BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 16- INVITATION

JUSTIN’S POV

our memories of yesterday will last a lifetime

There’s a picture in the back of your mind that seems to come forward when you awake from a sound sleep. The image makes you feel good, feel safe, feel wanted.

It’s Brian.

Standing in the middle of a crowded sidewalk with his arms outstretched, waiting for you. And there’s something about that image that feels so right, so justified, because you can remember waiting and waiting and waiting for him—

to acknowledge you,

to care about you,

to admit that what happened between the sheets and against the wall meant something to him.

And when you see him standing there, a patch of blue in a sea of people, you can feel that push inside you to get to him, to ignore the fact that your view of him is blocked every few seconds by innocent bystanders, to believe that he’s waiting for you. And your walk down that street that day became more than a memory.

It became a promise.

It was important for you to walk down that street that day, to be able to get to him, but it was crucial for him to be there for you, to find a way to begin to undo the damage he felt he’d done. You knew that you were walking for both of you.

Your life in New York felt like that walk, only longer, and admittedly with less visibility. There were times when you couldn’t see him anywhere in front of you, and it was too heartbreaking for both of you to look back over your shoulder. But there were other times when you could sense him almost everywhere—

on the dance floor in a crowded club,

in a businessman hailing a taxi, his briefcase in one hand, coffee in the other,

in bed, on your stomach, his absence weighing as heavily as his body.

And lying in your bed at The Rockford, watching the setting sun cast a violet hue over your room, dulling the décor to where it was almost bearable, you remembered what it was like all those years ago trying to reconcile the physical attraction Brian had for you with his treasured emotional apathy. How it hurt when Brian made it clear that he cared about his career more than you; how you panicked when you imagined never seeing him again—

never touching him again,

never kissing him again,

never knowing the answer to the only question that you needed answered.

And you remembered sitting in your room, making yourself come to terms with it, making the pain stop, only to learn that he wasn’t going to New York. He wasn’t going anywhere. At the time, you thought you hardened yourself for nothing.

But it wasn’t for nothing.

It was for the night of the prom and weeks later when you’d emerged from a coma only to realize that he was gone. He’d stayed behind and left you anyway.

Only Brian could make things that didn’t make sense on the surface somehow seem logical.

Expected.

And even though you couldn’t remember that night, couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him, there was some sort of irrational strength instilled in you, simmering below the surface, screaming to be heard: Wake up.

In those first few seconds, you didn’t know what’d happened to you, only that it must’ve been worse that not setting the alarm that time because this time he wasn’t there to rescue you. Whatever you’d done, you’d massively fucked up.

And then they told you, one after the other—your mom, Daphne, Debbie, even Molly (whose version became more sensationalized every time she repeated it)—“You were in your tuxedo and you were dancing with him and everyone was staring ‘cause they didn’t like it and then you went outside and he followed you—"

“Who followed me?”

“CHRIS HOBBS! He followed you and then he—"

And your mother, ushering Molly out of the room, “Molly, that’s enough. Go find your father.”

“But—"

“Molly, did you hear me?" And you watched the back of her head as it disappeared out the door of your room, her hair in braids, her feet falling in step for a dramatic stomping exit to prove her point.

……

“Mom, where’s Brian?”

“Justin.”

“Where is he? Did he hit him, too? Is he hurt?” It was the first fear you’d felt related to the present.

“No, no sweetheart. He’s not hurt.” And she brushed imaginary hair off your forehead. “Nothing happened to Brian.”

And you implored her, only just realizing what little power you had from your hospital bed, “Can you find him? Can you tell him I have to talk to him?”

“Sweetheart.”

“Mom.”

“Just rest. You need to rest.”

No I don’t, you thought. Your mother is a shitty liar.

You didn’t need to rest, you needed to perform for the doctors and the therapists, for anybody who had any say over when you got out of that place and could find him and make sure…

……

……

“Justin?” In the back of your mind, you knew Brian was awake, you knew his hand was moving down the far side of your body. “Justin?”

