Seeing is Believing
(A little paranormal help for the boys over the holidays.)
In a (not quite) parallel reality far, far away...
"What the..."
Brian jerked to a stop as he felt a hard smack to the side of his head.
"Hey, mister, sorry 'bout that," said a small voice. The boy couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. "My brother and I were just having a little snowball fight... and..."
"And what, Einstein? You naturally thought the middle of a busy sidewalk full of pedestrians was the perfect venue?"
Brian shook his head to rid his hair of the remaining slush. He heard a small thunk. Then a second. Brian and the boy both looked down at the sidewalk. "Shit. Look what you did, you little twat!"
The boy, startled by the volume of Brian's voice and the very, very enraged look on the man's face, took off at a dead run, disappearing into the throng of holiday shoppers.
"Get back here, you little shit! You owe me two hundred bucks for these sunglasses!" Brian leaned over, picked up what was left of his favorite pair of Oakley's, and sighed. He narrowed his eyes as the glare from the snow packed onto the sidewalk hit his now unprotected eyes. Bah-fucking-humbug, he thought to himself, pulling his hand across his brow like a visor as he squinted.
Brian hated squinting. Damn kids.
::::
Brian Kinney hated squinting. Truthfully, it wasn't really the act he hated so much as the inevitable result. Wrinkles. He shuddered at the very thought. That certainly wouldn't fit into the image he'd created for himself.
Image was important to Brian and he'd worked hard to develop it perfectly. At thirty-seven, he was the owner of the most successful boutique advertising agency in the northeast. His home was a study in minimalist elegance, housing only the most expensive imported furnishings. He only wore clothing carrying the most impressive designer labels. He was meticulous with his looks, maintaining a strict diet and exercise routine. And he'd never found a man he couldn't charm the pants off of. Literally. Yes, everyone knew just how vain Brian was in every aspect of his life. At least they knew how vain he appeared.
::::
Brian paused only a moment to acknowledge the soft knock on his door before making yet one more red line through the report Ted had placed on his desk earlier. He had no idea what the hell his accountant had been thinking with this one. He'd already had a long, trying day, but it was, thankfully, almost over. One more meeting, one more hour... He tossed his pen on the desk and sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"Yeah, Cynthia?"
"Tom set up the Tru-Vision boards in the conference room, Brian, and Marilyn Stains is waiting."
"Good. Give me ten and then bring Ms. Stains in."
"Mister."
Brian cocked a brow. "Excuse me?"
"Mr. Stains."
"I thought you said Marilyn was here."
"I did," Cynthia said, a wry little smile decorating the corners of her lips.
"What the hell are you talking about, Cynthia? And why do I suddenly feel like Abbot to your Costello? Are you going to now tell me Who's on first?"
Cynthia rolled her eyes. "Mr. Marilyn Stains is waiting for you, Brian."
"Jesus." He pinched the bridge of his nose a little harder. Could the day get any longer?
::::
"Mr. Stains." Brian held his hand out in greeting to the not entirely unattractive man entering the conference room. "Good to, um, good to see you again." Christ, this was awkward. Of course he'd met the owner of Tru-Vision previously, during what Brian thought of as the 'discovery' phase of the campaign. But it had definitely been a Ms. Marilyn Stains he'd encountered, albeit not a very attractive specimen of womanhood. Now, the... man... stood in a charcoal Perry Ellis instead of the multi-hued Dior he... she... wore at their initial meeting. Closely cropped graying hair replaced the elaborately styled flowing brunette locks Brian remembered.
Brian felt decidedly at a disadvantage, and that was not a feeling with which he was at all comfortable. "I'll be honest here, Mr. Stains, and admit to some confusion."
Marilyn Stains chuckled as he took Brian's outstretched hand. "Understandable, Mr. Kinney," he said in a rich baritone. "Suffice it to say my parents were hippy-gypsy-nonconformists with a slightly left-of-center sense of reality. I learned to embrace their... less than conventional view of truth."
