks Justin to marry him on Thursday.



“I . . . I like it,” he says. “But I want to see the other two places before I make up my mind.”



Greg nods solemnly. “Of course,” he says. He doesn’t sound as disappointed as Brian thought he might, but then again, Brian hadn’t said “no.”



The next house is a Victorian Era mansion with the horrific name of the “Pink Lady.” Not even the objectively stunning inlaid parquet floors and gingerbread-style buildings that housed the stables and pool house could overcome that insurmountable obstacle. But Greg didn’t seem to care. In fact, he merely stretched and yawned when Brian got out of the car, said “no,” and then got right back in again.



“Didn’t think that one would be for you,” he says, starting the engine. “I don’t know your partner, but you don’t strike me as the B&B type.”



Brian glares at him. “Just because a guy’s a fag doesn’t mean he likes to garden and make French toast.”



Greg blinks at him, and for a moment seems about to say something meaningful, but then appears to think better of it and launches into a speech about the last property they’re going to see.



Like the road to the Brooke Estate, the road to the property in Weirton, West Virginia is narrow and windy. Brian doesn’t know if it’s a meaningful coincidence that the first thing he does when he enters the house is run to the kitchen and be sick in the sink.



Greg is concerned and suggests Brian sit down on the stairs. The sun has almost set; its last rays pouring through a stained glass window, splashing reds and blues and greens on the mahogany floor. Brian stares at the mess of color. He’s exhausted . . . and terribly lonely. Why is he doing this alone? If he’s buying the house they’ll spend the rest of their lives in, why isn’t Justin here with him?



Because Justin won’t marry you, says the voice that’s been nagging him for days, unless you can prove you’re worthy of being married.



“I’ll take it,” he says.



Greg had been busy checking his cell phone messages, so when Brian speaks, he doesn’t comprehend the meaning of Brian’s words for several seconds.



“You’ll what?” he says.



“I said I’ll take it.”



“Take what?”



“The house. I’ll take it.”



“The Brooke house?”



“No, this house. I want this house.”



Greg opens his mouth, blinks, and then closes it again.



“We haven’t even looked at it yet,” he says. “Don’t you want to . . . ?”



“Okay, yes, give me the sales pitch.”



Greg opens his mouth again, but nothing comes out.



“Yes?” Brian says impatiently.



“Uhm, okay. Right. This is an 11,000 square feet, turn-of-the-century, Tudor-style estate with six acres, nine bedrooms, 7 baths, pool, tennis court, stables . . .”



“How much?”



“How much? Uhm, hold on, let me look at my notes . . . okay, $1.1 million.”



“Eight-hundred thousand.”



“I’ll have to ask the owners . . .”



“Take it or leave it.”



“I said I’ll need to . . .”



“Bullshit. They gave you a range.”



“One Million.”



“Eight hundred and seventy-five.”



“Nine-fifty.”



“Okay, now you’re just being silly. Do you want to sell me this house or not?”



“Nine-hundred.”



“Sold.”



Greg opens his mouth again.



“Why the guppy impression?”



“You’re not going to believe this – as in literally not going to believe this, but I don’t feel I can sell you this house without showing it to you first.”



“I don’t need to see it,” Brian says. “What I need is to get back home, so I can talk to my accountant.”



“The stables need some work.”



“We won’t be living in the stables.”



“The attic will need to be extensively renovated before it can be used as a studio.”



“There’s time. I need to sell my current place before I can afford major renovations. I just need to know if we can move in tomorrow if we want.”



“You can move in tomorrow.”



“Okay, then.” Brian stands and brushes the dust off his jeans. “Back to Pennsylvania and back to the Pitts. Wish me luck.”



Greg frowns at him questioningly. “Luck for what?”



“For convincing the person who would live with me here to actually want to do it.”



Greg – to his great credit – laughs.



“You,” he says. “You are hands-down the craziest client I’ve had yet.”

The Present



“What?!”



“I said wouldn’t you just rather lie here and . . .”



“No, no, no. I know what you said, you said ‘cuddle.’”



“So?”



“So, I’ve never ever once even heard you use that word, much less actually want to do it . . .”



“Okay, can we just turn the lights off . . .”



“No! No. Brian Kinney fucks, sucks, rims, rams, but never cuddles.”



“Okay, so I used a word that offends your sensibilities. Forgive me. I apologize. I will never do it again.”



Wow. Wow. That was it. Justin had fucking had it. Brian was officially an asshole – as in a card-carrying, bona fide asshole. He was obviously hell bent on having a fight. It was the night before their rehearsal dinner, and here Brian was initiating the fucking granddaddy of all arguments.



What was his problem? Hadn’t Justin made it clear that they didn’t have to cuddle – that they could fuck each other through the mattress? Why the sarcastic tone? The obnoxious ‘offend your sensibilities’ bullshit? Offend his sensibilities?? The only thing that was offending Justin’s sensibilities was Brian’s extreme and uncharacteristic passive-aggression. What the fuck? What had he done to deserve being treated like that?



It was the coming wedding. It had to be. What other explanation was there? Brian didn’t want to get married. He was regretting having proposed. He was getting proverbial cold feet.



Asshole!



This had all been his idea! Justin hadn’t held a gun to his head. Hell, he’d turned down Brian’s first proposal! Was it the wedding itself? Was it the (expensive) elaborate place settings? Was it the (expensive) suits? Was it the (outrageously expensive) flowers?



No, of course not. It was none of those things. In fact, like everything, the whole extravagant show was Brian’s idea. God forbid that they elope. God forbid they have a small gathering of close family and friends in a low-key setting. Nope. The wedding had to take place at Falling Water. The utensils had to be real silver and the plates fine china. The bespoke suits had to be the height of fashion. The rings had to be 100 percent pure platinum. The guest list had to include every client Brian ever had. Yes, Justin had gotten swept up in the planning. How couldn’t he? Brian’s budget was of fairytale proportions . . . and, yes, okay, he’d gotten caught-up in it all. It was so romantic, so glamorous, and so . . . . wrong. At least as wrong as the mansion and the decision to sell the loft. Brian – the real Brian, if he proposed at all, would’ve wanted a huge, loud, colorful party at a club. He’d want dancing and fucking and drinking and drugs. He’d want their first dance to be to a song by Gloria Gaynor, not Bach’s cello suite, number one.



