I. Whether we see each other next weekend, or next month…

Brian lies there for a very long time after Justin is gone. Minutes, hours, days... He can’t really be certain how much time has passed.

He didn’t move at all as Justin dressed, as he rummaged around in the bathroom, kissed Brian’s bare shoulder goodbye without speaking, grabbed his bags, slid the door shut behind him. He didn’t move when the warmth left behind by Justin’s body beneath him turned cold, leaving in it’s wake a blank space that threatened to swallow him whole.

This was never a part of the plan. It was never supposed to come to this. Justin was supposed to be a fuck, nothing more. Now four years, give or take, after he first spotted him under that lamppost, Brian is uncertain he remembers how to live without the sunshine on his face.

When he finally manages to get upright, he’s thankful he had the good sense to roll himself a nice, fat joint earlier. When he smokes it down to a nub that scorches his fingertips, he rolls another, lights it up, and finds himself standing at the window staring out into the night.

He’s stood at this window on so many early mornings with Justin, smoking cigarettes, kissing lazily before they started their days. The loft is heavy with him, his scent clinging to the curtains, his dirty socks abandoned on the rug.

Brian turns to go back to bed, wallow in his pathetic misery some more when he spots a sketchpad lying open on the coffee table, Justin’s elegant handwriting filling up half the page.

          Brian,

          I know we agreed to save the goodbyes, but you never said anything about not writing a note while you did that fake sleeping thing. FYI,           when you’re actually sleeping you snore because of your deviated septum.

          I just wanted you to know that even though we didn’t go through with it, we’re already married in every way that counts. I’m glad you kept           the rings. Please don’t return them.

          This isn’t a goodbye because I’m not going anywhere for good. This loft is still my home. You are still my home. We will make this work           because we always do. Now stop moping and go get your dick sucked.

          I love you.

          Justin.

Brian doesn’t know whether to laugh or roll his eyes at the fact that Justin dotted the I’s in their names with little hearts. The sappy little twat.

He takes the sketchpad back to bed and re-reads the note a dozen times before slipping it beneath Justin’s pillow beside him.

—

II. Never again.

The night they called off the wedding, Brian took the tie he was planning on wearing at the ceremony and put it to far better use. Justin’s wrists were bound with it above his head as Brian fucked him until he was sobbing, pleading, begging to come. When Brian finally permitted him his release, when he stroked him off rough and dirty, watched him spill all over himself in ecstasy, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed in his life.

This scene plays over and over in Brian’s head as the trick on his knees gives him a subpar blow job in the alley outside Woody’s. He comes the moment he remembers the look of arousal all over Justin’s face when Brian slipped the silk around his wrists.

It’s been just over twenty four hours since Justin left and none of Brian’s go-to coping mechanisms appear to be working. He considers going home and drinking enough bourbon to make him forget he even has a brain to miss Justin with. Instead, he gets in his car and drives until he finds himself on the street outside Daphne’s apartment.

“Brian?” Daphne is in her bathrobe, hair piled high on top of her head.

“Daphne. Did I wake you?”

“No, I was just up late studying.” Her bright smile suddenly falls. “Is Justin okay?”

“Sunshine is fantastic.” He forces a smile.

“Jesus, Brian. You scared me.” She giggles, a slight blush forming on her cheeks. “Do you wanna come in?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He slides in past her.

“Do you want a beer?” She asks as he plops down on the couch.

“If it’s that cheap shit you and Justin always drink, no thanks.”

“You know,” she says, settling down beside him. “I don’t think you’ve ever been here before.”

“I was here once,” Brian smirks, thinking back. “You were in class. I fucked Justin in your bed.”

“Brian!” Daphne swats him on the arm. “Please tell me you didn’t jizz on my sheets.”

“Well, I didn’t.” He throws his feet up on the coffee table. “I can’t say the same for your former roommate, though.”

“Oh, God.” She laughs, covers her face with her hands.

Brian feels like he’s being cut wide open when she does that. He’s seen Justin do the very same thing more times than he can count. After spending so many years together, he shouldn’t be surprised that they share so many of the same mannerisms.