"Ahh... I see," Brian responded. Actually, he didn't see at all. The man is batshit crazy, he thought. But at least his dollars are conventional. "Okay then, shall we proceed?"
As always, Brian's presentation was stellar, his concepts original and edgy, and Tru-Vision was happily added to the elite list of Kinnetik clients.
"I'm impressed with the presentation, Mr. Kinney. 'Seeing is Believing' - the way you used the lenses of the glasses to reflect one's potential 'true' reality. It appears Kinnetik has a true vision that will serve Tru-Vision well." Marilyn giggled at his own joke. Brian rolled his eyes. "Let me buy you a coffee to toast our future success."
As they passed through the doorway into the bright afternoon sun, Brian squinted. And cursed. "Fuck."
"Something wrong, Mr. Kinney?"
Brian shook his head and sighed, a bit more to himself than to his companion. "No, it's nothing really. Just some uncouth, poorly reared hooligan broke my sunglasses earlier today with a badly aimed snowball." He pinched the bridge of his nose at the memory. "And I hate squinting."
"Ahh... I see," Marilyn declared, reaching into the product satchel he carried on his shoulder. "Then this is indeed your lucky day. Please..." He handed Brian several small boxes. "Compliments of Tru-Vision."
Brian opened one box, finding a pair of sunglasses very similar in design to the Oakley's that had been destroyed earlier. "Stylish," he smirked, nodding his appreciation to the man beside him. "Thanks."
"Oh, please." Marilyn dismissed Brian's gratitude with a flip of his hand and a coy tilt to his head. "It's the least I can do. I predict your unique and creative concepts are going to reap rewards far beyond our wildest imaginings." He paused, a slight smirk of his own in place. "But remember, you said it - seeing is believing."
With that enigmatic remark, Marilyn glanced at his bare wrist and exclaimed, "Oh, dear. Look at the time. I'm afraid I'll have to buy you that coffee another time, Mr. Kinney. I have to check the air in my tires and drive to Chelsea. My friend is having his debut as a go-go boy in a club there tonight. He's going to be a huge success." With another flip of his hand, Marilyn Stains walked away.
Oh, yeah, Brian thought as he watched Marilyn disappear into the crowd, totally batshit crazy. Then he propped his new sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, placed the unopened boxes in the pockets of his overcoat, and continued on to the coffee shop.
The streets that ran perpendicular to and crossed Liberty Avenue were not quite the bastions of PFLAG goodness that the legendary Liberty Avenue itself was, but there were still rainbow pockets scattered about some of them. Wilde Beans was one of those little pockets. Coffee was hot and the service was often hotter.
"Welcome to Wilde Beans. I'm Justin. What'll you have today?"
Brian was startled a bit by the deep, chipper voice. He had been noticing the new décor on the walls of the shop. It had been a few months since he'd been here and there had apparently been a small renovation. Gone were the tacky bulletins for hardest-, longest-, and biggest-whatever night at Babylon and Poppers. In their place were amazingly crafted works of art. He looked up at the source of the voice that interrupted his art appreciation, only to see the prettiest face he'd encountered in a long time. Doing a slow up and down, he noticed that the pretty face was attached to a quite pretty body.
"You," he drawled. "Make that a double with extra whipped cream."
"That was last week's special, stud," Justin rejoined, one eyebrow arched. "But I'll make a Wilde Beans guess that you're a... hmm... tall, skim, mocha latte with cinnamon. Be right back."
The slow blink the young blond gave, and Brian's momentary fascination with the trail white apron strings were making down one magnificently ample ass kept him from immediately wondering how the cocky little twat knew exactly what he was going to order. The more immediate issue was exactly how to get a more intimate introduction.
Justin sat the tall, skim, mocha latte with cinnamon on an art deco design napkin in front of Brian. "Enjoy," he said as he placed the check binder on the table beside the brown and white mug. He tapped the binder twice and said, "I'll... handle that... when you're ready. And remember, a big tip can make you incredibly more attractive." With another lingering blink, Justin was gone.
