Trading Spaces by Morpheus
FeatureSummary:

This is such a wonderful story that leaves you wanting more. I loved every minute of watching Brian's masks slip away as he accepted his love and appreciation for Justin. It was also great seeing Brian discover he had members of his own family looking out for him. His Aunt and Uncle just accepted him no questions asked, and they respected Brian and Justin as a couple.  So much happens in this story that I believe makes Brian and Justin into the couple they were meant to be - SunshineSally

An AU season 3 post-finale story.


Categories: QAF US, Admin Pick Characters: Ben Bruckner, Brian Kinney, Claire Kinney, Daphne Chanders, Debbie Novotny, Emmett Honeycutt, Ethan Gold, Gus Marcus-Peterson, Jennifer Taylor, Joan Kinney, Justin Taylor, Lindsay Peterson, Melanie Marcus, Michael Novotny, Original Male Character, Vic Grassi
Tags: Anal Sex (Lots of it!), Christmas, Family, M/M, Oral Sex, Season 3
Genres: Alternate Universe, Romance
Pairings: Brian/Justin, Michael/Ben
Challenges: None
Series: Season Three Stories
Chapters: 20 Completed: Yes Word count: 122155 Read: 79421 Published: Jan 13, 2017 Updated: Mar 17, 2018
Story Notes:

DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

1. Prologue: Just Like That by Morpheus

2. Chapter 1: More or Less by Morpheus

3. Chapter 2: Wilderness Adventure by Morpheus

4. Chapter 3: Shake and Quake by Morpheus

5. Chapter 4: Two Lookers by Morpheus

6. Chapter 5: Out and About in LA (Part 1) by Morpheus

7. Chapter 6: Out and About in LA (Part 2) by Morpheus

8. Chapter 7: Not in the Mood by Morpheus

9. Chapter 8: A Hard Time by Morpheus

10. Chapter 9: Only You by Morpheus

11. Chapter 10: Be Careful What You Wish For by Morpheus

12. Chapter 11: Partners by Morpheus

13. Chapter 12: Say Uncle by Morpheus

14. Chapter 13: (d) by Morpheus

15. Chapter 14: For Your Eyes Only by Morpheus

16. Chapter 15: Seeing Things by Morpheus

17. Chapter 16: Withholding Information by Morpheus

18. Chapter 17: Two Out of Three by Morpheus

19. Chapter 19: A Clam in Chowder by Morpheus

20. Chapter 20: Witnesses by Morpheus

Prologue: Just Like That by Morpheus

 

 

 

 

Brian

I almost said it. I almost said it right out loud. Standing on the steps of Woody's, looking out over the crowd celebrating the mayoral election victory by dancing in the street, I turned to look at Justin and I KNEW. Just like that.

'Just like that' being relative. 'Just like that' meaning, three years in the making.

Has it been three years since I spotted him under the streetlamp? A little blond morsel to carry home like a doggie bag, leftovers from a night's routine Babylon fuckfest, an hour's diversion to make up for one or two boring backroom blowjobs. That's all he was supposed to be. No names, no numbers was my policy long before Justin was in a position to dictate rules.

I remember that I tried to forget his name. Next morning, waking up beside him, I turned instinctively to take him into my arms. Was that a premonition of things to come?

Now here we are, looking out over the crowd, our arms around each other, and I can't stop smiling. Oh, soon enough I'll stop; soon enough reality will crack this facade of happiness and relief and - and fucking joy - and I'll have to think again, think about the present and think about the future. But for a few minutes outside reality, I am filled with unthinking, amazing and just plain astounding joy. Because Justin's here beside me and I can almost believe that he'll always be here, I can almost believe that he won't ever go away again. I can almost believe in forever.

Chapter 1: More or Less by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian shares some important news.

 

 

 

 

Justin

"Oh!" I come to a screeching halt just inside the loft door. Brian has a guy in the bedroom, they’re standing close together by the bathroom door. Both of them are dressed so they must be finished, or maybe they haven't started yet. They turn around to look at me and immediately I apologize and begin to walk backward. "Sorry. I knocked, but - "

"Wait." Brian moves around the bed, comes down the steps, the other guy on his heels. I spare a moment to glance at him - he's tall and good-looking with close-cropped brown hair. For some reason my gaydar is not beeping; maybe it's his clothes, a rumpled-looking sports jacket over faded jeans. I'm sure I've never seen him before, I wonder if Brian picked him up on the plane?

Brian called on his way home from the airport, he left a message on my cell that he was back and asked if I wanted to come by this evening. I came straight from my shift at the diner, I didn't think he'd mind me being early. But then I didn't expect him to have a trick already, a couple hours after returning to Pittsburgh from wherever it was he went. Which of course he hadn't told me; he'd only told me - another message on my cell phone a few days ago - that he was going out of town and would call me when he got back.

That was Monday, it's Thursday now, with no word from Brian since he left. And now my feet are glued to the floor of his bare and echoing loft, my excitement at seeing Brian again after several days apart dwindling as I stare at his afternoon trick du jour. Then Brian's reaching out to pull me against him, he plants a kiss on my hair. I hope he's not going to ask me to join in a three-way. He's okay with me saying no of course, but still, I hope he's not going to ask.

"Justin, this is Bruce Applethorpe. He's moving to Pittsburgh next month."

Since when does Brian introduce his tricks to me? Bruce extends his hand so I shake it; he's looking me over. "Pleasure to meet you," he says, letting his eyes sparkle at me and I realize that he's gay after all, and better looking than I thought at first.

"Hi," I say, and I can hear the wariness in my voice.

Brian hears it too and tightens the arm he has around me, squeezing hard before letting me go. "Call me tomorrow with your decision," he says to Bruce, turning to lead the way to the door.

Bruce follows and as the door is pulled open he replies, "I'd like more time to think about it, but it's practically a done deal, don’t you agree?” When Brian nods he continues, “Things can be settled quickly, maybe by the first week in July. I need to be on-premises by then."

"Details tomorrow," Brian agrees, giving Bruce his hand to shake and watching him walk down the stairs. At the first landing, Bruce turns to give us a wave and then Brian closes the door and turns around to face me. He says quietly, "We need to talk."

Something's up, something serious. My heart leaps into my throat though I don't let this sudden jolt of - not fear, not fear, just, just something, anyway I don't let it show, instead I nod okay and carelessly shrug my shoulders. He sees through me of course.

"Want a drink?" Brian leads the way into the nearly empty living room.

"No thanks."

At the liquor cart, he pours himself a half-inch of JB then carries his glass to the kitchen, perches on a stool and waves for me to do the same. With all the furniture gone, it's the only place left to sit down in the loft, except for his desk chair and the ledge around the bed.

Brian takes a sip of bourbon and sets the glass on the counter but hangs onto it with both hands, rubbing his long fingers caressingly around the crystal tumbler and staring into the dark liquid for a moment, before looking up at me and clearing his throat.

"What?" I can't stand it any longer. "Tell me."

"I've got a new job."

I want to whoop with delight. I want to, but I can't - because Brian's not smiling. "That's - that's good news, isn't it?" I have to ask.

"Of course it's good news." Brian tilts his head and looks disdainfully down his nose at me. The old Brian is back, I think for a moment, till he lets go of his glass and slips a hand across the counter to touch my sleeve. Just a touch but it's a subtle gesture of connection.

"Is this one of those good news/bad news things?" I guess, instinctively knowing the answer.

"Depends on what you mean by 'bad.'" When I say nothing, just wait, Brian gives in a little; I see his shoulders relax slightly and he sighs before going on. "The job's in Los Angeles, at an agency called Bradford and Slate."

"Brian." My heart sinks, and I don't care what is showing on my face, I don't care. "Brian."

"Don't queen out on me, okay?" His voice is harsh, he's almost barking, while at the same time he reaches out again to touch my hand, wraps his fingers around my wrist in a tight grip. Familiar Brian pushme-pullyou maneuvering.

"Brian."

"Justin." His voice mocks me, but gently. Still gently he murmurs, "I can't get hired as a dogcatcher in Pittsburgh now, not after. . . You know that. But I still have a good reputation outside the state, and Vance has offered to give me a recommendation, in spite of everything. This job is an opportunity for me to start over."

I want to say okay, I want to say I understand, I even want to say congratulations. Instead, I say nothing, the tight rein I'm keeping over my emotions won't let me make a sound; I drop my eyes and stare at the countertop trying to remember how to breathe.

After a moment Brian shakes my arm. "You'd like LA," he says, making my eyes fly to his face.

"Huh?"

"Sunshine all the time. You're always whining about cold weather in the Pitts."

"Brian!" I exclaim, "Brian! Are you - asking me to go with you?"

"No," he denies it, "I am not." There's a brief pause, then he adds, "It's your call where you want to be." We both hear the echo in his words, the bad times that that phrase recalls, but we ignore it and move on. "It's your call," he repeats, bending his head, letting his eyes bore into my skull.

"But," I draw a deep breath and demand, "But - you're inviting me to go? You want me to go with you?"

"Well, that's a fucking stupid question." Brian jumps up from the stool and paces around the counter into the kitchen, turns to lean his elbows on the counter and gives me a hooded stare across the space he's put between us.

I stare back at him for a moment, blinking and thinking hard. "Maybe I need that drink after all."

Without answering, Brian turns to the fridge, yanks it open and pulls out a can of diet Coke, sets it down on the counter in front of me. "Don't decide now," he says quickly. "It's a lot to think about. Leaving your mom and everything. And besides, the IFA might let you come back."

I can't afford the tuition even if they did let me back but I won't say that to Brian. He can't pay for my school now, he's got himself to think about, I know he's in debt up to his eyeballs. It should be me helping him, helping to pay off that incredible debt from the TV ad campaign. In fact, I've been thinking about that ever since the election, wondering how I can help. "I'm going to take a year off school," I say now, deciding right at the moment I'm speaking. "I want to get a real job for a while."

"A real job that doesn't include dancing in your underwear, I hope." He's being snide but I'm not offended.

"So I could get a job in LA and we could, you know, share expenses." When he responds only with raised eyebrows, I elaborate. "We could be roommates." When still he says nothing, I add, "If that's okay?"

"I assumed if you came to LA we'd be together." Then Brian pulls away from the counter and adds quickly, "More or less."

I know what 'more or less' means: Free rein for him to fuck around. Well, that's okay. That's more or less okay. Brian will always fuck around, like with the guy who was just here. They were making plans to meet up again tomorrow.

That reminds me to ask, “Brian, why’d you introduce me to your trick? Bruce what’s-his-name, Applecore?”

Brian snorts a laugh, leans forward again resting his arms on the counter. “Applethorpe. He’s not a trick. The agency hooked me up with him in LA.”

“Hooked you up?”

“Bruce has been at Bradford and Slate a couple years, he’s an ad exec too, well actually he’s in the sales end, not marketing. But now he's just been hired at Jantsen’s here in the Pitts. He’s moving east and I’m moving west, so we discussed switching domiciles for a year. He doesn’t want to commit to buying till he knows he’s going to stay here, and I feel the same about LA.”

“Brian – that’s brilliant! Except – did you see his place already? Is it as cool as your loft?”

“Yes I did and no, it’s not. It’s smaller – real estate prices in California are unreal – but it’s in a good location. It’s a condo in Hollywood, near the Sunset Strip. He paid for location, not space, it’s about half the square footage of the loft.”

“Wow, that’s not very big! Will you be too crowded with me there too?”

“Probably. But there’s a storage cupboard under the stairs where you can sleep.”

“Fuck you! Did you take pictures?”

“No.” Brian’s tired of the subject now, that’s more sharing than I have any reason to expect from Mister Tightlips; he changes the subject. “Are you hungry – did you have dinner before coming over?”

“Yes but yes, it was a couple hours ago, let’s go to the deli, I’ll buy you a pastrami sandwich!”

Straightening up, Brian agrees, “Okay, but I want to finish unpacking first,” then heads up the steps to the bedroom with me hurrying after him.

“I’ll help!” I offer eagerly; suddenly I’m getting excited. Brian’s moving to California and I’m going with him! “When are we leaving, Brian? Can I bring my computer? We’ll have to ship everything or get one of those moving companies, and – “

“Stop, you’re exhausting me already. Right now I just want to eat and fuck, and sleep for about twelve hours.”

With a laugh, I demand in sing-song staccato, “Who you gonna fuck?”

“Don’t.” Brian lifts his suitcase onto the bed and unzips it.

“Who you gonna fuck?” I demand, raising my voice.

“Stop.”

“Say it, Brian. Say it.” I grab his arm and pull him around sideways to face me. “Say it.”

Brian closes his eyes and groans, then shakes his head, I can tell he’s ready to cave.

“Who you gonna fuck?” I whisper, then Brian reaches out to grab my shoulders and shake me, hard.

“Ball-busters!” he growls, shaking me again.

It’s a game I’ve made him play a dozen times, since I rented Ghostbusters and we watched it together. I never get tired of it but I know Brian’s sick of the whole thing - but that’s half the fun, making him say it for me anyway. We both laugh then, leaning against each other for a moment, but quickly Brian stops and pushes me away again. “Now shut up and help me unpack or I’ll find somebody else to fuck tonight.”

“You’re too tired to go out looking,” I remind him.

“Put these in the hamper,” he says, handing me a stack of dirty underwear and shirts. “And I don’t need to go out, there’s hustlers who’ll come right to my door.”

“Ha,” I laugh, as I grab the laundry and take it into the bathroom, throwing over my shoulder, “I’m not worried - you’d never find a hustler who looks like me.”



Brian

It's going to be all right. I couldn't ask him - I could never ask him to make such an abrupt change in his life, just so we can be together. And I have no choice but to go to LA - if I want to salvage my career, make a new start, somehow retrieve my reputation and my financial solvency.

I've managed - barely - not to panic, thinking about the future. Then Vance of all people gave me a lead on the LA job, and promised a good recommendation. His call came out of the blue - I'd never have contacted him, never would have asked for his help. I'm still amazed that he made the connection, made the effort; he even wished me luck. I owe him a thank you, hard as that call will be, I owe him that much.

Justin's in the shower and I want to join him but I can't get out of bed. There's so much to do today that somehow I'm temporarily paralyzed, thinking about it. Then I fling back the duvet and swing my legs over the side. Deciding to put everything on hold until I meet with Bruce at lunch, I walk into the bathroom and take a piss, watching Justin's creamy pink skin behind the steamed-up glass walls of the shower. If Bruce and I can agree on the domicile exchange, I'll ask Melanie to draw up the legal paperwork to make it official. I'd assumed I'd have to sell the loft, something I really don’t want to do, but I knew that renting a place in LA would be outrageously expensive. So though it's not perfect and there's bound to be some problems along the way, this house switch is a very practical solution.

I'd told Justin that Bruce's condo is about half the size of the loft; it's really a bit bigger than that, but even if it were a room over a garage, I'd take it. Now I'll only have to pay utilities and phone; Bruce even plans to leave some of his furniture. He's got a king-size bed with a mirrored headboard, a bit much but then it's in Hollywood - all things considered, Bruce's taste is not too flashy or absurd. I was tempted to give the bed a trial run with its owner, but in the end, we both tacitly decided to keep things on a business level.

Pulling open the shower door, I climb in beside Justin, whose skin is so deliciously slippery when wet, we kiss and I ask, "What's taking you so long in here?"

Sliding his arms around my waist, Justin smiles up at me and sings, "California dreamin' on a winter's daaaaaaaaaaaaay!"

"It's summer, and time to stop dreaming. You're sure you want to go? No second thoughts?"

"Yes! No! I can't wait to tell everybody!" He pulls up short then and asks, "Is it okay to tell everybody, or is it a secret?"

"Not a secret," I shake my head, "But wait till things are settled. I'll see Bruce today and if he agrees to the switch, I'll call you, and you can shout it from the rooftops."

"Mom's going to be upset."

He's solemn for a moment, and I almost shudder despite the warmth of the steamy water. As if Jennifer doesn't hate me enough already, now I'll be dragging her baby across state lines for immoral purposes. Let him tell her, let her get accustomed to the idea before she comes anywhere near me, I don't want to see those killer-mom eyes staring death rays at me.

Reading my thoughts, something he's too damned good at, Justin pulls me tight against him and says soothingly, "I won't let her hurt you, I promise." We laugh then and I push all thoughts of Jennifer Taylor out of my head and bend down to taste those delicious juicy lips. I missed him while I was in LA, a surprise somehow, I've never really missed anyone before.

Well, maybe I missed him a little when he was with that fucking fiddle player.

Justin’s lips open beneath mine, my tongue slips inside and I taste mint-flavor Crest as I explore the landscape of his mouth, sliding my tongue across the roof of his mouth and touching each smooth round molar, like it’s an erogenous zone. Maybe it is because suddenly he sucks my tongue further inside and moans when I briefly flick across the back of his throat, preparing it to receive my cock. He knows what I want and pulls slowly away, pausing to smile at me as our lips part, then he hangs onto my hips for balance as he lowers himself to his knees on the smooth marble floor at my feet.

“I missed you,” Justin whispers, but he’s not talking to me, he’s talking to my cock – looking it in the eye and darting out his tongue to give it a brief teasing flick. Rubbing his cheek against the shaft as he lowers his face to pay slippery wet homage to my balls, I realize that I can feel the merest downy stubble, Justin’s growing a bit of a beard at last – or as much of a beard as a blond boy just leaving his teens can grow. I remind myself to mention it to him – later – then give myself up to the pleasure of his practiced and talented tongue.

No one’s ever blown me with as much skill as grace and fucking red-hot excitement as Justin Taylor. He learned his craft from me of course, but I can’t take all the credit; I think in this instance the pupil has surpassed the teacher. He denies it, but it makes for some interesting arguments, in fact sometimes we play dueling blow-jobs, one of the many silly but endearing and incredibly hot sex games invented by this boy kneeling at my feet. He’s not a boy, of course, he’s a man, but in a way, I’m resisting letting Justin grow up, at the same time having no patience for childish things.

Poor kid, he can’t win with me, I know it, and yet I, and yet I. . .

Now he’s licking the vein throbbing on the side of my cock, slowly licking the full length, never fuller than when Justin’s lips are busy there. I hear him take a quick gasp of air before sliding his lips around my cock and sucking it quickly and deeply into his throat, all the way to the base! A moan escapes my lips and I move my hands from Justin’s shoulders to his head, clasping squeaky-wet handfuls of his beautiful long blond hair. Who knew that I would love it this length, I can’t keep my hands off. . .off of it, and I. . .and I. . .Christ, Christ, I can’t concentrate when he, while he’s. . .Jesus Christ almighty!



Justin

"Mom, I am going with him, no question; we're partners now, we need to be together."

"Is that what Brian says? Or are you putting words in his mouth, making excuses for him dragging you so far away from your home and your family?"

If Brian said the word 'partner' he'd choke on his own tongue, but of course, I won't tell Mom that.

"Yes, he feels the same way, and please don't give him a bad time about it, okay? Besides," I add hastily, mentally crossing my fingers, "Brian says you can come visit us anytime you want." He hasn't actually said that, but he'll be okay with it.

Mom nods her head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "When are you leaving?"

"Soon. I don't know exactly, but I think Brian has to be at the new job in about a week. I'm going to help with the practical stuff, packing and settling in at the condo."

"Like a housewife."

"NOT like a housewife," I contradict; "Like a partner."

Mom raises her eyebrows but turns away before I have to officially see and acknowledge her frown. "Hmm," is all she says.

Later, in the middle of my shift at the diner, Brian comes in with Michael. I knew he was back in town but I haven't seen him yet, I thought he was lying low. "Hey," I greet him, coming up to the table just as they slide into a booth. "How's the kid?"

"What kid?"

Brian rolls his eyes. "Justin won't give away your secrets."

Michael's exasperated. "The less people know about him, the better," he mutters.

"Justin's not 'people,' remember?"

I should be pleased that Brian's sticking up for me - well, I am pleased, but while watching them go through their fake feud routine used to be amusing, now it's a boring rerun. Yet I'm interested in this story in spite of myself.

When Michael stubbornly keeps his lips tightly shut, Brian shakes his head and relaxes in the booth, sprawling his long legs under the table. "The kid's in hiding," he says quietly - there's no one nearby to overhear. "Mikey and Ben are working with an attorney who specializes in abused-kid law, or whatever it's called. If Hunter's mom can be proved an unfit parent, they might have a chance to become Hunter's foster parents - officially."

"Wow," I exhale a big sigh, "That's great. But - I didn't know gays could be foster parents in Pennsylvania?"

"We don’t know yet either," Michael says, glancing around the half-empty diner before finally looking at me and letting down his guard. "But it helps that Hunter is also gay, and HIV positive. Kids like him are hard to place, the lawyer says, so the court might be more lenient under the circumstances."

"Good luck, Michael," I respond, matching his sincerity, and I even reach out and squeeze his shoulder briefly, though I know he doesn't like me to touch him.

"Thanks." It's grudging but that's okay, Michael and I will never be friends, the best we can do is tolerate each other.

I never thought of myself as a grudge-holder, but I can't forget the time Michael told me to disappear, to divorce myself from the whole family just because I'd run away from Brian. That hurt so much at the time, I've tried hard to let it go but it's still there, crouching in a tiny corner of my brain whenever I see Michael. And I know he still resents me for coming between them. If I hadn't - with my own eyes - seen Brian punch him out at the party, I'd never have believed it. I think it was that moment frozen in time - seeing Brian spin around and throw that punch - that stuck in my mind, and gave me the courage later to try and get Brian back again. Maybe I owe Michael for that; maybe I should throw away the lingering resentment I have toward Brian's best friend.

"So," I turn to Brian, "You've got your car back now?"

"Yes he does," Michael pipes up, but "Yes and no," Brian corrects him.

It's silent for a moment as they stare at each other, then Michael turns his eyes to me. "Brian wants to sell the 'vette and give us the money for legal fees."

"Oh." Careful to keep my face blank, I pause a moment then ask, "Um, do you guys want to order dinner now?"



Michael

Why do I still resent that kid so much? He's not even a kid anymore, Hunter's a kid, Hunter's the kid in my life, and Justin - who's always been a thorn in my side - is going away. That should make me happy, but he's going away with Brian. I don't want to go away with Brian, but it's all just so fucking unfair.

Ben insists that we can't take Brian's money but I think we should. Brian's always helped me out, all my life practically, and he insists he's okay financially now, with the new job in LA, he says he can afford it. Without his help I don't know how we'll pay the lawyer, the expenses keep mounting up every day. The shop's doing okay but barely turning a profit, small businesses always take a few years to get off the ground. We've been living off Ben's salary, he has a small savings account but we've been eating into that every month and with all these legal expenses, I just don't know how we'll manage.

The alternative is giving up on Hunter, and I'll never do that. No sacrifice is too great, not even if it means we have to accept help from Brian.



Brian

Finally Ben's agreed to a compromise, we'll split the proceeds from the sale of the 'vette, though he insists it's a loan and is having Mel draw up a promissory note. He can't understand that I'll always have a responsibility for Mikey, I promised Deb years ago that I'd look out for him and to me, that's a lifetime commitment. Justin doesn't understand either, though he's careful to keep his distance from this whole situation and doesn't - as I'd really expect him to do - rag on me or try to influence me about the car.

It's worked out great, in the end, I've sold the 'vette to a collector in Philadelphia, even making a couple thou' profit on the deal. So I bought a new jeep - a much more practical vehicle, and there's enough left over to pay for shipping our worldly goods (such as they are ) to Los Angeles. Bruce gave me a list of furniture he's leaving for our use - the rest he's either putting in storage or having sent here to Pittsburgh - and I've done the same. Not that there’s much to leave for him – the bed, a few chests of drawers. I’m taking my desk and Justin wants his too, and we’ve both got some boxes of junk that we’ll probably be sorry we paid to have shipped to California.

We're leaving in two days - driving cross-country. It's more practical than flying with only a suitcase of clothes. This way we can take our computers and other things we'll need right away. The moving company won't deliver the rest of our stuff to LA for almost a week.

Now all that's left is this fucking farewell party tomorrow night at Deb's. Christ, you'd think this family would have learned by now not to have parties - something terrible is bound to happen. Justin laughs at me, says I'm superstitious. Maybe I am. Maybe I just dread all the emotional bullshit, the speeches, the tears. And Jennifer. Jennifer will be there, glaring daggers at me for stealing her son. Christ, I wish we could have just slipped away silently into the night, without passing Go, without collecting two hundred kisses.



Justin

The party is more emotional than I thought it would be - I'm excited that we're going to California and so is Brian, though naturally he preserves his cool facade of near-disinterest, but everyone else is downright maudlin. Lindsay hugged Brian so long and cried so hard that she started Gus crying, while Melanie can hardly hide her glee that Brian's going away. Michael cried and hung onto Brian, Debbie cried on both of us, Daphne cried and hung onto me, and Mom keeps smiling the whole time while surreptitiously wiping tears off her cheeks. Emmett cried just because everyone else was crying. It's really pretty dreadful and I'm glad that we’re leaving so early tomorrow morning, it's an excuse to make an early exit from the party tonight and get away from all this drama.

Everyone follows us to the door en masse for a final farewell, I spare a glance at Brian and can see that he's almost at the breaking point - I'm frankly amazed he didn't simply tell everyone to fuck off and stomp out of Deb's house an hour ago. We gather up all our going-away presents (and how does Em imagine we'll transport a six-foot-tall rubber tree plant cross-country?) and we're enduring final hugs and kisses, when I notice Mom pulling Brian aside and whispering something to him. The din's so loud he doesn't hear her, and I see him mouthing, "What?"

Right then everyone shuts up, so Mom's question is loud in the sudden hush. "I said," she repeats patiently, "Justin told me that you and he are partners now, and I just want to hear it from you."

"Hear what?" Brian stalls, glancing around at all the intent and interested faces.

"Is it true," Mom repeats, "That you and Justin are partners?"

Brian's silent for a moment and I know I should rescue him. I know I should jump in, interrupt the third-degree, change the subject. But I don't. I want to hear Brian's answer. Maybe it's not fair for Mom to put Brian on the spot, but still, I want to hear his answer. So does everyone else.

Finally, Brian clears his throat, and after one more near-panicky glance around the huddled crowd, he takes a deep breath, turns and looks at Mom. "Yes," he says at last. And then, being Brian, he can't help adding, "More or less."

"And Brian," Mom persists, "I really need to know. Do you love my son? Are you in love with Justin?"

Another long silence, not even Gus is making a peep, everyone's straining to hear Brian's answer. Glaring at Mom he hesitates for a moment, then he turns to look at me. "Possibly," he answers through gritted teeth, all the while staring into my eyes. "Probably. More or less."

Turning abruptly away, Brian hurries down the front steps, with me - my face wreathed in smiles (and everyone else - almost everyone else - grinning almost as happily) hurrying close behind him. At the sidewalk, I turn for a final goodbye wave but Brian's urging me to get into the jeep.

"Hurry the fuck up," he's growling as I get in and struggle to fasten the seat belt, "Or I'll leave town without you."

That makes me start laughing and Brian growls at me again as he shoves the key in the ignition and brings the engine roaring to life, "What's so fucking funny? Don't you believe me?"

"Sure I do, Brian, sure I believe you," I tell him earnestly, and then I turn away to hide my smile and murmur under my breath, "More or less."

Chapter 2: Wilderness Adventure by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian and Justin are trekking west.

 

 

 

Justin

"If you start singing 'On the Road Again' again, I'm turning around and going back."

"Brian, you're getting crabby, which means you're tired, which means you need to let me drive for a while."

"I am not crabby. I am not tired."

"You've been driving all day, of course, you're tired."

Brian glances at the clock in the dashboard and corrects me. "Eight hours and three minutes. Not counting twelve stops for food. In the next city, we're buying an ice chest for the back seat."

"There's no room. Besides, we've only stopped twice - once for lunch in Indianapolis, and once at a gas station to use the men's room. I bought snacks there but that's not why we stopped. You pissed too, remember?"

"You're forgetting McDonalds."

"Brian, that was six a.m., that was breakfast, before we got on the freeway. It doesn't count as a stop because we hadn't officially started yet."

"Hmm. Anyway, I'm not tired. You can drive later."

"You said that ages ago. Later it will be dark, and then you'll say you don't want me driving in the dark."

"I don't want you driving in the dark."

"So let me drive now."

"Jesus Christ," he grumps, quickly changing lanes, then changing lanes again and pulling off onto the shoulder of the highway. Throwing the jeep into park, he exclaims, "Three thousand miles of nagging! What the fuck was I thinking?"

That's rhetorical so at first I’m going to let it pass, but then I have to correct him. “Two thousand four hundred and twenty-eight miles. Don’t exaggerate.”

We get out and walk around the car, trading places. As he buckles his seat belt, Brian's glancing over his shoulder and he says, "Be sure to signal. Watch out for that tanker."

"The tanker is three lanes over, I'm not going to pull in front of it. Don't backseat drive, okay?"

Rubbing a hand over his face, Brian relaxes in the seat, leans his head against the headrest and sighs deeply. "I need a sedative."

"Fuck you." I'm extra cautious pulling back onto the highway, he's made me nervous which is ridiculous, I really am an excellent driver. He's just hypersensitive because the jeep is new - when we stopped for lunch he was annoyed to discover bugs splatted all over the grill. He wanted to drive through a carwash but I talked him out of it. There's going to be a million more bugs glued to the car by the time we get to LA.

I'm sure that Brian's uptight about this move, wondering if he's doing the right thing, maybe worried about impressing everybody at his new agency. It's hard to imagine Brian Kinney less than supremely confident about anything but I've been on to him since almost day one and so I know he has self-doubts, though he'd never admit it to another soul. Except maybe to Michael.

Leaving Michael is probably the hardest part of moving for Brian. He might not acknowledge it - well, I'm sure he'd never acknowledge it, probably not even to himself. But I know that he and Michael have always been there for each other and now they'll be on opposite ends of the country. I used to be jealous of the bond between them but now I realize that one person can't fill all the needs in your life. I love Brian, but that doesn't mean I don't still need Daphne, and my mom, and a few other people. Brian's the same.

"Where's your master navigation chart?"

That's five minutes of relaxing, Brian's maxed out. He's not good at relaxing.

"I shoved it under the seat."

Brian reaches down and pulls out the clipboard where I've attached our driving itinerary with maps and notes. I'm really very proud of it, I downloaded lots of travel info and I've charted our route cross-country. When I showed it to him a couple days ago I could tell he was impressed, but of course, he had to critique it and make revisions. He's insisting on driving almost straight through with only two overnight stops, in Oklahoma City and in Phoenix. I wish we could take more time and stop to see things along the way, but he's in a hurry to get to California.

"Where do you want to stop for dinner?"

Without looking up from the clipboard, Brian huffs. "It's only been two hours since lunch, don't you ever think of anything but food?"

"Yeah," I tell him, "I also think about sex but you didn't leave time for that in our schedule."

"I'll fuck you tonight at the hotel."

"Not if I'm asleep you won't."

"Sure I will," he contradicts. "But I'll be very quiet so I don't wake you up."

That makes me laugh. "As if I could ever sleep through THAT."

I feel Brian staring at me and I glance across the seat; he's frowning. "You've done it before."

"I have not." When he says nothing, I glance at him again, he's still frowning. "You're joking, aren't you?"

"Yeah," he agrees. "Watch out for that white truck, it's changing lanes."



Brian

I must have been out of my mind to agree to a three-day road trip. Justin's doing some of the driving and he's a good driver - not that I'd tell him but he can figure it out - if he weren't a good driver, I'd never let him behind the wheel. But while I don't mind Justin or Michael driving the jeep around town, usually when they're doing that it's because I'm wasted. Now I'm damnably sober and it's hard to sit still, almost white-knuckled from forcing my hands to not grab the steering wheel, restraining myself from growling helpful driving advice.

Besides, driving keeps my mind focused on the road; here in the passenger seat, I'm relaxed (more or less) and my brain is free to stumble through the maze of worries and problems facing me when we reach LA. Mostly I'm thinking about the new job where I won't have my reputation for excellence paving my way, I won't have my reliable contacts, I'll be starting practically from scratch. In a way, that's an exciting challenge and I try to focus on the challenge aspect. I'm not afraid of failure - I've never failed at anything in my life. Well, nothing related to my career. But it's not likely that I'll be an overnight success either, I'll need to be patient. Something I'm not very good at.

Partly I'm second-guessing the wisdom of bringing Justin along. Will he be a major distraction? What's funny is that I really couldn't bear the thought of leaving him behind. That's ridiculous because I know there's about a million hot guys in LA who will want to fall into my bed, so what do I need a live-in lover for anyway?

Lover. Well, Justin is my lover, I can't deny it. For a long time, I did deny it, but the funny thing is, once Justin was out of my life, on his own and living with that fucking musician, I discovered that I sort of missed him. Sort of missed having him sleep beside me every night, missed the noise and mess and turmoil he created in my loft and in my life. Even the bad times we shared were almost preferable to the outrageous emptiness and silence once he was gone.

Even so, even though we've been back together for a while, we haven't been living together and I wonder if I'm going to like it. Or if - once I have noisy and messy Justin under my feet again, am I going to be sorry? The phrase 'Can't live with him, can't live without him' springs to mind. I have a feeling that's going to describe the mixed blessing of having Justin as a roommate once again.

He's excited about the move. He's still young and inexperienced enough to expect the future to be bright and shiny. Maybe his optimism will rub off on me. And Justin is resilient - good Christ, he's bounced back from so many negative experiences the past couple years which would have knocked a weaker man on his ass. Maybe his resiliency will buoy me up.

I almost laugh out loud when I realize that I'm acting as if I need him. Acting as if I am dependent upon someone besides myself to cope with the challenges ahead. I remember telling Justin a long time ago, 'You're all you need, you're all you've got.' Another one of my famous credos put to the test. I believed it then. And I still believe it - philosophically. But the reality is different. I'm not all I've got. And damn it all to hell, I'm not all I need.


Justin

I didn't mean to fall asleep, I wanted to be awake and keep Brian talking so he'd stay alert. When his hand on my shoulder shakes me awake, immediately I pop upright on the seat and insist, "I'm not sleeping!"

"You've been sleeping the past hundred miles," he tells me dryly, then his voice softens and he says, "Which is exactly what I wanted you to do. No point both of us being awake."

"Where are we?" It's pitch black though scattered lights on either side of the car seem to indicate that we're on the outskirts of civilization. I rub my eyes and blink hard a few times, then strain to read the clock on the dashboard. One forty-five. "Is this Oklahoma City?"

"Yeah, we'll be there in ten or fifteen minutes I think. Grab your clipboard and tell me the address of the hotel."

I pull out the itinerary sheets and by penlight read the Yahoo map directions I'd printed out from the computer. It was Brian's idea that we make hotel reservations. I thought we could just find a motel room along the way but he said since we'd be arriving late at our two stopover places, he'd rather know he had a comfortable bed waiting for him, and not waste time driving around looking for a motel without cockroaches.

Soon we leave the highway and enter the city streets. It's very quiet, there's not much traffic at two in the morning, and it doesn't take long to find our hotel. The reception area is deserted and then a desk clerk comes from a back room, yawning. We each carry just a small overnight bag, and when the clerk hands Brian a keycard, we take the elevator to our floor and enter a really pretty room decorated in dark green and gold, with a king size bed.

Now I'm glad Brian insisted on staying here. We pull off our clothes and climb into the huge tub and indulge in a long and very hot shower. We've hardly said a word the past half hour, and when we dry off and slide into the big bed between cool sheets, I expect us both to drop off to sleep within moments. Brian's got other ideas.

"Can you stay awake for fifteen minutes?" he asks, and the tone of his voice makes my heart lurch in my chest.

"Mmm," I murmur agreement, turning to slide into his waiting arms and raising my face for his kiss.



Brian

I'm much more exhausted than I thought I'd be, for some reason this long-distance driving is very tiring. Justin drove twice yesterday, each time for a couple hours, which gave me a good rest in between long stretches; he wanted to drive more, and I promised he could do so today. I left an eight o'clock wake-up call, God knows how many times the phone rings before we rouse up to answer it.

We grab a quick morning shower and Justin wants to blow me, but I give him a choice between that and making a quick visit to the Oklahoma City Memorial. He'd nagged about stopping to see places of interest on our cross-country trek and while I said no to most of them - this isn't a vacation or a pleasure trip after all - I agreed that he could do one thing at each overnight stop.

"Bri-an," he whines; he always makes two long syllables of my name when he wants something. "A good quickie blow-job will energize us, it's a healthy way to start the day."

"Then we'll skip breakfast instead."

"Bri-an!"

So we share fast blow-jobs. I don't waste time shaving and we wear the same jeans we wore yesterday, just changing shirts, and hurry down to the hotel dining room for breakfast.


Justin

I promised Brian we’d spend no more than an hour at the Memorial Center but it was almost two hours before we left there. He didn’t complain, in fact, I could tell he was really moved by the exhibits though he didn’t comment much. Outside there’s an open area filled with empty chairs and other symbolic memorial stuff, and there’s a chalkboard area where you can leave messages. Brian waited patiently while I drew a picture of a dove on the chalkboard. I hoped it wasn’t too clichéd, but when I was done Brian put his arm around me and kissed my hair so I guess he approved.

Inside the memorial building, there are huge glass cases full of office furniture and stuff recovered from the wreckage of the explosion. And a room with a curving glass wall with photos of all the victims. A lot of small children were killed in the bombing and their photographs are there, too.

Brian was moving a bit faster than me, staying just a few feet ahead while I studied all the photos. I was so engrossed in the pictures, I didn’t notice that Brian had stopped until I walked right into him.

I looked up at him, startled; he was standing stock-still, staring at the display. We’d almost reached the end of the curving glass wall, and I looked around, trying to see what Brian was staring at. Then I saw it: A photo of a boy on a swing, caught in mid-swing, his legs pumping, his feet reaching up toward the sky. A boy about three years old, with dark curly hair and big brown eyes, laughing exuberantly into the camera. The boy looked almost exactly like Gus.

“Brian – “

“Aagh,” Brian choked.

“Brian – “ I reached out to touch his arm but he pulled roughly away, turned abruptly away and strode off quickly past the end of the display and out of the room. I hurried after him but he picked up speed and almost lost me as he moved across the polished floors and through a couple doorways until he found the exit and burst urgently out of the building.

Outside I picked up speed and ran, I was out of breath when I reached him. “Brian, stop.” He didn’t seem to hear me, so I grabbed hold of his arm. “Brian, slow down, I can’t keep up with you.”

He stopped then and turned to stare down at me. I was shocked by his face, it was drawn up into a harsh grimace and he seemed to be grinding his teeth.

“Brian,” I said urgently, “Gus is safe. He’s at home with his moms, he’s okay.”

“What?” Brian shook his head, then focused his eyes on my face. “I – I know. It wasn’t, I didn’t, I don’t – “

“It shocked me too, Brian. The photograph.”

“What photograph?” he asked, swallowing hard and looking away as his hands fumbled in his pockets and he pulled out his cigarette pack and lighter.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” He turned back to look at me again, raising those eyebrows with seeming carelessness as he shook loose a cigarette and tried to light it. His hands were visibly shaking.

“Don’t,” I repeated, taking the lighter from him and holding it toward his cigarette. “Don’t shut me out.”

Inhaling deeply and then immediately nosily exhaling a cloud of white smoke, Brian regarded the end of his cigarette. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Brian – “ I put my hand on his arm again but he turned away.

”Ready to go?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer, just moved off in the direction of the parking lot. I could feel my shoulders slump with defeat, feeling sorry but not really surprised that Brian wasn’t going to share his feelings with me. Sometimes it seems like we’re getting close to creating a different kind of relationship; sometimes it feels like we’re two good friends who happen to be lovers. But maybe I’m fooling myself; maybe it’ll never happen. I love Brian and I know he loves me, even if he never says the words. That’s enough. That has to be enough.

By the time we reach the parking lot I’ve shrugged off my disappointment, and Brian has obviously shrugged off whatever sadness or worry or upset he was feeling over seeing the photo of the boy who looked like Gus. I take my place as navigator and check my Yahoo printouts, reading the directions that lead us away from the city and onto the freeway headed west.

A few miles outside town Brian pulls off to gas up and then says I can drive. I gobble a granola bar from my stash in the boot and get behind the wheel. We’re quiet for a while, then I notice that Brian’s eyes are closed, his head resting on the back of the seat. I’m glad he’s taking a nap, I know he was really tired from yesterday though of course Brian-like he’d denied it.


Brian

I didn't mean to fall asleep, I must be more tired than I realized. I awake with a jerk and sit up straight, glancing anxiously around at the countryside passing by the window.

“Don’t worry, we’re on the right highway,” Justin reassures me, reading my mind. I should have known he wouldn’t make a wrong turn and get us lost. “Next stop, Arizona!”

“Justin,” I say, “Take the next exit.”

“Hmm? We’re okay for gas, do you need to take a piss or something?”

“Or something.”

It’s ten miles or so before we reach an exit, an exit which looks like it leads directly to Bumfuck, Arkansas. Justin slows down and takes the off-ramp onto what looks like a main road. “Are we looking for a gas station, or what?”

“Just drive.”

He throws a curious glance at me, opens his mouth and then shuts it again and keeps driving. In a few minutes, we come to a dirt road that intersects the paved one and I direct him to turn onto the road, which he does without comment, and when we come to a clump of trees I tell him to pull over. We’re stopped under a canopy of leafy trees shading the jeep, in the middle of nowhere, empty fields covered with bushes and scrub all around us.

Justin throws the jeep into park, kills the engine, and turns sideways in the seat, smiling quizzically.

Before I can change my mind, immediately I begin speaking. “You were right. About the photograph freaking me out. It did look almost like Gus.”

Justin loses his smile, reaches out to touch me but thinks better of it and pulls back his arm. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I thought so.”

“I didn’t want to talk about it. I still don’t, but. . .”

Justin folds his hands in his lap and waits.

Finally, I sigh and shake my head, turn to look out the windshield at nothing. “But – I know you want me to share things with you. Emotional things." I hesitate, then turn back to look at him again. "It's just not natural - for me - to do that. You need to understand that."

"I do understand," Justin says quickly. "I just - sometimes I just wish that you. . ." He stops abruptly.

"You wish that I what?"

Justin lowers his eyes and stares at his hands that have started twisting together in his lap. Quietly he says, "I wish that you trusted me."

Fuck. "It's not a matter of trust - "

Raising his head and staring at my face, Justin murmurs, "Isn't it?"

"No." Then the truth: "I don't know." When still he says nothing, I add, "You should stop waiting for me to change. It's not going to happen."

Justin's silent for a moment, then he asks, "Did you have me pull off the highway in the middle of nowhere just to tell me that you aren't going to tell me anything?"

I almost laugh at that. It's a good question. I don't answer right away, then I feel myself relaxing and leaning back in the seat. "I wanted to clear the air. I didn't want to watch you pouting all the way to Los Angeles."

"I wasn't pouting!"

He's positively bristling with indignation and then I do laugh. Reaching over to take his hands in mine, I squeeze them as I lean over and butt his forehead with my own. “You have pouting down to an art form.”

He calms under the touch of my head against his but as we stare cross-eyed at each other, he insists – quietly – “I wasn’t pouting. I was just feeling a little sad.”

“Well, stop it, okay?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, then he asks, “Brian, are you worried that something might happen to Gus when you’re not there? When you’re far away and not there to protect him?”

I don’t want to answer Justin and yet he’s right, in a way. “Not entirely.” I pull away and sit upright in my own seat again, roll down the window and take a deep breath of country air: it smells green and earthy and vaguely soothing.

That’s not entirely what upset me so badly, seeing the photograph of the little boy who died in Oklahoma City.

Justin waits. He’s pushing; he’s always pushing just that extra little bit.

What I don’t want to tell him, what I’ve never told anybody, not even Michael. . .i s that I feel almost like I carry a curse. The Brian Kinney Curse. The concept is too ridiculous to talk about, too silly and melodramatic and preposterous. And yet it’s happened so many times: Me just being around other people makes bad things happen to them. Not only can’t I protect anybody – well Christ, look how I failed Justin! – but it’s mere association with me that seems to bring misfortune down on people’s heads.

I should never have agreed to father a child. I remember standing on the hospital roof the night Gus was born, ready to fling myself off the ledge to go crashing down to the street below. I pretended to be angry at the responsibility of fatherhood – actually, that was not a pretense, I WAS angry, but I had a much deeper anger that night. I was furious with myself, for helping to create a child who would probably suffer the consequences of the Kinney Curse.

Of course what’s even more illogical than the concept of the Kinney Curse is that, if indeed I do bring misfortune down on others, then the fact that I’m leaving almost all the people I care about behind me could be seen as a positive act, freeing them from the consequences of associating with me. So why then am I feeling so anxious, why do I have this sense of doom that something terrible is going to happen to Gus?

I’ve never completely put this idea of the Kinney Curse into words inside my head; it’s been an amorphous unspoken concept that I’ve mostly chosen not to acknowledge, even to myself. The whole idea diminishes me somehow. So of course, I’m not going to tell Justin. I’m not. Instead, I hear my voice as if from a long distance away saying, “I have – not a premonition – just a bad feeling about Gus. I know that it’s meaningless but it’s fucking with my head.”

“Oh,” Justin says, and I brace myself for an amateur lecture on the psychology of fear. Justin thinks he’s a master of analysis and I dread giving him an opening to bombard me with pycho-babble or even worse, banal platitudes.

“Do you,” he begins, and I brace myself; “Do you feel guilty, for leaving Gus?”

“Of course not,” I curl my lip at him dismissively. Then I realize that, stupid as it seems, I do feel guilty. But, “I don’t buy into that guilt shit,” I tell him, and at least THAT’S the truth.

Justin reaches over to touch my arm and says tentatively, “You felt guilty when I got hurt at the prom. You thought it was your fault, but it wasn’t.”

I want to deny it but I can’t. “That was different,” is the best I can do. Because it WAS my fault, at least partly. Everybody else thought so too – except Justin.

“It was really painful for you,” Justin’s telling me now – and who gave him permission to talk about the bashing? “So now maybe you think, if something happens to Gus while you’re far away, you’ll feel guilty too. Maybe you’re worried about having that guilt pain again.”

“No.”

He ignores my protest. “I’ll bet every parent feels guilty when they leave their kid,” Justin tells me. He curls his fingers around my wrist as if taking my pulse. When I say nothing he goes on, “Maybe that’s all it is, Brian. Just normal parent shit.”

“I’m not a normal parent," I growl. "And I didn’t ask for a lecture, or for any sage advice from someone of your advanced years.”

Justin should be insulted but he’s not. "I'm full of good advice," he tells me with a smirk.

"You're full of it, all right." My voice is still gruff but I don't pull away. Instead, I lean down and press my forehead to his again and when his eyes close, I kiss him. Just a small kiss. Just a few small kisses. Kisses that warm up as he slides closer, leaning across the gearbox, slipping his arms around my neck. My arms circle around behind him, slide up underneath his shirt to caress the soft skin of his back, one hand slips down below his waistband and he raises up slightly in the seat so I can move my hand down a few inches to stroke his smooth ass.

"Brian," he murmurs, the eagerness of his voice traveling directly from my eardrums in a straight line to my cock, already straining at the buttons of my jeans. When his hands drop to my lap and fumble with the buttons, I stop kissing him for a moment and look around us: Empty fields, silence except for the soughing sound of a light breeze riffling the leaves of the trees arching above the jeep, a sibilant shushing sound of insects, probably fucking their little bug guts out in the grass under the trees.

"Brian," Justin's eager voice urges me, "Let's do it outdoors, we've never done it outdoors before!"

"We've done it outdoors a million times."

"In alleyways! In the car! We've never done it in sunshine, in the country, in the grass!"

Justin's fervor almost makes me laugh; often he’s been able to rout the cynic inside me with his semi-innocent enthusiasm. Still, I'm not going to roll around in the dirt to commune with fucking nature, not even for Justin.

But. . . "Come on!" he's urging, his face glowing with the famous Sunshine smile. "Let's go find a private spot away from the road!"

Pulling back, trying to release his hands from the front of my jeans, I intone incredulously, "You mean – hike?"

Still laughing, Justin opens his door and jumps outside, runs around and yanks open the passenger door. "Come ON," he insists, "A little exercise won't kill you, we've been sitting in the car for DAYS."

Groaning, I allow Justin to pull me out of the jeep, grabbing the keys and locking up before following him as he pushes aside a tall bush and leads the way into the wilderness.

Okay, so it's not wilderness, but it's definitely the boondocks, it feels like the back of beyond. "Careful," I warn him, following reluctantly behind, "There's probably snakes."

"And lions and tigers and bears, oh my!" Justin laughs over his shoulder, moving through knee-high grass. There's a bit of a path that he's following, though it seems seldom-used and is barely discernible in places.

Most of the country through which we've been driving is flat prairie land, or at least it looks flat from the highway. Up close and personal it's really a combination of rolling prairie, small hillocks, scattered outcrops of rock and occasional clumps of trees. We wade through the tall grass for a quarter mile ('about three blocks' I call it, till Justin reminds me that there are no blocks in the country). Then we come to another stand of trees that Justin thinks are cottonwoods, though both of us are horticulturally-challenged - they could be willows or junipers or fucking palm trees for all I know. Well, I think I can identify a palm tree, but who cares; these trees have rough bark and skinny leaves and big roots sticking up out of the ground.

"We're going to get grass stains," I complain bitterly as Justin drops to his knees and pulls me down beside him.

"No, we won't - let's get undressed." Already he's dragging his shirt off over his head and, after a quick glance around the empty landscape I follow suit, and then we both pull off our jeans. Our contortions flatten a mound of grass that becomes a sort of bed; Justin throws himself down on his back and I drop down on top of him.

Conversationally I say, "You've heard the expression, 'Got a bug up your ass?' Well, in a few minutes you'll probably find out what that feels like, for real."

Trying not to laugh, he complains, "Can't you even PRETEND to be romantic for once in your life?"

"There is nothing remotely romantic about bare-assed fucking in the wilderness."

But I soften my harsh words with a kiss, and then another kiss, grabbing hold of his wrists and pushing down his arms on either side of his head. Crouching over Justin I wait while he raises his legs to my shoulders, my nostrils fill with the scent of grass and twigs and earth, and deer and buffalo a-roaming, and God-knows-what-else. Then I remember we need a condom, and stretch sideways so I can reach the jeans I threw on the ground and rifle the pockets till I feel a foil packet.

"No lube," I warn Justin, licking my fingers and beginning to work him open.

"Mmmph-mmmph," he says, which roughly translated means "Fuck me anyway and hurry up about it."

So I do.

Sliding into Justin's ass is an amazingly welcome feeling, I've fucked him a million times and yet each time it's just as exciting, just as breathtaking as the time before. His legs tighten around my neck and we fall into our rhythm, and I forget about the grass and the bugs and the sounds and smells of the prairie and lose myself inside of Justin, this lithe-limbed juicy blond boy who belongs only to me.

Afterward, we roll apart and stare up at the bright blue sky, letting the light breeze rippling the long grasses dry the sweat on our naked bodies. I want a cigarette but I’ve left them in the jeep – just as well, otherwise we might start a grass fire and burn down the state of Oklahoma. Not that that would be much of a loss, except to the twelve people who live there.

When my breathing returns to normal I sit upright. “Let’s go,” I urge Justin, “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Wasted?” he demands, sitting up straight and glowering at me. “Wasted?”

Laughing, I lean forward to smack his lips with a loud kiss, then turn sideways to retrieve my jeans from the pile of discarded clothing near our makeshift bed. When I lift the top pair of jeans, something long and dark uncoils and raises its head to stare up at me. “Jesus Christ!” I exclaim, except no sound comes out of my mouth.

“Wha-?” Justin starts to say, but I leap to my feet, grab hold of his arm and pull him with me as I move quickly backward, away from the fucking enormous killer snake glaring up at us.

“Move, move!” I urge him loudly, pulling him along as I back away, “It’s a fucking rattlesnake!” Keeping my eye on the snake, expecting it to leap after us on the pathway and kill us both with its sharp fangs full of poison, I continue to pull Justin along with me.

“It’s not poisonous,” a disembodied voice informs us, and we twist around, looking upwards. The voice came from above, maybe it’s God.

“Where are you?” I demand loudly, though by now I’ve spotted him – a boy sitting on the limb of a tree about fifteen feet away. How fucking long has he been there?

“How long have you been there?” I demand, glancing from boy to snake; the latter has started moving away, slithering and coiling around itself as it moves off into the tall grass. Brave Justin retraces our steps and grabs up our clothes, hands me mine as he pulls on his jeans.

The boy jumps down from his tree perch and ambles over to stand watching as we hurriedly pull on our clothes. As he gets closer I see that he’s not really a boy, he’s a man – probably in his late twenties, very short, very slim and wearing cut-offs and a green tee shirt with ‘Goo-Goo Dolls’ emblazoned on the front.

“Did you enjoy the show?” I keep my face neutral though I’m furious and want to punch the rotten peeping-tom in the nose - which I realize is rather ridiculous, considering the shows that Justin and I put on frequently in the backroom of Babylon. But it’s different, knowing you’re being watched. Being spied on like this makes me feel – vulnerable I guess. Suddenly I wonder if Oklahoma is one of those states with anti-sodomy laws.

The guy shrugs laconically and shoves his hands into his pockets. “It’s my land, guess I can watch trespassers if I got a mind to.”

Justin’s dressed now and he sits down to pull on his shoes. “So,” he says to Farmer John, “Did you enjoy the show, or not?”

“Yeah,” the guy admits with a laugh, “Guess you could say that I did.”

I feel myself relaxing slightly, he must be gay or at least curious. I pull on my shirt and glance at him as my head emerges from the neck hole; he’s winking at me. No, thanks.

“How did you know the snake wasn’t poisonous?” Justin asks; he’s finished dressing and he’s regarding the guy a bit warily. “It was big, at least three feet long, and it made a rattling sound.”

“It’s a salt-n-pepper,” he answers, “A speckled kingsnake.” He turns to me and asks, “Black with yellow spots, right?”

How the fuck should I know? But Justin does (of course): “Yeah, that’s right. And it’s harmless?”

“Not to rats and birds. But it don’t try to eat humans. Though you two boys’d make a tasty meal, I’ll wager.” He’s got an oily smile with teeth somehow too white to belong to an Oklahoma farmer. In my mind’s eye, I picture him standing in front of a mirror in an outhouse, pressing Crest whitening strips on his prominent front teeth.

That dazzling smile is our cue to leave. “Come on,” I tell Justin, “Time to go.” I turn away and start back on the path through the tall grass and hope that Justin’s right behind me, but I hear him talking to the farmer.

“Thanks for the info about the snake,” he says politely, “Have a nice day.”

“Okay,” the guy says, and I hear disappointment in his voice; “Take it easy.”

“Bye,” Justin calls, then I hear his footsteps hurry to catch up with me. “Brian, this isn’t the right path.”

“What?” I stop and look around. “There’s more than one path?” We’ve gone a couple dozen yards, are we going the wrong way?

“Don’t panic,” he says, “Let’s just go back and find the right path.”

“I don’t think we should go back that way – Farmer John wants to take a turn pumping your ass.”

Justin laughs in my face. “Brian, this isn’t ‘Deliverance.’ Come on, follow me.” And he turns and heads back the way we came. Reluctantly I follow him and I’m relieved to discover that the yokel has left the fuck site. Justin immediately finds the path we took and we start walking through the tall grass once again. I’m begrudgingly grateful that he’s got a good sense of direction but damned if I’ll tell him so.

Within a few minutes, we’ve reached the dirt road without encountering any more nosy farmers or speckled snakes, harmless or otherwise.

“I’ll drive,” I say gruffly, unlocking the jeep and hoisting myself inside. Before Justin’s finished buckling his seat belt I’ve done a one-eighty, moving the jeep quickly back toward the main highway.

“Brian, are you mad at me?” Justin asks after a moment, and I realize that I’m frowning and very likely there’s smoke coming out my ears. “We weren’t really in danger you know, the snake was harmless.”

“Which snake?” I growl at him, though I feel my muscles gradually relaxing as we put distance between us and the fucking peeping-tom hayseed farmer.

“Oh, he seemed like a nice enough guy,” Justin the Trusting says cheerfully. “But we don’t need to do that again, I’m sorry it ended badly.” Then he adds eagerly, “But at least I’ve got something exciting to write about in my travel journal!”

I steal a glance at him and shake my head at his enthusiasm, he’s grinning happily and no doubt he’s already mentally composing his version of our wilderness adventure. Silently I tell him, ‘And be sure to send your mom a postcard, telling her I almost got you killed again.’

I allow myself to relax some more and I reach across the seat to pinch him – hard – on the inside of his thigh.

“Ow!” he complains, so I leave my hand there, smoothing and soothing the sore spot. “I’m going to have a bruise!”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he assures me, circling my wrist in his lap with both hands and squeezing lightly. “Promise to kiss it all better?”

“Remind me when we get to the hotel tonight.”

“Don’t wait that long,” Justin admonishes, “You can kiss it when we stop for lunch.”

We ride along silently for a few minutes and then Justin asks, “We ARE going to stop for lunch soon, aren’t we?”

Chapter 3: Shake and Quake by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Justin convinces Brian to take a break in Phoenix.

 

 

 

 

Justin

"What time is it?"

"Late."

I pull myself upright and lean over to peer at the dashboard clock. "It's not late, it's fucking early. Almost four a.m.!"

"It's late - we're late, we're almost to Phoenix and we're fucking late, we were supposed to be there hours ago."

"My fault, for staying too long in Oklahoma City. And my fault for our wilderness adventure."

"Don't get pissy. I don't have the energy to deal with histrionics tonight. This morning."

A yawn splits my head open and I rub my hands hard over my eyes. "You're exhausted. I told you - "

"I am not fucking exhausted," he contradicts. "Just a little tired."

"Well, I am fucking exhausted and I haven't even been driving that much. Let's stop pushing so hard, okay?"

"Justin, we're almost there. We'll sleep a few hours in Phoenix and be in LA tomorrow afternoon. I mean this afternoon."

"No."

Brian cranks his head around sharply to look at me. "No?"

"Let's spend the day in Phoenix. We can sleep in late today and get an early start tomorrow."

Now it's his turn to be terse. "No."

"Brian, yes. You told me to stand up for myself, and that's what I'm doing."

He shakes his head. "I knew I'd be sorry for that. You remind me every single day."

That's a ridiculous exaggeration but I don't correct him, he's bitchy enough already. We ride along in silence for a few minutes, then he says, "What thrilling adventure are you planning for us in Phoenix?"

"It doesn't matter now, I'd much rather just sleep in and spend the day laying around the pool. Our hotel has a pool, hasn't it?"

“How should I know? You made the reservations. We’ll be there in half an hour.”

I wait for a moment, then can’t resist asking, “You’re not going to argue? You’re not going to tell me I’m a wimp and a weakling and you’re tempted to dump me in Phoenix and go on to LA alone?”

“Why bother telling you anything, when you’re so good at reading my mind?”

He’s joking but he doesn’t laugh, and it’s funny but I don’t laugh either. We’re both fucking tired, we need a relaxing break tomorrow. I mean today.



Brian

It’s noon before we wake up and I’m secretly glad he insisted on staying in Phoenix, I really am more tired than I expected. Not that I’ll tell him of course, I don’t need to give him any more reasons to push my buttons. I’m awake first and I feel him approaching consciousness; he stretches slightly, rolls over and slips his arms around me. He does that in his sleep all the time and each time I find it somehow. . . I don’t know, moving. Or something stupid like that.

“Mmm,” he murmurs without opening his eyes. “Time is it?”

“Fuck time.”

He laughs softly and snuggles closer. “For Brian Kinney, it’s always fuck time.”

“This is news to you?”

He still hasn’t opened his eyes but that doesn’t stop me, I roll him over on his back and slide on top of him, keeping my weight on my knees as I give his belly a tongue-bath, ignoring his morning woody and instead moving north, slip-sliding up his chest one rib at a time, circling his nipples and pausing to nip almost hard on the right one. Sometimes I miss his nipple ring. As much as I pretended to disparage it, I enjoyed flipping it around with my tongue, sucking it and clanking it against my teeth. Moving upwards again my tongue caresses his neck, the side of his jaw. When I reach his mouth his lips open under mine, a moist warm welcome awaits my tongue, I love how he goes “mmm-mmm” as if my kisses taste delicious in his mouth.


Justin

After a room-service breakfast – or rather lunch – I change into my swimsuit and wrap a hotel-provided white terrycloth robe around myself.

“Brian, come on, let’s go for a swim.”

“Later,” he answers absently; he’s plugged in his laptop and he’s checking e-mail.

“Well, I’m going down now – promise you’ll come join me soon?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He doesn’t even look up.

Shaking my head in mild annoyance, I close the door behind me and head toward the elevators. I wish he’d come with me, come get some fresh air and have a relaxing swim, lie in the sun for a while. French doors in the lobby lead out to a large swimming pool, the water sparkling turquoise blue. Small flowering trees in pots and a dozen scattered lounge chairs surround the pool. A hairy old man with a pot belly is asleep in one of the chairs, and there’s a young woman with a toddler playing in the shallow end of the pool. A dark-haired guy is swimming laps, I see his head bob up and down as he does the breast stroke toward the other end. I guess we have the place to ourselves, the other hotel guests must be out doing business or sight-seeing.

I jump feet-first into the pool, enjoying that all-or-nothing feeling of committing my body into the deep, and when I rise to the surface and my head breaks through the cool water into the hot air, I gasp a deep breath of pure pleasure, laughing out loud as I shake my head hard to clear water from my ears.

"Hey."

I don't register at first that someone is talking to me, I'm bobbing gently up and down in the deep end, squeegeeing my hands over my face and blinking drops of chlorinated water from my eyes.

"Justin."

Turning around quickly, I see a figure close by me in the pool but the sun's in my eyes, I blink some more and hold a hand to my forehead, a visor to block the sun. It's the guy who was swimming laps.

Oh my God.

"It really is you!" he exclaims, "I can't believe it!"

Oh my God.

“Ethan?”

He smiles broadly and demands, "What are you doing here?"

Trying hard not to sound as flabbergasted - and dismayed - as I feel, I echo his question. "What are you doing here?"

Ethan runs a hand through his hair, which is longer, dark wet curls wrap tightly around his face and neck. "I'm on tour - you know that. I'm playing with the Phoenix Symphony tonight."

"Great," I stammer, "That's, um, great."

"I can't believe you're really here!" he laughs, "What on earth are you doing in Arizona?"

Stalling for time, I clear my throat. "We're - I'm on my way to Los Angeles. This is just a stopover, a rest stop."

Ethan laughs and reaches out a hand to flick my shoulder. "Come on - you checked my itinerary and planned this, didn't you? Oh, don't make that face, don't be embarrassed!" he laughs again, "I'm cool with it, very cool, I'm happy to see you. Can you come to the concert tonight? Or maybe you have a ticket already!"

"No, I don't. Of course, I don't!" I'm getting more and more annoyed, what an ego. "I had no idea you were here."

Or I sure as hell would have picked another destination for our rest stop.

"That's okay, I don't think the concert is sold out, I'm sure I can comp a ticket for you."

"No thanks." I realize that I'm probably being rude, which shouldn't matter, why should it matter?

"Are you traveling alone? If you're with a friend, I can get two tickets. Is Daphne with you? Or - maybe you have a new boyfriend?"

I don't want to answer him, it's none of his fucking business. More than anything I want to get away from Ethan, climb out of the pool and hurry up to our room. Before Brian comes down. I hesitate, and in that moment I glance at the lobby doors, just in time to see Brian walk through.

Ethan's eyes follow my glance and I hear him mutter, "Fuck." When still I say nothing, he goes on, "I might have known you'd run back to him. Big surprise."

I'm paralyzed in the pool, treading water, thinking quickly, wishing Ethan would suddenly submerge and drown, sink to the bottom out of sight. I don't want to play this scene with Brian. And he's here now, by the side of the pool, he hasn't noticed the guy beside me. Ethan and I wait silently, unmoving, he's as nonplussed as I am myself.

Brian sheds his robe, throwing it toward a lounge chair, then swings his legs over the edge and sits down on the side of the pool.

"Hey," I manage to say finally, keeping my voice nonchalant. "Look who's here."

Brian glances at Ethan and does a classic double-take, then the shutters roll down quickly over his eyes, too fast for me to read the expression on his face before the mask of indifference is in place.

"Ian!" he says, pasting on a big fake smile, "Fancy meeting you here."

"I'm performing with the Phoenix Symphony tonight," Ethan tells him. "I just invited Justin to come - you can come too, if you want."

"Not my thing," Brian says casually; he's rubbing his hands on the edge of the pool ledge, his feet dangle motionless in the water. Finally, I'm released from paralysis and move towards him, hoping that Ethan stays put or better yet, swims away. No such luck, he follows in my wake.

"So," Ethan says, as we get closer, "You got Justin back. Of course, I knew that's what you were after, all along."

"Did you?" Brian smiles enigmatically, looking Ethan up and down, or as much up-and-down as he can see with Ethan half-submerged in the water. "And are you planning to lure him back to you again?"

I jump into the conversation then. "Stop talking about me, I'm right here. And nobody lures me anywhere, I make my own decisions."

"It was your decision to stop in Phoenix," Brian notes dryly, leaning back a bit, resting his hands on the cement behind him and looking down his nose at me. "So I’d say your intentions are open to interpretation."

"Coincidences do happen, Brian," I stare up at him defiantly, starting to get angry. Maybe I have no right to be angry, maybe I have no right to expect Brian to trust me yet, but still I'm pissed that he’s so quick to doubt me.

Ethan laughs then. Brian and I have been staring at each other so intensely that it almost comes as a shock to realize that Ethan is still there. We both turn to look at him and he laughs again.

"Wish I could be a fly on the wall of your room, I'll bet you're going to have a big fight over me." He's smirking, the bastard.

"Not at all," drawls Brian, "We only fight about important things. An occasional meaningless fuck is no big deal." When neither I nor Ethan say anything, Brian continues, "Go ahead, Justin, fuck him if you want. You can tell me about it later."

"Brian - "

Before I can answer Brian pulls his legs from the water, turns away to grab his robe and moves off toward the lobby door. He moves exaggeratedly slowly as if to prove he hasn't got a care in the world. I wait for a moment - I don't want to feel like I'm running after him - then I pull myself out of the pool and grab my towel, dry off quickly.

Ethan has moved to the side of the pool and leans his arms on the ledge, watching me wordlessly. After a moment he says, "I knew he was lying when he told me he didn't want you back."

I remember the time he's talking about - it was when Brian urged Ethan to sign the agency contract, when Brian told him there was nothing honorable about being poor. Ethan had shared that conversation with me, he'd told me back then that Brian had denied wanting me back.

I believed it - for a while. Until I recognized that all of Brian's actions after I left him were the actions of someone who cared about me, someone who went out of his way over and over again to help me - with the school loan, with the computer, giving me jobs like the Carnivale poster to earn extra money. People say, 'Actions speak louder than words.' Eventually, Brian's actions convinced me that he was still in love with me, and gave me the courage to go after him when I acknowledged to myself that Brian was all I wanted, all I'd ever really wanted.

"You never stopped loving him, did you?" Ethan asks me now, his voice at once bitter and yet somehow wistful. Or maybe that's my imagination, maybe it suits my ego to believe Ethan's still sorry that I walked away from him.

"No." Perhaps I should sugarcoat the truth, but I can't deny it. "I never really stopped loving him." Pulling on my robe I smile slightly at Ethan before turning away. "And I never will." Turning away, I throw over my shoulder, "Good luck tonight," as I hurry across the hot cement and head back into the hotel.

"Good luck to you too," he calls after me, and I choose to believe that he means it.


Brian

I'm surprised at myself really, surprised at my body's physical reaction to seeing my nemesis, my arch rival, the little doe-eyed waif violinist bobbing around in the pool like a half-drowned water bug. When I recognize him I feel my insides turn to ice, I literally freeze up and am rendered almost speechless. When I see their heads close together in the pool, one blond, one brunet, I'm remembering watching them kiss on the dance floor in Babylon right before Justin turned and walked away from me.

I make myself sit still and pretend to a calm I am far from feeling. Justin denies knowing that Ethan would be here, and rationally I can believe him - rationally I can tell myself that I believe it's a coincidence, running into Justin's ex in a hotel in Phoenix. But my gut reaction is not rational. When I get up to leave I force myself to move slowly, when what I really want to do is get the fuck away from the pool as fast as possible.

When I reach our room I throw myself down at the desk and log onto the computer. I need to focus on something, to take my mind off the vision of the two of them. I've never been a jealous man and I'm not jealous now. Not really. Not essentially. What I'm really feeling is - is just, I don't know. I really don't know. Just kind of loose. I'm just feeling kind of un-anchored and loose.

The violinist said he wished he could be a fly on the wall of this room. I'd like nothing better than for that to be true. If he were buzzing around in here I could roll up a newspaper and knock him to the floor, step on him with my size thirteen shoe and grind his slimy guts into the thick beige carpet.


Justin

Brian's on the computer when I come into the room, he doesn't look up but murmurs, "Finish your swim?"

"I couldn't," I answer, crossing the room to stand next to his chair. "The pool was contaminated."

There's silence for a few moments, Brian's hands jiggling slightly on the keyboard. Finally, I have to say, "Brian, I honestly had no idea he'd be here. I swear it."

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters!" I'm getting annoyed again, "Brian, of course, it matters. I promised you 'no more violin music,' and it's a promise I intend to keep. Forever and ever."

Then he does look up at me. "Don’t promise. Promises are meaningless."

"They are not!"

"Anytime you want to mess around, just do it. We haven't exchanged rings or anything ridiculous like that."

"I would if you asked me to."

Brian laughs then. "Don't hold your breath, sonnyboy, that's never going to happen."

I return his look but I don't laugh. "Maybe not," I agree. "Probably not. But you never know. . ."

"I know."

"Let me finish," I insist seriously. "You never know, I might ask YOU. I might ask YOU, Brian."

"Oh yeah?" He laughs again. "And what do you imagine my answer would be?"

I take a deep breath and look into his eyes. "We'll just have to wait and find out."

Brian smiles for real then, a real Kinney smile, not the cynical kind, not the keep-away-from-me kind. He pushes back his chair and reaches for me, grabs my arms and pulls me forward, spreads his legs apart and pulls me to stand close between them. "Are you prepared to wait till Hell freezes over?"

"Yeah," I murmur, “For you? Yes." I lean against him then, slide my arms around his neck and bring our mouths close together. "Yes. Yesyesyes." And I kiss him. His lips open and he snakes out his tongue, slides it into my mouth and hooks my own tongue, sucks it into his mouth and pulls it halfway down his throat. A groan escapes me, desire for him explodes within my body, it’s that quick, it's always that quick.

Our hands jumble together, quickly pulling off each other's terrycloth robes, throwing them aside, hands grasping swim trunks and ripping them off, the urgent need to rub naked skin on naked skin making us both shiver with anticipation. After kicking off his trunks, Brian plops back down on the chair and pulls me roughly forward till our rigid dicks slap against each other, whap-whap! "Come here," he growls at me then, his voice rough with desire, "Come here and sit on my cock."


Brian

"You're sure you don't mind?" I move my hand from the gear shift and slip it between Justin's thighs.

Justin's fingers squeeze my hand and he answers quickly, "No, not at all, I'm fine. As long as you'll be okay driving in LA traffic at night when you don't know where you're going."

"I know perfectly well where I'm going." I withdraw my hand and slap it lightly upside his head before returning it to its favorite resting place. "And anyway, you're the world-famous navigator, it's up to you to read the map and steer us in the right direction."

We've decided to push on to Los Angeles today, after all, we'd had a long sleep this morning and then a couple-hour post-fuck nap this afternoon; we agreed we were rested enough to make the final leg of our cross-country trip so we can be in LA tonight. We had a late lunch or early dinner at the hotel and headed out of town about four o'clock. Some rush-hour traffic - or what passes for rush hour traffic in Phoenix - slowed us down a bit, but now we're on the highway west, moving along about seventy miles an hour, making good time.

"We should be there about ten or eleven," Justin tells me, consulting his clipboard documents, "Depending on if we make any stops. We'll probably need gas, and we might get hungry sometime."

"Might?"

"Brian, you always give me a hard time but guess what, you eat too, I've seen you."

"Occasionally," I admit. "Especially when I'm clean and sober. Two days without a drink. Almost three."

"Or any other toxic substances," Justin agrees happily. "Is that a record?"

"Fuck you." I'm slightly annoyed but I recognize the kernel of truth in what he's saying. It is a record for me - or anyway, I can't remember the last time I went three days without drink or drugs.

Suddenly my mood shifts downward; it's not pleasant to acknowledge that just maybe I've been overdoing the chemical substances. "Hi, my name’s Brian," I murmur mournfully, "And I'm an addict."

"No, you're not." Justin's voice is emphatic, he's squeezing my fingers. "If you were, you'd be detoxing all over the place by now and you're not, you're perfectly fine. No shakes or quakes."

No shakes or quakes. "Don't say 'quakes,' we're almost at the California state line." He's right, though, and I'm immediately cheered up. If I were really an alcoholic or an addict, there'd be plenty of shaking after a three-day cleansing purge.

In the back of my mind, I think I've been telling myself that I'll need to be completely clean and sober in LA, at least for a while, as I attempt to make a rep for myself at Bradford and Slate. I'll need all my wits about me; plenty of time later for revelry. So maybe it's a good thing after all that Justin is with me; with a live-in lover, I won't be so tempted to go roving around West Hollywood.