“You’re awake.”

“Your heart is racing.”

His head was still laying on your chest. “Do you still feel sick?” you asked him.

“Huh?”

“You got sick before. Do you feel better?”

He answered after a few seconds, as if he was thinking about his answer, “Yeah… I mean, no. No, I don’t feel sick. I feel better.”

“Good,” you said, running your hand down his back. Brian tilted his head on your chest a little so he could see out the window, and the two of you quietly watched the sun set behind a mountain.

……

Your hand moved to the back of his head as you felt his lips on your chest, and then you smiled in the newly-arrived darkness as you felt the weight of his body shifting on top of you. You raised your legs seconds before he was pushing you to do so, the feeling of him lining up a warm comfort; he kissed you as he slid inside you, so little effort required.

And then he was moaning softly, his face buried in your neck, your arms wrapped around him and skimming down his back, pressing on his ass.

He rocked slowly on top of you, his palm pushing your thigh to better his angle, that same leg ultimately resting on his shoulder. He was looking at you then, and you could feel him smiling in the darkness.

His rhythm broke a few minutes later when you came, his hips stopping for a second almost out of some kind of proper respect for your orgasm. They began again when he heard you sigh, when the show became his.

……

……

“That was nice,” you whispered in his ear as he lay on top of you after he came, his hair soft against your face. “Stay. Inside me.”

Being seduced by a man as unbelievably beautiful as Brian Kinney was going to be a very nice way to spend a lifetime.

***********************
in the instant that you love someone
in the second that the hammer hits
reality runs up your spine
and the pieces finally fit

It was Friday, February 18, 2011, a little after five o’clock in the evening, the second day of your spontaneous honeymoon. There’d never really been anything predictable about Brian (with the exception of his unpredictability), so it didn’t really surprise you that you were in the middle of a cozy ski resort in Dixville Notch, New Hampshire smiling because Brian was still inside you. That being said, your first week back had been quite a whirlwind. Things would settle down soon, you hoped, anxious to get into your studio and feel that rush of creativity that pulses through your body when you work.

Part of the pleasure of being back with Brian in body and not just in spirit was the way he never doubted himself. Perhaps that was the most compelling reason that you had to track him down after you’d been bashed. It was almost as if registering his reaction to all of it would help you get a handle on yours. After all, you’d watched him like a hawk since the first night you met him, a roller coaster of ever-changing circumstances threatening to derail your evening, yet you knew that somehow he would work everything out. He could pick up a boy pretending to be a man and contemplate what it meant to be a father all while threatening to jump off a building in the process.

Piece of cake.

That first night, you could immediately tell that he was everything to so many people, and one of those people was going to be you.

And you were right.

And patient.

The latter being much more important than the former.

And to say that Brian’s actions confused you would’ve been an understatement. Particularly after your injury, when he was gentle and attentive, different from the Brian you thought you remembered. But as the intimacy increased, Brian’s equal and opposite reaction would surface, toppling the house of cards he was building in your heart. Sometimes it was hard to know what to believe: the pain in your chest when he chose someone else over you or the familiar arms that would reach for you in bed hours later, drawing you right back underneath him, his hands privy to your most personal needs in the darkness.

And on your honeymoon that late afternoon, the only thing better than getting back to the drawing board was lying underneath Brian, his fingers lazily toying with the ends of your hair. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and the rough feeling of his face against yours felt like heaven.

“I like it when you don’t shave,” you said to him quietly, your hand running down the side of his face. “It’s sexy.” He smiled and brushed his face against yours before pulling away. It sent a chill all the way through you. “Is it just me, or does it seem really hard to remember what condoms felt like?”

He laughed, “What are these ‘condoms’ you speak of?”

“Exactly.” Your legs had fallen and were wrapped low around Brian’s as you held him, “I want to keep you inside me like this forever.”

“Mmm.”

“And I want you to make love to me every hour on the hour for the rest of my life.”

“You don’t want much,” Brian responded, cupping your face with his palm and kissing you, “But if that’s the sacrifice I have to make, I’ll suffer through it.”