Brian smirked, not sure if he should be insulted or enticed by the kid's moxie. Either way, his long, long day suddenly seemed a whole lot brighter. And the latte was good.
He left a three hundred percent tip when he paid.
::::
By the time Brian walked the few blocks back to Kinnetik, he'd decided he liked the feel of the swag he'd received from Mr. Marilyn Stains. He hadn't squinted once since he'd put the sunglasses on outside Wilde Beans. His mood was a little lighter - the effects of good caffeine, he told himself - and he actually found himself humming a little tune by Abba as he walked. One hand reached out for the handle on Kinnetik's door just as the other reached up ready to remove the new sunglasses when he heard his own voice - Hey, Stud. Wanna dance? I promise you won't forget this one.
Only he hadn't said it, and he hadn't actually heard it. What the...? He turned, almost expecting to find Mikey, smirking at some practical joke he'd pulled. Brian had, after all, stood him up - again - last night. What he saw instead was Pride. Fucking Pride in the Pitts in full blown queen-for-the-day color. What he saw, instead, was... himself... a few years younger, dancing in the dark, his bare arms across the shoulders of the beautiful... blonde barista? What the hell?
Brian shook his head, pulled the sunglasses from the bridge of his nose and replaced them with his fingers. He pinched tightly. When he looked back up, one eye tentatively peeking out toward the street, all was as it should be again. The corner of Liberty and Market. Dirty, gray snow in the gutters. Not a Pride float in sight. No dancing Brian...
Hallucination. Had to be it. The goodie bag he'd gotten last night at Babylon... Brian took a deep breath and let it out. Oh, he was going to fucking kill Anita.
::::
Brian sank down into the soft leather of his Barcelona chair, propping his feet up on the ottoman. The good feeling he'd had when he left the coffee shop had long since been displaced by an anxiety growing in the pit of his stomach. He'd collected his briefcase and left work, crawling back to the relative safety of his loft and quickly downed three doubles of bourbon in quick succession.
Much as he wanted to deny it, and he would deny it if asked directly, his little hallucination this afternoon had shaken him. Not that he hadn't had them before. Brian had dropped about every recreational drug known to mankind in every conceivable combination, so, yeah, hallucinations were occasionally thrown into the mix. Hell, one could probably distill a whole pharmaceutical line from his bloodstream at any given time. But this was different somehow. Real. He could remember the feel of the boy's skin against his own. Feel his breath, warm and sweet on his face as their foreheads touched. Could smell the familiarity of him. Jesus...
One of the things Brian Kinney prided himself on was his devout avoidance of anything remotely resembling romantic attachments. He was nearing forty years old and had never been in love, didn't want to be in love, didn't believe it was possible to actually be in love. Love was a sham, a chimera, a lie between two desperate beings. All of that romantic bullshit was, well, bullshit. He had some emotional relationships, of course. He loved, in a manner of speaking, his friends and his son. But the arrow-through-his-heart, cupid-dancing-on-his-shoulder kind of thing? Bull. Shit. He got his respect needs met by being the best ad-man the Pitts had ever seen. He got his physical needs met - in the backroom, in the bedroom, in the alley - and he moved on. He got his emotional needs met by... well, he had his son and Mikey and the family for whatever fleeting needs he had in that area. But the little trip down fantasy lane he'd taken earlier had introduced Brian to a part of himself he'd never officially met before. And it bugged the shit out of him.
Brian had another few doubles of bourbon.
::::
"Yeah? Well, fuck you, asshole! And your little dog, too!"
As he neared Wilde Beans, Brian was sure he could see steam emanating from the ears of the blonde barista he'd met a few days before. Justin was standing beside a snow speckled cafe table on the seasonably inappropriate patio of the coffee shop, hands on his slim hips and a scowl on his beautiful face.
"The man besmirch your virtue, blondie?"
"He stiffed me, the jerk."