The condo's near WeHo, halfway between Sunset and Santa Monica Boulevard in the gay ghetto. It's a fairly upscale neighborhood, at least the brief glance around the blocks near the condo revealed well-kept houses and apartment buildings. I didn't have time to scout around WeHo when I was interviewing for the new job, and I've only been in LA a few times before on business, hurried trips that didn't allow for much play time.

Justin’s been researching West Hollywood on the internet, taking notes and describing some of the nightlife, the bars, and restaurants that make up a large gay-centric neighborhood in greater Los Angeles. Naturally, he’s excited about experiencing what gay life is like in a big city. But Justin’s not much of a party boy, he’s not really a club kid. He always liked hanging out with me in Babylon and in Woody’s, but I don’t think he’ll spend as much time partying if I’m not with him.

Or anyway, that’s what I imagine will happen in WeHo. In fact, I realize that’s what I’m hoping will happen. When I start remembering all the trouble Justin got himself into in our little Pittsburgh backwater, I shudder to think what he might get up to in WeHo.

Shit. Why did I bring him along with me? He’d be a hell of a lot safer if I’d left him back home.

“Why’d you get so quiet, Brian?” Justin interrupts my reverie.

“I’m having an epiphany,” I answer honestly, though I’ve no intention of explaining myself. “Practically a religious experience. Leave me alone with my thoughts for awhile, will you?”

“Sure,” Justin agrees readily. “Would you like me to step out and run alongside the car for a while?”

“Could you?”

“Bri-an,” he whines then, “You can’t have an epiphany without me! Tell me what you’re thinking!”

I consider resisting but almost immediately I capitulate, he’s capable of whining all the rest of the way to LA.

“Okay, you asked for it.” Taking a deep breath and keeping my eyes on the road, I tell him, “I’m suddenly realizing that you’re a walking time-bomb of trouble. I’ll be constantly rescuing you from one disaster after another in LA. Then your mom will come out here and shoot me dead.”

“What an imagination! Maybe you are detoxing after all – you’re acting majorly bizarro.”

“I think maybe you should go back home, for a while,” I tell him seriously. “You can come join me later, when my job’s secure and I have more time to look out for you.”

“Look fucking out for me?” his voice screeches. “You don’t need to look out for me! I’m not some kid - I’m twenty years old. Besides,” he adds urgently, “I’m going to be looking out for YOU!”

I knew that wasn’t going to fly. “Okay, but I think we’ll need some rules. Yeah,” I shake my head determinedly. “Rules.”

“Like what?”

“Like, no doing drugs without me.”

“Well, I don’t mind that. I’m not as familiar with drugs as you are.”

No shit. “And,” I add, “No picking up tricks without me.”

“Jesus, Brian - you want us to be monogamous?”

“Fuck no!” That’s a horrifying thought. “Just not,” I hesitate, then plunge onward, “Just no picking up guys if I’m not with you. You’re a terrible judge of character.”

“And you’re so great?”

“And a curfew,” I add staunchly.

“We had a curfew before – three o’clock. It can be the same.”

“No,” I disagree, “That was Eastern time. This is Pacific time – so the curfew is midnight.”

And I don’t give a fuck if that doesn’t make sense.

“For you too?” Justin demands.

“I’m not coming home by midnight!”

“Then I’m not either.”

Stalemate.

We ride along in silence for a couple minutes, then I hear Justin exhale a deep sigh. He releases his seatbelt and leans over to slip his arm around my waist. “I’ll be good,” he whispers, laying his head on my shoulder. “I won’t get in any trouble whatsoever. I promise.”

“Hmmm.”

“Brian, tell me something. Will you?”

“What?”

“Tell me you’re glad that I came along. Tell me you’re glad that I’m with you.”

“Justin. . .whatever.” But I can’t help this feeling of deep foreboding that washes over me.

“You’re just worried because you’re tired.”

“Maybe.”

“And also,” he adds ingenuously, “You’re fucking scared of my mom.”

Understatement of the year. If anything can make me shake and quake, it’s the icy glare of Mrs. Jennifer Taylor.

“Put your seatbelt back on,” I order him, “And check the map – I think we’re getting close to the state line. That’s about the halfway point from Phoenix to LA.”

Cheerfully whistling ‘California, here I come’ under his breath, Justin fishes beneath the seat for his clipboard.

Yeah, okay, so I’m glad that he’s with me.

Chapter 4: Two Lookers by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian and Justin arrive in LA and settle into the condo.

 

 

 

 

Justin

"It's beautiful! Brian - it's beautiful!"

"Don't take a tour now, let's bring up the rest of our stuff."

We've just dumped our suitcases and duffel bags in the foyer and already Brian's headed back downstairs. I'm dying to look around but obediently I turn and follow him down to the parking garage.

It's late, after eleven, and I was feeling exhausted till we hit the Los Angeles area and then I started getting excited, reading destination signs on the freeway - 'Venice Beach,’ ‘Anaheim,’ ‘Burbank' and other thrilling locations. Brian groaned at my enthusiasm and warned me not to turn into some freaky California tourist. "We're residents," he reminded me sternly, "Soon all this will seem very mundane, so crank down the exuberance, can you?"

"No," I contradicted, "I can't. I don't want to be as blasé as you about everything. Cynicism can be kind of pretentious, you know?"

Brian merely snorted and reached over to pinch my thigh. It's one of his favorite punishments and rewards, I've always got bruises there. The good part is, he almost always kisses-them-makes-them-better so it's usually worth it.

"Keep your eyes on the map, tell me how far it is to our fucking exit," he growled, and I reminded myself that he was very tired so I didn't get offended.

"We have to switch freeways," I told him. "Brian, you can't believe all the freeways here!" I stared at the map by penlight, there's dozens of freeways crisscrossing each other all around LA. "We need to get on 101 North, that goes directly toward Hollywood, then we take the Vermont Avenue exit - that runs into Santa Monica Boulevard." When he said nothing, I reminded him, "Santa Monica Boulevard is the main street through West Hollywood. WeHo."

"I know - I've been here before, remember?"

Mister Crabby. But I decided to keep editorial comments to myself so I bit my lip and silently watched for signs on the freeway. We found our exit without mishap and within twenty minutes we were turning onto Santa Monica. It was late, after eleven, but the traffic was heavy on the boulevard and the sidewalks were crowded - with men. "Brian," I breathed at him, "I think we're home."

"Keep your dick in your pants and your mind on finding Cahuenga Boulevard, that's where we turn."

Crabbier and crabbier.

We found Cahuenga Boulevard and turned left, and a few blocks later Cahuenga crossed Evangeline, the street where the condo is located. It's in a quiet neighborhood, trees line the sidewalks and cars are parked bumper to bumper at the curbs. Luckily the condo has an underground parking garage, I handed Brian the keycard Bruce Applethorpe had given him, the gate opened and we drove through. It's not a big building, there's just a half dozen units, but the parking garage has space for twelve cars. Brian says everyone drives in LA, and he said we'd have to see about getting some transportation for me. I don't mind taking buses and love to walk, so while I didn't argue with him, I didn't agree either. We can't afford another car, plus insurance and gas - but tonight was not the time to discuss it.

The building's three stories tall and has an elevator plus a staircase that winds around in a circle as it goes upward. There's two units on each floor and I was happy to discover that Bruce's apartment is on the top floor - and there's big windows in all the rooms, so hopefully there will be good light - something really important for an artist. I'm going to be an artist - I am an artist. Suspension from the I.F.A. was just a temporary setback on that road. I hope.

We loaded our computers into the elevator and unloaded on the fourth floor, then carried everything in and left it in a pile in the middle of the living room. Then I began to prowl around the place looking in all the rooms; Brian was yawning but he followed along behind me.

It's really a cool place, much bigger than Brian said - the way he talked I was expecting a tiny cramped studio apartment, but instead there's two bedrooms and even two bathrooms, well, one of them is tiny, just a toilet and a sink in a room the size of a closet, but the other one is big and has a sunken bathtub!

"Brian, look at the tub!" I almost shriek with excitement.

"That's not a tub, it's a swimming pool."

"We can have a lot of fun in there!"

"Mmm-hmm," he agrees, "And there's room for a few friends to join us."

"No." I turn to look at him and when he just leans against the doorframe and raises his eyebrows at me, I repeat, "No."

"No what?" he curls his lip, "No friends in the tub?"

"No friends - no tricks - in the apartment."

Brian continues to look at me for a moment, his face expressionless except for those damned arched eyebrows, then he pushes away from the doorframe and comes into the room, raises the lid of the toilet and begins to take a piss. After a moment he says quietly, "I never agreed to that."

"Well, agree now."

Brian shakes his head. "It's too late, and I'm too tired, for negotiations tonight."

"Brian - "

"No. Not tonight."

I want to settle the issue - it's really important to me and I want to insist that Brian agree with me. But he's right, it's late, we're both tired, we can talk about it tomorrow. And he damned well better agree.

Finished, Brian flushes the toilet and turns to put his arm around me. "Come on," he pushes me toward the door, "Let's go to bed. Thank God tomorrow's Saturday, we have the weekend to get settled before I have to report for work on Monday."

Brian keeps his hands on my shoulders and pushes me ahead of him down the hall, steering me past the smaller bedroom and into the big one.

"Oh!" I exclaim when he flips on the light switch, "Oh my God!"

"Like it?" he chuckles, spreading his arms out Vanna-White-style. "The latest in Hollywood accouterments!"

In the center of the room is the bed. A huge round bed with a mirrored headboard. It makes me laugh out loud at first, but as we get closer I can see the two of us reflected in the curving mirrors.

"I - " I'm almost speechless. "Brian, I know it's kind of, I don't know, kinky. But. . ."

"Butt?" Brian raises his voice as he rubs a hand over my ass.

"But you know, I think I like it." I feel my face turning pink, when I think of Mom or our friends visiting LA and seeing this giant sex-bed. There's a long pause and Brian says nothing.

"We can have fun in this bed," I conclude at last. "Don't you think so?"

He shakes his head and says disparagingly, "No. The bed goes tomorrow. Or as soon as I can get around to buying a new one." When I open my mouth to argue, he hurries on, "Justin, no. It's not a bed for normal sleeping, it's a Hollywood starlet stage set for videotaped sex romps."

We both turn at that moment and peer at our reflection in the glass. We watch as my arms reach for Brian, slip up his chest and around his neck; we watch the reflection as Brian pulls me tight against him and bends his head to touch his lips to mine.

I thought we were too tired for sex tonight. But I was wrong. There's no blankets on the bed, but we fall onto the mattress and pull off our clothes, scattering them over the edge. Brian chases me around in a circle on the bed till I let him catch me, and we discover that we do still have enough energy to play for a while.

We wind up in the middle of the bed, but at an angle so we can watch our mirrored images. My breath catches in my throat as I watch Brian's two cocks swaying eagerly where he's crouched above me, my legs open wide to receive him. He pauses and we watch as he dips his heads and just touches his tongues to the ends of my cocks, pink on pink, then he swirls his tongues around the shafts slowly and bends his heads further to reach my balls, giving each one a slurpy lick before taking them into his mouth and sucking gently. When I moan he raises his heads and narrows his eyes as he whispers, "Ready?"

"Aaaghmmph!"

Brian laughs softly and leans forward to capture my lips with his mouth while his hand gets busy playing with my ass, poking a finger and then two and then three gently inside me, circling and twitching his clever fingers till I feel myself quiver wide open with longing for the first thrust of his hot cock. Unwillingly I close my eyes as we kiss, unwilling because I want to watch, I want to watch, but the overwhelming pleasure-jolt of my body as he pushes his fingers deep inside me makes my eyes close in exquisite agony.

The crunch of torn-foil and the snapping sound of latex makes my eyes fly open and I watch as Brian slips the condoms on his twin cocks, already glistening, moist with desire for me, for me and not for anybody else, for me and my twin reflected in the mirrored headboard. He pauses before entering me, pauses so we can look into each other's eyes, and in unison, we turn and look at our images as he lowers his hips and plunges his cocks inside me. He's gentle at first, always gentle till I let him know to push it harder and faster and harder, I feel my ass muscles practically grab hold of his cock and suck it deep inside.

When he can tell that I'm ready, Brian picks up a rhythm, we have our own rhythm, we like it slow and then fast and then slow, stretching out the pleasure a hundred-fold as Brian's cock teases and tortures and fucks me into oblivion.

And we watch. All the time I keep sneaking peeks at the mirror and when I glance at Brian, he's sneaking peeks, too. When I'm ready I slap his thigh, that's our signal to finish, and Brian gives a final few heaves of his hips - thrust, thrust-thrust, thrust! And suddenly we grunt in unison, and our bodies shudder hard together and then as suddenly we're still.

A moment later Brian pulls away, strips off the condom and drops it over the side of the bed, then moves close to take me into his arms again. We lay quietly then, catching our breath; I rub my cheek on his sweaty chest and he fondles my hair in his strong slender fingers. And we look at ourselves in the mirror and we laugh softly together.

I think we're going to keep this bed after all.



Brian

"Here's a good ad," Justin exclaims excitedly, folding the newspaper and sliding it onto the table in front of me. We're having breakfast at a small restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard, La Porte d'Or. It's a warm morning so we're seated outdoors, a half dozen small wrought-iron tables are scattered on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, shaded with large dark green umbrellas.

It's just nine a.m. but even at this early hour in WeHo, we're being cruised by the passers-by. Justin's busy searching the help-wanted ads in the paper so he's oblivious to the attention he's attracting. Beautiful young blond boys must be a dime a dozen in LA, but Justin's always had that something extra that lifts his beauty above the commonplace. Maybe it's his energy or his unbridled enthusiasm. Whatever it is, few men are immune to him - including me, sometimes to my cost.

No doubt about it, LA is teeming with beautiful hot men. One of them comes to the table with a tray holding our breakfast, and Justin leans back and moves his newspaper. "Mmm, looks great!" He's starving of course.

"You'll like the eggs, our cook makes fantastic breakfasts," the waiter tells him cheerfully, "And if you want another bread basket, just let me know." He balances the tray on his hip and transfers our plates to the table. "Careful, they're hot," he warns, and I give him a look to tell him that he's pretty hot, too, a real looker. He catches my hooded glance and smiles, which makes his green eyes crinkle up at the corners.

He's young, mid-twenties; above-average height with brown hair subtly streaked with blond, he's well-built and toned but not over-muscled; I don't like guys who are bigger than me, unless I'm in a certain mood. His white waiter-shirt has two buttons undone, revealing a peek at his smooth tanned chest, and his black dress pants have been altered to fit snugly on his nicely rounded ass and thighs.

Just then I realize that Justin has glanced up from his plate and notices me cruising the waiter. I give him my nonchalant look which makes him frown. Fuck, I've made it clear to Justin that I'm not going to be monogamous anytime soon. Not ever in fact. Not ever.

"Would you like more coffee?" the waiter's asking Justin.

"No, thanks. What I'd really like is a glass of milk."

"You got it. And you sir?" he turns his green-eyed gaze on me. "Anything I can get for you?"

I lean back in my chair and shut down my libido for the time being. I'm not going to be monogamous, but I guess I don't need to antagonize Justin on our first day in LA. "More coffee," I say coolly, picking up my napkin and unfolding it across my lap. The waiter nods and departs and I brace myself for an onslaught of jealous haranguing. But it doesn't come.

"Smells great," Justin comments, grabbing his fork and digging it into the steaming scrambled eggs. "Mmm."

We eat in silence for a few minutes, then the waiter returns with a coffee pot and a glass of milk.

"Thanks," Justin tells him. "You were right, the eggs are fantastic." Then he adds, "Tony, the cook where I used to work? He made scrambled eggs almost this good, he added cream and a tiny drop of Worcestershire sauce."

"Our chef's named Tony too," the waiter says, "Well, except he wants to be called Antoine, since this place is ersatz-French." When Justin laughs he asks, "Are you a waiter, too?"

"I was," Justin agrees, "Back home, in Pittsburgh. We just moved here so I don't have a job yet."

"Welcome to California." His look encompasses me, then he turns back to Justin. "You looking for a waiter job in LA?"

"Yeah, probably," Justin agrees, "I don’t think I'm qualified to do anything else."

Swallowing a bite of toast, I suggest, "You can always fall back on your dancing skills."

"Shut up." Justin reaches over to punch my arm.

"You guys a couple?" the waiter asks offhandedly, giving me another searching look.

I wait for Justin to answer but instead he turns to look at me. They're both looking at me. Finally, I'm forced to answer. "Yeah. More or less." When neither says anything, I add, "In a non-defined, non-conventional way."

Justin shrugs his shoulders and gives the waiter a comical look and they both laugh. Fuck, they're laughing at me.

"I'm Robert," the waiter says, holding out his hand first for Justin then for me. Justin tells him our names, then Robert says, "There's an opening here for a waiter, if you're interested."

"Really?" Justin sits up straight. "We live just a few blocks away, this would be really convenient!"

"It's at least two miles," I point out before taking a bite of toast; he's paying no attention to me.

"The pay sucks of course," Robert continues, "But there's good tips. Lots of older guys come here for dinner and they're more generous than younger ones."

"Yeah, I know," Justin agrees, and I'm wondering whether to be insulted or not.

"If you're really interested, come back about two o'clock, that's when the manager gets in. You have references?" When Justin nods, Robert smiles at him and then at me. "Enjoy your breakfast, if you need anything, let me know."

Justin thanks him and when he's gone, turns to me excitedly. "Brian, I might have a job the very first day in LA!"

For some reason, I'm feeling mildly annoyed. "Don't be in such a rush, take some time to relax and learn your way around the city first. You don't need to get a job right away."

"Yes I do," he contradicts, spreading blackberry jam thickly on a slice of toast. "We're sharing expenses."

"Justin, the apartment's paid for, the only expenses will be gas and food. My Bradford & Slate salary's plenty for both of us."

"No," he mumbles through a mouthful of masticated bread, "I don't need to be supported anymore, I'm going to pay my way this time."

I want to point out that a waiter's salary will hardly keep him in Diet Pepsi and CDs but I clamp my lips shut. I know that Justin doesn't want to be dependent anymore and I don't blame him. But he doesn't understand that I want to take care of him.

Jesus, I want to take care of him. That's another epiphany, how much more self-awareness can I take before my head explodes?

I've always wanted to take care of Justin. Almost always.

Other than looking out for Mikey and helping to support my son, I've never wanted to take care of anybody. Not essentially. Oh, I've helped people financially - my pop, Debbie a few times, that kind of thing. But I've never wanted to be responsible for another person. It's kind of a shock to realize that I feel that way about Justin. Have felt like that for a very long time. Still, even if I told him - even if I could tell him, which by Christ I cannot, it's not what Justin wants. He's a man and he wants to take care of himself. I respect that, and yet it's maddening as hell sometimes.


Justin

Robert welcomes me eagerly and ushers me through the kitchen and knocks on the open door of a tiny office where a man in a blue striped shirt is sitting at a small desk.

"Mr. Chambray, this is the guy I told you about, Justin - "

"Taylor."

"Justin Taylor. He's an experienced waiter and would like to work here."

I'm not sure I want to work here but I don't contradict him, just give a big smile to the boss. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Chambray," I say, holding out my hand. He shakes my hand and waves me to a chair in front of the desk.

"A moment," he says, he's doing something on a laptop computer, he looks frazzled and I worry that I've come at a bad time.

I feel Robert reach out to quickly squeeze my shoulder and when I glance up at him he grins and holds up crossed fingers, so I smile back at him. He's nice. It's not his fault that Brian almost hit on him this morning.

In a couple minutes, Mr. Chambray grunts, hits a key on the computer and then pushes the keyboard away from him and folds his hands on the desktop.

"Ca va," he says, "Okay. So, you are a waiter already, Mister Taylor? Where are you working?"

"I just moved here," I answer, then fill him in on my background at Liberty Diner. He hands me an application and says that he will check my references on Monday and I can call him then to see if I have the job. I'm still not convinced I want to work here but I can always tell him that later, right now I'm just happy to have found a new job so easily. I like Robert, and the restaurant is small enough to have that friendly feel, it's not some huge fancy-schmancy place, and best of all, it's in WeHo, our new neighborhood, and it's walking distance from the condo.

When we'd left La Porte d'Or (which Brian explained meant The Golden Door) this morning, he'd again encouraged me to wait awhile before getting a job; take some time to relax and enjoy Los Angeles. I'd love to, but I'm anxious to start earning my keep. The less money Brian has to spend on me, the more he can use to pay off his gold card debts. Of course, I'd like to try a different job but the only thing I have experience at is waiting tables. Well, that and a few short weeks as an ad agency intern. Unfortunately, I can't get references from Vanguard or even from the I.F.A. So my art career is on hold. Temporarily.

When I leave Mr. Chambray's office, I find my way back through the kitchen where Robert's waiting for me.

"Well?"

"The job's mine, if he likes my references," I tell him, and he throws an arm around my shoulder and hugs me. I'm surprised but in a nice way, and Robert doesn't try to turn it into anything but friendliness. Then he calls, "Tony! I mean, Antoine! Come and meet Justin, he's going to be Tom's replacement."

Tony/Antoine turns and gives me a quick up-and-down glance before smiling and taking my hand to shake. So he's gay too. He's sandy-haired and kind of chunky, probably he samples his own cooking too often.

"I had breakfast here this morning," I tell him, "Your eggs were fantastic!" Antoine's smile widens and he pats my shoulder before turning back to his stove. There's two assistant cooks whom Robert introduces, and he gives me a hurried tour of the kitchen and serving area. I like this place better all the time. The kitchen's spotless and everyone's really nice.

Since it's that in-between time after lunch and before dinner, there aren't too many people in the restaurant, just two couples at tables near the front. Robert leads me into a bar area, a curving wooden bar with silver fleur de lis decorations and a silver-framed mirror in back; there's about a dozen silver bar stools covered in leather, and a few individual customers are seated there, drinking quietly or exchanging chit chat with the bartender.

"Simon," Robert interrupts, "Meet Justin Taylor, he's going to be taking Tom's place next week."

"Well, well, what have we here?" Simon the bartender wipes his hand on a towel before reaching across the bar to take my hand in his. He doesn't shake it, he squeezes my fingers and clutches my hand to his chest. "Oh my God, I'm in love!" he exclaims, rolling his eyes. Everybody laughs.

"Don't mind him," one of the customers tells me, a balding guy well over fifty. "He falls in love twenty times a day."

"But this is different!" Simon insists, he's still clutching my hand. "You are so beautiful!" he exclaims, "I want you to have my babies!"

"He's already married," Robert tells him, "And his husband is absolutely gorgeous."

"No!" Simon cries, then suddenly he releases my hand and immediately drops dead, falling to the floor with a loud crash. I'm shocked but everybody laughs again, and in a moment Simon gets back up and joins in the laughter. "Ah well, c'est la vie, eh? But my heart is broken, I may never recover."

"Till the next beautiful blond walks into the bar," the bald guy says dryly. He twinkles his eyes at me and asks, "Can I buy you a drink, to celebrate your new job? Though you don't look old enough to drink yet."

"Thanks, but I need to fill out some papers so I'd better get busy. Nice to meet you Simon - and everybody," I add, throwing a comprehensive glance at the three men in the bar. Robert leads me back into the restaurant, lends me a pen and leaves me alone as I sit down to complete the application. He checks on his customers, then comes back a few minutes later.

"I'll give your app to Mr. Chambray," he offers, "I hope you get the job, I already like you better than Tom. He's very stuck on himself, and he just got a part in a commercial so he thinks he's on his way to fame and fortune. Are you an actor too?"

"No," I'm surprised, "Are you?"

"Yeah," he admits sheepishly. "Almost all the waiters in LA are aspiring actors. Or screenwriters, or trying to break into movies one way or another."

"Any success?"

"Not much. I had one line in a sunscreen commercial but it got cut. And I've had a couple bit parts in community theater - there's a lot of small theaters in southern California, no pay but it's a good way to get experience. My agent thinks I've got a shot at a walk-on in a new tv pilot they're casting for NBC. Auditions are next week."

"Good luck, Robert," I tell him sincerely, then I hand him my application and stand up to go. "Maybe I'll see you next week. Thanks so much for your help, I really appreciate it!"

"No problem," Robert takes my hand, then gives me another hug. "I really hope you get the job!" he says sincerely. "In LA, it's so hard to find nice guys."

"And it's so nice to find hard guys."

We both jump slightly, neither of us noticed that Brian had come in and was standing to one side of the table.

"Brian!"

"What's taking so long? I got tired of waiting in the car."

"I'm finished now, Robert was showing me around."

"Yeah, I noticed. Ready to go?"

"Sure." I turn to Robert and say goodbye one more time and wish him luck at his audition. As we leave the restaurant and head across the street to where Brian parked the jeep I tell him, "Robert says that most waiters in LA are really actors waiting for a big break."

"Do not get any ideas," he says sternly as he unlocks the car and we get in. "I have no desire to live with some famous film star, the paparazzi would drive me crazy."

"Okay," I agree readily. "Where are we going now? Grocery store?"

"We should go buy a new bed."

"Brian, no! No, let's keep it. Please?"

"You just like watching your buck-naked ass bouncing up and down."

"You liked watching it too."

"Hmm. Next thing you'll be wanting to install a video camera."

That makes me laugh out loud, but "Can we?" I ask plaintively.

"See?" Brian exclaims as he makes a turn onto Highland, "I knew you really wanted to be in movies!"



Brian

I've got Justin convinced that keeping the round bed is his idea. He's right, I really did enjoy watching him - watching both of us - in the mirrored headboard. And despite Justin's wishes, I'd enjoy having an orgy on that bed. And in that huge sunken bathtub. Christ, something else to negotiate - relationships are fucking hard work, always having to compromise your principles.

We head for a cleaners I'd noticed not far from the condo, I need to get my suits pressed. If Justin gets the waiter job he'll have to provide his own white shirts and black dress pants, so we'll be giving a lot of business to the cleaners. Then we need to buy groceries and household products - an amazingly boring task made more palatable by doing it with Justin. He can even get enthusiastic picking out toilet paper and cantaloupe. We've stopped at a big Ralph's grocery on Sunset and I'm pushing the cart around while Justin fills it with a wide range of necessary and unnecessary stuff. He's run off to look for mayonnaise, and when I turn the cart to go down the bread aisle, some guy in a hurry bashes his cart into mine, almost knocking it over.

"Sorry," he exclaims, glancing at me, then doing a double-take. "Hey," he grins then, repeating, "Sorry, that was my fault. Are you okay?"

"No," I drawl, returning his elevator-eyes once-over, he's a looker, raven-haired, blue-eyed. "I think I've got whiplash," I complain.

The looker's grin widens, he's got very red lips, a sensual mouth, and dimples in each cheek. He's young, maybe Justin's age, with dark, dark hair curling long on his neck, and his vee-necked lavender pullover tee is tight enough to reveal his small nipples, which seem to harden as I glance at them. He's got a great package showcased in tight jeans. Tall - almost as tall as me, with very long legs. Christ, I haven't been this tantalized in weeks.

The looker pulls his eyes away from mine to glance at my cart. "Having a party?" he asks cheekily, "You've got enough groceries there for a month. Unless - maybe you have a hungry family to feed?"

"Nope, just a hungry teenager."

Justin’s twenty – or twenty-and-a-half, as he likes to phrase it, but he’s still a teenager in my mind.

"So - you ARE married?"

"No. Not really."

And at that moment my hungry teenager comes around the end of the aisle. "Now we need to find Oreos," he's saying, before he stops in his tracks and takes in the touching shopping carts and the looker leaning casually against a bread rack.

"This your son?" the looker asks.

Immediately I feel my hackles rise. My hackles rise, but my dick goes soft.

When I don't answer, Justin laughs and adds the jar of mayonnaise to our cart. "Yeah," he tells the guy, before turning to look me in the eye. "Daddy," he cries, "Please buy me some cookies now, please-please-please!"

"Shut up," I bitch at him, grabbing the cart and moving rapidly off down the aisle without a backward glance at the trick who just alienated me for all eternity. "Stop whining," I growl, "Or I'll take you home and spank you. And send you to bed without supper."

"Daaa-deee!" Justin complains loudly, before losing control and giggling like a ten-year-old.

After a moment when he stops to take a breath, Justin says seriously, "Actually the spanking part sounds okay.”

“Oh yeah?” I sneer, but I get an immediate mental image of Justin’s bare ass spread-eagled on the sheets. Reflected in the mirrored headboard of that outrageous porn-star bed.

“Yeah,” Justin confirms. “But please let me have supper first?"

Chapter 5: Out and About in LA (Part 1) by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

It's Party Time. Part one.

 

 

 

 

Brian

"We're expecting great things of you," Matt Bradford concludes, rising slightly in his chair to reach across the desk and shake my hand again. "We're glad you've joined the team."

I give him the smile and thanks he wants and stand up to leave his corner office that has floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. His huge desk is polished walnut without a single paper or note on top, a pretension that not even pretentious Gardner Vance affected. Just because he owns the agency does not, in my opinion, entitle Bradford to rest on his laurels. Naturally, I don't share this wisdom with my new boss - I'm doing the minimal new-employee ingratiating act, though knowing myself, that won't last very long.

"By the way," he adds, speaking to my back just as I'm about to exit his office, "I'm looking forward to meeting your wife at the Jackenzie dinner on Saturday."

I stop and turn to look at him again, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"

"I'm looking forward to - "

"I'm not married." Period. A subject I've no intention to discuss at this point.

"Really?" Bradford looks surprised. "I was sure Gardner told me you were married." He pauses and shakes his head. "Or anyway, he said that you were 'spoken for,' so I assumed - "

"I'm not married," I repeat. Full stop. Fuck Gardner Vance, thinking he's so sly. I feel my jaw harden and I force myself to relax, to give Bradford another small smile before turning once again for the door.

"Then bring a date, if you want," I hear Bradford say to my retreating back, I don't turn again, just nod and mumble thanks and keep on walking.

Outside my new assistant is waiting and she greets me with a fake smile. At least it feels fake, already I'm missing Cynthia and our no-bullshit rapport. She's the only woman, besides Lindsay and Deb, for whom I've ever had any respect. I went through a dozen or more assistants at the Ryder agency before Cynthia turned up, and I realize that I'm just as likely to go through a dozen more here in California. Tough-as-nails Cynthia cried when I said goodbye to her, an action that caused a lump in my own throat at the time. No looking back, instead, I look forward and allow Ginger - and what the hell kind of name is Ginger? - to lead the way to our office suite.

'Suite' is a rather grandiose name for my interior office and the Spice Girl's cubicle fronting my door. There's a window to the hall but no outside window. I remind myself that I'm starting almost at the bottom again, and I need to become more humble. How the fuck I can become humble, I have no idea.



Justin

“What time do you get off work tomorrow night?”

"Why?" Brian's sprawled on the sofa reading the paper, he just got home. It's almost ten o'clock and he said he had a late lunch and won't let me fix him anything to eat. He's still in his suit, he just tossed the jacket over a chair, kicked off his shoes, and threw himself down on the sofa. I can tell that he's exhausted.

“I want to go shopping," I explain, sitting down on the coffee table and leaning forward, putting my hands on his knees. "I need something cool to wear to the party.”

“What’s wrong with the clothes you have? No – no, don’t get me started." Brian folds the paper and puts it aside. "What I mean is, why suddenly don’t YOU like your clothes?”

“Brian, they’re PITTSBURGH clothes. We live in California now, we have to be more cool.”

“I am extremely cool.”

“Yeah, you are. But I’m not.”

“I’m graciously making no comment. But what put this bug up your ass about needing 'California clothes?'”

“Today was Robert’s day off, he came in to get his check and you should have seen his jeans! They’re specially faded in the back and front, and he was wearing a transparent pink shirt. I think that would look really good on me."

"Don't copy someone else's style," Brian curls his lip, "And don't fall for the cheap pop-star styles, stick to the classics, you'll always look good."

"See?" I exclaim, wheedling with my voice and running my hands up his thighs to grab hold of his belt and hang on, shaking him slightly. "See? I need you to help me pick something out! You don't want to see me in silver short-shorts, do you?"

"Yeah, I do," he contradicts me, one corner of his mouth turning up, "But not in public." Brian removes my hands but hangs onto them. He stands up and pulls me up too, dragging on my arms to pull me against his chest.

"Can we go shopping after work tomorrow night?” I lean back, avoiding his kiss; I don't want him to get distracted till I've got a commitment. “I really need something nice to wear to Tom's going-away party Saturday night, so I don't embarrass you!" I laugh then and raise up on my toes to give him a quick peck on the lips.

"I can't go to your party."

That stops me cold. "Brian! Since when?"

"Since today. There's a client dinner I have to attend Saturday, it's mandatory. And don't make that face, it's a Pittsburgh face. Pouting is very uncool in California."

"I'm not pouting!" I deny hotly, taking a step back. The coffee table hits the back of my knees and I sit down hard on the table. "Ow!" I sat on the big blown-glass Murano ashtray which luckily didn't break.

"Careful!" Brian warns, "If you want glass up your ass, try a light bulb." He rescues the half-full ashtray and pulls me up again, up and into his arms. "Don't harass me about it, Justin - you knew going into this that I'll be working my ass off this year, I won't have a lot of free time."

"I know," I agree, forcing my face to stop looking unhappy. "I just wanted everybody to meet you. I’m just a little disappointed, that's all," I lie, shrugging my shoulders.

Inside I feel crushed with disappointment; stupidly crushed. The guys at work are my new friends and I want Brian to be part of this small niche I’m creating for myself in California. I won't tell him - I can't tell him - how homesick I feel, how lonely; how already, just these first few days in LA, Brian's late hours at the office make me ache with missing him. I promised to be mature about things and I'm determined to keep that promise.

I don't know what Brian reads on my impassive face - the face I'm trying to keep impassive anyway - but he pulls me hard against him and gives me a loud smacking kiss. "Probably I can come home earlier tomorrow, in time to go shopping," he concedes, and I give him a big smile. "Let's go to bed now, I'm exhausted."

"A quick shower would refresh you," I suggest, moving ahead to lead the way down the hall.

Brian stops and turns around, goes back to turn off all the lights behind us. This is the new Brian, the budget-conscious Brian who used to leave lights on 24/7 in the loft. It's a sobering reminder that we need to stay on a budget this year. I silently resolve to buy something cheap tomorrow. I really do need something cool to wear to the party, but it doesn't have to be expensive.


Brian

"You look like a ten-dollar whore." Brian's standing outside the dressing room leaning against the wall, arms crossed on his chest, while I model the clothes I've picked out.

"I do not! These pants are majorly cool!"

"Justin, they have a million silver buttons down the sides, you probably glow in the dark."

"But - "

"No. You said you wanted my advice, and it's no. Try those black jeans I picked out."

"The black jeans! They're so PLAIN. They’ll make me look dull and boring."

Brian smiles then and his eyes crinkle up at the corners. "Your ass could never look boring. They’ll fit you perfectly, slim-fit works well for you. You've got a great young body, show it off." When I open my mouth to argue, he goes on, "Simple clothes show off your body, the glitzy ones detract from your natural good looks. I know what I'm talking about."

The hell of it is, he does. Nobody ever looks better than Brian and he always wears simple, subtle clothes. I guess I should take his advice. But I really love those silver buttons.

I try one more argument. "But the jeans are ninety dollars, the button pants are only thirty-five!"

He nods. "And the jeans look like ninety dollars - the bargain is that they'll keep looking good for a long time. And you can wear them anywhere, casual or dressed up with a sports jacket." He nods his head, "And you need a new sports jacket, the one your mom got you last year makes you look about twelve."

"Can I at least get a glitzy shirt, a party shirt, to go with the new jeans? Everything I have is so blah."

"I saw something on the rack, I'll go get it while you change. Put the black jeans on." Without waiting for an answer, he turns and leaves the dressing room hallway so I do as he says. A couple minutes later he pulls open the cubicle door and hands me two shirts on hangers. One is a soft knit pullover, black with a light blue collar, the other a long-sleeved black gauze shirt with vertical silver threads woven in, translucent but not transparent, and cut very severely, fitting close to the body.

"Brian, I like both of them," I admit, though I'd never have picked them out myself in a million years. They're Brianesque and yet somehow they are also me, they suit me. The pullover fits snugly but not obscenely, and the gauze shirt is beautiful, it would look good over the black sleeveless tee-shirt that he bought me a few weeks ago.

"The blue collar brings out your blue eyes," Brian tells me, "And you can wear the gauze shirt with your black tee."

"I like both of them," I repeat, studying my reflection in the three-way mirror. "But I'll just get the gauze, it's perfect for the party."

"Let's get them both. Then you won't have an excuse to drag me shopping for a while."

"Oh my God, Brian," my mouth falls open. "You can't believe the price tags!"

"Never look at price tags," he says airily, helping to pull the knit shirt off over my head. "These are both classics, they're good-looking shirts you can wear for a long time."

"But the pullover alone costs as much as a week's salary!" I'm exaggerating only slightly; what I feel is dismayed and disappointed.

"It's an investment," Brian insists, picking up the discarded black jeans and folding the shirts over his arm. "Get dressed, I'm going to go pay for these now."

"You're not paying!" I grab his arm and pull him back into the dressing room. "Brian, that's not why I asked you to come!"

"Don't queen out on me," he answers harshly, "Calm down. If I didn't want to buy them, I wouldn't - you know me well enough to know that, don't you?"

I only nod, but I want to keep arguing, I feel so guilty. "Please don't, Brian," I say earnestly, hanging onto his arm and looking hard into his eyes. "You're already so deep in debt - "

"Hey," he pulls away gently, "When you owe a hundred grand, what's a few more bucks? Get dressed, and stop boring me with budget talk, okay?" He doesn't wait for an answer but quickly leaves the cubicle, and I hurry to get dressed and join him in the store.

Naturally, Brian is flirting with the sales clerk at the cash register, a tall slim redhead with improbable dark green eyes - colored contacts, I'll bet. When I come up behind Brian I slip an arm around his waist and he turns his head to glance down at me, his almost-smile saying he's on to me and on to my gesture of ownership. The clothes are bagged and he signs the sales slip, then hands me the bag as we exit the store.

The flirting means nothing, it's second nature to Brian, but it reminds me that we haven't revisited our discussion about tricks in the apartment. I wait till we're buckled into the jeep and pulling out into traffic, then I say, "Brian, we need to agree about bringing guys home."

"I agree," he responds quickly, "Let's bring lots of guys home. We can start with that redhead – I’ll turn around and go back for him, okay?"

"You know what I mean." I keep my voice calm and unfazed by his stupid joke. "I agreed to your rules about drugs and so forth, and I'm asking you to agree about not bringing tricks home."

"Justin, that's an unnecessary rule. Forget it."

"I won't forget it. I'm totally serious. Brian," I pause and move my hand to rest atop his on the gear shift knob. "Brian, I only want to see you and me in our Hollywood mirror. Nobody else. It's really important to me."

He says nothing for a few minutes, his face is unreadable as he maneuvers the jeep through the traffic on Cahuenga. Traffic in LA is just amazing, the streets are always crowded, day and night. Finally, when the silence draws out and I think he's not going to respond, Brian sighs, stops at a red light and turns to look at me. "It's an unnecessary rule," he repeats, "Because I'm going to be working day and night for a long while, I won't have time for major tricking in the foreseeable future."

"I know you're working long hours," I reply reasonably, "But it could still happen. Almost accidentally. You might pick up somebody at lunch and bring him here and fuck him in our bed."

Shaking his head, Brian denies it. "I never fuck accidentally."

"Accidentally, on purpose, what's the difference? I just don't want you to. Not in our bed. Not in our house." When he says nothing, I add, "You can fuck in your office, or away from home, or - or," I take a deep breath and make a concession, "Or in the jeep. Just not - not in our home. It's my home too, you said so. Didn't you mean it?"

"Of course it's your home too. Don't get all sentimental, Justin - you know that emotional bullshit has no effect on me."

That's not completely true, but I wasn't using it as blackmail. Or not really. "Okay," I concede.

There's another long silence and I bite my lip to keep from going on and on; I just wait for his answer. If he's expecting more ammunition from me, he's not getting it. I only want a yes or no. I only want a promise.

Finally, Brian takes a long deep breath and blows it out noisily. "Justin, I'll agree to no tricks at the apartment - for three months. A three-month commitment."

"And after three months, what?"

He shakes his head. "After three months - I don't know." We're both silent, thinking hard. Then he adds, "After three months, we renegotiate. How's that?"

It's not what I want. I want a forever, permanent commitment. But this is Brian I'm dealing with. Any sentence that has the word 'forever' in it scares him to death. Commitments from Brian are hard-won and exhausting to wring out of him. Oh, I know he's going to be working too hard to spend as much time fucking around as he used to, so this is not a major concession. But aggravating as it is to admit, any concession from Brian really is a big deal.

"Okay," I give in graciously. "Three months."

"And," he says off-handedly, as if he doesn't really give a shit, "You won't bring tricks home either. Right?"

"Right. Of course. I'll fuck all my tricks off-site."

Brian snorts but says nothing. He knows I'm not into heavy-duty tricking like him. And I've already promised 'no violin music,' which means, no emotional involvement with any other guys. I've learned my lesson about that and I'm not going to slip up again.



Brian

Strange as it might seem, I haven't felt like fucking anybody this first week in California. Not anybody but Justin. In many ways, it's convenient to have him living with me. Wake up with a woody and there's this hot trembling slender body eager to fulfill my desires. Not that Justin would appreciate this philosophy of course, so I keep it to myself. But the three-month commitment I've made for no-tricks-at-home is not an onerous enterprise. The fact that I needed to make such a commitment at all naturally irks me, interferes with my self-image as an unfettered free agent; but somewhat reluctantly - only somewhat - I admit that I am, after all, no longer a completely free agent.

What's more shocking: I don't even want to be.

Which does not mean that I've sworn off tricking or have any intention of ever becoming some monogamous, compliant, boring stay-at-home asshole. But I can keep tricks out of the apartment for a while, no problem with that. Especially since I really am, as I told Justin, working my ass off. I knew I'd have to work twice as hard as anyone else at Bradford & Slate, merely to prove myself, to establish my reputation for excellence in the field. Somewhat surprisingly, my Spice Girl assistant is proving more helpful than I'd any reason to expect.

"Ginger," I press the button on my intercom and call her into the office; when she opens the door I ask if she's received the Magruder proofs and she whisks them from her desk to mine and spreads them out on my desktop. They're not too bad though I'm frowning as I look over the photo shoot prints in draft format prepared by the art department. Ginger's standing by my shoulder and she surprises me by pointing out a spelling error in one of the proof sheets. When I grunt agreement, she tentatively suggests, "And - maybe the color blocking on the second page needs some tweaking?"

Nodding agreement, I glance up at her and say, "Right again. Thanks." She smiles and blushes slightly. Hopefully, she's merely pleased at having her suggestions acknowledged. However, while I'm not egotistical enough to think that every woman under the sun is hot for me, I've had enough experience with female staff members getting googly-eyed around me, to realize that I need to set the record straight - so to speak - with Ginger. With everyone in the office actually.

I'd experienced the gamut of a slow coming out at the agency after Ryder hired me right out of college. I never pretended to be straight but I never revealed anything of my private life to anyone at work. Slowly, over a long period of time, people came to know that I was gay. Cynthia was the only person who ever asked me, straight out, and I respected her for that - and her honesty and forthrightness became a cornerstone of our working relationship. Cynthia shared some of the office rumor-mongering with me. Sometimes I was amused, sometimes I was pissed, but mostly I just ignored the issue and finally it became a non-issue. The passage of time coupled with my superb advertising expertise overcame almost every homophobic obstacle in my career. With a few notable exceptions, my being gay did not interfere with my rise through the ranks at Ryder.

I refuse absolutely to pretend to be straight - that's a lie I've never been tempted to live. But while my sexuality is nobody's business and has nothing to do with anything at work, I'm not sanguine enough to imagine that it won't make a difference at Bradford & Slate, once it's common knowledge that I'm queer. Still, I've decided that this time around, I'm going to establish up front that I'm gay. Partly to avoid the kind of sticky female wooing I've experienced over the years, partly to short-circuit the speculation that sometimes encourages distancing by male staff members. Rather than play into that coy 'is-he-or-isn't-he' game, I've decided to establish my sexual orientation right off the bat.

It's another late night getting home, Justin's sprawled on the sofa watching tv and doodling. Seeing him with his sketchpad makes my chest hurt. Fuck, he should be in school. I'm sure there's plenty of art schools in LA, and the sooner he's back in class where he belongs, the better. But I'm fucking hamstrung by this debt I've incurred, by my maxed-out credit cards. I won’t - I will never - regret the impetus that moved me to my uncharacteristically charitable act in Pittsburgh. But I regret that I'm no longer in a position to help Justin with school fees.

"Hey," he drops the sketchbook and jumps up to greet me with a wraparound hug and a loud kiss. "You look exhausted."

"Yeah." I drop my briefcase and return his hug briefly, then head off down the hall. "I'm going to change. Is there anything to eat?"

"Sure," he answers eagerly, "I'll make you a sandwich, okay?"

"Mmm-hmm." I'm really too tired to eat but my body needs fuel. "No mayo," I remind him as I loosen my tie and pull it off. When I return to the kitchen, Justin hands me a plate with a corned beef sandwich and he pulls a beer from the fridge and opens it for me, then joins me at the small round dining table in an alcove off the living room.

After a few quick bites to ward off my hunger pangs, I take a swig of beer and relax back into the chair. "What time is your party tomorrow night?" I know he's talked about it several times but I wasn't paying attention.

"I told you," he says patiently, "It's late. Some of the guys will be working at the restaurant till almost midnight, so people will be coming and going, from ten o'clock onwards."

"So," I start, stop for a moment, then go determinedly on. "So, if you didn’t get there till eleven-thirty or twelve, it wouldn't matter?"

"I don't work Saturday," he reminds me, "So why would I go so late to the party?"

"In case you had something else to do first."

"Huh?" Justin's shaking his head. "What else would I have to do?"

Swallowing a breadcrumb that threatens to choke me, I say off-handedly, "In case you had another party to go to first. Or something."

"What other party?" He sits up straight and his eyes are open wide. "Brian, what other - "

"You might want to go with me to my business dinner. Maybe."

"Brian - do you mean it? Do you mean it!?" he's almost shouting.

Christ, do I mean it? It's an irrevocable step. Just this afternoon I'd made the decision to formally announce my sexuality to the staff of Bradford & Slate by showing up at the Jackenzie dinner with my - with a date. But now, just for a moment, my resolve weakens. Do I really want to do this?

Then I decide, What the fuck.

"Yeah," I answer him at last, sounding more confident than I feel. I nod my head and answer more assuredly, "Yes. If you want to."

"Brian - do they know you're gay?"

"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "But after tomorrow, they will."

"Yee-haw!" Justin shouts then, jumping up from his chair to throw his arms around me in an enormous hug. "Brian, I'd love to go with you! Wow!" He smacks a kiss on my eyebrow and then leans back and exclaims, "Luckily you had my suit pressed when you took all of yours to the cleaners. I mean," he shakes his head, "Probably you don't want me to wear my new gauze shirt to the dinner, do you?"

That makes me laugh and I feel myself relaxing for real finally. "Not especially. We can come home and change before going to your party."

"And you're coming to my party too! Oh Brian - I'm so happy!" Justin squeezes me again and smacks kisses all over my face.

"Back off now," I tell him, faux-sternly, "Let me finish my sandwich."

"Gobble it up," Justin urges me eagerly, "You'll need all your strength - I'm going to fuck the shit out of you as soon as you finish eating!"

"Not bloody likely," I sneer at him, "But you can suck me off if you want."

"Thanks," Justin laughs. "Well, hurry up then!"



Justin

It surprises me to discover that I’m nervous about going to the business dinner with Brian tonight. He's never included me in any work-related events before, and though he pretends not to be worried about the reaction of his co-workers, in my heart I know that he's plenty nervous about it too.

Brian spent part of the day at the office, and when he came home in the early afternoon, I convinced him to sleep with me for a few hours, so we'd have plenty of energy for the long evening ahead. He harassed me with some digs about toddlers and nap-time, but I coaxed him with the promise of an amazing blow-job, so finally he agreed and he even fell asleep and slept hard for a couple hours. I knew he was exhausted so I was glad I'd talked him into it.

In the end, we overslept and now we have to rush a bit to get ready to leave for the dinner party, which is being held at some fancy restaurant called Cicada in downtown Los Angeles, just a few miles from our apartment. Brian insists on retying my tie, and he looks me over critically before nodding his approval.

"How do I look?"

Predictably he answers, "You look all right." The highest Kinney praise.

"You look all right too," I tell him cheekily and he has the grace to laugh. He looks gorgeous of course in his black Armani suit and Gucci loafers.

"Let's go, we're already late. 'Let's take a nap,' you said."

"Well, you feel better, though, don't you?"

Nodding as he turns toward the front door, Brian throws over his shoulder, "Yeah, but I think the blowjob had more to do with that than a couple hours sleep. Let's go!"



Brian

Luckily it's a short drive, just a few miles, to Cicada, though the heavy LA street traffic still amazes me. A valet takes the car keys and we move inside, through a crystal archway and into the dimly lit interior, a huge cavern of a room with a thirty-foot ceiling, the whole place ornately art deco and supremely elegant. A maitre-d' escorts us along one side of the main dining room to a polished wooden staircase leading up to a u-shaped balcony halfway to the gilded ceiling. There's quite a crowd here milling around. Bradford's assistant told me there'd be about fifty guests, the top brass of our client Jackenzie as well as Bradford & Slate's senior staff of half a dozen vice presidents and the twelve top ad execs. Plus spouses.

I glance at Justin one last time and breathe a sigh of - of something, relief or I don't know what. He looks beautiful, dressed perfectly in his dark gray suit, seemingly relaxed and at ease, though in fact, I know that he's rather nervous. I'm almost glad that I brought him tonight. No. No, I am definitely glad that I brought him. Not only will I come out of the closet with a bang, get it over and done with. But also I'm proud of him, and I realize that I'm sort of happy to have Justin as my partner. Though I've no intention of giving him that title, either publicly or privately. Not. . . anyway, not yet.

The crowd parts slightly as we reach the top of the stairs and I see Matt Bradford near the back wall by a tall wrought-iron plant stand adorned with an enormous flower arrangement. Touching Justin's sleeve, I motion for him to follow as I wend my way through the crowd and approach Bradford. He turns just then and sees me, gives a welcoming smile, and I take one last deep breath before returning his smile and coming to a halt in front of him.

"Brian! Welcome to the party - fashionably late, I see."

"Hello, Matt."

He touches the shoulder of a tall woman next to him, she's middle-aged, with dark blonde upswept hair. "Sarah, this is our new hotshot ad exec you've heard me talking about. Brian Kinney, this is my wife."

Sarah smiles and holds out her hand and we shake. "Hello Brian," she says graciously, "I've heard good things about you, welcome to Los Angeles."

I turn slightly then and give Justin a look that makes him step up close beside me. "This is Justin Taylor," I tell them.

"Hello," Justin smiles at Matt and his wife; "Nice to meet you."

Sarah blinks twice, then she extends her hand for Justin to shake, and her smile tells me that she's very quick. "Hello, Justin. Are you from Pittsburgh also?"

"Yes," his smile brightens, "It's my first time in California and so far I love it."

I've been glancing at Matt Bradford who resembled, for a few moments, a glassy-eyed Madame Tussaud wax figure. Then he comes back to life and determinedly holds out his hand to Justin. "How d'you do?"

"Fine, thank you," Justin answers politely. "This is an amazingly beautiful restaurant."

"Yes it is, isn't it?" Sarah answers, "It's a very old building, this part was originally a large haberdashery shop in the 1920s. The food's marvelous too, I hope you're hungry."

"He's always hungry," I murmur, making Justin blush.

"Yes, I am," he confirms, eyeing a long narrow table against the back wall loaded down with hors d'oeuvres and ice sculptures.

"Let's get a bite to eat, shall we?" Sarah offers and, after a quick glance at me to see my barely perceptible nod, Justin agrees eagerly and moves away with Sarah toward the hors d'oeuvres table.

As soon as they're out of earshot, Matt turns to me and says, "You could have told me."

"Does it matter?" I ask seriously, wishing I had a cigarette in my hand; fucking California restaurants don't allow smoking.

"No, I mean," Matt repeats, "You could have told me because it doesn't matter."

Talk is cheap; we'll see about that, but for now I just nod and say, "Good."

There's an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, then Matt asks, "How are you getting on with your assistant, what's-her-name, Ginger is it?"

"She's good," I answer honestly. "She seems very competent."

"Great. That's great. But feel free to hire somebody else, if you need to. Now," he clears his throat, "Come along, I want you to meet the Jackenzie brass. Your - your friend will be all right with Sarah?"

"Of course."

Matt leads the way across the room to a huddle of black-coated gentlemen reeking of success and big money. The Jackenzie account is the jewel in the crown of the Bradford & Slate agency, thus this expensive and elegant fete which is an annual event to thank Jackenzie for their business.



Justin

I'm so proud of Brian that I could bust, I feel like jumping up on the hors d'oeuvres table, tap-dancing and loudly singing some wonderful out-of-tune song like in a movie musical, then sliding down the long stairway banister! Instead, I keep my happiness all bottled up inside and make do with smiling at all the people and chatting happily with Mrs. Bradford. "Call me Sarah," she said but I haven't been able to do that, she's so old and married to the head of Brian's agency, it seems disrespectful.

Not only is Brian the most handsome man in the place (in all of Los Angeles I'll bet), but he has so much class - I've never been around him in a formal situation like this, I've never seen him 'on' before, and he's just fantastic. He's so fucking sophisticated! I wonder if any of the Liberty Avenue crowd have any idea what this Brian Kinney incarnation is like?

After a bit of chatting with Mrs. Bradford, nibbling crackers and shrimp and watching everyone mill around mingling and (presumably) talking business, finally, we get to sit down and eat actual dinner. There's a dozen or more small tables scattered around the balcony area and we're kind of herded in groups to sit down. Brian's eyes find me across the crowd and beckon me to his side, and we end up seated at a table with two guys and their wives. One guy is a mucky-muck at this Jackenzie place and the other one's a VP at Brian's agency. Mostly I keep my mouth shut, I'm afraid I'll say something to embarrass Brian, so I concentrate on eating and smiling.

The food is to die for and there's tons of it, I have to remind myself not to eat as greedily as I sometimes do, luckily the hors d'oeuvres took the edge off my hunger so I can sit back and politely nibble on the various courses brought by the waiters who are wearing suits almost as expensive as Brian's. I'll bet they make great tips here, I wonder if there's any job openings?

It's Italian cuisine but very elegant, not spaghetti, like you'd expect. It's a big group so I guess they ordered just a couple things ahead of time. We get our choice of chicken Florentine in lemon-caper sauce or sesame-crusted Atlantic salmon with baby leeks and snow peas. I have a hard time deciding, I know if we were alone Brian and I could order one of each and share but you don’t do that at an elegant dinner like this. Finally, I choose the salmon and it's just the most delicious amazing fish I've ever eaten. Brian gets the chicken and without even realizing it, I discover that I'm checking out his plate and wishing like hell I could have a taste. Brian seems to be paying no attention to me but before I know what's happening, he's cut off a hunk of chicken and surreptitiously transferred it onto my plate! I smile up at him but he's not looking at me, then I glance across the table and see the wife of the Jackenzie guy wink at me and smile. I feel myself blushing but I smile back at her and happily fork a piece of the chicken into my mouth and it just melts on my tongue. I hope we can come back here for dinner sometime, just the two of us.

Finally, I'm full enough to stop thinking about food and tune into the conversation. At first, it's business related and even though I worked for a while at Vangard, I don't really understand the context of the discussion - it's about media manipulation and I'm out of my depth. Then the Jackenzie guy, Theo Something, changes the subject to tell about a fairly new museum in LA, the Getty Museum. I've heard of it at the IFA and I'm thrilled to realize that now I can visit the Getty and several other famous art museums in southern California.

Theo notices what's probably my excitedly bugged-out eyes and asks if I'm interested in art, and before I know it, I'm talking about the IFA and the modern art museum in Pittsburgh. Everybody goes quiet and I realize that I'm talking too much, so immediately I stop, pick up my fork again and shove some salmon into my mouth.

Surprisingly, Brian says, "Justin is a very talented artist."

"Really?" asks Theo's wife - I can't remember her name - and she says their daughter is an artist too, studying at UCLA, and asks if I'm a student.

"Not right now," I falter, worried that I'm going to blurt out my secret infamy, being expelled from the IFA for political activity, but Brian smoothly interjects, "Justin's taking a sabbatical this year. Has anyone seen the new Spielberg film about the Civil War?" and the conversation veers off into safer territory. A moment later I jump slightly as I feel Brian's hand slide into my lap under the tablecloth, and he gives my thigh a hard pinch. I don't know if it's reward or punishment, but I'm sure I'll find out later.


Brian

Finally, the long dinner party comes to an end, and after making the rounds to say our goodbyes, Justin and I are among the first to leave the restaurant; it's just after eleven and we need to get home to change for the other party. Once we're in the car and headed toward home, Justin asks uncertainly, "Brian, was I okay? I didn't embarrass you or anything?"

"You were okay," I tell him.

He was fucking magnificent, and I haven't an iota of regret for taking him to the dinner. He was completely himself, no pretentiousness about that boy ever; he has beautiful manners and he charmed the pants off all the ladies present, and probably not a few of the older men as well. His good looks and cheerful enthusiasm win over all but the hardest hearts wherever he goes. Christ, I'm so fucking proud of him.

"If I was okay, why did you pinch me at dinner?"

That makes me laugh out loud. "That was for being fucking darling."

"Brian! Really?"

He's making too much of that, I knew I should not praise him. "Of course you also ate like a pig, but what else is new? At least your table manners are halfway decent."

"Thanks for sharing your chicken, it was fantastic! I wish you could've tasted my salmon, I was afraid you'd get mad if I offered it."

"I would've," I confirm. "We'll go there sometime on our own and you can share your salmon with me." I slide my hand across the seat and find his; we squeeze fingers.

"Everybody seemed really nice. I couldn't tell if people were shocked or anything, could you?"

"It was fine."

Oh, I caught a few sidelong looks, a few whiffs of whispery-gossip voices around the periphery of the crowd, but nothing overt. There will probably be repercussions, but I'm not sorry that I decided to out myself to the agency staff and get it over with, all at once. I'll find out Monday if I'm going to be treated any differently by Matt Bradford, by the others.

"So, tell me again where your party is at?" He's prattled on all week about this going-away party for the waiter he replaced but I barely paid attention.

"Simon, he's the bartender, it's at his place, he has a condo too. Robert says it's pretty big and has a view out over downtown LA."

"And is Simon the one who fell in love with you at first sight?"

Justin laughs. "He was joking around - I told you. He's a real comedian."

Mmm-hmm. Despite my seeming disinterest in the group of guys working at the Porte d'Or, I'm looking forward to checking them out, seeing for myself who's coming on to Justin and who can be trusted to keep his dick in his pants when Justin's around. It's not that I'm jealous, I don't do jealous. And Justin's a semi-free agent, if he wants to fuck around, that's okay. I'm just curious. That's all.

I especially want to get a look at this Simon character. And Robert. I met Robert the day Justin had his interview. They were hugging, right in the middle of the restaurant. I don’t care, of course, it doesn't really matter to me. I'm just curious. That's all.


Chapter 6: Out and About in LA (Part 2) by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

It's Party Time. Part two.

 

 

 

 

Justin

I'm excited for Brian to meet my new friends and for them to meet him. Robert met him the day I applied for the job, and he's been telling everyone how gorgeous my 'husband' is. Yesterday I pulled him aside and asked him not to call Brian my husband anymore. Christ - if Brian hears it, he'll think it's me calling him that and he'll kill me on the spot. I discover as we're changing clothes for the party that I'm starting to get nervous, which is silly.

If Brian looked beautiful in his Armani for the dinner party, he looks even better in his black jeans and black vee-neck pullover. He pushes up the long sleeves, slips on his boots and goes to peer in the bathroom mirror while he tousles his hair. Watching him, it suddenly occurs to me that Brian might be attracted to somebody at the party, and I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach at the thought of him putting the moves on somebody in front of my friends. I've told them we're not exclusive, well most of them. I didn't tell everybody, especially I didn't tell Simon because he. . . well, I'm sure he's just joking around, but Simon keeps pretending to come on to me. He always laughs and I'm sure he's not serious. But maybe if he knew that I'm free to fuck around, maybe the laughing would stop. I don't want to find out.

I've got directions scribbled on a scrap of paper, and we only get lost once driving to Simon's place. It takes another ten minutes to find a parking space several blocks away. I'm surprised to discover that Simon lives not far from us, I knew it was in WeHo but not so close. His building's on a slight hillside, it's only two floors with four apartment doors on each landing, and Simon's in number seven toward the back. I have to ring three times, the party's loud inside and nobody hears the buzzer for a minute. Then the door's pulled open and Simon's standing there. He's wearing black silk pajamas, the top unbuttoned halfway showing off his muscular chest, he's a body builder like Ben and looks like him too except that Simon has sandy brown hair and no dimples.

"Just-in-credible!" he cries, it's one of a dozen nicknames he's given me. He's grinning and he grabs my hand and squeezes it even while his eyes slide quickly from my face to give Brian the elevator eyes once-over. "Woo-hoo!" he exclaims to Brian, "You must be little Goldilocks' hus-bear!"

I can almost feel Brian gagging though he says only, "And you must be the Comedian Bartender."

Simon releases my hand and extends it to Brian, who shakes it politely but I can see that he's not laughing. Not even smiling.

"Come in, come in," Simon urges us, then he turns and we follow him into the apartment. "Everybody," Simon calls loudly over the music, and the din dies down, then Simon announces, "Here's our New Kid on the Block - and just check out the husband! - isn't he delicious?"

There's some loud wolf-whistles and I'm just cringing, imagining how pissed Brian must be already. I know any minute he's going to repudiate the 'husband' remarks and set the record straight that we're really just. . . just what are we to Brian, I wonder? Friends, roommates, lovers, partners - Brian never seems to give us a title. But the last title on earth he'd admit to is 'husband.'

Everyone surges forward to say hi to me and I introduce each one to Brian. I keep glancing at him trying to determine if his stoicism is about to crack but outwardly he seems okay, he looks kind of relaxed and he's even responding nicely (for him) to the introductions.

"You met Robert already," I remind him and he nods and says, "The actor."

"We're all actors," somebody calls out; somebody else says, "Not ALL of us." Tom pushes through the crowd to get close to Brian and tells him proudly, "I'm the only WORKING actor here!"

"I'm not an actor," Simon declares, "Except in the bedroom - then I'm a regular screaming diva!"

There's some laughter and Billy, the other bartender, says, "He's a screamer all right!"

"Fuck you," Simon answers cheerfully, "Now let me give you boys a tour of my maison."

We follow as Simon leads us through the large living room and into a kitchen about three times the size of ours, there's half a dozen guys hanging out there eating from a buffet spread out on an island counter. There's a lot of guys at the party that I've never met, I recognize some regular customers but there's plenty I don't know so I can't introduce them. Every single guy in the place has his tongue hanging out after seeing Brian. That comes as no surprise to me of course.

As we go by the buffet, I grab a napkin and a small wooden skewer with cubes of ham and pineapple chunks, and I see Brian glance at me over his shoulder and raise an eyebrow. I just laugh guiltily but I don't care that he's teasing, it's been a couple hours since dinner after all. We follow Simon through the kitchen and into the master bedroom. I stifle a gasp when we walk into that room, the walls are decorated with gold Egyptian hieroglyphs and the bed has four posters made out of what looks like palm trees hung with glittery gauze. "King Tut slept here," Brian murmurs.

"The Boy King?" Simon laughs. "I wish I had more boys in my bedroom, kings or merely princes."

"You're into young guys?" Brian quizzes him.

"As often as possible," Simon drawls. "Throw your jackets on the bed, why don't you?" I hand Brian my napkin so I can shrug off my jacket; our next stop is the master bathroom, which is huge and has a sunken tub much like the one in our apartment.

"Good place for an orgy," Brian comments, reaching behind him to grab my arm and give it a hard pinch. I swallow my 'ouch' and say nothing, but Simon immediately agrees.

"Oh my friend, there's been many an orgy in that tub. I'll call you boys the next time, shall I?"

"You do that," Brian says, but making his voice purposely insincere. It feels like maybe Brian doesn't like Simon very much.

We're whisked by another two bedrooms - one of them has a locked door and when Simon turns the knob and discovers that it's locked, he says, "Hmmm, I wonder what's going on in my guest room?" but he moves on down the hall and we emerge into the living room again. He cuts a pathway through the crowd and we follow him out onto a balcony, a wide ledge with a couple lounge chairs, a million colored votive candles scattered all about, and a large gas barbecue where Antoine is cooking chicken. Antoine waves a spatula at us and we move across the balcony toward him.

There's a great view of the lights of Los Angeles spreading out below the balcony. I wish our place had a balcony this large, ours just has a ledge wide enough for two chairs, a small table and a couple of potted plants. It would be fun to barbecue, though, and I make a mental note to tell Brian we should buy one of those tiny barbecue things.

"Here's Jus-twink's better half," Simon tells Antoine, then adds, "I wonder which half is better?"

"Hey Justin," Antoine moves the spatula to his left hand so he can shake hands with me and with Brian. "Your boy has sure made a good impression at the d'Or," Antoine tells Brian with a grin, "He's a fast learner and the customers love him already."

"I'm not surprised," Brian answers, "He was just as popular back home." I glance at him to see if he's being sarcastic but he seems sincere, and when someone calls Simon from the kitchen and he excuses himself to hurry away, I can see Brian visibly relax. He shoves one hand in his pocket and slides the other around my waist. I'm surprised but happy, and I slip my arm around his waist too.

"You're beautiful together, blond and brunet," Antoine says wistfully, "Though I'm sure you know that already."

“It’s been mentioned once or twice,” Brian admits.

Antoine turns to me. “Sweetie, I made some of those barbecued drummies you like, they just took a platter to the dining room.”

“Oh yum!” I pull away from Brian and ask, “Do you want to try some? They’re delicious!”

“Not now, I’m going to have a cigarette,” he demurs, pulling out his pack. “But go ahead – you must be starving.”

“Of course I’m not starving, but. . . Oh, Antoine, we had dinner tonight at the Cicada, do you know it?”

“I sure do – that’s a five-star restaurant, very beautiful, very famous in LA. What did you have?”

Brian answers for me: “Salmon and chicken and shrimp and – what else?” When I open my mouth to answer he laughs and gives me a little shove. “Go get your drummies – what the fuck are drummies? Go ahead.”

“Be right back!” I promise and hurry off into the apartment.



Brian

“You’ve got yourself a peach there,” Antoine tells me as soon as Justin’s out of earshot. “A real keeper. You want to hang onto that boy.”

“I intend to,” I answer him, surprising myself. “Cigarette?”

“Quit, a few years ago. I’ve got BP.”

“BP?”

“Blood pressure.”

I refrain from telling Antoine that we all have blood pressure, otherwise, we’d be dead. But he’s a nice guy, he likes Justin and he doesn’t seem to have – I was going to say, he doesn’t seem to have designs on Justin. I sound like some cheesy romance novel. I realize that, aside from Antoine, everyone else is suspect. Why did Justin have to get a job in a gay restaurant anyway?

Simon, I loathe. On sight and on principle. He’s loud and obnoxious and overtly sexual, I’m never attracted to louts. Probably Justin isn’t either. He never cared for the burly guys we’d bring home occasionally, he seemed to pull away from them, and I stopped hitting on guys like that for our three-ways. I almost laugh when I realize that, all the long months that he was with the fiddler, I never once brought home a guy that Justin wouldn’t like. Bad enough that, long after the rules were irrelevant, I couldn’t kiss another man. Now I realize that I even had unconscious limits on whom I could fuck. I wonder if I’m ruined for life?

“Can I bum a smoke?”

It’s Tom, the actor-waiter, at my elbow. “Sure.” I hold out the pack and shake loose a cigarette, then flick my lighter and he bends his head, holding the cigarette to the flame, steadying my hand with his. An old move but an effective one.

He looks up at me through his long dark eyelashes and smiles thanks. Straightening up, Tom then slouches attractively, looping a thumb in the waistband of his tight jeans, and asks, “Have you thought about being an actor yourself? You’ve got leading-man good looks, you’re fucking tall and you’ve got a great body.”

Tom’s fucking tall himself, we’re almost eye to eye, and there’s no mistaking the look in those eyes either.

“Not interested,” I tell him. I’m not, either. Not in acting, not in him.

Except. . . he’s fucking gorgeous. Tall, lean, curly dark hair and melting brown eyes. No surprise he’s managed to get a role in a film or a tv show. If Justin told me more about this guy, I wasn’t paying attention. But he’s definitely hot, and definitely in my league. He knows it too. The raised eyebrow, the lift of one corner of his mouth in a sexy sneer, are clear giveaways of his intentions.

“You sure?” he asks, his sneer widening into a grin when he senses the answering smolder behind my impassive façade.

“Hey Brian, I brought you a drummie,” Justin’s at my elbow, blithely unaware of the seduction scene Tom is attempting to carry out beneath his nose. Or maybe not so unaware, he glances at Tom uncertainly before holding a piece of chicken toward me.

“I’m not hungry,” I refuse, shaking my head. “You eat it.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Justin informs me, biting into the chicken and tearing a chunk off the small bone clutched in his fist.

Oh yes, I do.

In two bites Justin’s disposed of the chicken, and he leans behind me to drop the bone into a small garbage can near the barbecue grill where Antoine’s still cooking.

“Your fingers are sticky,” I inform him.

“I’ll go get a napkin – “

“No need.” I put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from leaving. Then I reach for Justin’s sticky hand and pull it toward my face, snaking out my tongue to touch the tips of his fingers.

Justin stands still and we stare into each other’s eyes as, one at a time, I suck his sticky fingers into my mouth and slowly lick and slurp each one, running my tongue around each finger and slowly licking off every drop of sauce on his fingertips, on his nails, between his fingers, finishing with a long swirl of my tongue on the open palm of his hand.

I’m rewarded when Justin sharply exhales the breath he’s been holding, and he laughs a quivery, shaky little laugh. With great pleasure I watch a pink blush bloom up his neck, into his cheeks, even turning the tips of his ears pink.

“Your mouth is sticky too,” I tell him, before bending my head and touching his lips with mine, then licking his lips and sucking his tongue into my mouth.

Justin gasps slightly before returning my kiss in that urgent, all-or-nothing way he has about him, pushing his body against mine. I feel the hardness of his cock pressing against me and I know that, if he had just a few more sticky fingers, I could make him cream his jeans right there.

Right there on the balcony. We’re standing on the balcony in a half-circle of Justin’s friends. When finally I pull away and look around, I see that we’re surrounded by a dozen intent faces, silently watching faces. I’d forgotten for a moment where we were.

Then I hear Tom growl, “You lucky fuck,” before turning and pushing his way through the crowd gathered on the balcony in the darkness.

And I wonder: Who’s the lucky fuck? Justin – or me?


Justin

I can’t ever remember feeling so happy. We had such a great time tonight – first at the fancy restaurant with his agency people and now Brian has met and sort-of likes my friends, the guys I work with. We’ve each pulled the other into our working lives, and I feel like we’re sharing ourselves almost completely, in almost every way. The only thing better would be if Brian would say certain things to me. But I don’t need that, not really. I learned the hard way that words don’t mean anything and promises don’t either.

Most promises anyway. Yet even though Brian hardly ever makes promises, when he does, I know that he will always keep them. I trust him completely. And someday he will trust me the same way. I’ll have to work hard to prove myself this time around, but I’m going to do it.

The party gets a little loud for a while, we stay on the balcony talking to Antoine and gazing out at the lights of the big city sparkling like diamonds in the darkness. Guys come and go, chatting with us, offering dope and booze. Brian sips a glass of bourbon and I’ve had a couple tequila shots, I think we’re both feeling relaxed and slightly fuzzy but not wasted. Brian intends to stay sober for a few months at least, he says he can’t knock ‘em dead at the agency if he’s hung over every morning like he used to be in Pittsburgh.

Brian goes to take a piss and when he returns, I’ve taken his place on the lounge chair so I start to get up but he waves me back and sits down in front. I slip a hand up under his sweater and lightly scratch his back for a few minutes. “Mmm,” he murmurs, so I keep it up. Then I start to spell things on his back using my finger as a pencil, and I make him guess what I’m writing. Mom used to do this with me when I was a kid but it’s a game Brian’s never played. He likes it, though.

First I write ‘U-R-SO-HOT’ and he figures that out pretty quickly. Then I write, ‘DO-U-LK-MY-FRIENDS?’ and he guesses that too, though he pretends that I wrote ‘FIENDS’ not ‘FRIENDS.’ “They’re not THAT bad,” he says, making me laugh. Then I write ‘I-HEART-BBQ,’ drawing a heart-shape instead of writing the word ‘love.’ And then Brian claims it’s his turn so we trade places.

First, he writes, ‘U-R-SO-HAT,’ just to make me giggle. Then he writes, ‘I-HEART-2-FK-U’ and slides his hand down the back of my pants to make his point. There’s a long pause, then Brian writes, ‘I-HEART-‘ and suddenly he stops. “Let’s dance,” he suggests, “It’s been weeks since we’ve danced.”