Your head sunk further into your pillow as Brian’s lips touched yours again, and you closed your eyes as he kissed you, your mouth opening when he wanted it to, accepting his tongue as it teased it’s way over yours. You smiled and wrapped your hand around his head as he kissed the side of your face, a wave rolling through you when his tongue reached for your earlobe,

“Sunshine, I have to tell you something.”

“What?” you responded, pulling your face back from his. He sounded so serious. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you this since the night I met you.”

“Tell me what?”

Brian’s voice was low beside your ear. His breath tickled, but you made yourself lie still and listen to him, “Most people don’t point their toes when they come. Their feet flex.”

You poked his ass with your still-pointed toes, hoping it would leave a bruise, “Yeah, well, I’m unique and special. Deal with it.”

“I think that if you broke your toes, you wouldn’t be able to come at all,” he teased you.

“I’m just glad all those years in the ballet are paying off.”

“I knew that’s what you were doing in the city.”

***********************
BRIAN’S POV

and all my instincts
they return

Justin was toasty warm underneath you, purring now and then as you kissed him. If you had a life outside of this tacky palace, you couldn’t remember it at all. He seemed to share your temporary disorientation and didn’t miss a beat when you asked him, “What is it I do for a living again?”

(All this money had to come from somewhere, right?)

“You fuck my brains out.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember now.” And you did, and it was a nice memory. “Apparently, it pays well.”

“And you give me really nice stuff with no strings attached.”

“I do?”

“All the time.”

“What was the last thing I gave you?”

……

“A hard time.”

……

You raised your head and your eyebrow and looked at him, “You know, those things are pretty hard to come by.”

“Speak for yourself; I come by them all the time.”

“With pointed toes, no less.”

“Added bonus feature.”

……

“So, what are we going to do tonight?” Justin asked you, the subject shifting as easily as you slipped into his ass twenty minutes ago, his hand running aimlessly up and down your back.

“Um, I think we just did it.”

“That was just a teaser.”

You worried for a moment that keeping Justin satisfied for the rest of his life was going to kill you.

……

But then again, what a way to go.

……

“At some point in this marriage, I’m going to have to sit you down and explain the pitfalls of a twelve year age difference.”

His voice changed as he responded, a smooth quality to it that went right to your still-buried dick, reminding you of the night he returned to your office at Vanguard, “I think the benefits far outweigh the disadvantages, Mr. Kinney.”

……

“Now, I’m going to have to fuck you again.”

“Shame on me.”

“Roll over.”

***********************
RUBEN DRESSLER’S POV

come sail away
come sail away
come sail away with me

Meanwhile at the same time on a plane bound for Atlantic City…

Emmett was bouncing in his seat, directly in front of you, clapping his hands together, “I haven’t been on a road trip in so long. This is gonna be so much fun!”

“We’re on a plane, Pixie Stick,” Zeek reminded him.

You’d been sitting beside Zeek, who had the window seat, and behind Emmett and Gabe, who had the other window seat, for half an hour. The plane was finally in the air and you pulled out your travel Ms. Pac-Man and relaxed. She was just about to eat the floating cherries when you looked up and saw Zeek shooting rubber bands at the back of Gabe’s head.

Gabe turned around and looked over his seat, “Cut that out. What are you? Four?” Zeek popped him square between the eyes. “You better be glad they’ve outlawed violence on planes, asshole,” Gabe said as he turned around and sat back down with a humpfh.

Emmett leaned his head toward Gabe’s shoulder and said quietly, “Don’t talk about violence on a plane. They’ll arrest us.” Gabe apologized, rubbing his forehead. Emmett looked up just in time to see the flight attendant coming toward the four of you with the drink cart, and announced, “Oh, yes. Beverages!”

Emmett asked for a Cosmo, garnering a knowing look from the flight attendant who apparently thought it was code for, I’ll meet you in the bathroom in five minutes, and Gabe and Zeek ordered whiskey sours. They were brothers after all; they had some things in common.