"So... what? You gonna throw him down and pummel him in public?"
"Of course not. But he better never step foot in here again. I'll slip Ex Lax in his cafe mocha." Justin's lips drew up in a small, feral grin, his anger already fading as he seemingly plotted a course of revenge.
Brian drew his lips in between his teeth to keep from laughing out loud at the look on the young man's face. This was the best time he'd had this whole, boring day.
"Making federally actionable threats in retaliation for a dine-and-dash is a bit over the top, don't you think?"
"Right. Not like I have bills to pay or anything. Every dollar counts." Justin wrapped his arms around himself as he suddenly shivered in the late November air. "Better get back inside and continue stimulating the economy," he said with one of those slow blinks. "You coming?"
Brian smirked, sighed, nodded, and followed Justin inside. And wondered at that odd little feeling spreading out from the center of his chest.
The tall, skim, mocha latte with cinnamon was just as good as the last time. The service was stellar. The ambiance was warm and... enticing. He learned a bit more about the pretty barista as the time passed. He was twenty-five and was actually the artist who painted the new artwork on the walls. He'd recently received his graduate degree from Dartmouth in business administration and was helping out his uncle by running the coffee shop while said uncle was away visiting a friend near New York City. He'd also recently broken up with a cheating boyfriend and was adamantly not the one-night-stand type of guy.
The last little bit of information, which should have disappointed Brian, made him feel strangely happy. He shook that crazy feeling off quickly and decided he'd just have to work harder to get the boy into his bed. And he really wanted him in his bed.
He left another twenty to pay for the five-dollar coffee when he left.
::::
Brian slipped the pair of Armani wanna-be glasses onto the bridge of his nose as his feet hit the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop. The foreign, heated feeling in the middle of his chest seemed to increase with every step he took toward his car. As he lowered himself into the 'vette, checking the side mirror before pulling away from the curb, he didn't see the street behind him. No traffic or salt-streaked pavement. No graded snow banks and holiday shoppers. He saw... himself... Again. Dancing intimately with a tuxedoed Justin. This was the best night of my life... Even if it was ridiculously romantic... Later... Justin!...
Brian felt his emotions slip from some pinnacle of happiness to the lowest ebb of despair within the space of a second. In that single moment, he'd felt life and death so intertwined, so imminently connected to him that his body shook and his throat closed. Christ, he wanted to breathe and he couldn't remember how to do that. He reached up and jerked the sunglasses from his face, rubbing his eyes hard as he struggled to control some ungodly fear. He wanted to hold the boy in his vision, wanted to save him, to protect him... and somehow he knew he hadn't. A weight of grief heavier than he'd ever thought possible bore down on his shoulders.
Jesus Christ... what the fuck was it? Another hallucination? A premonition? He knew he was losing his fucking mind.
::::
The amount of bourbon Brian downed when he finally got to the loft was epic. He was crazy. He'd fried his brain. Deb had warned him, told him again and again that it would happen one day. His brain cells were dying. Fucking Anita, fucking Beam, fucking self for sucking them down like cake at a two year old's party.
He called Cynthia the next morning and told her to cancel his day. Family emergency. He called her again the day after that, and the next day.
He worried about his mental state. It wasn't just the pair of hallucinations he'd had, it was the effects they caused in him. Jesus, he wasn't even forty and he was certifiable. Top of his game in his career and life was calling checkmate.
The first day he didn't venture past the loft door. He'd never been afraid in his life... well, not his adult life, anyway. But he was terrified of walking out that door, away from the cocoon of safety he'd wrapped himself in with the liquor and the dark and the Thai delivery. By the second day he'd processed his fears somewhat, finally chalking it up to yet another of his trippy episodes. But as the soles of his shoes hit the concrete of Tremont, as the sun stung his eyes and he slipped on his shades, he was struck with another and another and another of the damned hallucinations.
Walking down the street holding hands with Justin. Look, no hands...
On the loft bed with Justin, making lo... fucking. Like the first time...