I wonder what Brian was going to write but I’m just happy that he played a silly kids’ game with me. We move into the living room where all the lights have been turned out except for a few candles flickering in the darkness. We arrive in the middle of a disco song but there’s not really time to get into it before the music changes, to a slow number by some old guy - I mean so old he’s dead, like Perry Como or somebody. But before I can make a joke about the song, Brian has pulled me into his arms and our bodies move close together in a clinchy type embrace. It feels good to be so close to him, the warmth of Brian’s arms holding me tight, his breath tickling my ear, his lips touching my neck and his cock rubbing hard against mine.

“Let’s go home soon,” Brian says. “I want 2-FK-U.”

“Mmm.”

I’m ready, I’ve been horny for the past couple hours, ever since Brian licked my fingers. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I say excitedly, pulling away so I can look up at him. “I’m going to ask Antoine for some BBQ sauce to take home with us.”

Brian brings his face close to mine and laughs in my ear, tickling me and making me squirm. “You don’t need anything on your cock,” he murmurs, “It’s delicious au naturel.”

“Prove it,” I dare him, and we lean our foreheads together and laugh softly. Then we stop dancing and head for the Egyptian bedroom to get our jackets.



Brian

We work our way through the crowd, saying our adieux and looking for Simon to thank him for the party. We find him in the kitchen, he sets down his drink to pull Justin into a bear hug and laughs at me over Justin’s shoulder.

“Now, now,” Simon drawls, “No need to play the jealous husband. Justin’s perfectly safe with me.”

“He’d better be,” I give him a hard-edged smile, “I know where you live.”

“Ooh-ooh!” Simon’s joined in laughter by the guys around him. But I give him a look that lets him know I’m serious, and he gives me an infinitesimal nod back. Message received.

It’s a short drive home, and we decide on a quick shower before bed, it’s been a long evening. This shower is not as satisfactory as mine was in the loft, this one’s hand-held and, until we got the knack of it, Justin and I sprayed more water over the bathroom walls and floor than we did on ourselves. If things work out and I decide to buy this apartment next year, first thing I’m doing is remodeling the bathroom. The huge tub is fun for relaxing and playing, but it’s not very practical for cleanliness.

We’re both so anxious to get into our Hollywood bed that we barely dry off, so we get the sheets damp and they wrinkle and the edges pull loose during our energetic workout. I keep my promise to suck Justin’s cock and he returns the favor. Sixty-nine is fantastic on a round mirrored bed. Then I fuck him, just a quickie because we’re both getting tired.

Exhausted, sated, spent, we lay in each other’s arms for a few minutes, relaxing and catching our breath. Then Justin turns over and we make spoons, our favorite way to sleep. He’s cocooned in my arms and his hair tickles my nose as I bury my face in his neck and breathe in his sweet Justinsmell. We’re almost asleep when I raise up my arm and poise my hand over the smooth skin on Justin’s back.

Hesitating only a moment, I use my index finger to spell out: ‘I-HEART-U.’

Justin was almost asleep, but when he realizes what I’ve spelled, I feel him jerk awake again.

“Don’t say anything,” I warn him. “I mean it.”

Justin nods his head, I feel his shoulders relax and he leans back against me again. “Brian,” he murmurs, already half-asleep, “I heart you, too.”

Chapter 7: Not in the Mood by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Justin parties without Brian.

 

 

 

 

Brian

"Brian, how much do you hate Simon?"

"What?" My brain is submerged in product development planning on the computer, I raise my head and blink twice to bring myself into the moment. Justin's standing by my desk drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

"How much do you - "

"Why?"

"Well, because he's invited us to a party” Justin tosses the towel over his shoulder. “And I'd really like to go."

I push my chair away from the desk and stretch out my legs, they're feeling cramped. I've been huddled over the computer for a couple hours, my shoulders are tense, my brain struggling with a mental fog of annoyance and lack of creativity. I need to come up with a slogan for this fucking mundane marketing assignment I've been given and nothing's coming to me.

"What party?" I ask distractedly, I hate having my train of thought interrupted. Even when, especially when, that train is stuck in a tunnel. "What kind of party?"

"Simon has a friend with a beach house, he's inviting a bunch of us from the d'Or to a big party on Saturday." When I frown and shake my head, Justin adds quickly, "Brian, we've been in California more than two weeks and we haven't even seen the ocean yet."

My frown deepens. "You know I'm working my ass off, day and night. You promised not to whine and complain, remember?"

"I'm not whining and complaining, I'm just saying, I want to go to this party and I want you to come too. It's this weekend, surely you can spend a few hours on Saturday not working?"

"No, I fucking CANNOT." My voice is too harsh, I see him almost flinch.

"Okay." He's struggling to keep his face impassive and he turns back toward the kitchen.

"Justin."

"Never mind," he says without turning, "I didn't mean to bother you."

"Justin, come here."

He turns then and he's got his face under control. No trace of disappointment or anger, or anything else. He walks back to the desk and I push my chair further back, grab his arm and pull him toward me, trapping him between my legs. I almost want to say "Sorry," but sorry's bullshit, and besides, why should I be sorry? I've told him a hundred times that work comes first.

"I've got a product to launch and it's going to take all my time and effort for the next week or so, getting it ready." I never used to explain myself to Justin or to anyone else. But it's one of those fucking relationship rules that sometimes you have to acknowledge. "I'm low man on the totem pole," I remind him, "So they're giving me the shittiest jobs."

Justin nods. "I understand, Brian. It's okay."

"You can still go." I hate for him to go anywhere with that sleaze-ball Simon, but I can't chain Justin to the apartment on his days off.

"Yeah," he agrees halfheartedly. "I'll go. But doing stuff just isn't as much fun without you."

Our hands meet and we lock our fingers together, Justin leans forward and we bump mouths in a small kiss.

"Is Robert going?"

"Hunh," Justin snorts, "I'll bet you're dying to see him in a Speedo."

No, I'll bet Robert's dying to see Justin in a Speedo. "Not my type."

"Everybody's your type." We kiss again, then Justin pulls away and says, "I'll leave you alone now. I'm going to watch tv but I'll keep the volume low."

I nod and frown at the computer screen again. I'm absolutely drawing a blank, something that doesn't happen very often.

"Oh, by the way," Justin says, "Lindsay called this afternoon. Everybody's fine. She says Gus misses you, though."

I feel my frown deepen; I don’t need a fucking wave of nostalgia for fucking Pittsburgh to wash over me. I never even saw the baby that often, and anyway, two-three weeks away from the whole mess of extended family in Pittsburgh should feel like a welcome vacation. I had no idea that ever in my entire life would I feel this. . . this, what some people might call homesickness, wash over me.

Without looking at Justin I nod and stare at the monitor, waiting for him to go away again. And then it hits me: Justin's probably homesick. He hasn't said so, but then he wouldn't, would he? Mister I'll-be-stoic-if-it-kills-me.

"Justin," I call him back. He must feel like a yo-yo. When he walks toward me I scoot my chair backward again, take his hands in mine again. "Sit," I tell him, pulling him down to perch on my right leg. "Tell me something."

"What?"

"Are you homesick? Missing your mom and everybody?"

"Oh!" he says, obviously surprised. "Oh, no. Not exactly." The skin of his neck flushes pink, belying his words. Then he adds quickly, "I love it here - California, and our place. And I like my job and my new friends."

I nod; I realize that I'm not surprised that he's settled in so well - Justin's amazingly adaptive, to people and to situations. "Good." Then I add, "What you need is your own car. Then you won't feel so tied to me, you can go wherever you want in your free time."

"We can't afford another car. We've talked about this already."

We did talk about it and Justin was adamant. And he's right, a car payment and insurance for him would be fucking expensive, especially in California. It's a stretch already on my paycheck, for living expenses and my own car insurance. I'm making triple payments on my credit cards, otherwise, I'll be in debt for twenty years. Justin's income is negligible, it pays for his clothes and spending money and that's about it.

He reads my mind. "Maybe I can get a better job later, after I get a few months experience at the d'Or. I'll bet waiters at restaurants like Cicada make a ton of money."

In a few months, I'd like Justin to be back in school. But that's another old argument I'm not going to reopen, I've got to get my brain back on track. "Hmm," I say noncommittally, "Go watch tv now, let me get to work."

"What's your product?" Justin peers at the computer screen.

"It's a fucking paper company," I sigh, almost embarrassed that my first major assignment is so plebian. "They want to market a new super-strong paper towel called 'Absorba' and I have to come up with a brilliant ad campaign."

"Ab-zorba?" Justin mispronounces, "Sounds Greek. A Greek paper towel."

He's made me laugh in spite of myself, and I lean forward to pinch his thigh though he jumps up and backs quickly away before I make contact.

"Ab-zorba," Justin repeats, then he puts on a falsetto voice and proclaims, "Oh, I love my big fat Greek paper towels!"

He laughs and I start to laugh too but then I stop suddenly and sit up straight in my chair.

"What? Brian, what?"

"Is there some Greek god famous for his strength?" I'm asking myself more than Justin but he quickly answers, "Hercules."

"Yeah, Hercules," I agree.

My wheels are spinning now, I'm getting a mental image of a scantily-dressed, heavily muscled godlike figure on the package label. The product name spelling could be changed to Ab-Zorba to emphasize the Greek connection. And Justin's throw-away silly advertising slogan is repeating in my brain, 'I love my big fat paper towels!'

"Go away now," I order Justin briskly, but before he can say a word, I leap to my feet and grab him in a bone-cracking hug. Smacking a big kiss on his juicy red lips and silently promising him a fabulous fuck later tonight, I let him go roughly, adding, "You're fucking amazing, you know that? Now leave me alone so I can work."

Justin laughs and I'm only vaguely aware of him moving away toward the kitchen as I dive headfirst into the computer, my fingers flying over the keyboard, my brain whirring at a million rpms.



Justin

Simon's picking me up at nine, I finish my solitary shower and grab a quick bite of breakfast. Brian's already on the computer, he's wearing jeans and nothing else, I stare at him while munching a piece of toast, wishing there was time for a quick fuck this morning. Not for the first time, I wonder if he's tricking on weekdays sometimes, maybe at lunch. Of course, I won't ask him, he'd tell me the truth and I really don't want to know. I rinse my juice glass and the butter knife and wander over to Brian's desk.

He glances up at me and then leans back in his chair. "Ready?" When I nod he asks, "Need money?"

"I've got some. And I'm taking a six-pack and some chips and I made brownies."

"Phew," he shakes his head, "I was afraid you might starve to death today. You've got sun block?"

"Yes, Mom."

"And your cell phone?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Fucker."

"You're the fucker," I contradict him, "I'm the fuckee, remember?" At least most of the time.

"So," he asks, as if he doesn't care very much, "What time are you coming home?"

"I don't know. I told Simon I didn't want to stay late and he said okay."

"Well." Brian gives me his phoniest big smile and says, "Have a fab-u-lous time." Then he adds quickly, "But no drugs."

"You're getting very conservative, you used to love drugs."

"I still love drugs. And I'm not fucking conservative." I've managed to annoy him. "But you need to know who's providing and you don't know any of these clowns."

I know some of these clowns but I don't contradict him. To be honest I don't care that much for drugs. I like pot and once in a while, it's fun to drop E - if I'm with Brian. But I had some bad drug experiences at the Sap's party last year and since then I'm not so crazy about trying new stuff.

"Oops," I hear a horn beep twice, "That must be Simon."

"Your date can't come to the door?"

"Bye, Brian." I grab his head and tilt it backward, kiss his mouth upside down, then hurry to grab my backpack and a small plastic cooler. "Don't work too hard!" And, I add silently, don't go out fucking around. Of course, he's free to fuck around. I just hope he doesn't.

There's two guys already in the back seat of Simon's car, he's got a four-door dark blue BMW. I wonder how he can afford a BMW on a bartender's salary? The guys are introduced, we shake hands over the seat back. Joe and Jerry, they're older, maybe forties, they look like twins. Both have goatees and they're both wearing tan knee-length shorts. Simon says they've been partners for eight years, which explains it - I've met old guys like this in Pittsburgh.

There was a couple who came into the diner every Wednesday for dinner and they always wore matching clothes. They even ordered the same thing, meatloaf. It's kind of sweet, but mostly it's kind of icky. I try to imagine Brian and I wearing matching baggy shorts and I have to turn around quickly so I don't start laughing. Joe and Jerry are really nice guys, though boring. They own an antique shop and they give me their card, promising a discount for family.

We make one more stop, to pick up Robert. Originally he was going to drive and I was going with him, but his car broke down a few days ago so Simon offered to take us. Robert lives alone, he can't afford an apartment so he rents a room from an old guy who's a regular customer at the d'Or. He said he was afraid the geezer would make a pass at him but he never has.

Joe or Jerry says, "One of us can get in front, if you boys want to sit together?"

I shake my head no but Robert pipes up, "Oh, would you mind? I need to talk to Justin about something."

"Talk, huh?" Simon laughs but we all ignore him and trade places. Robert gets in the middle and I climb in next to him, then he puts his arm around my shoulders and whispers "Hi!" in my ear as Simon pulls the car away from the curb.

"Hi," I whisper back, relaxing against the seat. I like Robert, from the very beginning I've felt comfortable with him. It's what I imagine having a brother must be like. He's always hugging me and kissing my cheek but there's no sexual tension between us, though I know Brian doesn't believe that.



Brian

I'm almost sorry I didn't go with Justin to his beach party. I worked all morning on the presentation for Tuesday, and while it needs some polish and further prep at the office on Monday, I've done about all I can with it for now. I logged off the computer about two o'clock and have been puttering around the apartment ever since. Naturally, I paid no attention when Justin told me where the party's at, so it's not like I can drive to whatever beach and join the party. I think about calling Justin on his cell but decide not to; it feels - I don't know - somehow needy. He's with his friends and I'm not going to crash his party.

It's dinner time and though a glance at the contents of the refrigerator reveals ingredients for a dozen meals, contrarily I don't want any of them. Food's always better when somebody else cooks it, so I decide to go out for a bite. Naturally, I end up on Santa Monica Boulevard, there's a small café where Justin and I ate once called the White Cliffs of Dover, a casual place where you can get a sandwich and a beer.

Sitting at a small table on the sidewalk, munching corned beef and sipping Heineken, I'm watching the parade of gay men in full cruise mode thicken on the sidewalk as the sun begins to set, it's Saturday night in WeHo with a vengeance. Naturally, I'm being eyeballed by hordes of men, situation normal, and there's a few that spark my interest. Justin and I agreed that our relationship is open. And though I don't need his permission to fuck around, he gave it anyway, as long as I don't bring tricks home. I'm not sure exactly why that's so important to him but I agreed.

So anyway there's no reason not to sample a few California studs. I'm thinking about it, I'm looking over the passing parade, but for some reason, I'm sitting here wondering if Justin's fucking around at the beach. No reason he shouldn't be. No reason he can't, he's as entitled as me to experience the guys in California. There's probably hundreds of them on the beach in their Speedos, laying on the sand, playing in the water. Lots of tan naked flesh to ogle, to play with, probably there'll be an orgy at this Simon's friend's place. That's okay. I don't mind.

On the other hand, Justin doesn't really like orgies very much, so probably he won't join in.

On the other hand, his little kissy friend Robert will be there too. Justin says Robert hugs and kisses everyone and it doesn't mean anything. Maybe. Maybe that's true. But I've watched this guy and he especially kisses and hugs Justin. Can't keep his hands off him. They work together almost every day, I'm sure Robert's all over Justin at the bistro, and I'm sure he's all over Justin today at the beach. In their little tight swimsuits, laying on the sand together. I wonder if Justin will fuck him? Of course, I don't care. It's sort of none of my business actually. Justin's as free as I am to fuck around.

On the other hand, Justin doesn't know how to play the game right. He's promised no involvement with anyone like he had with that asshole fiddler, but can he keep that promise? He told me he'd discovered that romance was a crock of shit (which of course it is) and he doesn't need it, doesn't want it anymore. Is that true, I wonder? What could be more romantic than moonlight on the ocean, for someone like Justin, Justin's emotional, Justin's heart is on his sleeve. Like this Robert character. Are they a match? Kindred spirits?

Fuck it. I find that I’m getting angry at Justin, and when I realize that I'm staring at this tall dark handsome guy who has paused on the sidewalk to light a cigarette and give me the eye, instead of giving him a wink I'm glaring at him and murmuring under my breath, "Fuck off."

I'm not in the mood.

Draining my bottle, I shove a twenty under the ashtray on the table and stand up abruptly. Ignoring the tall guy's smile, I brush past him and head off down the street to where I parked the jeep. Driving down the boulevard I pass a Blockbuster so I park and go in, pick up a couple DVDs. We bought a small tv and a cheap DVD player a week ago - how it pains me to buy anything that's not top-of-the-line. I decide to have my own film festival while Justin's off fucking around at the beach. He said he'd be home early. I wonder when 'early' is.



Justin

Simon offered to rub sunblock on my back but Robert grabbed the bottle from him and said, "I'll do it!" We laughed later at the disappointed look on Simon's face. I like Simon, but then I'm on to him. He'll take whatever feelies he can get but it doesn't bother me, I can make him back off and he knows I mean it. Besides, Brian sort of warned Simon off, which was really funny. Brian doesn't have ownership issues, he's not usually the jealous type, he's told me to fuck around as much as I want.

On the other hand, Brian knows I'm not likely to fuck around very much, so it's not generosity on his part. In fact, he probably takes it for granted that I don't fuck around. Oh, I can do it. I have done it - though not yet in California. If I wanted to I could have at least a dozen guys at this party. It's a big group, thirty-forty guys of all ages, most of them single, many of them hot. I tell myself to go ahead, but for some reason, I'm just not in the mood.

Besides, I'd rather be with Robert. Neither of us is into heavy tricking. Robert had a boyfriend for almost three years, they just broke up about a month ago, he says he's going to play the field for a while. But I notice that he's not seriously cruising any of these guys at the party. He'd rather be with me too. We're safe for each other and that makes it really comfortable to be together.



Brian

The sun went down a couple hours ago, my film festival was a bore. I return to the computer but I don't feel like working anymore. I check e-mail and answer a couple routine notes, one from Michael, one from Lindsay. I think about going out again, find a bar, pick up a trick and fuck his brains out. Normally when I’m feeling at loose ends, a couple fucks, a backroom blowjob or two, put me in a better frame of mind. So why don’t I go out and get laid? I don’t know. I really don’t know. Guess I'm just not in the mood.

Giving up, at last, I throw myself down on the sofa and turn on the tv. Channel surfing relaxes me slightly, then I come across a show about Greek mythology. While I wait to see if they’re going to profile Hercules, I get sucked into the program and wind up learning more than I ever wanted to know about Greek gods and goddesses. If there were a test afterward, I’d get an ‘A’ for sure.



Justin

I had a much better time today than I expected; of course it would have been a hundred times better if Brian were here but even so, I’ve had a lot of fun. Some of us played volleyball on the beach, Robert and I played in the waves, not really swimming just jumping around like ten-year-olds. I can be silly with Robert and not feel stupid. He kept rubbing sunscreen on for me, I never really tan, just burn-and-peel; but luckily some guys had a big beach umbrella where we could sit in the shade. We even fell asleep for awhile.

Simon’s friend Roger with the beach house cooked barbecue at lunch time and there were tons of leftovers to snack on all day and evening. Once the sun went down, everyone congregated in the house which is really an enormous three-story condo. There's a large terrace off the living room on the second floor, with a waist-high wooden fence type railing around the edge and a half dozen lounge chairs scattered around, a couple round tables and chairs, and enough potted plants to make it feel like a garden. Robert and I sat at one of the tables having a snack, then he said, let's go get a joint.

I'm feeling ready to go home but decide to wait half an hour, till ten o'clock, and then I'll tell Simon. I haven't seen much of him today, he's mostly been hanging with some cronies his own age. One of the condo's bathrooms is devoted to party favors and the couple times I went past, Simon was in there and each time he'd beckon for me to come in and have some free samples. But each time I just said no thanks. I'm glad that Robert's not into doing a lot of drugs either. He just wants some pot and I hang around the doorway as he accepts a joint from Simon and then we return to the terrace while he lights up.

Robert offers me the joint but I shake my head. I know a few hits would be okay but I'm not even tempted to break my promise to Brian. The stuff must be pretty strong because, after a couple tokes, Robert starts giggling and acting silly. He brags that he can balance a beer bottle on his chin and we double over with laughter when he tries to demonstrate and immediately the bottle slides off his chin and falls over the terrace railing to the sand below. Robert pulls over a chair and steps on the seat, hoisting himself up to sit on the top rail. He beckons for me to join him so I put both hands on the rail and pull myself up next to him. A voice calls and we turn to look at the doorway where's Simon's silhouetted against light from the living room.

"We're opening a magnum of champagne - you boys want some?"

"Oh yum - champagne!" Robert squeals, and when I turn around to laugh at his enthusiasm, he's got both hands on the railing to push himself off. But "Ooh!" he cries, his hands slip on the painted boards and suddenly Robert's body turns a backward somersault, catapulting him over the rail and down to the ground below in a bone-crunching sprawl.

"Robert!" I yell, turning sideways and leaning over the railing - when my own hands slip and I feel my body start to slide! Strong arms grab onto me and I twist my head around to see Simon, eyes, and mouth wide open, gasping loudly as he struggles to get a grip on my legs. Somehow he manages to hang onto me, he keeps me from falling headfirst after Robert, and he pulls me back from the rail. Together we dash into the house, down the stairs, and out the patio doors, with Simon loudly shouting, “Call 911, call 911!”



Brian

At midnight I decided that Justin might consider that 'early' and really, for a Saturday night, midnight is early. At one o'clock I decided to go to bed. One o'clock is early for bed on a weekend, but I was bored with tv, sick of the computer, and truth be told, sick of my own lonesome company. I could have gone out again but I kept expecting Justin to come through the door any minute. I didn't want him to think I'd been out screwing around all evening, which would be a logical conclusion if he came home to an empty apartment. I mean, it would be okay for me to be out screwing around. But I was not in the mood.

After an hour of tossing and turning in bed, I got up again and started getting angry. Of course, it's okay for Justin to stay out late and I know how parties can be, you're having fun and you forget the time. Forget your obligations. Forget that maybe somebody's waiting up for you, even though that somebody never waits for anybody. So it's okay. Except that I'm pissed. Even if I have no good reason to be pissed.

By two-thirty I'm furious. But by three o'clock, I'm starting to get - concerned.

What if Justin drowned in the ocean and nobody noticed he was missing? I think there's sharks around here too. The traffic in LA is terrible, what if there was a car crash? Simon is a snake, I don't trust him. Maybe he made a pass at Justin, maybe he refused to drive Justin home. Or maybe Justin and Robert decided to stop off at Robert's place after the party and. . .fell asleep. Or something.

I could call him, I could call Justin on his cell, but for some reason, I'm resisting. At first, I resist because I don't want him to feel harassed, checked-up on, he wants me to trust him again so I'm trying to trust him. Then I don't call because I'm waiting for him to call me. Call and tell me why he's late, call and see if maybe I'm worried about him. Then I don't call because I'm mad as hell.

By three-thirty I'm ready to phone the police. I'm trying to talk myself out of it, trying to calm down. I don't trust myself not to lose it talking to some straight homophobic asshole cop. At three-forty-seven I hear a key in the lock and get up off the sofa to stand in front of the door as Justin pushes it open. My face shows nothing, not anger, not relief, not anything whatsoever.



Justin

"Brian!" I say earnestly, "I'm so sorry - you must be worried sick!"

"Worried?" he tosses his head, "Of course I'm not worried. Why should I be worried?"

"And you're mad!"

My God, he's practically shaking with fury. Which is almost frightening. Brian hardly ever loses his temper but when he does, it's scary as hell. His arms are crossed on his chest, his jaw is tight, his eyes are blazing, his teeth are grinding, a muscle is jumping in his cheek, and all the time he's pretending to be - I don't know, pretending like everything is hunky-dory. Doesn't he realize that I know all his moods by now?

"I'm not - "

"Yes, you are," I contradict. "And I don't blame you, Brian, but really, it's your own fault."

Then he loses it.

"MY FAULT?" he yells, bending forward to glare at me, almost spitting in my face. "IT'S FUCKING MY FAULT?"

"Yeah," I say calmly. Almost calmly - Brian's anger is shaking the building like a California earthquake. "I tried to call you a million times - "

"That's a FUCKING LIE!"

"Brian - "

"The fucking phone has not rung ONCE. Not ONE TIME. So don't tell me you - "

"Brian," I insist, reaching out to touch his arm but he pulls away. "Brian, I've been calling you for HOURS. You must have turned off the phone."

Brian leans even further forward to shout in my face, "I did NOT turn off the fucking - " He stops suddenly and pulls back. Then he stands up straight and I see him close his eyes. Shake his head.

"Fuck."

"Brian- "

"Fuck." Brian opens his eyes. "I unplugged the phone, I turned off my cell. I was working, I didn't want interruptions."

"Well, that's what I just said. I've been trying to call you for hours."

Brian's recovering himself now, he exhales a huge whoosh of air but then crosses his arms on his chest again. "So you called," he says, tight-lipped. "To say what? You were having a sleep-over?"

"No, to tell you that Robert got hurt, I went with him to the hospital, and - "

"What?" Brian shakes his head again like he's changing gears. "What happened?"

"He fell off the terrace and he - "

"Fell off the terrace! How did that happen? Is he dead?"

"Brian, will you let me explain?" When he just stands there glaring at me, I start to lose my own temper. "Stop shouting at me, okay?"

Shrugging his shoulders, recovering his nonchalance, Brian nods for me to continue.

"He's going to be okay, but he broke his shoulder and sprained his ankle, and cracked a couple of ribs. He's in the hospital - I stayed with him till they finished all their tests and stuff and got him settled in a room."

"Where was Simon during all this? Isn't he the grown-up responsible for you boys?"

That does it. "Fuck you, Brian, I am a grown-up. So's Robert. Fuck you," I repeat, pushing past him and marching off down the hall.

"Where are you going?" he's right behind me.

"I'm taking a shower - what do you care?"

Then I give voice to my real feelings, what's been eating me up on the inside for the past three hours or more. I stop in the hall and turn around to confront him.

"Brian, if you really gave a shit, YOU would have called ME. You would have called me, Brian! And then you would've seen that your fucking phone was turned off."

When he says nothing, just stands staring blank-faced, I go on. "What really happened is that you were out fucking around all night, and when you dragged your ass home and found me not here, then you started getting mad. Am I right?"

"How'd you guess?"

"So don't try to pretend you were all worried about me, and don't start making fun of me, treating me like a child." I stop for breath and ask tersely, "Got it?"

He shrugs. "I never said I was worried."

"That's pretty fucking obvious." I turn away and head for the bathroom, but Brian's again on my heels and he puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

"Justin, wait."

When I look at him over my shoulder, raising my eyebrows in Kinney fashion, Brian says, "Okay, I might have been slightly worried. And I didn't call you because. . ."

"Because?"

Brian shrugs again. "You would've thought I was checking up on you."

"It's almost four in the morning, Brian. You have a right to check up on me. A responsibility, even. If your partner's not home by four in the morning, you're SUPPOSED to be worried. You're SUPPOSED to check up on him."

"Hunh," he curls his lip.

"So remember that next time, okay?"

Brian shakes his head. "There won't be a next time. I knew you were going to be trouble, I should never have brought you along, there's nobody here to look out for you."

"What?" I don't believe what I'm hearing, and a sudden chill makes me shiver involuntarily. "You're fucking over-reacting, Brian."

"No," he denies it, "I'm not. And I've decided, it's time for you to go home, and - "

Before the shiver has time to pass through me, I've moved forward three steps and slipped my arms around Brian's waist. Shaking him roughly, I growl, "I am home, damn you."

"Justin - "

"Shut up," I insist. "Wherever you are - that's my home."

When he says nothing, I add, "After three years, you're still trying to send me away from you anytime something goes wrong." I hesitate, then say more strongly, "Get used to it, Brian: I'm not going anywhere."

He says nothing but returns my steely look with his own steely look.

"You did once."

Of course, he's not going to play fair, but I don't let him trip me up that easily. He wants me to get mad, but I'm not going to get mad. "That was a mistake. You have to stop beating me up for that mistake."

I brace myself for more argument but surprisingly there is none. Brian's silent for a moment, then I feel some of the tightness leave his body. He relaxes slightly and bends his head, we touch foreheads.

"Okay?" I ask and Brian nods.

"Okay." He kisses my lips, just a small kiss, then slips his arms around my shoulders and pulls me tight against his chest.

After a moment he says, "So tell me. How did Robert get hurt?"

Pulling back slightly but keeping my arms tight around Brian, I explain. "I told you - he fell off the terrace wall. He was sitting on the top rail, and - "

"Were you with him?"

"Yes, but - "

"Was he wasted? Was he doing drugs?"

"Brian, if you mean, was I doing drugs, the answer is no. And Robert wasn't really either, he just smoked some pot, I don't think that had anything to do with him falling. It was an accident."

He nods then and we just hold onto each other for a moment, then I repeat, "I'm going to take a shower, then I need to sleep. Come with me?"

"Mmm-hmm."

We've finally got the hang of the hand-held shower thing, it's a two-man operation, one to soap up, one to hold the shower head and rinse the other off. Last Sunday was a lazy day so we filled the tub (it took forever, it's so huge) and played around. You can splash a lot and it's okay because, the whole bathroom's tile and marble and porcelain, easy to clean up afterward. But tonight, I mean this morning, we're both too tired to fool around in the tub.

As we're drying off I ask Brian how he spent his Saturday night. "Did you go cruising? Find a bar you like?"

"I was not in the mood."

We drag back the covers and slip over the smooth cool sheets of our Hollywood bed, meeting in the middle and sliding into each others arms. "Since when aren't you in the mood?"

I really want to know. Brian doesn't answer so I pursue it. "There must be a million guys to choose from in WeHo"

"Two million."

"And you can fuck anyone you want."

"Of course I can," he smirks.

"Yeah," I agree. "So why -"

"Who says I'm not going to?" Brian interrupts, pushing his face against mine, snaking out his tongue to tickle my lips.

Breathlessly I ask, "Am I the one you want, Brian?"

"Shut up," he says and kisses me again, but I put my arms on his chest and push him a few inches away.

"Am I the one you want?"

Looking into my eyes, Brian gripes, "Always trying to pin me down."

"Answer me," I insist. "If you can't say it, then write it on my back."

"Fuck you,” he snarls.

"Not until you answer. Do you still heart me?"

"Yeah, okay? Yeah." Brian frowns menacingly, "I heart you. Now shut up and roll over."

Chapter 8: A Hard Time by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian discovers that there was more to Justin's misadventure at the beach party than meets the eye.

 

 

 

 

Brian

“What’s this?”

We’re in the tub having a leisurely shower after sleeping late, and I blink water out of my eyes to focus more clearly on some blue smudges on Justin’s thighs. He glances down at where I’m pointing and says, “Umm…bruises. I think.”

“Bruises?”

How did I miss noticing them last night? The late hour, the argument, relief, anger, must all have combined to dull my senses.

“Mmm-hmm, hand me the soap.”

“Bruises. You were playing football on the beach yesterday?”

“Volleyball. Can I have the soap please?”

He reaches for it and I let go, he starts soaping himself but I haven’t moved. Then I lean back against the high wall of the tub and rest my elbows on the edge. “I didn’t realize that volleyball was a full-body-contact sport.”

“Well,” he hedges, “I don’t think the bruises are from volleyball.”

“No shit.”

Justin’s head is bent as he lathers his feet and his calves and he decides the time is right to glance up at me, no doubt he’s trying to read my expression. Which is virtually impossible, I’m famous for my poker-face. The upward glance through wet lashes framing those big blue eyes would be almost angelic if I didn’t know Justin the way that I do.

“Brian - don’t have a coronary, okay?”

Which of course makes my heart miss a beat. “I’ll be the one to decide about having a coronary. How about you tell me how you got those bruises?”

Justin straightens up and holds the bar of soap between his hands, rolling it over and over as he lathers his way into a veritable Lady Macbeth impression. He’s stalling.

I say oh-so-casually, “You have bruises on your legs in the shape of hand prints. Thumb and four fingers on each leg. I can’t wait to hear the explanation.”

“It wasn’t sex.”

“Okay,” I nod. If it wasn’t sex, why is he afraid to tell me?

“Brian, it was Simon, okay, but – “

“That fucker!” I push away from the side of the tub, my nonchalance slipping. “Son of a bitch!”

“Wait! Let me explain! Brian, it’s not a big deal.”

“Then why aren’t you telling me? And stop washing your hands.” I grab the soap away from him and slam it into the soap dish. “Did he try to fuck you or not?”

“No! No, honest, he was doing a good thing really.”

I just shake my head and wait, how can inflicting bruises be a good thing?

And never mind that I bruise the inside of Justin’s thighs on purpose, those are – I was almost going to say ‘love pinches.’ They are ‘lust pinches.’ And anyway, this is different.

“See. . . it’s like this.” Justin takes a deep breath and lets it out in a whoosh. “Robert and I were sitting on the veranda ledge like I told you – “

“What?” I shake my head again. “You did NOT tell me that.”

“I sort of did, though,” he contradicts, “I told you I was with him. Anyway, the thing is, Robert slipped and fell and I sort of, almost, fell after him. Or I would have, only Simon ran over and grabbed onto me. Onto my legs.”

Justin’s staring at me earnestly but I’m not giving him a response. I’m still working on it.

“So,” he finishes eagerly, “So you see, it was a good thing, like I said. So don’t be mad at Simon.” When I say nothing, just stand there staring at him, no doubt looking like a statue in Central Park, Justin reaches for the shower hose. I take it away from him and hold it in my hand - resisting the urge to smack him over the head with it.

“You left out a few details last night, didn’t you? Like, you were sitting on a fucking ledge with Robert and you almost fell to your death? Just minor details, nothing important.”

“Brian, there was no point in telling you, because nothing happened, I didn’t fall, and it was only one story, and Robert fell onto sand. The doctor said that was what saved him from. . . umm. . .”

“Death?” I offer.

“Not death! It wasn’t that bad. Just, it could have been worse, if he fell onto pavement.”

“Uh-huh,” I nod, turning away and climbing out of the tub. “I feel so much better now,” I say, grabbing a towel and striding into the bedroom.

Justin’s not far behind. “Brian, wait.” When I stop and turn around, Justin takes a step backward. I wonder what my face looks like. “Brian, why are you so mad?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I answer viciously. “Maybe because you lied to me. Maybe because – “

“I didn’t lie!” he yells, “Damn it, Brian, I didn’t lie.” There’s silence for a moment, then he adds calmly, “I just withheld some information that would only upset you.”

“Some information that might get you a hundred more bruises?”

Justin shakes his head no and moves to stand close to me. “I know you’d never hurt me.”

“Don’t bet on it, sonnyboy.”

I want to stay mad - but Justin’s proximity, his coaxing smile, the fact that he’s naked and beautiful, all combine to defuse my justifiable anger. Almost against my will I reach out to grab his shoulders, pull him roughly against me. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve come close to beating the shit out of you?”

“Yeah,” he answers with a cheeky grin, “None.”

He could be right. I’m not a violent man, though naturally in the past thirty years I’ve had my moments. Still, I’m surprised that Justin brings out a gentleness in me, a gentleness and a patience that I didn’t know I possessed until the night Gus was born.

“You’re soapy, go rinse yourself off, and hurry the fuck up if you want to go for brunch.”

“Okay,” Justin pulls away and heads for the bathroom. “We could eat here and save some money. But you promised we’d go for a ride and finally see some famous places, after we leave the hospital.”

“A short ride. And I’m not stopping the car for any stupid tourist shit.” I follow Justin into the bathroom and perch on the side of the tub, holding the shower hose for him. “Let’s eat at the d’Or. Then I can thank Simon for saving your life.”

Justin glances at me quickly to see if I’m joking. I’m not. But it’s not thanks, I want to give Simon.

“Brian – please let it go, okay? It wasn’t Simon’s fault.”

“No, it was your fault,” I agree, my anger starting to build again. “What the fuck were you thinking, sitting on a fucking ledge?” That’s rhetorical and Justin’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. I take his hand and pull him out of the tub, hand him a towel. “Do you have any idea what your mommy would do to me if you fell off a ledge and broke your stupid neck?”

“She wouldn’t blame YOU,” he insists.

“The fuck. They all would. They always blame me when something happens to you – they always have, they always will. So remember that the next time you pull some stupid trick, will you?”

That’s giving away more information than I’d like, so I clamp my mouth shut and walk into the bedroom, pull on jeans and pick out a navy cotton knit pullover, slide my feet into boots. I just need to mess up my hair and then I’ll be ready. My stomach’s growling – living with Justin gets me used to eating regular meals, I’ve probably gained a half-pound or even more these past few weeks. I need to join a gym but that’s an expense I can’t afford right now.

Justin’s getting dressed too – wordlessly, an unusual occurrence – he must be thinking. After pulling on a pair of his omnipresent cargo pants and tying his shoes, Justin follows me back into the bathroom and we stand in front of the mirror finger-combing our hair. I haven’t shaved this weekend and my chin is darkly bristled. It’s a look Justin likes, though he pays a price for it in whisker-burned skin on his face, his neck, between his legs. I smile when I remember that he never complains.

“I’m glad you’re not mad anymore,” Justin slides an arm around my waist and smiles up at me.

“Who says I’m not?” But I kiss him. Christ, why does he have to be so fucking kissable?



Justin

I talked Brian out of eating brunch at the d’Or – I’m there five days a week which is plenty for me, and Simon has Sunday off too so Brian had no reason for going to the restaurant today. If I can stall him long enough from confronting Simon (and what does he plan to say to him anyway?), maybe he’ll forget about it. So instead we drove a few blocks to the Sunset Strip and ate at Wolfgang Puck’s. It’s in a sort of mini-mall, a place with a few shops and an upstairs movie theater.

It’s a famous restaurant and I was sure we would see somebody famous, a million actors live in Hollywood and some of them must eat at Wolfgang Puck’s. I divided my attention between a really gargantuan omelet stuffed with ham and avocado and craning my neck around every couple minutes checking out the other customers, till Brian threatened to get up and walk out if I didn’t stop acting stupid. So I gave up my movie star quest and devoted myself to eating, the food was really good there.

Then we drove to the beach near Santa Monica where the party was at, and Brian insisted that I show him Simon’s friend’s house, he wanted to see the place where Robert fell. We had to park a few blocks away, then we followed a sort of alleyway-type path that weaves its away around the backs of the condos clustered near the beach. Technically it’s probably trespassing but Brian didn’t care. It took a while to figure out which house was Roger’s, I’d only seen it from this angle in the darkness. Finally, I found it and pointed up at the veranda where we were sitting when Robert fell.

“Jesus Christ.”

He said it mildly but I could feel the tension in Brian as we craned our necks and looked upward. I thought it might help if I pointed out that it looked higher from the ground than it did from upstairs but Brian didn’t say a word, in fact, he didn’t even look at me, just turned and retraced our path back to the street with me following along meekly behind. We got in the car and Brian brusquely asked for directions.

“It’s Santa Monica Hospital, that’s all I know.” Naturally, I didn’t know how to get there – I was riding in the ambulance with Robert, I wasn’t watching the scenery while we sped to the hospital - but I decided not to elaborate. Brian pulled into a gas station and went in to get directions. Thank God he’s not like my dad who would drive around for hours instead of asking for help.

Leaving the jeep in the parking lot, we walk up to the main entrance of the hospital and move through the hall to a bank of elevators at one end of the lobby. I glance up at Brian and see his frown and it’s worrying me. “You’re not going to yell at Robert, are you?” I ask, risking more wrath but needing to know the answer.

He raises one of those eyebrows. “Am I the kind of man who kicks somebody when they’re down?”

“Well, yeah. All the time.”

Brian barks a short non-amused laugh, puts his hand on the back of my neck and squeezes, just slightly harder than affection. “Fuck you.”

“Robert was in a lot of pain last night and I’m sure he’s not feeling too hot today. So you won’t, you know, make him feel worse, will you?”

“Probably. Possibly. Do you want me to wait in the car?”

“No, I want you with me. Just don’t give him a hard time.”

”Hunh.”

Leaving the elevator we walk down the hall of the orthopedics floor and stop just outside Robert’s room. There’s a guy standing by his bed and as we approach, he turns to stare at us.

It’s quiet for a moment, then Robert calls, “Justin!” so we come into the room and I move around the other side of the bed and, hesitating only briefly, I bend down and awkwardly give Robert a hug – awkward because he’s got a big plaster cast on his left shoulder.

“Justin!” Robert says again, and I see that he’s got tears in his eyes, though he quickly rubs them away with one hand and smiles up at me – a wobbly kind of smile that makes my heart hurt for him.

“You okay?” I ask, glancing uncertainly at the other man, he’s frowning and I’m wondering if he’s harassing Robert.

“Yeah, I’m fine – this is my uncle Jerry, Jerry this is my friend Justin. And his,” Robert glances past me; “And this is his – umm, Brian.”

“Hello,” Jerry nods coolly at me and at Brian, who says quickly, “We came at a bad time, let’s go, Justin – you can come back later.”

“Don’t go,” Jerry speaks up, turning away from the bed. “I’ve finished lecturing Bobby, for the time being, I’m sure he can use a friendly shoulder to cry on.”

“I’m not crying,” Robert interjects and Jerry says quickly, “Don’t be so literal, I just meant you need a sympathetic ear. I’ll go have some coffee while you visit with your friends – I can berate you some more later.” He moves toward the door and motions Brian forward, but Brian shakes his head.

“I only came along to berate young Robert myself, but he probably doesn’t need a tag-team jumping all over him. Justin, I’ll wait outside, stay as long as you want.”

“Okay.” I watch Brian turn and go out the door, closely followed by Jerry. When they’re gone I give Robert another awkward hug and this time he really does start crying.

“S-sorry,” he sniffles, then pulls a tissue from the box I hand him and blows his nose.

“Are you hurting a lot?”

“Yes. No. Not too bad. I just feel so stupid - and now I’m going to lose my job, and what’s worse is, now I can’t go to that audition next week!”

“I’m sure sorry.” I feel so bad for him.

“And even worse is, my uncle’s making me come live with him till I get better! The doctor says it could be months!”

“He can't make you, can he? You're over twenty-one."

"Well. . ." Robert blows his nose again and leans back against the pillows. His face flushes red as he guiltily admits, “I'm not really over twenty-one."

"Huh?" Robert's twenty-two, at least that's what he told me, that's what he's told everybody at the d'Or.

"Justin, don't be mad, okay?" he bends forward and grabs hold of my hand, adding earnestly, "I just wanted people to not treat me like a kid, so I'm pretending to be older."

"How old - "

"I'm almost nineteen. Don't tell anybody, okay?" When I just stand there, stunned, continuing to stare at him, Robert adds quickly, "I was just trying to impress you. Don't be mad."

He looks contrite but I'm getting pissed. "What about your boyfriend? You said you were in a relationship for three years! Was that a lie too?"

"Not exactly," Robert insists. Then he admits, "Well, sort of. I was in love with Donny - my best friend in high school - for three years! But he wasn't gay."

"Jesus, Robert! Why did you tell all these lies?"

"Like I said, I wanted to impress you. And everybody. I want to be taken seriously, nobody takes you seriously if you're still a fucking teenager. Right?"

I just shake my head, torn between empathy and anger.

"Justin," he pleads, "Didn't you ever pretend to be older, just to impress somebody?"

"Yeah," reluctantly I admit, "Once." Once upon a time, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away.


Brian

Robert’s uncle gets in the elevator with me and we ride downstairs in silence, till we reach the lobby and he says, “Want to get some coffee? The hospital cafeteria’s down this way, the coffee’s not bad.”

I was going to wait in the car, I’m not interested in sharing a kaffee klatch conversation with an unknown straight guy, but it seems churlish to refuse. Not that I care about being rude of course, but I could use some coffee, and I guess a few minutes alone with this guy won’t kill me. So I nod and follow along down the hall, mentally undressing him despite his obvious heterosexual orientation, pure habit. I can tell that he’s about forty, he’s got a nice hard body, a thick head of dark brown hair rather long and curling over the collar of his shirt, and regular features. Not handsome, but nicely ordinary. If it was near closing time in the backroom, I wouldn’t push him out of the way.

We get coffee in paper cups, Jerry insists on paying, then he leads the way down another hallway that ends at an outside door, we step out and sit down on a redwood bench. I pull out my cigarettes and offer them, he shakes his head no, then I light up.

Jerry takes a sip of coffee, then he says, “I’ve heard so much about Justin, I guess he and Bobby have become best friends the past few weeks.”

“I guess.”

“You work at the restaurant too?”

“No.” Full stop. Then somewhat reluctantly, I say, “I’m in advertising.”

“I’m a teacher, at City College. My sister sent Bobby out here from Cincinnati to stay with me and go to school, but he’s got his own ideas. Wants to be an actor. Does Justin too?”

“No.” I’m sorry I followed Jerry out here, I’m trapped in Polite Conversation Land.

He takes another sip, then asks offhandedly, “He’s your, uh, significant other? Justin?”

Christ, I hate that term. Jerry must read the disgust on my face because he says quickly, “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry. He seems like a nice kid – Bobby thinks the world of him, always talking about Justin-this and Justin-that.”

“He lives with you?” I know he doesn’t but I’m stuck here doing the nice routine, at least for as long as it takes to smoke this cigarette.

“No, he rents a room near the restaurant. Or he did – he’s going to have to come back to my place while he recuperates. Thank God he’s still covered under his dad’s insurance!”

There’s a brief silence, then I stand up and drop the cigarette butt, grind it out under my shoe. Jerry stands up too and says, “Nice to meet you, Byron – I hope you’ll bring Justin over to visit Bobby when he gets out of here.”

“Yeah,” I agree, “They can have a play-date.” Then I give Jerry a smile, I guess there’s no need to be an asshole, and I turn to go but he stops me.

“Oh wait – can I ask you something?” When I raise my eyebrows, Jerry says, “Upstairs you said you’d come to ‘berate’ Bobby. What exactly did you mean by that?”

“Justin was with him on the balcony ledge – he could have been hurt too. It was incredibly stupid, of both of them.”

“Oh! I didn’t know that. Well, you can be sure I’ll add that to my litany of harassment. But you know, boys will be boys.”

“They’re old enough to know better.”

Jerry nods and I turn to go, I walk a few steps and then something he said earlier pops into my brain. I come back to the bench where he’s resumed his seat and say, “By the way. . .”

“Hmm?”

“What do you teach, at City College?”

“English. American Lit.”

“Is there an arts program?”

“Yes. Are you – “

“Justin’s an artist. He’s – on sabbatical right now, but maybe he could take one or two classes, just to keep his hand in.” After the IFA, a junior college would be quite a comedown for Justin, but at least it would keep him working toward his goal. And he’s no snob. “How much is tuition?”

“Not bad, California community colleges are inexpensive, thirteen dollars a unit I think. It’s more for nonresidents, but there might be a way to circumvent that.” When I nod, Jerry reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. “Here’s my card – have Justin give me a call, he can visit campus and we can see about getting him registered for fall.”

“Thanks,” I say, and without realizing it, I’m smiling. Jerry smiles back and stretches out his hand to shake. “Thanks a lot,” I repeat, then turn away toward the parking lot. My step’s a lot lighter, and I realize just how much I’ve been – not worried. Nothing like that. It’s only that I want him back in school before he loses the impetus to succeed. He’s too fucking talented as an artist to forever waste his time waiting tables.

And besides, he has too God-damned much free time to get into trouble.



Justin

"Please, Brian - please park for just a few minutes, if I don't see some Hollywood stuff soon, I'll -

"What? You'll what? Scream? Cry? Hold your breath till you turn blue?" Brian keeps his eyes on the road but slides his hand over to rest casually between my thighs. Part affection and part threat-of-pinching.

Laughing I answer, "All of the above."

With a long-suffering sigh, Brian turns a corner and doubles back to Sunset Boulevard, goes down a side street and enters a huge parking garage located beneath Graumann's Chinese Theatre.

We take an escalator up to the ground floor and I burst out the door and into the sunshine near the courtyard of the famous old theater - which is filled with tourists gaping at the sidewalk, at squares of cement preserving the imprints of famous hands and feet, scribbled messages from hundreds of actors and actresses. I'm so excited I can hardly see straight, but I try to appear nonchalant and blasé as I move through the crowd reading messages from famous people - most of them really old and dead like the Marx Brothers and Clark Gable, but also old-but-still-living ones like Nicholas Cage and Harrison Ford.

After a few minutes, I look around for Brian and finally see him standing near the entryway, leaning against a pillar smoking a cigarette. I walk over and ask tentatively, "Don't you want to see the footprints and handprints? It's pretty cool."

"I can see them from here."

"Come on, don't be so pretentious." I take his hand and start pulling, and reluctantly he tosses away his cigarette and follows along behind me as I make my way toward the middle of the courtyard. I point out the elaborate oriental décor of the grand doorway guarded by stone Chinese temple dogs. "They still show movies here - let's come and see one sometime, okay?"

"Hmm."

He follows along for a few minutes while I point out some of the more famous movie stars' footprints, and he even comes into the souvenir shop with me, though he rolls his eyes and curls his lip derisively at the garish photos and other touristy junk for sale. I don't let that deter me from buying some postcards for everybody back home, and a couple refrigerator magnets to send to my mom and to Debbie.

"Enough?" he asks as we exit the store.

"Almost. I checked the map and right down the street is the new Kodak Theatre - that's where the Oscars are held! Just a few more minutes, okay?"

Brian ostentatiously glances at his watch and frowns but he walks along beside me, we stop at the entrance to the Kodak Theatre and he smiles almost in spite of himself at my enthusiasm. People don't realize that Brian's not really the cynical asshole he pretends to be - he's just so good at pretending that it's hard to see behind his mask sometimes. I know he's glad I'm having fun so his snarky routine doesn't bother me.

"Oh my God, look at the elephants!" I exclaim, grabbing Brian's hand and dragging him along with me through the enormous entrance and up steps leading to several floors above, each of them with a wide walkway looking down to the central courtyard below. And above all the floors on pillars are perched these huge carved white elephants, saved from tackiness by their sheer size and simple beauty silhouetted against the blue summer sky of late afternoon.

"Brian - aren't the elephants gorgeous?"

"Oh yeah," he faux-rhapsodizes, "And subtle too - like a Donatello sculpture."

Sighing and shaking my head, I admit, "Okay, so they're kind of gaudy. But I like them anyway."

"Enough now?"

I nod agreement and we head for the stairs but when we reach the second-floor landing, Brian notices a men's store with a Versace-wearing manikin in the window, so we stop for a look.

"That suit would look good on you."

Brian smiles. "Everything looks good on me." Then his smile disappears and he adds sadly, "But no new labels in my closet for a while."

Eagerly I assure him, "You'll be back on top in no time!"

Brian turns to slide an arm around my shoulders and leers at me, "I can be back on top in fifteen minutes - let's go home."

That look makes my dick twitch in anticipation, anytime, anywhere; but "What about lunch?" I ask. "Or dinner I guess, it's after four o'clock. We had brunch hours ago."

"Christ," Brian removes his arm and turns away. "All you think about is eating."

"I'm a growing boy," I say cheerfully, moving to walk beside him as we head back to the parking garage. "Don't give me a hard time."

"Oh, I am definitely going to give you a hard time," he insists, "As soon as we get home."

He stops then and glances down at me, an almost-smile tugging the corner of his mouth. "And I'm going to start by creating my own Hollywood landmark: my handprint on your ass."

"Okay," I agree happily, "Let's hurry!" And I grab his famous hand and pull him toward the escalator.



Brian

Justin thinks I've forgotten about Simon but I haven't. So on Wednesday when my afternoon calendar is clear and there's no imminent deadline tying me to the office, I decide to take a couple hours off and visit the Porte d'Or, a surprise for Justin. Not necessarily a good one.

I park on the other side of the street and as I wait for traffic to clear so I can walk across, I see Justin waiting on customers at a table on the sidewalk. He doesn't see me approaching, he shares a laugh with his customers and then turns to go into the restaurant. I notice the three men leaning forward in their chairs to gaze appreciatively at his retreating ass. For some reason, that pisses me off.

"Geezers," I mumble under my breath - knowing that once I'm past they'll ask each other what I said. They're older guys in their late forties or early fifties, probably half-deaf anyway. The snide remark slightly cheers me as I make my way inside, angling over to the left where I remember the bar is located. The interior is dim as all bars are. Only a few patrons perch on high stools sipping drinks, it's not yet happy hour so mostly it's retirees or unemployed losers sucking down vodka martinis on a late summer afternoon.

There's a few small tables and I choose one in a dark corner, sliding into the captain's chair seat and leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table as I check out the bartender. His back's turned, he's mixing something in a large blender, and when he turns around to fill a glass with his concoction, I have leisure to study him for a few moments before he notices me watching. He's tall, nearly as tall as me, mid-thirties, a bodybuilder like Ben though not as defined; he's got long light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, a diamond stud earring sparkling in one ear. Simon's attractive - though not nearly as attractive as his posturing would suggest.

He glances in my direction, then does a double-take. A grin splits his face open until he realizes that I'm - what am I doing? Probably glowering. I relax the muscles of my face and assume my normal disinterested façade.

After serving the drink he's just mixed, Simon moves around the end of the bar and approaches my table. "Hey," he tries a winning smile as he stands before me, "It's little Justin's better half." When I continue to stare at him wordlessly, Simon laughs. "Oh, I forgot - we're not supposed to call you his husband. Right?"

"Not unless you have a death wish."

"Oh, I'm always in favor of playing dangerously. Playing with," he looks me up and down appraisingly, "Fire."

I refuse to rise to his bait, to tell him that fire burns. When I don't respond, Simon asks, "So, can I get you a drink? You look like a whiskey man to me."

"Stoli, on the rocks. And I'll buy you a drink too."

"You got it." Simon returns to his bar and pours a couple drinks.

When he comes back he sets down my glass and I ask, "Can you take a break? Why not sit down for a minute." I gesture at the other captain's chair.

Simon hesitates, then shrugs and smiles again. Already his toothy grin is aggravating me. He pulls out the chair and sits down, splaying his legs wide and slouching on the seat.

"I'm beginning to think this is not a social visit," he suggests, "Or maybe I'm wrong?"

"It's a very social visit," I contradict. "If I weren't feeling damned sociable, I wouldn't be buying you a drink." I pick up my glass and tip it in his direction, he raises his own and tips it in return.

After taking a sip, I say, "And I understand that I owe you a debt of gratitude."

"Huh?" Simon sips his own drink, something clear, it could be seltzer water - smart bartenders don't drink at work. He looks at me quizzically over the rim of the glass. "Why's that?"

"Justin tells me that you saved his life."

Simon laughs then, but uneasily; he shifts his ass around in the chair. "Oh that - that wasn't a big deal," he waves a hand in the air, takes another sip, but he's watching me closely over the rim of the glass.

"On the contrary," I feel my mouth smiling - or is it a grimace? - "Justin's life is a very big deal to - a lot of people."

"Oh, I didn't mean - "

"And when someone takes him to a party and then lets him almost kill himself, those people get a bit – annoyed.”

"I didn't - he didn't - "

Quickly I lean forward over the table and growl, "You left bruises on him, you fucker."

"Bruises?"

"You let him perch on some fucking high ledge, him and his little friend Robert. Bobby. Bobby, who's lying in the hospital with fucking broken bones, thanks to your negligence. And it's no thanks to you that Justin's not lying there too."

"Now wait a minute, I'm not responsible for - "

"The fuck you're not. And if I were Bobby's uncle, I'd sue your fucking ass. Did you know he was smoking dope at your party?"

"Hey," Simon pushes back his chair and gets angrily to his feet, "It wasn't MY party, it wasn't my dope," he hisses, "And I told you, I'm not responsible for these boys. I gave them a ride, that's all. They're not kids needing babysitters, they're - "

"What do you know about kids? Obviously nothing. Kids their age DO need fucking babysitters, they're fucking reckless! Can't you remember way back a hundred years, when you were a fucking teenager? It's amazing any kids live long enough to become adults."

And it's amazing that I'm roaring on and on like some God-damned pedantic grandfather. Christ! I stop then, just stop. I lean back in my chair and lift my glass of vodka with a hand that's noticeably shaking. Fuck.

"Look," Simon's responding to my changed demeanor, he senses that I'm calming down. "Look," he sits back down on the edge of the chair and leans forward. Earnestly he tells me, "I'm sorry about Bobby, and about Justin too. I care about them, believe it or not. But get real, man, legally they're adults and they're not my responsibility."

Justin's not legally an adult but maybe he's passing himself off as twenty-one so I keep my mouth shut. And Bobby's a couple years older. But, "There's such a thing as moral responsibility, regardless of someone's age," I hear myself say, marveling at the words coming out of my mouth. Where the fuck did that come from?

"I'm sorry," Simon says again, "And I promise you, I'm keeping an eye on Justin here at the d'Or. Probably you worry about all the guys hitting on him constantly, but - "

"What?" I sit up straight again.

But really, I'm not surprised, guys are always hitting on him. They did it at the diner in the Pitts too, but at least Debbie and the others watched out for him there, I didn't worry so much that. . . well, not that I'm worried here either. I'm not worried. But fuck, I don't have to like it, do I?

"Get real," Simon chides me, but gently, "You have to know a juicy little blond twinkie like Justin is a magnet, especially for the older clientele that frequents a place like the d'Or." Simon raises his glass and takes another drink. Gently he mocks, "And maybe it's YOUR responsibility to keep him from working here, huh?"

"That's different," I say. But is it? Fuck.

I want to say that Justin's a free agent. I want to say that he's a man and can do what he pleases. I want to say that I don't have responsibility for him.

Am I now a fucking hypocrite?

The truth is. . . if I’d gone to the party with Justin, none of this would have happened. Oh, maybe Robert would have perched on his ledge and fallen off, but Justin wouldn’t have been with him. He’d have been with me instead. He wanted me to go and I was too damned fucking busy. Or so I convinced myself. He wanted a couple hours of my time and I wouldn’t give it to him. And I was left alone to mooch around the condo all night, waiting for him to come home. Wanting him to come home.

And here he comes now.

“Brian!”

Justin pauses in the bar doorway, then he smiles and hurries over to my table. I can tell he’s going to fling himself into my arms, but suddenly he stops short with a squeak of sneakers, no doubt remembering my aversion to PDAs. “Hey,” he says then, coolly, off-handedly, contenting himself with a careless shrug and reaching out to touch the tips of his fingers to my jacket sleeve.

That’s not enough. In one swift move, I scoot back my chair, grab his arm and pull him none too gently onto my lap. “Hey,” I answer, reaching for him, circling his neck with my arm and pulling him in close, holding him tight against my chest, devouring his lips with my mouth, my fingers twisting in his silky golden hair.

It’s a good kiss, and when we come up for air Justin’s gasping, his eyes are crossed. Jesus, I’ll bet my own eyes are crossed.

“Holy shit.” That’s Simon, still sitting across the table. “I think I need a shower.”

“Go away,” I suggest mildly.

He grins and stands up but Justin stops him. “Simon, wait. I was coming to tell you that table seven wants a bottle of Chardonnay.”

“Got it,” Simon gives Justin the Boy Scout two-fingered salute. “Thanks for the drink,” he says to me before turning away and heading back to his bar.

“Hey,” I murmur to Justin and we kiss again, a small one.

Justin makes no move to get off my lap, he makes himself more comfortable and leans against my shoulder. “Brian, what are you doing here?” he asks. “I mean, I’m glad you’re here, but – you didn’t come to give Simon a hard time, did you?”

“I came to take you to dinner,” I tell him, avoiding the question. “You get off in an hour, right?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “but we can eat here – I get free food, you know.”

“Fuck that,” I say decisively, “Let have dinner at Wolfgang Puck’s. Then you can watch out for movie stars.”

“Great!” Justin smiles, climbing off my lap. “Now I’d better go make my customers happy – want me to bring you a snack while you’re waiting?”

Shaking my head no I hang onto his hand. “Justin – do a lot of your customers hit on you?”

“Yeah,” he agrees happily, “It’s cool – they leave big tips!” And with a laugh, he hurries away out of the bar and into the restaurant.

Okay, so he can take care of himself, Justin really is a man. An independent man. He doesn’t need a babysitter, he doesn’t need a guardian angel watching over him. But. . .but maybe I could spend more time with him, anyway.

Just for the hell of it.

Chapter 9: Only You by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian's ready to start tricking again and Justin's not happy about it.

 

 

 

 

Justin


"You said it was my decision."

"It is."

"Then why are you leaning on me to go see this guy?"

"I'm not fucking leaning. I'm. . .encouraging you to go. That's all."

We're sprawled on the sofa, we've eaten dinner and watched Jeopardy! (I won but Brian insists he was the winner); and now Brian has muted the volume on the tv and announced that Robert's uncle, who works at LA City College, wants to talk to me about the school.

"Brian, I don't have time for school right now."

"Sure you do. After work."

"Night classes." I feel my lip curling in Kinney fashion.

"Why not? Afraid you'll miss the Brady Bunch on Nick at Night?"

"Brian, you said it's a junior college. Probably the classes are too basic for me."

"Maybe. But you won't know unless you look into it."

"But - "

"You know what?" he frowns then. "Fuck it. Do what you want." Brian hunches his shoulder and turns away, points the remote at the tv and the music from a commercial about the Jaguar blares out at us.

"Pretentious piece of shit car," Brian grumbles, and I remember that Michael's old boyfriend had a Jag.

"Can I borrow the jeep to go see Robert tomorrow night?"

Robert's still in the hospital, I checked the bus schedules and it's hard to get there, time-consuming, I'd have to transfer twice, and of course I still don't know my way around LA very well.

"Hmm," Brian says, not taking his eyes from the tv screen, "Maybe I'll drive you."

"Okay. Thanks."

I have mixed feelings about going back to school. Sometimes I ache with the need to draw. At first, after I was suspended, I was sketching constantly, like I've done all my life. But lately, I find myself picking up my sketchpad and staring at it, then flinging it across the room. Not when Brian's home of course.

I think getting suspended kind of cracked something inside me. It's not broken, just cracked. I probably need this time away from art to get over the feeling of. . .I'm not sure what I'm feeling. Angry mostly. But I can't let Brian see that, because he flat out said that me sacrificing the IFA for my political beliefs is what pushed him to do the same with his career. So how can I let him think that I have regrets?

I honestly do not regret what I did. It was the right thing to do and the consequences were worth the sacrifice. But now I’m feeling kind of empty and aimless and - and fucking mad. Or anyway, I'm confused about my feelings. I wish Daphne were here, or Linds. I could talk to them about these feelings, about my confusion. I don't dare mention it to Brian.


Brian

Justin's hiding something from me. He's always been pretty transparent, or anyway he used to be, until he learned to put on a façade of what he imagines is coolness. I know he learned that from me. From me, and from the hard knocks he's had the past few years. Strange that I've always been so impatient with his immaturity and pushed so hard for him to grow up, and now that he's matured, I sometimes wish he were still the boy he used to be.

What bullshit, of course, I don't really wish that. Nostalgia's a bitch. Apparently, this break away from Pittsburgh and all the sturm-und-drang of living in the center of a maelstrom of extended family is somehow not as welcome as I thought it would be. At least, I sometimes surprise myself by wishing I could talk to Lindsay, to Michael, even to Deb. They are so full of bullshit advice, most of it ridiculous, and yet. . .

Oh, Christ, that's a crock. I don't need any of them, never have and never will.

But I wish I knew what Justin is keeping from me.

I can't ask him. He thinks I want him to be tough and independent and unemotional. The kicker is that that's exactly what I want. So then why does it piss me off?

Justin and I got pretty fucking close after the bashing, when he stayed with me and I helped him learn to walk around in crowds and held onto him when he woke up screaming from those damned debilitating nightmares. He confided things in me back then, he wasn't afraid to open up about his feelings. Why'd he stop?

Well, that's easy enough to figure out. I told him to stop. Told him that discussing feelings was lesbionic crap. And it is. Most of the time it is.



Justin

Brian's been glaring at the tv for the past twenty minutes, surreptitious glances show me that his face is hard, his lips a thin line, his forehead wrinkled. Suddenly he picks up his beer bottle and drains it, then slams it down hard on the coffee table. "I'm going out," he announces, without looking at me, then he gets up and heads down the hall to the bedroom. I just sit there on the sofa staring at the tv, feeling stunned.

He's going tricking. I knew it would happen sooner or later, I shouldn't be surprised. And I have no right to be upset about it, because Brian told me upfront that he won't be monogamous. He promised not to bring tricks to the apartment and I have to be satisfied with that.

I need to be okay with this. Mostly I am okay - nobody knows better than I do that tricking is meaningless to Brian. A million anonymous mouths and asses ready and willing to get him off with no strings attached. Before Brian met me, he never had a long-term relationship. He claims he never dated or had boyfriends but I know he did a little of both in college. Michael let things slip sometimes when we'd be working late into the night on Rage.

But somewhere along the line, Brian swore off love and commitment. And of course, after I walked out on him, he turned off love even more. Yet Brian didn't turn his back on me when I left. Even knowing that I'd been breaking the rules, even when he found out about Ethan and confronted us in the diner, Brian didn't turn away, didn't kick me out. It's hard to believe even now. And it reminds me anew, I have to accept Brian's terms that our relationship remain open. I have to give him that freedom, I have to be okay with it.

With a heavy sigh of resignation, I pick up the remote and point it at the tv, start channel surfing, trying to concentrate on images on the screen, trying not to think about Brian roaming the bars on Santa Monica Boulevard. The guys'll go crazy for him, I know that very well. They'll swarm him and he'll be up to his neck in cocks and asses within minutes.

I hear him coming back down the hall and I force my shoulders to loosen up, I let my head loll back against the cushion, hoping that I look complacent and relaxed. I feel him come up behind the sofa, and in a moment I feel his hand on my shoulder, so I bend my head backward and look at him upside down. He's put on jeans and a long-sleeved black silk tee, he's so tall and delicious and incredibly edible. "Have fun," I say casually, giving him a little smile.

I'm rewarded with a squeeze of my shoulder, then he bends forward and kisses my lips. "Later," he says, pulling quickly away and heading for the door.

"Later," I call after him, then turn to stare blankly at the tv again. I wish I didn't care. I wish I didn't care so much.


Brian

I realize that Justin has surprised me, I was sure he'd make a fuss, yell, and scream or at least pout, but instead his mature, accepting response to my going out throws me for a loop. I kiss him, I walk through the door and down the stairs to the garage, get in the jeep and put the key in the ignition. Then I just sit there for a moment. I cannot possibly be disappointed that Justin didn't try to stop me from tricking. What a ridiculous thought.

With a shake of my head, I turn the key and gun the engine, then pull out of the garage and head down the hill toward the heart of WeHo. Almost all my life I've been able to compartmentalize people and events, I can shut the door and move on. I'm just out of practice, that's all. I keep shrugging my shoulders trying to dispel the image of Justin sitting on the sofa alone as I walked out of the condo, and after a few minutes, the image is gone. Now I'm free to fuck around. And Christ, I need it. The release of anonymous sex has always relaxed me, it's a great stress reliever. No matter what problems are bugging me, I can forget them in an orgy of fucking and sucking.

There's a bar on Santa Monica I've noticed before, called Heads Up, for some reason, it stands out among the dozens of bars in WeHo. When I park in the lot behind a row of buildings and enter the front door, immediately I feel at home - the bar has a very Woody's type of ambiance. Like any bar, it has subdued lighting, a pool table, small tables scattered around the room. Unlike Woody's there's a back room, it seems I'll have the best of both worlds rolled into one. There's an empty spot at the bar where I perch on a stool and catch the bartender's eye. He gives me a sly smile, he likes what he sees, and he's a looker himself, medium height, streaked short hair, well-defined bare shoulders. There's three bartenders and they're all shirtless and all attractive. When he hands me a glass with an inch of JB, I lift the glass to my lips, sniffing the bourbon like it's fine French wine, and I turn to lean against the bar and let my eyes roam around the dimly-lit room.

Naturally, I'm aware that I've captured the attention of many of the room's occupants, and there's a fair share of potentially fuckable men gathered around, some alone, some sitting at tables of two or three, a few shooting pool. I lean my elbows back against the bar and exude my aura of sex appeal. I've often felt like a sexual Spiderman, throwing out an invisible net of pheromones to attract a horde of men eager to fly into my sticky web. I stop that line of thought before it gets too preposterous and concentrate instead on cruising the room, focusing on two or three of the most likely candidates. The first one to approach me is a dirty blond, a twenty-something guy of medium height, his face a study of linear art - sharp cheekbones, a square jaw with deep dimples, arched eyebrows. Beautiful at a distance, but up close he looks hard around the edges. Older than I thought, not twenty-something, instead he's thirty-something. Still, his looks and demeanor are good enough for a quickie backroom fuck.

"Hey," he greets me, "Haven't seen you here before. Buy you a drink?"

"No thanks." I have no interest in niceties. "Wanna fuck?"

"You don't waste any time, do you?" Then he laughs and puts a hand on my arm. "But okay, how about your place? Live near here?"

"How about the back room?" I counter, glancing at his hand, noticing that he bites his nails. It makes his fingertips look blunt and ugly. A small flaw, I can overlook that - he doesn't need to touch me, all he has to do is drop his pants and bend over.

"I'm Matthew," he says as if it matters, tightening his grip on my arm.

"I'm horny," I tell him, turning toward the back of the bar, "Let's go."

He comes along willingly enough, still hanging onto me. We pass through a beaded curtain separating the bar from a short hallway with toilets and a pay phone, then he pushes against a door that says 'Employees Only' and we enter the almost-dark backroom, a murky place with a few tv's showing porn tapes, the usual suspects standing around - trolls jerking off as they watch a few couples fucking and sucking. I find an empty space and take hold of the trick, swing him around to face the wall.

"Hey," he says, turning his head to peer at me over his shoulder, "Hold on - I'm a top."

"Sure you are," I nod agreeably, "But not tonight." I reach around and unzip his jeans, pull them roughly to his ankles, then push my knee between his thighs to spread his legs apart. Then I reach into my back pocket for a condom, I always carry two or three.

My pocket's empty. I try the other pocket, then realize that, amazingly, the cupboard is bare. I've stopped routinely shoving condoms into my pants. When did that happen?

"Need a rubber?" the trick asks. Not waiting for an answer he leans down and rifles through the pockets of his jeans, standing up and twisting around to hand me a foil packet.

It's a Trojan.

I hate Trojans. I only use Kimono Micro-thins. Fuck. The cheap little bastard uses Trojans. And he is little too - I didn't get a good look at his ass till I pulled off his jeans, it's flat, barely rounded, and tan - he must go to nude beaches, or maybe he gets a spray-on in a cheesy tanning shop. What a waste, there's something so erotic about a pale white bubble butt.

"Never mind," I tell the trick, handing him back the condom. "I don't use Trojans."

"Huh?" He takes the packet and looks up at me in surprise. Quickly recovering, he adds, "All right - I'll suck you off instead." And he moves those hands with the bitten-down fingernails to the front of my jeans. I don't want him to touch me.

"Another time," I suggest, pulling away and turning toward the exit. I'm barely aware of his curses following me as I push the door's handle and leave the dim backroom for the darkness of the bar's parking lot. Getting into the jeep, I sit for a moment deciding what I want to do next.

What I want to do, damn it all to fucking hell, is go home. I want to go home and grab Justin and pull off his clothes and lick every inch of his beautiful pale body, caress his flawless round white ass, suck on his perfect artist-fingers.

Damn it all to fucking hell.

For form's sake, I decide to drive around for a while. Well, it's not that I care what Justin thinks if I come back too soon. It's just a nice night for a drive, clear and dry and warm - I love the warm nights in California. So I drive for a while, up to Hollywood Boulevard, past landmarks like the Kodak Theatre where Justin's elephants are illuminated with white light, the streets thick with traffic, the sidewalks thick with whores and hustlers and teenagers and tourists. I take a right onto La Cienega and drive aimlessly for a while, paying no attention to direction, and after maybe twenty minutes, I realize that I've reached LAX, the Los Angeles airport. Making my way through the maze of lanes around the airline terminals, eventually, I find my way around to the main street that leads back toward downtown LA.

Half an hour later I admit defeat. Somewhere along the way I took a wrong turn. I'm lost. I've passed signs that indicate I'm in the Watts area; on the right side of the street are railroad tracks, huge spaces filled with empty rail cars, piles of equipment, storage sheds - everything deserted as a tomb. On the other side of the street are closed factories and run-down houses, I've barely seen any people around, very few cars, how the fuck did I get here, and how the fuck do I find my way back? It's well after midnight, twelve-forty; then it's one o'clock and still I keep driving. I don't have a fucking map - Justin took our maps into the house to study, to learn his way around LA, and now I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere and there's not even a gas station where I can stop for directions.

A gas station. Fuck. One glance at the gas gauge confirms the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach: I'm on empty.



Justin

At midnight I decide to go to bed. In the back of my mind I thought Brian might not stay out very long, might come home early, it’s a weeknight after all. But apparently he's having fun, there's no telling when he'll come back. His first tricking adventure in LA, he must be having the time of his life, and legally he can stay out till three. Or anyway that was the rule in Pittsburgh, and though we haven't talked about resuming the rules we'd made before, probably he'll want to do that. That is, if he agrees to have any rules at all.