Where had that Brian gone? And, more importantly, how could Justin get him back? Because he didn’t like the one he currently had. Not at all. Hopefully, he’d kept the receipt.



Maybe Deb had been right. Maybe they really shouldn’t get married . . . .



___________________________________________________________________________



Earlier That Day



It was around noon, which meant that Deb’s little house was dark. Being just one-story, the sun only made it through the windows in the morning and evening. After having grown-up in a suburban MacMansion, the midday gloom used to drive Justin nuts, but he’d gotten used to it. The rainbow knick-knacks seem to capture what scarce light there is, making their tackiness seem incandescent. Justin was strolling around and looking at everything as though he was about to leave on some far away journey from which he might not return . . . which was weird, because, of course, he wasn’t going anywhere . . .



“Sunshine? I want – no, I need to talk to you about Brian.”



Justin turned away from the black velvet matador tapestry that he’d been admiring abstractly as though it was a Monet masterpiece. His mind was preoccupied, to say the least.



“Brian? What about him?”



Deb had just given J.R. a bottle and now was burping her with a dish towel over her shoulder to absorb the inevitable goop.



“He was here this morning doing just what you’re doing – looking for my approval. You need to know that I didn’t give it to him . . . and I’m not going to give it to you either.”



Justin’s eyebrows shot up. It wasn’t just her harsh words that surprised him, it was the knowledge that Brian had been there too.



“So, you think we’re wrong to get married?” he said.



“I think you two were wrong to even think about the whole bat-shit idea in the first place,” she replied.



Justin turned back to the stupid tapestry. To say this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have was the understatement of the year.



“It’s a little late now, don’t you think?”



“Until you say ‘I do,’ you can always say ‘I won’t.’”



Justin swallowed. He could feel her looking at him so he turned around again.



“But I don’t want to say ‘I won’t.’ I want to marry Brian. I really do.”



“Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself?”



Justin swallowed again. How could she always hit so close to home – so close to the heart?



“Listen, sweetie,” she said. “Tell me and tell me the truth – do you recognize Brian anymore?”



“What do you mean ‘do I recognize him’?” he snapped. “Of course, I do.”



“I don’t mean how he looks; I mean how he’s acting. Do you know who this man is you’re about to marry? Because I sure as hell don’t.”



Justin glanced at the door. Could he just walk out?



“I know you know what I’m talking about,” she continued. “You can’t hide. You’re an open book to me, Sunshine . . . even if you aren’t to him.”



J.R. filled the awkward silence with a gurgle for which Deb congratulated her as though she’d just won the gold in the Baby Olympics. At any other time, he would’ve laughed. But not now. Not today. In a mere twenty-four hours, he and Brian will be exchanging rings and vows . . .



“He’s . . . Deb, he’s been through a lot. I think the bombing really affected him.”



He watched as Deb carefully situated J.R. in her car seat and gave her a plastic ring to chew on. God, she’s teething already, he thought and then realized it’d been a year. A whole year since she was born – much of it he’d spent estranged from the man he was about to marry.



“I agree,” Deb said. “As did losing you.”



Justin took a deep breath. If they were going to have this conversation, they were going to fucking do it right. Why not?



“It’s true that he’s not the same person I used to know,” he said.



“He’s not the same person any of us used to know.”



Justin took another deep breath.



“And, God, Deb . . . I feel so fucking guilty. He’s doing this all for me – the wedding, the house, selling the loft. Everything.”



Deb went to the kitchen and put water in the kettle. The sound made Justin realize just how quiet things had been. Where was the street noise? It was like the whole world was on pause, breath held and waiting for something – something catastrophic.



“Which is why you can’t marry him,” she said, putting the kettle on the burner and lighting the gas. “Weddings, country houses, all that shit? That’s not Brian. It never has been. It never will be, and if that’s what you want, then you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.”



“So, you don’t think he’s really changed?” Justin said, already knowing what her answer will be.



“Hell, no . . . well, at least I hope not. I never thought I’d be saying this in a million years, but I’ll be glad when Brian Kinney goes back to fucking and sucking and partying all night long.”



“Interesting.”



She sighed, sounding almost guilty.



Good.



“I know. I’ve been lecturing him for years, haven’t I? How many times have I told that man to grow up and keep his dick in his pants?”



“And now he is, but you don’t like it.”



“He’s not Brian. He looks like Brian and sounds like Brian, but he isn’t Brian. And he isn’t happy, Sunshine. I’m sorry to have to say that so bluntly.”



Justin sat down on the couch and put his head in his hands. Was he glad he was finally having this conversation?



“I know,” he said.



“So what are you going to do about it?”



“I don’t know. Christ, Deb! You should see everything he’s done for me – everything I’ve wanted . . . Hell, everything he even thinks I’ve wanted, he’s given to me. He says he’ll do anything. He even says he’ll be anything to make me happy.”



“And if that’s true – if he wants to be whatever and whoever you want him to be, then who do you want him to be?”



She put tea bags into their mugs and poured hot water over them.



“I want him to be Brian – that’s who I want him to be.”



She walked over to the couch to give him his tea and then sat down beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.



“You realize that means no house, no fairytale unicorns . . .”



“A horse, Deb,” he said wearily. “He’s not going to buy me a unicorn.”



“He would if you said you wanted one. He’d find a way.”



He placed his mug on the floor and put his head in his hands again.



“I know,” he mumbled around his fingers. “I know he would.”



“But he shouldn’t have to, sweetie. You should be able to love him for who he is, and if you can’t do that . . . if you can’t do that, then let him go.”



He lifted his head abruptly and looked at her with wide – and yes, terrified – eyes.



“But I don’t want to let him go!”



She squeezed his shoulder.



“Do you have a choice?” she asked gently. “What do you think’s going to happen a year from now? You’re shrugging. Okay then, I’ll tell you. A year from now, Brian is either going to be fucking and sucking behind your back or he’s going to break your heart and do it right under your nose.”