You ordered a Dr. Pepper after discovering that they were out of Hawaiian Punch and remarked under your breath and to no one in particular that no good bartender ever runs out of anything.

The cart meandered past after Emmett asked for extra nuts, unwittingly upping in the stakes for the flight attendant, and Zeek stole your straw and started stuffing it with wadded up bits of napkin. You could see where this was going…

You’d lost the fight over who would have to sit next to Zeek after Emmett made everyone draw straws, and you sunk down further in your seat, hoping no one on the plane would notice that his shirt said, ‘I’M WITH STUPID.’ The arrow under the words was pointing out the window and not at you, however, and that brought you a small amount of comfort.

But not nearly as much comfort as your brand new, bright red Converse high tops that you’d gotten on Ebay. They were a steal.

And very snazzy.

The trip to Atlantic City had been rather last minute for you and Zeek, after Zeek learned that his brother and Emmett were going that weekend on a bonafied, Brian Kinney approved vacation. The whole concept crawled right up Zeek’s ass and began to fester, so you cashed in two of your many vacation days and agreed to accompany him. Apparently, Gabe and Emmett thought that the respective men of their dreams might be in Atlantic City, so they were on some sort of hybrid-husband hunt that involved winning lots of money.

You were skeptical on both counts.

“Why didn’t Ted want to come?” you asked Emmett as he leaned his seat back and crushed your knees.

“Because he and Blake are basically married.”

“So?”

“That’s just Teddy. I’m sure they’re home in front of the fire listening to Madame Butterfly.”

“Oh.”

The truth was that you kind of wanted Ted and Blake to come because Blake was fun. A few months ago, you’d taught him how to do a back flip off the bar at Babylon, and the two of you were having a blast until Ted came in and saw your spontaneous performance and told Blake, “Cut that out; you’re going to break your neck.”

The other truth was, albeit unspoken, that Gabe had sunk into some sort of Valentine’s Day depression that the four of you were determined to get him out of. So you and Zeek were ostensibly tagging along to facilitate the relief of his bad mood which Zeek explained to you Monday night during the Valentine’s Day celebration (such as it was) at Babylon,

“Gabe is just like Charlie Brown on Valentine’s Day. He always gets his head stuck in the goddamn mailbox.”

“That’s sad.”

“He just needs to get laid.”

“That’s your answer for everything.”

“That’s because it’s the right answer, Cocktail. Duh.”

Regardless of how often Gabe and Zeek battled with one another, it was clear, to you anyway, that they couldn’t bear to be away from each other. Zeek had some sort of brotherly obligation to his little brother, and Gabe never seemed worse from wear from the constant attention.

So Emmett sipped his drink in front of you and entertained the four of you with, “I fucked a flight attendant named ‘Dijon’ once. You know, like the mustard.”

Zeek replied, “And I fucked this really hot guy at Meat Hook whose stage name is ‘Miracle Whip.’”

Emmett flipped him off.

“I’m sure you did it with relish,” Gabe mumbled, his gaze fixed on the night sky out his window.

You considered yourself a very good listener, especially when you were doing something else. So you advanced to the next round in Ms. Pac-Man and listened to Gabe describing his ideal man at Emmett’s prodding,

“Come on, Gabe. If you could have any man you wanted.”

Gabe’s description went on for fifteen solid minutes, during which Zeek fell asleep and began to snore.

Your mind wandered to the fact that Debbie was managing Babylon tonight and had talked Ben, her son-in-law, into working security for her. Horvath had offered to work the door, since checking ID was second nature to him. Debbie had wisely turned him down, explaining that his assistance might deter, rather than encourage, patronage. Ted and Blake were probably doing it, the opportunity to turn down people for perhaps even arbitrary reasons coming naturally to Ted. You looked at your watch and figured that in two more hours, every gay man in Pennsylvania would have a condom and a button.

And lipstick on their cheek.