I don't think I can fall asleep but then I doze off. The phone rings some time later, jarring me awake. I sit straight up in bed and can't remember for a moment where I am. Scrambling out of the sheets, I move across the room to grab up the telephone, a glance at the alarm clock shows that it's nearly three.

"Hey, it's me," Brian announces - unnecessarily, we have caller-ID.

"Hey."

"I'll be there pretty soon." There's a pause, then he asks, "Everything okay?"

"What wouldn't it be okay?" I keep my voice level but I really don't understand what he's asking. "The house didn't burn down or anything, if that's what you mean."

"You sound pissed."

"No," I deny it, "Just sleepy. You woke me up."

"Hunh," he huffs, "Last week you were mad that I didn't call, this week you're mad 'cause I did."

"I'm not mad, Brian," I insist, "It's good that you called. You must be having a wonderful time, it's almost three o'clock."

"You wouldn't believe what a good time I'm having," he starts to tell me but I interrupt.

"I'd really rather not hear about it. I'm going back to bed now."

"Justin - wait."

I wait, but I have nothing to say, I just stand there with the phone pressed to my ear.

"Justin, I'm not really having a good time, that was sarcasm. You must be sleepy if you don’t recognize sarcasm."

Suddenly I'm worried. "Brian - what's wrong? Did something bad happen? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. It's just that I. . . I got lost, and I ran out of gas."

I'm silent for a moment, then I say, "Why does this sound like a made-up story?"

"Fuck you," he snarls. "I had to call Triple-A, the guy just got here a few minutes ago and he's putting gas in the tank."

"Oh."

"So I'll be home soon, but not till after three. So I called."

"Where'd you go?" I can't resist asking. "We just filled the tank a couple days ago, how could you run out of gas - did you follow some guy to Mexico or something?"

"Yes. Now go back to bed, I'll be home pretty soon."

"Brian?"

"What?"

"Bring me a burrito."

"Fuck you." And he hangs up.

For some reason, I'm smiling, even though I'm still sort of mad. Not mad, but I'm annoyed that he went tricking tonight. It's really kind of funny that he ran out of gas, it's such a non-Brian thing to happen, he's fanatic about keeping the tank filled. If he's far away it may be a while till he gets home, so I decide to get back in bed. I'm no longer sleepy, but a few minutes later I drift off anyway.

I don't hear Brian come in but I wake up when he slips into bed. I turn over right into his open arms, he pulls me hard against him and bends his head to kiss the side of my neck. "Mmm," he says, "Mmm." He moves his thigh over mine and our legs twist together like a pretzel. He flips over onto his back and pulls me on top of him, runs his hands down my hips and caresses my butt cheeks.

"What a great ass you have."

"Thanks," I murmur a bit breathlessly, "Yours is nice too."

He laughs then and lifts himself up off the bed to bring our mouths together. "Christ," he moans, "I want to fuck you so bad."

"You didn't get enough tonight?" I sort of tease. Against my will, there's a slight edge to my voice but Brian ignores it.

"No," he answers simply, then abruptly he flips us over again, so that I'm flat on my back and he's lying on top of me.

"How many guys did you fuck tonight?" Justin, I tell myself, please shut up.

Brian has reached for a condom but he stops in the act of tearing it open. "Twenty-seven," he answers, his voice getting sharp. "Or twenty-eight. I lost track." When I say nothing, he asks, "I thought you didn't want details."

"I don't," I confirm. "I don't want details. I just wondered, you know, how many."

Brian leans back and sits on my feet, the condom forgotten in his hand. He's silent for a moment, just staring at me. Finally, he says, "You have no reason to be jealous."

"I'm not jealous." Now I'm annoyed. "Brian, I'm not fucking jealous, okay? I was just curious, a little curious, that's all. But forget it now. I really don’t care about your tricks, and I really don’t want to know about them."

"It's none of your business who I fuck. Whom. No matter how many whoms. Or even if I drive to Mexico to do it."

"Obviously. Your dick is your own, we established that a long time ago." I'm trying to keep my voice even, unemotional. Rational and mature.

"You agreed," Brian reminds me. "I said no monogamy and you said you agreed."

Pulling away from Brian, I sit up in bed and lean against the mirrored headboard. "You can make me agree," I say, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "But you can't make me like it."

“Fuck,” he frowns, “Are we really going there again?”

“No,” I shake my head, “We’re not going there. I said I accepted it and I did. I do. You have a right to fuck whomever you want. But I have a right to not be happy about it. Okay?”

Brian stares at me, shaking his head. “God, I’m tired,” he murmurs at last. “We have to work tomorrow, let’s go to sleep now.” He tosses the condom back into the bowl and lies down on the mattress, rolls over onto his side, facing away from me. “Turn out the light.”

I sit there a few minutes longer, unhappy that we’ve left so much unsaid. But Brian’s right, it’s late, we have to get up in a couple hours. I lean over and flip off the lamp, slide down in the bed and pull up the sheet, covering Brian and myself. I copy his position, turning my back toward him, facing the opposite wall.

We lay like that for a moment, silent, breathing quietly, then I feel Brian turn over. He scooches across the mattress till his body’s pressed up against my back and his arm goes around my waist, pulling me tight against him. I can feel his warm breath soft on my neck, he nuzzles my hair with his face, then he whispers in my ear, “I didn’t fuck anybody tonight. I almost did, and I will again sometime. But I didn’t tonight.”

“Brian – “

“Now go to sleep.”

“’kay.” I feel my body relax and melt into his. I wonder why he told me? And I wonder why he didn’t fuck anybody. But Brian doesn’t lie. I believe him.



Brian

We barely speak next morning but not out of anger or even frustration, we’re running late and we shower and brush our teeth together with very little conversation. I drop Justin at the d’Or – he’s an hour and a half early but he prefers being early to taking the bus. “I’ll be a bit late,” I tell him as he gets out at the curb. “Eat here or get some takeout, I’ll have Ginger get me a sandwich in the afternoon. What time do you want to go to the hospital?”

“About seven, if we can. But if you need to work I can take the bus.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven, at the condo. I’ll call you when I’m a few blocks away, so be ready.”

“Okay. Bye!” He gives me a small Sunshine smile and waves as I pull away from the curb.

At some point, we’re going to have to talk again. Damn it. I thought we were in the clear about tricking, Justin said he was okay with it. Now I find out he’s unhappy. Maybe this is what he’s been keeping from me. But it’s not my responsibility to make him happy. It’s not. If he wasn’t okay with it, he should have said so.

Yeah, I agree with myself; and then what? If he didn’t agree, then what?

Then he could have stayed in Pittsburgh.

I didn’t want him to stay in Pittsburgh.

Fuck.



Justin

We spend an hour visiting with Robert – or rather, Brian spends about ten minutes and then goes off, leaving us alone. He’s brought along a book to read and he waits for me in the car, smoking and reading ‘Ulysses.’ Brian’s a closet reader – he never wanted anybody in Pittsburgh to know that he reads a lot of books, he says it fucks with his Lothario image.

When we get home we change clothes and head for our computers, but after about fifteen minutes, Brian crosses the room and comes to stand behind me. Putting his hand on the back of my neck and squeezing, he asks, “Are you in the middle of something, or can you leave it for a while?”

“I’m just sort of computer-doodling,” I say honestly, “Nothing important. Do you want to fuck?”

“Always. But let’s talk first.”

“Huh?” I swivel around in my chair to stare up at him, mouth agape. “I thought you said, ‘Let’s talk.’”

Brian frowns. “If you’re going to be an asshole, forget it.”

“No, no,” I assure him, standing up quickly, “I’d like to talk. I’m just. . .I was just surprised.” Surprised isn’t the half of it: Brian Kinney, initiating meaningful discussion? But I smooth out the amazement on my face and pretend to be cool, I let Brian take my hand and lead me to the sofa. I sit down but he’s still standing; he probably needs to pace.

Brian crosses his arms and stands with legs apart, looking down at me. Finally, he says, “Tell me, and I’m serious, tell me why you’re unhappy that I’m tricking.”

“I’m not unhappy about it,” I assure him, “I’m just not happy about it.”

“What?”

“It’s not that I’m miserable or anything,” I try to explain. “I know fucking strangers means nothing to you. It’s just that. . .” Taking a deep breath, I plunge ahead, knowing he’s going to be annoyed, but this time I need to be honest about my feelings. “It’s just that, I want you all to myself. I don’t want to share you.”

“Justin,” he shakes his head, he’s annoyed all right. “Justin, that’s such a hetero concept, it’s fucking ownership. You can’t own another person.”

“I don’t want to own you – “

“You want to own my cock. Why? Why do you care what I do with my cock? You have all of me that matters.”

“But – “

“Justin,” Brian sighs, sitting down on the edge of the coffee table facing me. “You have everything else. This condo belongs to you too, so you have a say in what goes on here, and I agreed not to bring guys home. You don’t like to watch me tricking so I agreed not to do it around you. But why do you care if I go off alone and fuck other guys once in a while? Monogamy is such a hetero thing, you’re as gay as I am, why are you buying into that straight bullshit?”

“It’s not just straights, Brian,” I protest, “Lots of gay guys do it.”

“Lots of gay guys have dungeons in the basement, do you want one too?”

“Well,” it’s my turn to be annoyed now, “That’s a stupid analogy.”

“Okay, you’re right,” surprisingly Brian agrees. “What I mean is, just because a group of people do something, that’s not proof that it’s right for everybody else. Monogamy is not right for me. Never. That’s just something so basic about me, you have to accept it or - or go away.”

His face looks so bleak it’s scaring me. “I don’t want to go away.” My voice sounds choked up.

“And I don’t want you to go away,” he says gently, leaning forward to take hold of my hand. “I wanted you to come to California with me, remember?”

“You never said that,” I remind him.

He leans his head on one side and raises an eyebrow. “If I didn’t want you to come, you wouldn’t be here. Would you?

“No.”

“I want to live with you,” he says. “I want to come home to you. I want to wake up with you." He pauses, smiles wryly and adds, "And I want to write stupid messages on your back, for Christ’s sake. Do you imagine I’d make a fool of myself like that with anybody else?”

My fingers tighten convulsively in his hand. “Promise you’ll never write on anybody else?”

Brian snorts and shakes his head but he doesn’t let go. “Push, push, push,” he murmurs.

We’re silent for three heartbeats, then he drops his head, stares at the floor. “Fuck.” A moment later he says, “I, Brian Kinney, promise never to write on anybody but Justin Taylor.” Then he raises his head and looks into my eyes. "As long as we both shall live."

With a huge effort I will the tears in my eyes to stay put, not to dare roll over my eyelids and down my cheeks.

"Okay?" he asks.

“Mmm-hmm,” I agree, not trusting myself to speak.

“So now you’ll be okay with me fucking other guys sometimes.”

I nod.

“And you won’t be unhappy about it.”

That’s a hell of a promise to make but I’m trapped by my inability to speak, so all I can do is nod again.

“Okay,” he says briskly, standing up and pulling me to my feet. “Now log off your computer and let’s go to bed, I’m horny as fucking hell.”

Brian turns out the lights and we move into the bedroom, strip off our clothes and meet in the center of the bed. When Brian’s this horny he doesn’t usually like to take his time, but tonight’s an exception, he licks me all over from head to toe, tongue-fucking my belly button, shrimping my toes, softly nibbling on my earlobes; and all the time he’s touching me, caressing me with those magic gentle-rough fingers and murmuring non-words like ‘mmmmm’, and ‘ahhhhmmm,’ and ‘uhhhhh.’ And I’m doing him too, inch by delicious inch, inhaling his Brianscent, tasting his smooth skin, tickling and sucking his tiny nipples. Then he fucks me, lifting my legs to his shoulders and bending down to capture my mouth with his amazing sensual lips, rocking into me slow and fast and slow until I can’t hold on any longer, till my moans grow so urgent that he knows it’s time, and with one final surge he pushes me over the edge, coming right over the edge with me, both of us falling head-first into almost unbearable screaming orgasmic oblivion.

Moments later we’re lying side by side, catching our breath, and Brian leans over to kiss the side of my face. “You awake?” he murmurs.

“. . .no. . .” My eyes are glued shut, I’ve almost slipped into sleep.

“Then you can’t hear me,” he whispers, and he’s right, I can barely hear him, I’m sliding away.

“It’s never like that with anybody else.” His voice is dissolving like mist. “Only with you, Justin,” he breathes. “Only you.”

“Brian – “

“Shh,” he hushes me, “You’re asleep.”

He’s right. I’m asleep.

Chapter 10: Be Careful What You Wish For by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian and Justin both get some things that they wish for. And some that they don't.

 

 

 

 

Justin


"Mark October 5 on your calendar."

"What's that, the anniversary of your first erection?"

We're in the kitchen, Brian's rinsing dishes and I'm putting them into the dishwasher. Patiently I remind him, "It's Gay Day at Disney, remember I forwarded a link to you a couple days ago? About how it's not an official Disney thing, but thousands of gays turn up at the park on that day, everybody wearing red shirts. Last year there were ten thousand gays at the park, the article said."

Brian lowers his head and gives me that look. "And this is important to me, why?"

"Well duh, because I want to go!"

"Okay," he nods then, handing me a platter; "I'll give you a ride to Disneyland. And you can call me when it's time to come get you."

I grab the plate with one hand and punch his arm with the other. "Don't be such an asshole. I want you to go with me."

"The fuck." He's actually surprised, or else he's doing a good job of faking it. Then he laughs. "Can you honestly picture ME at Disneyland? I'd probably get arrested for fucking Goofy underneath the Matterhorn."

"Be serious, okay? I really want to go, and I want you to go with me."

"Justin - absolutely not." He turns off the water and pulls away from me, looks me in the eye. Slowly he repeats, "Ab-so-lute-ly not."

"But - "

"Listen to me!" he insists, fixing me with his famous burning death stare. "Nothing in the world could make me go to Disneyland - nothing." He pauses, then adds, "So forget it."

I feel my shoulders slump and I know my face is reflecting my severe disappointment.

"And stop fucking pouting. Make your popcorn so we can watch this DVD you rented, I have some work to finish tonight."

"Okay." I give in and turn away, start the dishwasher and toss a packet of popcorn into the microwave. I didn't really expect Brian to go with me to Disneyland - he's way too cynical for The Happiest Place on Earth. But I sure wish he would.


Brian

"It's too soon," I explain patiently, cradling the phone on my shoulder as I pour myself an inch of JB. Justin's not home, he's working overtime at the d'Or to fill in for someone who's sick. “I can’t take time off work now.”

Lindsay’s insistent. "We need to come now before school starts. I don't want Gus to fall behind."

"What - he's going to miss algebra? They're teaching chemistry in preschool now?"

"I just don't want him to be out of step with his classmates."

Melanie's on another phone, they're conference-calling; now she breaks in with a laugh. "He's got two mommies, and he’s got a father who fucks thirty guys a month. Linds - I think he's already out of step with his classmates."

"Who says I fuck thirty guys a month?"

"You told me yourself, remember? When you were being sued for harassment. Don't tell me you've turned over a new leaf out there in California?"

"Mel," Lindsay chastens her, "Brian's settling down with Justin now, give him a break."

"I am not fucking settling down."

Mel can't resist digging. "You're monogamous now? The fuck king of Liberty Avenue?"

"One, we are not monogamous, two, it's none of your fucking business, and three, if you spread that around, I'll sue you for defamation of character."

"Then you are?" she's incredulous.

"No, we are not. Now fuck off, let me talk to Lindsay alone before I hang up the fucking telephone."

I hear her laugh trail off as she hangs up her phone and apparently wanders away. Bitch.

"Brian," Lindsay's voice becomes silky, she thinks she can wrap me around her finger. "Brian, please make me feel welcome to come visit you now. Don't you miss me? Don't you miss your son?"

Christ. "Possibly," I sigh. Somehow I've lost this battle. "What day are you thinking of coming?"

"Our reservation is for the fourteenth, Thursday."

Reservation! The fuck. "You already made a reservation? What if I'd said no?"

"Our flight gets in about six p.m., can you pick us up at the airport?"

"LAX?" There's only a dozen fucking airports around Los Angeles.

"Yes. Is that all right, is it hard to get to the airport?"

“It’s easy.”

I can get there okay, it's finding my way back that's the problem. I'll bring Justin along, he's a halfway decent navigator.

"I'll be there," I agree with a heavy sigh. "But it's not fucking convenient."

"Thank God Justin's living with you, at least someone will make me feel welcome."

"You're fucking welcome, okay?" Am I really grinding my teeth? Taking a slurp of JB, I force my shoulders to loosen up. "How come the wicked witch of the east isn't coming with you?"

"She's working on an important case that's going to trial soon. And she's having a problem with edema, so flying's probably not a good idea."

"Edema?" Do I really want to know about this?

"Her ankles keep swelling, a side-effect of pregnancy. She's retaining water."

Ugh, I'm feeling slightly nauseated.

When I say nothing, Lindsay continues. "So, since I have to come there any way, it just seemed like a good chance for you to spend some time with Gus before you forget each other."

"Is that the real reason?"

"Yes." Lindsay pauses, then asks, "What do you mean?"

"You're not having problems again?"

"Mel and I? No, not at all. This is just a perfect opportunity to visit. Giselle - she's the new gallery owner - wants me to attend this conference on Friday and Saturday so she's paying my airfare. She'll pay for a hotel room too if you don't want me staying at your apartment."

"You can stay, but put Gus in a hotel." I'm joking, but not really. The thought of a three-year-old invading the condo makes me shudder.

"We'll stay in your guest room and be very, very quiet."

Uh-huh. "It's not a guest room, it's an extra bedroom. I thought Justin might turn it into a studio."

"Is he painting again?

“No.” I set down my glass and run my hand through my hair. “No, he’s not.”

“What is it?” Lindsay’s always been quick. “Something wrong with Justin?”

“No. Not – wrong.”

“What is it?” she asks again.

“Look,” I say at last, “This isn’t something to talk about on the phone. He’s fine. Justin’s fine.“

“But you’re worried about him. Why, Brian?”

Shaking my head, I pick up my glass and carry it over to the sofa, sink down onto the cushions and put my feet on the coffee table. “Not worried,” I say at last. “I’m not fucking worried.”

“You’re worried.”

With a sigh, I give in some more. “Okay. Yeah. Slightly.” How to explain this feeling that Justin’s hiding something from me? I hate talking about this kind of shit.

She waits so I’m forced to go on. “Something’s just a little – off. He’s not himself somehow. I mean,” I add quickly, “Mostly he’s the same, but I don’t see him sketching very often, and I tried to get him to take a couple classes here and he’s resisting.” He’s resisting like fucking hell.

Then I hear myself admitting, “Maybe he’s sorry he came to LA.” Jesus, where did that come from?

“Nonsense,” Lindsay’s voice is brisk, assured. “Justin’s in love with you, so wherever you are, that’s where he wants to be.”

“Maybe if he’d stayed in Pittsburgh, the IFA would’ve taken him back.”

“Brian, I’m sure Justin isn’t thinking that. He’d give up everything to be with you.”

“I don’t fucking want him to give up everything!” I lean forward, slamming my glass down on the table “Christ.”

Lindsay’s quiet for a moment, then she says, “I’ll talk to him when I'm there, get him alone and feel him out. He always used to confide in me, maybe he’ll still do that. It's possible you’re imagining things, you always were a drama queen.”

“Fuck you, Linds.” But I’m not really angry. Maybe she’s right, maybe I am imagining things. “Oh, shit.” A glance at my watch tells me I’m going to be late to pick up Justin at the d’Or. "E-mail me tomorrow with flight details," I tell Linds quickly before clicking off the phone and hurrying to the bedroom to pull on my boots, rush out the door and down the stairs.


Justin

I'm so happy that Lindsay's coming for a visit and Brian is too - though of course, he's pretending to be an asshole about it. He's very good at that.

I want to fix up the spare bedroom for them, though I can't spend a lot of money. We've just been using it as a sort of store-room, there's some moving boxes shoved in there and stacks of things we haven't decided what to do with. Bruce Applethorpe left some minimal furniture - a double bed, a small table, a chair. When we moved in, Brian said I could do whatever I wanted with the room. I think he expected me to turn it into a studio, though of course he never said so; Brian hardly ever gives anybody orders.

Shouldn't I want to have my own studio? Shouldn't I be thrilled to have a space of my own? I should, of course, I should. So why have I steered clear of that room, shoved things in there and pulled the door shut?

I'm just too busy right now to think about it, that's all. Learning a new job, making new friends, taking care of Brian without appearing to take care of him. Not really taking care of him, just trying to make things easier, smoother, so he doesn't have to worry about the small stuff. He's working so hard, putting in so many hours at the office. Brian really throws himself into whatever he's doing. Now it's work, but back home he divided his time between work and play.

I wonder if he misses the hard playing he used to do - not just the fucking around, but all the drugs, and the drinking too? He used to drink so much, I remember that it scared me sometimes. Now he has only one or two drinks at night, sometimes none at all. And the fucking. . . well, maybe he does that during the day, but mostly he's with me at night. We've made a kind of truce about tricking. Often he's late coming home, I guess sometimes he could be tricking. If I asked him, he'd tell me - but I don't need to know. He comes home to me every night. That’s enough.

Brian said I could spend a couple hundred dollars fixing up the room. I bought new sheets, but I saved a bundle by picking up some stuff at a flea market we stopped at last weekend, on the way back from visiting Robert. He's still at his uncle's house. Brian dropped me off and came back a couple hours later. As I got out of the car he said, impossibly casually, "Why don't you ask Uncle Jerry about the school?" and when I just said "Maybe," Brian shrugged and drove away without another word. I thought he'd hassle me again when he picked me up but he let it drop.

I saw the flea market from the car and asked Brian to stop, and I got a cool blue retro-looking bedspread and a small chest with three drawers, I'm going to paint it blue to match the bedspread thing. Brian kind of ragged on me for becoming domestic but I'm not really. House decorating, like fashion, doesn't interest me, I just wanted to make the room comfortable for Lindsay. Brian surprised me. He disappeared for a while, to have a cigarette he said, then he came back a few minutes later clutching a big stuffed giraffe. "For Gus," he muttered, shoving the giraffe at me; he said he refused to be seen carrying it around.

The flea market was kind of an upscale thing, in a nice neighborhood a couple miles from Jerry's house. He has a big old house in a neighborhood with wide tree-lined streets which sort of reminded me of my old neighborhood back home. Big lawns and wide yards. Robert has a bedroom on the second floor, he's resigned to being an invalid for a few more weeks, he's become addicted to some video games his uncle bought for him and we played those for a while during our visit. Robert seems like such a kid to me now - since I found out he's only eighteen. Mr. Chambray already replaced him at the d'Or and it seems unlikely Robert'll get his old job back.


```````



Justin

The airport's crowded, masses of people coming and going and masses of crowds waiting for them - with tight security only passengers are allowed to go to the gates. Brian's trying to find somebody who knows if Lindsay's plane has landed. The computer monitors that announce incoming flights are out of service so we stopped at the information counter and the girl there was totally clueless, why would they hire somebody so dumb to answer questions? All she did was giggle and blink her heavily made-up eyes at Brian, and when he asked her to call the airlines, she said they weren't allowed to bother the airline agents! He nearly blew up at her but I put a hand on his arm and he turned away, gruffly asked me to wait in the baggage pickup area in case Lindsay turns up here, and moved through the crowd toward the Southwest airline check-in counter in the far distance.

We had to park miles away in the airport garage, Brian said we should drop breadcrumbs so we'd find our way back again. But I've got a good sense of direction which sometimes annoys him but other times he's glad of it, so I knew we'd be all right. He trusts me but he made me bring a map of LA to the airport with us anyway, he got lost once a couple weeks ago. I love to harass him about that but for some reason, he doesn't think it's funny.

"Justin!"

I turn around just in time to intercept a big hug from Lindsay, she grabs onto my shoulders and gives me the best hug I've had since we left home. Pulling quickly away, Linds drops her shoulder bag onto the floor and turns to take the hand of Gus, who's standing close to her legs and looking up at me uncertainly.

"Hey Gus, you haven't forgotten me, have you?" I smile at him, crouching down to kid level and smiling.

"Say hi to Justin," Lindsay tells him.

"Hi," Gus murmurs, ignoring my outstretched hands and clinging to Lindsay's legs. He puts one finger in his mouth and sucks on it, staring solemnly at me with his big dark-hazel Brian-eyes.

Gus looks so much like Brian sometimes it's almost spooky. I sure wish I could see baby pictures of Brian but he says there aren't any. I don't believe him, it's just that he won't discuss his family with me, and I've only met his mother once - on the Viagra day.

Standing up again, I ask Lindsay about the flight and we glance around at the several big luggage carousels, the airport's so large and crowded and confusing.

"Daddy!"

We both turn when we hear Gus screech, and then he's pulling away from Lindsay's hand and running pell-mell toward the tall figure of Brian still twenty feet away. Brian crouches down like I was doing a moment before and Gus throws himself into his daddy's open arms almost hard enough to knock Brian over. The huge smile on Brian's face and the way his arms wrap tight around his son would melt anybody's heart, though Brian quickly regains control of his sense of cool as he stands up, lifting Gus in his arms, then moves toward us frowning harshly.

"Damned Southwest is so fuckin' disorganized," he bitches, and immediately Gus echoes him.

"Fuckin' or-gized!"

"Nice going, Daddy," Lindsay shakes her head, but she's unable to stop smiling at Brian, and when he shifts Gus from right arm to left so he can grab onto Lindsay, she returns his hug and laughs, "Oh, it's so good to see you! We've missed you - both - so much. And you both look great!"

"You look like shit," Brian responds in his brutally honest manner - and she does look disheveled and wrinkled and exhausted.

"Thanks," Lindsay snaps, "You spend seven hours on two airplanes with a three-year-old and see how YOU look."

Brian just smirks at her. "So, where's your fu--, umm, luggage?"

We wander around till we see a sign on a luggage carousel with Lindsay's flight number and as we reach it, it begins to move around and slowly starts spitting out suitcases and boxes and bags. "Here," Brian says, pushing Gus into my arms, "You boys go sit over there," he gestures toward a row of chairs near the window, "Linds can point out her luggage and I'll grab it."

"Daddy!" Gus sounds alarmed as Brian and Lindsay move away.

Brian turns around and says firmly, "Stay with Justin for a minute." He must read something on Gus' face because he adds, "Gus, you like Justin. Remember?"

Gus turns in my arms and regards me solemnly. After a moment he agrees, "Uh-huh," then slides an arm around my neck and smiles sweetly. "Unca Jus."

Brian raises an eyebrow at me as if to warn that I'm not officially Gus' uncle - God forbid I should assume I'm sanctioned for unclehood. The moment he turns away I stick out my tongue at him.

Gus giggles delightedly. "Daddy," he shouts at Brian's retreating back, making him turn to glance over his shoulder at the two of us. "Ppp-th-th-th!"

Brian grimaces again, understanding perfectly that Gus is mimicking me, and I know that I'm going to pay for it later.

How is Brian going to make me pay, I wonder, with Lindsay staying at the condo? We talked about it actually, or anyway, I brought it up this morning at breakfast.

"Brian, how are we going to manage having sex, with Lindsay and Gus staying here?"

"We can ask them to wait in the hall while we fuck."

"Don't be an ass, I'm serious. I don't think we can go three days without sex, do you?"

"Justin, grow up. Lindsay knows we have sex, okay? And Gus is too young to figure it out. We'll confine ourselves to the bedroom or the bathroom and close the door. As long as you can keep from screaming bloody murder like you usually do, it's no big deal."

I knew he was right and yet, somehow I was still embarrassed. Or anyway I was pretty sure I'd be embarrassed when the time comes. But I said nothing, just nodded and went on slurping spoonfuls of Honey-Nut Cheerios.

Brian stood up to take his plate to the sink. "You don't think Gus hears his mommies screeching their lungs out constantly?" he asked over his shoulder. He rinsed the plate, then moved behind me and squeezed my neck. "Didn't you ever hear your parents?"

"Eww."

"You don't have to answer that." He let me go and walked away. I was glad, I really did NOT want to answer that. Then I had a thought.

"Brian, did you ever hear YOUR parents having sex?"

'They didn't," he answered seriously, turning from his desk to regard me solemnly. "They didn't have sex. My mother believed sex was for the procreation of children. She had two children, so I'm reasonably certain that she had sex only twice."

"You're joking, aren't you?"

"Probably," he admitted. "But you were right the first time." Brian scrunched up his face and said with a shudder, "Eww."



Brian

“No. Absolutely not.”

“But Brian, I promised Gus you’d take him to Disneyland!”

Why are people always making promises on my behalf? “No way.”

“Dizzy-land?”

Shit.

Gus jumps up from his post on the floor next to Justin, they were sitting cross-legged in front of the tv watching some garishly colored cartoon DVD – Lindsay brought along a handful of his favorites. He seemed totally lost in la-la-land but he’s pretty fucking quick on the uptake, this curly-haired little monster mini-me.

Reaching my side where I’m sprawled on the sofa next to Lindsay, Gus leans against my knee and repeats urgently, “Daddy! Dizzy-land!”

Shaking my head, I say firmly, “No, Gus – no. Next time you visit, your mommy will take you there – both of your mommies will take you.”

‘Next time’ means nothing to a three-year-old.

“Daddy!” Gus scrambles to pull himself up next to me on the sofa, climbs into my lap and pushes his face close to mine. “Mickey lives there!”

“Mickey who?”

“Mickey Mouse! You know, Daddy!” he insists.

Shaking my head, I say, “I think Mickey moved to Florida. He has a bigger house there.”

“No!” Gus gasps, his eyes wide with pain, his entire chubby-cheeked little face reflecting a look of agonized despair.

“Gus,” I try again, silently cursing the two bystanders who are not making a move to help me out, “Daddy will take you to the zoo tomorrow. You can see the baby animals.”

“Wanna see Mickey,” he mourns. “Wanna go to Dizzy-land.”

“Brian,” Justin has joined us and now he perches his butt on the coffee table facing me. “Maybe I could take him?”

Gus turns an eager face toward his potential savior. "Unca Jus!"

“No," I glare at Justin, "You could not."

"Daddy, Unca Jus wants to see Mickey too!" Gus insists.

"No," I repeat, giving Gus a quelling look, before glaring once again at Justin. "You can’t handle a hyperactive three-year-old all by yourself. And don’t undermine me with my son.”

“Sorry.” Justin looks chagrined. Then, “Gus,” he says enthusiastically, “You’ll like the zoo! I checked it out on the computer, there’s a big merry-go-round we can ride on.”

“Dizzy-land,” Gus murmurs disconsolately, dropping his head onto my shoulder and snuffling. “Mickey Mouse.”

Shit.

I should never have agreed to take a day off work, to be with Gus tomorrow while Lindsay’s at her conference. I can’t afford the time off, I’m in the middle of planning a presentation for the director of Nippon Noodles. It's business, it's legitimate, I've got a new career to obsess about. But even falling back on my reputation as an asshole couldn’t get me off the hook with Lindsay this time, so finally, I'd agreed to spend Friday with Gus, and Justin arranged to take the day off too.

But I have no intention of being dragged to some hideous huge theme park crowded with throngs of howling children. Yet now I’m being cornered by a toddler who doesn’t yet know my reputation for selfishness. I should let him find out. Let him find out that he can’t ever count on me for anything, not ever. Better he finds out at this young age so he’s not disappointed later.

I strengthen my resolve and take a deep breath. Gus needs to learn that he can't have everything he wants. He needs to learn that when I say 'no,' I mean 'no.'

"Gus," I begin, and he turns his little face toward me again. His eyes are bright with unshed tears, his bottom lip trembles and his cheeks are flushed pink.

“All right." I sigh, shaking my head. "Daddy will take you to Dizzy-land tomorrow. But only for a couple hours.”

Gus immediately gasps, then throws his little arms around my neck and nearly strangles me. “Daddy!” he shouts, permanently deafening me in one ear, “Daddy!” Then he stops abruptly and pulls back to look at my face. "Unca Jus too!" he demands.

"Okay," I agree grudgingly.

Faux-grudgingly. Christ, if I didn't have Justin to help, there's no way I'd agree. But Gus doesn't need to know that. Neither does Justin.

“Yay!” Justin joins in the revelry, jumping to his feet and executing an impromptu Cinderella dance in the middle of the living room. “A dream is a w-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-s-h your heart makes!” he sings off-key, and Lindsay laughs, leaning over to plant a loud kiss on my cheek.

“I knew you’d come through,” she exults complacently.

How could she know that? I didn't even know it myself.



Justin

Brian is really unhappy about going to Disneyland, he’s not just being an asshole for form’s sake, he really doesn’t want to go. He took out some of his aggression on me once we finally got to bed. It took ages for Lindsay to calm Gus down enough to go to sleep, he was so excited; and it was after midnight before Brian and I went into our room and closed the door. Brian immediately grabbed me and started roughly pulling off my clothes.

“Don’t make a sound,” he warned, gripping my shoulders tight and dragging me urgently toward the bed, shoving me down on the side of the bed and ripping off my shirt. "I'm going to fuck you so hard your teeth'll rattle."

"Okay," I agreed breathlessly. Lucky for me I enjoy an aggressive Brian Kinney. The only bad part was being unable to scream with nearly unbearable ecstasy. Twice I forgot and opened my mouth to shout, and both times Brian quickly covered my lips with his own, quelling my cries and drowning his own moans inside my mouth.

As we lay panting side by side, catching our breath before falling asleep, I whispered, "Brian, that was just about the best sex we've had since we got to California."

"Yeah?" He leaned up on one elbow, pulled off the condom and dropped it into the wastebasket near the headboard.

"Yeah," I confirmed, sliding next to him and fitting my body snugly against his. His arms went around my shoulders and he pulled me even tighter.

"Yeah," I repeated. "I'm going to remember to piss you off again, real soon."

"Hunh," he snorted quietly, "If I fucked you every time you pissed me off, we'd never leave the condo."

"Sounds good to me."

"Mmm-hmm." I felt his muscles let go and he slid into sleep, with me three or four seconds behind him.



Brian

Disneyland is just about as terrible as I expected, thousands of over-excited screeching children massed together in one place. However, there's a sense of order that I didn't expect - the kids don't seem quite as wild and unruly as I thought they'd be. Perhaps this is the holiest of holy shrines, a childhood Valhalla. Certainly, Gus is more subdued than I'd have thought - he's excited but not hysterical.

Justin's more hysterical than Gus. His head's swiveling around to take it all in, he's practically hyperventilating. We're sauntering down Main Street, Gus barely contained in his stroller (which of course I'm making Justin push), and I lean over to whisper in Justin's ear, "Better hold my hand so you don't get lost."

He throws back his head and laughs up at me, correctly interpreting my quip as gentle sarcasm. He's always been on to me. Almost always.

"Shuddup," he mutters but leans over to rub his shoulder against my arm briefly.

Maybe being here on Gay Day wouldn't be so bad after all - I have this amazing urge to put my arm around Justin's shoulders and pull him close against me, plant a big kiss on those juicy inviting lips. For some reason his excitement makes me smile. It's sappy but, well. . . whatever.

But it's not Gay Day, and as much as I don’t give a shit for the sensibilities of Middle America moms and pops, I'm also not willing to make waves big enough to spill over onto my son. That's a strange and yet familiar realization - familiar because I remember how I felt when Lindsay asked me to go with her to a preschool and pretend we were husband-and-wife so they'd let Gus in. I was angry and annoyed at the time, but willing to bend my rules to accommodate the needs of my son. Strange. And strange to realize that I feel the same way today, not wanting to do anything to tarnish my son's experience at Disneyland.

After two hours we've barely scratched the surface of this huge playground. Gus is over-stimulated, he's starting to get fussy. "Put me down - pick me up - put me down" is wearing very fucking thin. Justin suggests we take a break for lunch - food is Justin's answer to most of life's problems; but as we stop to reconnoiter and discuss food possibilities, Gus pulls on my hand and demands my attention.

"Daddy - look! Daddy - look! Boats!"

I swivel my head around and realize that we're standing next to an attraction called 'It's a Small World.' A feeling of dread washes over me - I recognize the stultifying carnival-like tune blaring from loudspeakers near the entrance, and already I can tell that this melody is going to bang around inside my head all the rest of the day.

I'm hoping that Gus is too small for this ride - he's too small for many of the bigger attractions like the roller coasters and thrill rides. But no, he's not too small, it's just open flat-bottomed boats that fill up with families and small children, floating away through doors covered with huge brightly colored plastic flowers.

"Daddy!" Gus is pulling on my hand, trying to drag me to the entrance.

"Okay, Sonny-boy," I acquiesce, bending down to lift him in my arms and hand him off to Justin. "Unca Jus will take you."

Gus allows himself to be handed over but turns in Justin's arms and demands, "You too, Daddy! It's boats! Boats!"

"Daddy's taking a break," I tell him; I'm dying for a cigarette and see an opportunity to be childless for fifteen or twenty minutes. When Gus rebels by sticking out his bottom lip in a shameless pout, I raise an eyebrow at him. That should be intimidating enough - it works on most people - but I add a verbal command as well. "Go with Justin or not at all. I'll wait here for you."

Justin bends his head and whispers something in Gus' ear, making him giggle.

"What?"

But Justin's not telling, and probably I don't want to know anyway. Whatever it is, it works - Gus allows Justin to put him down and lead him to the queue to wait for a turn to climb into the boats. My patience lasts just long enough to stand watching till their boat disappears through the magic doors, then I sigh with relief and move quickly off toward the walkway to Tomorrowland - one of only three areas in the park where you can have a smoke. I gamble on leaving the stroller unattended at the Small World entrance, there’s a dozen of them sitting unattended, it’s probably safe. I don’t care if it’s not safe, there's no fucking way I'm pushing an empty stroller around on my own.

Perhaps inevitably there's a looker standing in the shade puffing away - a tall redhead in tight levis. We give each other the once-over and I contemplate asking for a light, then mentally shake my head, look away, and move to another shaded bit of walkway. Turning my back and lighting my own cigarette, I realize that this is the first time today I've seriously eyeballed another guy. It has nothing to do with Justin. Probably. It's only that carrying around a small child cramps my style. Then I wonder if Gus weren't along, would I be starting something with Red? I don't know. I really don't know.

It's irrelevant, it's unimportant, and I don’t even need to think about it. Finishing my cigarette, I wander back toward the Small World ride, already unwillingly (though so far silently) singing along with the annoying repetitive lyrics and hoping the song's author will someday roast in the fires of hell. The stroller's still there, so I wheel it over to the exit where I plop myself down on an empty bench and crank my head around to stare at the returning boats, feeling unaccountably grateful to Justin for saving me from what must be a plastic Technicolor nightmare inside.

"Brian?"

Surely the ride can't last much longer, children don't have that long an attention span, and -

"Brian? Is it really you?"

I spin around on the bench, the voice is eerily familiar, then suddenly I see her and I almost fall off the end of the bench. In fact, I start to fall but then I catch myself quickly and get abruptly to my feet.

"Hello, Mom."

Holy Christ, what on earth is she doing here?

I don't think I said that out loud, and apparently, I didn't because immediately she demands, "Brian, what on earth are you doing here?"

I haven't seen Mom since her darling grandson accused me of molesting him. And she believed him. She believed him, and she told me I should be behind bars. We haven't spoken a word since that day when I went crashing into Clare's house.

"Disneyland's a great place for kids," I tell her. Raising my eyebrows and crossing my arms on my chest, I clarify, "I'm looking for little boys to molest."

"That's not funny." Her lips tighten and she grimaces. Not a good thing for someone so wrinkled to do. Christ, I hope I die before I'm that old.

"You're always trying to shock me," she frowns, "But you're not the least bit amusing."

"You mean you don't believe me?" I can't resist asking, and I taste bitter gall in the back of my throat. I didn't know that I cared anymore what my mother thinks.

"Clare told me about it." Mom crosses her arms, we stand toe to toe, two tall mirror-imaged strangers related by blood. "It was very bad of Johnny to say those things."

"You believed him," I can't resist saying, though I've ordered myself to shut up, shut up.

"Well Brian, it's common knowledge your sort of people DO molest children."

"That's a fucking lie. What IS common knowledge is that YOUR PRIESTS molest children, don't you read the papers?"

"I'm not Catholic," she throws back her head and stares into my eyes. "Your father's priests might be homosexual, but the ministers of MY church are not."

I have to laugh then. It starts with a chuckle but turns into a belly laugh. In fact, I laugh so hard that I have to sit down quickly on my bench, drop my head into my hands and order myself to stop fucking laughing.

"Brian - what's the matter?"

I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up to see Justin standing beside me, holding Gus in his arms.

"Oh!" he says, catching sight of my mother. "Mrs. - Mrs. Kinney!"

"Have we met?" Mom asks icily, adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder and looking down her nose at Justin.

"Umm, well, sort of," Justin hedges.

His hand tightens on my shoulder and he squeezes hard. But I'm okay now, I’m fine. I stand up again and clear my throat of one final chuckle. Then I say, "Mom, this is Justin Taylor. He's my partner." I'm proud of myself for not hesitating over that dreaded word.

Gus has been silent this entire time, but now he's tired of being ignored. "Daddy!" he exclaims, reaching for me, and when I take him in my arms he hugs my neck. "Daddy, wanna go again! Go again, please?"

"Daddy?" That's Mom. I never in my life wanted to play out this scene with her.

"This is my son, Gus," I tell her reluctantly, then turn to plant a kiss on Gus' cheek. "Maybe after lunch," I tell him, "Aren't you hungry now? I'll bet Unca Jus is hungry."

"Is this really your son?"

I don't want to look at her again and I'm tempted to make some churlish remark, but I force myself to answer quietly, without emotion, "Yes, he's really my son." Then I can't resist adding, "Dad met him. He said he looked just like me when I was a baby."

"Your father knew you had a child? And nobody ever told me?"

"What do you care?" I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice, but before Mom can answer me, we're swarmed by Clare and her two horrible sons.

"Brian!" she exclaims, "Fancy running into you here!" She notices Gus in my arms and Justin standing close with his hand on my sleeve. She nods warily at Justin - I forgot that he met her when he took Deb's cop to suss out John's story.

John's looking wary himself. Then he shrugs his shoulders and apparently dismisses whatever discomfort he was feeling. "That ride was so boring, Mom, I wanna go on the Pirates of the Caribbean next."

"Let's go on the Pirates," echoes his little brother, copying John's hands-in-pockets posture.

"Boys, say hello to your uncle." They ignore her and she goes on quickly, "Brian, I heard that you moved to California but I never imagined we'd run into you - we're on vacation, we're staying with Aunt Emily in San Bernardino."

"Hey," John snorts, pointing at the sign behind Clare's head. "'It's A Small World," he crows, then punches his brother and they start laughing. "It's a small world, after all, it's a small world after all," they sing and chortle, till I want to strangle them both.

It’s a small world, all right – too fuckin’ small.

Nobody else cracks a smile, we just stand there awkwardly for a moment, then Clare says, "Okay, boys, you can go get in line for the Pirates, but don't go anywhere else. Grandma and I will be there in a few minutes."

The boys need no further encouragement, they take off running and we all stand watching them. Then Clare turns to me and says, "Brian - I never told you I was sorry. About - you know what about."

"It doesn't matter." It's too fucking late for apologies. And I don’t give a fuck anyway.

"I heard you moved out here but I didn't know you brought your kid with you."

"You knew he had a child? You never told me." That's Mom, righteously indignant again, but neither Clare nor I pay any attention to her. And Gus has lost interest in the grown-ups' conversation, I knew he was tired and he's confirmed it by resting his head on my shoulder and falling asleep, one arm around my neck and one finger in his mouth.

It's none of Clare's business but I answer her anyway, "He doesn't live with me. With us. He's just visiting."

"His mother's at a conference today," Justin adds helpfully, then throws a quick look at me to be sure it's okay for him to speak.

"Who's his mother?" That's Mom again, and I've really had enough of this conversation.

"We have to go now," I say abruptly, turning my shoulder toward the two women and inching away. "Gus needs to eat and take a nap."

"It was - it was nice to see you," Justin offers them a smile. "Maybe. . ." His voice trails off as he looks at me uncertainly.

I know the formula, I know what's polite, I don’t need Justin to push me. But I don't want to be polite.

"We're here till next Thursday," Clare says.

There's another awkward silence, then I hear myself caving in, God knows why. "Do you want to meet Gus' mommy?" What the fuck am I saying?

"Yes." Mom interjects herself back into the conversation. "Yes, I do. Why don't you bring her to Emily's for dinner tomorrow? And - and Gus, of course."

"And Justin." There's a slight edge to my voice.

Mom and Justin glance at each other and Mom sighs. "Yes. Of course."

“Why don’t you come over about six? Aunt Emily eats early.” Clare then asks, "You know the address?"

No, I don't. Clare writes down the address and phone number and then we all nod at each other. "Good-bye." "Bye." "Till tomorrow," Clare repeats.

I turn away and Justin walks close beside me, I slow down so he can keep up - I'm glad he remembered to grab the stroller, I would've walked off without it. I very much wish I could put my arm around him. Or maybe I want to feel his arm around me. I'm not sure which of us needs the comfort more. Maybe I need it more because finally I raise my free arm and slide it around his shoulders. He glances up at me and his smile is tremulous.

"Is it okay?" he asks anxiously.

"Yeah. Sure. You hungry now?"

"Well, duh."

Duh, indeed. We stop at a posted map of the park and check out the restaurant listings.



Lindsay

I’m so glad that Brian is finally settling down, Justin is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Brian’s happier than I’ve ever seen him before – though of course, he’d deny it under torture, but I can see the difference. There’s a sort of calmness about him, a slight lessening of intensity, something very subtle but so real it’s palpable.

When Justin left, I remember feeling sad but not surprised – Brian is the most difficult person in the world to be with. Once Debbie and I were talking about the guys and she marveled that Justin had. . .I think she said that Justin had ‘slipped under the wire,’ and I remember thinking at the time how apt that phrase was, since Brian has always had this barbed-wire fence wrapped around him. Anyone getting too close is impaled. In the end, Justin got hurt too and finally he walked away.

Nobody knows exactly how the guys got back together, but nobody was really very surprised either. Mel laughs at me but I truly believe in Destiny, and if any two men were destined to be together, it’s Brian and Justin.

Yet now that I’m around them again I can feel how fragile their relationship still is. Maybe it always will be – both of them walking an emotional tightrope. I’m not sure that Brian will ever be able to openly express his feelings – but anyone watching him can easily see how much he loves Justin. I told him once that I was sure it had been love at first sight for him and Justin both. Brian had snorted and corrected me, “Lust at first sight you mean.” The lust is also obvious of course.

We left Gus with Brian and came out for a walk and a coffee after dinner, Justin, and I. Gus was sleeping and Brian was pounding the keyboard at his computer – he still works like a fiend. Justin says he puts in very long hours at his new office, determined to establish his reputation, make a name for himself in LA.

Justin led the way to Starbucks, and when I glance at the door he’s just coming outside, balancing two cups in his hands, one of them with a chocolate croissant perched preciously on top. I quickly stand up and rescue the croissant before it slips to the floor. We laugh and sit down on the wrought iron chairs, then I lean back and glance around. It’s almost nine and street lamps are just coming on, there’s a relaxing glow in the warmth of the California summer sunset.

“It’s lovely here,” I murmur, taking a sip of my mocha frappuccino. “Does it feel like home yet?”

Justin shakes his head no as he wipes a whipped cream mustache from his upper lip. “Not really. But I like it a lot.”

“Do you think you and Brian will stay here for a long time?”

“I don’t know.” Justin sets down his cup and leans back in the chair. “He’s only committed to a year for the condo. And I think he sort of has the new agency on trial for a year too. Not that he’s discussed it with me.”

His lips tighten and I realize I’m on shaky ground. Good. I’ll push a little bit.

“Brian doesn’t tell you his plans? Doesn’t ask for your advice?”

“Not really.” Justin frowns and leans forward to stare into his coffee cup. “Not essentially.” When I say nothing, he raises his head and looks solemn as he says, “Brian’s business is always his own. And I’m okay with that. Mostly.”

“And is it the same with you? Do you discuss your own plans with Brian first, or make decisions on your own?”

“There’s no decisions for me to make. When to pick up the cleaning. What to buy at the grocery store. Will I work overtime or not? Those are my major decisions right now.”

“I meant, oh, for example - have you decided to go to school out here, or not?”

“That’s easy – I can’t. I’m working full time.”

“But have you checked out the local schools? If you could enroll, would you? Where? And why?”

“Lindsay, you don’t understand. I need to be committed to Brian right now.”

“Hmm. To pick up his laundry? Cook him dinner?”

“No, but – we don’t have the money for school. And as soon as I have a few months of California waiter experience at the d’Or, I’m going to get a better-paying job at a better restaurant, so I can really help Brian financially.”

“Is he counting on that? Will he let you help pay off his credit cards?”

“No, but I can pay back the money he loaned me for the IFA, he can use that for his creditors.”

“Does Brian want you to do this?” I push a bit more. “Or does he want you back in school?”

“It doesn’t matter what Brian wants, damn it!”

“Ah,” I nod understandingly. “It’s not Brian’s business, so you don’t need to discuss it with him. Seems you two are a better match than I thought.”

Justin shakes his head, rubs a hand hard over his face. “Okay. You got me. Okay? But I just can’t discuss this with Brian.”

“Why not?”

Closing his eyes, Justin caves a bit more. “Because you’re right, he does want me back in school. But I need to be committed to helping him right now. If I’m in school, I won’t be able to work overtime, or to look for a better job.”

“What about going to school part time? Couldn’t you take a few classes, just to keep your hand in? I thought the state colleges in California were supposed to be pretty good?”

“Lindsay, there’s a school right in this neighborhood, and Brian kind of leaned on me to check it out. But it ‘s a junior college! A state school for students who can’t get into the better schools. I’ve had almost two years of advanced training at the IFA, the LA college would be like going backward for me!”

“Yes, I see your point, and you could be right. However, did you consider that there might be one or two excellent teachers at this school from whom you might learn something?” I hesitate, then add, “I’m on the faculty at Penn State, not the IFA, but I think I’m a pretty good teacher.”

Sudden comprehension dawns on Justin’s face, he looks horrified. “Oh my God, Lindsay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a snob, I know you’re a fabulous teacher.”

“Even if I am merely a teacher at a state school.”

When he opens his mouth to apologize again I cut him off. “Justin, I’m not really insulted, I do understand what you mean. And I know you wouldn’t say anything to hurt my feelings. But remember that I also graduated from a state college. And so did Brian. Do you really believe that we got a second-rate education?

Justin stares at me, blinking rapidly. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I guess I forgot. Or anyway I wasn’t thinking about that.” He frowns at the table, then looks up at me, shame-faced. “Brian must be insulted too. He never said so, though.”

“Oh, I doubt that he’s insulted – you know what a snob Brian can be, he probably agrees with you!” I laugh but Justin’s still looking mortified.

“Forget about it now,” I suggest, “And tell me if all this is the real reason you don’t want to go to school, or if it’s all just a smoke screen.”

“Huh?”

“Justin,” I lean my arms on the table and bring my face closer to his. Gently I admonish, “Justin, you haven’t touched your sketchbook since we arrived yesterday. You didn’t take it to Disneyland, and you haven’t drawn me or Gus a single time in over twenty-four hours since we got here. That’s so not like you. Normally by now you’d have made a dozen sketches of Gus, of me, of Brian. Of anyone who sits still for five minutes.”

“I’ve been busy.”

I say nothing, just look at him – we stare at each other for a couple minutes, then Justin looks away. “I don’t know,” he admits at last. “I don’t know why I’m not drawing now.”

“So it’s not just since I arrived?”

He shakes his head no and fiddles with his coffee cup, making circles with his finger in spilled sugar on the tabletop.

“What is it?” I ask gently. When he still doesn’t answer, doesn’t look up, I hazard a guess. “Are you afraid that you’ve lost it? Your gift? Your ability?”

“No.” He looks at me then and I can see pain in his eyes. “Maybe. Oh, I don’t know. I just sometimes think, maybe it all happened for a reason. Maybe if I were a better artist, the IFA wouldn’t have kicked me out. Maybe it was just a reason they used to get rid of me.”

Oh baby, baby. But pity won’t do now, nor empathy. Instead, I try the Brian Kinney approach: “Justin, that’s bullshit and you know it.”

He eyes widen with shock and I know my voice was harsh. I meant it to be harsh, and now I go on, “Justin, it sounds to me like that could be a major cop-out, an excuse so you don’t have to try and prove yourself out here in California. Maybe you’re just afraid of new competition.”

“Lindsay!” He’s still shocked. Well, I’ve shocked myself, but I think a splash of cold water on his face is what Justin needs right now.

“You think I’m a quitter?” he demands, sitting up straight in his chair, his eyes wide, his hands gripping the coffee cup.

“I don’t know. You never were before.” I shake my head and soften my voice. “I remember when you were having problems after – after the hospital, I remember Brian telling me that you were the bravest man he’d ever known.”

“Brian said that?”

“He was so damned proud of you. He always has been. Remember when he came to the art show – just to see your drawings. He’d never have come to the GLC for anyone else. And he hardly knew you way back then.”

“I’m not a quitter,” Justin insists. After a moment he adds with painful honesty, “But in a way, I think that giving it all up is really – easier. I mean, drawing all the time is a constant reminder of what I can’t have.” When I nod he goes on, “And then I realized that, if I could give it up so easily, give up drawing – maybe I don’t have what it takes to be a success.”

There’s a pause, then I ask gently, “Justin, you really should talk to Brian about this. Don’t you think?”

“How can I? He blames himself for so much already, for the prom especially but other stuff too. He said once that if he’d fired me from Vangard, really fired me I mean, then I wouldn’t have got in trouble with the IFA. I told him that was bullshit, but you know Brian.”

Yes, I know Brian.

“Justin,” I say at last, “If I’ve noticed that you’re not drawing now, don’t you think Brian has, too?”

“He’s so busy – “

“Oh come on. Hasn’t he said anything to you about it?”

“No. But – “

“Then he probably has reached his own conclusions, and you’re right, he’s probably feeling guilty and blaming himself. I do know Brian, just as you do.” I reach across the table and take Justin’s hand. Gently I encourage, “All the more reason you need to talk to him about it.”

Justin nods. “Okay. Yeah, you’re probably right, he must’ve noticed. And since he hasn’t said anything to me, you’re probably right that he’s blaming himself too. Jesus. I fucked up again.”

“No martyr routine, the world hasn’t come to an end. Let’s start back now, okay? It’s getting dark and I’m exhausted, and the conference continues tomorrow morning.”

We stand up and Justin gestures for me to precede him onto the sidewalk as we begin the trek back to the condo. We’re silent for a moment, then Justin laughs.

“What?”

“At least you have a treat to look forward to tomorrow night, after your meetings! Dinner with the Kinney clan!”

“Oh God,” I groan, “Don’t remind me! I’ve already got goosebumps just thinking about it!”

“Me too,” Justin admits.



Brian

I don’t have long to wonder if Lindsay had a chance to talk about school with Justin, because as soon as we go to bed – well, as soon as we finish having sex and are mopped up and Justin has snuggled his way into my arms, he plants a few pre-sleep kisses on my Adam’s apple, gives me a tickling bite on my ear lobe and murmurs, “Brian – I’ve been thinking about school.”

“Hmm?” I answer sleepily, though my brain flips over and I’m wide awake again.

“Yeah,” he goes on. “I might call Robert’s uncle next week. After all.”

He’s silent for a moment, then he says, “I guess it couldn’t hurt to check it out.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I murmur, “Couldn’t hurt.”

He nibbles my ear again and I feel him relaxing in my arms.

I tighten my grip on Justin’s shoulders, squeezing gently, gently, as he falls asleep. And I lie here sleepless in the darkness, listening to his slow, even breathing, my cheek nestled against his soft sweet-smelling hair, with a fucking stupid grin on my face.

Chapter 11: Partners by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian, Justin and Lindsay venture into Suburbia.

 

 

 

 

Justin


"Why the fu. . . Why the hell did I agree to this?"

Brian doesn't really expect an answer, he just wants to moan and complain. We're in the garage buckled into the jeep, waiting for Lindsay who's run back upstairs to retrieve some toy that Gus insists he must have right this minute. I offered to go but she said I'd never find it in the mess they've made of the guest room, so instead I'm turned around on the seat talking to Gus, keeping him occupied - he's fidgeting in his car seat and looks like he's going to start crying any minute. Brian would probably use that as an excuse to cancel dinner with his mom.

"Brian, don't forget that we need to stop at a liquor store for some wine or something."

"Remind me a few hundred more times," he says, his voice sounding like a wedge of hard cheese rubbed across the prongs of a metal grater. "I'm not aggravated enough yet."

He's aggravated plenty, but I don’t take his bitching personally. Still, I turn back partway on the seat and reach over to grab one of his fidgety hands and squeeze it. He glances sideways at me, then over the seat at Gus, and he barks a laugh. "So - you're keeping two Kinney brats calm, are you?" And I realize that I'm squeezing Gus' hand in just the same way I'm squeezing Brian's.

"You said it, I didn't." I keep my voice cool but I give him a smile. Surprisingly, he smiles back, and I see his shoulders relax, he leans back against the seat and his hands are still.

"I can't imagine why you hang around with me."

"That's easy," I squeeze his hand harder, "You're good in B-E-D."

"Can three-year-olds spell?" Brian throws another look over the seat at Gus, who's decided to pull off his shoes and socks.

"I hope not."

Then, "Leave your shoes on, Gus," I tell him, but he ignores me, he's managed to get the right shoe off and drop it on the floor, and now he pulls off the left and tosses it into the front seat, where Brian catches it one-handed.

"He's yours all right,” I tell Brian. “You both hate wearing shoes."

"Probably he just hates sneakers from The Gap. He’d rather have Guccis."

We sit and watch Gus struggle to remove his socks, and since Brian's now relaxed, I decide that maybe this is a good time to ask him something. I tried twice today and each time he was able to quickly change the subject, walk away, turn his back and forestall me, but now he's trapped in the car, belted into the seat next to me; he can’t get away so easily.

"Brian."

He hears a different tone in my voice and turns his head to look at me, one eyebrow raised in that way he uses to intimidate.

"Brian," I continue, "Yesterday you introduced me to your mom as your 'partner.'"

He says nothing but the eyebrow climbs higher.

"I just want to know, did you really mean it? Or was it just something to say instead of - oh, like, 'boyfriend' or 'lover' or something?"

"You're not my boyfriend. Neither of us is a boy."

"Okay."

"'Lover' implies love. Which you know I don't believe in."

"Uh-huh." I wait. When he stops and just stares at me, I'm forced to press on. "So, does 'partner' mean, partner as in life-partner, or does it just mean, non-boyfriend? Or non-lover?"

He stares at me for a second, then he asks, "Did Lindsay put you up to this?" He doesn't wait for an answer but rushes on to say, "Because you sound exactly like an insecure lesbian."

"Of course she didn't. And I’m on to you, remember? Now you're just trying to piss me off so that I'll shut up."

After a moment he asks, conversationally, "Is it working?"

"Yes."

"Good. Ah, here comes mommy." Lindsay reaches the car and pulls open the door, climbs in, and hands the toy - a much-chewed little rainbow-striped bear - to Gus, who takes one look at it and tosses it on the floor. He's changed his mind, he doesn't want it now.

"Gus, where's your shoes and socks?" she demands, grabbing his now-bare feet.

I point at the floor and Brian hands her the other shoe, chiding, "Just think, less than a year from now, you'll have TWO monsters to take care of."

"How's Melanie doing?" I ask, "Is she feeling okay?"

"Do not talk about anything revolting like swollen ankles," Brian growls as he starts the car and pulls out of the garage. "I'm going to have a hard time swallowing dinner as it is."

"Mel's fine," Lindsay smiles at me, making a face at Brian behind his back. "She had morning sickness for a while, but being Mel, denied it completely. She just gets tired easily, and we decided this trip would be a bit much. And she's got a case going to trial next week."



Brian

I tune out the pregnancy conversation, having vague memories of recurring nausea every time Lindsay told me about some problem she was having before Gus was born. I'd really intended to be with her for the birth - at her request but also out of a sense of - oh call it curiosity, but perhaps naturally when the time came, I was higher than a kite and fucking my brains out. Every time I remember that night, I'm struck anew with wonder that I allowed Justin to go along with me to the hospital. That was so out of character that I can't explain it to this day.

So Gus was born that night, and this thing with Justin was born at the same time. I'm committed to my son forever. Probably. But I don't know how long my commitment to Justin will last. Or his to me. Now he's haranguing me to put a title to this arrangement we have, this, Christ, this relationship. Relationship! Brian Kinney in a long-term committed relationship. The stars must've tilted in their circled orbs the night we met.

Oh no - no you don't, Kinney - no fucking Shakespeare. Not at five-thirty on a Saturday afternoon as the jeep slinks all too quickly toward an appointment with the Gorgon and her spawn. And her spawn's spawn. And let's not forget the Gorgon's sister, Aunt Emily. How the fuck did I get into this, anyway?

When I'd introduced Justin to Matt Bradford and his wife, I'd managed to avoid giving him a title. But I told Mom that Justin is my partner. And I sort-of told Jennifer the same thing, or anyway, I didn't contradict her when she called me that, at the going-away party from hell. So: Is Justin my partner? He wants to know and probably I'm going to have to come up with an answer this time. When we lived together before, we'd left everything very ambiguous, which suited me just fine. But it didn't suit Justin, and it was at least part of the reason he went elsewhere to get his needs met.

"Brian!" Justin's voice calls me back to the present, "There's a Liquor Barn on the corner."

"Liquor Barn, yee-haw," I nod, changing lanes and pulling into the parking lot. "The perfect place to find an unpretentious little cabernet sauvignon from the Cincinnati vineyards.”

“Are there wineries in Ohio?”

He bites. Probably he’s decided that I’ll cheer up if I can belittle him. He may be on to me, but I’m on to him, too.



Joan

I strongly believe that it’s my Christian duty to meet the mother of Brian’s child. Last night I prayed for God to help me get through the dinner tonight without completely alienating my son. Of course, he's the one who should be praying not to alienate me, but like so many things in my life, the whole situation is grossly unfair. If he had told me years ago of his decision to become a homosexual, perhaps I'd have had more time to deal with that information. Instead, he springs it on me by flaunting it in my face when I dropped by his house one day. I only went by to thank him for taking me to church. How could I know there'd be a naked man hanging around?

When Brian answered the door, I didn't notice that he was all sweaty. It wasn't till that other man came out of the bedroom, nearly naked and sweaty too, that I realized what was going on.

It was not a man really, but a boy. A blond boy, the same one Brian was with at Disneyland yesterday. Brian taunted me that he was there looking for boys to molest. He obviously needs to look no further than his own backyard. So, he brought the boy with him to California. His 'partner,' Brian called him. That's a new word for it.

It has taken months of prayer just to help me deal with the fact that Jack knew about Brian and never said a word to me. Now I find out that Jack knew about this baby too, that in fact he actually saw the baby. I'm not really surprised - Jack loved keeping secrets, especially harmful ones. But Claire knew too, and nobody ever said a word to me. Brian has never showed me any respect, but Claire used to. Brian's obviously been trying to poison her to turn against me.

Claire was feeling guilty for believing Johnny's story but I told her, it's commonplace for homosexuals to molest boys, it wasn't Claire's fault for believing Johnny. Calling the police was absolutely the right thing to do, children need protection from perverts. Of course, it was wrong of Johnny to lie. Claire said she should have known he was lying, apparently he lies all the time. If Claire were a better mother, her children would be better behaved.

Well, that is not necessarily true. God knows what an excellent mother I've always been, and both my children turned out less than perfect. That's the Kinney side showing through, all the Kinneys were selfish drunkards and wife-beaters, Jack said his father was always pounding on his mother when he was growing up. Like father, like son. And Brian's like Jack in so many ways, insensitive and selfish to the bone. Brian's a successful businessman, he has an expensive home and car, you'd think he'd want to be generous to his family and yet he's never given any of us a red cent.

I'd better get back to the kitchen and help Emily with dinner, I just needed a little fortification, I'm glad I brought my own medication with me. That's how I think of it, 'medication,' and that's exactly what it is. Some women my age need Valium but not me, I've always had a strong constitution which is fortunate since I've had to deal with cruelty and unfairness all my life. An occasional little sip or two helps smooth the rough edges of life, it's not like I'm addicted to prescription drugs or anything.

Emily's so disorganized, she had to rush out this afternoon to buy groceries. I need to tell her about Brian before he gets here. Claire said not to bother but I think Emily should be prepared. Naturally, I didn't tell her anything before, it's too personal, too private, and too horribly embarrassing. To think that that tall handsome son of mine is an abomination to God! I had been so sure that someday he'd marry and give me some grandchildren. Little did I know that he'd give me grandchildren all right, but illegitimate ones - and then never even let me know about it. If we hadn't run into him at Disneyland, I suppose he'd have let me go to my lonely grave in total ignorance that he had a child.

"Joanie, there you are!" Emily greets me, she's standing at the counter mixing a cake, an apron tied haphazardly around her thick waist. "Can you look in that bottom cupboard and see if the bundt pan's there? I don't remember where I put it."

I go through several cupboards before finding the pan, which I take pains to wash and dry before handing to her, who knows how long it's sat around in that dusty cupboard. Emily always was untidy, we had to share a room growing up and it was always a mess, thanks to her. Being younger naturally, she got away with murder, a few more spankings would have done her a world of good.

"Emily," I say now, leaning against the sink and folding my arms, "I need to tell you something about Brian. I hope you won't be upset, it's rather - distasteful."

"Distasteful?" she straightens up from putting the cake pan in the oven and wipes the back of her hand over her forehead, messing her hair even more than it was before. "I haven't seen him since he was a teenager, but he looked very handsome in the picture you sent from last Christmas. And you said he has a successful career, right? Has something happened?"

It's hard for me to speak, I can feel myself frowning and shaking my head. "He's - he's not exactly what he seems. That's all. I didn't plan to tell anyone, but since he's coming today and bringing his. . ."

"His son?"

"Yes, and also. . . Emily," I draw a deep breath and look her in the eye. "I just found out a few months ago that Brian is, that he's. . . “

I hesitate, then before I can finish my sentence, Emily glances out the window over my shoulder and exclaims, "Oh, I'll bet that's them, a car just pulled into the driveway. Does Brian drive a black jeep?"

Without waiting for my answer, she moves past me and throws open the side door. All I can do is turn and follow her down the path toward the driveway, where Brian and his entourage are getting out of a car.



Justin

A tall woman with straggly brown hair comes rushing toward us as we get out of the car, and behind her, I see Mrs. Kinney, arms crossed and frowning, this is the place all right. My stomach's in knots, making me sorry I bought those sno-balls at the liquor store, Brian said they were toxic and now I think he was right. I glance at Brian and he looks calm and untroubled but I know all his masks by now and this is just another one, he's probably as scared as me right now.

Not scared, I’m not scared, I'm just worried. If that old woman says something mean to Brian how will I keep from spitting in her eye and knocking her down? Of course, I wouldn't really knock her down, but I'd probably say something terrible. Please God, I sort-of pray (not that I believe in God, or any way I don’t know if I do or not); please God, don't let her be an uber-bitch to Brian.

Lindsay's pulled Gus from his car seat and she comes around the car just as the two women arrive.

"Brian!" the brown-haired one cries, smiling widely, "You're even more handsome in person, how long since I've seen you?"

"Fifteen years, at least. Hello, Aunt Emily." Brian allows himself to be hugged and I see him glance at his mother and nod. "Hello, Mom."

"Brian." Mrs. Kinney stands unmoving, her arms still crossed over her chest, her lips turned up slightly in what I suppose passes for a witchy smile.

Pulling away from his aunt, Brian steps sideways, puts an arm around Lindsay's shoulders and pulls her forward. "Mom, Aunt Emily, this is Lindsay. And this is our son, Gus."

Gus hangs on tight to his mother, looking wide-eyed at the two women. He's not really shy, or so Lindsay says, but today he seems shy, maybe he's picking up the tension pouring out of us.

"Hallo, Lindsay," Aunt Emily greets her cheerfully, "And hello, Gus. My, aren't you a beautiful boy! How old are you?"

Gus doesn't answer, but after a moment's hesitation he stretches out his hand and displays three fingers.

"Three! What a wonderful age." Emily reaches over and pinches Gus' cheek, making him pull back a few inches. "It's nice to meet you, Lindsay, welcome to California!"

"Thank you," Lindsay smiles, then turns to put Gus down on the grass, "You're too heavy to hold," she tells him, but he doesn't want down.

"Daddy, up!" Gus demands, throwing his arms around Brian's legs, and Brian obligingly picks him up and settles him on one arm, then he turns and grabs my shoulder with his free hand, pulling me gently forward.

"Aunt Emily, this is Justin," Brian introduces me. "He's mine too."

"Hi, Justin.” She’s got a strong handshake. "Come in, everyone, dinner's almost ready. Hank will be home soon, we eat about seven, we keep early hours because of his job.”

“Your husband works weekends?” Lindsay asks, following the two women as they turn toward the house.

“Get the wine, will you?” Brian murmurs to me, his arms full of Gus, so I turn back to the car and pull out the bottles Brian bought, then bring up the rear of the parade into the house. It’s a big place, a long spread-out house sprawling on a slight hillside. We go in the side door right into the kitchen, which is big with tall windows letting in golden rays of the sun that’s hanging low in the sky. The air is full of the smells of food cooking.

“Mmm,” I can’t help saying, “Something smells good!”

Emily turns to ask, “Are you hungry, Justin?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?” Brian slants his eyes at his mother but she doesn’t take the bait. Maybe she didn’t hear him, she’s clear across the room, standing near a doorway. She still has her arms crossed.

“Good,” Emily says, “I love feeding hungry teenagers.”

“I’m almost twenty,” I tell her, defensive as always about my age.

“Oh, I see,” Emily nods. “Come into the family room. We can get acquainted. Claire and the kids are out by the pool.” She leads us through a door and then turns to wink at me. “And there’s some cheese and crackers to tide us over till dinner.”

I’m smiling back at her; she’s nice. Emily takes my hand and pulls me along with her, out of the kitchen and through a long hallway.



Brian

I don't remember much about my aunt, I was about fifteen when she and her husband moved to California. I seem to remember that Pop didn't like Emily's husband very well - but then, he never liked anybody very well. There wasn't much family togetherness, that I do remember. Which of course was fine with me, especially by the time I was a teenager - I hated being around my own parents much less any of their relatives or friends.

Now I'm vaguely remembering Mom telling me that Hank got a job with some film studio in LA, he's a lighting technician or supervisor or something like that. His job must be a pretty good one to afford this big house. Glass doors in the family room look out on a large patio and a turquoise-blue swimming pool in the back yard. Claire gets up off a lawn chair and herds her evil spawn into the house to say hello. The boys spit out a quick generic greeting and dash back outside and jump in the pool. Claire's got a deep tan which emphasizes the crow's feet around her eyes and the wrinkles gathering under her chins. I'm tempted to comment on it but restrain myself with an effort, merely saying hello and plopping myself down in an easy chair.

Justin hesitates, then settles on the floor at my feet. His hair's in touching range and my fingers twitch with the urge to smooth down the unruly cowlick on the back of his head. Aunt Emily brings a tray of cheese and crackers and sets it down on a coffee table near Justin and he smiles happily up at her before leaning forward to grab a napkin and help himself.

"Do you have children?" Lindsay asks, as Emily sits down on the sofa next to her. From the corner of my eye I see Mom hovering, before sinking down on a love seat near the windows.

"Yes, a son and daughter," Emily agrees, "Twenty-nine and twenty-five. They're both married and unfortunately they've both moved far away, Randy's an attorney in Washington and Melody's a nurse in Arizona, her husband's family is from there. We probably won't be together again this year until Thanksgiving." Emily leans forward and taps me on the knee. "Brian, you should join us for Thanksgiving, I'm sure your cousins would love to see you again."

"Hmm," I respond. I barely remember them. The last time I saw Randy, he was flaunting a black leather jacket that made my stomach twist with envy; and a year later when Charlie, the first guy I was involved with, bought me a similar jacket, I desperately wished I could show it off to my cousin but the family had moved to California by then. I don't remember Melody at all.

"Brian doesn't celebrate holidays." That's Mom, piping up from her corner, her voice managing to convey a desolate image of a lonely old woman deserted by her dearest child. "At most, he'll drop by on Christmas for a few minutes."

"It's true that Brian's not much for celebrations," Lindsay agrees rather placatingly, "But he's always generous with gifts."

"Is he?" Mom's voice reflects disbelief. "I wouldn't know."

Lindsay opens her mouth to defend me but she intercepts an angry glare I've aimed in her direction, and her mouth snaps shut again. I hate to be talked about, especially in the third person.

Emily's apparently oblivious to the group dynamics, dividing her attention between chattering on about her daughter who is finally pregnant and leaning forward to urge Justin (unnecessarily) to eat more cheese and crackers. A few minutes later we hear someone coming down the hall and then a tall broad-shouldered man with a thick shock of curly salt-and-pepper hair bursts unceremoniously into the room. We all stand up to greet him.

"Hello, hello," he says heartily, grabbing my arm and shaking my hand. "Brian, I'd know you anywhere, you're as tall as your dad but much better looking!" He laughs and turns toward Lindsay, whom I introduce merely as "Lindsay Peterson, my son's mother."

"Welcome, Lindsay," Hank says, before pulling her into a hug and kissing her cheek. "And this is your little bambino, is it?" he asks, crouching down and grinning at Gus at eye level. "Cute little punk, are you a daddy's boy?" Gus doesn't answer, just sticks a finger in his mouth and stares wide-eyed. Hank pats his shoulder, then stands up and turns toward Justin.

"This is Justin Taylor," I say. Period.

"Justin, hello," Hank grabs his hand and shakes it. "Why are you stuck in here with the grown-ups, wouldn't you like to play outside with the other kids?"

Quickly Emily interjects, "Justin's a grown-up too - he's almost twenty."

"Oh!" Hank looks chagrined, "Sorry, champ, I bet you curse your baby-face, don't you?" Before Justin can answer, he adds, "Don't worry, someday you'll be glad to look so young." Hank sits down on the sofa near me and we all resume our seats.

"You've relocated to LA, right, Brian?" When I agree, he asks, "And you're in advertising?" I say yes and he goes on, "Good decision - lots of opportunities on the west coast in the marketing field. And what do you do, Justin, are you in school?"

"He will be soon," I answer for Justin. "He's been taking a break but he's going back next semester."

"We have excellent schools in California," Emily assures Justin, "What's your major?"

"Art," he says. "Commercial art, illustration."

"Animation?" Hank asks, leaning forward, elbows on knees; he seems genuinely interested in Justin's answer.

"Yes. Maybe. I'm not sure exactly."

"Plenty of opportunities for artists in LA," Hank assures him. "Are you working now?"

Justin nods. "Yeah, but just as a waiter."

"Nothing 'just' about that - it's an honorable profession," Hank seems determined to make up for insulting Justin's age a few minutes ago. "I had a couple waiter jobs when I was in school, it's damned hard work, I know for a fact!" His comments are facile but his sincerity seems real enough, at any rate, he's got Justin smiling, so I give him props for that at least.

"Well," Hank concludes, "If you'll all excuse me, I'll go change my clothes and wash up. Be right back!" And he hurries from the room.

Justin leans toward me and whispers, "I don't look that young!"

Emily overhears him and apologizes. "Sorry, Justin, Hank didn't mean to offend you, sometimes it's hard to judge the age of young people, our kids have been grown for such a long time." She hesitates, then asks, "I was wondering if you'd mind giving me a hand in the kitchen for a moment? I need someone strong to help me take the roasting pan from the oven."

"Sure, okay," Justin agrees, somewhat mollified; he stands up and follows Emily into the kitchen.

Lindsay stands up too and says, "Can I help?" She moves away and asks me to keep an eye on Gus.

"Come here, you," I tell him, grabbing him off the floor and plopping him onto my lap. "Want a cracker?" I lean forward and grab a couple crackers and Gus accepts them, holding one in each hand, taking a bite first from one, then from the other. Then he offers one to me.

"Eat, Daddy!"

I let Gus shove the cracker in my mouth and chew it thoroughly in the silence that's descended on the living room. It's just me and Mom and Claire, and none of us has anything to say. Claire escapes with an excuse of going to get the boys ready for dinner. After a moment, Mom gets up and moves to the chair next to mine.

"Gus seems healthy," she comments finally. "Are you financially supporting him?"

Unwillingly I answer her. "I help out. But Lindsay's married to a lawyer so they have a comfortable income."

"She's married to a lawyer?" When I just nod, Mom goes on, "Lindsay's husband knows about you?"

"Yes."

"And he doesn't mind?"

"No, she doesn't."

Mom doesn't pick up on the pronoun change. "Well, that's very understanding. Did you ever consider marrying this girl when she got pregnant?"

"Mom, that was never an option. And we're not going to talk about it."

"Fine." She compresses her lips and stays silent for a minute.

"Daddy, down!" Gus wriggles off my lap and I set him on the floor. He plops down at my feet and plays with his teddy, apparently telling it a story in some indecipherable toddler language.

"You seem to love him."

"Mmm-hmm," I nod.

"He seems to love you too.”

“I guess.”

Then Mom asks quietly, "But have you considered what the future holds, Brian? When your son is old enough to know about you, about the kind of life you lead, what will he think of you then?"

Christ, how did I know that was coming? "He'll make up his own mind," I answer her mildly.

“But will he still love you?”

A knife twists somewhere in the middle of my chest. "Who knows?” I manage to keep my face impassive. “Maybe he'll turn out to be gay too."

"Hush, don't even joke about such a thing!" she hisses. "You shouldn't wish that disgrace on your worst enemy, much less an innocent child!"

I look at her then, and I don't know what my face shows but she shrinks backward a bit in her chair.

I don't know what I might have said to my mother but Hank suddenly reappears, still bustling. Hearty people are so exhausting to be around.

"Where is everybody, in the kitchen?" He doesn't wait for an answer, but goes on, "Come on to the dining room now. Brian, you can help me put another leaf in the table and be sure we've got enough chairs."

Wordlessly I stand up to follow him, grabbing up Gus and ignoring my mother, turning my back on her. Symbolically and in reality, I turn my back on her. Again.

Of course, I knew she'd try to make me feel bad today, and I was right. I'm tempted to gather up Gus and Lindsay and Justin and just get the fuck out of suburbia. Fuck dinner. Why'd I let myself be coerced into this fucking family togetherness bullshit?



Justin


We gather around the table, I'm sitting on Brian's left and Lindsay's on the right. Brian's mom is directly across from us. Looking at her is going to ruin my appetite.

"So," Hank says, handing a bowl of mashed potatoes to Brian, "How long have you and Lindsay been married?"

There's dead silence for a moment, then Brian takes the bowl from Hank and sets it down on the table. "We're not married," he says.

Hank just laughs. "Son, you really should make an honest woman of her." Brian bristles and opens his mouth but Hank hurries on, "I'm just joking - sorry. Our son lived with his girlfriend for three years before they got married, nothing wrong with that." Then he says earnestly to Brian, who's looking like a storm cloud, "Sometimes my jokes fall flat, I really didn't mean anything by it."

Brian just stares back at him, his face unchanging, then he says, "Lindsay's already married."

"Oh!" Hank says, "Well, that complicates things, huh?"

Brian turns to stare at his mother. "I can't believe you didn't tell them," he says to her. "Did you expect me to pass Lindsay off as my wife?"

Mrs. Kinney's face is as hard as a statue, the planes of her sharp cheekbones outlined by the skin drawn tightly over them as she grimaces and stares back at Brian. "How could I tell them," she almost spits at him, "If you're not ashamed of yourself, you should be."

"What?" Emily asks, glancing around the table. No one says a word as Brian and his mother glare at each other. Finally, from the other end of the table, Johnny pipes up. "Uncle Brian's a fag," he informs his aunt.

"Oh!" Hank and Emily exclaim in unison, eyes wide with surprise. Hank says, "Well, that explains Justin, then, doesn't it? I couldn't quite fit him into the picture."

There's silence again for a moment, then Emily says, "Johnny, it's not nice to say 'fag.'"

"Emily," Mrs. Kinney leans forward toward her sister, "Don't you understand? Brian is a homosexual."

"Oh yes, I understand," Emily says without a blink, and at first I think she's hiding her shock, but then she nods and goes on, "I always thought he might be."

"What?" Mrs. Kinney almost shouts.

"Joanie, the man's over thirty and gorgeous and unmarried. I mean, get real."

Mrs. Kinney just stares at her, open-mouthed.

Emily laughs now. "I guess I've lived in California so long, I'm not shocked by stuff like that. Hank's worked in the film industry for years, he works with lots of gay folks, don't you, Hank? It's no big deal."

"I beg your pardon!" Mrs. Kinney raises her voice and I see her hands like claws wadding up her napkin. "This is my SON we're talking about. And it's a very big deal - it's an abomination to God!"

"Oh pish," Emily laughs. She laughs, and I see Mrs. Kinney lean further forward, for a moment I think she's going to reach out and slap her sister.

"And you call yourself a Christian!" Mrs. Kinney sputters.

Emily's face is suddenly serious. "I don’t call myself a Christian, I am a Christian," she answers quietly. "And there's lots of gay folks in our church who are Christians too. Our minister has performed several commitment ceremonies. Hank and I went to one a few months ago."

"She's right," Hank corroborates, nodding. "James, a guy in my lighting crew. He and his partner are members of our church."

"Dear Lord," Mrs. Kinney almost moans, "What is this world coming to?"

"Its senses, hopefully," Hank answers her with a smile. He turns to me then. "Justin," he says, "Have you considered getting a part-time job in a film studio art department? The pay is probably not much, but it would be good experience for you."

"But I don't have a degree," I answer, almost at random, I'm still in shock. Then I shake my head to clear it and add, "I've only had a couple years of school so far."

"That might make a difference of course," he agrees, "But it wouldn't hurt to check it out. I know a guy in the art department at Simpson Studios, I could give him a call, see what's shaking. Interested?"

"Wow. Umm, yes! Oh yes!"

"Don't get excited yet, there may not be anything, but I'll give Jake a call after dinner."

"Wow. Thanks, Hank."

"Uncle Hank," he corrects me. "It seems we're sort-of related." And he winks at Brian. "Guess you boys are partners, huh?"

Brian usually hates guys who wink, but now he just smiles. "Yes, we are," he agrees, his smile widening as he turns to look at me. Under the edge of the tablecloth, I feel Brian slip his hand between my legs and gently pinch my thigh. Then he picks up a bowl from the table with his other hand and offers it to his mother. "Mom," he asks sweetly, "would you like some potatoes?"

Chapter 12: Say Uncle by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Justin wants a job at Simpson Studios, but he needs a little help from his friends.

 

 

 

 


Justin

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Brian leans his head backward without taking his eyes off the computer screen and I give him a tiny kiss on his hair, then drop my bag by his desk and move into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. "Brian,” I call out to him, “You didn't eat the chicken I left for you."

When he doesn’t answer, I move to the kitchen doorway and look over at him, waiting. He doesn't bother looking up, just shrugs and says, "Wasn't hungry."

"Are you hungry now?"

I don't wait for an answer, just move back to the fridge. I set the chicken on the counter and grab a plastic bag of lettuce, a wedge of parmesan and a bottle of low-fat dressing. He still hasn't answered but I go ahead and fix two plates, dicing up the chicken, grating the cheese, making a plate of Caesar salad for each of us. Carrying the plates to the small table, I say, "Come and eat with me."

Brian swivels around in his chair, eyebrows arching and head shaking. "You mean we're going to eat together? Like, at the same time and everything?"

"Don't be pissy, okay? Just come and eat." I don't let my exasperation show, just hurry to grab napkins and silverware and a couple bottles of beer.

Without another word, Brian gets up and follows me into the dining alcove, sits down and spreads the napkin on his lap. He spears a lettuce leaf and waves his fork at me. "Don't you have a class?"

"Yeah," I answer through a mouthful of chicken, "But not till seven-thirty. If you need the car tonight, can you drop me off?"

"Why would I need the car? I'm too fucking tired to go out fucking." He grimaces and threatens, "But if you tell anyone I said that, you're dead meat."

"I wish you didn’t have to push yourself so hard."

"Wishing’s bullshit. I wish I had a million dollars. I wish I had my fucking Corvette back. I wish this fucking presentation was finished. I wish people would stop fucking visiting - " He cuts off abruptly and shoves a forkful of lettuce into his mouth.

I keep my eyes on my plate and don't answer. I know he's dreading my mom's visit, but I can't tell her not to come.

After a moment Brian says calmly, "I didn't mean your mommy."

Yeah, he did. "It's not like she's staying in the condo," I say quietly. "It was her idea to stay in a hotel. And it's only for the weekend. She misses me."

Brian pushes back his chair abruptly and snaps, "I said I didn't mean her, so don't start that guilt shit with me, okay?" When I raise my head and look at him, he continues. "I told you she could stay here. Lindsay stayed here, it was no big deal.”

Despite his words, I know that Brian doesn’t want Mom here at the condo, and to be honest, I don’t either. I miss her, I want to see her, but I can’t bear the thought of being the filling in a Brian-and-Mom sandwich, not even for two days.

“I don’t want her to see our bed,” I say, forcing a laugh, trying to lighten things the fuck up. He doesn’t even crack a smile. “How about we put one of those spa covers over it, pretend it’s an indoor hot tub?”

Brian shakes his head, he’s frowning. “The mirror part is removable. We can take it off and shove it in a closet or something.”

“Brian,” I set down my fork and reach across the table to jiggle his arm, smilingly trying to make him smile back at me, “Brian, I was just kidding. I don’t care that she’ll see our Hollywood bed.”

Brian drops his fork and pushes his plate away. He leans back in the chair and sighs, runs a hand over his face, then stares at me morosely. “You knew I‘d be a son of a bitch to live with.”

“Yes,” I agree, then add quickly, “Brian, it’s okay, I know you’re under a lot of pressure. I don’t expect you to be all happy-go-lucky all the time.”

“Then how come you are?” he grumps.

“It’s my sunny disposition.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Brian, it’s because I am happy.” When he just stares balefully at me, I repeat, “I am happy, Brian. I’m enjoying my watercolor class that you strong-armed me into taking, I like my new job, but most of all I’m happy that we’re finally partners. You and me.”

I see a tiny smile tug the corners of his mouth and I wait for him to try and wriggle out of the partners label. Finally, he says lightly, “I didn’t sign any legally binding documents, you know?”

“But I have witnesses. Uncle Hank and Aunt Emily.”

“Their testimony would never stand up in court.”

“Oh, I almost forgot! I told Uncle Hank about my mom’s visit and he invited us all to dinner the Sunday she’s here.”

“More family shit,” Brian groans, leaning forward to pick up his fork and eat another bite of salad.

He doesn’t fool me, I know he’s happy that his aunt and uncle like him. They like us both, and I know he’s grateful to Hank for helping me get my new job.

More or less.

I resume eating too and we don’t talk for a few minutes. I need to ask him to pick up the dry cleaning tomorrow but this is not the right time. He's already pissed because I can't be here for the delivery of his new desk chair, but he won't admit he's pissed because that would be admitting he was counting on me to take care of it, and he's determined to prove that he doesn't need me to take care of things. Even though he does. Especially because he does. Normally that would be almost funny, but he's been really tense about all kinds of things since I started taking this night class, since I got my new job at Simpson Studios. And since my new boss, Andrew Whittaker, gave me a ride home from work a few days ago and came upstairs with me to meet my partner.

"You didn't tell me your boss is gay," Brian had said mildly after Andrew left. "You didn't tell me he was a looker."

"Does it matter?" I'd asked, knowing the answer.

"Of course it doesn't matter," Brian insisted, "I just wondered why you didn't tell me. That's all."

"I'm not fucking him."

"Fuck whomever you want," Brian had shrugged, turning back to the computer, staring at a pie chart on the monitor.

"What does it matter that my boss is gay and good-looking if I'm not fucking him? It's irrelevant."

"Yep," he'd agreed, nodding absently while he stared at the screen.

"Andrew's got a partner, too. They've been together five years." Brian said nothing more so I went into the bedroom to change clothes.

That was three days ago. Andrew lives in Santa Monica and dropping me off after work is right on his way home, it's not like he's going out of his way or anything. It's a break for me, otherwise, I have to transfer twice on buses to get home from Burbank. Either that or have Brian pick me up, which isn’t always convenient. Brian said he was fine with it. But he's not.

Andrew’s a really nice guy. I feel comfortable with him, he's not interested in me sexually which I'm terrifically happy about. I'd hated that Simon was always hitting on me. That doesn't happen at the studio, but somehow Brian doesn't believe me. Oh, he says he does, but it's not true. Brian's the most fucking jealous non-jealous person I've ever met. And since he has to pretend not to be jealous, we can't talk about it. I want to tell him that De-nial is a river in Egypt.

And yeah, I know it's my own fault for cheating on him with Ethan, but it's fucking time for Brian to get over that already. I haven't done anything since then to give him any reason to suspect me. Except, I know it might take the rest of my life to convince Brian to trust me again.

Brian wants me to go to school, but he doesn’t like that it takes up so much of my free time. He’s happy for me that now I’ve got a job I like in my career field, a job that’s physically easier for me and a million times more rewarding, but he doesn’t like it that I work with attractive men. He doesn’t like it that I don’t have time to take care of so many little details in our life that I was doing without him even being aware of it. He’s realizing how much he was counting on me and it pisses him off to need anybody that way. And he’s missing our friends and family just as much as I am (though he’d never admit it), but he complains when anyone comes to visit.

Brian was right. He is a son of a bitch to live with.



Brian

Justin thinks I'm jealous about his new boss but that's far from true. I don't do jealous, and even if I did, I wouldn't be jealous of this guy, who's good looking but not Justin's type at all - he's got sandy hair and big ears and he obviously spends a lot of time at the gym.

No, I'm not jealous, it's only that I know Justin and I know that despite his vaunted great age, he's still naïve as a little kid at times. He trusts people, and that always leads to disillusion and disappointment. He's been disappointed plenty, you'd think he'd wise up, but he still goes along merrily on his way, expecting the best of people. He expects the best of me too, which is a fucking burden. I'm not going to live up to his fucking ideals. Which of course I've gone ahead and proved by giving him a hard time about his schedule.

I was the one pressuring him to take classes, yet somehow it didn't occur to me that once he started school, I wouldn't see very much of him. And his new job is demanding too - twice already he's had to go in on a Saturday to help with some story-board sketches. His job's as entry-level as they come, but the supervisors in his department at the studio are using him like a workhorse. They even gave him a project of his own - creating a backdrop for some animated bit being used in a film; he spent several nights working on it at home, to the exclusion of everything else.

I should be happy for him. Well fuck, I AM happy, that this job is such a great opportunity. It's opening a lot of doors for him. But when he walks through those doors, all I see is his back.

Christ, am I really pissing and moaning about my PARTNER'S lack of domesticity? Fuck me.

I've got other problems, real problems, to worry about. Matt Bradford's pressuring me to turn around the Chalmers Clinic account, after the morons in marketing messed up the commercial airing schedule and royally pissed off the client. Matt wants me to win them over. "Turn on that mesmerizing charm of yours," he says. Where Bradford got the idea I'm charming, God knows; he's obviously delusional.

Struggling to prepare an irresistible presentation for tomorrow's meeting with Chalmers, I almost ignore the ringing phone. I really wanted to turn it off so I could concentrate, but Justin might have car trouble, or Lindsay might have an emergency with Gus. Jesus, I'm practically a fucking family man now, I have to think about other people besides myself. Damn it.

"Yes?" I bark into the phone, making sure the caller knows I'm pissed at the interruption.

"Brian? It's Uncle Hank."

In a way, I'm aggravated that he calls himself Uncle Hank, it seems cloyingly childish. In another way, I'm moved by the accepting sweetness of the man. I'll be forever grateful to him for the look of incredulity on my mother's face when she realized my aunt and uncle weren't fazed to discover that I'm gay. I've memorized Mom's outrage so I can pull it out to savor whenever the wretched woman calls me from Pittsburgh to whine about her miserable life.

"Hey," I reply, lowering the level of annoyance in my voice to just-perceptible; I really don't have time for a social call but I don't need to smack him over the head with my impatience either. "How're you?"

"Is Justin there?"

"Nope. " I'm relieved the call's for Justin, I can just give him a message. "I'll have him call you tomorrow."

"I'm not calling for Justin, I was pretty sure he has a class tonight." Hank hesitates, then quickly resolves my confusion by hurrying on, "I just wanted to be sure he couldn't overhear you."

"Something wrong?" He's got my attention now, I click save on my computer and swivel my chair around, turn my back to the screen so I can concentrate on this call.

"No," Hank denies it, "Not wrong. In fact, Emily says I'm a fool to bother you with this, so don't tell her I called, okay? She's at one of her literacy meetings at the church tonight."

"What is it?" I demand, feeling the impatience creep back into my voice.

"Probably nothing." Hank hesitates again, then blurts out, "But - have you met Justin's boss - that Whittaker fella?"

"Yeah. A few days ago." I wait, but when Hank remains silent, I press him a bit. "Something wrong with this guy? Justin seems to like him a lot."

"Oh, I'm sure there's nothing wrong with him. Except, well, today I was talking to a guy, Greg, who used to work for Whittaker, about six months ago I think. He told me something, just gossip stuff you know, but I wanted to run it by you anyway."

"What?"

"Now Brian," Hank cautions, "You know I've got no problem with gay stuff, I mean, you know that, right?"

I brace myself but just say, "Mmm," and Hank rushes on.

"But this guy, he told me that Andrew Whittaker is. . .well, I don't know the gay equivalent, but if he was straight, we'd call him a 'womanizer.' " Hank pauses, then asks, "What do you folks call it - a 'man-izer?'"

I can't help the little chuckle that escapes me. "We call him a slut." Which, I don't bother to explain to Hank, shoehorns me into that same category. I can't wait to spring the new term on Justin - to tell him that his partner is a man-izer.

Before Hank can go on, I explain, "Actually, it's fairly normal for gay men to have a lot of sex partners. There's not the same negative connotation."

Who knew that someday I'd be discussing gay etiquette with my mother's brother-in-law?

"Oh," Hank says now. "Well, of course, I've heard that said, but I thought maybe it was just one of those stereotypes society's always hanging on you fellas. Besides, Greg says Whittaker has a partner, like you and Justin. Brings the guy to office parties and what-not. But Greg says that Whittaker messes around on him behind the partner's back. And you know that's wrong, gay or straight."

I have no desire to chuckle anymore. I am not going to get into this with my uncle.

There's silence for a moment, then Hank says, "Yeah, well, I just wanted to run it by you. Not," he adds urgently, "Not that I think Justin would mess around - Brian, I know he would never do that! It's just that he's so young, I was afraid if maybe this Whittaker made a pass at him or something, Justin might not know how to handle it. Being that it's his boss and all."

"Remember that Justin's not as young as he looks."

"He's what, nineteen? That's still pretty young." When I say nothing, Hank goes on, "But you know best, of course. Sorry if I spoke out of line, Brian, I didn't mean to poke my nose in your business."

I relent then, I feel my shoulders relax and I force myself to smile so that my voice will soften as I say, "Thank you for calling." I close my eyes and shake my head, then add, "Uncle Hank." Taking a deep breath, I add, "It was good of you to worry about Justin. But believe me," I assure him, "He can handle it."

"Okey-doke," Hank answers cheerfully. "Now promise not to tell Emily I called you, she'd chew my butt if she knew."

Quickly I erase the mental image of Emily chewing Hank's butt. Justin's not the only one with a vivid imagination. "Sure, of course."

"And we'll see you folks next Sunday. Is Justin's mom going to be staying with you boys?"

"No, she wants to stay at a hotel. She'll just be here for the weekend. It was nice of you to invite us over for dinner."

"Is she a good mom, this Jennifer?"

"Of course."

It's Hank's turn to chuckle. "No 'of course' about a woman being a good mother," he says dryly. "Good-bye now, Brian."

He hangs up but I sit still for a moment, cradling the phone and trying not to think about Justin's boss, Andrew Whittaker. I didn't like him at first sight, and I don't like him even more, now that I know his reputation.

Except of course that he apparently has the same open arrangement with his partner as Justin and I do. Straights have always got to label everything, judge everything by their own narrow standards. I know perfectly well that a majority of heterosexual men would gladly dispense with that ridiculous monogamy rule if it were put to a vote.



Justin

All the lights are out when I get home except for a small lamp on Brian’s desk that serves as a night light when one or both of us is out late. Class ended at ten-thirty but I stayed to ask the teacher for clarification of our next assignment, it’s eleven when I pull into the garage and enter the condo. Brian usually waits up for me but he must have been tired, well I know he was tired, he’s been pushing himself to the limit for weeks now. He’s determined to single-handedly turn Bradford and Slate on its ear.

I kick off my shoes and move silently across the living room and slip into the bedroom.

“I’m awake,” Brian says, making me jump slightly. He turns on the lamp by his side of the bed and pulls himself upright, leaning against the mirrored headboard, and rubs a hand over his face, yawning hugely.

“I’ll just piss and wash my face and be right there.” I pull off my shirt and throw it on the floor, step out of my jeans and leave them in a puddle.

“Hang up your pants,” Brian orders crankily, “Do you know how fucking much laundry you create in a forty-eight hour period?”

Since I’ve been Brian’s designated laundry-person for much of the past couple years I could honestly say yes, but I’m smart enough not to answer his rhetorical question. He did laundry last Saturday when I had to work overtime and he bitched about it incessantly. So instead of giving Brian a smart-ass answer, I pick up my clothes, hanging the jeans and taking the shirt into the bathroom to put in the hamper. As promised I’m back in the bedroom in three minutes, sliding into the bed, naked and ready for action.

“What makes you think I’m in the mood?” Brian asks, reaching for me and pulling me into his arms.

Later when we’re almost asleep, when we’re lying tight together like spoons in a drawer, Brian nuzzles my hair, then murmurs into my ear.

“Hypothetical question.”

“Hmm?”

“If someone at work, like maybe your boss or somebody else, hit on you. . .what would you do?”

I’m wide awake instantly and on the alert. What brought this on?

“He hasn’t, Brian. He wouldn’t do that.”

“Would you feel pressured to fuck him, to save your job?”

“Brian, no.”

“You did before.”

He means the Sap. Christ, all my past mistakes keep rising up like ghosts in some Dickensian tale. “And I learned from that, which is what you wanted me to do, right?”

“I had nothing to do with it,” Brian insists. “It was your own decision to quit that job.”

“Of course it was, I know that. And I know it was a mistake to trust the Sap, but like I said, I learned from that experience. Maybe I’ll make a lot of mistakes, but never the same ones twice.”

I hope he gets my double meaning; sometime he’ll have to believe I won’t fuck up like I did with Ethan.

“Brian, if Andrew Whittaker put the moves on me, I’d tell him to back off. I can handle myself. So don‘t worry about me, okay?”

“Who said I was worried?” he scoffs. “Shut up and go to sleep or we’ll be late for work tomorrow.”

Refraining from pointing out that I’d already been asleep when he started his interrogation, I just snuggle back down into his arms and close my eyes.