“And if he doesn’t do either?”



“Then he’s going to resent you. It’s as plain as day, Sunshine. Don’t you see it?”



“I don’t see it. I see a changed man who wants something more . . .”



“. . . I’m not saying he doesn’t love you. He loves you more than his own life, but at the end of the day, Brian will be Brian – and if he isn’t, he’ll be a bitter old queen.”



“Can’t he be Brian with a few alterations here and there?”



“That’s not the kind of question you should be asking just days before you tie the knot. Jesus fucking Christ! Don’t you boys talk to each other?”



Justin just looked at her. He didn’t need to answer the question because the answer was obvious. No, they don’t. Had they ever?



“Look, sweetie, Brian is not a man – he’s a boy. He’s Peter Pan. He’ll always be Peter Pan. He doesn’t want to grow up. He wants to live in his Never Never Land. He wants to be free to be a fucking jerk if he wants to be.”



“You don’t have a very high opinion of him, do you?”



“I have a realistic opinion. I’ve known him for a long time, Sunshine. A hell of a lot longer than you have.”



“And you don’t think he’s changed.”



“In his heart of hearts? No, I don’t think he’s changed, and if he tries to . . . ? Like I said, he’s not gonna be happy. Do you really want that?”



Justin felt his eyes fill with tears.



“I want him to do what will make him happy,” he said around a crack in his voice. “I just don’t know what the fuck that is, and I’m sorry Deb, I don’t think it’s fucking and sucking. I’m not saying that’s not important to him, but he’s more than his dick. He’s . . .”



“He’s an asshole, and I mean that in the most loving way. A loveable Brian is not the real Brian.”



“Jesus, Deb.”



“But it’s true. And you know it. That’s why you left him. Because he wouldn’t change the way you needed him to. He wouldn’t give you what you needed to be happy – he wasn’t willing to give you what you needed to be happy. Hell, he wouldn’t even say ‘I love you’! Remember that? Remember when you told me the two of you wanted different things in life?”



He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, hoping beyond hope that she wouldn’t notice how upset he was, because if everything was fine, he wouldn’t be crying, and if he knew that, so would she.



“But things are different now,” he said in a little voice.



“Are they?” she replied. “Why? How?”



“He says he’ll do anything to make me happy . . . shit.”



This time he didn’t even bother to hide his tears. She'd gotten him to talk in circles until he was right back where he’d started.



“Exactly.”



“Shit.”



“Baby, sweetie. Don’t cry.”



“How the hell can I not cry when you’re basically telling me that my marriage would be a sham if I went through with it?”



She wrapped her arm around his shoulder and after just a moment of resistance, he let her enfold him in her arms.



“Let him go, Sunshine,” she whispered. “Let him be who he was – and not who he is. Let him be a heartbreaking son-of-a-bitch who only thinks of himself. It’s who he is. And if you can’t love him for who he is, then you sure as hell shouldn’t marry him.”



“So, he hasn’t changed,” he sniffled.



“Not permanently. And if the only reason you’re marrying him is because he’s changed? Well . . . well, I don’t know what to say except good luck because you’ll need it.”



Justin cried as though his heart was broken . . . because it was.



“I . . . I can’t do it. I can’t break up with him. I don’t know what it would do to him.”



“That’s not a reason to stay,” she said. “Sunshine, Brian will be okay. He’s a cockroach – a gorgeous cockroach, but a cockroach nonetheless. When all of us get blown-up in the Apocalypse, he’ll still be here. He’s a survivor. Or at least he was until the fucking bombing.”



He couldn’t respond. His voice just wasn’t there any longer.



“Justin, Sunshine . . . there’s only one question you need to answer. Do you love Brian the way he was or do you love him the way he is?”



“What if I don’t love either . . . what if all I want is a middle-of-the-road Brian?” he sobbed. “A Brian who’s both changed and not changed.”



She released him and stood up so suddenly that he almost fell over.



“Jesus Christ, what a mess.”



He had to go. He had to get out of there. This conversation – he couldn’t bear it any longer.



“I . . . I . . . Deb, I’ve gotta go. I really can’t . . . Fuck! I have vows to write . . .”



She followed him to the door and stood against it, barring his way.



“And what are they going to be,” she said angrily. “They sure as hell aren’t going to be ‘I take you as you are to have and to hold till death do us fucking part.’”



He reached for the doorknob, and thankfully, she stepped aside. She’d said all she was going to say. The ball was in his court now.



“So, I take it you won’t be there tomorrow night,” he said.



She cupped his face in both her hands and kissed him on the forehead.



“No, sweetie,” she said, her voice resigned, but kind. “I’ll be there tomorrow night. If you two are going to do this – if you’re going to go through with it, I’ll be there. And so will everyone else. We’ll be your support because God knows, you’ll need it.”

The Present



“What?!”



“I said wouldn’t you just rather lie here and . . .”



“No, no, no. I know what you said, you said ‘cuddle.’”



“So?”



“So, I’ve never ever once even heard you use that word, much less actually want to do it . . .”



“Okay, can we just turn the lights off . . .”



“No! No. Brian Kinney fucks, sucks, rims, rams, but never cuddles.”



“Okay, so I used a word that offends your sensibilities. Forgive me. I apologize. I will never do it again.”



Wow. Wow. Okay, it was official. He was a card-carrying asshole. You want to fail a test? Forget choosing fucking over cuddling. Just snark at your fiancé on the eve of your wedding. Just insinuate that he’s a demanding prick, while your voice oozes sarcasm like rancid pus from a wound.



It was over. Justin was going to get dressed and leave. Brian wouldn’t blame him. Hell, he’d do the same thing if he was in Justin’s place. Brian was shocked at himself. He’d channeled Joan like a fucking medium. Passive-aggressive. Biting. Gratuitously cruel.



Justin was going to leave, and he, Brian, was going to rue the motherfucking day . . .



“No, it’s more than just that,” Justin said with jaw-dropping civility. “Every day we get closer to being married, the person I know gets further away.”