In the old Jeep with Justin. Brian Kinney gives a shit...
In his office at Kinnetik with Justin. ...long hard hours, sometimes deep into the night... it'll be a pleasure to work under you, sir...
Watching Justin walk away from him in the loft. ... or never again. It's only time...
Brian threw himself back through the door of his building, clamping his eyes shut and gripping the walls to stay upright. His head was spinning and his heart was racing and it was all about Justin. Justin Justin Justin... Every single hallucination or vision or whatthefuckever was about Justin...
::::
On the third day, Brian made his way - hallucinations be damned - to Wilde Beans. Justin was at the root of all this, at the bottom of every single vision. Maybe it was some kind of weird obsession or maybe it was something in the fucking lattes, but he knew he had to confront Justin about it. He walked in the door of the coffee shop and saw the man in question cashing out a customer.
"Hey, Brian. Um... you look like shit. Let me get your latte."
"Without the hallucinogenic additive, if you don't mind," Brian snarked, taking a seat on one of the counter stools.
"The what?"
"What the hell have you been putting in my lattes, Justin? What the fuck are you doing playing with my fucking head?" Brian ran his hands through his unkempt hair. "And here I thought you were joking about putting Ex Lax in the mocha for that guy who stiffed you."
Justin stood like a statue for a moment. Then... "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Brian. Are you honestly accusing me of actually tampering with the food product here? That, in case you didn't know, is illegal as hell, not to mention dangerous to everyone involved. Further, it would really not be conducive to building a repeat clientele. Now... if you have a damn problem with your head, maybe you should see a shrink. I understand they've made great strides in dealing with delusional bi-polar schizophrenic borderline personality disorder!"
By the time the young man finished his tirade, he was standing nose to nose with Brian. And between his open thighs. Brian just couldn't resist. He couldn't. That feeling was growing through his chest again.
"Christ, you're hot when you're pissed off," he said as he pulled the beautiful, angry man in for what Brian would later think of as the kiss heard 'round the world. It was warm. Intoxicating. Hotter than hell and Brian didn't want to quit. Ever.
Justin moaned. He suspected he was supposed to be angry with Brian but, for the life of him, right now he couldn't imagine why.
"Well, I see you took my advice a little more to heart than I intended when I asked you to look after business, Justin."
Justin broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Brian's - exactly as the vision-Justin had done in Brian's first hallucination. God, it just keeps getting curiouser and curiouser, Brian thought.
"Uncle Marilyn. Um... I wasn't expecting you back today."
"Obviously," Marilyn Stains replied, a knowing gleam in his eye. "But my friend was a huge success in Chelsea and I came back a bit early," he said. "Brian. How goes the Tru-Vision campaign?"
"Wait... You're working with Brian? On the Tru-Vision thing?" Justin's eyes got wide. "Are you insane?"
"Unfortunately that distinction, it would seem, belongs to me," Brian groaned. "I've apparently gone 'round the bend. Over the falls. Nutso. A half-dozen condoms short of an orgy."
"You're not insane, Brian. And, Justin, the product Brian is helping me market is simply sunglasses. Superior quality vision product, to be sure, but I only gave the real thing to him as..." Marilyn was interrupted by Justin's frantic voice.
"You did what? You gave them to Brian? Without any explanation?" Justin's voice had a hysterical edge to it, and his hands flew to his hair. "Oh, Jesus, Uncle Marilyn..."
Marilyn patted his nephew on the shoulder with a tsk-tsk. "God wrote the play, honey, I only delivered the script," he admonished before turning his attention to the very distraught Brian Kinney. "Now, Brian, tell me what's happened."
"He's everywhere! In my head... I hear us... but not us... I see us doing things we've never done. Dancing, talking, fucking... We're older, we're younger... It's like a lifetime playing out in some hallucinatory other dimension... Jesus, I've lost it."