```````

Justin

It was a good thing that I got hired at Simpson Studios first, before I even applied for admission to City College, because just as I feared, the IFA had put a hold on my records when they suspended me. And if it weren’t for the combined efforts of Robert’s Uncle Jerry and Brian’s Uncle Hank, I would probably have been up shit creek – without a paddle, and without a job.

After dinner with Brian’s mom, Uncle Hank had pulled me along with him into his den, had me pull a chair next to his desk while he dialed his friend who works at Simpson Studios. Before he’d punched in all the numbers I reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Wait,” I’d said, “Umm, I probably better tell you something first.”

“What’s that?” he asked, hanging up the phone.

“I – got in trouble at school in Pittsburgh. Probably it’s on my records, maybe I can’t get a transcript.”

Hank was surprised. “What kind of trouble? Or do you not want to tell me?”

With a sigh I sat forward, leaning my elbows on my knees. “It’s complicated,” I said. “Basically it was for political activity but there were some other things too that the school officials didn’t like. They suspended me.”

“Hmm,” Hank said, “I see. So if you tell an employer about your college background, they might check it out and discover all this?”

“Yeah,” I agreed unhappily. “And City College might not admit me if they know I’ve been suspended.”

“Hmm,” Hank repeated, then sat thinking for a moment. “Well, I always say, ‘honesty’s the best policy.’ You can do whatever you want, but I’d recommend that you tell the truth about what happened and suck up the consequences. Let me call Joe now, there might not be any job available anyway, which would make your situation moot. At least as far as work is concerned.”

“Okay.” I sat back in the chair and waited while Hank called his friend. They made small talk for a bit, then Hank got to the point and said that a young relative of his – he winked at me - was an excellent artist looking for work in the entertainment field. They spoke a few minutes longer, then Hank gave me a thumbs-up signal and scribbled something on a piece of paper before saying thanks and goodbye to his friend.

Hank handed me the paper and pointed to a name he’d written there, Joseph Lyons. “Joe's the Art Director at Simpson Studios. Give him a call tomorrow and remind him that I recommended you for the opening in his department. It’s entry-level so they won’t be expecting someone with a lot of experience, but Joe says it’s real competitive anyway.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling defeated, “They probably have a million applicants already.”

“That’s where you’ve got an edge,” Hank assured me, “Joe says they haven’t advertised the position yet, the guy you’d be replacing just gave in his notice yesterday.”

“Knock knock.”

We turned around and saw Brian in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, but Lindsay needs to leave soon, she’s got an early flight home in the morning.”

“Brian,” I said excitedly, getting quickly to my feet and joining him in the doorway, “There is an opening after all – I’m to call the Art Director tomorrow!”

“The Art Director? Why the fuck would the head honcho get involved in hiring peons?”

“I’m not a peon, I’m a rank amateur, is all.”

“Now, now,” Hank joined us, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Every job is honorable.”

Brian just laughed. “Don’t worry, Justin’s not offended – he knows he’s rank.” But he reached out to squeeze the back of my neck when I smiled up at him.

“Actually," Hank informed us, "The real honcho at Simpson is Andrew Whittaker, the CEO. From what I hear, he has his finger in every pie. You'll probably have to pass muster with him before they consider hiring you. And every studio has tightened security nowadays, so they'll check you out pretty thoroughly.”

“Security?” Brian winkled his forehead and threw me a look I could easily read. “They do background checks, things like that?”

“Brian, I told Uncle Hank about the IFA – more or less. He says I should be honest about what happened.”

“Be honest, yes,” Brian agreed, “But you don’t have to volunteer anything.”

“I won’t implicate any others,” I assured him earnestly, which made him laugh again.

I thanked Uncle Hank and we went into the kitchen to start saying our goodbyes.

When I called Joseph Lyons next day, the man was friendly and encouraging, and he made time on his calendar to interview me that very same day. I told Mr. Lyons - or Joe as he asked me to call him - that I'd studied at the IFA for two years with a 3.9 GPA before relocating to California.

Brian had given me hints on handling the interview. He'd advised me to dazzle them with my accomplishments and to wait until I was offered the job before mentioning any problems with references and transcripts. Brian had said, "Make them want you so much that the IFA problems will seem trivial."

I was skeptical - the IFA 'problems' were sure as fuck NOT trivial; but I did exactly as he said and at the conclusion of the interview, Joe was smiling and I knew he would offer me the job. First, he emphasized, "If you're hired, Justin, you need to be aware that even though the title is Assistant Draftsperson, mostly what you will be is a glorified go-fer. You'll get all the shittiest jobs, you'll be chief Xerox person, you'll fetch coffee and donuts and maybe, just maybe, once in a while, you'll actually have a chance to do something artistic. Still interested?"

"Oh yes!" I couldn't hide my enthusiasm; what he was describing was the same kind of work I did at Vangard, and I remembered what I'd told Brian at the time - I'd learned more in those few weeks as an intern than I did in most of my second-year classes. And more than anything right now, I wanted to be involved in creating art.

Just the possibility of getting this job had reawakened my urgent need to draw. In fact, when we'd returned home from dinner with Brian's family, I'd pulled a sketchpad from a bottom drawer and sat on the floor of the guest room, making quick sketches of Lindsay getting Gus ready for bed and packing her suitcase. Once I looked up to find that Brian was framed in the doorway, looking at me so intently it made me jump. Then he had resumed his normal air of cool, he'd come into the room and thrown himself down on the bed, and nagged Lindsay to hurry up and finish packing, he was bored.

Joe did offer me the job, and I'd drawn a deep breath and said, "I'd love it, and I can promise you won't be sorry for hiring me. There's just a little history I need to tell you about, and I hope it won't make a difference."

Then I'd given him an expurgated version of events at the IFA, explaining that the Dean had suspended me for unauthorized political activities.

Joe had sat listening and watching me closely. "Well, that sounds pretty serious. Tell me something, Justin: Do you think you deserved to be suspended for your 'activities?'"

I was silent for a moment, struggling with the urge to say no. It had all been so unfair and overblown and downright outrageous at the end. Still, I had, to be honest, Brian had confirmed what I already knew, honest is the only way to live your life. With a heavy sigh, I looked at Joe and nodded. "Yes," I said unhappily, knowing I'd just lost the job I wanted so desperately.

"And do you think you'd do the same thing again if you had it to do over?"

That was a killer question all right, as if I hadn't already lost the job. But I didn't hesitate. "Yes," I said, holding my head high. "I'd have no choice. But I'd make sure not to compromise anyone else. That was my only regret, that my actions affected other people."

"Well," Joe concluded, "You're honest, you have the courage of your convictions, and you're willing to accept the consequences of your actions. That's impressive. So is this portfolio of your work. Assuming your transcripts confirm your grades at the IFA, I'm willing to offer you the job. But," he held a finger in the air, "I will need to see the transcripts first - it's up to you to do whatever's necessary to get them. Have the school fax them directly to my office - I'll give you the number. Then, if everything's copasetic, I'll arrange a meeting with Andrew Whittaker, and he can consider your special circumstances. The final decision will be his. Nothing goes unnoticed by our CEO."

"Wow," I was almost breathless with surprise and elation. "Thanks! I'll call the IFA and see if I can get a transcript and I'll let you know right away. Wow. Thank you, Joe!" I remember that I just about floated out of the office as Joe escorted me to the first-floor entrance.

Before contacting the IFA, I called Jerry, Robert’s uncle, and asked him about college discipline regulations. Jerry said that California and Pennsylvania might have different policies and procedures, but he was pretty sure the IFA could not refuse to release my transcripts. Surprisingly, I discovered that he was right, but I was not surprised to hear that my records would indeed reflect that I had been suspended for disciplinary reasons. I could only hope that the Simpson CEO would be as understanding as Joe had been.

He was. Andrew Whittaker impressed me right away as a very down-to-earth guy, nothing about him shrieked conceit or corruption of power. His assistant was way scarier, haughtily waving me to a chair in the lobby. Joe joined me there and led the way into the CEO's office, where Mr. Whittaker stood up to shake my hand and immediately told me to call him Andrew.

"There's no bullshit at Simpson," he said. "We're basically a family operation started by Henry Simpson in the 1980's, and though we've grown a lot since then - we have over 100 employees - we're still small potatoes in Hollywood. Joe will have told you that Simpson doesn't produce films like the major studios, we're stop-gappers, filling the needs of the big boys for technical expertise in lighting, sound, art direction and animation production. More and more we're also involved in support services for the major studios who produce television commercials."

"Oh," I'd said, or "Um;" I didn't have anything intelligent to offer. I was trying not to be in awe of the CEO, and I was glad when he got down to the business at hand: me.

"Justin," he began, flipping open a file on his desk; I could see my upside-down IFA transcript on top of a stack of papers.

Andrew continued, "Joe is highly recommending that we hire you for the assistant position in his department, based on your grades at the IFA and your portfolio. However, he's told me that you had some discipline problems at school, so why don't you tell me about that?"

I repeated the bare-bones story I'd told Joe and then sat back and waited.

"Mmm-hmm," Andrew nodded when I finished. "That's your abridged version, right? Maybe you could fill us in on the details of this 'political activity' that so outraged your dean."

"Okay," I agreed, scooting forward to the edge of my chair and resting my folded hands on top of his desk. "The agency where I was interning was representing a mayoral candidate. He was a homophobic chief of police who was cracking down on our neighborhood, and - "

"'Our neighborhood?'" Andrew interrupted.

"I'm gay," I told him proudly, "And my friends and family live and work around Liberty Avenue, the gay neighborhood of Pittsburgh."

"I see. Go on."

"Anyway, Chief Stockwell was running for mayor, and he was discriminating against us, stirring up homophobia. So I - well I couldn't stand still for that, you know? So I started a secret poster campaign, putting up agit-prop posters all around the city, to fight against him."

Andrew sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers together and nodding. "And what happened?"

"He lost. Oh, it wasn't due to me,” I hurried to add, “But the agency found out I was working against one of their clients and complained to my school. So I got fired from my job and suspended from school."

"That's a pretty serious offense, Justin, despite your noble motives - undermining a client."

"Yes," I agreed. "I'm not sorry I did it, but I should have quit the internship first. That was wrong of me, and that's the only thing I regret."

"Hmm," Andrew regarded me silently for a moment, then asked, "And was that the extent of your perfidy, Justin? Disloyalty to the agency?"

"Well," I hedged, "The other reason was none of their business."

"And what was that reason? Are you willing to share that information?"

"I guess," I sighed, feeling defeat staring me in the face. Might as well be shot for a goose as a lamb, as my grandma used to say.

Sitting back in my chair, I sighed again. "I was involved with one of the Vangard employees. That started a long time ago, long before I worked there, so it was more or less a coincidence. But the head of the agency found out and told the dean about that too." I glanced at Joe, then looked hard at Andrew. "It was none of their business," I repeated.

"'Involved' meaning, 'romantically involved?'" When I nodded, Andrew said, somewhat surprisingly, "You're probably right about that - about it being nobody's business. But if we hire you here at Simpson, you'll be asked to sign a loyalty oath. Everybody has to sign it, even me. I don't like it on principle, but our board of directors considers it a necessity and, I think in your case, it would help us gloss over your 'mistakes' at your previous job. Would you agree to do that?"

"Yes," I said firmly. I know I'll never again fuck up like I did at Vangard - I meant what I'd said, I should have quit the internship before working against Stockwell. But a new employer wouldn't have any reason to trust me until I could prove myself. "Yes sir, it seems only fair."

“Right,” Andrew nodded. “Now, would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes, while Joe and I have a brief confab?”

I sat in a chair in the lobby, trying not to look nervous and trying to avoid glancing at the snotty assistant. He kept giving me dirty looks and sweeping his long blond hair back off his forehead with one hand, he did it about twice a minute, like a tic. It was less than five minutes before Joe gestured to me from the doorway, ushering me back into the office, and then Andrew offered me the job.




Brian

Justin was over the moon with joy when he got the job at Simpson. We both expected his salary to be minimum wage (in his excitement, the silly twat forgot to ask what he’d be paid! – I gave him hell for that all right); but surprisingly they pay their employees pretty well, so Justin’s entry-level job nets him about the same as he earned at the d’Or including tips. Still a pittance, but I didn’t say that to Justin. At least he’s getting paid for doing something he loves, he’s learning on the job and making important contacts. Even if I don’t like all the contacts he’s making.

I can’t help wondering if Andrew Whittaker is this terrific human being that Justin makes him out to be, for hiring a kid with a bad record, or if maybe the guy might not have ulterior motives? He’s giving Justin a break, he’s paying a decent salary, he’s even giving Justin a ride home from work most nights. What’s in it for him?

Whittaker even helped Justin enroll in school. It turned out he had contacts in the art department of City College, so with his pushing from the outside and with Robert’s Uncle Jerry pushing from the inside, Justin was admitted on probationary status – he was allowed to enroll in one class per semester for a year, then if he doesn’t get in any trouble in that time (and he sure as fuck will NOT, if I have anything to say about it, and I do) then he can be matriculated as a regular student next year.

If we’re here next year.

If she has to come at all, then the timing of Jennifer Taylor’s visit couldn’t be better. She’s going to find Justin enrolled in school, established in a good job, and going through sketch books by the dozen. Once he picked up his pencil for the first time in months, he’s barely put it back down again. He’s happy. Christ, is he happy.

“Give me a bill to pay,” he’s saying now.

I do most of my banking on-line but once a month I sit down and balance my accounts and write a few checks. My papers are spread out on top of my desk – I thought Justin was working late but he surprised me by coming home early for a change. Bad timing, I like to be alone when I pay bills.

So he comes in the door and catches me off guard, and the first thing he says after hello is, “Give me a bill to pay.”

“Fuck off.”

“Brian, I’m serious. I have a real job now and you absolutely have to let me share some expenses. We’re partners.”

Justin says ‘partners’ twenty-seven times a day.

“You can buy a month’s worth of Honey-Nut Cheerios. That’s half the national debt right there.”

“I’m serious, stop joking around.”

It was not a joke.

“You’re home at a decent hour for a change – go fix dinner.”

“Brian.” Justin comes up behind me, grabs the chair and pulls it, and me in it, away from the desk.

“Stronger than you look, aren’t you?”

Justin pushes at my arms and makes room for himself to sit on my lap. “After dinner, I’ll show you how strong I am.”

“Dream on, bottom boy. And go away, let me finish up here and I’ll take you out to dinner. So you don’t have to slave over a hot stove.”

“Ooh, slaves, let’s play slaves tonight.” He kisses the side of my face and I have to struggle to keep from smiling.

“Then go get the whips and chains ready, leave me alone, will you?” But my hands have slipped around his waist of their own accord and they’re gripping him tight.

“I think we left them back in the Pitts,” Justin coos, sliding his arms around my neck and pushing his forehead against mine. A patented Kinney move stolen by this juicy blond morsel creating friction in my lap.

“Just as well – some slave you’d make, disobedient little twat.”

“Who says I’d be the slave? Maybe you’d be the one wearing chains.”

“When pigs fly.”

Justin tightens his grip on my neck and bends his head, sliding his tongue down the side of my face, under my chin, pausing to softly kiss my Adam's apple.

“You’re going to be sorry, starting something now, you won’t get any dinner.”

“I’m not hungry for food,” he murmurs, his warm breath tickling my ear. “I’m hungry for some hot man-on-man action.”

“Lucky for you, it’s WWF night on tv.”

“No,” he contradicts me, his voice husky. “It’s WWF night in our bedroom.” Then he ruins it by giggling. “I sound like somebody on Ted’s porn site.”

“Oh,” I complain, “Don’t mention Ted, you’ll make me lose my hard-on.”

Justin giggles again and kisses my left eye. “Bri-an,” he wheedles, “Give me a bill to pay. A bill I can pay every month. You have to. For my self-esteem.”

“You’ve got way too much self-esteem as it is,” I complain. “I liked you better when you were insecure.”

“More self-esteem could greatly improve my blow jobs.”

“Nothing could improve your blow jobs.”

Justin slides off my lap and kneels between my legs, running a hand up each thigh and rubbing his face on the fly of my jeans, which is quickly bunching tight around my growing cock.

“Stop,” I say, but without much conviction, then I gasp as Justin raises his head, and grabs my fly with both hands, ripping my jeans open, making my cock jump out at him like an x-rated jack-in-the-box.

“Sproing!” Justin exclaims, a sound effect that makes me laugh, even as I reach for his head and twist my fingers in his hair.

“Suck me,” I order him, my eyes beginning to close, but I feel him shake his head.

“Not till you agree to give me a bill.”

“Fuck off.”

Justin flicks his tongue up the length of my cock and takes a tiny nip between his teeth, but gently, making me groan.

“Suck me.” Christ, I need to feel his hot wet mouth taking me inside.

“Say yes, Brian. Say you’ll give me a bill to pay. Every month.”

“Suck me, damn you!” I’m twisting sideways in the chair, the need for Justin’s mouth growing more and more urgent.

“Say it, Brian – say it!”

“. . .no. . .”

“Say uncle.”

“Jesus!” I moan again, grabbing his head with both hands and pulling it towards me. “Uncle, okay? Fucking uncle. I’ll give you a fucking bill! Now suck me off – suck me off – before I fucking kill you!”

Chapter 13: (d) by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Jennifer Taylor visits and brings surprising news.

 

 

 

 

Brian

“Believe me Matt, if I had a choice, the client would win this one. But I don’t.”

Period, full stop, no explanation forthcoming.

“Brian,” Matt leans forward in his chair, spreading his arms across his polished desk top, “I need you to take care of this, it’s too important to fob off on a junior exec.”

“I’m a junior exec.”

“In title only, Brian, you must be aware of that. And if I didn’t have to fly to Denver on Sunday for a family thing, I’d do it myself.”

I turn back from the window where I was staring out at the LA skyline and move to stand in front of Bradford’s desk. Under normal circumstances I’d follow up on Matt’s teasing ‘title only’ throwaway line; instead I hear myself saying, “I have a family thing on Sunday also.”

“What?” Matt looks perplexed. “I thought you didn’t have family in California.”

“Visitors. From home.” I close my lips around the words, damned if I’m going to explain.

“They’ll understand. This is business.”

“Matt.” I sigh, shake my head, then slump down in one of the chairs facing Matt’s enormous desk. “Matt, if my grandmother were on her deathbed, I’d walk away to take care of a client, believe me. But. . . this is different.”

Damn it, I’ve piqued Bradford’s interest, I see a gleam in his eyes and he leans further forward over the desk, lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Tell me,” he breathes.

“No.”

Unexpectedly, Matt laughs. “My God,” he exclaims, “The only person in the world who could get me so wound up when I was your age was my mother-in-law.”

Fuck.

I keep my face impassive, but somehow Matt sees through me. “I’m right, then?” he demands, his smile growing wider.

“I’m not married,” I remind him.

“Your partner’s mother?”

I sigh deeply, glance away at the window, thinking seriously of throwing myself through the glass and dropping thirty stories to the ground. I’d almost rather do that than turn to look Bradford in the eye and admit, “Yeah.”

Bradford throws back his head and laughs. Maybe I’ll grab the lapels of his Armani suit and take him with me through the glass window.

“It’s nice to know that even gay guys are scared of their in-laws,” he gloats. “They’re arriving on Sunday?”

“Saturday. Tomorrow.”

“Staying with you?”

“No. No.” I repress a shudder.

“Doesn’t approve of you, huh? The mother?”

“I don’t discuss my personal life,” I remind him brusquely, getting to my feet. “And I think Patrick Mulcahey can handle the client. He may be a junior exec but he’s got the makings. I could brief him this afternoon.”

“Okay.” Unexpectedly Bradford capitulates. “But I’m still holding you responsible for this account. If Mulcahey fucks up, it’s on your head.”

I nod agreement and stand up to go, but Matt calls “Brian,” and I turn, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Good luck with your mother-in-law!” I just frown and get the fuck out of his office, I can hear the bastard laughing as the door closes behind me.

I could tell Matt Bradford that (a) I am not fucking scared of Jennifer Taylor, (b) I am not fucking intimidated by the woman, and (c) I don’t give a fuck that she hates me. But despite what people think of me, I’ve always been honest. So to myself at least, I have to admit to (d), all of the above.



Justin

I was sure Brian would come up with an excuse why he couldn’t go to the airport with me to meet Mom’s flight, but I was wrong and I feel vaguely ashamed of myself for misjudging him. He's quiet on the drive to the airport, I dared to ask him if anything was wrong but he just said he's thinking about a client problem. We park and go into the airport's waiting area and then I push aside worries about Brian and let myself feel the excitement of seeing my mom again after all this time.

On the arrivals monitor we discover that Mom’s flight arrived a few minutes early so we hurry to the baggage area and at first, I can’t see her in the crowd but then I do and I rush forward and grab onto her and hug her so tight!

“Justin!” She’s hugging me back and I see tears in her eyes. “Justin, sweetheart, I’ve missed you so much!”

“Me too, Mom!”

Then I see her look over my shoulder and I feel her pull back, pull out of my arms. “Hello, Brian,” she says pleasantly, smiling that not-real smile she pastes on her face whenever she’s around him.

“Hello, Jennifer,” he says, also smiling politely.

Fuck.



Brian

The first glance tells me that Jennifer Taylor still hates me. Well, what changed from the time we left Pittsburgh till now? I’m still corrupting her only son.

It was my fault, from her point of view (and Christ, even after all this time, from my own) that Justin got bashed. He’s alienated from his father partly because of me. I’m sure she blames me for Justin’s suspension from the IFA, and really, who wouldn't? Maybe I couldn’t have stopped Justin’s poster campaign, but I could have pushed him out of Vangard, and the fact that Justin misused his intern position was the real cause of his problems with school officials. And now I’ve dragged him three thousand miles away from his home and his family.

I can hardly wait till she sees our Hollywood bed. She’ll take one look at that icon of sexual excess, pull a .45 from her purse and shoot me dead.

"How was your flight?" I can't rise above the mundane when making conversation with this woman.

"Fine," she smiles in my direction but her eyes slide quickly away. "The pilot said we picked up some tail winds and that's why we arrived early." She turns to hug Justin again and I study him, knowing that he's worried about this meeting. He so fucking wants us to like each other, which is why I didn't weasel out of coming to the airport with him this morning. He's smiling too but at least his smile is real, he missed his mother, he's been homesick though he denies it.

Fortunately, the baggage carrousel begins to turn and spit out luggage so we're occupied with capturing Jennifer's suitcase. She points it out and I elbow Justin out of the way to grab it - it's rose tapestry, large and very heavy.

"It's heavy," Jennifer warns me worriedly, "Can't we get one of those luggage carts?"

"Got it." I swing it off the carrousel and turn toward the exit, smiling wryly when I hear Justin assure her,

"It's okay, Brian's very strong."

"It must weigh a ton, I always pack too many clothes."

"Don't worry, he can handle it,'" Justin says eagerly, "He picks me up all the time."

There's dead silence behind me for a moment when Justin hears what he's said, no doubt he believes he's just divulged some dirty little sex secret, then he moves quickly ahead of me to hold open the door and I can see that he's blushing. Silly twat. I slant my eyes at him but he won't look at me, instead, he hangs back and walks with his mother. Jennifer links her arm through his and begins to fill him in on the latest Molly news.

Tuning them out - I have no interest in the activities of a prepubescent girl - I lead the way to the parking lot, stash the suitcase in the jeep's boot and unlock the doors. Justin offers Jennifer the front seat but she declines, then on the ride into the city, Justin hangs over the seat, chattering away and pointing out the sights, though there’s not much of interest in that area.

Jennifer tells us she's staying at the Peninsula and that makes my ears prick up; Bradford and Slate host special out-of-town clients at that hotel, it's one of the most prestigious in Los Angeles. "Good choice," I murmur, wondering to myself how a realtor's income affords this kind of luxury; of course I say nothing.

"Let me check the map." Justin opens the glove box but I tell him there's no need, I know where it's at. In Beverly Hills, not far from Rodeo Drive. Rodeo Drive, just about the most famous designer-label shopping area in the world, a place I haven't permitted myself even to drive through. Yet.

When we arrive at the hotel a bellboy hurries to take the suitcase and escort Jennifer inside; she's already told us she needs a couple hours to unpack and recover from jet-lag - her flight left the Pitts at six this morning. We've arranged to come back about noon and take her to lunch.

After leaving the hotel, we decide to go home for a while; I can get in a couple hours work checking over the draft of a presentation I'm doing for the Masterson Pen execs next week and Justin says he's got homework too. We both sit down at our computers but within half an hour he's pushed back his chair and come over to stand next to me.

"What?" I turn my head to peer up at him.

"Everything okay?" he asks, and when I merely raise my eyebrows he elaborates, "You were so quiet driving home, I just wondered, you know, if everything is okay?"

"Justin, I'm preoccupied thinking about this presentation I need to finish on Monday. Besides, I'm always quiet. When have you ever known me to be noisy?"

That makes him smile. "Sometimes you're noisy in bed."

I push back my chair and stretch out my legs. "You want me to be noisy right now?"

Taking that as an invitation, Justin moves between my open legs and leans his body against me, smiling seductively. Tilting his head to one side, he brings his face close to mine and whispers, "You make the most noise when I'm fucking you."

"That's just screams of agony."

"Liar!"

"It's true," I insist faux-seriously. "Your huge cock's a killer."

He's slipped down to sit on my right leg, wrapping his arms loosely around my neck. "Is that why you hardly ever let me fuck you? Because it hurts?"

Getting fucked is way down on my list of enjoyable sex acts but it's more fun to tease Justin than to explain; besides, he knows it already - we've done almost everything at least once. There's a few things I keep to myself, a few things I don't want Justin to experience yet. I'm not exactly sure why but fuck analysis, I'd rather slide my arms around his waist and squeeze him as hard as I can, just to hear him say "Oof!" That always makes me laugh.

Pulling slightly away so he can breathe, Justin gasps, "Wanna make some noise now?"

"Nope." I stand up abruptly, dislodging Justin, making him lose his balance and almost fall to the floor - but I grab onto him quickly and lift him up in my arms, throw him over my shoulder and carry him into the living room. What he told his mom is true, I'm always picking him up. For some reason, it gives me great pleasure to be so much bigger and stronger than he is. Maybe it's a macho thing, a holdover from caveman days. But fuck analyzing THAT, too.

Instead, I say, "I'd rather listen to YOU scream bloody murder," and then gently I set him down on the sofa. He stretches out and makes room for me to crouch above him, I lie down on top of him, resting weight on my elbows so he's not crushed. "Okay?"

"'kay," he agrees breathlessly, one hand sliding under my shirt to caress my back, one hand sliding down beneath the waistband of my jeans.

We lie like that for a few minutes, softly kissing, his hands touching me all over like a blind man reading a Braille book he just can't put down. Slowly I rub my cock against his, heating up the fabric in the crotch of our jeans almost to Fahrenheit 451, or whatever the fuck temperature causes denim to burn. "Let's get naked," he murmurs against my lips.

I shake my head, no, giving him a challenging look. I grab hold of his arms and raise them above his head, then arch my back and begin rubbing my cock against his in earnest. He arches up to meet me, but he's insisting, "Brian, come on!"

"You come on," I counter, "I'm gonna make you ‘come on’ yourself. Gonna make you cream your pants."

"No," he chuffs a breathy laugh, "These are my new black jeans you bought me, I want to wear them to lunch, there's no time to do laundry."

"Spoilsport." But I let go of his hands and rise up to my knees, our hands get busy unfastening each other's button flies. Then I grab his jeans and roughly pull them off him, down over his hips and off his feet, tossing them over my shoulder.

"Brian, they'll get all wrinkled!" he protests, so with a grunt I rise up off him, picking the jeans off the floor and throwing them over a chair, divesting myself of my own clothes while Justin pulls off his shirt. Quickly we're naked and I return to crouch on top of him again.

"Any other requests?" I demand acidly though really I'm laughing inside but I don't let him see it; he always takes advantage of me when I'm in a good mood. The fact that Justin's little seduction scene has blown a couple solid hours of productive work out of the water doesn't stop me from giving in to his desire. And my own. Christ, definitely my own. It's absolutely amazing how hot he gets me, even now - this little one night stand I'm still fucking, three years later.



Justin

I was pretty sure a good fuck would improve Brian's mood and I was right. Afterward we still have some time to kill before picking up Mom so we adjourn to our computers but I'm too restless to concentrate on work, instead, I start surfing the 'net. Brian must be restless too because a few minutes later he leaves his desk and comes over to stand behind me.

"Cruising for tricks?"

I've logged onto a free website with pics of sexy guys. "Just looking."

"Hmm. . . he's pretty hot." Brian points at a photo of a cute young blond in red Speedos.

"Of course you'd pick a teenager."

“Hunh," he snorts, "I’m not into chicken.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re no chicken," he insists. "You never were a chicken.”

“I was just seventeen. And a virgin.”

“You never were a chicken,” he repeats. “You were a fucking barracuda, from day one.”

"You're calling me a FISH?" I pretend to be outraged and he smirks at me.

"Barracuda aren't merely FISH, you twat. They're fucking predators with sharp teeth, relentlessly pursuing their prey."

"Well," I say reasonably, "I caught you, didn't I?"

He frowns. He doesn't like the way this conversation is going. His own fault, he started it.

"Didn't I?"

Brian doesn't answer, just turns away and returns to his computer. When I move to stand beside his chair, he stares at the computer screen. After a moment of silence, he says, "Swim away now, I'm busy."

I can't resist asking, "Got other fish to fry?"

"You're mixing metaphors. Go watch tv. Go draw a picture. I have work to do."

"Okay." I give in graciously, though I can't stop smiling. He won't look at me, so he doesn't have to acknowledge my smile, doesn't have to acknowledge that he lost this round.

My relationship with Brian Kinney is like a never-ending prize fight. We've knocked each other down a few times but somehow we always get up and start sparring again. What he doesn't realize is that I'd stop beating up on him if only he'd acknowledge his real feelings for me. But he's too stubborn to say it, to come right out and say the words. He'll draw pictures on my back, he'll tell people that we're partners, and he's shown me in a million different ways how important I am in his life. But the words won't come.

That's okay. That's more or less okay. I know he loves me, he knows that I know he loves me. What do words matter?



Brian

Jennifer's sitting in the hotel lobby when we return to pick her up. As always she looks cool and beautiful, Justin inherited more than her coloring, he got her good looks too. Thank God he doesn't look like his dad. Well, if he did, I wouldn't be fucking him, would I? We give each other tight meaningless smiles, then she puts her arm around Justin and we walk out of the lobby and get in the jeep.

Justin wanted to take his mom to Cicada for lunch but I convinced him we should go there for dinner instead, and I called a few days ago for reservations. Justin's second choice was Acapulco, an informal Mexican restaurant on La Cienega where we've eaten a couple times, he especially likes their humongous carnitas burritos. Not surprisingly they love him there, he eats like a starving orphan and always leaves a big tip. Usually, when we eat out, I pay the tab and Justin leaves the tip - his idea of course.

Justin has the carnitas with a double side order of guacamole and I have chicken fajitas. Usually, I have a Tecate but I feel the need for something stronger today so I have a couple shots of Beam before the food arrives. We eat and as usual though I forego rice and beans, I'm uncomfortably stuffed afterward. In fact, I'm feeling almost sleepy, so at first, I don't realize that Jennifer is preparing to make some kind of announcement.

"I need to tell you something, Justin," she says, smiling rather nervously. "I wanted to do it in person, not on the phone."

I glance at Justin and he looks - alarmed. I wonder if something's up with his father.

So does Justin. "Dad?" he asks quickly.

"No. No," Jennifer shakes her head and glances at me.

Tossing my napkin on the table, I push back my chair. "I'll step outside, have a smoke," I offer but Jennifer shakes her head again.

"No need for that, Brian, it's not really private. It's not private at all."

"What is it?" Justin demands, his voice rising slightly. I lean a bit sideways and surreptitiously slip my hand into his lap, grip his thigh and give it a gentle pinch. I'm rewarded by seeing him relax slightly. "Mom?"

Jennifer is obviously struggling to find the right words. Finally, she shrugs her shoulders and smiles at Justin. "Sweetheart - I'm seeing somebody."

"Huh?" he asks, "Seeing somebody? Like, a man? You're - you're dating?"

"Yes." Jennifer leans forward and rests her arms on the table, nodding her head. "More than dating actually. We're. . .well, we're engaged to be married."

Justin's speechless and I tighten my grip on his thigh. "Congratulations," I tell Jennifer, "That's great."

She doesn't look at me but keeps staring at Justin. "Honey," she says at last when Justin sits mumchance, "Honey, please be happy for me."

"I am," Justin says, then he repeats stalwartly, "Mom, I am happy for you. I'm just - just surprised. You never said a word to me before."

"I'm sorry, honey," Jennifer tells him earnestly, "I didn't want to say anything until the time was right. And I didn't want to tell you on the phone."

Justin nods okay, then asks, "Who is he? Do I know him?"

"No, I don’t think so. He's a doctor, an orthopedic surgeon, in Pittsburgh. Adrian Champlain introduced us, you remember Adrian?"

"Sure, the Champlains lived on Huntingdon Road, right behind our house."

"Adrian was friends with Rob's first wife. She died a few years ago."

"Oh."

They just sit there for a moment in silence so I ask, "When's the wedding? I know Justin will want to be there with you."

"Oh, sure," Justin sits up straight and pastes on a fake smile. "Of course I'll be there."

I'm not sure how he's taking this news but obviously, he's not terribly thrilled. I couldn't care less if my mother got remarried, but then we don't have a close relationship like these two have.

"We haven't set a date yet." Jennifer's brow is furrowed, she's picking up on Justin's lack of enthusiasm. "I wanted you to meet Rob first. He'll be joining us for dinner tonight."

"What?" Justin's surprised. "He came with you to LA to meet me?"

Jennifer shakes her head no. "Rob's in LA for a conference, it ends today."

That explains the very expensive Peninsula hotel. Jennifer's hooked herself a rich one.

"So," Justin's wadding up his napkin, his face revealing nothing but his agitation obvious, "So, you came to LA to be with him. This doctor. Not to see me."

"Sweetheart, of course, I came to see you!" She leans forward and puts her hand on Justin's arm and squeezes. She's squeezing his arm, I'm squeezing his leg, he must feel like there's tourniquets all over him.

Jennifer insists, "It was just good timing that Rob had to come to this conference, it provided an opportunity for you to meet him."

"You're staying with him? At that hotel?"

"Yes, of course."

Justin's silent for a moment, staring at his wadded up napkin.

"Sweetheart," Jennifer insists earnestly, "I came to LA to see YOU. It was just a lucky chance that Rob was going to be here anyway. A chance for you to meet him."

"Okay." His head is bent, he sighs deeply, then he glances up at his mother. "That's great. I'm happy for you." Justin's squaring his shoulders, he sits up straight and forces a smile. "I'm happy for you, Mom. Really."

There's strained silence for a moment which I break by announcing, "We made dinner reservations for seven-thirty. We'll swing by the hotel about seven to pick you both up."

"Oh, Rob made reservations someplace special," Jennifer says dismissively. "Dinner's going to be his treat."

"No," Justin insists, "We're taking you to dinner. If you're visiting me and Brian, then we're paying for dinner."

I want to tell him it doesn't matter, why should he care who pays for dinner? But obviously Justin's more upset about his mother's announcement than he was letting on - he wants some control over the situation and he's digging in his heels. Naturally, I back him up.

"He's right," I interject, tilting my head and trying to send a shut-up message to Jennifer. "We're taking you - and your fiancé - to Cicada. It's Justin's favorite restaurant."

Jennifer glances at me but refuses to follow my script. "Rob's made arrangements already. Let's not argue about it, please?"

Justin's face is flushed red, he jumps up and tosses his napkin on the table. "Excuse me," he mutters, turning and walking quickly away through the restaurant. He's going to the men's room, or maybe he'll step outside for a cigarette.

Jennifer makes a move as if she's going to go after him, so quickly I say, "Leave him alone for a minute - he just needs to get his bearings. This is all a big surprise to him." And not a happy one, obviously.

"What?" She's angry. "You think you're going to tell me how to handle my own son?"

"He's not a child having a tantrum. You've surprised him with your fait accompli, he needs some time to get used to it, that’s all."

"Oh come off it, Brian," she glares at me. "What do you really know about Justin? I raised him for seventeen years, you've been - you've been playing with him, playing him like a puppet, for what, two years now? Off and on. More off than on, from what I've been told."

Oh no, we're not going there. "I won't discuss our relationship with anyone, not even Justin's mom, but things are different than they used to be. So back off."

"I'm his mother, I'll never 'back off.'"

"You still see Justin as a child, he's not a child, he's a man. He's been a man for a long time now. What you and your husband put him through made him grow up pretty fucking fast."

"What about what YOU put him through, Brian?" she demands.

"Yes," I nod. "Me too. But I treat him like a man now, and you need to do the same." I compress my lips and tell myself to shut up, shut up.

We sit there staring at each other for a moment, then I say more gently, "Jennifer, he's been feeling homesick, despite his denials, and your visit means a lot to him. He'll come around, give him a chance."

She drops her eyes but she isn't ready to give up the fight. "He's homesick because you dragged him three thousand miles away from home."

I don't tell her it was his decision to come; she knows that already. "Children grow up and leave home all the time. Parents need to let them go."

She raises her head and narrows her eyes. "You're not much of a parent, from what I hear," she says quietly, "So what gives you the right to advise ME?"

What can I say to that? Nothing. Not anything.

Jennifer opens her mouth to dig into me again but Justin reappears at the table and he's smiling. It's not a very happy smile but obviously, he's been working on it. "Can we go now?" he suggests pleasantly, "You wanted to see our place, right?"

"Sure honey, of course."

I've already paid the bill so we stand up and follow Justin out the door, down the stairs, and into the parking lot. We're all quiet on the ride home, and once inside the condo, I move to sit down at my computer, ostensibly to check e-mail but really to get out of the way while Justin gives his mother a tour. I'm sure I'll find out later what reaction Jennifer has to our Hollywood sex bed, but I don't want to be there when she sees it. Maybe we should have disguised it as a hot tub after all.



Justin

After I give Mom a tour of our place – and I’m somewhat surprised that she doesn’t comment on our Hollywood bed, but I can’t bring myself to look at her as we walk through the bedroom so I don’t know if she’s shocked or not – we settle on the sofa and talk for a while, about Pittsburgh and family and friends. Debbie sent some lemon bars, which Mom said she put in the hotel mini-bar and forgot to bring today, and everyone else sent greetings and hugs. I don’t ask about Rob and she doesn’t offer any more information about this man she’s going to marry. Later we can talk about it, just not right now.

Brian leaves us alone for awhile, then he saunters over and perches on a chair near the sofa. There’s a lull in the conversation and he uses the opportunity to offer Mom a ride around Hollywood, a guided tour of the sights, something he and I had planned for this weekend visit. But Mom declines, says she’d rather spend a bit longer just chatting and then wants to return to the hotel so she can rest before dinner, she says she didn’t sleep well last night.

After that, we run out of things to say. I’ve noticed before that when you see someone after a long absence, you chatter and chatter for a while, then suddenly it’s as if everything’s been said and conversation grinds to a half. Before the pause can get awkward, Brian asks Mom if she’s ready for the drive back.

When we’re almost at the hotel, I take a deep breath and lean over the seat back. “We’ll pick you up at seven,” I say firmly. “Cicada’s a fancy place so you might want to dress up a little.”

“Justin,” Mom’s voice is plaintive, “Why won’t you let Rob take us all to dinner? He really wants to do this for you. And,” she appends quickly, “For Brian of course.”

I’m getting angry again, I’m gritting my teeth, then I feel Brian’s hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard. “Justin,” he says, “It’s entirely up to you, but remember that we’re going to Aunt Emily’s for dinner tomorrow, so maybe you want to let your mom choose the restaurant for dinner tonight?”

I’d forgotten Sunday dinner at Brian’s aunt and uncle’s house.

“Who’s Aunt Emily?”

“Brian’s aunt and uncle, they live in San Bernardino, they’ve invited us all over for dinner tomorrow night.”

“I didn’t know you had family in California, Brian.”

“Neither did I,” he answers wryly. “We met them a few weeks ago. Uncle Hank helped Justin get his job at the studio.”

"Oh, I forgot to ask about your new job," Mom tells me. As if I didn't notice that she's not very interested in our life in LA. She hasn't asked me anything about my job or school. She hasn't asked Brian about his job either but he doesn't mind. I mind, for my sake but also for his.

But we've reached the hotel so I let it go, I get out and walk Mom into the hotel while Brian waits in the car. I decide to let this Rob take us to dinner, like Brian suggested. I'm not happy about it but I guess I'll live. Joining Brian in the car, I tell him I've agreed to let this guy buy dinner tonight and he starts the car. As we're waiting to pull out of the parking lot, Brian slides his hand between my thighs; no punishment-pinch this time, only a squeeze.

"It'll be okay," he murmurs, and I nod.



Jennifer

Justin's taking the news badly and I'm upset that he's not happy for me. Children never realize the difficulties their parents face, maybe he took it for granted I'd never remarry, that I'd always just be his and Molly's mother and nothing else. I've been married half my life, I enjoy the companionship of a man, just because I'm almost middle-aged, that doesn't mean my life is over.

Justin also doesn't know that my marriage was rocky long before the complications of his being gay added to the family problems. Craig and I hadn't been happy for a long time, though we both decided - without discussion, but still, it was mutual - to stay together for the sake of the children. Craig spent more and more time at work and I got involved in the women's auxiliary at the country club. My life was okay, I loved our children and my beautiful house, things could have continued on that way for a long time, maybe until the children were grown and on their own. But the revelation that Justin was gay, and his involvement with a disreputable older man, blew apart the careful construct of our outwardly happy family, and the pieces simply could not be put back together again.

Friends told me I should have gotten a better divorce settlement from Craig, but what I never told anyone was that Craig threatened to create a scandal around Justin's involvement with Brian, and after my darling son barely escaped being murdered, the heart to fight Craig just went out of me. I didn't want our names smeared in the newspapers, it was easier to accept a smaller settlement, find a job, and begin to rebuild my life alone after the divorce. I still had Molly to care for, and her relationship with her father continued to be a good one. It wasn't my fault that Craig virtually disowned Justin, and Justin - like father like son - deserted me, too. He stayed with Brian instead of coming home, he left me to fend for myself. So now what right does he have to be upset that I'm going to remarry? I try not to feel bitter, but it's hard to believe that children can be so ungrateful.

And Brian. . .Brian sat in that restaurant today frowning at me and telling me how to handle my own son! This man who's at best an occasional father to his own son, this man who has treated Justin like a toy, or like a puppy to pick up for awhile and then put down and walk away again. . . God, he's done that over and over to Justin, and while I don't know all the details, I've heard enough from Debbie to know that Brian's a very damaged man, even his own mother and sister won't have anything to do with him. I know that Brian will hurt my son again, but Justin won't listen to a word against him. I stopped trying a long time ago, eventually, I grew resigned to the relationship. And I try to treat Brian fairly and to be nice to him. But he doesn't make it easy.



Rob

I think I'm prepared for this evening with Jenn's son and his 'mate' but when they enter the hotel lobby where we're seated on a large sofa waiting for them, I take one look at the other man and I can feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Of course, I cover it up, we stand and greet them, Jenn makes the introductions and we all shake hands. Justin's partner - that's how he introduces him - is Brian Kinney. Jenn's already told me that he's in advertising and that he's much older than Justin, but seeing them together is still a surprising experience. Not a very pleasant one; no, not at all.

Brian offers to drive but I explain that I've rented a car for the weekend and I move aside to give the key to the concierge so a boy can bring the car around front. We move outside and make meaningless chat till the car arrives, it's a four-door Mercedes similar to one I have at home. The two of them slide into the back seat and a quick glance in the rearview mirror shows them huddled close together, they're even holding hands, another surprise.

"I've made reservations for L'Orangerie," I say, looking over my shoulder as we wait at a red light. "Do you know it?"

"No," says Justin.

"Yes," says Brian, "I've had a couple client lunches there."

That surprises me, he must be higher placed at his job than I thought. "Who's your employer?" I ask, as the light turns green and the car surges smoothly forward.

"Bradford and Slate."

"Oh really?”

“You know it?” he asks.

“Yes," I answer, surprised again. "They did some work for a friend who opened a cosmetic surgery clinic in LA a couple years ago." George wanted the best and apparently, this agency fit the bill. "He was very pleased with their work," I add. "You're happy there?"

"Yes."

Well, he’s not very forthcoming, but he's gone up a bit in my estimation - he must be good at his job or he wouldn't have been hired by that top-notch agency.

Conversation lags, we're riding along in silence for a few minutes. Another glance in the mirror shows that Brian has put his arm around the boy's shoulders. So Jenn was right, they are lovers, though Justin looks much younger than his years and somehow seeing the two of them together. . .unnerves me. I think Brian knows it - he catches my eye the next time I look in the mirror and he raises a quizzical eyebrow. After that, I keep my eyes on the road.

A twenty slipped into the maitre-d’s hand gets us our table right away without having to kick our heels in the waiting room, we’re seated in a white-silk-covered banquette in a private alcove. Justin sits between Brian and his mother, and since Brian’s right hand and Justin’s left disappear under the thick white tablecloth, I’m guessing they’re holding hands again. Should I be touched? Instead, I’m annoyed. Jenn’s probably oblivious, which is just as well – she’s told me she doesn’t much like Brian and I understand why. His glance is downright supercilious, he slouches in his thousand-dollar suit as he carelessly glances at the menu. He looks up quickly and catches my eye again, damn it, I have to stop looking at him.

Jenn wants a cocktail, she’s partial to mango margaritas, I order a Chivas and Brian asks for a double Jim Beam. A plebian choice but a man’s drink at least, no cosmopolitans for this guy. Justin orders a Coke, he’s underage of course, but when the drinks come and the waiter disappears, Brian picks up his glass, smilingly offers a toast to ‘the happy couple,’ then as we’re drinking he turns and pours half his bourbon into Justin’s Coke glass.

“Brian, no,” Jenn complains, but immediately Justin exclaims, “Christ, Mom, I drink all the time.”

“Not all the time,” Brian corrects him, his mouth curving in a smile, “Your mom will think you’re a lush.”

Jenn’s still frowning, so Justin adds, “That time I visited Dad, he gave me a glass of whiskey. So don’t go blaming Brian for corrupting me, okay? I’ve been drinking for years and years.”

“You’re making your mother feel a lot better, keep it up,” Brian suggests. His voice is harsh but the look he gives Justin is anything but. Justin looks back at him and his annoyed frown disappears, he laughs and leans briefly against Brian’s shoulder.

“I’ll be good,” he promises.

Then it’s quiet while we peruse our menus. “Brian,” Justin whispers, “It’s French - translate for me.”

“There's English subtitles underneath."

"Well duh, I can see that, but I mean, tell me if I'll like stuff or not."

Brian rolls his eyes but leans over to point at menu selections. "You'll like the cotes de porc, pork chops with potato souffle. And you like lobster, you could try the langouste de Santa Barbara..”

”Oh, pork chops! That’s what I want. What are you getting?”

“You tell me. You'll end up eating half of it anyway.”

“Maybe you want rack of lamb?”

“I’ll order lamb,” Brian concedes, “But it won’t be well done, the French refuse to overcook lamb and beef.”

“Ugh. Then order some chicken.”

The waiter arrives and we order, Brian obligingly asking for poulet en croute. Then we’re left alone in our alcove and I ask Justin to tell me about school.

“I’m just taking one class this term,” he says, pushing the hair off his face and leaning back in the booth. “Because I’m working almost full time at the studio.”

“School’s more important right now,” Jenn chastens him; spoken like a mother.

