BRIAN'S POV
fifteen minutes later...

A dark December evening is the only thing keeping you company as you walk down the country road you live on. The streetlights reflect in forgotten puddles; you re-wrap your scarf to keep you warm. You wonder if having a fully stocked dungeon increases or decreases the property value of a house or if the cold air will give you some much needed clarity. You kick a dead stick out of your way with the toe of your boot and curse at yourself for letting that episode with Justin spiral out of control like that; the physical pain you caused him in the past couple days is now the least of your concern. And yet, you're out here in the freezing cold without him, walking past lawns with so many Christmas lights that Santa will surely have a seizure before he makes it down anyone's chimney.

You can't shake the feeling that you've made a big mistake.

You left him alone because you didn't know what to do, because the only things on the tip of your tongue were things you'd regret. You left after leaving a post it on the bathroom door: I went for a walk. When you reach the stop sign at the end of the street, you turn back. Your footsteps quicken without your explicit permission, but you ignore it. You dig in your coat pocket for a cigarette and your lighter. The occasional winter wind makes lighting it a bit challenging; you turn your shoulder to it to make it successful. When you turn back around, and although you're several houses away, you see your front door open; you see the light in the foyer; you see Justin’s short, slim figure exit, close the door and lock it. You stand there bathed in a dark void between streetlights as you watch him walk the front sidewalk and then down the driveway.

He's looking for you.

You don't know what happens when he finds you.

You only know it won't be long.

*+*+*+*+*
His hands are shoved into his black peacoat; his jeans hang too long over his sneakers. He has a black knit hat on his head; he's seen you standing there. When he arrives at the spot where you're standing, he looks up at you with an expression you can't decode. "Brian, are you all right?" he asks, no emotion in his voice.

"I don't know. Are you?"

"I don't really know. Want to keep walking?" he asks.

"Sure," you agree, turning around and heading back to the stop sign you just came from. "No," he says pulling on your arm, "Let's go the other way."

"That way just goes on forever," you point out.

"So? Got somewhere you need to be?"

"Not really," you concede.

He slides his hand around your arm as you walk down the street together, an intimate gesture that takes you off guard given your current moods. You wish you'd had a couple of stiff drinks before you left the house. The two of you walk back past your own front door and down the less festive side of the road, the side where several houses sit empty from foreclosure or with 'for sale' signs in their yards. It's remarkably darker than the well-traveled end of the street. You stop in front of an empty house with a downhill driveway and just look into his blue eyes. "What?" he asks.

"Without trust, you and I have nothing," you say, and then you start walking again.

His pace resumes as well,"You think I don't know that?"

"I don't know what you know," you tell him, "But I'll tell you this much: I don't like being fucked with like that."

"I don't even know what you mean by that, Brian."

"I mean that I don't appreciate you consenting to our usual routine when you knew you were going to ambush me like that."

Justin sighs, "I didn't know. I wasn't even sure I was going to bring it up tonight."

For some reason, that makes you even madder, and a big part of you wants to hide this anger because maybe it’s misplaced or off base and because he has zero feeling in his voice, and you want to punish him for that. “Sometimes you make things so fucking difficult,” you say.

“You’re really angry, Brian,” he offers and yet he’s still clinging to your fucking arm and propelling you forward down this fucking street in the fucking cold. The only response you can safely utter is, “Yep.”

“It’s okay if you are. Really.”

Your cigarette has to hold on for dear life as you wave your free arm in the cold air, “Why are you saying this to me? You’re the one who got pissed off and locked yourself in the bathroom.”

“I was in a bad place; I could feel it. I felt scared...and unprotected. That’s why...I did that.”

You stop dead in your tracks and separate your bodies so you can stare down at him and give him a piece of your mind, “Don’t you think I fucking know that? It’s my job to protect you and I do not like it when you won’t let me.”

“I know,” he says to the asphalt, “You take this stuff very seriously--”

“Oh, fuck you, Justin.”

“No, I’m being serious. You do, and it's my fault that I don't show you that often enough. It’s why I feel safe with you; it’s why I’m standing out here right now and not curled up in bed waiting for you to come home.”

You flick your cigarette into some abandoned yard and proceed to light another, “I would never do to you what you just did to me. I would never purposely leave you exposed like that, and we are not getting into our new bed until we resolve this mess,” you tell him.

“Then let’s resolve it,” he says, still calm.

You take a deep, deep breath, exhale, and start walking again, and again, he holds onto you.

*+*+*+*+*
JUSTIN'S POV

These moments with Brian on the dark street are unsettling and sort of scary, but it feels like it might be the right kind of unsettling. You don't fault him for feeling angry; you appreciate it, actually. You spent years dying for any kind of real emotion from him, and now you have it. But you have a dilemma as well because in all your years of desiring him, you never put a label on it. You just know what you like. Recent events are beginning to complicate that simplicity.
Last night in the dungeon, he began to really share with you how toying with the power dynamic in your relationship makes him feel. His revelations made you feel sort of inadequate, not in between the sheets necessarily, but in your capacity to support and care for him. You'd never given much thought to how different his side of the equation looks. As long as he got the answer right, little else mattered. And it never dawned on you to consider the natural course of evolution for someone like Brian, someone who you knew was obsessed with all things sexual from the moment you met him; did you honestly think that adding another layer to that wouldn't be met with full on determination?

You come to the end of your street where you're forced to turn left or right and without conversation; Brian turns the two of you back around and begins the trek back to the house. You walk most of it in silence, though he occasionally points to things like partially frozen puddles you shouldn't step in. Once you're back to the driveway, holding onto his arm turns into holding his leather-gloved hand but only for a few seconds. He stops on the front stoop and lights another cigarette, smokes a few drags and puts it out while your cold fingers fumble with the keys. Once inside, you both cluster around the rug beneath the coat rack, removing your winter wear and leaving your shoes behind.