“So why are you here?” She eyes him suspiciously.

“Can’t I visit my darling friend, Daphne, whom I miss terribly?”

“Right.” She laughs incredulously. “I somehow suspect it’s not me you’re missing.”

Brian looks away. If he’s being honest, he has no fucking clue why he’s here. Any excuse he could give her would sound absolutely pathetic at this point.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “You don’t have to say it. I get it.”

If someone else had said that to him, Brian would call bullshit, but he knows that if anyone understands what he’s feeling right now, it’s Daphne. And maybe that’s why he’s here. She gets it. She knows what it means to lose him.

“Do you wanna watch a movie?” She asks after a while.

“Thought you were studying?”

“I was ready to call it a night anyways.” She smiles sweetly. “There’s a whole stack of DVDs next to the TV. Pick one. I’m gonna make popcorn.”

Part of him believes she’s taking pity on him, which makes him want to walk out the door almost instantly, but he figures what the hell, he’s already here, looking as pitiful as can be. Might as well just roll with it.

Daphne has jack shit worth watching. He finally understands where Justin got his shitty taste in movies from. He settles on the only half way acceptable film in the whole stack and pops it in.

Watching Casablanca in his current state is probably not one of his better ideas, but it’s either this or alcohol poisoning alone in the loft. Bogart was entirely overrated in his opinion, not even remotely fuckable, especially for a leading man, but he resists the urge to snark and settles back down next to Daphne, and her steaming bowl of microwave popcorn, in silence.

          Because, my dear Ricky, I suspect that under that cynical shell you’re at heart a sentimentalist

Brian spends most of the movie in a daze, occasionally shoveling handfuls of popcorn that he shouldn’t be eating this late into his mouth, only vaguely aware of the plot unfolding. He thinks back to that lamppost, how Justin glowed beneath it, how cynical he truly was back then. If he closes his eyes he can almost see Justin as he did in that moment. Can almost remember being that version of Brian Kinney. Can almost feel that he was just another trick and nothing more.

Just another trick.

          Leave him alone, Miss Ilsa. You’re bad luck to him.

Brian doesn’t believe in the concept of regrets, and even if he did, Justin would never be one of them. He knows all too well that being in love can oftentimes feel like you’re being flayed alive, but for better, for worse, the pain is always worth it. The pain belongs to him. He never again wants to live his life without this ache, without the non-stop thrumming under his skin.

          She’s coming back. I know she’s coming back.

He re-reads Justin’s letter over and over in his mind. You are still my home. Dread pools at the very center of him wondering how long this will remain true. What happens when Justin finds someone else to become his home? When he inevitably finds someone better, more worthy? When the thrill of the big city slowly pulls him from Brian’s grasp...

          I love you so much…

I don’t believe in love. I believe in fucking. It’s honest. It’s efficient.

I love you. I love you.

I’ve never meant anything more.

          I wish I didn’t love you so much.

Love is something that straight people tell themselves they’re in so that they can get laid.

It was all based on lies to begin with.

Go find yourself a pretty little girl and get married.

Yes. I will marry you. I will marry you.

          I said I would never leave you.

Brian doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Daphne reaches over and takes his hand, and by that point he figures it’s pointless to try and hide it. Her hands are soft. He doesn't try and pull away. He is the definition of pathetic.

          And you never will. But I’ve got a job to do, too. Where I’m going you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do you can’t be any part of.

“I have to go.” Brian stands abruptly as the credits roll.

“Okay.” Daphne is a saint for not making him talk about it.

He makes a mental note to bring her flowers when he works up the nerve to actually show his face again, then walks out without another word.

Back at the loft, he does a damn fine job of getting higher than he’s ever been in his life, passing out on the sofa with his shoes still on.

—

III. It doesn’t matter.

The next morning, Brian considers very seriously that maybe cutting off communication with Justin completely for now would be in everyone’s best interest. Then the phone rings.

“Hey!” Justin’s cheery voice greets him on the other end.

“Morning, Sunshine.” Brian settles on the edge of his bed, half dressed for the office, tie draped loosely around his neck.

“Sorry I didn’t call yesterday. It’s just been so crazy moving in.”