“His job was supposed to be part-time,” Brian tells her, “But they’re so impressed with Justin that they keep loading him down with extra work. He even had his own project, creating a background for an animated short the studio was going to job out.”

Justin laughs, “Careful, Brian – you almost sound proud of me.”

“Nah,” Brian denies it, “I’m just glad you’re bringing work home too, so I don’t have to listen to the tv blaring Nick at Night all the time.”

“And how is your job, Brian?” Jenn asks. “Are you doing the same things you did back in Pittsburgh?”

“Yes,” he answers briefly. “More or less.”

Conversation sputters to a halt again, then Jenn says, “Debbie told me that Lindsay and Gus visited you recently, that must have been fun?”

“Yeah,” Brian agrees, “Three-year-olds are a barrel of laughs.”

“We took Gus to Disneyland,” Justin says eagerly, “While Linds was at a conference. It was great! But we couldn’t go on any of the thrill rides of course, so I’m trying to get Brian to go back again on Gay Day at the park.”

“Brian, it’s hard to imagine you at Disneyland,” Jenn marvels.

“Isn’t it?” he agrees, and then our dinner arrives, rescuing us from personal conversation for an hour or so. The only thing remarkable about the meal is the way Brian and Justin share bits of their food back and forth, Brian cutting off half his chicken and putting it on Justin’s bread plate, and Justin insisting that Brian eat a couple bites of his entree. For those few moments, they remind me of nothing so much as some silly young newlyweds. A thought I’ve no intention of sharing with Jennifer.



Justin

Dinner went okay, at least the food was really good, nearly as good as Cicada, and Brian was so nice I hardly recognized him. I know he doesn’t much like being around Mom but you’d hardly guess it, he was so fucking polite I almost thought he’d smoked a dozen joints when I wasn’t looking.

Mom's boyfriend seems all right, he's awfully old, though, like fifty or even more. Mom's only forty-something, he seems too old for her. Of course, since Brian's so much older than me, I guess I can't say anything. At least he's not bald or fat or anything, he's good looking for a straight guy his age, he's tall and looks physically fit. And he's a doctor so he's probably got a lot of money. At least Mom won't have to work so hard, maybe she won't have to work at all when they get married.

We spend a couple hours at the restaurant, then I invite them to come back to our place, though God knows what we'd do with them there. Luckily they don't want to, Mom says she's still tired from the flight and Rob says the conference wore him out. That's good enough for me, I don't press it, we all climb into the Mercedes and drive back to the hotel. Rob shakes our hands again, Mom hugs me, and we arrange to meet up after breakfast tomorrow. We're going to drive Mom around Hollywood, though Rob begs off, he wants to play golf in the morning. He invites Brian to go with him but Brian shakes his head no, he doesn't golf.

When we get in the jeep I blow out a huge sigh of relief, to have tonight over with.

"You okay?" Brian asks as he helps me fasten the seat belt.

"Sure." I hesitate, then say, "This guy seems all right, don't you think? He was nice to Mom, and he doesn't seem homophobic."

"No," Brian agrees, "I don't think he's homophobic."

"You were so polite," I marvel, as he starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot. "I hardly recognized you."

"Hunh," he snorts, pulling into the street and heading toward home. "It's exhausting being nice. I'll probably be a grouchy bastard for a week or so, just to make up for it."

"Yeah, I'm sure things'll get back to normal now."

He doesn't laugh but he reaches over and slides his hand between my legs, his fingers delivering a punishment-pinch. A hard one.

"Ow!"



Brian

Naturally, Justin's mapped our route, he's planned this Hollywood sight-seeing venture for his mom and I'm content to play chauffeur. I'm not as bored as I thought I'd be, it's comical listening to his quasi-knowledgeable tour-guide spiel as we drive around Hollywood Boulevard, stopping a few times so Jennifer can see Graumann's Chinese and the Kodak Theatre. Then we drive through the hills, Justin wants to get close to the Hollywood sign, but after a few dead-ends, we wind up at Griffith Observatory, where scenes from "Rebel Without A Cause" were filmed, there's even a bronze bust of James Dean mounted on a marble pillar, with a clear view of the Hollywood sign behind his head.

At Justin's insistence we have lunch at Wolfgang Puck's on Sunset, where he's always on the lookout for celebrities; this time he actually spies one - John C. Reilly's at a table in the corner. He's a good actor but I don't want to fuck him. The food's okay, nothing special, except that Justin always orders the crème brulee sampler for dessert - three different flavors of custard that send him into paroxysms of delight. I refuse to taste them and I just pick at my Caesar salad - all this eating out is making me sick, I've probably gained half a pound already.

We drop Jennifer at the hotel and arrange to come back about six, to pick them up and drive to San Bernardino for this boring family dinner. Christ, I'll be glad when we get back to normal, I'd rather be working my ass off at the agency than making polite small talk with Justin's mom and her fiancé, Doctor Rob.

It's a nice break at home, we each spend a couple hours working on our computers and then we start getting ready early so we have time to play in the shower. At the hotel once again, I'm vaguely annoyed that Dr. Rob insists on driving to Pasadena but I quickly acquiesce, murmuring that no doubt it's difficult for middle-aged folks to climb into the back of the jeep.

Fuck it, I’ve been nice for days, I was bound to snap sometime.

Actually, it's very comfortable for Justin and me, slouching in the back seat of the rent-a-Mercedes and besides, I enjoy catching the good doctor's eye when he spies on us in the rearview mirror. I put my arm around Justin and play with his hair. . .partly for my own pleasure of course, but also to give the good doctor something to look at.

Aunt Emily and Uncle Hank both answer the door, greeting us with hugs and kisses. Justin eats it up, he loves the attention, and it’s not as awful for me as I’d expect. I’ve come to realize that it’s not an act for them, they adore Justin and they even seem to like me too. We had dinner with them recently, at Justin’s insistence – I was sure they were just being polite when they invited us over, but they made us feel so welcome, and both Hank and Emily treated Justin like a darling son; I’m starting to think they might be for real.

“What a pleasure to meet Justin’s mother!” Emily exclaims, hugging Jennifer and kissing her cheek, and when Jennifer introduces her intended, both Hank and Emily proclaim great joy and promise to break out a special bottle of champagne they’ve been saving. They escort us into the living room and offer cocktails. Without asking, Hank brings me a double shot of Beam; he’s holding a glass of red wine and he clinks it against mine, winking at me as we each take a sip. It’s funny, I’ve always loathed winkers, but damned if I don’t catch myself almost winking back before he moves away toward the liquor cart. Fuck, I’m losing my cynical edge.

“It must be so hard for you,” Emily’s sympathizing with Jennifer as they sit close together on the other sofa. “Your son moving far away from home! Our son and daughter both moved away too, but that happens so often when children grow up and get married, they have to go where their spouse works.”

The implication that Justin is my spouse sets my teeth on edge, I lean forward on the sofa and open my mouth to utterly deny the insinuation, but before I can speak, Justin throws himself down beside me and grabs my glass. “Just one sip,” he whispers, “While they’re not looking.” I’m distracted glancing over at Emily, she won’t let Justin drink anything stronger than wine in their house, and I lose my momentum. When I remember that I was going to make a crack about spouses, the conversation has moved on and I missed my chance. Pissed, I grab the glass away from Justin and gulp the remaining bourbon in one swallow.

Emily goes to the kitchen to finish fixing dinner and she says yes when Jennifer offers to help her. Justin jumps up and follows them, either to beg for recipes or sneak a bite of whatever’s cooking. Hank excuses himself to hunt up the promised bottle of champagne, and Dr. Rob and I are left alone in the living room.

“You a sports fan, Brian?” he asks, moving to sit in an easy chair near the sofa. He’s sipping white wine and pauses to swirl the liquid in the bowl of the glass and sniff the bouquet, looking at me over the rim.

”No.”

He nods. “I play a little tennis, golf, it keeps me in shape.” When I say nothing, he adds off-handedly, “You look fit yourself, I’d guess maybe you played a sport too.”

“I play racquetball sometimes,” I admit. “And I use to play soccer.”

“Soccer’s an exciting sport. Lots of injuries, though, for serious players. A lot of my patients have been soccer players.”

“Yeah?” Draining my already-empty glass, I get up and move to the liquor cart, helping myself to another half-inch of JB. “Yes,” I repeat, “I had a couple injuries when I was playing.”

“Did you?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

There’s a pause, then I say, “I’m going to grab a smoke,” and I move toward the patio doors.

“I’ll come with you,” he offers, “Though I quit smoking a few years ago.”

We stand near the pool, it’s dusk, the sun is starting its descent.

“So, you were injured playing soccer?”

Taking a deep drag from my cigarette, I nod. “Fractured my elbow once, playing soccer in the park with friends. I was older then, twenty-three or twenty-four. Luckily I had a good doctor, the arm healed quickly and there’s only a small scar today.”

Rob turns slightly away from me and gazes into the still turquoise water in the pool. We don’t speak for a moment, then he says calmly, “You knew right away, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not what you think.”

I study his profile for a moment, then ask, “What do I think?”

Rob turns back again and looks directly at me. “That was a long time ago. My wife and I were estranged – she was on an extended trip to Europe. I was. . .curious. And bored. I had a few – experiences. Got it out of my system. I’ve never looked back.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“The question is,” Rob says earnestly, “Are you planning to tell Jennifer?”

I’m silent for a moment, then shake my head. “None of my business.”

It’s the truth. What happened so long ago means nothing today.

It’s amazing that I even remember the man. By twenty-four my tricks were already into triple digits. But he was my first doctor. An orthopedic surgeon, a specialist highly recommended by Marty Ryder. I don’t remember now how I ended up at his apartment – a penthouse overlooking the river. We’d shared a couple joints, we’d had one fuck, and I was out the door. I knew he was straight – he never pretended otherwise. I’ve fucked a lot of straight guys over the years, he was just one of many. What happened nearly ten years ago has no relevance now.

“There you are!” It’s Aunt Emily. “Dinner’s ready, finish your smoke and come in.” Obediently we follow her back into the house and take our places in the dining room.



Rob

He’s not going to tell.

My relief is palpable, I almost fall into my chair at the dining table, exhausted from our brief tete-a-tete. I told Brian the truth: I’d had a few homosexual experiences that summer Brenda was in Europe and never again after that. I’d had a lifelong curiosity about homosexuality, but once I got it out of my system, that was an end to it. I’m not gay, I’m not really even bisexual.

I had sex with three men that summer, and for the life of me, I can’t remember the other two. Brian stuck in my memory for many reasons, mostly because he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen but also because he was so free and open in his sexuality. He positively smoldered with passion and I remember thinking of a sermon I’d heard as a boy, the old minister shaking his hand in the air, his quivery voice warning of the dangers of lust so fiery that sinners would go up in a burst of flame. It had felt like that with Brian. I’ve never before or since experienced that feeling when having sex – that feeling of being engulfed in flames; it was like being burnt at the stake. Not entirely pleasant, oh no; and not something I’ve ever wanted to repeat.

I glance at Justin now, across the table from me, happily stuffing himself with lasagna, and I wonder if it’s still the same with Brian – I wonder, does he set this boy on fire?

It’s not surprising that Jenn thinks Brian is a dangerous man, but seeing him with this boy, this young man, I get the feeling that their love affair is not so one-sided as Jenn imagines. A man like Brian Kinney wouldn’t suffer fools, and he wouldn’t stick around very long with someone who wasn’t his equal, his equal in all ways – intellectual, emotional, physical. I have a feeling that little Justin Taylor is a very lucky individual.

I’m lucky, too. Lucky that Brian’s generous enough to let sleeping dogs lie, and so very lucky to have met Jennifer. I never really believed that love could come again so late in life, that I could look forward to marriage with an open heart. I don’t realize that I’m staring at her now, where she sits next to me, our arms brushing against each other as we eat. When she glances up and catches me staring, we smile and I lean over to kiss her lips. Christ, I’m a happy man. I hope Brian’s happy, too.



Justin

“You’re happy, Brian.”

“Am I?” he asks. We’re driving home from the hotel where we’ve said our goodbyes to Mom and her fiancé, and Brian’s relief at having the ordeal of my mother’s visit over with is obvious.

“Yeah,” I confirm, “You’re rid of your mother-in-law, at least for a while, and you can relax now, stop pretending to be nice.”

“She’s not my – “

“Yeah she is, so shut up. I’m your spouse and she’s my mom, so – “

Luckily I intercept the hand slipping across the seat and grab his fingers before they can add another bruise to my poor tortured thigh. This weekend’s been hard on Brian, but it’s also been hard on my leg.

“You’re not my fucking spouse,” he growls. “At least. . .not yet.”

My hands stop struggling with his pinching fingers and I swallow twice before I can repeat, “Not yet?”

“Don’t get hysterical,” he warns me, his fingers relaxing and squeezing my suddenly nerveless hand, keeping his eyes on the road. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just that, after three months at Bradford & Slate, employees are eligible for insurance for their. . .” Brian pauses to gag loudly, then continues, “For their DOMESTIC PARTNER.”

He makes the gagging noise again.

“Brian – am I your domestic partner?”

“There’s some paperwork to sign. We have to confirm that we’re committed, or some other bullshit terminology, and sign on the dotted line. Then you’ll be covered under my medical insurance. Which,” he concludes by releasing my hand and raising his arm to gently slap the back of my head, “Which we fucking well need, in case you fall off any ledges.”

“Brian!”

“We’re not going to talk about this.”

“Brian, you’ve told people that we’re partners, right?

“Hmm.”

“And now I’ll be your – your domestic partner. That’s the same as ‘significant other,’ isn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

“Brian – so am I sort-of, kind-of, your. . .spouse? For real?”

“Hideous word.”

We pull up at a red light and I grab Brian’s arm and shake it. “Tell me,” I demand, “Tell me right this minute: Am I your significant other, or am I your domestic partner, or am I your spouse?”

“Fuck you,” Brian mutters, staring out the windshield. Then he turns and gives me an exasperated look.

I sit silent, waiting for his answer. He sighs and shakes his head. “(d), okay?” he finally murmurs, “(d) - all of the above.”

“Oh Brian,“ I cry, “I can’t wait to tell Mom that I’m engaged too!”

“Fuck,” he mutters, “I knew this would make you crazy.”

“I’m not crazy, Brian – I’m happy.”

“Same difference.”

After a moment of silence, I can’t help but ask, “Brian - are you crazy too?”

“I must be,” he agrees. And then despite his harsh frown, despite his agitation, Brian leans across the seat and kisses my mouth, a loud smack. Unexpectedly, he laughs. “I’m crazy all right,” he repeats, leaning down for another kiss. “I’m fuckin’ certifiable.”

Shifting gears as the light turns green, Brian burns rubber through the intersection and heads the jeep for home.

Chapter 14: For Your Eyes Only by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian and Justin must register as domestic partners.

 

 

 

 

Brian

Christ. Christ. After reading all the papers, all the fucking fine print, I shuffle the sheets together into a neat stack, add a paper clip, fold them precisely in half, edge perfectly meeting edge, then I lean sideways in my chair and shove them deep into the bottom of my wastepaper basket.

As I sit upright again, I see Ginger sticking her head around my office door, saying "knock-knock." I hate people who say "knock-knock." Why can't they just fucking knock?

"Yes?"

"I know you said no interruptions, but Mr. Taylor's on line one and you usually take his calls, don’t you?"

Mr. Taylor.

With an acknowledging nod, I reach for the phone and, once Ginger retreats from the doorway, I take a deep breath and punch the button for line one. "Hey."

"Hey, am I bothering you?"

"You're always bothering me. What's up?"

"Brian, can you pick me up tonight? If you need to work late I can catch the bus."

"Mr. Wonderful standing you up?"

"My boss is out of town. The bus is fine, I just thought, in case you're not working late. . ."

"Okay," I acquiesce, "I'll come get you. Five-thirty okay?" I've got a four o'clock meeting near Burbank, it's no big deal to swing by Simpson Studios.

"Sure. Um, Brian, did you remember to get those papers from personnel?"

"What papers?" I lean sideways and glance under my desk at the wastepaper basket.

"Duh?"

"Oh, those papers. If I have time I'll take a walk down to personnel later today." When he says nothing, I add offhandedly, "It's not like there's any fucking hurry."

"No," he agrees, "But you told me there's like a thirty-day waiting period before medical benefits kick in. Right?"

"Are you planning to fall down and break your leg anytime soon?"

Justin says nothing for a moment, then I hear him sigh. "Okay, well, whatever. See you later."

"Later." I hang up and sit unmoving for a moment, one hand still on the phone. Then I shake my head, lean over sideways and dig through the debris in my wastepaper basket. The papers are on the bottom, only slightly scrunched; I smooth them out on my desktop and then shove them into my briefcase and snap it closed.



Justin

"Did you read these?" I look up at Brian and he nods casually.

"Yep."

We're at the table in our tiny dining alcove, dinner's over and we're savoring the last drops of wine in our glasses. After taking his dishes to the sink, Brian made a detour through the living room, stopping at his desk to open his briefcase. When he came back he dropped a sheaf of papers on the table in front of me. Bradford and Slate's Application for Domestic Partnership Benefits.

"It says we also have to register with the State of California."

"I guess." Brian sits back down again. He takes a swig of wine and looks at me over the rim of the glass.

I glance through the papers again. Besides the agency's documents, there's a form called California Declaration of Domestic Partnership. "Brian - this is like - like, a marriage license."

"No, it's not."

"The state has a registry - they keep track of us. 'Same-sex committed partners registration.’ We both have to sign the form and have it notarized, and then if we separate, we have to notify them - we have to legally terminate the relationship. And this form says we'll get an official State of California certificate to commemorate our commitment. 'Suitable for framing,' it says."

"Isn't that touching?"

"Don’t belittle it, Brian. Just don't, okay?"

"Belittle what?" He sets down his wine glass and gets quickly to his feet. He fixes me with a hard stare and says firmly, "Justin, there's nothing to belittle. This is all just a formality, it's a process I agreed to so that you can get medical benefits. That's all it is - don't try to turn it into something else."

"Brian, you said I'd be your spouse. You said it."

"That was a joke. I didn't know. . ."

When his voice trails off and he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms and staring off over my head, I'm forced to ask, "You didn't know what?"

"I didn't know you'd take it all so seriously," he says, at last, looking back at me and raising his eyebrows.

I stand up too and return his serious look, and raise my own eyebrows in conscious imitation. "Bradford and Slate take it seriously," I point out, lifting the agency's form and dropping it back on the table. Then I pick up the state form and wave it at him. "California takes it seriously."

He says nothing, just shrugs his shoulders. We stand staring at each other for a few moments, it's a face-off. Then I pick up our empty glasses and turn for the kitchen. "Okay," I say over my shoulder, "Let's just forget it."

He follows me into the kitchen and leans against the counter as I rinse our glasses in the sink. "I didn't say forget about it," he says reasonably. "I just said, let's not make a big deal about it."

Setting the glasses on the counter, I turn and lean against the refrigerator. "Define 'make a big deal.'"

He frowns. "No fucking 'commitment ceremony,'" he mocks. "We just sign the papers and pay the fee and be done with it. No fucking 'certificate suitable for framing.'"

"It's just a business arrangement then. Nothing else. Right?"

Brian stares back at me. He's wearing that 'don't back me into a corner' look. I know him all right. Nobody knows him better than me.

I expect him to say yes. I expect him to be fucking high-handed and say yeah, it's just a fucking business arrangement. But he surprises me, Brian surprises me.

Reaching out his hand, Brian runs a finger down my shoulder and my arm. With a tiny half-smile, he murmurs, "We'll know it's more than that. You and me."
I'm moved, but not all that much. Not as much as I would have been six months ago. "So," I conclude, "It'll be our little secret?"

At first, Brian doesn't answer, he looks surprised. Then he shrugs. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing." I give up. "It's fine. I'll sign the papers." I move back to the dining room, sit down at the table and pick up the documents again.

Brian sits down too. "You can't just sign, we have to go to a notary. I'll check the phone book, or better yet, the internet. There's probably a million of 'em in LA."

"I'll do it," I offer, "I didn't bring any work home tonight and class was cancelled. I have time."

"Okay." Brian sits there a moment longer, then I hear him sigh and he gets up, goes into the living room, logs onto his computer.



Brian

I know that I'm being just about as contrary as a man can be. But recognizing that doesn't mean I can change it.

Well, of course, I can change it, I can do anything I want. I just don't want to, I don't fucking want to.

Commitment. Christ, I fucking hate that word.

I was surprised one day a couple weeks ago when I was having lunch with Matt Bradford - an unusual occurrence, normally I skip lunch unless a client is involved, and Matt has a club where he eats and relaxes with friends most days (according to Ginger who got the information from Matt's assistant and passed it on to me).

We were to have had a luncheon meeting at Al Dente's that day but the client cancelled at the last minute and Matt said to me, what the hell, let's go eat. Al Dente's is an attractive Italian restaurant not far from the office, their scampi is excellent and I made a mental note to bring Justin there for dinner soon, he loves Italian food. We were halfway through our salads, talking desultorily about recent changes in the design team makeup, when Matt speared a tomato with his fork and waved it at me. "How's your young friend?" he asked, "Your partner, I mean."

Matt shoved the tomato into his mouth and while he was chewing, I said, "Fine, thanks. By the way, Jack Hoskins will have proofs of the Callahan presentation to show you this afternoon."

"Mmm-hmm." Matt wiped his mouth with his napkin and continued, "I'm sorry, I've forgotten his name - Jason, wasn't it?"

"Justin."

"He is your partner, right?"

"Yes," I answered, suddenly wary.

"Been together a long time, have you?"

Matt's curiosity caught me unawares, why was he suddenly interested in Justin? He'd met him only once, at the Jackenzie dinner, and he'd never asked about him after that. I remember that I'd been expecting repercussions after my coming-out at the dinner party - what repercussions I didn't know - but nothing had been said, at least to my face, since that night a couple months ago.

"We've been together a while," I answer finally, taking a sip of wine and casually glancing around the room, wondering what the fuck brought this on?

"It just occurred to me the other day," Matt said, answering my unvoiced question, "That you've been at the agency almost three months now and that'll make you eligible for medical benefits soon. I wasn't sure if personnel explained all that to you when you started."

"Explained what?"

"Our board of directors instituted domestic partners benefits a few years ago, in line with the state policy. I think California's one of just a handful of states that does that, right? Did you have it in Pennsylvania?"

"No." I wasn't sure but it seemed highly unlikely.

"Did they explain it? Our personnel office staff."

"No. Well," I hedged, "They said they'd notify me when it was time to sign up for insurance, I know there's several providers to choose from – Kaiser, Blue Cross. I didn't pay much attention at the time but I knew it was coming up soon."

"I'll have a word with Steve Gareth, the director of personnel," Matt concluded, then leaned back and smiled at the waitress as she delivered steaming plates to our table. "It's important that all our employees are made aware of the benefits package at Bradford and Slate. Ahh, yes thank you," that was for the waitress brandishing a cheese grater. She sprinkled cheese on top of Matt's spaghetti al forno and departed. "'Equal opportunity' isn't equal if folks don't know about it."

"You mean my - Justin - will get medical insurance too?" This was a surprise to me, a fucking welcome surprise. Without insurance, even a minor accident could become a major catastrophe. Justin's more-than-part-time-but-less-than-full-time job at Simpson's provides no medical insurance.

"Yes, yes, full benefits," Matt confirmed, winding his fork around an impossibly large wad of spaghetti. "Be sure you get those forms filled out. Mmm, this pasta is fantastic. How's yours?"

"Fantastic," I agreed, forking a perfect curly shrimp into my mouth, smiling at the delicious piquant taste of the shrimp, and smiling at the amazingly fabulous news that soon Justin would be able to get medical care if he needed it, without wiping out the little financial security we have right now.

What I didn't realize until I'd picked up the paperwork in personnel and brought it back to my office to peruse, was that in order for Justin to be eligible for benefits, our partnership has to be formalized; we have to register with the State of California. We have to sign papers confirming that we are in a committed relationship. And I knew exactly what would happen when Justin wrapped his tenacious little brain around that information.

And I was right. I took no pleasure in being proved right, instead, I was thrown on the defensive first by Justin's joyous reaction to the necessity of registering our partnership, and then by his gritted-teeth concession to my demand that we keep it all secret. I didn't say 'secret,' Justin did; but I realize that that's exactly what I want to keep it. Secret, silent, a for-your-eyes-only type of thing.

I want to be committed to Justin, well I am committed. More or less. And he's committed to me. The only difference is, he wants to celebrate it. And I don't. I just fucking do not.

Why?

If I were a man who talks to himself, I’d probably be asking, what the fuck am I scared of? Am I afraid that if Justin walks away from me again, after submitting myself to the trappings of what comes just about as close to marriage as two queers can get, I’ll be left looking even more ridiculous than I did the first time? Am I afraid that breaching this last bastion of my independence, my vaunted disdain for ritual, totally fucks up my image, my fucking SELF-image, of an unfettered free spirit, needing no one and being needed by no one?

I’m not a man who talks to himself, so I don’t have to answer that.



Justin

We're leaving the notary's office and Brian hands me the manila envelope with our signed domestic partnership papers, then he puts his arm around my shoulders as we walk around the building to the parking lot in back. He lets me go and unlocks the door, then as we're buckling ourselves in, Brian asks, "Hungry? I want to take you to Al Dente's, it's a great Italian place on Fuller Street."

"Mmm, Italian," I force myself to sound eager; I'm covering up the vaguely let-down feeling I've had since we signed all the partnership paperwork, silently writing our names on half a dozen dotted lines each ticked with a red x. The notary was a bald man, overweight, taciturn, incurious. He stamped a seal on each page and countersigned our signatures, collected his fee and wished us good day, all without cracking a smile or uttering an unnecessary word.

A few days ago, somewhat diffidently, I had shared with Brian information I’d discovered about domestic partnership registration in WeHo. I printed out an article I found online which said that the city of West Hollywood has a registry similar to the state of California, and that many same-sex couples who register there get all dressed up, invite their friends and families, have flowers and take photographs, and celebrate the registration just like straight couples do who get married at city hall. I wasn’t really surprised that Brian had shivered dramatically, made a face and declared, “Sounds hideous.”

I know that for Brian, our visit to the notary was exactly what he wanted it to be, an unemotional, businesslike proceeding. A legality, a necessity, an unremarkable act that will result in providing me with benefits from his employment at Bradford and Slate. Medical insurance mostly, but also other benefits like vision and dental insurance, and he said that I'll now be the beneficiary named on his life insurance policy.

As we drive to the restaurant, I try to lighten up the heavy feeling in my chest by chattering about a new assignment in my watercolor class at school, and about the job I'm working on at Simpson's - I'm helping to create some original artwork of cartoon forest animals who, for some unknown reason, are excited about a new margarine product being introduced next spring.

The restaurant is pretty, it's decorated in pink and red, Brian says the food is really good here and he urges me to try the scampi. When the wine steward comes to our table, I expect Brian to ask for a white wine, probably Pinot Grigio, his favorite with seafood and pasta. Instead, he glances across the table at me and asks off-handedly, "Feel like some champagne? For a change."

"Champagne?" I'm surprised. "Sure."

"Dom," Brian tells the steward, who inclines his head and moves away.

"Dom!" I exclaim, then lean forward over the table and whisper. "Wow."

Brian shrugs. "It's not every day we. . .visit a notary public. So why not?"

I'm grinning and suddenly I feel so much better. And even better when Brian echoes my smile, reaching across the table to take my hand.

"Hungry?" he asks.

"Starving!" I agree, and when the waiter appears, Brian orders an appetizer, my favorite, deep-fried calamari. He eats only one bite and leaves the rest for me.

"Signor," the wine steward's back with our bottle, which he opens with a subdued pop! and then pours champagne into both our glasses.

When he leaves the bottle in an ice bucket and disappears, Brian raises his glass in a toast. "To - calamari," he says, with a twinkle in his eye.

"To calamari," I repeat and we smile at each other as we sip our delicious bubbly champagne.



Brian

I'm home alone on a Saturday when the mailman delivers our certificate from Sacramento, our 'suitable for framing' certificate of domestic partnership. For the briefest moment, I am tempted to rip up the document or to hide it in my briefcase and take it to work to shove into the paper shredder there. Instead, I leave it on the table for Justin to find when he comes home.

Earlier today Robert and his Uncle Jerry came by to pick up Justin, the three went to a double feature presentation of the first two Lord of the Rings films. Robert's apparently a Tolkien fan and Justin loves the films too. I read the books in college but I'm not really interested in the supernatural so the movies hold no appeal for me. I'm glad Justin's staying in touch with his d'Or friends and this outing has my blessing. Especially because I've got a major presentation next week and I need the whole weekend to concentrate on it, without interruptions.

I've forgotten about the document by the time Justin gets home, and I only remember it much later in the evening when we sit down to a light dinner of soup and sandwiches. The envelope is gone from the table and I wonder why Justin didn't mention it. Then he calls me to come fill my soup bowl, we sit down to eat and he chatters happily about the movies. Some audience members came in costume, dressed as wizards and hobbits and elves, and Justin fills me in on Robert’s theory that Frodo and Samwise were getting it on.

It's not until we've undressed and climbed into bed, sliding across the cool sheets to meet in the middle, our bodies as always pulled together as if by some super-strong magnetic field, that I remember the certificate.

"Did you find the envelope from Sacramento?" I ask as our hands slide around each other's bodies and we rub our skin together, the scent of Justin's shampoo filling my nostrils. I'll bet if I were standing in Saks at the men's toiletries counter and I opened a bottle of Justin's shampoo for a sniff, I'd get a hard-on right there in the middle of the store.

"Mmm-hmm," he answers, "I put it in the bottom drawer of the mahogany chest in the spare room." Then he pushes his face against mine and slides his warm wet tongue around my lips, and I forget the certificate and the mahogany chest and the spare room and lose myself inside Justin's mouth. His smell and taste block out every thought but desire for his beautiful sensual body pressed so tightly to mine.



Justin

As soon as Brian gets home, I tell him to listen to the message machine. He quirks an eyebrow at me and shakes his head in silent question but I can tell that he's immediately on the alert. "It's okay, just important," I tell him, trying to allay his fear. If he's feeling fear. "Everybody's okay." Probably a slight exaggeration.

I take Brian's briefcase from his hand and he moves quickly to his desk in the corner of the living room and punches buttons on the answering machine. The first message is from our cleaners and I just wave my hand saying, "Next one, next one." So Brian pushes the button again.

"Brian? It's Michael."

I can see Brian brace himself and take a deep breath.

"Brian, everything is okay, don't worry, but can you please call me right away? It's Mom. I mean, she's okay but I need you to call me right away."

"Is she dead?" Brian asks the machine, and I say quickly, "Brian, she's fine, I went ahead and called Michael. He said she's fine, everybody's fine, but he insisted I wait till you get home and tell you to listen to his message right away."

Michael had also told me to mind my own business, but I didn't need to share that with Brian. Besides, I could tell that Michael was upset, worried, maybe scared, so I tried not to take it personally. The thing is, Debbie is my business; if something happened to Debbie, that is my business too. She's been my second mom for years now.

Brian drops down in his chair, picks up the phone and punches number two. I'm number one so I don't mind that Michael is number two. Brian reaches up to loosen his tie and when he glances up at me I decide that maybe he wants me to leave the room so I turn away. "Come back here,'" he says, his voice rough. "Come back."

So I move close to Brian and lean my hip against the side of his chair. I'm in touching range in case he needs to grab onto me.

"Michael." Brian says into the phone, "What the fuck is going on?" He listens for a minute, then he asks, "When?" and my heart stops beating for a second, two, three, till I hear him say, "Good, that's good." Then I can start breathing again.

"They're keeping her overnight?" he asks and looks up at me and nods, silently mouths "she's okay" and gives me a smile. Then he continues talking to Michael. "Mikey, that's a normal precaution, they always keep people overnight. If the doctor says it wasn't a stroke, then it wasn't - quit borrowing trouble. Mmm-hmm," he's listening again. "What the fuck is a T.I.A.?"

"Transient Ischemic Attack," I whisper.

"Transient what?" he's asking Michael. "Oh, a pre-stroke. What the fuck is a pre-stroke?"

Brian's quiet a bit longer, then he says soothingly, "Mikey, if the doctors are releasing her tomorrow, it can't be too bad. You say her blood pressure's back to normal now, that's a good sign that she's okay. Your blood pressure goes up when you get scared, she was probably scared."

A moment later Brian laughs. "Well, you know Deb's back to normal when she tells the doctor to go fuck himself. Okay. Yes." He listens a bit more and then says, "Mikey, I'll be there tomorrow night. I can take Friday off work, spend the weekend in Pittsburgh, and be back here for work Monday morning."

Brian slips his arm around my waist and pulls me in close. He's nodding and then he says loudly, "Michael, shut the fuck up. It's no big deal to come home for a couple days. You want me to, don't you?"

Rhetorical question.

"Okay, let me go now so I can call the airlines. I'll e-mail you with the information, you can pick me up at the airport. Hopefully tomorrow afternoon, I'll let you know." A moment later Brian says dryly, "I'll tell him. Okay. Okay, Mikey. Me too. Always have, always will." Then he clicks off the phone and replaces it on the answering machine.

Brian leans back in the chair and pulls me around to stand between his outstretched legs, pulls me down to sit on his lap. "Michael said to tell you he's sorry he snapped at you."

"Hmm. So Debbie had a T.I.A. - when?"

"How do you know about T.I.A.s?"

"My grandma had some a few years ago, so I researched it on the 'net. They're like pre-strokes or mini-strokes, people get some of the symptoms of a real stroke - pain down the arm, a bad headache, dizziness, stuff like that. They're not really dangerous - Grandma's doctor told Mom that they're nature's warning signs that you need to take it easy. Not get too stressed out."

"Imagine Debbie taking it easy?"

"She's probably too old to work anymore, she works too hard at the diner."

"She's always worked too hard," Brian confirms. "Can you imagine Mikey telling her she's going to have to take it easy now?"

"God, no." I almost shudder, I can hear Debbie screeching at him now.

"That's why," Brian concludes, "I need to go home this weekend. To help Mikey talk some sense into her. If that's humanly possible."

"And to be moral support for Michael," I add. It's true and it not only doesn't bother me, I'm glad of it. Brian's a good friend, he's Michael's best friend. Of course, he wants to be there for him.

"So," Brian concludes, squeezing me and smiling, "Can you get tomorrow off work?"

"You want me to go with you?" I'm surprised.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

I slide my arms around Brian's neck and smack a loud kiss on his lips. "I could get off work, but Brian, we really can't afford the airfare for both of us. I don't mind staying here. Honest."

He hesitates. "It will be expensive," he admits, "And the jeep's overdue for a tune-up, and we need to get you a new easel, that one at Art Mart you like is three hundred dollars."

"Oh, I don't need that," I say hastily but he contradicts me.

"Yeah you do. But - you really don't mind, not coming along? We haven't been back home for months now."

"I don't mind," I lie cheerfully. "I've got a big project for my class that's coming due in a couple weeks. Besides," I add, "It's not like a vacation, it's not for fun - it's a sort of medical necessity type of thing. It's okay with me."

Brian exhales a big huff of air. "Okay. Let me get up and go change my clothes, then I need to call the airlines, see if I can get a ticket for tomorrow. Is something burning?"

"No, asshole," I frown, jumping up off his lap, "You're smelling genuine Cajun blackened catfish."

"Smells awfully blackened," Brian comments as he gets up and heads off down the hall. "But," he adds generously, "I'll withhold judgment till I taste it."



Brian

We're ready to leave for the airport, my suitcase is by the door and I'm shrugging on my jacket; October is warm in southern California but it will be cold back home in Pittsburgh. Justin grabs my arm and drags me over to the sofa, protesting all the way. "We need to leave right now or we'll be late, I'll miss my plane."

"Sit down for a minute," Justin insists, "This will only take a second, I’ll be right back. I have something to show you.”

“What, a going-away present?”

He doesn’t answer, he moves quickly down the hall and into the second bedroom which finally, thank God, Justin is turning into a studio. So I perch on the edge of the sofa, tapping my foot impatiently and fiddling with a stack of magazines in the middle of the coffee table.

Then he’s back, he’s holding a large sheet of paper and he hands it to me without a word. It’s a picture.

I’m stunned into silence. My heart’s in my throat, literally in my throat, choking me. I can’t speak and I just sit staring at the picture. Justin misinterprets my silence.

“Don’t worry, Brian, nobody will ever see this. It’s strictly for your eyes only.”

“Justin, it’s – beautiful.”

An understatement. Justin scanned our certificate of domestic partnership ‘suitable for framing’ and copied it in the center of a larger sheet of heavy white paper. Around the wide margin, he painted watercolor images – small pictures of me, of him, of both of us together, laughing and smiling and even, in one corner, kissing with our eyes shut. Around the perimeter, he painted a pale narrow never-ending rainbow intertwined with tiny scrawled words: partners – lovers – friends, partners – lovers – friends.

For the first time, I understand what this certificate means to Justin. For him it’s not merely a paper that’s tangible proof we are partners, it’s not some legal document he can hold over my head as a threat to bind me to him whether I like it or not. Instead, it’s a sort of tribute to all of the good and bad things we’ve been through together that led us to this place and tied us to each other forever. (Maybe forever.) It’s true that we are partners, we are lovers, we are friends.

“It’s beautiful,” I say again, and now I can smile up at him. I grab his hand and pull him down next to me on the sofa and circle his shoulders with one arm, pull him tight against my chest and kiss his lips. Carefully I lay the paper on the coffee table so my other arm is free to pull him even tighter and we kiss and kiss and kiss till there’s no breath left in our bodies, and we pull apart, gasping for air and laughing.

I look at him there squeezed tight in my arms, his face flushed pink with kisses and laughter, and I almost say the words, I can almost say the words. I struggle with it for a moment, struggling either to say the words or struggling not to say the words, but in the end, I just pull him tight against me again, and I tell him with kisses instead of with words.



Justin

"Brian, what if the plane - crashed, or something? We haven't been separated like this since we became spouses."

"I am not a spouse."

"Brian, if I am YOUR spouse, then you are MY spouse."

"Fuck."

"It's the truth."

"Fuck the truth."

"So anyway," I insist, "What if something happened to one of us while we're apart? And you never said the words to me. You'd feel terrible."

"If I were dead, I wouldn't feel anything."

"You know what I mean! Can't you PLEASE say it, just once? I won't secretly record it or anything."

"Leave me alone, I'm going to miss my plane. Just fucking kiss me goodbye, I'll be back in two days, for Christ's sake!"

Giving up, my shoulders slumping, I reach up to hug him and we share a quick kiss. Neither of us cares that we're in the airport, a very public place surging with raging heterosexuals, which is another thing I love about Brian. He squeezes me tight then pushes me away, and he hurries off to join the queue through the metal detector.

I stand watching, waiting to see if he'll turn and wave (highly unlikely, I was lucky to get the kiss). He makes it through the gate, stands exasperatedly as the security guard passes a wand over him - luckily he doesn't make it beep - then he grabs his carry-on from the x-ray machine and moves off toward his gate. Just as I'm about to turn away and leave the terminal, I see that Brian stops abruptly in his tracks. He pulls something from his pocket - it's his phone - and turns to look over his shoulder, surveying the crowd.

Then he spies me and I raise a hand to wave, but he doesn't wave back. Instead, he punches the phone and holds it to his ear, just as my phone starts beeping. Curious, I pull it out and hold it to my ear.

Of course, it's Brian.

"Okay," he says, "Okay. Can you hear me?"

"Yes, what is it - did you forget something?"

"Fuck you. Fuck you, you little asshole."

"What? Brian - what?"

"Okay," he says again, and even in the distance, I can see him frowning and shaking his head.

"Okay, all right," he growls. "I love you, you fucking little jerk-off drama princess twat."

"Brian!"

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes! Oh yes!" I'm gulping, I have to swallow this huge lump in my throat. I want desperately to jump over the barrier and run to fling myself into his arms.

Brian reads my mind. "Don't even think about it. Gotta go."

"Wait!" I exclaim just as he's about to click off his phone.

He returns it to his ear and growls, "What?"

"Brian, say it again. Please? Just one more time."

"Fuck." He's silent, glaring at me across the distance, then he shakes his head again. "Fuck you, Justin. Christ! I love you. Now shut the fuck up and go home."

"Brian, I love you too!"

"No shit," he growls. "And now this fucking plane better crash, that's all I've got to say. Goodbye, Justin."

"Good-bye, Brian!"

But he's already clicked off the phone, turned his back and he's moving quickly through the crowd toward the gate.

Chapter 15: Seeing Things by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian's in Pittsburgh visiting family, but Justin's just a phone call away.

 

 

 

 

Brian

Debbie's sitting at the kitchen table across from me, scowling heavily. "What did you do with Sunshine?" she demands.

"Stuffed his body in a locker at the airport."

Michael gripes, "Jesus, Brian, could you maybe remember not to get Ma upset?"

"Why should that upset her?" I counter, "Do you imagine she believes me?"

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Debbie interrupts. "I’m not pushing up daisies yet." She turns her frown on Michael. "And I am perfectly capable of dealing with Brian Kinney and his smart-mouth, after all these years." She pauses to draw breath, then demands again, "Now Brian, just answer a simple question, for fuck sake."

"Yes'm," I say humbly. "Sorry, Deb."

She's not buying it. "Don't bullshit me. Just tell me why you didn't bring Sunshine home with you. And don't tell me he didn't want to come, 'cause I won't believe you."

"Of course he wanted to come." I force myself to cut the sarcasm, easier said than done. "But we're on a tight budget, airfare's expensive, and - "

"Oh fuck," Debbie slaps a hand over her mouth. "Honey, I forgot! Seems like you've been stinking rich for such a long time, it's hard to imagine you pinching pennies."

No shit. "Of course we could've managed it anyway and I did ask him to come - but he was determined to be practical."

"Well, I suppose one of you has to be."

I decide not to be insulted and just nod agreeably. "Yeah. Maybe we can come for a real visit in a couple months."

"Christmas," Deb nods. "You need to be home for Christmas."

Being a million miles away from Pittsburgh at Christmas sounds great to me. I hate holidays. But I'm sure that Justin would like to come home. "Maybe.”

"I’ll bet he told you to give me a big hug for him."

"He did, but you can wait and collect it yourself, if we come home in December."

"Fuck being Mister Cool, Brian, and give me that hug. Pretend for a minute that you're Justin."

"Pretend I'm Justin?" I nod my head. "Okay, here goes: ‘Hey Deb - got any snacks?’”

"Ah," Debbie laughs but she's wiping her eyes, "I sure miss that little sweetie. You taking good care of him out there?"

"We're taking care of each other."

"He sent me a postcard with a picture of Simpson Studios on it," Deb tells me, "It's there on the fridge. With a little arrow pointing at the building where he works. Does he really like the job as much as he says?"

"He's mopping the floor with 'em," I assure her, "He'll be head of the art department in a few weeks."

"And are you boys getting along okay? You treating him good, Brian?"

The third degree is beginning to pall. "Yeah, yes, okay?"

Debbie picks up on my annoyance and changes the subject. "So, Jennifer says you boys met her doctor fiancé. She brought him to dinner here a few weeks ago, right before they went to LA. He seems like a nice guy, huh?"

"Sure."

"Does Justin like him?"

"Deb," I stand up and stretch, move around the kitchen, "He likes him okay I think. But it was a complete shock to find out that his mom is engaged, do you know that she didn't tell Justin anything all this time? Just sprung it on him, wham! - and expected him to be happy for her."

"Get me more coffee, while you're up. Oh relax, Michael," Deb flaps her hand at him, "It's fucking decaf, all right?"

I bring the carafe to the table, fill Deb's cup and my own, Michael shakes his head no. Deb takes a sip and says, "Yeah, Jennifer could have given him some warning. They don't seem to talk to each other much in that family, do they? Not about important things."

The irony of this statement - coming from a woman who told her son his drag-queen dad was a soldier who died in Viet Nam - completely escapes Debbie. I glance at Michael and I guess that it escapes him too, so I keep my mouth shut.

Deb's quiet for a moment, then she shrugs. "Well, he should be happy for her anyway, she seems to love this guy, and of course he's rich as what's-his-name, Crocus."

"Croesus."

"That's what I said."

I lean against the kitchen counter and sip my coffee. I tell myself to shut up, but it's not working; I can't help saying with a tinge of bitterness, "Justin's the one who's always supposed to understand."

"Brian," Deb gives me a hard look, "You have no idea what Jennifer went through after Justin came out. She lost her husband and her home, and - "

"Oh the fuck," I'm immediately angry. "And that was Justin's fault, I suppose?"

"I didn't say - "

"Brian!" Michael gives me a warning glance, I take a deep breath, then another.

Michael's right, I'm upsetting Deb. "I need a cigarette," I say. "I'll be back in a few minutes," Michael told me we're not supposed to smoke in the house now.

Deb lets me go, and Michael makes as if to follow but I wave him off; I need to be alone, I need to walk off this sudden surge of anger in my chest. I pause on the stoop to light up and inhale deeply, the acrid exhaled smoke blown back into my face by the wind, making my eyes burn and water slightly, then I take off down the sidewalk, zipping up my jacket against the chill breeze stirring the trees and sweeping brown and gold leaves across the narrow lawns.

Let it go, I tell myself, let go of this burning anger I feel for Justin's mother. Oh, I appreciate her, I do. I know she stuck by Justin more than a lot of mothers would have done. But as many times as she stuck by him, there were plenty other times she pushed him away. It seemed like every time things got difficult, she pushed him away again. Pushed him onto me when he ran away. Then sat there in her beautiful living room and let his father push Justin away. Of course, I’d had to get Justin the fuck out of there that day, it’s not like I had any choice in the matter. And she let me take him away that time too.

And then after the bashing, she insisted I leave her son alone. Even after I came right out and told her that I cared for him. And I did leave him alone. I fucking did, never mind the agony I felt, slamming the door of my loft in his face! Christ almighty! And then a few days later, she pushed Justin back onto me again, when she couldn't handle him anymore.

Okay, I was glad that she did, I was glad that she gave him to me to deal with. I did too. I did deal with him. But still, I am bitter on his account, that she so easily gave Justin away to a man she hated, just because he was being difficult.

Stopping to drop my cigarette butt and grind it under my heel, I realize that Justin does not feel this same bitterness and anger toward his mom. Not that we've talked about it. I'd never badmouth his mother to Justin. She's a good mother most of the time, and maybe that's all you can ask of people. God knows she’s a hell of a lot better than my own mother.

Speak of the devil, here comes my own mother now, moving toward me down the sidewalk, the wind whipping the edges of a brown plaid coat, her scarfed head with gray curls escaping bent against the wind, her sensible brown shoes making crunching sounds as she shuffles through drifts of dried leaves on the cracked and crooked sidewalk.

I remember when this stretch of sidewalk was poured, the summer of 1985. Tree roots had grown large underneath, buckling and breaking up the cement. I remember that Mikey and I had watched from a distance till the city workmen cleared out and went away, before the new cement was dry. We’d loitered around near a tall and leafy elm tree waiting, then we’d hurried forward and quickly used a peeled twig to write our names in the hardening cement. I’d written ‘Brian Rules!’ which was dumb but which would not have proved my identity, but Mikey had written ‘Michael Charles Novotny was here,’ sealing our fate. Our parents had had to pay a fine, and my ass had paid a heavy fine the next day in the garage when Pop made me drop my pants so he could teach me a lesson with the thwap of a wide leather belt.

I’ve been standing frozen in time and staring off into memory-thick space when suddenly the plaid coat arrives and its wearer lifts her head and nods sourly as she marches noisily past, her shoes still crunching the dead leaves. It’s not my mother, after all, it’s some other old woman, some other unhappy shuffling old woman who probably has a thankless son like me that never visits or calls.

I stand there a few minutes longer, giving the old woman a head start, then I turn and follow in her footsteps, retrace my path back to Debbie’s house, go up the stairs and pull open the front door, sighing as I enter the familiar overheated, messy living room with the hideous wallpaper, the place that was more home to me than the always-cold, always-immaculate house I grew up in just a few blocks away. Debbie’s still sitting at the table sipping coffee, so I move to stand behind her, bend down and give her a bone-cracking hug. I kiss her cheek and murmur, “From Justin.” Then I straighten up and ask, “Any coffee left?”



Justin

Reg and I maintain an uneasy truce but every time he sees me, his eyes cut across my skin leaving invisible drops of blood and I feel imaginary daggers in my spine whenever I turn around and walk out of his office.

“Maybe you should fuck him,” Brian suggested, when I’d told him about Reg, Andrew Whittaker’s personal assistant. Reg wants to fuck the boss, Reg thinks I’m fucking the boss, he’s jealous of anybody getting close to Andrew.

“How would fucking him help?” I was exasperated. Fucking is Brian’s answer to most problems.

He'd shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt,” was all he’d said, before changing the subject, trying to distract me with a lecture about choosing cantaloupes. We were in the supermarket produce section.

“Why don’t you give me some serious advice?” I’d asked, struggling not to laugh as Brian displayed two large cantaloupes in his hands, holding them at crotch-level and smirking suggestively.

Dumping the cantaloupes back in their bin, Brian shrugged again, moving on. Over his shoulder, he’d said, “When I give you serious advice, you argue with me. Or tell me that you’ll handle things yourself.”

“Well, I want to handle things myself.”

“There you go.” He stopped by the broccoli and reached for a plastic bag.

“I’m sick of broccoli,” I complained. “That’s practically all you eat and it stinks up the kitchen.”

“Broccoli-stink is healthier than chocolate-stink. All YOU eat is brownies, I gain weight just smelling them all the time.”

“Once a week is not all the time.”

I watched as he bagged a large head of broccoli and handed him a twistie.

“Justin,” he said finally, “There’s always going to be guys jealous of you, of your looks and of your talent. All you can do is ignore them, and watch your back.”

Pulling open the door of Reg's office, I force myself to smile at him and say hello. Reg is in his late twenties and is fairly attractive, but except for a long narrow swag of bright blond hair hanging down over his forehead, everything about him is brown - his eyes, the rest of his hair, his narrow tortoise-shell glasses, and he always wears brown or tan or beige sweaters and sports jackets. In the wood-paneled offices of Simpson HQ, Reg blends into the background and nearly disappears.

Reg gives me a brief glance and a nod before returning his eyes to his computer screen. His hand swipes at the blond hair, tossing it carelessly, an amazingly annoying and repetitive attention-getting habit. As I approach his desk he says, without looking up, "Andrew's not here."

"I know. He just called Joe on his cell, he's en route to a meeting in San Francisco and he wants me to pick up the Flyaway sketches and take them to Jim Masterson."

"Why'd he ask you?" Reg demands, "You don't even have a car. I can deliver them."

"I have a car today," I say mildly, "And he told Joe to ask me because the new logo was my idea and he wants me to show it to Masterson, explain the reasoning for the suggested change."

I'm annoyed that I'm explaining all this to Reg when what I want to do is tell him to fuck off, but I don't need to antagonize the man. If I were Brian, I'd steamroll right over the top of Reg and maybe that's the smart thing to do, but I'm not Brian and that's not my style.

Reg frowns and stands up, comes out from behind his desk. "Wait here," he says tersely, before opening the door of Andrew's office and moving inside. He leaves the door ajar and I watch as he rummages through piles of papers and documents on the wide mahogany desk.

"He said it was probably on the credenza by the window," I offer, moving to stand in the doorway but not going inside.

"Why didn't you say so," Reg grumbles, turning to the credenza and grabbing a thick manila folder. He shoves it into my hands and then detours around me, flipping that strand of blond hair as he moves back behind his desk and takes his seat again.

I'm not ready to be dismissed. "Joe said to get Masterson's number at the hotel from you," I tell Reg, "So I can let him know I'm coming over."

With a heavy sigh of the terminally put-upon, Reg drags his eyes from his computer screen once again and opens a drawer, pulls out a small leather binder. "I'll call him," he offers. "Give me your cell number and I'll tell Masterson to let you know if there's a problem."

I want to call Masterson myself, but it's really not a big deal so I decide to let it slide. Masterson's an important client and Reg obviously wants to assert himself as Andrew's assistant. "Okay," I agree, then add, "Thanks, I'll see you later."

"Ta-ta," Reg calls lightly; he's picking up the phone as I exit his office.

Despite the heavy traffic, driving the jeep around LA is fun, and it reminds me how free and independent having a car makes you feel. When I pull into the driveway at the Beverley Wilshire Hotel, I blithely toss my keys to a valet - Joe told me to submit a bill to petty cash for any expenses incurred today - and I glide through the impressive glass doors of the grand hotel, feeling very grand myself, despite my casual jeans-and-sports jacket attire.

Brian got me this new sports coat, he hated my old one. He refused to let me look at the price tag, he claimed that he didn't look either, but I know it was very expensive. And I understand now as I cross an expanse of thick pile carpet toward the concierge desk, why Brian likes to wear expensive clothes - the beautifully tailored jacket buoys me up with extra self-confidence.

And I need it, because, despite my outward calm, I'm a bit intimidated approaching one of Simpson's most important clients alone and basically unprepared. But Andrew was so pleased with my new logo idea for Flyaway Filmworks when Joe Lyons, the Art Director, showed it to him, that Andrew thinks it'll also wow Jim Masterson. He said he didn't want a third party presenting the idea and maybe being easily dissuaded by the client. Andrew and Joe trust me not to fuck up this meeting so I square my shoulders and approach the concierge with a smile and what I hope is an air of self-assurance.

I'm glad that Reg called Mr. Masterson because when the concierge announces me, Masterson tells him to send me right up, and he answers the door the minute I knock.

“Well hello,” he greets me, taking my hand and hanging onto it as he draws me into the room. It’s more than a room, it’s a suite, with gauze draperies opened wide over a huge picture window filling the room with natural light. I glance around at the luxurious furnishings and then return my eyes to Jim Masterson, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his fifties with silver hair at his temples and a slight paunch minimized by his well-tailored beige linen slacks. He’s not wearing a jacket, just a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

And he’s still holding onto my hand. He squeezes it and grins, exposing a mouthful of very large and very white teeth. “So you’re Andrew Whittaker’s new boy,” he says, and not waiting for an answer, he adds, “Come in, come in, come in. What would you like to drink?”



Brian

The first plan had been for me to stay at Deb’s during my visit, and it had seemed a fitting irony that I’d be sleeping once again in Mikey’s childhood bed, the bed more recently occupied by a certain blond twink now residing in sunny California. But when Michael picked me up at the airport, he’d said that plans had changed. If I stayed at Debbie’s, nobody could have stopped her from bustling around cleaning house and cooking up every Italian dish she imagined was my favorite, there’d be no way in hell to keep her off her feet.

Of course, Michael and Ben’s apartment was already overpopulated, with Hunter sharing the small space. The loft was occupied by the guy with whom I’d traded spaces and I saw no point in making contact with him during this brief visit. I could have stayed in a hotel but the cost of doing that would have paid for a plane ticket for Justin.

In the end, I was fobbed off onto the munchers, a fate nearly worse than death. One of them welcomed me with open arms and the other with a frown and a warning not to expect room service. Mel was getting quite revoltingly zaftig – Lindsay had been unexpectedly beautiful when she was pregnant, but Mel looks hideous, bloated and with dark circles under her eyes. Of course I didn’t tell her how awful she looked, but I held that fact in reserve in case she bugged me beyond bearing; I only said, “Jesus, your tits got huge,” which she took as a compliment, somehow forgetting that I am a fag to whom huge tits are about as appetizing as flies on a rib roast.

Friday evening I stayed at Deb’s playing Twenty Thousand Questions till she was finally forced to go to bed, then Michael and I visited with Vic for a while, until jet-lag exhaustion, or more likely a lack of sleep for the past few weeks while I’ve been working myself to death, convinced me to make it an early night.

Emmett’s still occupying the girls’ guest room but even though he was out of town for the weekend, I couldn’t spend five minutes in the fluffy pink nightmare that he’d made of the room. Instead, I’d arranged to sleep on the living room sofa; in case I came in late, there’d be less chance of waking Gus. Lindsay’d given me a key, but it was early, the women were still up. In fact, when I pushed open the front door, I caught them fucking on the sofa where I planned to sleep – Jesus, how inconsiderate can you get? They’d been panting and making noises like pigs in a slaughterhouse. I was afraid they’d continue their gyrations when they adjourned upstairs, but if they did, the house has good soundproofing or else I was just so tired that I slept right through it.

Saturday morning breakfast at the munchers’ is an event not to be missed. Especially if you like the smell of oatmeal and burnt bacon, and the sound of two women’s high-pitched whining at each other and a baby caterwauling. No, not a baby, Christ, Gus is a toddler now, he toddles all the fuck over the place, putting his hands in everything, making a mess of toast, spilling milk and oatmeal and juice, putting his sticky hands on my jeans and in my hair when I pick him up. And asking, “Why, Daddy? Why, Daddy? Why? Why? Why? Why?”

When I first arrived at the munchers' Friday afternoon to drop off my suitcase, Gus came running to greet me, throwing his arms around my legs and nearly tipping me over before I leaned down to swoop him into my arms. "Daddy!" he shrieked in my ear with a decibel level roughly that of an exploding car bomb, and after he left a trail of wet and sticky kisses from my now-deaf ear to my chin, he twisted his head around, looking behind me, then looking all around the living room. "Unca Jus?" he demanded urgently.

"Justin's not here," I told him, "He had to stay home."

"No!" Gus denied it, then asked, "Why, Daddy? Why?"

"Because he was a bad boy," I answered with a smirk.

And how the fuck was I supposed to know that three-year-olds can't take a joke?

Gus started to cry and Lindsay ripped him out of my arms while Michael and Mel lashed into me in language unfit for a child's ears, which I fucking told them. I fucking told them that all the time I was getting the fuck out of there. And in the car again, I told Michael that if he had anything more to say about fathering, to save it for when his own kid is born, otherwise he could shut the fuck up.

After breakfast Saturday morning it was a relief to get away from Muncher Mansion and spend a few hours in Mikey’s comic shop. Hunter came by to watch the shop while we picked up lunch and took it home to Deb. Naturally Hunter tried every way he could to put his skinny-ass boy fingers all over me but I managed to avoid him. In the car, Michael tried to give me a lecture about staying away from Hunter and I nearly punched him, why does everybody imagine that I can’t resist boy ass, for Christ’s sake? Besides, I have my own boy-ass (who seems to think I’ve got ‘Property of Justin’ tattooed all over my cock) waiting for me at home.

Probably he‘s waiting for me.

“Brian,” Justin had asked as we drove to the airport Friday morning, “Are you going to Babylon when you’re at home?

“Why would I go to Babylon?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered casually. “Nostalgia? For old time’s sake? To get your dick sucked a few thousand times?”

I didn’t answer, just shrugged. “I’m going home to see Deb and Michael, not to trip the light fantastic down Memory Lane.”

Justin said nothing for a moment, then he asked nonchalantly, “Do you want my permission?”

“I don’t need your permission.”

“Well,” he said, “You have it anyway. Go ahead, dance your ass off, get blown a few times.”

“If I go to Babylon,” I told him, “It’ll be because I want to, not because you gave me what you imagine is your permission.”

“Then go.”

“Maybe I will.” When he said nothing, I reminded him, “I signed on as domestic partners, I didn’t sign any monogamy agreement.”

“Brian, I don’t need monogamy.”

“So what’s this conversation about?”

“I just wanted you to know that I’m okay with it. ‘No locks on our doors,’ as you put it a long time ago.”

“Hunh.”

We drove along in silence for a few minutes, then I had a thought. “Is this really about you giving YOURSELF permission to fuck around while I’m gone?”

Justin laughed. “Absolutely. Of course. How’d you guess?”

“Because,” I ignored his amusement, “Because I’m okay with that too, you know?”

“I know.”

We’d left it there and that was an end to it as far as I was concerned. I didn’t really think he’d be out screwing around, but if he was, I was okay with it. I am okay with it. If he does. Though he probably won’t.

Michael has to unpack a special shipment that arrives at the shop unexpectedly Saturday afternoon so I’m at loose ends for a while. I go for a walk in the park and then, strictly out of boredom and for no other reason, I decide to call Justin. Our last phone bill was fucking astronomical so we’d agreed to switch plans, and our new service restricts long-distance. We decided we didn't need to talk while I'm away this weekend, except for a brief check-in call when I arrived and another on Sunday to confirm my flight arrival time in LA.

I don’t really expect Justin to be cooped up in the apartment on a Saturday afternoon and he isn’t. But he isn’t answering his cell either, which is kind of annoying. Maybe he let the battery run down again. Maybe he’s in a movie theater and has it turned off. Maybe he’s busy and just doesn’t want to talk to me. That’s fine. That’s perfectly fine. It’s not as if I’m missing him or anything, I’ve been away not much more than twenty-four hours, and why should I give a shit what he’s up to, anyway?

We have dinner again with Deb and Vic and hang out in the living room for a while watching some really terrible tv shows - Christ, even I could write better dialogue. I take a cigarette break outside and decide to call Justin again but still his phone's turned off. What the fuck is that kid up to anyway, that he has to turn off his phone?

Finally, Debbie kicks us out, saying that she knows we're bored to death, why don't we go to Woody's for a while. The sounds and the smells of Woody’s affect me strangely and I start drinking JB while we wait for a pool table. After every shot, I realize that I'm checking the clock behind the bar, and when Michael heads for the men's room, I step outside the back door and pull out my phone again.

It's midnight here, which is nine o'clock in LA and Justin's phone is still turned off. Maybe he's hanging out with his friends at the d'Or, there's always a huge crowd there on Saturday nights. Everywhere in WeHo is crowded on Saturday night, the bars along Santa Monica Boulevard are thick with hot guys cruising each other. Probably Justin's not cruising, it's not really his thing, but if he wants to, that's okay with me. He can trick if he wants to, we both can, it's no big deal. That doesn't mean he has to turn off his phone.

The thing is, what if I had to reach him? I don't, but what if I had to? What if something happened to Debbie and I needed to reach Justin? With his phone turned off, I can't reach him.

Of course, I can leave a message on our phone at home, but what message would I leave? Nothing's happened, there's no emergency, so there's no need to call. And no need for me to be pissed off. But I am pissed off. I go back into Woody's and throw back another drink. And another.

Half an hour later we still haven't got a pool table and Michael is getting antsy to go home. But I don't want to go home, home is a lumpy sofa at the munchers' and I'm not sleepy, I'm not tired, I want to have some fun for Christ's sake. "Let's go to Babylon," I suggest, carefully setting down my empty shot glass and hanging onto the edge of the bar, which is starting to tilt at a very slight angle. Not enough to make me dizzy, just enough to cause me to hold on with both hands.

Of course, Mikey argues with me for a while but I tune him out like I always used to and eventually he gets tired of fighting me and agrees. "Just for an hour, though, okay?"

"Yeah-yeah." I switch hands from the bar to Michael's shoulder. I don’t need support, I can walk perfectly fine, but we're buddies and buddies hang onto each other all the time.

The cold air hits us both in the face when we come out the back door at Woody's, which smacks me nearly sober and which makes Mikey say, "Oh shit, I've gotta pee again - wait here for me."

As long as I'm hanging around the alley leaning up against Michael's piece-of-shit second-hand car, I might as well pull out my phone and call Justin. It's hard to see the little illuminated numbers but luckily all I have to find is “one” and punch it. Which I do. And fucking hell, his phone is STILL turned off.

Babylon is louder than I remember it, more crowded, and I feel the sweat break out on my face the minute we're inside the door. Mikey takes my jacket and his and drops them off at the coat check room, which is really a great idea since I left my phone in the pocket. No need to call Justin, no reason to call him, and now I'm not even tempted because my cell phone is tucked inside the folds of my leather jacket.

Grabbing Michael's arm I drag him over to the bar on the lower level, swiveling my head around to cruise the place strictly out of habit. Lots of hot guys wearing minimal clothing shaking their asses and bumping their pelvises and rubbing up against anything and anybody. And every face is shining with sweat and lust, you can smell sex in the air, and I drink it down in big gulps. "JB," I yell to the bartender, drinking the bourbon down in a big gulp too. "Another."

"Brian," Michael's pulling on my arm and yelling in my ear, "Brian, that's enough, you're fucking drunk already!"

"I am drunk, but I am not fucking," I state emphatically, holding up a finger to the bartender.

But Michael grabs my finger, grabs my hand and insists, "Enough already!"

Pulling my hand roughly away from Michael, my feet get tangled up and I lean heavily against the bar for support. Then fixing my eyes on his face, I tilt dangerously far forward, staring at Michael nose to nose. "Mikey, s'no such thing as enough," I start to remind him, when suddenly out of the corner of my eye I spy a bright blond head.

"What the fuck?"

"Huh?" Michael asks, swiveling around to see what I'm looking at.

"How'd he get here?" I demand, letting go of Michael quickly, too quickly, I almost lose my footing when I lurch past him and follow the shiny blond head as it moves away across the dance floor. The floor's so crowded that it keeps me from falling down, I move hand over hand through the gyrating bodies, grabbing an arm here, a shoulder there, feeling like a salmon swimming upstream.

I'm sober enough to chuff a laugh at my own clever imagery, I'm a salmon swimming upstream to the spawning room, Babylon's sex room where dozens of nearly-naked men are wriggling around, spilling their seed on the sticky backroom floor. Subdued blue lighting and the swishing sound made by long strips of translucent blue plastic hung from the ceiling add to the underwater feel of the place. I see my little blond fish swim around a corner and I pick up speed, but I'm definitely lurching now, and my reaching hands grasp onto naked slippery bits of fleshy bodies as I move through the crowd still pursuing.

Around the corner I'm pulled up short by the sight of him, he's removed his shirt, his narrow shoulders are beautifully pale in the dim light as he drops to his knees to worship the cock of a tall dark-haired man who's leaning against the back wall. No wonder he's not answering the phone, he's too busy fucking around. The dark-haired man closes his eyes, grasps a handful of thick blond hair and groans loudly, "Suck me, baby, suck me!"

As I reach down to grab those pale shoulders and drag him to his feet, I remind myself that I really don’t care, Justin is free to fuck around as much as he wants, but for some reason that doesn't stop me from grabbing him and lifting him up off the floor, twisting him around to face me as I demand, "Why did you turn off your phone?"

Justin looks up at me and suddenly he turns into somebody else. This isn't Justin.

I know him, though, I know this face, I know this boy.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he demands as he pulls away, then he looks at my face again and does a double-take. "Oh, it's you," he says, "I turned off my phone 'cause I'm not working right now. But you can call me later."

I just stand there like a statue, staring at the boy, at the almost-but-not-quite Justin lookalike, the three-hundred-dollar hooker.

"Sorry," I hear myself say, starting to back away; Mikey's still behind me so I turn and throw an arm around his shoulder and half-lead, half-lean-on him, urging him back the way we came.

“Who was that?” Michael’s demanding, twisting his head to look over his shoulder, and though I ignore him, he asks again, “Who was that? He looks like. . . Umm, he seemed to know you.”

“Ev’body knows me.”

“Brian – “

“Oh-oh,” I moan, “Gonna be sick.”

“Like that’s a surprise,” Michael grumbles, steering us into a right turn and hurrying toward the men’s room.

The next bit of time passes in a blur, I know there’s a close encounter with porcelain and the cement floor of the men’s room. While I wasn’t paying attention, Mikey must have phoned Ben, because suddenly they're these big strong arms around my shoulders maneuvering me toward the back door of Babylon, and he holds me up against the wall while Michael goes to fetch our jackets. If I wasn’t so sick I’d be doubled over with giggles when Mikey tries to put my jacket on me, my right arm keeps going into the left sleeve, till finally he loses his temper and swears and together he and Ben get me into my jacket and half-drag, half-carry me down the steps and into the alley.

Somehow I end up in the backseat of the car, I don’t really remember that part, but I’m aware of the seatbelt being buckled over me and then there’s a silent passage of time which must be Ben driving us someplace. I must have fallen asleep, I’m awakened by bright lights and Ben’s voice saying loudly, “Two large coffees, black,” and I open my eyes to discover that we’re in the drive-through at McDonalds.

I close my eyes again and don’t open them until the car stops someplace and Michael says, “Come on, drink this.”

He’s leaning over the front seat, pushing a cardboard cup into my hands. “Can you hold it? It’s hot, if you spill it on your lap, you’ll burn your cock off.”

“Got it,” I mumble, keeping a firm grip on the cup and raising it to my mouth, slurping a small sip, then another. I’d rather go back to sleep, but if I have to wake up, I might as well get on with it. After another sip, I raise my head and look around. “Where are we?”

“Just a parking lot, the Pak-n-Sav market,” Ben answers. “After you drink those coffees and sober up a little, we’ll take you to Lindsay and Mel’s. Michael didn’t think you’d want to show up there drunk as a skunk.”

“Okay.”

We sit in silence for a while as I drink coffee. When I finish one cup, Michael takes it from me and hands me another. Halfway through the second cup, I feel my shoulders relaxing and I lean back a bit in the seat, stretch out my legs. “Thanks. Guess I fucked up your evening.”

”Wouldn’t be the first time,” Michael noted. After a pause, he says, “So - you going to tell me what that was all about?”

“What’ya mean?” I ask without looking at him. “Just a normal Saturday night.”

“Hmm. Not anymore. Not for a long time really.”

“Just blowing off steam.”

Michael’s silent for a moment and I think he’s going to let it pass. I should have known better.

“I saw the kid, in Babylon. You thought it was Justin.”

“Justin’s in LA.”

“You were too drunk to remember that. You saw what you thought was Justin blowing some guy, and you freaked.”

Taking another sip of the now-lukewarm coffee, I sigh. “I might have over-reacted slightly.”

“I thought you guys have an open relationship?” He waits and when I merely nod, he goes on, “You never used to care about sharing guys, tricking. Have you stopped having three ways, going to the baths together, stuff like that?”

“Michael,” Ben says gently, “Maybe Brian doesn’t want to talk about this.”

Ignoring Ben, I say earnestly to Michael, “We’re both working hard in LA. There’s not much time for stuff like that.”

“Brian Kinney has no time for tricking? Alert the media.”

“Fuck you.”

We’re silent again, then Michael asks, “Is this thing with Justin – permanent? I mean, is this the real thing for you?”

I turn to give him an incredulous look and he has the grace to laugh at himself. “Okay,” he admits, “So I’m a little slow, so I’ve been under a rock the past three years. But all your life you swore you’d never settle down, you’d never buy into ‘the love thing.’ Or have you forgotten?”

“Who says I’ve settled down?”

“Brian, for Christ’s sake, you’re married now.”

“What the fuck,” I sit up straight on the seat and glare at Michael. “He told you?

“You mean,” his voice goes up an octave, “You mean you ARE married?”

Back-peddling quickly, I remind him, “Queers can’t marry.”

“Then why did you ask if he ‘told’ me? Told me what?”

“Fuck.”

Drinking down the last dregs of cold coffee, I roll down the window and throw the cup outside.

Normally that would distract Michael, he’d call me a litterbug, he’d get out of the car and retrieve the tossed cup. Not this time. This time he sits staring at me, they’re both staring at me. Ben asks, “Did you and Justin get married in California?”

“No,” I answer firmly. Then honesty forces me to add, “Not exactly.”

“What exactly?”

“I’m sober now, take me to the munchers.’”

“Brian,” Michael’s insistent, reaching over the back of the seat and giving my shoulder a shake. “We won’t tell anybody, I promise.”

“Ha,” I sneer. “You’ll tell your mom, which means you might as well put up a fucking billboard on Liberty Avenue.”

“Tell me.”

Sighing, I give up. Looking out the window, I admit resignedly, “We – we’re ‘domestic partners.’ It’s fucking official.” My voice filled with doom, I add, “Life as we know it is over.”

“Brian,” Ben says eagerly, “That’s terrific news! Did you have a commitment ceremony?”

“No, we fucking did not!” I exclaim hotly.

“When you come home at Christmas, we can have a party for you,” he offers.

Dropping my head into my hands I groan, “Oh God, I’m going to kill myself.”

Ben laughs but Michael takes me seriously. “Jesus, Brian, Ma’s stressed enough right now, you can’t do that to her!”

“Oh, all right,” I agree reluctantly. “But remember that you promised you won’t tell anybody. Not,” I add bitterly, “that I believe you.”

“We won’t tell,” Ben assures me sincerely as he starts the car, and I groan again. It’ll be all over Pittsburgh by morning.

The girls are in bed and I’m able to get rid of Michael and Ben and lock the door behind them. I take a piss, then strip down to briefs and spread a blanket on the munchers’ sofa. Before lying down, I glance at the living room clock. It’s after two but it’s three hours earlier in LA, so I decide to try Justin’s cell phone one more time. Still, it’s turned off, and I curse softly and raise my arm to throw my phone against the wall. Then I stop, shake my head, and decide to call our home number and leave a message. Justin picks up on the first ring.



Justin

“Kinney-Taylor residence.”

“Don’t you dare answer the phone that way.”

“Well duh, I knew it was you. Besides, fuck you.” I keep my voice cheerful. But not too cheerful.

“Did you just get home?”

“No, did you? It’s late back there.”

“Justin, I think your cell’s turned off,” he tells me.

“Oh yeah, it might be. Were you needing to reach me? Is everything okay - Debbie and everybody?”

“Everybody’s fine. I just wondered why.” When I say nothing, he asks, “Everything okay there too?”

”Sure, Brian, everything’s fine.”

He hesitates, and I wonder if he can hear something in my voice. With an effort I make myself laugh and ask, “Did you call to check up on me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I just wondered why your cell was off.”