"I think I'm going to scramble some eggs," Brian says, "We haven't eaten, and it's giving me a headache."

"That's fine. Eggs are great. I have to piss; I'll be there in a minute." Moments later, you stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror, your disheveled outer appearance mirroring the way you feel on the inside.

You both eat standing up, dinner a quick memory after just a few bites. You clean up and find him in the front living room, one of the most formal rooms in the house, the room he once proposed to you in. Brian is standing at the hutch pouring himself a drink. He motions in your direction but you decline one. You turn on the fireplace and sit on the stiff, ornate sofa. With only the flames and the tiny bulbs on your designer Christmas tree to light the room, you're both comfortably shielded in shadows. When Brian joins you, he sits at the other end. "I think we need to talk about some stuff," you start and Brian nods. You keep going, "I sort of feel like the deeper we get into this lifestyle, the less of a good partner I am to you."

"That is total bull shit."

"Okay, so you’re allowed to feel insecure, but I’m not allowed to feel inadequate?”

"I'm not the least bit interested in playing the emotional see-saw game."

You decide to just be quiet after that; his hostility is off-putting to you; it makes you want to run and hide again. After a few minutes of silence and cleaning over-looked chalk and paint out from under your fingernails, you tell him, "You know what? I would like a drink."

"Okay," he says and pours himself another in the process.

After he hands it to you, you take another stab at the problem, "Brian, if you know why you're so angry, you can tell me. I want to know."

His arm rests outstretched on the back of the sofa as he takes in a long, deep breath through his nose, "I'm flattered that you're jealous of those collared boys at Release, but it...."

"Hurts you that I don't trust you?" you try, "Or that you think I don't trust you, rather."

"It infuriates me. I've given you no reason not to trust me."

"You're right. It's just jealousy, Brian. You know, sometimes I forget that you're not the guy getting hit on a hundred times a day anymore--"

"Okay, seriously? I get hit on constantly. I just don't care anymore."

"Yeah, but I don't have to see it like I used to. Being at that place just put it back in front of my face, and I thought I'd dealt with it and then I found that receipt, and I sort of lost it."

"I took those classes for us, Justin. You should be flattered."

"I am, actually. I think it's sweet." Brian rolls his eyes at you. "I just wish you'd told me, even if I couldn't go with you."

"See this is the thing that's really frustrating me, actually. You trusting me means you trust the decisions I make for you. I thought that's what you wanted, Justin."

"I thought it was, too."

*+*+*+*+*
BRIAN'S POV

This--his inability to articulate what he wants--this has been the worry in the back of your mind since this facet of your relationship became front and center in your lives. And now, it's the reason that you tell him, "I'm canceling the rest of this week. With the state of your ass and these issues, we'll try it again after Christmas." He is instantly displeased and unable to hide it. "Wow, that look you just gave me sent me straight to hell," you tell him.

"You need to give me time to respond; I'm not as fast as you," he warns you. "I haven't had my entire persona formed since age two."

"Fine."

"I have a very hard time feeling your anger and thinking my own thoughts. One tends to overpower the other."

"Well, then don't feel my anger. It's mine, not yours."

"That's what I'm trying to do. Could you just shut up for a few minutes?"

You do what he says. You kind of want to flip through a magazine or something while you wait, but you don't. You concentrate on the flames in the firepace and try to daydream a little. When that doesn't work, you make another suggestion, "Why don't I go upstairs and take a shower? You can do whatever you want; I mean, you can come, too, if you want or stay down here and gather your thoughts."

Justin gives you a weak smile and finally says, "Okay. Go ahead, I think I'm going to stay down here and think."

"It's gonna be a long one," you tell him, "I'm gonna use up all the hot water." He throws his hands up as if to say 'whatever.' You're halfway up the staircase when he calls to you from the living room, "Brian?"

You stop ascending, "Yeah?"

"I like that you make the decisions when we're on schedule, but you can't just cancel our time together like that. That decision you don't make by yourself. We have to discuss it if one of us wants to cancel, okay?"

You answer him through walls of wooden paneling, "Sure. That's fair. I take it back."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Justin."

*+*+*+*+*
twenty minutes later

You've given up on him joining you when the bathroom door opens and the light goes off. "What are you doing?" you ask him, blinking as your eyes adjust. There's a weird light coming from the bedroom and eventually, you can see well enough. He steps into the stream with you, complaining, "When you were fucking my face earlier, you got lube in my hair."

You hand him the shampoo and shrug your shoulders, "Shit happens."

"If I ever got lube in your hair, there'd be a Congressional hearing," he says. You laugh and he smiles, "Thanks for un-canceling our time. What we do...it means a lot to me."

"I know it does," and somehow he knows that it means something to you, too, and he doesn't need you to say it. He surprises you by stepping forward and hugging you, his arms loose around your waist. "Is it okay if I wash you?" you ask him, "I'll be gentle."

"Sure," he says, pressing his cheek to your chest. "I'll wash you, too."

"I'm already done, but thank you."

You keep one hand on the back of his head while the other moves a soapy sponge everywhere that you can reach; you separate so you can wash his torso. The raw intimacy brings up feelings you aren't expecting, "You know, we have to take care of this thing we have; it's fragile."

"I know," Justin says, "It's so strong and yet so breakable at the same time that it gets tricky."

"I'm glad you came up here to join me."

"Me, too."

When the two of you are out of the shower, you step to the edge of the bathroom to see why the light in the bedroom looks weird. You're a little surprised when you see white candles scattered across almost every surface. You ask a dumb question, "You did this?"

"It's our first night in a new bed," he says as he dries off, "It should be special."