“You don’t have to check in.” His words come out sounding far more sullen than he intends.

“Brian,” Justin sighs. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“So, how’s the cock in the big city?” He abruptly changes the subject.

“I wouldn’t know,” Justin laughs. “I haven’t really had time to go out yet.”

“Well, don’t wait too long. Don’t want you getting rusty on me.” Brian closes his eyes, is completely unable to pinpoint the exact emotion he’s feeling.

“I wish you were here,” Justin says softly.

“I’m gonna be late for work,” Brian replies, knowing if he allows this to continue he’ll end up putting on an even more pathetic display than the one at Daphne’s last night.

“Okay.” Justin and Daphne don’t just share a taste for cheap beer and shitty movies, they also both know when to let things go. “Call me later?”

“Of course.”

He spends all day at the office wanting nothing more than to book the next flight out. Cynthia would have his balls for bailing mid-week with so much on their plate, so instead he takes out his frustrations on anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.

He tosses preliminary sketches that are actually quite good back in the face of his newest designer, makes his intern cry on three separate occasions, and snaps at anyone and everyone who makes eye contact. Once his coffee mug makes contact with the wall of the art department, Cynthia has had enough.

“You know, you’ve always been an asshole.” She glares at him over his monitor. “But this is some next level shit, even for you.”

“Fuck off.” He knows he’s being a prick. He doesn’t need it spelled out for him.

“He’s only been gone for two days, Brian.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He glares right back at her.

“Right.” She laughs incredulously. “Well, sort it out. At this rate you’ll be in jail for assaulting half the staff by Friday.”

He leaves the office an hour early without telling anyone. He’s the boss. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. He considers for a moment going out and picking up a trick, but he’s in such an abysmal mood he would probably end up getting into a fight before he ended up getting laid.

He gets absolutely shitfaced in record time. Half a bottle of his most expensive scotch later, he’s dialing Daphne’s number before his brain has time to talk him out of it.

“Brian?”

“I need your friend’s address." He's actually surprised that his words are only slightly slurred.

“What?” Daphne sounds thoroughly confused.

“Your friend in New York.” God, Kinney, you’re so pathetic. “The one Justin’s staying with.”

—

IV. It’s only time.

It’s just after noon when he shows up on Justin’s doorstep.

“I want us to wear them," is how Brian chooses to greet him.

“Brian? What are you doing here?” Justin’s eyes have never been so wide. His smile has never been so beautiful.

“I have to ask you something.” Brian knows he’s probably not helping Justin’s confusion, but he has to get the words out before he loses his nerve.

“Have you never heard of a phone?”

“Why do you think I asked you to marry me?”

“Because you thought it’s what I wanted.” Justin says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“No,” Brian smiles softly. “I asked you to marry me because I wanted to. Because I wanted you.”

“Brian, I’m—”

“And you were right,” he continues. “We were already there. I just couldn’t see it.”

Justin closes the short distance between them in the doorway, touches his shoulder reverently. Even through his jacket, Justin's fingers are like a flame to Brian’s flesh. He is so blessed to burn with him.

“But I do now.” Brian finds his hands are shaking. “And I think we should wear them.” He pulls the small box containing their wedding bands from his pocket.

“Brian.” Justin is beaming at him. He is more radiant than the sun.

“Justin Taylor,” Brian presses his lips together, suppressing the smile threatening to spread all over his face. “Will you not marry me?”

“You’re an idiot.” Justin’s smile somehow grows even wider. He holds out his hand. “Well? Go on then.”

Brian slides the band on Justin's finger, hands still shaking slightly as he does. Justin stares down at it, admires the way the light glints off the gold.

Justin takes the box from Brian's grasp, takes his hand, slips his ring on slowly.

"Brian," Justin lets go of his hand. "Shouldn't you be at the office?"

"Probably." Brian shrugs. "But they can manage without me until Monday."

Justin kisses him then, cradling his face, the ring on his finger cool against Brian's cheek.

He is burning... Burning... Alight from within.

It hurts… It hurts.

He is so in love. He is so alive.

He knows they will survive this, too.