“I’ll check it. But you can call me here, I’ll be home all day tomorrow. I’m working on that margarine commercial.” I pause and then add, “You’re going to call me when you confirm your flight, right?”

“Sure.”

We’re quiet for a moment and I imagine that I feel him probing into my brain. He’s gotten pretty good at reading my mind, so I decide I’d better hang up soon before he figures out that something’s up. There’s nothing he can do so far away and besides, I need to handle this myself. I’m a man, not a child needing Rage to swoop down and rescue me.

“Okay then,” I keep it casual, “See you tomorrow. Say hi to everybody for me.”

“So,” Brian asks quickly, “You’re not going to try and make me say anything to you?”

My heart skips a beat. “You mean, you would if I asked you to?”

“No,” he denies it. “I’m just surprised that you didn’t try. In case,” he adds quickly, “In case the plane crashes tomorrow.”

“I didn’t think that would work twice.”

“Well,” he says, “Just so you know, in case it does, I do.”

“Brian,” I can’t help smiling, in spite of everything, “I never thought I’d hear you say ‘I do.’”

“Fuck you.”

“I wish you could, right now.”

“Me too.”

He’s got me smiling. “You can fuck me tomorrow night.”

“I plan to. Repeatedly. So go to bed now and rest up. I’ll call you from the airport, and I’ll see you about four o’clock.”

“Bye. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye. See you tomorrow,” he echoes.

“Bye.”

I hang up the phone quickly before I’m tempted to tell him – anything. Tomorrow will be soon enough and besides, by then everything will be okay. I hope.

Chapter 16: Withholding Information by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian's having adventures in Pittsburgh, Justin's having adventures in LA, but they don't need to tell each other everything, do they?

 

 

 

 

Brian

I'm awakened from a deep sleep by a curly-haired whirling dervish hurling himself at the sofa, grabbing my dead arm that was lying on the floor nearby and shaking it roughly. "Daddy, Daddy," the dervish shrieks, and when I carefully slit my eyes open against the bright sunlight streaking through a crack in the curtains, I see that Gus is leaning against the sofa, both hands on my bare arm, pushing and pulling me into consciousness.

"Daddy, wake up!" he shouts, as if I'm a block away instead of mere inches from his face.

"Oh," I groan, clutching my head, "Oh, God."

"God's probably nearby, it's Sunday, so watch your mouth," a cheerful voice informs me, and I glance up to see Lindsay standing above the sofa smiling down at me. Sunlight diffused by the living room curtains backlights her blonde hair, giving me a momentary pang of longing for another blond head that's a million miles away.

"Go away and let me sleep," I moan, knowing it's hopeless but giving it a shot anyway.

"Nope," Lindsay's relentlessly jolly, "Everybody will be here in an hour, so get up and get dressed now."

That gets both my eyes open. "Everybody?"

"Brian, we told you we were having a family brunch this morning. It's ten o'clock, brunch is at eleven."

"No."

It's a token refusal to accept the inevitable. Vaguely I remember Lindsay mentioning something about Sunday brunch, but I thought she just meant the munchers-and-son.

"Who?" I ask suspiciously, as I gingerly sit up on the sofa, moving slowly to ensure that the ticking bomb inside my head doesn't detonate. "Who is everybody?"

"Debbie and Vic, Michael and Ben, and Hunter, of course. Emmett will probably be here later, he's due back sometime this morning. We invited Ted and that friend of his, but I don't know if they're coming. And - "

"Jesus Christ." My voice is mild, in consideration of the little mockingbird hanging onto my knee, staring up at me.

Predictably he repeats, "Cheesy Crust," causing Lindsay to lean down and smack my shoulder.

"Get up," she orders me, and Gus seconds the motion.

"Up, Daddy, up, up, up!"

"Why, Gus?" I demand, turning the tables on him and leaning forward till we're nose to nose. "Why? Why? Why?"

"Ew," he recoils slightly, then turns to Lindsay and informs her, "Mama, Daddy stinky!"

"You're ganging up on me," I complain, rising unsteadily to my feet and wrapping the blanket around me like a toga. On my way out of the living room, I complain, "Can I at least have a cup of coffee before I get in the shower?"

Mel is in the kitchen, standing at the table carving a large ham.

"Is that kosher?"

"I'm not going to eat it, asshole."

“Nice language to use in front of my son.”

“Our son.”

Gus is on my heels and he informs her, "Mommy, Daddy stinky!"

"You can say that again," Mel mutters. Gus doesn't follow up on her invitation and I choose to ignore it.

"Daddy needs coffee, and can everybody please stop shouting?" I drop into a chair at the table and steal a crumb of ham that's fallen off the plate. Lindsay pours me a cup of coffee and remembers to add sugar. I take a few gulps, letting it burn my tongue and gratefully breathing in hot steam rising from the cup.

“I’m taking Gus upstairs to change his clothes,” Lindsay informs us as she bends down to pick him up. “Is it safe to leave you two alone together for ten minutes?”

“Don’t worry,” I swallow a gulp of coffee, “Mel’s virtue is safe with me.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Linds throws over her shoulder as she heads for the stairs. Mel mutters “asshole” again and continues slicing the ham, arranging layers on a large white platter.

The kitchen’s silent with just the two of us; we’ve always kept up a front of semi-amused bickering but underneath it all, we really don’t like each very much. When the silence draws out too long, Mel speaks first. “Justin’s mother will croak if you decide to stay in LA,” she tells me, without looking up from her slicing.

“She’ll survive. Besides, she’ll have a new husband to keep her busy. And she’s got another kid to smother.”

Mel puts down the knife and asks, “So, ARE you going to stay in California?”

I shrug. “Too soon to tell. But it’s up to Justin whether he stays there or comes back here.”

She laughs then. “Oh yeah, like he’d choose to be someplace you’re not. You’ve got that boy penis-whipped.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” I answer mildly. “Justin makes his own decisions.”

“Uh-huh.”

I make a decision of my own: Discretion is the better part of valor. Or: It is better to get up and leave the room than to kick Melanie’s ass.

Gathering my suitcase from the hall closet, I hump it up the stairs to Emmett’s room, averting my eyes from the pink chiffon décor and carrying my toiletries bag into the upstairs bathroom. The shower’s halfway decent and I could spend an hour under the steaming spray to flush JB toxins from my skin, but I’m absolutely certain that Mel plans to accidentally turn on the cold tap downstairs midway through my shower, on the off-chance the surge of hot water will burn off my cock, so I rush through and then take my time shaving.

I’m tempted to let my beard go for the day, but by late afternoon the bristles would be stiff enough to rub Justin’s little ass totally raw. He wouldn’t complain but since I intend to fuck him repeatedly tonight until one of us passes out, I decide to start out with a smooth face. I smile at myself in the bathroom mirror, impressed with my amazing show of maturity and consideration for others. That’s twice so far today and it’s not even noon.


Justin

At exactly nine o’clock on the dot, I pick up the phone and call Andrew Whittaker’s home number. I knew he was due back from San Francisco late last night, too late for me to call him then, and what I need to say could not be left on an answering machine. I figured that nine a.m. is early for a Sunday morning but not so early as to be outrageous.

The houseboy answers the phone. At least I think it’s a houseboy. I tell him who I am and that I need to speak to Andrew urgently as soon as he’s up, then I’m put on hold and a couple minutes later, Andrew picks up.

“Justin?” he asks, “What’s up? Something wrong?”

“Hi. No, nothing’s wrong. Well, sort of wrong. Andrew,” I say a bit breathlessly, “Can I maybe come over, or something? I need to talk to you in person, it’s kind of complicated.”

“Well, I’m intrigued,” he says. “You can come here if you want, but I’m headed into Burbank soon, for a brunch meeting with some suits at Universal. I can stop by your place on the way. Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” I agree eagerly, “Thanks.”

“See you in a couple hours then.” Andrew hangs up and I breathe a sigh of relief.



Brian

Debbie and Vic are the first to arrive and naturally Deb tries to horn in on the kitchen action, she loves to cook and the girls had refused absolutely to let her bring anything. Somehow they convince her to sit on the sidelines and supervise, and a couple times I notice Lindsay asking Deb's advice on something food related and I know she's just doing it from kindness, Linds is a fabulous cook in her own right.

Mostly I stay out of the kitchen and at first it's easy to avoid conflict, it's just Vic and me for a while, and we hang out in the living room talking sotto voce about ways to keep Deb off her feet without losing her mind (or more likely, causing Vic and Michael to lose theirs). Michael and I have talked her into taking "indefinite" leave from the Diner, but I know that's going to be one fucking struggle after a week or probably less. Deb's worked since she was a kid, it's ingrained in her by now. I don't envy Michael and Vic trying to put the brakes on.

Emmett shows up next, he'd spent most of the weekend organizing what he calls a Fabulous Fifties Fete for a rich queer couple with a huge mansion on the other side of town, an old place built a century ago with a turret and other architectural anomalies that Em describes in excruciatingly boring detail. Continuing my uncharacteristic streak of kindness, I don't regale Emmett with tales of the several orgies I've attended in that house, but when he floats upstairs to unpack and change clothes for brunch, I whisper a couple stories to Vic, and he admits that he went to a party there many years ago when both he and the queer couple were young.

When Michael and Ben arrive, Hunter pushes past them and hurries across the living room to throw himself, literally, at my feet. "Hey Bri, wassup?" he asks with that indomitable smile.

"Hunter," Michael rushes over to frown at the boy, "It's Uncle Brian to you, and go into the kitchen to say hi to Ma and the others right now."

"Sheesh," Hunter grumps, getting to his feet and ostentatiously grabbing his dick through his baggy jeans to rearrange it. "Uncle Brian my ass," he glares at Michael, but he moves away and goes into the kitchen.

"Practicing your dad skills?" I smirk, "The best of Irish luck to you with that one."

Ben returns from the kitchen where he' s said his own hellos and sits down next to me. "Yeah," he agrees, "Hunter's a handful all right, but he's coming along. He's really a great kid, underneath that rough exterior. And he's smart, too."

I tune out the boring proud-pop chatter, which a glance at the glazed look on Vic's face tells me is continuing unchecked and I stand up and excuse myself to go outside for a smoke. Michael insists on coming along, which prevents me from calling Justin. I don't need to call him anyway, I was just going to check his cell; besides, I realize that it's still early in California, Justin might not be up yet.

"How's the hangover?"

"What hangover?" I raise my eyebrows at Michael.

"Ha," he snorts, "You've got bags under your eyes."

"I fucking do not have bags under my eyes!" My hand snakes up and my fingers gently caress the skin there, but I know he's full of shit, I saw myself in the mirror this morning, I look as fantastic as always.

"Well, you should have bags," he amends himself, "And some day soon, you will have. You're no spring chicken, you know."

"You're older than me," I remind him, "So fuck off with the grandpa talk."

"But I don't abuse my body with chemicals and cigarettes and endless pieces of ass."

"Yeah, you always were pathetic."

"Oh, I forgot," Michael smirks at me. "Your endless pursuit of ass has finally ended. You're a do-mes-tic part-ner now!"

"Shut the fuck up. So much for your promise."

“I haven’t told anybody.”

“You will.”

I take a final drag on my cigarette and glance over Michael’s shoulder at a top-of-the-line silver Mercedes gliding by. Except it doesn’t glide by, it pulls up to the curb. Who the fuck do Linds and Mel know with a. . .

“Oh fuck.”

“What?” Michael turns around to look as the driver’s door opens and Jennifer Taylor’s doctor swings out of the car.

Oh, fuck.

We watch in silence as the doctor opens the passenger door. Jennifer steps out, she glances up at the porch and sees us, gives a little wave, and Michael waves back.

Oh, fuck.

Michael giggles. He actually fucking giggles. “Hey Brian,” he reaches out and pokes me in the ribs. “It’s your in-laws.”

Of course, I want to turn around and flee but I’m paralyzed to the spot, either by panic or by some shred of good manners that must’ve rubbed off on me from hanging around Justin. My face feels like petrified wood while my mouth turns up in what I hope is a welcoming smile but is more likely a death mask grimace. I stand my ground, waiting to welcome Jennifer and glad-hand her into the house.

“Hello Brian, hello Michael,” she says pleasantly as she mounts the stairs, Doctor Rob bringing up the rear.

“Nice to see you again, Brian,” he says, inclining his head politely, his eyes showing nothing but friendly warmth; he knows by now that I’m not going to give him a hard time. In any sense of the word. They pass by us and go into the house; Michael turns and follows them in.

I stay on the porch, pull out my cigarettes and light up again, pondering the unanswerable question: How the fuck did Brian Kinney acquire in-laws?

I pull out my phone and look at it for a minute. Probably Justin has his cell turned back on by now. But perversely I don’t want to talk to him, I want to see him. Now, God damn it. I want to go home. Then it hits me – LA is home. Or at least, at this moment in time LA is home. Maybe because he’s there, I suppose that could be a small part of it.

No use postponing the inevitable. I toss away my half-smoked cigarette and go into the house.



Ben

I haven’t seen much of Justin’s mother before now; she’s been at a couple family events since I’ve become part of this crazy group but I’m slightly surprised to see her here today, with Justin stuck in LA. The ladies invited her and naturally, everyone welcomes her warmly, this tight-woven extended family of really good people. Well, people who are mostly good; some of them aren’t always as nice as they could be.

A few minutes later Brian slips in the front door, I had a hunch he’d be heading for the hills once he saw Jennifer Taylor arrive. There’s no love lost between those two, though nobody else seems to notice.

Jennifer’s engaged to a really handsome man in his fifties; he’s in good shape though a few minutes a day on the Nautilus would tighten his midriff a bit more – it’s not flabby but his snug pullover shows a slight softening around his waistline. His pecs are good and firm and his handshake denotes a man both strong and sincere.

After introductions we all hang around in the kitchen until the cooks shoo us away, then we move into the living room and play a subtle game of musical chairs. I sit on the sofa and pull Michael’s hand gently so he’ll sit beside me on the sofa arm. I need to help him keep his mouth shut about Brian and Justin’s commitment, especially with Justin’s mother here. We promised Brian to keep his secret and I’m determined that we do just that.

Jennifer and Rob squeeze down on the other end of the sofa, Emmett sits on a footstool, Vic takes an easy chair, and Brian sort of hovers behind Vic, sometimes putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. I’ve noticed a tight bond between the two men, though the one time I mentioned it to Michael he dismissed the obvious shared friendship, saying, “Oh yeah, Brian likes Uncle Vic.” I see more than that, I sense some kind of shared karma between them, I suspect there was a mentoring relationship there in the past. Of course, it’s none of my business so I keep my thoughts to myself.

Hunter’s been in the bathroom and when he comes into the living room, I see his eyes rove around till he spots Brian and then he oh-so-subtly wanders over to sit down on the floor at his feet. Hunter’s eyes as he looks up are not so much adoring as full of juicy teenage lust. Brian doesn’t even glance at him. Michael has confided his fear that Brian will take advantage of Hunter’s obvious crush but I have more faith in Brian. For one thing (and despite evidence to the contrary), I believe that Brian is truly good at heart and he wouldn’t want to hurt the boy; and for another, I have faith in Brian’s commitment to Justin.

Michael also confided to me that he does not believe in that commitment, in spite of the fact that Brian calls Justin his domestic partner. Just because Brian never had a meaningful relationship before now, in my mind that doesn’t preclude him making a heartfelt commitment to the young man he loves. Anyone seeing the two together can tell that they are truly in love, it’s written all over them whenever they look at each other.

Emmett regales the assembled company with a description of the weekend party he just catered, keeping us all entertained until we’re called to eat. Lindsay settles Gus in the living room to watch a DVD of The Little Mermaid, and I cringe when Brian says casually, “Hunter, you want to stay here and watch the movie too?” But Hunter just laughs and punches Brian’s shoulder, and he says “Fuck you!” loud enough to get shushed by every female in the room.

The ladies have a long dining table that easily seats all of us, and I notice again that Brian maneuvers himself to be close to Vic; they’re so comfortable together that it’s easy to imagine that Vic is Brian’s uncle as well as Michael’s.

When the food is served I decide to break a few of my dietary rules – an occasional egg yolk is not a death sentence and a few extra carbs once or twice a month can be an acceptable diversion. All the food smells delicious and everyone digs in and loads up their plates. A glance at Brian shows him nibbling a single slice of crisp bacon and toying with a small mound of scrambled eggs; he’s as diet conscious as I am myself except that his concern’s more for keeping his body slim than any health worries. For a moment I feel a twinge of resentment that he’s healthy and I’m not, but it’s an unworthy thought that I banish immediately.

Brian must feel my eyes on him because he glances toward me, and I’m struck anew by the heat of a single gaze from those intense greenish-brown eyes. I have a momentary flashback to the night we spent together in his hotel room at the White Party, my God he was magnificent in bed. Before I can change my train of thought, I see recognition in Brian’s eyes and he smiles crookedly before looking away and taking another bite of the bacon in his hand.

Conversation is light at first, everyone’s busy eating and the murmured talk revolves around food, compliments to the cooks and previous breakfast feasts fondly remembered. When everyone’s sated, other subjects of conversation arise, and attention turns to Jennifer and Rob’s upcoming wedding.

“We want a small ceremony,” Jennifer explains, “Since it’s a second marriage for both of us, we’re going to keep it simple.”

“When will it be?” Lindsay asks.

“January?” Jenn looks at Rob and he nods.

“Or February. After the holidays,” he agrees. “I’m kept pretty busy around Christmas with skiing and snowboarding accidents.”

I remember that he’s an orthopedic surgeon, I suppose a lot of people get hurt on holiday vacations. Rob confirms it. “Folks get sporting equipment for Christmas and they want to use it right away, often without getting training first.”

“Where will you go on your honeymoon?” Emmett asks eagerly, leaning forward across the table to smile at Jennifer.

“Rob has a house in Puerto Rico, we’re going to spend a week down there.”

“Will Molly go with you?” Deb wants to know. “If not, she could stay with me while you’re gone, I’d love to have a little one around for a while!”

“Mel’s going to pop her cork soon,” Brian puts in, “Then you’ll have a little one around.”

“Pop my cork?” Mel bristles.

“Thanks, Deb,” Jennifer smiles, ignoring the routine Brian/Melanie bickering. “But Molly will be staying with her father that week. She loves spending time with him and he’s really good with her.”

“So, he’s up for Father of the Year award, is he?” Brian asks, turning a dangerously bland smile on Jennifer.

There’s a brief shocked silence and I notice that Jennifer’s frowning. “I said he was good with Molly.”

“Well, that’s all that matters then,” Brian says, his voice edgy and his smile brittle.

“I can’t make him accept Justin,” Jennifer sits up straight in her chair and glares at Brian, “It’s not my fault that – “

Deb jumps in and says soothingly, “Jenn, nobody blames you for Justin’s dad being an asshole!”

“Brian does.” Jennifer’s face is red and she’s staring daggers across the table.

Brian says nothing, just stares back at her, then he shrugs his shoulders. “Whatever,” he says dismissively, looking away, picking up his fork and spearing a chunk of scrambled eggs.

Everyone’s silent for a moment, we’re all reluctantly plunged into the middle of what’s obviously a long-standing conflict between Justin’s mother and Brian. Then Melanie’s voice slices through the heavy silence.

“Cut the crap, Brian,” she says angrily, “As if you give a shit about Justin – you didn’t even let him come home with you this weekend!”

Debbie steps in again. “The boys are on a tight budget,” she explains to Melanie, “It was too expensive for both of them to come this time, but they’ll be here for Christmas.”

“And Brian only came because I needed him,” Michael pipes up, “He didn’t come for fun, he came to help me deal with Ma’s illness.”

“Yeah, right,” Melanie sneers, “That’s why he was out fucking around last night, till after two, and smelled like a brewery this morning.”

“He wasn’t fucking around!” Michael insists fervently.

“Shut up, Michael,” Brian interrupts. He lifts his chin and looks directly at Melanie. “In fact,” he confirms, his voice harsh, “I actually did force Justin to stay in LA this time. And I might not let him come home for Christmas. He’ll do whatever I tell him.”

“I knew it,” Melanie crows, and “How dare you, treat my son that way?” Jennifer demands.

Even I recognize that Brian’s just kicking up shit, everyone in this family has known him for years, why can’t they understand what he’s doing and why? I can’t help putting my oar in the water. “Does anyone really imagine that Justin would do what Brian tells him?” I ask mildly. “Justin never does what anybody tells him.”

Brian shoots me a surprised look and he laughs.

But it’s as if nobody else heard me.

Lindsay’s sitting next to Brian and she puts a hand on his arm. “You have to let Justin come home for Christmas,” she insists.

“Sunshine needs to come for a visit!” Debbie adds, “We’ll all chip in for airfare!”

Even Rob gets in on the action. “I’ll buy a ticket for Justin,” he offers.

“I’ll think about it,” Brian says grandly, raising his eyebrows and glancing superciliously around the table. “If he behaves himself, I might let him come home.”

“Son of a bitch,” Melanie’s getting angrier, “How can you treat Justin that way? The little fucker loves you!”

“Brian loves him too!” Michael’s bristling with anger; I put a calming hand on his arm but he shakes it off.

“Bullshit!” Melanie insists, “Brian only loves himself, he doesn’t give a damn about anyone else, not even Justin.”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” Michael yells, jumping to his feet. I’m trying to pull him back down in his chair but he shakes off my hand again.

“Michael, shut the fuck up,” Brian growls, but it’s useless.

“He does too love Justin!” Michael’s shouting. “In fact, they just got married in California!”

Suddenly everyone at the table falls silent, nobody’s even breathing, then every head turns and every eye is on Brian, who’s sitting stock-still in his chair.

The chair legs screech on the floor as Brian stands up abruptly and tosses his napkin on the table. The one swift glance he throws at Michael encompasses a thousand harsh epithets though he voices none of them, merely turns on his heel and marches out of the room, out the front door, slamming it behind him.

“Oh fuck,” Michael groans, looking the picture of guilt. “I promised not to tell.”

“Uh-huh,” I agree, then I slip my arm around his waist and give him a comforting hug.

It’s Michael’s nature to rise to Brian’s defense, no force on earth could stop that instinct. I know it, and Brian knows it too – he called it last night. “You’ll tell everybody,” he’d said, and he was proved right.



Brian

I’ve walked rapidly through the munchers’ neighborhood, going six or eight blocks before I begin to slow down, before I realize that I stormed out of the house without my jacket and it’s fucking cold. I stop abruptly and stare down at the sidewalk, I feel my shoulders sag while the anger seeps out of me. Anger at Michael, anger at Melanie, anger at Jennifer, even anger at Justin for inadvertently putting me in this position. But mostly anger at myself. I realize that I’m embarrassed, an emotion I haven’t felt for many years.

Slowly I retrace my steps, shoving hands in my pockets and shivering. I’m trying to keep my mind blank, trying not to give into any self-analytical psychobabble, trying simply to shrug off the tumultuous emotion I feel at having this deep, dark humiliating secret so publicly revealed.

The analysis comes anyway, despite my attempts to block it. And I realize that the embarrassment I feel is not because the secret is out. No, I’m embarrassed because my reaction to the denouement is kind of an affront to Justin. An insult to his pride in our commitment. I’m remembering his face as he showed me the beautiful picture he’d made with our certificate, and I’m remembering how I felt holding him in my arms, almost bursting with happiness in that brief moment. In a way, my angry reaction to the family finding out is a denial of that happiness.

When I push open the door and go back into the house, everyone’s still seated around the dining table. They were talking briskly but they all fall silent as I enter the room and take my place again at the table. “Is there any bacon left?” I ask, ignoring the staring eyes and looking only at Lindsay.

“Brian,” Deb asks quietly, “Is it true?”

Staring at my plate, I sigh heavily and shake my head, then raise my eyes and look at her. “We’re not married,” I answer quietly, “But we are registered as domestic partners.”

“Does that mean ‘married,’ in California?” she persists.

Sighing again, I murmur, “Close enough.” Then I look at Lindsay and demand brusquely, “Well, is there any fucking bacon left, or not?”



Justin

Andrew arrives about eleven, I let him in and offer him a drink.

“No thanks, I’ll be drinking at brunch, better keep a clear head.”

“Come in and sit down. I need to talk to you.”

Andrew follows me into the living room. “Mind if I use your bathroom first? My morning coffee just kicked in.”

“Sure, it’s down the hall on the left.”

I’ve been waiting all morning for Brian’s call but when the phone rings my heart sinks. Naturally, it would be NOW that he calls, with Andrew in the apartment. I have to answer the phone of course.

“Hey.”

“Hey, I’m at the airport, my flight’s scheduled to leave on time.”

“Good, that’s great. So I’ll see you about four o’clock then.”

“Don’t bother to park,” Brian says, “I’ll collect my suitcase and wait outside the terminal. Don’t come by till about four-thirty, I should be out by then.”

I hear the toilet flush.

“Okay, see you then! Bye.”

Brian complains jokingly, “You trying to get rid of me? You’re in a hurry to get off the phone.”

“Well,” I say quickly, “We decided not to use long distance, remember?”

“Yeah, but we can afford a few minutes of foreplay, can’t we?” Brian laughs. “So tell me - are you naked?”

Before I can answer, I hear Andrew coming down the hall, he calls out, “Maybe I’ll have that drink after all.” He stops in the doorway and notices that I’m on the phone. “Oh, sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” I tell him in a whisper, “I’ll be off in a minute.”

“Who’s there?” Brian’s voice is sharp.

“Nobody. I mean, it’s not what you think.”

”What do I think?”

“I mean, well, it’s not that.”

There’s a long pause, then Brian says quietly, “Justin, you know that you’re free to fuck around. But it was you who said, not in the apartment.”

“I’m not – Brian, it’s not like that. It’s a business meeting kind of thing.”

“Business. On Sunday. “

“Yeah.”

”So,” he asks, “Who’s there? Your boss?”

“Yes, well.”

“Merry Andrew?”

“Yeah, and I can explain it all to you when you get home.”

“Explain what?” His voice is harsh. “Explain why your cell phone’s been turned off for two days?”

“No, I mean yes, and - and the business thing. I can’t tell you now, can we just wait till you get home?”

Brian’s silent for a moment, then he says, “So, you want me to hang up.”

“Brian, can you please just. . .”

“Just what?”

“Can you please just. . .trust me.”

“Ah!” he exclaims, “Trust you. Okay, I’ve got it now. I’m three thousand miles away, you’re alone in the apartment with your gorgeous sexy queer boss who has a reputation for fucking around on his partner with young guys, but I should just trust you and hang up the phone so you can continue your ‘business meeting’ with him.”

“Brian – “

“Is that it, in a nutshell? Sunshine?”

“You make it sound – Brian, it’s not like that. I promise.”

“Oh well, as long as you PROMISE.”

“Brian,” I say urgently, “I’ll meet your plane and then I can explain everything, and I promise you won’t be mad at me.”

“Who said I was mad now? Did I say that?”

“Brian, you won’t be mad later, when I explain.”

“I’ll look forward to that. I really will.”

“So,” I say quickly, “I’ll pick you up at – “

He’s clicked off his phone. I stand staring at the receiver in my hand for a moment, then I press the code to call him back. His cell’s turned off. Fuck.

Andrew's standing just inside the doorway. "You okay?"

"Yes. No. Fuck." I drop down on the sofa and Andrew comes into the room, sits on the other end of the sofa.

"So," he says, "Why don't you tell me what's up?"



Brian

“Trust me,” he said.

Justin said, “Trust me.” Why the fuck should I trust him? He said he’d explain everything when I get to LA. What the fuck is “everything?”

And now I’ve got to cool my heels and not make myself absolutely fucking insane wondering what he’s getting up to with his boss. In our apartment. Justin’s alone with the man-izer in our apartment, and I’ll be stuck at thirty-thousand feet for the next five or six hours. Fucking hell.


Justin

"So," Andrew Whittaker says, as he takes a seat at the end of the sofa. "Why don't you tell me what's up?"

I stare at him for a moment, chewing on my bottom lip, trying to decide (as if it's not practically all I've been thinking about for the past two days) what I need to say to my boss, and how to say it. "Okay," I say finally, "Okay." I turn sideways on the sofa to face him, and I take a deep breath.

"I went to see Jim Masterson on Friday, like you asked me," I begin. "I took the Flyaway sketches for him to review, and the new logo you wanted me to show him."

Andrew nods, and I take another deep breath. Then I realize that there's no subtle or tactful way to put it, so I just blurt out, "He attacked me."

"Attacked you?" Andrew's eyebrows climb high on his forehead. "What do you mean, he attacked you?"

I jump up then, I jump up from the sofa and begin to pace, almost unconsciously I'm wringing my hands. "He - I don't of course, know why exactly, but I have my suspicions, and probably I can't prove it, but I think I'm pretty sure, that - that - that - "

"Justin," Andrew stands up and stops my pacing, takes my hands in his and holds them still. "Come back and sit down. Come on," he puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me back to the sofa, presses me gently down and I perch on the edge of the cushion. He sits down too, our knees are touching, and I stare at the nubby texture of his trousers. Andrew says, "Why don't you start at the beginning, just tell me exactly what happened?"

"Well," I say, pulling my eyes away from the bumpy gray fabric to look at Andrew, "Like I said, I don't know why, but I think I do, except how can I prove it?"

"Tell me the 'what,'" he suggests, "We'll worry about the 'why' later. Okay?"

"Okay." I try to put my thoughts in order, I realize that I sound like an idiot. "I went to his hotel room," I begin. "Well it was a suite really, and he welcomed me at the door, he said, ‘So you’re Andrew Whittaker’s new boy,’ and then he offered me a drink."

I stop then and look away from Andrew; I look over his shoulder and I'm reliving the scene at Masterson's hotel.

"Uh, no thanks," I'd sort of stuttered, trying unobtrusively to pull my hand away from the tight grip of Masterson’s fingers. I pulled gently twice, then the third time I jerked my hand back roughly and he released me. Masterson grinned and turned to close the hotel room door, and somehow the solid "clunk" of the door closing made me jump slightly, which was silly. When he moved forward I discovered that I'd taken a couple steps backward, before I mentally shook myself and got a grip. I was just delivering papers to a client, there was no reason to feel a vaguely sinister overtone to the meeting.

Needing to get back on normal footing, I'd cleared my throat and pasted on a smile. "Mr. Masterson, I - "

"Jim," he insisted, "Let's not be so formal."

I nodded okay and started again, holding up the fat manila folder. "Jim, Andrew Whittaker asked me to bring the Flyaway sketches to you personally, so that - "

Masterson interrupted, "Drop them on the table, I'll look at them later." Before I could protest, he grabbed the folder from my hand and tossed it toward a high table near a pastel-blue-and-green tapestry sofa. It rested briefly on the edge before sliding off, the folder opening and the thick stack of papers inside sliding in slow motion to the floor, a cascade of fluttering white pages covered with my rough designs and sketches.

"Oh!" I'd exclaimed, turning toward the table and dropping to my knees to gather up the papers. I was intent on shoving them into a neat stack, trying to get them back in order. Masterson made no move to help, in fact, he stood so close behind me that a few sheets were trapped under one of his shiny executive-type shoes.

"Leave it," he said softly, and when I ignored him and kept shuffling papers together, he reached down and took hold of my arm, pulling me roughly to my feet.

"Wait," I started to say, but he interrupted again.

"I've waited long enough, stop wasting time with those fucking papers."

"What do you mean - "

But I wasn't left long in doubt of his meaning, in one swift movement he slid his large hands inside my jacket and over my shoulders, removing the jacket and tossing it toward the sofa, before grabbing me tight around the hips and pulling me close.

"Hey!" I'd put both hands on his chest and pushed him backward. Or I tried to push him backward, he's got about seventy pounds on me, his solid body hardly budged, so I pushed him again, and growled, "Stop it! Let me go!"

"Cut the act," Masterson ordered me then, "We both know why Andrew sent you, so stop dicking around."

Struggling against the hands holding me tight, I pushed even harder on his chest, breathless with surprise and alarm, I could hardly find breath to speak. "Let me go, damn you!" I'd managed to demand, giving up on the pushing and instead, twisting my body sideways till I broke his grip.

In one swift movement he got hold of me again, he grabbed my shoulders and turned me around, shoved me against the back of the sofa and pushed me face-first down onto the sofa cushions, grinding his crotch against my uptilted ass. My face was pressed into the tapestry but I managed to turn my head and I yelled, "Let me go, let me go!"

His weight was pinioning me against the sofa, I twisted but I couldn't get away. My hands flew backward to smack at him till he grabbed both my hands in one of his and held them still, useless to break away from his greater strength. In the midst of my struggle I felt his other hand snake around my hips and unzip my jeans, and though I was bucking as hard as I could against him, I couldn't prevent him grabbing hold of my jeans and pulling them down to my ankles.

Till that moment I'd been only furiously angry, but suddenly I realized that I was in danger, I was actually in danger, the man's greater size and strength were forcing me to succumb to his attack, and my body shivered violently with real, earth-shattering panic.

When I felt him grab my briefs and rip them down my legs, I stopped struggling. Masterson grunted with satisfaction and he growled at me, "That's more like it, now spread your legs."

"Wait," I'd choked, then cleared my throat and tried again, "Wait, please, I don't like it rough!"

"But I do," he’d countered, as he ground his rock-hard cock against my naked ass. “And it’s too late to renegotiate.”

“Huh?”

When I felt him fumble at the buttons of his fly, I knew that I was only seconds away from getting fucked. Suddenly I made my body go totally limp, slumping against the sofa cushions. Surprise made Masterson loosen his grip on my hips, he took a step backward and I slipped to the floor at his feet. He reached down and grabbed my shoulders with both hands, trying to raise me up, and that’s when I saw my chance, and I grabbed it.

I grabbed him, I grabbed his balls, grabbed his balls with both my hands and squeezed as hard as I could. Masterson yelped and he let go of me abruptly, and urgently he grabbed my wrists and pulled my squeezing fingers away from his balls. I let go and took two steps backward, watching as Masterson grabbed his own balls and doubled over, falling to the floor, groaning.

Quickly pulling up my briefs and my jeans in one swift motion, I sidestepped around Masterson, grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. I ripped it open and slammed it shut behind me, and I ran. Not waiting for the elevator, I pulled open the door to the stairs and I belted down and down and down, I ran down eight flights of stairs, till I reached the lobby level, where I stopped to catch my breath, leaning against the wall and slipping down it, to crouch in the narrow stairwell gasping for air and letting my heartbeat slow to near-normal. Then I pulled open the door and walked ever-so-casually through the lobby and out the main door to the parking lot.

“Wow,” Andrew exhaled softly, bringing me back to the present. I returned my eyes to his face and waited to hear what he would say.

“Wow,” he said again, “Justin, I’m sorry you had – such an unpleasant experience.”

“Andrew,” I took a deep breath, then I asked the first of a few hard questions. “Andrew, did Masterson think I was some kind of hooker?”

He nodded. “You’ve probably figured out that – it wouldn’t have been the first time I sent him a hooker.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, then I had to know, I had to ask, “Is that why you asked me to go there?”

“No!” Andrew gasped, his eyes widening, “Justin – no, I swear it. I wanted you to show him the new logo, to talk to him about it, as a Simpson employee, as an artist. It never occurred to me. . .” Andrew hesitated, then admitted ruefully, “I guess it should have occurred to me, I’ve known Jim Masterson for years, I know his. . .proclivities.”

Then Andrew looked me in the eye and I felt he was sincere when he said, “Forgive me, please? It’s really my fault that this happened.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, “But there’s more.”

“More?”

I stood up again then and walked over to the window, then turned and walked back, stopping in front of Andrew and crossing my arms over my chest. “Ever since Friday night, my cell phone’s been ringing and ringing – with guys calling me for sex. Asking for me by name, saying I was ‘highly recommended’ as a good fuck.”

Andrew looked surprised. “And you think Jim Masterson – “

“No,” I shook my head. “No, I don’t. In a way, it’s worse. And I don’t know if you’ll believe me, and I know I can’t prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“I think Reg did it. Gave out my cell phone number.”

“Oh no,” Andrew denied it. He got to his feet and copied my stance, folding his arms on his chest. “Reg would never do anything like that. Besides, how do you know he even knows your cell phone number?”

“Because he asked me for it, on Friday. When I wanted to call Masterson to tell him I was coming to the hotel, Reg offered to do it for me. And he asked for my number, in case he needed to get hold of me.”

Still, he’s shaking his head. “I know Reg, he’s a fantastic employee. Really, you must be wrong.”

“Well, I told you I can’t prove it. And maybe he is fantastic, but he doesn’t like me. And why would Masterson assume I was a hooker, if Reg didn’t call and tell him that you. . .that you were sending me over?”

Andrew stands silent, just staring at me and shaking his head. “Can I have that drink now?” When I say sure, he asks for whiskey.

“Is JB all right? That’s the only hard stuff we have right now.” I think of Brian’s well-stocked bar back home; here we have one bottle of JB and two bottles of white wine.

“It’s fine, fine.” Andrew sits down on the sofa again, and almost absently accepts the glass and takes a sip, two, before sighing and setting the glass down on the coffee table. Then he reaches inside his suit jacket and pulls out a cell phone. It must have some kind of PDA attachment because he makes a few keystrokes, then punches a number, holds the phone to his ear, and waves at me to sit down.

“Yes,” he says, “Jim Masterson, please.” He must have called the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.

A moment later he says, “Jim, hello, it’s Andrew Whittaker.” Immediately he raises his eyebrows and holds the phone away from his ear.

“Calm down, Jim, calm down!” he says, then he listens for a moment before interrupting what is probably a tirade against me, the hooker who crushed his balls two days ago. “Jim, I’m sorry, but the fact is, that was not a fucking hooker, that was – “

Andrew breaks off and listens for a moment, then I see him shaking his head. Nodding he says into the phone, “Well, you were told wrong. What did Reg say, exactly, do you remember?”

“Mmm-hmm, yes, I can see where you got the impression. But in fact, Justin Taylor is a very valued employee at Simpson Studios. An artist. I sent him to. . .oh, you did? You looked at the drawings? Yes, those are his sketches, the new logo was Justin’s idea.”

“Mmm-hmm, yes, I’d say you owe him an apology, don’t you? Yes. Yes, I’ll tell him. Maybe you should tell him too?” Andrew glances at me, a question in his eyes, and quickly I shake my head no. I don’t want to talk to Jim Masterson today. Or, like, ever.

“Sure, Jim,” Andrew’s saying now. “When are you coming back to LA again? Let’s do lunch then. And when you do, have I got a boy for you! Uh-huh.” Andrew’s openly – though silently – laughing. “Yeah, well just in case your balls ever do grow back, I’ll bring him over personally, so there’s no mistake.” After another pause, Andrew says, “Call me then. And I’ll tell the artist that you’re crazy about the new logo. Oh yes, yes he’s definitely going to get a bonus! Okay, Jim – talk to you later.”

Andrew clicks off his phone and holds it in his lap. His smile fades and he shakes his head. “Justin, my apologies. And for what it’s worth, Jim’s sorry too. It was all a terrible mistake – he misunderstood something Reg said to him. Reg told Jim that you were ‘Andrew’s new boy,’ and Jim assumed he meant, ‘Andrew’s new boy-toy.’ So you see, Reg didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Okay,” I say, unconvinced but knowing further argument is hopeless. Still, I argue anyway. “And all the hooker calls I’ve been getting on my cell phone? I’m supposed to believe that’s a coincidence?”

“It must be. Justin, I know Reg, he’s worked for me for five years. He’d never do such a thing, I promise you that.”

“Okay,” I give up.

“Change your number,” he suggests, as he stands up and pockets his own phone. “Now, I’d better get moving, my meeting’s in half an hour. Everything okay now?”

“Yeah. Yes.” It’s not exactly okay, but I know this is the best I can expect. And at least I’m going to get a bonus for the new logo I created.

As I close the door behind Andrew, I glance at my watch. I’ve got about four hours to figure out how much of my solo adventure I want to share with Brian. If he knew the truth, he’d be packing my bags to send me back home again – Brian’s answer anytime something goes wrong. The thing is, I handled myself okay. I’m a man, I can take care of myself, and it’s time that Brian accepts that and lets me deal with things on my own.



Brian

I’m not really surprised to see Justin waiting for me at LAX – even though I told him just to drive by and pick me up. After I hung up on him, maybe he was worried that I’d grab a taxi instead of waiting – which I’d seriously considered doing a couple hours ago when I was still mad. But once the plane lands at LAX and I walk quickly with the crowd from the arrivals gate, I realize that I’m not angry anymore. Worried maybe, though only slightly. Very, very slightly worried, maybe. But overriding everything is the need to see Justin, it feels like I’ve been gone a few weeks instead of only two days.

When I spy him standing there scanning the crowd, waiting for me, I feel a thumping inside my chest, roughly in the vicinity of my heart, if I had one of those valentine-shaped things, and if I believed in that bullshit. When he sees me his face explodes into a huge smile and he hurries forward, and I stand still, only so I can catch him when he flings himself into my arms. I drop my carry-on bag and hug Justin to my chest, and I kiss him hard on the mouth, not giving a fuck who’s watching, and I hold him so tight that I lift him off his feet. Then I realize that I’m wearing that same silly smile on my own stupid face.

“Hey,” I say casually, losing the smile, releasing him and picking up my bag again.

“Hey,’ he repeats, slipping his arm through mine and leading the way to baggage claim. “Well, that’s one question answered.”

“Hmm?”

“You missed me,” he gloats.

We talk generically while waiting for my suitcase, about Debbie, about Gus – I tell Justin what I’d said to make Gus cry, and I tell him that his mommy and his daddy-to-be showed up for brunch at the munchers’ this morning. And that everybody sent him hugs and kisses, but warning him that I am going to deliver all those good wishes rolled into one huge mind-boggling fuck, as soon as we get home.

“Only one?”

“That’s just the first one. The rest will be from me.”

Justin insists on driving the jeep and I don't argue; he’s a good driver and he’s getting used to LA traffic, he can shout obscenities with the best of them. Traffic’s heavy on La Cienega as usual but we make it home in reasonable time and when I follow Justin through the door of our apartment, it really feels like I’m coming home. I couldn’t eat on the plane, so Justin heats up some soup while I change clothes, then we settle on the sofa, sipping butternut squash soup from mugs and sharing the last beer.

“Sorry we’re out,” Justin apologizes, “I had a couple last night.”

“It’s okay. I’ll have a shot of JB later.”

“Um, no you won’t,” he contradicts me. “It’s all gone.” When I raise my eyebrows, Justin adds, “There was only one shot left in the bottle and I gave it to Andrew Whittaker.”

“Oh yes,” my voice grows surly, I feel myself frown. “You had a ‘business meeting’ with your boss today. On Sunday. In our apartment.” It’s not that I forgot, I just chose not to remember.

“It was business,” Justin says calmly. “There was a little problem with a difficult client, but Andrew and I got it all straightened out. I’m even going to get a bonus, for a logo sketch I created for Flyaway Filmworks.”

I’ve purloined the beer, saving the dregs for myself, and I glance at him over the neck of the bottle. “Are you maybe leaving out some details?”

“About?”

“About your business meeting. About your client problem.”

“Just boring stuff,” Justin assures me. “The client was kind of rude to me, Andrew came over to talk about it, then he called the client on the phone and got him to apologize. Case closed.”

I keep looking at him, I know Mister Taylor and I know there’s more here than meets the eye. He’s not as transparent as he was a few years ago, but I know when he’s withholding information. Still, he’s holding down a responsible job, he’s working with clients, he’s getting along with his (fucking gorgeous God-damn-it) boss, so I guess he doesn’t need to share with me every little thing he does at work.

“And how was the Sunday brunch this morning? Was my mom nice to you, did you say something rude to Melanie, did you make Gus cry again?”

“Just another boring meal at the munchers.”

I can withhold information, too.

“Well,” Justin concludes, “Now that we’re both up to date, why don’t we have a quick shower and then go to bed early so we can fuck our brains out?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agree, following him into the kitchen, waiting for him to rinse our soup mugs, then rinse the beer bottle and put it in the recycle bin. “Let’s unpack my bag first.”

We’re in the bedroom sorting laundry when I remember Justin’s cell phone. “By the way, why was your phone turned off all weekend?” I ask, taking a handful of dirty underwear to the hamper in the bathroom. I pause in the doorway waiting for his answer.

“Oh, that,” he waves a hand dismissively as he pulls off the bedspread and folds it on a chair. “I need to get the number changed, I’ve been getting obscene calls all weekend.”

“Obscene calls?”

“Seems my number is similar to some prostitution hotline or something. It was driving me crazy saying ‘wrong number’ a zillion times, so I just turned it off.”

That sounds weird but Justin’s not upset about it, so I shrug my shoulders and head for the bathroom. Just then the phone in the living room rings, and since I’m closest, I turn around and walk over to the desk and pick up.

“Hey,” the caller says, “This is Jim Masterson, I just had to call to apologize for the other day.”

“Jim Masterson?” My mind sifts rapidly through the employee list at Bradford and Slate, or maybe it’s an agency client, but I’m coming up blank.

The caller laughs. “The mad rapist, or anyway that’s what you must think of me, right? I wanted to say I’m sorry, and I hope I didn’t hurt you?”

“I think you have a wrong number,” I tell him, ready to hang up the phone.

“Isn’t this Justin?” he asks. “Andrew said not to call your cell phone, so he gave me this number instead.”

I look over my shoulder and Justin is standing in the doorway, his face completely blank.

“It’s for you,” I tell him, holding out the phone. “It’s the mad rapist.”



Justin

“Brian, I only didn’t tell you because (a) it’s all over and nothing bad happened, and (b) I knew you’d go all drama-queeny on me, and (c) then you’d announce that you were going to send me back to Pittsburgh.”

“How about (d), all of the above?”

“Yeah,” I agree, “Definitely (d).”

“So,” he concludes, “All’s well that ends well?”

“Well,” I say reasonably, “It is, you know? Nothing bad happened, I handled everything myself, and I even got a bonus out of it.” We’ve been sitting on the sofa while I filled Brian in on a few more details about my weekend adventure. “Now can we please go to bed? We’ve wasted an hour that could have been spent fucking.”

Brian shakes his head and stands up, but at least he says nothing more, his nagging is finished for one night, and he follows me down the hall to the bedroom. “I’m gonna take a piss,” he says, “Be right there.”

“I’ll get some water,” I call after him, detouring to the kitchen to grab a couple water bottles from the fridge to put by the bed, so we won’t have any more interruptions. On that thought, the phone rings again. I’m tempted to let the machine pick up, but curiosity gets the best of me, besides it’s only seven-thirty, a reasonable time for phone calls.

“Hello?”

“Hey sweetie, it’s Emmett, did Brian get home okay?”

“Yes, sure. Hey Emmett, how are you?”

“Fine – “

“Only, can I call you back tomorrow? We’re kind of busy right now.”

“You nasty boys – you’re fucking, aren’t you? Ooh, I wish I had one of those camera phones.”

“As if I’d send you a picture!”

We laugh, then Emmett says, “Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. But I just couldn’t wait to call and congratulate you – I’m so happy for you, baby!”

”You’re happy for me?” I’m confused. “How come, Emmett?”

“Why do you think, you silly goose!” Em, chuckles. “Because you and Brian got married!”

“Married?” I exclaim, then I hear a smothered groan and turn to look over my shoulder. Brian’s standing in the living room doorway, his head’s in his hands and he’s tearing at his hair. He looks so miserable that I can’t help but laugh.

“Talk to you later,” I say quickly to Em, hanging up and rushing over to throw my arms around Brian’s neck and exclaim, “You told them!”

“I was drunk,” Brian says, “I only told Michael, accidentally. And Ben. And they promised not to tell. A fucking lie – Mikey spilled the beans to the whole fucking family at brunch this morning.”

“Oh Brian,” I laugh again, “Seems like you left out some details of YOUR weekend adventure, too! Fill me in.”

“Forget it!” Brian growls, throwing an arm around my shoulders and leading me down the hall. “No more talking, no more explanations, no more phone calls.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he answers resolutely, “It’s fuck-time at the Kinney-Taylor residence!”

Chapter 17: Two Out of Three by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian comes to terms with Justin's misadventure.

 

 

 

 

Brian

Sliding my tongue around the soft swell of muscle at the top of Justin's shoulder, I gently twist his arm around as my tongue begins its descent down his arm, following the trail of a vein showing blue beneath his milky-pale skin, sliding down to the inside curve of his elbow, then lifting my head a few inches so I don't leave the outside of his elbow untasted. Relaxing my shoulders again, my tongue continues its journey down the inside of his lower arm, and I reach to grasp his hand in mine, turn it over and run my tongue over his wrist and into the palm of his hand. Swirling my tongue around his open palm, my eyes focus briefly on some shadows on his wrist, then turn again to watch my tongue lick his little finger, gently bite the pad of that finger and. . . and my eyes return to the blue shadows on his wrist. I stop then, stop moving, stop breathing for the space of a few seconds.

Lifting my head, my eyes seek out Justin's. His eyes had been closed, but when he feels me stop licking his arm, he opens his eyes and returns my look, though he says nothing.

"What's this? On your wrist?"

"Brian, it's not a big deal," he answers coolly.

Which of course immediately jerks me to attention. Pulling myself into a sitting position, I bring his hand close to my face and I study the shadows, which resolve themselves into bruises, slightly faded bruises, pale blue and yellowish-green.

Justin sits up then. "Brian - "

I grab his other hand and pull it toward me. Matching bruises on the other wrist.

"Brian," Justin’s calm, too fucking calm. "It's no big deal, you know how easily my skin bruises."

"Stop fucking around and tell me," my voice is rough; I clear my throat and demand, "Tell me."

"Okay, it was Jim Masterson, but - "

"The mad rapist?"

"Yeah, but that's sort of a joke really. He - "

"He put handcuffs on you? Fucking handcuffs?" I hear my voice go up in register and volume and so does Justin.

"No! Brian, absolutely not! Jesus, that would've been - no. No, he only was holding my hands, that's all." He's staring at me intently and when I don't react, he repeats, "Brian, you know how easily my skin bruises."

"You don't fucking BRUISE from fucking HOLDING HANDS. Why didn't you tell me this?"

"Brian - "

"Where else are you bruised? What the fuck are you hiding?"

"Nothing! It’s only my wrists. Brian, he grabbed onto me, that's all. He's a big guy, heavy and with big hands. He grabbed me, that's all."

"That's all? He fucking grabbed you and THAT'S ALL?"

"Stop yelling. I told you he made a pass at me, remember?"

"Making a pass is not grabbing.”

"It was a misunderstanding, Brian, I told you this already. He thought I was a hustler and was playing hard to get."

"You did not fucking tell me that! Why did he think you were a hustler?"

Justin opens his mouth to answer but I hold up a hand to stop him. "Enough with the Q and A. Just fucking tell me exactly what happened. EXACTLY."

"Okay," he agrees, "But stop yelling."

Justin pulls up his legs and folds them underneath him, yoga-style. Folding his hands in his lap, he tilts his head to one side and says, "Brian, I knew you'd get all hysterical and, you know, maybe you think you're being like, protective of me or something but what you're really doing is insulting me. I can take care of myself, I did take care of myself, and I knew if I told you all the minor details and shit, you'd start this third-degree routine."

"Minor details?" I'm glad to hear how calm my voice sounds, inside I can feel my fucking heart pounding and I want to grip the little asshole's shoulders and shake him like a dog shakes a bone. "Grabbing and bruises are not fucking minor details. And you're insulting ME when you withhold important information."

I pull my eyes away from Justin's face with a huge effort. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, stand up and stride quickly to the door.

"Where are you going? Brian, come back and talk to me."

"I need a drink."

"There isn't anything in the house.” Then he adds, his voice taking on an edge, "So, maybe we can have a two-sided conversation for a change. Just you and me. Not you, me and a bottle of bourbon."

That fucking pisses me off, as no doubt, he intends it to. But for some reason, I don't lose my temper. Maybe because he's right. Which actually should piss me off even more, but doesn't. Nodding acquiescence, I turn and come back to the bed, perch on the edge. "Okay. So tell me. And this time, don't leave out any 'minor' details.”

"Okay." Justin unclasps his hands. "The thing is, and you absolutely cannot get mad about this part. . ."

I brace myself.

"The thing is, later I found out that Andrew Whittaker s-sometimes," his slightly quaking voice belies nervousness under the façade of his studied calm, "Sometimes he sends guys to Masterson. Hookers, young ones. And anyway, somehow Jim Masterson thought that I was a hooker. He didn't let me explain, he just grabbed my hands and made a pass at me. Like I more or less told you."

"More or less."

"Yeah."

"And then what?"

"And then finally he - he let me go."

I cross my arms on my chest and fix him with an intense stare. "More."

"Okay, so there was a little struggle first, but only because he wasn't listening to me, he already thought I was a hooker just messing around, so he got kind of, you know, rough."

"Define rough."

"He - " Justin's voice falters briefly, then he sits up straight and continues, "He pushed me down on the sofa, and w-was taking my pants off. But I - managed to get away from him, I got away, and then I grabbed his balls and squeezed as hard as I could. Then he let me go."

"Jesus Christ." I'm surprised that my voice is so unruffled. I sound practically fucking serene. "So, in fact, 'the mad rapist' is just fucking exactly what this Jim Masterson is. A mad rapist."

"He didn't rape me. I got away. And then later I called Andrew and he got it all straightened out. And Jim Masterson apologized. So you see," Justin concludes, spreading his arms and leaning slightly toward me, "Brian, see, you didn't really need to know all this, and there isn't anything for you to do. I can take care of myself, I did take care of myself. Everything's okay now."

Everything's okay. Christ, I need a drink. I need a fucking drink, and if that makes me a fucking alcoholic, so be it. Closing my eyes briefly, I shake my head. Then I stand up and slide open the closet, pull out a pair of jeans and step into them.

"Where are you going?" Justin jumps off the bed and comes up behind me, puts a hand on my arm. "Brian, where are you going?"

"I'm going out." I move to the chest, open a drawer and pick up a tee shirt, pull it over my head.

Justin’s on my heels. "Brian, you can't be mad at me."

My head emerges from the shirt and I demand, "Who said I was mad at you?"

"Well, you are. But you can't be, I didn't do anything wrong."

"I am not mad at you," I insist, shoving my wallet into my pocket. It’s the truth, I am not mad at Justin. "But you should have told me. How can you think it was okay to keep this shit a secret?"

"Because, Brian," he says reasonably, "Because I knew you'd be upset, and I was afraid you'd go after Andrew. Or something. And," he adds quickly as I slip my feet into shoes, "I don't need you to do anything, I don't WANT you to do anything."

That stops me, that makes me throw up my head and stare hard at him. "You’re defending your asshole boss?"

"Andrew didn't do anything wrong, it wasn't his fault! He didn't send me to the client for sex, it was totally a misunderstanding."

My teeth are clenched, I can't form a coherent sentence, I just stand there staring at him. Finally, Justin insists again, "It was not Andrew's fault. It was Reg who caused the problem, not Andrew."

"Who the fuck is Reg?"

"Jesus, Brian, I've talked about him a hundred times. He's Andrew's personal assistant."

"The one who's jealous of you?"

"Yeah. Well," Justin shrugs his shoulders, "He doesn't like me anyway. It was Reg who called Masterson and told him Andrew was sending 'his boy' to see him. That's why Masterson assumed I was a hooker."

"The fuck. Andrew knows this?" He nods and I demand, "And did he fire Reg?"

"No. Andrew thinks it was just a mistake."

"Bullshit."

Justin shrugs again. "Yeah, I agree, but I can't prove it. Just like I can't prove that it was Reg who gave my cell phone number to those pervs who kept calling me for sex." Justin takes a deep breath and whooshes it out. "So anyway," he concludes, straightening his shoulders, "Now you see that it was not Andrew's fault. I just want to forget it and move on from here."

Whether Reg is to blame or not is almost irrelevant to me, it's still mostly Andrew's fault that this happened. "But," I remind him, "You could have been raped, or worse. You know that, don't you? Don't you?"

"Yes, of course. But - it didn't happen. Are you even hearing me, Brian? It didn't happen!"

I bend my head, bring my face close to his. "Answer one question. Just one. And tell me the God-damned absolute fucking truth."

He looks steadily back at me and nods. "Okay."

"Were you scared?"

"I - "

"Were you scared?"

He just stands staring at me, then he swallows hard. "Yes," he admits, and he nods his head again. "Not for very long, but, yes, I was scared."

My arms go around his shoulders then and I pull him hard against me. His arms go around me too and we hold on tight to each other. I feel him shiver slightly and tighten his hold on me. We stand like that for a minute, then, “Justin,” I admonish gently, “Don’t ever keep shit like this from me again. Partners don’t keep secrets.”

“I promise.” His voice is muffled against my chest.

Almost reluctantly I pull away. "I'm going out for a bottle. That's all, I'm going to get some JB and bring it right back here. I'm going to have a drink, and you can have one too, if you want. Then we'll go back to bed and start over. Okay?"

"Okay." Justin's smile is a little lopsided, but he is smiling, and I give him a cheeky grin. He follows me to the door and stands watching till I'm out of sight down the stairs.

Once out of his line of vision, I feel myself start to shake, I'm having a major earthquake. 8.5 on the Kinney Richter scale. Christ almighty, Justin almost got raped. Or worse. He got away, but Jesus Christ, that is totally not acceptable. And this is not the end of it. Not the fucking end of it, not by a fucking long shot.


Justin

Of course, I should have known that Brian would see the bruises on my wrists, but they'd faded and were barely visible so I'd gambled that he wouldn't notice. Which was stupid, Brian's got a kind of radar where my body is concerned. Or maybe he has memorized me like I have memorized him.

I can draw every inch of Brian's body with my eyes closed, like a map of the moon with every crevice and indentation noted, in fact, I could name every tiny scar or bump like astronomers name the features of the moon. A slight indentation on his right elbow is really a scar (which Brian refuses to acknowledge IS a scar but which Michael told me Brian got when he broke his arm playing soccer years ago). It could be called The Sea of Tranquility. Not that Brian's ever tranquil, in fact when he's super intense about something, he appears to be all relaxed. So whenever Brian seems really laid back, then I know that something's up.

Like just now. He smiled and ambled down the stairs, off to buy a bottle and bring it right back. I hope he comes right back, and I hope he's not going to confront Andrew about this thing. It's over, I just want it to be over and move on. It was unpleasant but there's no harm done after all. I'm fine. I am fine, damn it.

Okay, so I had a bad dream Friday night, it was nothing, nothing at all like the dreams I had after the bashing. It was just a small nightmare type of thing, it probably had nothing to do with Jim Masterson. But it was only the one dream, and nothing since then. I'm fine, and now that Brian's home and sleeping in the bed with me, I'm sure I won't be having any more bad dreams. Nightmares are just bogeyman type of things, and I am way too old to be scared of the fucking bogeyman.

I forgot to tell Brian that I'm getting a bonus for the logo design I created, but I sense that this is not a good time to talk about work. I pull on sweats and drop down onto the sofa, turn on the tv and wait for Brian to come home. Which he does in just a few minutes, luckily he really did only go for a bottle, so when he comes in the door I hurry to get two glasses and hold them out for him to fill.

"Just a drap for ye, lad," Brian insists, using this terrible fake-Irish accent that he knows I can't stand. His French accent is great (at least to my ears) and he does a killer Southern accent too. But the Irish one is awful, it feels like fingernails on a blackboard, so he uses it to torture me sometimes. We throw back our shots and he pours himself another, but shakes his head when I hold out my glass. "Nay," he murmurs, "I'll not have ye fallin' asleep while I fewk yer wee ass."

That makes me laugh. "There's nothing wee about my ass," I remind him and he chuckles.

"Aye," he agrees, "It's a roight grand ass, it is."

"Shut up!" I grab his arm and jostle him as he throws back the second shot. "Stop wasting time drinking, let's go to bed!"

Brian laughs again, sets down the bottle and his glass and throws his arm around my shoulders, leading me into the bedroom.



Brian

Monday I stayed late at the office, catching up, but Tuesday night I’m home early enough for a special dinner Justin promised me. "Can you give me a ride to school in the morning?" He's wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, he's set the table and I pull out my chair and sit down.

"School? You're not working tomorrow?" I spread the napkin on my lap and glance up at him.

"I told you," he says patiently as he sets down a large dish in the center of the table and takes off the lid.

I can smell chicken and sausage and beans, it's a cassoulet he makes sometimes, low carb and delicious. "Mmm," I murmur appreciatively, grabbing a spoon and helping myself to a medium-size portion (two hundred twenty calories). "Told me what?"

"I told you, last week," Justin repeats, "My class is going on a field trip to the Getty Museum Wednesday, I'm taking the day off work."

Oh yeah, he did tell me. I nod and spoon a big bite of cassoulet into my mouth. I savor the taste and remind myself that, if I have to have a fucking domestic partner, at least I'm lucky to have one who's fucking domestic enough to cook. Then I almost choke as I swallow the bite, something suddenly occurs to me.

"You okay?" Justin demands, jumping up to pound me on the back.

"Fine, fine," I insist, coughing to clear my throat and relaxing back in my chair. I frown at him and insist, "I'm okay, I just swallowed wrong."

Justin sits down again and we eat in silence for a few minutes, my brain has switched on and is whirring fast. I'm pretty sure my calendar is free mid-morning Wednesday - I'll make sure it's free. Maybe I'll take a little field trip of my own.

"Is it good - the cassoulet?" Justin's voice penetrates the fog in my scheming brain.

"What?" I blink at him, then answer mildly, "Oh yeah, it's not bad."

"That's encouraging," he says, sighing and shaking his head.

"If it weren't good, I wouldn't eat it," I point out reasonably. I don't believe in overdoing praise.

"Thanks, Brian, I'm honored to have you eat my humble food, that I spent a couple hours slaving over."

I'm nothing if not gracious. "You're very welcome."



Justin

All day at work Monday I worried that Brian would make a surprise appearance, maybe demand to see Andrew, make a scene of some kind. Of course Brian never really makes scenes, but it seemed likely there'd be repercussions after he found out what happened with Jim Masterson. Luckily Masterson doesn't live in LA so I didn't have to worry that Brian would go after him.

Andrew came by the art department on Monday afternoon to see my boss and Joe called me in to join them. They praised my work on the new logo and Andrew told Joe that he was initiating a bonus for me. They both shook my hand and Andrew gave me a brief hug. I left the office feeling great about the progress I'm making on my career. I know I still need that college degree but the experience I'm getting at Simpson is priceless.

Andrew usually gives me a ride home and normally I wait in his office till he's ready, but on Monday when he came out of Joe's office, he stopped by my desk and said he'd give me a call when he was leaving so I could meet him in the parking lot. That was a huge relief - I really did not want to see Reg. Then later Brian called and said he'd be in Burbank in the late afternoon so he arranged to pick me up instead.

Tuesday was uneventful at work. I reminded Joe about the Wednesday field trip; he's been to the Getty lots of times and he told me I'll love the exhibits and the beautiful museum itself. I was going to remind Andrew later, on the ride home, but once again Brian called and said he could pick me up.

"Great, that's great. But Brian," I needed to know, "Does this have anything to do with - with, you know?" I didn't want to speak about the Masterson thing in the office.

There was silence on the other end of the phone, then Brian answered slowly, "No. But I think you should make other arrangements. Maybe grab a taxi on nights I can't pick you up."

"That's dopey. We can't afford taxis."

"Yes, we can."

"Brian, if you feel that way, I can take the bus. It's no big deal, it just takes a bit longer."

"We'll talk about it later. Gotta go." And he rang off.

We did talk about it, on the ride home. Brian said, "You're a man, you can do what you want. I don't think you should ride with him anymore, but it's your call. I'm not your keeper."

"It's just kind of obvious," I offer, "If I stop now. It's sort of insulting to him, don't you think?"

"And why exactly do I care if he's insulted?"

"Because he's my boss?"

Brian's silent for a moment, then he says, "You need a fucking car."

We can't afford another car but I say nothing, we've had this discussion twelve times already. Finally, Brian waggles his hand in the air, keeping his eyes on the traffic. "Do whatever you want."

"I want to ride with Andrew," I insist stubbornly. "When you can't pick me up."

I brace myself for outrage, but Brian doesn't do outrage. He merely shrugs. "Fine."



Brian

The element of surprise is lost when a guard at the gate of Simpson Studios calls Andrew Whittaker's office to find out if he'll see me. Andrew remembers my name, which surprises me somewhat; he tells the guard to let me in. I'm issued a visitor pass and directed to guest parking, then I find my way to the administrative offices and a receptionist directs me through a maze of hallways to the president's office. It's not as impressive as I assumed it would be, and I find myself relaxing slightly.

Pushing open a plain oak door, I enter the domain of Justin's arch enemy. A nameplate on the door proclaims Reg Davis, Assistant to the President. He looks up as I approach, and I'm glad that I knew ahead of time about the blond forelock so I don't laugh out loud - he looks like a circus horse; all he needs is a harness with bells, and feathers in his mane.

"Hey," I greet him, dropping my voice, giving him my subtle come-hither smile, and right away (naturally) he's interested. He raises his head and I can see his nostrils flare, he practically whinnies with delight, his feet are probably pawing the floor beneath his desk. I stop right in front of him, press my legs against the desk edge, my cock's at eye level and he eyes it all right, a quick glance before returning his eyes to my face.

"Good morning,” he greets me formally, standing up. "Can I help you?"

Looking him up and down, I let my smile widen. "Probably," I drawl, "But actually, I'm here to see Andrew Whittaker. He's expecting me." When he lifts his eyebrows, I add, "Brian Kinney."

There's no sign of recognition so perhaps Justin's never mentioned my name. Reg picks up his phone and says, "Andrew, Mr. Brian Kinney is here. Yes, okay." He hangs up the phone and says, "Please have a seat, Mr. Kinney," but immediately an inner door opens and Whittaker comes out, giving me a big smile and holding out his hand for me to shake.

"Brian!" he exclaims, like we're old college buddies, "It's great to see you again, come on in."

Try as I might, I cannot return the smile, and as soon as I'm inside the office and Andrew closes the door behind us, I begin.

"I think you know why I'm here?"

"I can guess," he admits, gesturing toward a chair near his desk. "But sit down, Brian, can I get you a drink?"

"No thanks." I sit in the indicated chair and lean forward, clasping my hands together to prevent myself from punching that revoltingly handsome, ultra-sincere face. "Instead, why don't you tell me what you've done about the attack on Justin on Friday - while he was out doing your bidding?"

"Attack's a pretty strong word," Andrew shrugs his shoulders and sits down behind his desk. He's unbuttoned his suit jacket - a Versace navy-blue linen. "From what Justin told me," Andrew's saying as he relaxes back in his chair, "It was more like a case of mistaken identity, not an attack."

"I'm not going to argue semantics with you," I frown, "The fact is, Justin was injured. So you're not going to hide behind fucking euphemisms."

"Injured?" Andrew's surprised. "He didn't tell me that! What - "

"He didn't tell me, either - but I've seen the bruises. He was attacked, he was nearly raped, by some so-called friend of yours, and you're trying to sweep it under the carpet. I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen."

The truth is, I have no idea why I'm here. What am I expecting Andrew Whittaker to do now, after the fact?

"Wait a minute, back up." Andrew leans forward on the desk and he frowns. "Justin did not tell me he was hurt. He said the client grabbed him but that he pulled away; said, in fact, that he squeezed the guys' balls and ran out of the hotel. What injuries did Justin have? I swear he didn't tell me."

"He's bruised, he's got bruises. And that is totally unacceptable."

The worst injury of course, is that Justin was scared, fucking scared, but that's not something I'm going to tell Andrew Whittaker.

"Of course that's unacceptable!" Andrew exclaims, exuding either true sincerity or doing a good job pretending. "Justin's not only a very valuable member of the Simpson art department, but I consider him a personal friend. Of course, I won't tolerate any harm coming to him."

"Yet you sent him to this son-of-a-bitch client," I growl, "Someone you admitted to Justin was on the prowl for young guys. You sent him there alone - what the fuck did you think would happen?"

Whittaker's shaking his head. "I'm really sorry, but I can't agree with you that I should have known this would happen. The client is a valued customer and I sent Justin to him as an artist, as a representative of Simpson Studios, I - "

"Bullshit."

A muscle twitches in Whittaker's cheek, his frown deepens. "Brian, I swear to you that - "

"Maybe you think that Justin's a free agent."

"What?" Andrew's confused when I change tack. "No, Brian - I know he has a partner - you. I'm aware of that."

"Yes. But maybe you have an idea that he's still in some kind of way - available. Or vulnerable. Maybe you think, he's practically alone here in California, he's away from his home and family. Maybe you think it's okay for you to hit on him."

"Brian - what are you getting at? I have not hit on him. I've told you that I know Justin's in a relationship, I'm in one myself, and I - "

"Ah," I raise my chin and fix my eyes on him. "So I've heard. But I've also heard that that doesn't stop you from fucking around. Extensively."

"Got your ear to the ground, have you? My partner's aware of my extra-curricular activities. If it's any of your business. And it's not."

"It's not. Except, maybe you think it's the same for Justin."

"And it's not? You two are exclusive?"

That stops me. I don't have an immediate answer for that.

Of course, I could explain that Justin and I have an open relationship. Semi-open. We can fuck whomever we like, within certain guidelines. No friends, no bosses, just casual nameless one-time-only tricks.

But Justin's not really into tricking. He doesn't enjoy casual sex as much I as do. As I did. As I do. I enjoy it, just not as much as I used to. Or anyway not as often. Probably that's just because I'm too busy to pursue tricks right now. Or anyway that's what I keep telling myself.

And where the fuck am I going with this line of thought?

Andrew's waiting for my answer. But I won't explain. It's not his business, it's not anybody's business. Instead, I say, "Yes, we're exclusive."

And saying that, I amaze myself by not falling down dead. Because. . .well, just because.

"This conversation is over," I conclude, and I stand up to leave. "But I'm telling you," and I don't care if I'm being rational or not, God damn it, "I'm telling you, back off, and keep your fucking hands off him. And you'd better be sure none of your - associates, put their hands on him either. That's all."

A tiny smile is playing at the corner of Whittaker's mouth. "Hmm," he says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. "That sounds suspiciously like a threat."

"It's no threat. It's reality. And reality fucking bites."

"You do realize," Whittaker puts both feet back on the floor and leans forward, leans his arms on his desk. "You do realize that you could be jeopardizing Justin's career - by threatening his boss?"

"I'm not threatening you," I repeat, "I'm just providing some information." I stand up. “Thanks for seeing me today. Naturally, you won’t tell Justin I was here.”

“Naturally.” Andrew stands too. “I’ll see you out.”

“No need,” I assure him, moving to the door and pulling it open. “Goodbye.”

I don’t wait for his adieu, just pull the door closed behind me and hesitate only briefly before approaching the assistant’s desk. He glances up at me and that blond forelock falls over his eyes, he reaches up a hand to sweep it back.

In my accustomed way, I don’t mince words. “Want to get together?”

Reg grins. “Sure.”

“I’m in a hurry now,” I say quickly, “But give me your cell number, I’ll call you sometime.”

“You got it.” Reg scribbles a number on a sticky note and hands it to me. I allow our fingers to touch, giving him a small Kinney electrical charge, and I’m rewarded by seeing him jump almost imperceptibly.

Raising my hand in a silent farewell, I wave the note at him as I quickly exit the office, before Andrew can come out and witness me hitting on his assistant.

A few minutes later I’m sitting in the jeep; I pull out my cell and punch in the number.

“Hey,” I say when Reg answers, “I’ve cleared my calendar. Want to meet me for lunch?”

Reg hesitates only a moment, then he says archly, “I don’t usually eat lunch.”

“I didn’t say we were going to eat.”

He laughs but says quickly, “Okay.”

“Black jeep, in the guest parking lot. Five minutes. ”

“I’ll be there.”

It’s less than five minutes before Reg pulls open the door and slides into the seat beside me. Still not mincing words, I ask, “Live near here?”

“Not far,” he says, directing me to the Hollywood freeway north; then we ride in silence for a bit, till he points at his exit and we drive through his neighborhood, pulling into a parking garage beneath a tall apartment building. A door from the garage leads into an entry hall where I follow Reg into the elevator. He presses a button for the eleventh floor, and as soon as the elevator door closes, I grab Reg’s hips and push him roughly up against the wall, pressing my body against his as I bend my head and bite the side of his neck. He gasps and says “Ouch!”

That makes me laugh, a harsh guttural growl. “Oh, I think you like it rough,” I murmur, biting again, but more gently this time. “. . .don’t you?”

“S-sometimes,” he admits, still gasping. He’s breathing heavily and as we exit the elevator and approach his door, he can hardly turn the key. I push my body against him again and as the door opens we almost fall into his apartment.

I stop my assault then and glance around. “Nice place,” I tell him, wandering through the living room, pausing to check the view from a large plate glass window. Andrew Whittaker must pay his assistant a good salary, the apartment is fairly large and well appointed, though Reg’s idea of décor closely matches Emmett Honeycutt’s taste, ruining the design of the place. There’s a fake fireplace filled with a large vase of silk flowers, a square sectional sofa in lemon yellow, and a tall étagère along one wall with a horrifying collection of blown-glass objets d’arte. I keep moving around the room until I come to a round table in the corner which contains, among other hideous decorations, a tall gilt telephone that looks like it was purloined from a Parisian whorehouse.

Reg is still standing near the door. “Do you want a drink?”