At the end of Gabe’s wish list, Emmett made a sudden revelation about the time he lost his geriatric partner in an airborne bathroom, and the shift seemed to give Gabe some momentary perspective because although he’d never found Mr. Right, he’d certainly never had one die during fornication.

And then Zeek reinforced that concept as if he hadn’t just been asleep for most of that conversation, “See, ‘Cakes, you’ve never fucked anybody to death. Cheer up.”

Emmett patted Gabe on the forearm and he smiled; it was weak but genuine.

***********************
EMMETT’S POV

I know the feeling we’re trying to forget
if only for a while

You knew that Zeek’s not-very-secret goal for this trip was to get Ruben laid come hell or high water. If it meant Ruben having sex with a trained monkey in a little red suit, Zeek would be fine with that as long as it meant that Ruben was either ‘sticking or getting stuck’ as he crudely put it. Ruben’s lack of sexual prowess seemed to leave Zeek unsettled, which was pretty ironic to you, considering Zeek’s prowess made everyone else unsettled. Truth be told, there were times when Zeek made Brian look like a gentleman.

But to each their own.

And although there was never enough leg room for you on any airplane, you were relaxed and enjoying yourself. It felt good to get away for a while. And neither you nor Gabe were worried about the restaurant because Erica was there. Erica Morgan—a legend in her own mind.

Which was why she and Brian got along perfectly.

And why he hired her.

You and Gabe had been begging Brian to add an assistant manager to the soup at Zeal because you were getting busier and busier and bringing someone else on would allow you to focus on the catering side of the business. That was pretty difficult to do when the most frequent seven words out of your mouth six nights a week were, And how many in your party tonight?

Brian had escorted Erica into Zeal the day he met her after what couldn’t have been more than an hour long interview. As Gabe gave her the grand tour, you pumped Brian for information on this quick hire. Brian was usually much more thorough in the hiring process. Hell, he knew you, and it took you forever to become a permanent employee.

“So, Brian,” you crooned, patting his arm affectionately for some unknown reason, “Tell me about this ‘Erica’.”

“She got kicked off The Apprentice the first week last season because she offered her ‘services’ to Trump in exchange for an exemption.”

Your eyes became bigger than your balls, “Oh, my goodness. So, he fired her?”

“Nope, someone else did. She never even got the ‘you’re fired,'” Brian said, as if this was the big tragedy in Erica’s young life. She couldn’t have been twenty-five by your estimation.

The two of you glanced in Erica’s direction, and, while doing so, you took note of this brazen young woman. She was wearing a well-tailored, expensive, black pantsuit, stylish heels, and her long, auburn hair shone brighter than Portia de Rossi’s recent color-transformation in those shampoo commercials. And then it sort of hit you as you watched her forward posture as she spoke to Gabe, touching either his arm or his shoulder or brushing his hand while she talked to him. The sound of her laughter was almost symphonic. The girl could work a room.

“It’s like she’s your long, lost, little sister, isn’t it, Brian?”

Brian sighed, as if he couldn’t believe this day had actually come, “If I was a woman, I’d be her.” And then he slapped you way too hard on the back and bid you farewell.

So Brian’s beloved businesses were in the hands of three capable women that weekend: Debbie, Cynthia, and Erica. You imagined Brian in a giant, black, leather chair talking to them on a squawk box, “Good morning, Angels.”

“Good morning, Mr. Kinney.”

And then you felt a little nauseous.

***********************
GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV

my heart is human
my blood is boiling
my brain IBM

You figured that Ruben had switched from Ms. Pac-Man to his electronic, travel Black Jack because he could never get the sound all the way off on that game and you kept hearing, Tie goes to the dealer. Play again? You could hear Styx blasting through his earphones. He had Mr. Roboto on repeat.

On the ride to the airport, you asked Rube if he could count cards, assuming that he could because his mental acuity always amazed you--that and his close friendship with Zeek. You supposed that in God’s own little way, he was striking some cosmic balance.