Brian took a deep breath . . . now what? Where was this going? Where did he want it to go?



“I’m right here,” he said tentatively.



“But it’s not you! Looks like you! Feels like you! But you . . . you would never go to your own stag party and not fuck every hot guy in sight. You would never be more interested in gardening than getting laid.”



What? What?



“I’m just trying to make you happy.”



“I want you to do what makes you happy. Not me.”



. . . . . . . . . what? . . . . . . .



What did that mean? Make him happy? Did Justin know what would make him happy? Hell, did he, Brian, even know what would make him happy? After his conversation with Deb . . . well, he didn’t know anymore.



___________________________________________________________________________

Earlier That Day



“Deb . . .”



“Don’t you ‘Deb’ me,” she said, glaring at him with hands planted on her hips. “You’re going to ruin that boy’s life.”



Brian turned away, suddenly finding the crap on the mantel extraordinarily fascinating. There was never dust on any of it. How could that be? Didn’t figurines and snow globes attract dust like magnets?



“I’m sorry to be so blunt, kiddo.”



Bullshit, she was sorry. Brian swallowed, hoping that when he spoke that his voice wouldn’t crack.



“No, you’re not.”



“Okay, you’re right. I’m not,” she said, stomping to the kitchen.



“I am not going to ruin Justin’s life,” he called after her. “I’m going to give him everything he ever dreamed of . . .”



“Except your dick.”



Brian spun around to look at her.



“He’s never not had my dick,” he snapped.



“You damn well know what I mean,” she snapped back.



Brian scrubbed his face with his hands. He’d had a stressful conversation with Lindsay a couple days ago, but this was infinitely worse. At least Lindsay was subtle about her doubts. Deb was as subtle as a steamroller – even less subtle than Melanie had been when she told him how talented Justin is and that she hoped he realized what Justin was giving up to be with him.



“It’s not true,” he said through his fingers. “Deb, I know what I’m doing. I know that when I asked him to marry me that I’d promised we’d be monogamous. Why do you think I didn’t realize that?”



“I never said you didn’t know what you promised,” she replied. “I’m saying that you won’t be able to keep that promise – and if you try, you’re going to end up hating that poor boy.”



Brian dropped his hands and looked her. Her words had stung his heart – as her words too often could.



“I would never hate Justin,” he said emphatically. “I could never hate Justin.”



“Alright, then if you don’t grow to hate him, then you’ll grow to hate yourself.”



Now that . . . that was closer to the truth. Unnervingly close. He joined her in the kitchen, pulled the cork out of a half-finished bottle of wine and poured himself a glass.



“Jesus,” he said with a wince after taking a sip. “Where’d you buy this shit? The Big Q?”



But as usual, Deb couldn’t be distracted once she was on a roll.



“Let him go,” she said gently, placing a hand on his arm. “Let them all go. Let Michael be Michael. Let Lindsay take Gus to Toronto . . . and let Justin have a future.”



Brian choked on his next sip of wine.



“Oh, sweetie,” Deb said, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You know what I’m saying is right. It’s hard. I know it is. But sometimes the greatest love you can show someone is to let them follow their destinies. Even if those destinies carry them away.”



When his eyes teared-up, she guided his head to her shoulder and stroked his hair.



“Having known and loved you is one of the reasons Sunshine is as strong and brave as he is,” she whispered against his ear. “You should be proud of him.”



“I am proud of him,” he said, his voice cracking despite his best efforts to keep it steady.



She kissed his cheek and released him. When he met her eyes, he saw that they were full of tears.



“Call off the wedding, sweetie. Lindsay told me Justin had been talking about wanting to move to New York before the two of you got engaged. Let him go. Let him explore life on his own for a change.”



“He won’t come back.”



She nodded. “I know.”



She reached for the bottle of wine and poured herself a glass, wincing just as Brian had when she took a sip.



“Jesus, you’re right. This tastes like rat piss.”



“I don’t think I can do it,” Brian said flatly, because it was true. He didn’t know if he had the strength – the fucking courage to let Justin go. He’d done it three times already; the fourth might just kill him.



“You have to,” she said. “And then you – you can go back to being Brian Kinney, the Brian Kinney we know and love.”



Brian swallowed back tears. He couldn’t speak, but if he could, he would’ve said “bullshit.” They didn’t love him. They tolerated him – maybe even admired him in an abstract way, but they didn’t love him. Because why? Because he wasn’t loveable. He had ensured that he’d never be loveable. He’d made antisocial choices – choices he could trace back to early childhood. As the philosopher, Thomas Hobbes had said, “the life of man is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” In the shadow of Jack’s fists and Joan’s resentment, Brian had vowed not to waste his time on earth. He’d been ruthless and determined in everything he did. He’d eschewed friendship for success. He’d eschewed romance for sex. He’d chosen wings over chains. Skepticism over faith. Deviancy over conformity. Honesty over flattery. Distance over intimacy. Doubt over trust. Selfishness over charity. Survival over sacrifice. Nihilism over idealism. Himself over society and its expectations.



Choices like those make you free . . . but they sure as hell don’t make you loveable.



But . . . but now . . . But now maybe he wanted to revise some of those choices . . . not all of them, but some. At the very least, he wanted to choose love over loneliness . . .



He wanted to choose Michael and Gus. But most of all, he wanted to choose Justin. To choose, for a change, someone else’s happiness over his.



Deb emptied the bottle of rat-piss wine into their glasses.



“You know I’m right,” she said.



He did. Of course, he did. She was right. When it came to him, she was always right. Moreover, she loved Justin – almost as much as he did. But . . .



“If I can’t do it,” he said. “If I can’t let him go, will you still come to the wedding?”



She took another sip of wine, winced and poured the rest of her glass down the drain.



“Of course,” she said. “If there is going to be a wedding, then I will come to it.”



He nodded. That was all he was going to get. It was all he could reasonably hope for.



“But just remember,” she said. “Until you say ‘I do’ you can still say ‘I won’t,’ and if you do, kiddo, I will love you more than I will ever be able to say – no matter how much pot I smoke.”



He smiled humorlessly, put on his jacket and left.

The Present



“What?!”