"Actually, dearie, you got it." Marilyn Stains reached into Brian's coat pocket and pulled out a pair of Ray-Ban knock-offs and twirled them around his finger nonchalantly. "Justin, have Andre watch the shop and let's, the three of us, discuss this in a more private setting."
::::
An hour later, Brian and Justin sat in the office of Wilde Beans, speechless and stunned as Marilyn wrapped up his tale. "... so it fell to me, as the one who sees both possibilities, and as the one who screwed up this time line, to move the story along a little."
"I was right," Brian said quietly, uncertain as to whether he should be angry or simply laugh hilariously at the words of one Marilyn Stains. "You are batshit crazy."
"Semantics. I prefer the term 'unique'."
"Uncle Marilyn, are you seriously trying to tell us that Brian and I are some kind of trans-dimensional soul mates, destined to wreck the lives of our counterparts if we don't hook up in this reality?" He stared incredulously at his mother's favorite brother. "Do you have Any. Fucking. Idea how utterly bizarre and completely insane you sound?"
"Of course I do. I'm gifted, not stupid. That, however, doesn't alter the truth of the matter, and time was...is... of the essence."
Justin shook his head and reached out for Brian's hand. He couldn't deny that he had felt an enormous connection with the man, even months ago when he'd first seen him in his uncle's coffee shop. He'd only been here on vacation from Dartmouth, but who wouldn't notice someone who looked and carried himself like Brian Kinney. He'd even pumped his uncle for information, right down to the kind of coffee the man liked. But this story of his uncle's? Sure, he'd known from the cradle that his uncle was different, that he had some kind of 'gift'. Justin had a bit of it himself, if the truth was told. But this...
"Brian, I'm sorry that Uncle Marilyn used you, used us, like this. I honestly don't know what to say... I know he may think this is some kind of ridiculously romantic dance he's doing..."
Brian's head snapped up.
"... and I'll understand if you never want to have anything to do with either of us for the foreseeable future... or never again... it's only time..." Justin felt his arms suddenly held tightly in Brian's grip.
"What did you just say?"
Justin looked at the man, puzzled. "Wha..? I... um... I'll understand if you want us gone from your life?"
"Ridiculously romantic. It's only time..." Brian gripped Justin's arms more tightly, slightly hurting the man.
"Brian..."
"We said those exact words, Justin! I said those words... to you... Shit..." Brian touched the side of Justin's face with one hand. "It was the best night of your life. Then you were leaving me... him... he was devastated but he wouldn't tell you... him... that."
"Brian, I don't understand..."
"I could feel it, Justin, what he felt. And it hurt... God..."
Marilyn watched as a gamut of emotion ran across Brian's face. He believed. Even if he wasn't quite ready to admit it, Brian saw and believed. The older man sighed, a bit more hope flaring up inside him. "You felt it, too, Justin... that's how all this got so screwed up, went so wrong. You tried the lenses when you were still in high school. Remember?"
"Yeah, I tried them and saw myself... hurt... bleeding... Chris Hobbs... It's why I left St. James and home schooled, why I went to Dartmouth early. I thought it was telling me what would happen to me if I stayed, so I left."
"And that lapse on my part, letting you see that, changed your lives. You should have been here to meet Brian the night his son was born, but you were already at Dartmouth."
"So, it was him? This other Justin who was hurt?"
"Yes." Marilyn fought back tears. Why had he let that happen? He only hoped they had enough time.
"And when Brian and I didn't meet, it changed not only our lives, but the course of the relationship between the other Brian and Justin..."
"Drastically... they had a... tumultuous time of things. There's a connection between the realities, one that you two share with your counterparts. And now, if things aren't resolved by the New Year..."
"All our lives will be changed again..." Brian said the words almost to himself. "And for the worse this time." Brian felt the heartbreak of the other him, that other Brian's pain and he couldn't fathom feeling that again. It would kill the other man... Jesus, this is so fucked up...
"The time line has to be re-established," Marilyn said.