“No thanks,” I return to his side and grab his hips again. “Where’s the bedroom? Let’s fuck.”

“Yeah.” Reg leads the way through a narrow hallway and into his boudoir, which contains a king-sized bed draped in lavender satin.

I grab Reg’s arm and pull him toward the bed, where I drop down to sit on the edge, spreading my legs wide and leaning back on my hands. Immediately Reg drops to his knees and I let him unzip my pants and pull out my cock.

“Mmm,” he says, opening his mouth wide.

Before his lips touch me, I grab his shoulders and push him back a few inches. “Wait.” Reg is practically drooling, staring at my cock. I pry off his fingers and replace his hand with my own, stroking myself to full hardness before his eyes.

“Give me a show first,” I suggest. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

“Sure.” Reg is breathing hard; he stands up and begins to undress, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off, kicking off his shoes, pulling down his pants. He’s wearing tight black briefs.

“Now show me your cock.”

Pulling down his briefs and stepping out of them, Reg stands up straight and poses in front of me, giving me a clear view of his tumescent cock quivering before my eyes.

Reaching out and grabbing Reg's hip, I pull him close to the end of the bed. "Yeah," I encourage him, "Stroke it for me."

Stifling a gasp, Reg begins to stroke himself with his right hand, resting his left hand on my shoulder. His eyes close and a small moan escapes his lips. A moment later he murmurs, "Fuck me now. Fuck me!"

"You bet I’m gonna fuck you," I assure him, "But let me watch you get ready for me. Turn around and bend over."

Obligingly Reg turns and bends over, spreading his legs, his ass cheeks also spreading open, exposing his hole. "Keep strokin'," I order him, reaching out to lightly smack his ass. He quivers but keeps on with the hand action, and a moment later I tell him, "Now shove a finger up your ass."

Reg looks at me over his shoulder. "You do it, man, finger-fuck me!"

"No, I want to watch you - you're making me hot." And I wave my cock at him.

Snaking his left hand behind himself, Reg shoves a finger up his ass.

"Two."

Reg bends over further, pushing in two fingers, sliding them urgently inside and out.

"Three."

"Oh," Reg groans, "Oh God, fuck me now!"

"Yeah," I agree, "I'm gonna - oops, wait a sec."

I stop stroking myself and reach inside my jacket, pull out my cell phone, push a button and hold it to my ear.

Reg glances over his shoulder again. "I didn't hear your phone ring," he says.

"It's on vibrate," I whisper, "No, don't stop, I'll be right with you." Reg frowns but keeps up the action as I say into the telephone, "Yes?"

I'm pressing my ear to the phone and nodding my head. Then I place a hand over it and reach out my other hand to slap Reg's ass again, making him jump. "Don't stop!" I order him, "This'll just take a second."

Standing up, I put a hand on the back of Reg's neck, pushing slightly so he's bent nearly double. "Yes," I say into the phone, "Go ahead, but make it quick, I'm busy." Reg turns his head to look up at me and I give him a wink and a wicked smile.

Letting go of Reg's neck, I move slowly toward the door. "Hold on a moment," I say into the telephone, then put my hand over it again. "Reg," I whisper, "I have to take this call, but keep strokin', I want you ready for my cock, this'll just take a second."

Reg raises up slightly and gasps, "Hurry man, I'm ready for your cock right now!"

"Go ahead," I say into the phone, then put my hand over it again and whisper, "Get on the bed - on your knees, get your ass in the air, I'll be back in one minute and I'm gonna fuck the shit out of you!"

I wait long enough to watch Reg move onto the bed, sliding across the slippery lavender bedspread on his knees and raising his ass in the air.

"Yeah," I murmur encouragingly, "Stay just like that - and don't stop stroking your cock - I'll be right back!"

Then I move quickly through the hall and into the living room, talking into the phone. "Tell the client to make an appointment for Monday," I say loudly, "And don't interrupt me again." I'm shoving my cock back inside my pants and zipping up.

Moving silently over the hideous puke-green carpeting, I quietly ease open the door into the hall and close it behind me. The elevator arrives immediately and I move inside and hit the lobby button. As the doors close and the elevator begins its descent, I click off my phone - of course I didn't really get a call - and shove it inside my jacket.

Luckily I find one of Justin’s drawing pencils in the jeep's glove compartment and quickly write down the number I saw on Reg’s fancy gold telephone before I forget it. Now that I’ve got Reg’s cell phone number and his home phone number, I can turn the tables on the horse-faced mother-fucking prick. I’ll stop at a pay phone on my way back to the office, and give his numbers to the call-boy services I researched last night on the 'net.

So, that’s Andrew Whittaker and Reg Davis crossed off my list. Now if only there were some way to punish “the mad rapist” himself, I’d be completely satisfied. I’m reminded of a scene in “The Godfather” where some big shot wakes up with a bloody horse head in his bed. With a resigned sigh, I acknowledge that unfortunately, I don’t have any mafia contacts, so I’ll have to be content with the results of today’s little field trip to Simpson Studios.

Oh well, two out of three’s not bad.



Justin

Since I have the day off work, I stay at school for a while when we get back from our field trip to the Getty Museum, putting in a couple hours working on a project in the watercolor studio. I take the bus home, and I’m surprised to discover that Brian’s already there. He’s in his home uniform of jeans and a black silk tee, sprawled on the sofa watching some old black-and-white movie on tv.

“Hey.” I drop my bag by the door and throw myself down next to Brian; he turns and slides his arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close for a kiss. “What’re you watching?”

“For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

“Well,” I ask after a moment, “For whom does it toll?”

“It tolls for thee.” And he gives me an enigmatic smile and another kiss. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” I admit. “We had lunch at the museum cafeteria, the food was good but the portions were really small.”

“I skipped lunch today, so I’m starving too,” Brian says. “Want to go out for dinner?”

“We could stay home,” I suggest. “There’s some of that cassoulet left.”

“Mmm.” Brian nuzzles my neck and pulls me tight against him. Then I hear his stomach growl.

“You really are hungry, huh? Let me go fix dinner.”

“Wait,” he says, tightening his grip. “I want an appetizer first.”

Brian smacks a kiss on my mouth, then pulls away, turns and slips off the sofa. Pushing the coffee table out of the way, Brian kneels at my feet and uses both hands to spread open my legs. He grins as he reaches up to unbutton my khakis and slips his hand inside. Pulling out my cock, he says, “Mmm” again and leans forward to flick a lick on the end; naturally, I’m hard as a rock even before his warm tongue touches my skin.

“Mmm,” Brian repeats, licking his tongue around the head of my cock, he’s still looking up at me. “I love a huge cock.”

“Especially mine?” I suggest breathlessly, not really expecting an answer.

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, surprising me. “Especially yours.” Then he closes his eyes, opens his mouth wide and lunges forward, swallowing my cock whole, right up to the hilt.

Groaning, I reach out blindly for his head, my fingers twist handfuls of his beautiful thick hair and I slide further down on the sofa, giving myself up to the pleasure of being inside Brian’s mouth. His hands are busy too, the left sliding up under my tee shirt to tweak my right nipple, the one I used to have pierced, it’s still the most sensitive. Brian slides his other hand around my waist, slipping it under the waistband of my jeans to rub my butt crack and pinch my cheeks.

Naturally, I’m ready to shoot after only a few minutes of Brian’s talented mouth and fingers. “Yeah, yeah,” he urges, his words muffled around my straining cock, he knows I’m ready, and in three seconds, maybe four I feel my body spasm and jerk. My cock erupts like Vesuvius as Brian holds it tight inside his mouth, he’s sucking and slurping every drop that I shoot down his throat, he swallows and swallows as my body spasms a few more times, then I slump boneless onto the sofa cushions, groaning breathlessly.

“Oh my God, Brian,” I manage to gasp, “You give the world’s most fantastic blow job.”

“Nah,” he denies it as he moves up to sit beside me on the sofa. He laughs as he adds, “I never thought I’d admit this, but I think you’re even better than me at giving head.”

“Impossible!”

He just smiles and leans over to plant a loud kiss on my lips. “After dinner, we can play dueling blow-jobs. Best two out of three?”

“You’re on!” I agree, jumping up and grabbing Brian’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s have dinner now, we’re going to need all our strength!”

Chapter 19: A Clam in Chowder by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian and Justin make plans to go home for Christmas.

 

 

 

 

Brian

"When is the Simpson party?"

"I told you," Justin says patiently, "It's on Friday. My party's Friday, your party's Saturday, and then we catch the red-eye Saturday night so we're home early Sunday morning, the twenty-first. It works out perfectly."

Keeping my face noncommittal, I just nod. It works out perfectly, my ass. Fucking hell. I don't want to go to Justin's office Christmas party, and if only it were on Saturday, I'd suggest changing our flight reservations to Saturday morning - an easy-out. But I cannot miss my own office party on Saturday. Naturally, I don't give a fuck about the agency get-together, I loathe all holiday celebrations. Yet this first year on the job I can't be my normal nose-thumbing self, I have to be there smiling and glad-handing Bradford and Slate and all the staff.

I sit unmoving, staring blankly at my computer screen. "Brian," Justin leans down to slide his arm around my neck, wheedling with his voice and rubbing his cheek against mine, "It'll be fun, don't you think? You've never been to the studio so you haven't met most of the people I work with. I'm excited to show off my partner to everybody."

I've met some of the people he works with and I have no desire to further my acquaintance. But without a legitimate excuse, I don't see how I can avoid the Simpson holiday party.

Oh, I could weasel out at the last minute, claiming some deadline at work, but I know how disappointed Justin would be. He's so proud of his job and so happy for the recognition they give him. He got a raise recently - we both did; and since I've paid off one of my gold cards, we've been talking about the possibility of leasing a car for Justin after the first of the year. And he's agreed to take two classes next semester instead of just one.

So even with my carefully cultivated reputation for selfishness, I simply cannot be a big enough fucker to miss Justin's party. "Okay," I agree grudgingly. "Okay."

Christ, this business of considering somebody else's feelings besides your own is a real pain in the ass.



Justin

Brian's got holiday-phobia - he's dreading Christmas, the old Scrooge. (I need to remember not to call him Old Scrooge, it results in severe whisker burn that makes wearing snug jeans very uncomfortable.) I even had to twist his arm to have Thanksgiving dinner with Uncle Hank and Aunt Emily - Brian pretended to resist going but he really wanted to. Or anyway I think he did, I know he had a good time, he almost admitted it.

We met Brian's cousins Randy and Melody and their spouses. Brian hates the term spouse but I love it, it's so generic. I'm Brian's spouse and he's my spouse and it just sounds so much more cozy than 'partner.' But I like 'partner' too. Actually, I like all of those commitment words.

What was cool was that Randy and Melody and their spouses were just as accepting of Brian and me as Hank and Emily are. Randy's wife's brother is gay which probably has a lot to do with it. Later on the way home, I pointed this out to Brian but he scoffed. He's not impressed by people accepting him, they either do or they can fuck off. Which I agree with in theory, but in practice, it's more comfortable to be accepted.

Brian's not enthusiastic about going to the Simpson party, maybe he's still mad at Andrew. I was afraid Brian would do something after the Mad Rapist incident, like maybe confront Andrew, but luckily he just let it drop. He didn't like Andrew before that, though, so maybe that's why he doesn't want to see him again. I've continued getting a ride home after work some nights but Brian's been available to pick me up a lot more often lately, and naturally I'd rather ride with Brian. Now we're talking about getting a car for me, after the first of the year. Since we got to LA I've been arguing against spending that kind of money, but Brian says we're doing okay financially now, and besides, I know he really hates me getting rides from other people all the time. Especially my boss of course. So I agreed, and now I can hardly wait.

Because of the car, and because of the expense of going home for Christmas, and of course because of Brian's debt and my relatively low-income job, we've agreed not to buy each other presents this Christmas. Brian hates presents anyway, and besides, he already gave me the best present in the world - he admitted he loves me. He only said it once (well, technically twice) in the airport on his way back to Pittsburgh a couple months ago, but I still smile when I remember the sound of his voice wrapping around those words. I waited a long time to hear it and, knowing Brian, we'll both be old and gray before I hear those words again, but even so, I'm as happy as a clam in chowder.



Brian

"Where's that certificate thing?"

Justin's at his computer; he twists around in his chair, his mouth open in surprise. "Huh?"

I didn't want to have to ask him for it, but he's moved it from the mahogany chest where he told me he'd put it and I can't find the damned thing. "Where's that - "

"You mean, our California registration? Our partners thing?"

"We have other certificates?"

Ignoring my sarcasm, Justin shakes his head. "Why do you want it?"

"Don't worry," I frown, "I'm not going to burn it. I just thought, maybe, I'd get it framed. Or something. Just for the hell of it."

"Oh," Justin still looks surprised, and somehow that pisses me off. Why is he so amazed that I'd do something nice?

Of course, I don't have to answer that.

"Wow," Justin says then, a slow smile turning his cheeks pink. "Brian, that would be really cool."

"Hmm. So, where is it?"

"Under the bed. I put it in that big box my new easel came in."

"Under the bed? What’s that supposed to do - legitimize our fucking?"

"Brian, you're really going to get it framed? Can I help pick out the frame?"

"You think I can't do that on my own? I may not be an artiste like you, but I think I can manage without fucking it up."

"Oh," Justin jumps out of his chair and throws his body against mine, sliding his arms around my waist and smiling up at me, that incandescent Sunshine smile. "Of course you can," he soothes my supposedly wounded ego. "I just wanted to help."

His smile widens as he feels my cock grow hard against his hip, and I begin to get that dizzy feeling I sometimes get when I stare into those incredible blue eyes. And I know that in a few minutes I'll fall headfirst into a vortex of almost uncontrollable desire for this beautiful and really fucking adorable boy. Man. Boy. Whatever the fuck.

I used to be able to resist him. Most of the time. Some of the time. I distinctly remember that I used to be in charge of deciding if and when and where and how we'd have sex. You'd think that by now I'd be more in charge instead of less. It really should annoy me, shouldn’t it? – that mere proximity to that cheekily smiling face, those juicy lips, the warm smell of his hair and the feel of his arms wrapped tight around my waist, has this effect on me.

It should piss me off that I'm a sucker for this kind of passion – it’s a teenage thing and Christ, I'm no teenager, I’m over thirty. Not much over, but still. . .

I’m almost sure it should piss me off. So why doesn’t it? Instead, sometimes when I’m holding onto Justin, it's absolutely, positively - fuck or die.

And then sometimes, more amazingly still, I don’t even want to fuck him. Sometimes I just want to hold him so tight in my arms that he cannot get away. And it’s at those times that I acknowledge (silently, to myself) that I’m never again going to let him go.

Yesterday when I made our flight reservations for Pittsburgh, I discovered to my surprise that I’ve got more than enough frequent flyer miles to pay for our tickets. Seems there was a side benefit to maxing out five gold cards - all those charges on my credit cards amassed enough miles to pay for several trips to Pittsburgh, something I didn't realize when I flew home after Debbie's mini-stroke.

Almost I called to tell Justin the good news, when it suddenly occurred to me that he didn’t need to know. And in those few moments after hanging up from the airlines agent, when I sat with my hand still cradling the telephone, an idea came unbidden into my head. At first, I brushed it aside, but I couldn’t dislodge it from my brain, and then I spent the better part of the afternoon – when I should have been focusing on the new DiSorrono ad campaign presentation – making calls and making plans. Secret plans.



Justin

I took Thursday off work so I could spend extra time at school, finishing up Brian's Christmas present. We're not doing gifts, but I've painted a picture for him and I'll convince him later that it doesn't count as a real present. He knows about the small paintings I've done for our family, in fact, he bought the frames for them, so the gifts really will be from the both of us. He already shipped everything to Lindsay in Pittsburgh, and she's promised to keep them hidden away till Christmas.

Simpson's holiday party got underway this morning. Fridays are always casual clothes day at the studio (most of the art department already dress so casual, Andrew said he was afraid that today they'd show up in pajamas). Coffee and pastries from an expensive Beverly Hills patisserie were delivered at nine o'clock, and Andrew arranged for a catered lunch from That's a Wrap sandwich shop. It's been a kind of open house party all day long, nobody's really working, instead, staff from all the departments have been visiting each other's offices, chatting and drinking wine.

Brian's office party is going to be at a fancy restaurant in downtown LA. We're going to be all dressed up, probably Brian will like that better than Simpson's which is just a casual family-ish thing. Starting at five, our guests began to arrive – mostly significant others but also some people's kids, and there'll be a buffet dinner catered by Xanadu in the biggest meeting room where everybody helped decorate a huge tree a couple days ago.

Brian's late of course, he hates being early to parties, and besides, I know he had a project to finish up at the agency today, since we're taking time off to fly home for the holidays. He calls me from the car.

"Hey, I'm turning off the freeway, almost there."

"Tell the guard your name, he'll tell you where to go."

"Nobody tells me where to go."

"Ha-ha." I move away from the group of people I was chatting with, move away to look out the window, I can see the parking lot from here, we're on the second floor of the three-story main building. "Come to administration, the party's in conference room B."

"B?" he repeats. "Aren't we invited to the A party?"

"You're very jovial, have you been drinking Christmas cheer already?"

"How'd you guess?"

"Brian," I interrupt, "Everybody's dressed pretty casual, you won't be uncomfortable, will you?"

"Hunh," he mocks, "That just means everyone's underdressed but me. THEY should be uncomfortable." He pauses then adds, "Besides I'm wearing my gray Armani, you know how fabulous I look. Everyone will want to fuck me - even the women."

"Especially the women. There's a lot of wives and girlfriends."

"Is Andrew's girlfriend there?"

"Brian," I'm suddenly wary, "You're not going to say anything to him, are you? To Andrew?"

"Like what?"

"You know what." Suddenly I'm tense. The Mad Rapist thing was months ago, it's totally behind us now. "You're not, are you?"

"I'll be my usual gracious self." Brian answers, his voice oozing artificial sincerity. He waits, then adds in his normal voice, "Justin, I won't do anything to embarrass you at your party. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I'm at the gate now. See you in a few minutes." He rings off and I click off my phone, suddenly worried. Oh, I know Brian will keep his word, but I'm worried anyway. I make my way across the room to stand at the door, to be ready to greet Brian so I can take him around and introduce him.


Brian

I've promised not to embarrass Justin at his party and I hope it's a promise I'll be able to keep. I don’t give a fuck about Andrew - he's not likely to mention my previous visit to the studio. But that little pointy-nose assistant, what's his name? Reg. Reg is an unknown quantity. I don't know enough about him to predict his behavior when we're face to face again. Maybe he won't recognize me.

Justin greets me at the door and he smiles when I bend my head and kiss him - a chaste peck on the lips. A public hello kiss, that's all it is. When I pull away Justin says eagerly, "Come and meet everybody," and he takes my hand and moves through the crowd.

It's a large conference room, full to bursting with a hundred people or more, employees and their families, noisy and cheerful. As usual, Justin and I have already talked a few times on the phone today, and he told me about the generous Simpson food and drink arrangements. Everyone seems to be feeling no pain.

Except for a shared holiday shot of whiskey in Matt Bradford's office this afternoon, I'm sober. I plan to stay that way, keep my wits about me. Even now I'm glancing around the room, looking out for that tale-tell blond forelock on Justin's horsy nemesis. Maybe I can avoid him.

Justin stops beside Andrew Whittaker, who smiles and nods. “Happy holidays, Brian, so nice to see you again.” Then he turns to introduce his partner. “This is Jacob Kingston,” he says, as Jacob extends his hand and smiles brightly. He’s young (no surprise), twenty-four or twenty-five at the most, which means Andrew snagged him when Jacob was a teenager, since they’ve been together five years. He’s nearly as tall as Andrew, with light brown hair and dark green eyes, his skin is fair but not pale, and he’s dressed in artfully faded jeans and a long-sleeved navy cashmere sweater. He’s a beauty, although he can’t hold a candle to Justin.

But I’d fuck him, and judging by his wide-eyed look at me, he’d like me to. Andrew sees the look and throws a proprietary arm around Jacob’s shoulders. “So,” he says, “You two are going home for Christmas?”

“Yes,” I answer shortly, surprised to discover that I still feel hostile towards him.

“Our family’s in Pittsburgh, we’re catching a red-eye tomorrow night so we can be with them for a special dinner Brian’s arranged on Sunday night,” Justin expands on my answer, as always giving away a lot of unnecessary personal information.

“I’m not much of a family man,” Andrew confesses with a laugh. “We’re leaving tomorrow for the Bahamas. I like to spend Christmas week far, far away from family.”

Lucky bastard.

“Maybe you two would like to join us next year?” Andrew gives me a quizzical look; I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“No thanks,” is my terse reply.

Justin, obviously sensing my lack of enthusiasm at the invitation, rushes in to explain, “Oh, Brian and I wouldn’t miss spending Christmas with our families, but thanks for asking!”

Of course, I’d do almost anything to avoid spending Christmas with our families, but I let the story stand, and Justin quickly adds, “Excuse us, please, I want to introduce Brian to Joe and the other artists!” as he hooks his arm through mine and drags me away.

“Merry Christmas,” I throw back over my shoulder, unable to resist giving young Jacob a look that should make him cream his jeans. I see Andrew’s arm tighten around Jacob’s shoulders and turn him away; he’s done everything but piss on the guy to definitively mark his territory. I don’t really want Jacob, but I don’t mind letting Andrew think that I do. One more reason for him to keep his hands off Justin.

Thinking about Andrew Whittaker, I’ve forgotten to scan the crowd as Justin moves us along toward one end of the conference room where the art department is apparently holding sway. There’s a group of about fifteen or twenty huddled around one end of an enormous conference table, mostly young men but a few older guys and several women, fellow artists or girlfriends, and they welcome Justin with alcoholic greetings of holiday cheer.

“Merry fucking Christmas!” one of them shouts, throwing an arm around Justin and hugging him. Right away I’m annoyed, the guy bears a hideous resemblance to a fiddle-player we used to know, the same greasy dark hair and eyes, even scraggly chin whiskers that look like nothing so much as sparse pubic hair.

“Merry Christmas, Terry,” Justin laughs, hugging him back, and extending a “Merry Christmas” to the rest of the crowd. He pulls away from Terry and turns to take my arm again, tug me forward. “Everybody,” he says, “I want you all to meet my partner, Brian Kinney.”

I say a general hello, accept an offered bottle of beer, and move to sit down on a folding chair. Surprisingly enough, it’s enjoyable watching Justin interact with his coworkers.



Justin

“Hey.”

There’s a short line to the small men’s room off of the conference room; I take my place behind Jacob and return his greeting. “Hey.”

“Are you having a good time?” Jacob doesn’t wait for an answer. “The Simpson party is always so fun, all the other parties we go to are so formal. Do you like casual or formal parties best?”

“Casual, I guess. Brian’s work parties are formal but I like them too. Or anyway, I’ve only been to one so far, their holiday party’s tomorrow night.”

“You’re so lucky,” Jacob sighs deeply, shaking his head.

“I know,” I agree, then add quickly, “But you’re lucky too – Andrew’s gorgeous.”

“Oh, I know,” Jacob agrees. “I just mean – you’re lucky that Brian’s so committed to you. I’d give anything if Andrew would do that.”

“You mean, register as domestic partners?” Someone comes out of the men’s room and we move forward in line. “How did you know about that?”

I haven’t told anyone at Simpson that Brian and I registered with the state.

“Oh, are you registered too? We did that last year, Andrew wanted to be sure I’m protected, in case something happens to him.”

“Brian wanted me to be eligible for benefits at his agency.”

“That’s cool,” Jacob nods. “But I mean – you’re lucky that Brian’s willing to be monogamous for you. Andrew likes to play around, it’s no secret, and I try to be okay with it, but. . .”

“Wait,” I say, putting a hand on Jacob’s arm. “I never said – “

“It’s not a secret, is it? Andrew said Brian told him that you two are exclusive.”

“Huh?” Someone else comes out of the bathroom and Jacob moves to go in but I pull on his arm, pull him out of line and demand, “Brian told Andrew what?”

Patiently Jacob repeats, “Brian told Andrew that you two are monogamous, that you don’t see other guys. I just wish Andrew would – “

“When? When did Brian say that?”

“Ow,” Jacob pulls his arm away, I guess I’ve been squeezing it. “I don’t remember exactly,” he shrugs, “A while ago. Andrew told me that your partner got mad when some Simpson client made a pass at you or something, so he came storming into the studio and threatened to beat Andrew up or kill him or something, I’m not sure what exactly. But – “

“Brian threatened Andrew?”

“Yeah, that’s what I just said. Let me go, I gotta take a piss before I explode!”

“Jacob, just one more thing, okay? Did – did Andrew get mad at Brian?”

“Yeah, he was kind of mad, at the time,” Jacob agrees, then he shakes his head and sighs again. “But I think it’s very romantic – your man standing up for you! You are so lucky.”

Then he turns and goes into the men’s room while I stand there staring into space.

After a minute I remember that I have to pee too, so I cut in line and hurry into the men’s room for a piss, then return to Brian’s side.

I’m sort of angry at Brian for threatening my boss, but I’m also happy to know that he told Andrew we’re monogamous. I can’t imagine Brian saying that word without choking to death, even if it was only to make Andrew keep away from me. Whatever my reaction, I can’t seem to banish the stupid smile from my face. And when Brian welcomes me back to the corner where he’s perched on a folding chair, pulling me down to sit on his lap and whispering in my ear, “Hey, I sort of missed you,” I know I won’t really be able to stay mad at him.



Brian

I expected to be bored at Justin’s party and if it goes on much longer, I’m sure I will be. But in a way, it’s amusing to watch him chatting with his peers. Everyone’s older than Justin but he’s not only holding his own with them, it’s obvious they like and respect him. The little shaggy-haired twerp that annoyed me by hugging Justin is now hugging his girlfriend, a petite rosy-cheeked blonde. The girl’s obviously had breast enhancement surgery – nobody that tiny has double-D tits – and the combination of bazookas and braces on her teeth is unnerving. Not to say revolting.

My gaydar has identified several gays among the art department crowd, but fewer than I would have expected – most are straight, their orientation given away not only by their lack of interest in me but also by the plethora of baggy jeans and loose-fit tee shirts. Among this lot, Justin’s a wonder of sartorial splendor in his pressed khakis and cotton knit pullover that I bought for him at Saks recently. Guess I should stop harassing him about his clothes.

For a while I keep my eyes peeled for Andrew Whittaker’s assistant, but as time goes on I relax, finally realizing that he’s not here, he’s probably out cruising Santa Monica Boulevard for a holiday trick to drag home to his hideously decorated apartment. There’s no longer any need to keep a low profile, so when the two beers I’ve drunk kick in, I lift Justin off my lap and wander away in search of the men’s room.

And of course that’s when I see him, I almost walk into his back before noticing the hand lifting up to flick the telltale blond strip of hair off his forehead. I make an immediate u-turn and move quickly away at an angle and, keeping my back to the room, I go out the main doorway and move down the hall to a different entrance to the conference room. If I can slip around the edge of the crowd, I can make my way back to Justin’s group in the corner and convince him that it’s time to go home.

Sliding through the door and running my eyes over the crowd like some gay secret-agent-man, I see the forest but not the tree. The tree almost leaps out at me from behind the door and grabs my arm, shaking it roughly.

“It IS you!” he exclaims, “I thought I recognized you from the back!”

“Hey,” I say coolly, “I recognize your back, too.”

That makes him flush and his eyes blaze at me. “Very fucking funny! You think you’re pretty fucking clever, don’t you?”

I do actually but this isn’t the time to acknowledge it. “Let go of my arm, you’re wrinkling my jacket,” I tell him, before pulling my arm away.

But he hangs on tight and, his face red and his voice getting louder, he threatens, “I’ll do more than wrinkle your fucking jacket, I’m going to punch your fucking lights out!”

“That’s highly unlikely,” I start to say – I’m taller than he is and have a hell of a lot more muscle than this flyweight aspiring boxer, but that doesn’t stop him from throwing a punch at my face.

I’m easily able to dodge the blow and I grab his hand, twisting his arm around behind his back. All his weight was thrown into the punch and he loses his footing and almost drops to the floor, only my grip on his arm keeps him upright.

“Fucking asshole!” he’s shouting now. I tighten my grip on his arm, twisting it hard enough to make him gasp with pain.

“Shut up and calm down,” I order him grimly, “And keep your voice down, you’re making a scene.”

“Fuck you!” he screams, struggling to break away, “Fuck you, motherfucker!”

By now we’ve attracted a lot of attention and I’m relieved to see Andrew Whittaker pushing his way through the crowd. “Move back, everybody,” he orders, then demands, “What’s going on here?”

I wait to see what Reg is going to say, but at last, a bit late, he realizes what a scene he has created, and he stands silent, drawing a few deep breaths. Then he obviously has a flash of what he imagines is inspiration and blurts out, “He – this guy made a pass at me, so I punched him!”

“Tell the truth or I’ll break your arm,” I say calmly, then look at Andrew and suggest, “Why don’t we adjourn to the hallway, no reason to spoil your party with this little melodrama.”

“Yes, okay,” Andrew glances around the room and loudly proclaims, “Nothing to see here, folks, go on with the party.” Then he turns and gestures toward the door and I push Reg on ahead of me, still hanging onto his arm. Andrew closes the door but a moment later it’s pushed open and Justin bursts urgently into the hallway.

“Brian! What’s going on?”

I sure as fuck never wanted Justin to find out about my tryst with his nemesis but there’s no way out now, so I give Reg a shake and order him, “Say what you’ve got to say, but if you lie, I’ll break your fucking arm.”

It seems that Reg doesn’t have anything to say. “Never mind,” he mumbles, staring at the floor.


”I don’t want to. . .just never mind.”

“Let him go,” Andrew tells me, so I do, and Reg moves quickly away from me, rubbing his injured arm, his face crumpling from the mask of an outraged man into the face of a teary-eyed schoolboy. He’s pitiful but I feel no pity for him.

We all stand silent for a few moments, then Andrew puts a gentle arm around Reg’s shoulders and asks quietly, “Reggie, tell me what this is about, okay?”

“He – he played a trick on me,” Reg mumbles unwillingly at last. “He pretended to come on to me, just so he could get my phone numbers. Then he gave them to a callboy hotline.”

Andrew’s head comes up and he stares hard at me but I say nothing. “Why would he do that, Reg?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Reg shrugs, “Probably he thinks I’m the one who did that to Justin, but it wasn’t me, it wasn’t – “

“Wait a minute,” Andrew interrupts, “How do you know that someone did that to Justin?”

“You – you told me,” Reg stutters.

“No,” Andrew shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Justin must have told me then.”

“I never did,” Justin denies it quietly, “I never spoke to you again, after that day. I never told anybody but Andrew. And Brian.” Justin looks at me and I can’t read his face; he’s probably mad at me, but I can’t tell.

“Reg,” Andrew shakes his head, “Reg, did you try to sabotage Justin with Jim Masterson?”

“Of course not – I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Reg insists petulantly. “And I need to go home now, my arm is really hurting, I should have this asshole arrested for assault.”

“With all the witnesses who saw you throw that punch?” I raise my eyebrows and look down my nose at him. “Not fucking likely.”

“Okay Reg,” Andrew sighs. “Go home now, and put ice on your shoulder. And also,” he adds, before Reg can turn to go, “Also, I want you to take the next two weeks off. Consider it administrative leave. After that,” Andrew rubs a hand over his face and continues, “After that, I’ll make a decision about your continued employment at Simpson. I won’t have a personal assistant who cannot be trusted one hundred percent.”

Reg is stunned, he opens and closes his mouth a couple times before turning on his heel and marching off down the hall.

We three stand there in silence watching him go, then Andrew straightens up and turns toward me. Before he can speak, I say quickly, “No repercussions for Justin. He had no idea I fucked over your assistant.”

Surprisingly, Andrew agrees. “No, of course not. I can’t say I’m not pissed at you, because I am, royally pissed. You should have come to me about this, not – “

“You wouldn’t have believed me. Justin told you his suspicions and you didn’t believe him.”

Andrew looks chagrined, but finally, he nods. “Okay. But no repetition of this kind of shit in the future. Not, of course,” he adds as an afterthought, “Not that I can bring myself to blame you – if Justin were my spouse – “

“Partner,” Justin corrects him, “Brian doesn’t like the term spouse.”

“Spouse is okay,” I contradict, and he turns that bright Sunshine smile on me, so I can’t resist leaning over and smacking a loud kiss on his lips.

“Brian, let's go home now,” Justin urges, “I don’t want to go back in there.”

“No,” I deny him, and Andrew agrees.

“No, you two should come back into the party. Don’t talk about this to anyone, of course, but it’ll blow over faster if we all act as normal as possible.”

Nodding agreement, we follow Andrew back into the party and stop at the buffet table. “I’m starving,” Justin admits, so we grab plates and fill them with roast beef and German potato salad and half a dozen other inordinately fattening but irresistible holiday foods.

After another hour of small talk with Justin’s friends (all of whom manage to contain their curiosity, something no gay crowd would do), we say our goodbyes and head for home. We’re quiet as we pull onto the Hollywood freeway, then Justin asks plaintively, “Brian, you just fucked him over, right? I mean, you didn’t actually fuck Reg, did you?”

“Are you serious?” I demand in my most supercilious voice. “Not even for you would I treat my cock so disrespectfully.”

Justin slides his hand across the seat and gently squeezes my thigh. “I should probably be mad at you,” he admits, “But it’s kind of romantic, really. The way you defended my honor, and everything.”

“Romantic?” I demand. “Moi? You are so wrong. I’d never do anything romantic.”



Justin

We undress silently but when we climb into bed and meet in the middle, I slide into Brian’s arms and murmur, “I’m as happy as a clam in chowder.”

"If you don't stop saying that, I'm going to have to hurt you."

"Oh, yes please," I grin. "But don't leave any visible marks, we'll be home tomorrow night – and I know you're already scared of my mom."

"I am not scared of your mommy."

"Liar, liar, pants on fire."

I don't remind Brian of the look on his face when I told him Mom invited us to stay with her for Christmas. You'd think Torquemada had asked him to sleep over. Luckily Em's got his own apartment now so we're going to stay in the guest room at Linds and Mel's house.

"Pants on fire? Sometimes I wonder if you're twenty or twelve."

"I'm nine," I remind him, "And you love every inch of it."

Brian laughs then. "Nine and a quarter." He ought to know, he measured me himself. "Okay," he gives in, "My pants are on fire. And it's up to you to put out the flames."

That makes me groan. "Ooh, you're as corny as I am."

"I know," he admits, "I've embarrassed myself. So hurry up now and put me out of my misery – roll over!"

Chapter 20: Witnesses by Morpheus
Author's Notes:

Brian and Justin spend Christmas in Pittsburgh.

 

 

 

 

Brian

Of course I knew that Justin would sleep most of the way to Pittsburgh and that's fine with me, I have a list I'm going over on my laptop and I don't have to worry about him peering over my shoulder. We left the Bradford and Slate party at eleven, stopping only long enough at home to change clothes and grab our suitcases, and we got to the airport right at midnight. Our one-fifteen flight left on time, and as soon as Justin discovered there would be no food service for a few hours, he tilted back his seat, plugged in his earphones, and slipped immediately into la-la land. Later the flight attendant gave me a blanket which I arranged over his shoulders and he's been softly snoring ever since.

From time to time I glance over at him, to be sure he's still out and, to be honest, just because I like watching him sleep. On his back he's a bit of a mouth-breather and sometimes makes little chortling sounds, like a chipmunk with a deviated septum; but now he's sleeping curled up on his side, his back to me, and I can see the sweep of his eyelashes brushing his cheeks, and every so often I watch his eyelids flicker with REM sleep, while wondering what strange boy-ass dreams are flitting around in his head.

We had a busy Saturday, lots of last-minute errands like picking up the dry cleaning, and we had our usual packing arguments, me struggling to keep Justin from packing everything he could think of. We're staying for a week, six days actually; he's not going to need twenty-seven sketch books. Naturally, he argued, insisting that I was packing too many clothes. But you can't have too many clothes, who knows what you'll want to wear from one day to the next?

After lunch, Saturday Justin surprised me. I should have but did not anticipate that he would give me a Christmas present, which naturally he insisted is NOT a present, since it's "merely" one of his paintings. It's a beautiful piece - though "beautiful" is the wrong word for it, since there's anger and fury as well as passion in the small composition. It's not representational, it's mostly color and movement captured in watercolors and gesso, but the overall impression is one of beauty, and I had an immediate visceral response to it that made Justin happy. He said he'd hoped my gut would react before what he called my over-analytical brain wrapped around it. I'm not even sure I like it, but it moves me emotionally much more than you'd think a vaguely formless painting could do.

I'm going to hang it in my office near my desk, it will be one of my first contributions to the office décor, as I've not wanted to get too comfortable at Bradford and Slate in case I decide not to stay after this first year. The only other personal items I've taken to work are a small photo of Gus and my green squeezy ball. That's what Cynthia called it, a plastic tension reliever you can squeeze and stick pins in. Playing with that in my hands has always helped me think. Christ, I miss Cynthia - though my Spice Girl assistant has proved to be efficient and even shows good initiative at times. But Cynthia was truly my right-hand man, and I wish I could afford to give her a Christmas present this year. Which is strange because I hate giving Christmas presents.

And I had nothing to give Justin. There's a good reason for that of course (besides the fact that we fucking AGREED "no presents") but it made me feel churlish after Justin's special gift to me. Which made me grouchy, and I don't suppose that's a very good response after your partner has given you something special and thoughtful. So of course then I had to jettison my plans to do some project work Saturday afternoon - just a general outline of my planning process for a new client, ready for me to take up the reins when we get back from Pittsburgh. Instead, I spent a couple hours in bed with Justin, sharing a long and slow and eminently fabulous pre-Christmas fuck. Sometimes work priorities have to be juggled for the greater good.

The Bradford and Slate party was held at Campanile on La Brea in downtown Los Angeles. A valet took the jeep and we entered the restaurant, where the maitre d’ escorted us through the main dining room; against a rear wall painted yellow-gold were three open archways leading into the garden.

"Oh, look at the golden arches," I leaned down to murmur in Justin's ear. "Maybe you can get your favorite Happy Meal here." Then I put a hand on his shoulder and steered him through the middle archway into the garden where the Bradford and Slate party was underway, spilling out into a covered patio area.

There's a feel of a medieval castle in the garden, with enclosing tall stone walls reaching up to an enclosed peaked skylight through which could be seen the illuminated campanile that must give the place its name, towering into the night sky. Predictably Justin craned his neck so far back that he had to lean against me to keep from falling over. Sometimes his childlike antics make me want to smack his ass, other times he's endearing. Tonight he was endearing, and I hadn't even had a drink yet. I tightened my hand on his shoulder and moved him to the left, to one end of the garden where Bradford and Slate and their wives were greeting guests.

"Brian! Good evening," Matt welcomed me, and "Good evening, Matt," I smiled back at him. "You remember my partner Justin?" Strange to realize that just a few short months ago I couldn't utter the word partner and now it slides trippingly off my tongue without hesitation.

"Of course, welcome Justin!" Matt's smile was warm as he shook Justin's hand, and his wife Sarah immediately greeted Justin as an old friend.

"We meet again, in another historic Los Angeles building!" she informed him. "The Campanile was built by Charlie Chaplin and was his office building for a while."

"Really?" Justin asked eagerly, twisting his head to glance around the place.

"He's always looking for movie stars," I stage-whispered to Sarah; "I don't have the heart to tell him that Chaplin's dead."

"Bri-an, I know that!" Justin chided me with a laugh, but in spite of his advanced age, he's still prone to blushes, which somehow make him even more adorable. I had to catch myself, to keep from leaning over and kissing his lips. I’m getting soft in the head around him sometimes, I’m not sure what to do about that.

Instead, I took his hand and said, "Excuse us, I see Phillip Slate, we'd better go say hello," and led him away before I made a complete fool of myself. It was easier to be formal with Slate, he's a rather unbending and reserved older man, though his greeting to Justin was nice enough.

I've discovered that I'm not the only gay exec at Bradford and Slate, there's a guy in marketing, Chad Bentley, who apparently brings a date to office parties sometimes. I caught a glimpse of him across the room and just as I decided that we'd avoid that corner, Chad looked up and caught my eye. He was holding a champagne flute and he raised it in a smiling salute. "Who's that?" Justin asked, and "Nobody," I said, turning him aside and heading the other direction, toward the bar.

Chad made no attempt to chat us up nor did I approach him. He's younger than I am, in his mid-twenties, tall and slender with excellent taste in suits. Though we've acknowledged each other with nods and hellos from time to time, neither of us has ever made a move to get better acquainted, so I wasn't surprised that he was as content as I was not to press a meeting at the party. I don't know Chad's reasons, but for myself, I feel sure that Justin meets enough gay guys at his own job, he doesn’t need to meet any at mine.

I become aware that Justin is stirring, so I hit "save" on my laptop and quickly exit the program. Justin sits up, dislodging the blanket and rubbing a hand over his eyes. "What time is it?" he asks, a wide yawn showing all his teeth.

"You're the one with the watch," I scowl, unable to resist reaching over to smooth a bedhead cowlick in his beautiful hair, which is lighter blond from the California sun. "Everybody's going to think you've gone Hollywood and bleached your hair."

"Oh, I'm so happy to be going home!" he exclaims, smiling hugely.

That sobers me a bit. "Pittsburgh will always be home to you, won't it?"

"Brian," Justin says quickly, "That's just an expression, 'going home,' you know that! Home is really wherever you are, wherever we are together. I'm just excited to see our family again."

"I know." I can't help the gloom that has descended on me, and he senses it too and takes hold of my arm with both hands, shaking me and trying to make me smile back at him.

"You can't be depressed, it's Christmas!" he insists. "Aren't you excited to see Michael and Debbie and Lindsay and Gus?"

"Sure." I turn away and flip my laptop closed, shove it under the seat in front of me and relax back into the seat. "So what time is it?"

Consulting his watch, Justin answers, "Almost four. Just a couple more hours. Did you sleep at all?" When I shake my head no, he wheedles, "Tilt your seat back and close your eyes for a while, you'll feel better if you rest for an hour or so."

"Yes, dear." Despite my sarcasm, I do as he suggests, lean back in the seat and close my eyes. I'm amused a few minutes later when I feel Justin spread his blanket across my chest and lap, and a moment after that, he's slipping his hand under the blanket to rest it against my thigh. He always needs to be touching me, hanging on to me.

I can't really blame him, I think we both haven't entirely recovered from that period of time without touching, without belonging to each other. I'm not sure exactly what happened with the fiddler, how Justin felt while they were involved for those long months, but he's assured me that he never really loved the guy. I want to believe him, but because I want to so badly, I'm afraid I might be fooling myself. When those old doubts start crowding in I have to mentally shake myself, try to fling them off. In truth, I cannot imagine Justin giving anyone else what he gives to me.

And I've never even asked him to, I've never really asked him to belong to me. It's like one of those twists of fate you hear about and scoff at. He insists that, for him, it was love at first sight. As for me, while I don't believe in that twaddle, I only know that I can't forget the first time I saw him, standing under that streetlamp, and how I was drawn toward him as inexorably as a moth to a flame.

On that embarrassingly romantic note, I feel my eyelids flutter and I begin to drift away, and though I'm aware of the muffled sounds of low voices and the muted roar of the plane's engines, through it all I can feel the warmth of Justin's hand still touching me, and it soothes me into comfortable sleep.



Justin

Brian's asleep at last, he must be totally exhausted. I forgot to ask who’s meeting us at the airport but I’ll wait till he wakes up. I want to go right to Linds and Mel’s house and have a hot shower. Maybe I can talk Brian into taking a nap, so he’ll feel good for the dinner party tonight. He's invited the whole family to dinner as our gift to them, and while I worried about the expense of that, he brushed me off in his typical high-handed way.

There'll be a big family party at Debbie's on Christmas Eve, though Michael enlisted Emmett to do most of the cooking so Deb doesn't overextend herself. I volunteered to help too, I told Em on the phone that I'm a pretty good cook now. "Too good," Brian corrected me; he's gained two pounds since we've been in California and he blames it on me. I know he misses belonging to a gym but he's said that as soon as he pays off a second gold card, he'll get us each a membership. I'm not really interested but he's ragging on me to start taking better care of myself, he said if I get fat he'll dump me into the Susquehanna.

Christmas Eve is the night we'll all exchange gifts. I'll have plenty of time to wrap the pictures I painted and Brian had framed, it was a great idea for him to have them all sent on ahead of time for Lindsay to keep at the house.

I'm so glad that Brian liked the picture I painted for him - and with Brian, there's no faking, if he didn't like it, he'd say so. It was a strange experience creating that painting - it felt sort of cathartic in a way, it felt like I was reliving a lot of the angst I've felt the past three years of our relationship and the picture turned out feeling very emotional. Brian got it immediately, I could tell. He unwrapped the covering, pulled it off and dropped it on the floor, then he stared at the painting silently for a second, and he sort of gasped and said, "Jesus." He stared at it for a couple minutes longer, then moved his eyes to my face. "This is amazing," he breathed at last, "This is one of the best things you've ever done." I couldn't keep the smile off my face, and really I think he's right, but most of all I was just thrilled that he liked it so much. He's going to hang it in his office, which is a huge compliment.

One of the best things about Brian is also one of the hardest for people to get used to. He's just so totally fucking honest, and sometimes that can hurt a lot - he's not careful about wounding people's feelings, his honesty is brutal and all-encompassing. But you always know where you stand with him - if he tells you something, it's the absolute truth.

He's as honest about himself as he is with everyone else, except of course he's only human so he fights against truths he doesn't want to know. Like about us. I knew the first time I saw him that I loved him, and in my heart, I believe it was love at first sight for him too. He says it was just sex and I know he doesn't lie, but this is one of those truths he doesn't want to acknowledge. Oh, I'm not stupid - I know that even for me, it was all wrapped up in excitement and sex and Brian's beauty and the whole first-time thing, and I admit I was just a kid back then and didn't really know my own mind.

Yet in retrospect I realize that I never wavered in my pursuit of him - even the whole Ethan debacle was merely an attempt to prove to myself that I didn't need Brian, and that was the biggest fucking mistake of my life. I'm so grateful that Brian has forgiven me for that mistake, and he's admitted - not in so many words but in all his actions - that he was at fault too, and he's taken pains to change the way he treats me so I don't feel those insecurities that used to haunt me. The domestic partners thing was a huge leap for Brian - being willing to put on paper his commitment to me, even though at first he didn't want anyone to know. In fact, now he's taken our certificate to be framed and he says we can hang it in the apartment. He was pissed that the framers didn't have it ready in time for Christmas, but that's okay, I can't wait to see what kind of frame he picked out.

Christmas morning we'll be at Linds and Mel's house - I'm so glad Brian will be there to enjoy Gus’ excitement. Gus is the only one we're buying real presents for, though we decided to wait till we got home to shop for him. Then, of course, I'll want to spend a day with Mom and Molly, maybe I can do that on Friday, the day after Christmas. We're flying back to LA on Saturday morning - thank God, not another red-eye. My own eyes feel red, and they're getting heavy again. Maybe I can doze off for a little while longer. . .



Brian

"Don't fucking argue - why is everything an argument with you?"

"Oh, I don't know," Justin's voice is as aggravated as my own. "I'd just like to be consulted about things once in a while. Silly of me, huh?"

I stop then, just stop in my tracks; Justin marches on a few more steps till he realizes I'm not beside him, then he turns around and comes back. We've just gotten off the plane and we're halfway through the terminal, the crowd of de-planing passengers divides and moves smoothly around us where we stand glaring at each other. Justin caves first; he almost always does.

"Okay," he says, his shoulders drooping and his pout becoming evident. "Have it your own way, you always do."

"Justin, why is this a big fucking deal? We need a rental car, do you really want to be dependent on others to cart us around the Pitts this week? I didn't know you'd need to be consulted about it, it seems pretty fucking obvious to me."

"Lots of things that are fucking obvious to you are partner-decisions, Brian. Couples make decisions together, you know? Especially when it concerns money."

I sigh, shake my head. "Okay, I could have told you before, but I'm telling you now. The car's really cheap, I got a good deal with some frequent-flyer miles, so it's not a big expense."

"Oh," he's slightly mollified. "Still, you could have discussed it with me."

I stare at him balefully for a moment, then it's my turn to cave. "Okay, you've got a point. So - is it all right with you that we rent a car?"

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"No," I shake my head again. "No, I'm not."

"Then okay, I agree," he nods. "Why don't I get our luggage while you go to the car place? That'll save time."

"Good idea." I was going to suggest it anyway but I don't tell him that. "Get a luggage cart, don't try to carry all those heavy bags yourself."

"Brian, I'm not a wimp, you know?" His voice is getting cranky again.

"No, you're not a wimp," I assure him, then add a smile and whisper, "But if you get a hernia, I won't be able to fuck you for a month or more, so be careful."

He smiles back at me and it almost feels like we've kissed.

"Okay," I tell him, "Meet me at the Avis counter. And remember - lift with your knees."

His hands are full of his backpack and a small carry-on bag filled with last-minute garbage he decided he couldn't live without, but Justin turns sideways and bumps my shoulder with his own, adds a smiling farewell, and the air between our eyes crackles with undelivered kisses.

Then I hurry on through the terminal to the car rental area, mentally preparing myself for the next upcoming argument. He's really going to be pissed about this one.




Brian

"What the fuck? Brian, when did you talk to my mom about this? I was planning to see her on Friday."

"I've got some things to do today. You can spend the whole day with your mommy and I'll come pick you up in time to get ready for dinner."

"You are so fucking bossy, here we go again!" Justin throws out his hands in frustration and yelps when he bangs his right one on the side door - this fucking economy rental car is a lot smaller than the jeep and we're crammed too close together for a decent argument.

"Would you please cut the drama princess routine and be reasonable? Did you have some major activity planned for today, that you'd rather do than see your mother? I was sure you'd be dying to visit with her and Molly. Will it kill you to do it today?"

"No, I didn't have any plans, but I didn't know that YOU had plans, you never told me. What is it you’re doing today that you have to do alone?"

"Jesus," I exhale an explosion of overheated air. "Do we need to hang together every fucking minute?"

I know I'm heaping coals on the fire of his really rather justified outrage, but I don't know how else to get rid of him today.

Justin's silent then and I add, "I called your mother from work the other day, I needed to find out if she wanted to bring her doctor-fiancé to dinner tonight. She said she was hoping you'd come see her right away, and it seemed like a good idea for you to visit her today, since I have some things to do that would only bore you. Anyway, I just forgot to mention it till now."

I'm a terrible liar but a sideways glance at Justin shows me he's swallowed this one. "So," I hazard to ask, "Is it okay with you, or not?"

"Yes." The answer's succinct, he's frowning and he doesn't look at me. He'll continue to be pissed, but I can't do anything about that right now. A minute later, he asks plaintively, "Can we at least stop at Linds and Mel's so we can drop off our luggage?"

"There's no time - your mother's giving us breakfast as soon as we arrive. Our stuff will be safe locked in the trunk, if you need something from your bags today, take it out when we get there."

A sideways glance shows me that Justin's frown has deepened though he says nothing else, we ride along in silence for a while, then I suggest, "Why don't you call and let her know we're almost there?"

Justin sits up straight in the seat and pulls his cell from his pocket, then he dons the demeanor of a carefree young man as he punches the buttons to call Jennifer. I can tell he's still pissed off, but hopefully, his mommy won't notice. "Hey Mom, it's me," he chirps into the phone, "We're in Pittsburgh, on our way to your house! I can hardly wait to see you!"



Justin

Brian eats only a few bites of breakfast, just enough to be polite. Of course, Mom has prepared a huge feast of scrambled eggs and home fries, bacon and ham and sausage, and a tall stack of pancakes. Brian nearly blanches when we sit down at the table, he even hates the smell of food in the morning, normally it's guava juice and maybe a piece of toast for him. He nibbles on a single slice of bacon and two spoons full of eggs, then sits drinking coffee while I pig out. Mom tells him he can smoke if he wants to but he shakes his head - he's not about to do anything she can complain about behind his back.

It's so funny to me that Brian is scared of her. Not scared, Brian's not scared of anything or anybody, but he's very cautious around her. She's always given him a hard time, not always without reason, of course, I mean, she's a mother after all and mothers always overprotect their kids. Well, maybe Brian's mother never did, she's so nasty now, I guess she always has been. I wish I knew more about Brian's childhood but that's a subject he just really won't talk about. "It sucked," is all he will say.

Some of Mom's feelings about Brian are unfair and she does acknowledge that, though she still insists on blaming him for the bashing and it's a subject we just can never talk about. She insists that if he had not come to the prom, I would not have been hurt that night. She won't give him credit for trying to save me, well he did save me, he stayed with me all that night and for several days after that, till I came out of the coma. Michael told me that.

For a long time when I lay in the hospital, I was hurt that Brian didn’t come to visit me. After a while, I’d figured out - and Brian confirmed it later - that he was himself so full of guilt that he couldn't face me. He was so sure I would blame him too. Much later Mom told me that Brian had been there every night, secretly watching over me as I slept. He didn’t want anybody to know, and he still won’t talk about that time, not even with me.

Sometimes I get mad when I think about our family, almost all of them blaming Brian, nobody sticking beside him, leaving him alone to suffer. That's all in the past, nothing can change it and I've tried to let it go. But in a way, I'm glad I'm remembering it today, this morning, because it enables me to stop feeling mad at Brian for not consulting me about things - the rental car, this visit with mom. Those old memories put today in perspective, and I feel myself relaxing as I enjoy my mom's delicious food. What difference does it make if we have our visit today or Friday, I made too much fuss about it.

When I walk Brian to the car, I apologize. "Brian, I'm sorry I got mad at you. This is a good time to visit Mom, I'm okay with it."

"Good," he nods. "I'll pick you up about six o'clock, but call if you need anything." We stop next to the car and he pulls open the door. "Take a nap this afternoon, why don't you, so you're not tired tonight?"

"I will if you will. You only got about an hour's sleep on the plane."

"Okay," he agrees, putting his arms around my shoulders and giving me a rough hug. We pull apart and then with a smile he leans down to kiss my lips - he never used to kiss me if we were within a hundred miles of my mother.

"Bye," he murmurs, "Have fun today."

"You too," I echo him, standing back so he can close his door, and I wave him away as he backs out and drives off - to do whatever the fuck he's doing today. I keep the smile plastered on my face for a few minutes, but I can't help feeling a little left out. That's silly really - even though I know that Brian's probably going to spend the day with Michael, maybe even drop in at Woody's, maybe he'll even fuck a trick or two. I guess Brian just needed some freedom from togetherness today, and I try not to let that bother me. With a sigh, I turn to go back into the house and I realize that I am kind of tired, maybe I'll have a nap after all.



Brian

Lindsay first, then Emmett, then the restaurant. Not everything can be trusted to the telephone.



Justin

Brian's a few minutes late, I watch for him out the window and when I hear my phone ring, immediately I'm worried that I won't have time to change for dinner. But it's okay, he's on his way, he'll be here in a few minutes. So I say good-bye to Mom, she's dropping Molly off later at a friend's house, then her doctor's picking her up and bringing her to the restaurant. I realize that I don't even know where we're going, Brian told me he wanted to take everyone to dinner but he made the arrangements himself and didn't tell me what restaurant. I could ask Mom but I don't want her to know I wasn't consulted.

Brian's here, and I rush down the stairs and fling myself into the car. It's funny to see Brian driving a little two-door Toyota but I refrain from mentioning that, I'm sure he's annoyed enough not to have a statusy car to tool around town. I lean over to kiss Brian, instantly on the alert to sniff out any unexplained odors, and I catch a grin come and go quickly on his face, he knows exactly what I'm doing.

Luckily I don't smell anything - or anybody - but that doesn't mean he didn't wash up afterward. It's okay of course - I'll never hold Brian to monogamy, it's impossible and really, at this point in our relationship, unnecessary. I realize that our partners registration helped me feel a lot more secure about Brian's commitment to me. And I hope he feels the same about my commitment to him. I hope he knows for sure that I'll never leave him again.

Mel greets us with hugs - well, I get a hug, all Brian gets (or wants) is a semi-cheerful hello. Mel can hardly hug me, she's huge, it's all I can do not to stare and point a finger at her protruding belly. She waddles into the living room and plops down on the sofa with a groan.

Lindsay isn't home - Mel says she has to work at the gallery till about seven, so Brian complains, "She'll be fucking late to dinner, why'd she have to work today, it's Sunday?"

"That's what I said," Mel agrees, "But she said she promised a long time ago, she couldn't get out of it at the last minute. Maybe if YOU planned ahead, we'd all have had more notice."

They're still bitching at each other, some things never change.

We leave Mel then, humping our luggage upstairs to the guest room; we just have time for a shower and a shave, and an intense and necessary but very brief fuck, the sound of the shower covering our moans. Brian insists on tying my tie, and when he notices something on one of my shoes, he even gets down on his knees while I sit on the edge of the bed and rubs his finger over the blemish till it's gone. When I stand up he gives me another critical once-over, then announces, "Now you're okay, I'm won't be ashamed to be seen with you."

"The highest Kinney compliment."

Mel’s too big for the back seat, which Brian delights in pointing out to her, so I get in back and we’re on our way. A neighbor is keeping Gus, she picked him up before we got there, so we haven’t even seen him yet. Brian’s not a clingy type dad so I guess that doesn’t bother him. We’ll have plenty of togetherness, though, probably way more close encounters of the toddler kind than Brian can handle, while we’re staying at what Brian calls The Lair of the Lesbians.

Dinner’s at the Aubergine, a French restaurant downtown that I’ve never been in before. Mel’s eaten there a few times and a bit reluctantly admits that Brian made a good choice. As it turns out, she says it’s only a block away from the gallery where Lindsay works, so Brian can stop worrying about Linds being late.

We’re a few minutes early but Ben and Michael and Hunter, Debbie and Vic and Vic’s boyfriend Rodney, are already there, they’re seated in the bar and we join them at a large table in one corner. They stand up and greet us with hugs and kisses, even Michael gives me a hug, taking me by surprise. Hunter’s a bit too enthusiastic when he’s hugging Brian, and I notice Brian removing the kid’s hands that are trying to slip around his waist. I can’t be mad at Hunter, I’m just glad that Brian’s not affected by the boy’s eagerness. In a few minutes, Mom and her doctor arrive so we all jump up and hug each other over again.

We decide that Emmett must be running late, then I’m surprised when I catch sight of Ted hesitating in the doorway, he’s with a guy I don’t recognize at first, then I see that it’s Blake, and they’re holding hands. Oh, I’m glad Ted looks happy, and he looks a fucking lot healthier than the last time I saw him, I guess he’s okay now. I’m surprised that Brian invited him – well fuck, Ted is surprised to be invited, and he falls all over himself thanking Brian, who is characteristically ungracious in his welcome. Their mutual bitchiness goes back a long way, before my time, and I guess they’re used to it.

Now we’re just waiting for Em and Lindsay, we’re all sipping drinks and Brian and I are fielding a thousand questions about California, as he predicted I’m getting teased about my blonder hair and everyone proclaims that we’re thinner which is totally not true. Mel’s phone beeps and with an effort she bends over and digs it out of the purse sitting at her feet.

“Hey, babe,” she says, “Where the hell are you? We’re ready to eat.” She listens for a moment and her face falls. We’re all silent, eavesdropping. “What? Are you serious?” she demands. “Why on earth – “

“What the fuck now?” Brian demands crankily.

“She wants us to – “ Melanie starts to answer, then she listens a moment longer and looks around the table. “Linds, are you kidding? We’re all here, waiting for you. It’s fucking snowing outside! Can’t you just – “

“Give me the fucking phone,” Brian orders her, reaching out a demanding hand and waving it in Mel’s face. “Let me talk to her.”

Mel hands over the phone before Brian can wrestle it away from her.

“What the fuck?” he growls. “Lindsay, what the – “

Like Mel, Brian’s reaction is surprised silence, then he rages, “What the fuck are you talking about? You were due here twenty minutes ago, they won’t hold our table forever. What? What?”

Brian’s shaking his head. “Hold on,” he says grimly, and then he stands up and without a word to us, he strides out of the bar and we can see him having a conversation with the maitre d’ near the entrance.

“Mel,” Debbie demands, “What’s going on?”

“Lindsay wants us to come meet her at work, she can’t get away yet, I don’t know - ?”

“She’s working tonight?” somebody asks, we’re all looking at each other, bewildered. Why would she. . .

Now Brian’s back and he’s glowering. “Okay,” he says into the phone, “We’re on our way. They’re going to hold our table - in fact, they’re not even set up for us yet. But we’ve got to be back in fifteen minutes.” With that, he clicks off the phone and almost throws it at Melanie.

“Put your coats on, everybody,” Brian orders us grimly, “We’re taking a stroll – or in this weather, a brisk jog – to the gallery. It’s just up the street, can all the old or pregnant people manage the hike, or shall we get a couple cars going?”

Everyone stands up, pulling on jackets, looking at each other and asking, “What the fuck?” but with Brian in charge, we’re all quickly marshaled out of the restaurant. Brian pauses to slip a folded bill discreetly into the maitre d’s hand and then we’re outside in the snow. It’s not storming, just soft fat snowflakes falling gently from the velvet-black sky, actually, it’s kind of a welcome relief to be out in fresh air for a few minutes, away from the overheated restaurant.

I’m hanging onto Brian’s arm and trying to find out what’s going on but he’s so mad he can’t even speak. We move along at a good pace, Michael and Ben are hanging onto Debbie, Ted and Blake are on either side of Melanie, the doctor’s holding mom’s arm; nobody’s going to slip and fall down. Then we reach the end of the block and Brian raises a hand to stop us.

“Even better,” he says, “We’re to use the tradesmen’s entrance, it seems we’re not respectable enough to go in through the front door, we might clash with the paying customers.” Then he leads us around through the alley and when we get close to the building, the door opens and Lindsay is framed in yellow light streaming out to illuminate the snow-covered back steps. I was here once before when Lindsay first starting working at the gallery, but I haven’t been through the back entrance so I’m feeling disoriented.

“Come in, come in,” Lindsay urges us, and Brian once again becomes the shepherd urging us up the steps and in through the back door of the gallery. “Take off your coats for a minute,” Lindsay asks, “So you don’t get the floor wet.”

Everybody’s curious and bewildered but obediently we take off our coats and hang them on hooks on the wall, then Lindsay says, “Shh, shh, follow me into the gallery, but be very quiet.” Then Lindsay holds a phone to her ear and into the mouthpiece, she says “Now!”

Holding aside a pleated curtain with one hand, Lindsay grabs my sleeve with the other and pushes me ahead of her. Brian’s right behind and he’s pushing me too. The gallery is brightly lit and it’s hard to focus my eyes after coming in from the dark street, then suddenly I hear someone on a PA announce, “Here he is now, the man of the hour, the wonderful young artist we’re saluting tonight – Justin Taylor!”

If Brian were not right behind me with his hands on my shoulders, I’m sure I’d fall flat on my ass. He continues to push me gently into the room, and I look around in amazement at a sea of faces, there’s fifty or sixty people gathered around the periphery of the main gallery, and the only one I recognize at first is Jim Cranston, one of my teachers at the IFA.

Mr. Cranston reaches out to grab my hand and shake it, “Congratulations, Justin!” he beams, then he passes me off to another person with an outstretched hand. One after another hand reaches out to touch my sleeve or shake my hand, they’re murmuring, “You’re amazingly talented!” and “We know you’re going to go far, young man,” and other unbelievable things, my head is swimming, then I glance around behind the crowd, and on every wall are hung examples of my work, paintings and sketches, charcoals and watercolors.

I also recognize the pictures I’d painted for our family gifts, pictures that Brian said he sent ahead to Lindsay to keep at the house, and Brian reads my mind, before I can speak he whispers in my ear, “Nothing’s for sale, Justin, this is just an exhibit of your work. This is your very first one-man show. Your new teachers at City College and your old teachers at the IFA helped me gather up some of your best work, and Lindsay facilitated this show at the gallery. This is your Christmas present.”

Still speechless, all I can do is turn around and lean my head on Brian’s chest, I’m trying so hard not to bawl or otherwise make a fool of myself, I’m just so amazed that Brian arranged all this for me, he did all this for me, the biggest surprise of my life. “Steady,” he whispers in my ear, “Straighten up now and be gracious to all these patrons of the arts – they might be your meal ticket in the near future!”

I gulp then, swallow hard a few times, then I raise my head from Brian’s chest and turn around to smile at everybody. “Thank you, thank you for coming,” I manage to croak, then I clear my throat and repeat, “Thanks, everybody!”

Then Brian pulls on my arm and we leave the circle of light and move to one side of the gallery, where our family is gathered. The gallery crowd mills around talking among themselves and looking at my paintings and drawings. Then I spy Emmett. He rushes up to grab me and plants a smacking kiss on my cheek. “Hi baby, were you surprised? Ha-ha, we gotcha, didn’t we?”

“You all knew about this?” I demand, then everyone exclaims that no, no, no - nobody knew about it but Lindsay and Emmett.

Brian intones dryly, “Do you honestly imagine any of this motley crew could keep their mouths shut for one minute? I was able to blackmail Lindsay, and Emmett’s getting paid to cater this affair, but I knew I couldn’t buy anyone else’s silence.”

“Brian,” I’m still blown away by it all, “Brian, I can’t believe you did all this for me! It’s – it’s just so amazing, I can’t seem to take it all in!”

“Well don’t go on an on about it,” he drawls, “You need to go start mingling with your admirers and let them build up your ego even more than it already is. Just don’t expect anything like this next year – next year we’re going to Hawaii for Christmas, I can’t stand all this excitement.”

Everybody laughs but I have to throw myself into Brian’s arms one more time, and he hugs me really tight and whispers, “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh!” I pull away, suddenly remembering the restaurant. “What about dinner – will they keep holding our table, or ?”

“The maitre d’ is in on it,” Brian explains, “They know we’re not coming back. Emmett’s whipped up some of his famous and very expensive southern fried horse-apples, for the gallery crowd and for us.”

Then everyone disperses to mingle with the people in the gallery, and Brian leans down to plant a quick kiss on my lips. “Come with me, I’ll show you the piece de resistance.” He smiles mysteriously, takes my hand, and leads me to one end of the gallery where a single framed picture is highlighted by track lights in the ceiling. When we get close and I see what it is, it literally takes my breath away, I gasp and my fingers clutch convulsively on Brian’s hand.

“Oh my God,” I breathe, “Oh my God.”

It’s our certificate, it’s our partnership certificate, the one I copied onto parchment and painted pictures around the border. The certificate Brian said he was having framed for our apartment. Brian shipped it here to Pittsburgh for all the family, for all the world, to see. I could just die from happiness right this second, nothing can ever top this amazing happiness, the best moment of my life.



Brian

I can’t believe everything went off without a hitch, I’ve been a nervous wreck all day, running back and forth all over town, there were a million problems all afternoon, but everything got resolved like Lindsay promised me it would. She’s very good at her job, no wonder her boss agreed to let us use the gallery tonight (well, that together with an exorbitant rental fee of course, but Justin doesn’t need to know about that, what’s a few extra months of credit card payments?), and now everybody’s settling down to enjoy Justin’s first one-man show. He’s incredibly happy, which should guarantee an amazing fuck tonight and maybe two or three days without arguments.

A three-piece chamber music group plays quietly in one corner. I used to fuck the cellist and the pianist so the group’s playing practically for free. I never fucked a violinist and by Christ, I never will fuck a violinist now. The buffet table in another corner groans under a shitload of Emmett’s concoctions, champagne is served in judiciously skinny glasses to make the three cases stretch out to water this hopefully not very thirsty group.

The gallery show ends officially at nine, though a few stragglers hang on till almost nine thirty. Justin’s been making the rounds, his first shyness and embarrassment replaced by mature crowd-handling. He’s done even better than I expected, he knows how to use his charm on these patrons, a skill that will come in handy in a few years when he’s ready for real to start peddling his art.

Finally, the doors are closed and only family remain in the now-quiet hall, nibbling on leftovers and doing their damnedest to finish off the last bottles of champagne. The musicians slow to a stop and I look up to see Lindsay beckoning to me. It’s time now. I nod and move across the floor to where she’s standing talking to the cellist. I’m ready for this. Amazingly enough, I’m ready, and I don’t feel the least bit nervous. Well, not really. I surreptitiously wipe my palms on the inside of my pockets and then I’m standing next to Lindsay, returning her bright smile.



Justin

I’m leaning on the arm of Debbie’s chair, offering to get her another glass of champagne, when I realize that the room has gone quiet. Looking over my shoulder, I see Brian and Lindsay standing near the seated musicians, Brian’s holding a microphone while Lindsay speaks to the cellist. Linds nods and turns to take the mic from Brian and she says, “Testing, testing, testing.” Then there’s total silence, and glancing around, I see that everyone else is as clueless as I am.

“There’s one more surprise tonight,” Lindsay announces, smiling wide and throwing a glance my way. “Now, Brian talked me into this, so don’t blame me if your eardrums explode!”

“Babe,” Melanie exclaims, “You’re going to sing?”

“She’s not bad,” Brian mutters, frowning at Mel. “She sang in the chorus at college. So everybody shut up now and let her get started.” He nods at Lindsay and she grabs his hand and squeezes it.

“Okay,” Lindsay says then, glancing at everyone crowding forward. “Move back, clear a space on the floor. Brian’s going to dance with Justin.”

“We’re going to dance?” I exclaim, but only a squeak comes out of my mouth.

Then Brian’s bearing down on me and he reaches out to take my hand. “Come here, spouse,” he grins, then without another word he pulls me along behind him across the polished wooden floorboards, as he returns to stand in the open space created by everyone moving backward. What the fuck is this?

“Brian, what the – “

“Wait,” he whispers, then loud enough for everyone to hear, he says, “This is the second and final time in my life I’m going to do something ridiculously romantic, so shut up and enjoy it, for fuck sake.”

I can’t help but laugh and everyone joins in.

Brian pulls me against his chest, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, and my hands slip under his jacket, holding him tight around the waist. As the first few chords of music begin, Brian leans down to press his forehead against mine. “Listen,” he murmurs, a tiny smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “This is for you.”

Then Lindsay begins to sing along with the music. I don’t know if her voice is good or not, the first words render me speechless and I can barely move my feet to stay in rhythm with Brian as he sweeps me slowly around the improvised dance floor.

“You made me love you,
I didn't want to do it,
I didn't want to do it.

You made me want you,
And all the time you knew it -
I guess you always knew it.

You made me happy sometimes,
Sometimes you made me glad.
But there were times, dear,
You made me feel so bad."

"Listen to the words," Brian murmurs into my hair. "Listen."

"You made me sigh for
I didn't want to tell you,
I didn't want to tell you.
I want some lovin', that's true,
Yes I do, indeed I do, you know I do.

Give me, give me, give me, give me what I cry for,
You know you've got the kind of kisses that I'd die for,
You know you made me love you.”

I’m the one who’s crying, I feel the hot tears seeping out of my eyes and sliding down over my face. Brian moves his head a few inches and kisses the tears off my cheeks. “Shh,” he says, “Shh."

“You made me sigh for
I didn't want to tell you,
I didn't want to tell you.
I want some lovin', that's true,
Yes I do, indeed I do, you know I do.

Give me, give me, give me, give me what I cry for,
You know you've got the kind of kisses that I'd die for.
You know you made me love you.”

The music stops and Brian raises my arm, twirls me around in a circle and then pulls me tight against his chest, his mouth finds mine and we kiss and kiss and kiss. I think I hear applause from our assembled family and friends but I can’t be sure, all I can be sure of is the grip of Brian’s arms holding me tight, the pressure of his lips on mine. When he finally pulls his mouth away so we can take a badly-needed breath, Brian says, “I love you, I think I’ve always loved you, and now I know I always will.” He pauses, then adds with a menacing growl, “So if you ever leave me again, I’m going to have to kill you.”

“I’ll never leave you, Brian, I love you with all my heart!” My heart that’s so full of joy I’m afraid it’s going to burst out of my chest and fucking explode into a billion pieces.

Then he kisses me again and I don’t even care if my heart explodes, I’ve never been so happy in my entire fucking life. Brian said he loves me – and this time I’ve got witnesses!



Brian

Inevitably while I hold Justin in my arms, memories of that first ridiculously romantic dance swirl around inside my head, making me realize suddenly that this night is unquestionably a direct consequence of that night. And it occurs to me that our relationship has been one long complicated dance. Every step, every mis-step, every stumble, every ending and beginning since we looked into each other's eyes that night under the street lamp, led us here to this time and space.

The music stops, we kiss and I hold him tight, and I can feel Justin's body tremble with joy. And suddenly I realize that he is holding me just as tight, and my own body is also trembling, and in this moment I know that I need Justin as much as he needs me.

More or less.

No, I correct myself, not more or less. More. Definitely more.

So, I've done it - I've sealed my fate, and I can't even claim that my hand was forced. Whirling Justin around the dance floor with a crowd of our family and friends as witnesses to an event at least as historic as manned space flight, I've committed myself publicly to a lifetime with this boy, this man, this partner and spouse and whatever-the-fuck-else we might decide to call each other down the years.

And I'm okay with it. I'm more than okay with it. Still holding tight to Justin, I pull my head back a few inches and move my lips to his ear. "Guess what?" I whisper, breathing in the sweet scent of his skin. “Guess what, partner,” I whisper to him, choking on a laugh, “I’m as happy as a clam in chowder.”

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