“I said wouldn’t you just rather lie here and . . .”



“No, no, no. I know what you said, you said ‘cuddle.’”



“So?”



“So, I’ve never ever once even heard you use that word, much less actually want to do it . . .”



“Okay, can we just turn the lights off . . .”



“No! No. Brian Kinney fucks, sucks, rims, rams, but never cuddles.”



“Okay, so I used a word that offends your sensibilities. Forgive me. I apologize. I will never do it again.”



“No, it’s more than just that. Every day we get closer to being married, the person I know gets further away.”



“I’m right here."



“But it’s not you! Looks like you! Feels like you! But you . . . you would never go to your own stag party and not fuck every hot guy in sight. You would never be more interested in gardening than getting laid.”



“I’m just trying to make you happy.”



“I want you to do what makes you happy. Not me.”



They stared at each other, and Justin watched as Brian’s expression gradually softened. For the first time in days, he looked like Brian – the real Brian.



“What about you,” Brian said after a moment.



Justin flopped down on the bed, annoyed. Where was this going to go?



But Brian didn’t let up.



“Yes, you,” he said. “Not going to New York?”



“Fuck New York.”



“Conquering the art world?



“Fuck the art world.”



“Why? ‘Cause you’re afraid.”



“I’m not afraid.”



“Then what?”



“I don’t want it.”



“Bullshit!”



“I don’t. It means nothing.”



“Would it still mean ‘nothing’ if I wasn’t here?”



Justin sighed with exasperation.



“How do you expect me to give you a rational response when the circumstances presented are completely suppositional and as such have no basis in reality?”



“Just answer the Goddamn question!” Brian said angrily.



Goddamn it!!



“I don’t know!”



Justin lay back down. It was over. He knew it was over.



They looked at each other. Justin was on the verge of crying.



“Well, I do,” Brian said. “I don’t want to live with someone who sacrificed their life and called it ‘love’ to be with me.”



Justin turned to look at him.



It was over.



“Neither do I.” he said.



Brian took his hand.



It was over . . . . . Or was it?



______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________



Twenty Minutes Later



The kiss is lingering – no tongues, just mouths – the kind of kiss that’s so long and soft that their lips stick together for an instant when they pull apart as though they are made of sugar. They don’t speak. They’d said enough, at least with words. Now it’s time to speak with their bodies, skin to skin, completely naked, no barrier between them. No cloth, no latex, no unspoken doubts, no unarticulated fears.



What about you? Not going to New York? Conquering the art world?”



Fuck the art world!



The second kiss is also lingering, but less soft, less tender. Hunger snaps and crackles beneath it like stoked embers. Their tongues touch – lightly at first, almost tentatively – but then fill each other’s mouths. When Brian tilts his head so they won’t bump noses, Justin combs his fingers through his hair, the thick silky strands brushing his skin, igniting the fire inside him – the fire Brian had kindled the moment they lay eyes on each and that had burned ever since.



Are you afraid?



No, I’m not afraid!



Then what is it, Justin? If it’s not fear then why stay here? Why stay with me?



Justin curls his fingers and drags his nails lightly against Brian’s scalp. He knows Brian loves to be touched like this, rough but gentle at the same time. No one else touches him like that; no one else ever will.



Brian Kinney fucks, sucks, rims, rams . . .



Yes, but he also holds Justin close, whispering dirty words against his ear – telling him what he’ll do when they get home. How he’ll kneel on the floor and unbuckle Justin’s belt, pulling down his jeans and his briefs, freeing his cock, kissing the tip as it swells and hardens. Brian may fuck, suck, rim, ram but he never kneels – not for anyone else. Never for anyone else.



I don’t care, Brian. You never asked me if I wanted us to be monogamous. I don’t. I don’t need us to be. I never have. What I need is your time and, when we’re together, your undivided attention. I need us to plan together – to dream about our future together.



Brian shifts so he can press his cock against Justin’s thigh. He’s still wearing his shorts. Justin pulls away from their kiss and looks down. He loves seeing the bulge inside the gray cloth, the quarter-sized wet spot of leaked fluid. He traces the length of Brian’s cock, feeling it lurch, pressing against the cotton restraint, yearning, needing. Brian sighs, his breath moist and warm against Justin’s neck.



And our future can include New York . . .



But I don’t want to go to New York.



Bullshit.



When it’s clear that Brian can’t take the absence of skin-to-skin contact a second longer, Justin watches him take off his shorts, pushing them down his thighs and freeing his feet. It’s not the first time he’s seen Brian’s cock – of course not! – but for some reason, it feels that way. It’s a dusky purple-red, hard and proud, the head clearly defined, the veins thick, pulsing so close to the surface of his skin . . . so very close. Justin knows what it smells like, what it tastes like, what it feels like – the heat and heft of it in his mouth – but he’s never felt it slide into him just like it is. Just like this. Bare and blood hot.



You do realize that if I decide to continue tricking, that we won’t be able to fuck raw.



I’ll leave that to you. It’s your choice.



You won’t be upset?



I won’t be upset. I want you to do what makes you happy – no matter what that is.



Brian wraps his fingers around his cock and strokes it for a moment, slicking the head with his pre-come. Justin watches, mesmerized. He’s always loved watching Brian masturbate, and Brian knows it. He's always loved watching the tip disappear and then reappear, the slit opening wide. Brian smiles at Justin and winks.



What will it be like when Brian comes inside him? Will he be able to feel it? Will there be so much that it will gush out when Brian withdraws? Justin has no idea. He’s never been fucked without a condom before.



Brian continues to stroke himself to the edge of orgasm and then stops abruptly with a groan of self-induced frustration.



And you? Will you trick in New York?



If I go to New York.



I thought that was settled. I thought we agreed you would.



Only if we get married – only then. I know you, Brian. I remember how you decided not to come to L.A. You’ll push me away thinking it’s for my own good. Try that with a ring on your finger. You won’t be able to do it.



Brian reaches out and places his hands on Justin’s sides, pushing his shirt up and then off over his head. When he tries to lie down to pull off his shorts, Brian stops him.