You’d never known someone who spent so much of their disposable income on dominoes. You’d been to Ruben’s apartment once and were immediately reprimanded when a tap of your foot almost started the roll of about five thousand dominoes on a winding path all throughout the place. You immediately apologized and stepped backwards right into a jack-in-the-box. After that day, you’d just wait outside if the two of you were going to the movies or whatever. His entire place was booby-trapped.

It wasn’t a very well-kept secret around Liberty Avenue, that, each year, Ruben spent most of his week prior to Christmas at Brian’s house setting up train tracks, race tracks or some other must-have toy for Gus. One year, he built a pink and purple play house that doubled as a frame for Jenny’s bed in her room at Brian’s, and word has it that you could hear her squeals of delight Christmas morning all the way from West Virginia to Babylon. He and Gus had had Lego building contests which Ruben had graciously let Gus win by a landslide because, come on, he’s the boss’s kid.

Working in the restaurant industry on Valentine’s Day was a form of self-imposed cruelty when you’re single. You’d spend your evenings seating couples who were overly affectionate with one another and who seemed like they were only out in public to exploit their romantic inclinations. They drank a lot, always ordered dessert, and the staff made good tips, but those who had no one to fawn over that evening, invariably ended up going home empty-handed, disappointed and with a pocket full of ones.

Your father always believed in taking your mother out on Valentine’s Day, which always left you running the family restaurant. Because your parents spent their lives in that restaurant and worked together day in and day out, your father insisted on taking your mother out at least one day each year to show her how much he appreciated her. And for that one evening, he’d spoil her rotten.

You wanted a man like your father—in some ways.

A man who was motivated by hard work (but not necessarily always stained with spaghetti sauce),

a man who believed in family (but wasn’t afraid to put an unfortunate acquisition like Zeek up for adoption if it came down to it),

a man who loved you and would spoil you rotten (more than one day a year).

And you’d add to your list, if asked:

a man with a closet full of crisp, starched, dress shirts with high dollar stitching and modest cuff links, who wasn’t afraid to let his tailor put a nice, slim cuff in his pants if it was in fashion,

a man who watched The Discovery Channel with the passion of a straight man watching football,

a man who’s library card and credit card battled for the most popular slot in his wallet,

a man who was duly impressed that you could cook for one hundred and fifty, but preferred that you only cook for two—while wearing nothing but an apron,

and who insisted on standing behind you…

…helping you stir.

Those were a few of your favorite things.

And you doubted you’d find any of them in Atlantic City on an improvised vacation with three other men in their middle-thirties. You could see the hill that you were about to be over mocking you in the distance.

As the four of you hit the town in Atlantic City, you had a hunch that Ruben would be the only one getting lucky tonight and probably only because the owner of some casino would offer him a job. As you stepped inside the first one, Ruben went immediately to the Roulette table, declaring that he wanted to take his chances. He’d been fidgety on the last half of the plane ride, his foot routinely tapping the back of Emmett’s seat, and you knew that he just needed to be doing something. The only time Ruben was ever still was when he was asleep, and that in itself was rare. You and Zeek sat down at a Black Jack table and Emmett spun off to go to the bar, declaring, “I think I need to be a little drunk to win anything.”

You and Zeek did all right the first couple of hands, and you could feel your confidence building. Emmett had wandered up and was standing behind you watching, his head turning every time he heard Ruben yell, “Score!.” A crowd was gathering around Ruben’s table, and you knew he was just getting warmed up. You secretly prayed that he’d stay over there and not bring his winning streak to your table.

Zeek grinned at you the next time the crowd cheered for Rube, and just by his crooked smile, you knew he was holding at seventeen.

You glanced at your hand and then confidently at the dealer, “Hit me.”

***********************
BRIAN’S POV

after the lovin’
I’m still in love with you

Less than fifteen minutes after you rolled Justin over, his toes pointing again, the two of you were basking in the afterglow of your marathon love making. You’d turned the small light on the nightstand on, thrilled to see that that’s where you’d left your glasses as well, and grabbed the business section of the New York Times that you hadn’t had a chance to finish at lunch. Justin tucked himself under your arm while you read, his warm hand softly rubbing your chest. If it was physically possible for you to be horny again, you would’ve been, but it wasn’t. You were spent.