Brian looked at both men, the words and images from his visions looping through his head. He thought of the feel of soft skin against his, warm breath on his neck, full smiles that brightened up an entire room, pain of loss so deep it was staggering. There were, he supposed, worse ways to go insane. But if Marilyn was being honest... Brian ran his hands through his disheveled hair and sighed.
"Well, blondie, I know you're not the one-night-stand kind of guy and lord knows I'm not exactly the relationship kind of man... but you do have a certain..." Brian smiled for the first time that day, "...charm I'd like to become more fully acquainted with."
Justin blushed and grinned widely. "And you do leave great tips, which as you know, makes you infinitely more attractive that you already are."
Marilyn sat back in his chair, heaving a large sigh. He didn't need any kind of glasses or crystal ball or Tarot cards to see where this might lead. Maybe, just maybe, second chances were possible.
::::
Brian knew there was something quite special about the voluptuous young barista from the outset. His wit and smile and gregarious nature enveloped everyone around him. And as Brian had come to find out, in quite intimate detail, his physical gifts were even more enveloping. He'd never believed in that bullshit romanticism that so many espoused. At least he'd not believed it until he'd felt it from another Brian Kinney. He knew nothing about the other Brian except his feelings, and those were deep and apparently strong enough to cross realities.
On their fourth 'date', although Brian still shuddered at the very word, Justin had been introduced to Gus, the ultimate test of compatibility. At eight, Gus was a bit of a precocious child and a very adept judge of character. He'd fallen for Justin immediately. As had the rest of Brian's little family. Well, Mikey had a ways to go, but Brian knew he'd get their eventually.
He'd kept the glasses. Brian put them on every once in awhile, just to keep in touch with his alter-ego. Today he'd checked in as a sort of Christmas Eve homage to the connection they all shared. He'd seen a man give up everything, bankrupt himself, to save his community. Now, sitting beneath the shimmering tree in his loft, which Justin had urged him to put up and decorate for his son, if for no other reason, he shared with the younger man what he'd seen.
"He lost everything," Brian muttered to himself, feeling a twinge of heartbreak for his counterpart.
"Not everything," came a soft, smooth voice from behind. And Brian smiled as he took in the aroma of coffee and cinnamon and sunshine wrapping themselves around his shoulders.
"Oh, so you think the other us beats their odds, too?"
Justin chuckled. "I think we, wherever or whenever we are, always beat the odds. We have it on good authority that Brian and Justin are a multi-dimensional phenomenon, a thin string that holds the universes together. It may take them a little longer, but," he shrugged, "it's only time."
Brian turned and kissed his very unique man. Time lines or twisted realities or super-hero mind control powers or fucking Santa Claus finally making good on some secret wish list... he didn't care. It didn't matter. He'd seen it. He finally believed it. He'd now met, close up and personal, that part of himself that he'd tucked away for much too long. And he believed in what he saw. Brian Kinney could do love.
"Merry Christmas, twat."
"Merry Christmas, stud."
::::
Meanwhile... in a (not quite) parallel reality, far, far away...
The light knock on his door was so familiar, Brian didn't even look up from the report his accountant had laid on his desk earlier. He pinched the bridge of his nose wondering what the hell the man was thinking with this one? Ted had gotten a bit crazy with his economic enthusiasm since they'd moved the main office of Kinnetik to New York a couple of years ago.
"Just wanted to remind you of your four o'clock with the caterer for the office Christmas party, and your two o'clock is waiting for you."
"Fuck you for putting that chore off on me this year, Cynthia. By the way, you're fired for that. Now go ahead and send Mr. Stains in." He laid Ted's report aside and pulled up the preliminary information for the Sunshine Art Project account.
"I expect a phenomenal severance package in my paycheck. Oh, and this definitely isn't Mr. Stains," Cynthia responded, a quirky little grin on her face.
Brian looked up from the file on his desk. As his heart beat increased, so did the dazzling smile on the face of the man entering his office.
"Hey, Brian. It's been a while."
"Sunshine..."
~~Fin~~