“Slow,” he whispers.



“I don’t want ‘slow,’” Justin replies. “I don’t want to ‘romantic.’ I want you to fuck me, Brian.”



Brian kisses him and smiles against his mouth. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. If we’re going to do this – especially if we’re only going to do it once – we’re going to do it right.”



He combs his fingers into Justin’s hair, tugging his head back and exposing his throat.



“If I was a vampire, I’d be worried right now if I were you,” he murmurs between light kisses and the barely-there scratch of his teeth.



Justin tries to laugh, but it’s hard to laugh in the position he’s in.



“Swallow,” Brian whispers. “I want to watch you swallow.”



Justin does as he was told and feels the wet heat of Brian’s tongue press against his Adam’s apple. He swallows again, and Brian hums his approval. When he releases Justin’s hair, he turns his attention to his collarbones. Justin watches him, Brian’s closed eyes, the dark lashes, the hair that half-obscures his face.



“Mine,” he thinks and shivers. He’s never thought the word before – he’d never even dared.



“Cold?” Brian asks between kisses that vary between light and firm, wet and dry.



Justin smiles and kisses his temple. “No,” he says. “Just happy.”



Brian lifts his head and looks him, his expression unexpectedly serious.



“You mean it?” he asks.



“I mean it,” Justin replies. “I’ve never meant anything more.”



Brian’s answering smile is just a twitch of the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are laughing.



“Mine,” he whispers.



Brian furls his lips. Justin can tell that he’s contemplating whether he’s okay with what Justin had said. But then the twitch of a smile returns.



“Yours,” he says.



Justin can’t stop himself. He grabs Brian and pulls him close, kissing his neck, his shoulders, his face, his ears – every part of him he can reach. Hunger surges like a spring tide, creating pools of longing, of wondering . . . what is this going to be like? Fucking raw . . . being married. He doesn’t know yet, but there is one thing he knows for sure. Deb was wrong. Brian can change. Brian has changed.



I don’t want the house.



Okay.



You shouldn’t have done that, Brian. You shouldn’t have made such a huge decision without me.



I’m sorry.



Fuck ‘sorry.’ I’m through with the Brian who says he’s sorry.



But I am sorry.



No, you were just scared. They’re too different things, and one doesn’t necessitate the other.



Justin leans down so he can kiss and suck on Brian’s nipples. Brian’s already aroused, so they’re already hard. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back when Justin scrapes them gently with his teeth and then groans raggedly when Justin nips them. Brian loves this. Justin can still remember when he’d first figured that out, how Brian had arched off the chair, ice cream melting on his chest.



Brian releases his cock when his hips buck up. He’s close again. Justin sits up straight and kisses his lips.



“Your shorts . . .” Brian orders. “Off. Now.”



Justin laughs. So much for going slow.



God! They’d come so close – so close to letting this go, to letting each other go!



Go to New York, but marry me first.



“Stop thinking,” Brian said. “And start sucking.”



He lies back, propped against the pillows, long legs spread. Justin nestles between them. When he kisses the head of Brian’s cock, it twitches and bops his chin.



“Subtle,” he says and Brian laughs.



“We know what we want,” he replies.



Taking the hint, Justin wraps his fingers around Brian’s cock, lifts it and swallows it, his mouth loose, barely touching, letting the wet warmth and the gentle pressure of his tongue drag a hitched moan from Brian’s throat. Justin removes his hand from Brian’s cock and pushes his legs even wider apart, encouraging Brian to bend his knees and lift his ass off the bed.



“Lube,” Brian says breathlessly and reaches for the ever-present tube of KY. Justin takes it from him and smears the slick jelly on his finger, only releasing Brian’s cock for a moment before swallowing it again.



“Don’t make me come,” Brian says. “Stay away from my prostate, Sunshine.”



Justin hums his laughter and Brian moans again. It’s a legitimate request. No trick has ever been able to make Brian come before he’s ready, but Justin can. He’d learned how to years ago. He’d always wondered how much of his ability was expertise and how much was Brian, himself, his emotions taking over, overwhelming his body. Justin had liked to think it was the latter . . . but now – now that Brian has finally said “I love you” – he knows it was. Brian’s body is putty in his hands. So is his heart. Perhaps it always had been. The knowledge is sobering.



Just . . . just don’t . . . Go to New York. I want you to, but don’t . . . don’t fall in love with someone else. No more Ethans.



No more Ethans. Brian, you’re going to be my husband. I’m not going to cheat on you.



You do realize we’re putting a lock on the door.



I know that. It’s what I want. The question is, do you?



I do.



“In me,” Brian says and then, because Justin doesn’t comply fast enough, he reaches down and grabs Justin’s hand, pressing Justin’s fingertip against his entrance. When it slides inside him, he bends his knees and lets his legs flop open like the wings of a butterfly.



“God,” Brian mutters in-between groans. “Fuck.”



Justin sucks hard on his cock and fingers him, careful not to apply pressure on his prostate, concentrating instead on the sensitive rim, letting his knuckle catch against it over and over.



“Gonna fuck you,” Brian gasps. “I haven’t come in days. I’m going to fill you up . . . oh God . . . Justin, stop . . . stop . . . seriously . . . stop.”



Justin quickly stills his hand and releases Brian’s cock, watching it throb against his belly, slick with spit. Brian had almost come, one second longer and he would’ve lost it. He raises his gaze to Brian’s flushed face. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his hair clings to his forehead, dark and damp.



“That was close,” he says, laughing when Brian smiles, his eyes still closed. “Think of lesbians going down on each other.”



Brian feigns a shudder and sits up.



“Water?” Justin asks.



“Yeah.”



“A bottle or a glass?”



“Bottle.”



“Anything to eat?”



“Just your ass.”



“That can be arranged.”



Justin gets up and walks to the kitchen. For some reason he feels more at home in the loft tonight than he ever has before – certainly more than he ever would’ve felt in that hideous mansion in West Virginia. Yes, they should find a new place – a place that the two of them agree on. But in the meantime, this is home. His and his soon-to-be husband’s.



Deb told me to let you go.



She said the same to me.