In that very positive, life-affirming way.

When you first met Justin, you would never sit still and enjoy moments like this, but now that you’d mellowed a little, you began to look forward to them. There was something about Justin lying against you, amorous and affectionate, that was doing wonders for your ego. His fingers were roaming down your stomach as you read, his soft touch around your cock making you read the same damn paragraph over and over.

Finally, you tossed the paper aside, leaning your face down to his, “This isn’t working. I can’t concentrate.”

“Sorry.” But he wasn’t, and unashamedly so. He continued, “Every time you put your glasses on, I want to molest the ever-loving shit out of you. It’s driving me crazy.”

You breathed that smiling sigh that’s only reserved for him, and he took it as an invitation and crawled into your lap, straddling and facing you. You wrapped your arms around him, your hands clasping right above his ass as you asked him, “Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives? Me, never able to read the damn newspaper?”

He smiled and leaned forward, touching his forehead to yours and then answered, “Yes.”

“Life hard.”

Justin affirmed your statement by sliding his very wet ass over your dick, “Yes.”

“We’re about to fuck again, aren’t we?” That every hour on the hour thing. He was serious.

He laughed, raising his ass up a little and kissing you, “Yes.”

You ran your hands over his bottom as he took you, squeezing him as you spoke, “Come here.” You pulled him against you and he wrapped his arms around you, his movements slow and barely rhythmic. You ran your fingers through his hair as you held him, your lips lodged in the crook of his neck. “I love you, you little pest.” His response was to moan and relax his legs so that gravity pushed you deeper inside him. “You’re making my glasses fog up.”

“Don’t you dare take them off.”

***********************
JUSTIN’S POV

just the two of us

Time flies when you’re painting and fucking. You’d long lost the battle with Brian and his glasses, and he was lying back in the pillows, running his hand up and down your back as you lay in his arms. His hand was purposely messing up your hair when he said, “I’m surprised you haven’t wanted to sketch today.”

You laughed, glancing around your room, “I’m still searching for the inspiration.”

Brian replied, as if ignoring the fact that you were joking, “There was plenty of that in the city, huh?”

You sighed, “More than you can imagine. It’s such a living, breathing place. It’s never the same place twice.”

“I’m sure.”


“Sometimes you’re overwhelmed by the beauty or simplicity of something—the roar of a subway train, a kind gesture from someone you weren’t expecting.” Brian smiled, his finger slowly tracing the outline of your chin. “And then sometimes, you’re inspired by some atrocity—human or man-made, and you have this driving urge to represent it in a way that others will feel what you felt when you witnessed it.”

“The subtle manipulation of human emotion. Perhaps you should work in advertising.”

You shook your head, “No. It’s not about the sale; it’s about the transference.”

Brian’s eyebrow went up ever so slightly, “Ultimately, transference into your bank account.”

You considered his point, although it was probably his turn to be joking, “But the genesis of art isn’t the hope of a sale.” The two of you heard a noise outside your door, and you watched as a small piece of paper was pushed underneath it. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Brian shrugged, “Maybe I have a secret admirer.”

You reluctantly got out of your warm bed to get it and brought the off-white envelope over to him, “It’s addressed to you.”

Brian took it out of your hand and opened it, sliding a matching note card out before handing it back to you, “Here. Read it. All I can make out is ‘Mr. Kinney.’”

You laughed and took it from him, reading it aloud:

“Looks like your secret admirer is Sarah Cooper Rockford Melody,” you said, poking fun at him.

Brian grinned at you as you laid the card on the nightstand, “Last one in the shower gets fucked up the ass.”

You were already halfway there.

He never had a chance.


Lyrics taken from Styx’s The Best of Times, Elton John’s The One, Peter Gabriel’s In Your Eyes, Styx’s Come Sail Away, Babe, and Mr. Roboto, Engelbert Humperdink’s After the Lovin’, and Bill Wither’s Just the Two of Us.