What’s she going to say at the wedding? Do you think she’ll stand up in the middle of our vows and object?



No, but even if she does, I won’t care.



It would actually be kind of funny.



Certainly memorable.



When he returns to the bedroom, water bottles in hand, he finds Brian setting up his mirror against the wall. His “fuck mirror” as he’d christened it when they’d used it for the first time. Justin grins. This is going to be fun.



“I want to watch my dick fucking your ass,” Brian says unnecessarily. What else would they be using the mirror for? Personal grooming? “I didn’t want you on your hands and knees. Ride me. I want to see your expression when I come inside you. In the meantime, come here and sit on my face.”



Justin laughs. Their communication outside the bedroom may be cryptic and easily misunderstood, but inside the bedroom, it leaves nothing to the imagination.



Brian positions himself so he’s lying with his head at the foot of the bed, while Justin sixty-nines him, groaning when he feels the wet warmth of Brian’s tongue.



“Not too much,” he says. “I want to be tight.”



“Not so tight that you strangle my dick,” Brian replies, his voice muffled.



“Mmmuh murmuffff?” Justin says, making fun of him.



Brian pinches his ass making him yelp.



“Asshole,” he laughs.



“Interesting choice of words,” Brian replies. “Now shut-up and let me rim you.”



Justin doesn’t need to be told twice. He leans forward and rests his cheek against Brian’s belly, relaxing and enjoying the sensation of being opened.



He’s going to miss this in New York – their daily lovemaking. But doesn’t absence make the heart grow even fonder; the body’s anticipation even more intense? He closes his eyes and imagines what it will be like. A midtown hotel; thick, soft 1,500 thread-count sheets; breakfast, lunch and dinner in a king-sized bed . . . a week or more of pent-up craving . . . God! They’re going to fuck like they’ve never fucked before . . .



Suddenly, Brian slides a finger inside him as deep as possible.



“Stop thinking,” he says.



“I’m thinking about you fucking me,” Justin replies.



“Oh, okay. In that case, carry on.”



He laughs but then gasps when Brian presses against his sweet spot making his cock throb.



“Ready?” Brian asks, his voice hoarse with desire.



Is it Justin’s imagination or is Brian shaking? He lifts his head and looks at Brian’s cock where it rests on his belly and watches the clear fluid flow from it with each thudding beat of his heart. And then it hits him again – that gorgeous fluid isn’t going to end up in the tip of a condom. Brian’s come is going to fill him. Brian is going to fuck him raw . . .



Holy shit!



“Ready?” Justin says. “Seriously? I was born ready for this.”



Brian laughs. When Justin moves, he sits up and takes a swig of water, emptying most of the bottle in one swallow.



“You’re going to need to be hydrated,” Justin says. “Because after you fuck me, I’m going to fuck you.”



Brian lowers the bottle and arches an eyebrow. Go ahead, Justin thinks. Try and say no. I dare you. He’s ready for pushback, but it doesn’t come.



“Okay,” Brian says with a shrug as though it’s no big deal – as though Justin fucked him every other day instead of never – well, at least not since Justin had left him in the fall and (as he now knew) broke his heart like a china plate.



Will you wear your ring?



What do you mean ‘will I wear my ring?’ Of course, I’ll wear my ring.



Even when you’re painting?



I’m sure platinum cleans up well. But what about you? Will you wear your ring while you’re fucking other guys?



Do you want me to?



I don’t know . . .



Because if you don’t, I’ll take it off.



No. No, keep it on. I want you to keep it on. I don’t want you forgetting me when you’ve got your dick in some trick’s ass.



I’d never forget you – I never have, ring or no ring.



I never forgot you either.



Never?



Never, Brian. Never.



Justin flops back and stares up at the ceiling unseeingly, mouth open in awe. Oh. My. God. Brian is going to let him fuck him raw. If he gets any more turned on, he’ll probably have a heart attack.



Brian laughs at his stunned expression and lies down on top of him, kissing him breathless. Justin wraps his arms and legs around him, holding him close, not caring if he looks like a baby sloth clinging to its mother. Fuck dignity. He squirms and wriggles until the slippery head of Brian’s cock is pressed against his entrance and then does everything he can to get it inside him. Brian buries his face in the space between Justin’s neck and his shoulder. Justin no longer has to wonder if he’s shaking. The answer to the question is no longer in doubt. Brian is shaking like a proverbial leaf.



“Brian,” he says, suddenly feeling tender and full – too full – of love, so full he’s afraid he might tear at the seams or burst open like a balloon full of water. “Brian.”



At the sound of his name, Brian loses what little control he still had. With a suddenness that makes Justin’s world spin, Brian enters him, thrusting frantically. Justin spreads his legs and draws his knees back, giving Brian as much access to his body as he can.



“Fuck,” Brian grunts. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”



“Does it feel different?” Justin gasps, dying of curiosity.



Brian merely squeezes his eyes shut and nods. It’s all he seems capable of.



What if you like it so much you don’t want to trick anymore?



Then I won’t trick. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.



Brian pulls out just as suddenly as he’d slid in, panting for breath. Justin’s reaches for his cock, ready to jerk him off, but Brian bats his hand away.



“Don’t,” he gasps. “I want to come inside you. Just give me a second. God, that felt good!”



He flops down on his back and Justin straddles his waist, careful not to touch his cock. It’s not easy; Brian’s hips buck involuntarily with an animal need to be inside again.



“Sit down on it,” Brian growls. “Fuck yourself.”



“Do you still want to use the mirror?”



“Hell, yes. Here, move. There. Now impale yourself, Sunshine. That’s it . . . deeper . . . oh God!”



Justin helps prop Brian’s head on a pillow so he can see around Justin and watch himself in the mirror. Justin is about to ask him if he’s comfortable when Brian thrusts upward so suddenly that it hurts. Justin cries out, and Brian grabs his hips, pushing him up – not so much that his cock slips free, but enough to keep his thrusts shallow.



“Sorry,” he gasps. “Fuck, I’m sorry . . .”



Justin leans forward and shuts him up with a kiss.



“Just not ready,” he says. “Give me a moment.”



Brian nods and stills himself, obviously with a great effort, as Justin slowly sits down again. Brian’s eyes roll back for a second when Justin reaches around to cup his balls in his hand.



“As soon as we start moving again, I’m going to come,” Brian says, his breathing fast and shallow.



“Are you ready?”



“Not really, but I can’t help it. You have no idea how good this feels.”



“Well, I will soon.”



Brian smiles. His hair isn’t just damp with sweat – it’s soaked. When Justin removes his hand from between his legs and starts riding his cock again, Brian squeezes his eyes shut and opens his mouth in a silent scream. His hands are clutching Justin’s hips so hard, there’ll almost surely be bruises tomorrow. Justin covers them with his own, feeling a strange need to comfort, to protect. When Brian’s orgasm finally hits, he thrusts upward with all his strength and comes with a shouted expletive that Justin can only barely understand. Suddenly everything is really wet, more than just the usual wetness of lube and more slippery than sticky. He can feel Brian’s cock throb, which is nothing new, but the wetness is. Justin has to sit down all the way to prevent Brian from slipping out.



“I think we just ruined the sheets,” he said breathlessly, but Brian is so out of it that he doesn’t seem to even register that Justin had spoken.



Justin leans over and kisses him. Brian combs his fingers into his hair and holds his head steady, kissing him back with a hunger that let Justin know he could come again.



“Fuck me,” he gasps into their kiss. “Turn me over and fuck me.”



“But don’t you want . . . ?”



“No. No fingers, just your cock. Use my come.”



Justin didn’t need to be told twice. He rolls Brian onto his stomach and yanks his hips up off the mattress, rougher than he wanted to, but he can’t help it. He isn’t thinking any longer; pure instinct has taken over. When he pushes inside Brian’s body, Brian makes a little yelping sound, but instead of making Justin stop, it only makes him needier. For an instant he has the strangest thought – couldn’t Brian get pregnant? Why hadn’t they thought of that, but then he laughs because he’s losing it. Absolutely fucking losing it. He curls his fingers and drags them down Brian’s back, leaving behind red, almost bloody, welts. At some point the pleasure had taken over; he’d be able to think more clearly if he’d drunk three bottles of Beam.



“Fuck me!” Brian yelled at him. “C’mon, Sunshine, give me all you’ve got!”



Somewhere in the back of his mind, Justin realizes that Brian is coming, and he wants to shout “stop!” He’s not ready for this to end yet. If Brian comes, so will he. He won’t be able to help himself, and he’s right . . . the second he feels the first contraction, his orgasm slams into him as, in turn, he slams into Brian . . . over and over and over . . . coming his brains out . . . watching as the pearly semen seeps out of Brian’s body. He’s surprised how much there is; there’s even more when he comes again and then again a few seconds later. He’s never come three times in a row before, but how can he not when this feels so good . . . so fucking good . . . better than he’d even imagined.



Sure enough, the sheets are a mess. Brian bitches about it perfunctory, but Justin can tell he’s proud of himself, proud of the fact that there’s so much come they’ll need to wash the mattress pad. They make an even a bigger mess when they fuck again. When at last they exhaust themselves and each other, they lie down, carefully positioning themselves so as to avoid the cooling wet spots. Justin body aches – in a good way, but still it aches. When Brian snuggles up against him, he nudges him away.



“No cuddling,” he groans.



Brian props himself on his elbow and frowns down at him.



“We’re not going to start this ‘rims, rams but never cuddles’ bullshit again,” he says warily. “Because I’ll cuddle you till dawn if you want.”



Justin laughs and lifts his head for a kiss.



“I promise – no more ‘cuddling bullshit.’”



Brian rolls over onto his back and takes Justin’s hand.



“I’m going to miss you,” he says.



“I’m not leaving right away, you know.”



“Well, you should. The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be.”



Justin nods. He’s right, of course.



“Okay. I’ll start looking for an apartment – but not until after we get back from our honeymoon.”



“Fair enough . . . speaking of which . . .”



“Yes?”



“I’m not going to be fucking another guy between then and now, and you know what that means.”



“That means we’re going to spend all our time in the hotel room and not see a single sight.”



“Well, we will need to eat. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone and go to restaurants overlooking the shit we won’t be visiting.”



“Clever as usual.”



“Practical.”



Justin rolls onto his side.



“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”



Brian yawns. “So what does one do at a rehearsal dinner? I don’t even know.”



“We show up looking fabulous, drawing applause from the crowd, sit down at my carefully arranged tables and stuff our faces with lobster.”



“Aren’t we supposed to rehearse the wedding ceremony?”



“What’s to rehearse? There won’t be any readings, no parents giving us away . . . although when Deb realizes we’re going to get married and I’m still going to New York anyway, she might insist on walking me down the aisle.”



“Oh, dear God.”



“I’m actually kind of serious.”



“I know you are.”



“Brian? Seriously though. She’s going to be okay with this. I know she is.”



“To the extent she’s okay with anything I do.”



“That’s good enough. And Lindsay will be okay, too. Everyone will. Trust me. You may not always see it – and people are sometimes lousy at showing it – but your family loves you. They always have and they always will.”



Brian snorts, but Justin isn’t kidding.



“If you can’t believe that right now, then fake it until you can.”



Brian rolls over onto his side and pulls Justin close, ignoring his grumbling about sore muscles and wet spots. When he falls asleep, Justin worms his way free and goes to the bathroom. When he returns, he notices that Brian has rolled onto his stomach and is stretched out, taking up more than his share of space. Justin stands for a moment, looking down at him. For a second, he feels far away, as though he’s already left for New York and is looking down at Brian from a great height, as cold and distant as the moon, but then he blinks and he’s back in their bedroom.



They’d come close to letting each other go again. Far too close. But they hadn’t. Was it fate? Or was it just basic, fucking sense? As he crawls back in bed and pushes a dead-to-the-world Brian out of the way, Justin realizes he doesn’t care. If the result is the same, be it due to destiny or happenstance, in the end it really didn’t matter. They were together – and this time they’d stay that way.



The End . . . . so there, Cowlip!